Читать книгу Tempting The Mogul - Marcia King-Gamble - Страница 8

“Hey, where are you going with my car?” Kennedy Fitzgerald shouted, racing after the tow truck backing out of her driveway that had her precious Honda attached; the Honda she planned on paying off in full next week.

A few tendrils escaped the headband Kennedy had used to pull her hair back. In a frustrated motion she swept them off her face before flailing her arms at the driver. “You have no right to take my car! I’ve been making monthly payments!”

The tow truck driver spotting her came to a halt. He wound down his window and peered out. “Look, lady, I’m just doing my job. Pay your car note and the finance company won’t repossess your car. It’s the way things work.”

“Pay my note? What are you talking about?” Kennedy shouted. She could feel her face heating up. “I pay my bills on time, way before they’re due. Why am I explaining this to you?”

“Tell the story to the bank. Don’t beat up the messenger.”

Through his open window the driver flipped her a business card. It floated to the ground. As Kennedy bent to retrieve it he floored the accelerator, and zoomed off with her vehicle attached.

“Miss, you owe me forty-five dollars,” the cabdriver who’d been unloading her luggage carped. He’d been watching the action from a safe distance.

Kennedy let out a deep sigh and peeled off a few bills, folding them into the man’s open palm. Wait until she got her hands on her cousin Marna. How could she let this happen?

“Can I have a receipt?” Kennedy asked the driver.

He fumbled through several piles of paper and found a preprinted receipt. Where is Marna anyway? Why hadn’t she come out to greet her and help her unload? She had to have heard the taxi pull up, or at the very least the noisy tow truck.

Marna had been living with Kennedy rent free. In exchange for not paying rent, she’d agreed to take care of the triplex and collect the rent from the other apartments. This money was to be used to pay Kennedy’s bills while she was gone—including the car note.

To make it easier for the money to be deposited, Kennedy had asked her tenants to write checks directly to Marna. She’d instructed her to collect the rent checks on the first of the month from each tenant and deposit them in the joint account they’d opened up.

Knowing that a real person was responsible for collecting checks and depositing the money in an account had given Kennedy peace of mind. She’d left for her assignment in Tokyo feeling confident that her bills would be paid and her house cared for. For six months she’d been coaching Japanese executives on how business was done in America. She’d taught the Japanese everything from social etiquette to how to dress. The position had come with an attractive salary, plus housing. It had also come at exactly the right time.

The Fortune 500 company Kennedy had been working for was downsizing like crazy. When a headhunter called, she’d eagerly listened to his sales pitch. She was single with no dependents, and had a dual master’s in Japanese and industrial psychology. Why not?

All in all, not many thirty-year-old African-Americans got a sweet deal like that. Kennedy had it all planned out. When she returned to Seattle she’d go into business for herself. She’d hang out a shingle advertising her services as a bilingual life coach and corporate trainer.

The sky was an unusual blue for Seattle. Cerulean blue, instead of blue-gray. A cool breeze ruffled the budding trees and in the distance, Kennedy saw the snowcapped mountain peaks she’d missed so much and loved to hike.

She stabbed a finger at the buzzer and waited for Marna to come bounding down the stairs and help her with all her bags. Finally, growing impatient, she let herself in through the side entrance.

Behind her, even though it was the end of May, the tulips were still in full bloom. The yard outside the triplex needed weeding and she wondered why Marna hadn’t called the gardener as she’d been told to do.

“Do you need a hand?” a male voice asked, behind her.

Kennedy turned to find her downstairs tenant—a techie type—eyeing her curiously. “Yes, Ed, that would be great.”

“How was your trip?” he asked, scooping up two of her bags as if they weighed nothing.

“Long, but I got a lot of work done so that was good.”

“You liked working with Japanese businesspeople?”

Kennedy tried not to yawn. Jet lag was quickly setting in and she was in no mood for stupid questions. “Loved it. I got to use both my Japanese and organizational development skills. It was fun teaching American business protocol.”

Kennedy started up the stairs to her apartment carrying the lightest of the suitcases. Underfoot in the foyer and hallways the Berber carpets were stained and smelly. She did not own a dog, but there was a definite ‘doggie’ scent to the place.

Ed snorted and filled her in. “Wow! That rottie your cousin had in here really wasn’t toilet trained.”

Her head began to ache. “What rottie?”

One of her strengths was remaining cool, calm and collected. She taught people how to cope with unexpected life-changing events. Therefore she should easily be able to deal with this.

“Marna’s dog, Lulu,” Ed said. “I told her the dog was bored and needed toys.”

“Since when does Marna have a dog?” Kennedy threw over her shoulder.

Ed shrugged. “Oops! Talk about open mouth and insert foot. Lulu’s a stray Marna found wandering the streets. She’s a sweetheart but totally untrained. She ran Marna.”

Kennedy sucked in a breath while using the green key to unlock the top lock. “Where is Marna anyway?”

“Uh, didn’t she call you?”

Kennedy narrowed her eyes and again looked at Ed. Mentally she counted to ten. “Why would Marna need to call me? She knew when I was coming home. I e-mailed her.”

“Did she e-mail you back? That’s better than what she’s been doing to me.”

Come to think of it, Marna hadn’t responded but Kennedy had thought nothing of it. Her cousin was notoriously scatterbrained and always acted as if she was overwhelmed.

Ed set down Kennedy’s two bags. “You should be good to go from here.”

“Uh-uh. Not until you tell me what you know.”

Ed was beet red. He wore the uncomfortable expression of a man caught between rock and granite. He shuffled from one foot to another.

“Ed,” Kennedy groused. “Better fess up if you know what’s good for you. Seattle’s rentals are pretty steep and you’ve got a great deal as my tenant.”

Ed exhaled loudly. “Never thought you’d be a fan of bribery. Marna’s been gone for almost three months. Some kind of an emergency came up and she had to leave.”

Kennedy’s throat closed down. She tried to control the wheezing sounds coming from her nose and the buzzing in her ears. She was close to hyperventilating. “Then how on earth have you and the Dopwells on the second floor been paying your rent?”

“Marna told us to send the rent to a P.O. box.”

“What! Better give me that box number.”

“No problem, I’ll get it to you.”

Kennedy’s temples were pounding. She could not allow herself to get out of control. There had to be a logical explanation to it all. She kept thinking of her silver car that had just been repossessed. Was the triplex that she’d saved so hard to buy on the brink of foreclosure, too? How many months late was everything anyway? She’d need to call the bank immediately.

The minute she pushed open her top-floor apartment door, Kennedy knew she had her hands full. A damp, stagnant odor almost knocked her over. The rott-weiler had left her mark here, as well. Kennedy flipped on the lights and braced herself. The suitcase she was holding fell from her limp fingers, making a dull thud. She felt Ed’s steadying hands on her shoulders as she surveyed the destruction.

“Sit and I’ll get you a glass of water,” he proposed.

Unable to answer him, Kennedy just gaped. Her beautiful place was in ruins. The Persian carpets were a mess and the sofa she was still paying for had ugly yellow markings. She shuddered thinking about what those stains were. Her lovely wooden floors were scratched. The baseboards and moldings had been chewed on.

No wonder Marna had bailed before Kennedy came home and killed her.

Ed lined up the suitcases in the foyer and hastily opened up windows. A cool spring breeze soon filled the interior. It wasn’t enough to camouflage the smell.

“Airing the place out should help,” he announced, his voice chipper. “It’ll be too much for you to do alone but tomorrow you can call a cleaning service.”

Kennedy exhaled loudly and willed herself to calm down. She’d been named after John F. Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States, and a man her mother thought walked on water. She’d liked that he promoted equal rights and world peace. But Kennedy’s thoughts right now were anything but peaceful.

“I can stick around and help you straighten up,” Ed offered.

“You’ve done enough. Just get me that mailbox address and I’ll take it from here.” She thanked him and walked with him to the door.

“I really don’t mind helping,” Ed insisted. “In fact I would be glad to do what I can.”

“You’re sweet, but no. I need to do this alone.”

After he left Kennedy wandered through what she playfully called her penthouse, assessing and itemizing the damage. Many of her personal possessions would have to be dumped. They’d been either chewed or soiled on. She began a list of things she needed to do first thing tomorrow.

She’d need to call someone in to clean the carpet in the bedroom and the living room’s upholstery. She’d have to find someone to look at the wooden floors and see what could be done about them.

Kennedy glanced at the blinking answering machine. All of her friends and family knew that she’d been in Tokyo. They knew how to reach her via e-mail or cell phone. She’d entrusted her cousin on her mother’s side, to house sit and pay her bills. Marna was between jobs and needed a place to live. She seemed grateful for the small income Kennedy was willing to pay.

Kennedy had had some trepidation about turning over a responsible job like collecting rent, and bill paying to a flake. She would have much preferred her brothers to take on the task, but Lincoln lived in Eastern Washington, too far away to be tracking down rent checks, or so he’d said. He had a brand new baby and didn’t have the time or inclination to be playing landlord.

Roosevelt who lived in Edmonds, much closer, had urged Kennedy to give Marna a chance. He was holding down two jobs and felt he had a roof over his head and an income coming in. Marna didn’t. He’d also promised to keep an eye on their cousin. Given what had gone down that hadn’t happened. Marna had botched the job that she’d claimed she badly needed. Now she’d turned Kennedy’s orderly life into a nightmare. Why, oh why, hadn’t she listened to her gut?

Kennedy was so angry she jabbed the answering machine’s rewind button with more force than she intended. Surprisingly, the machine wasn’t full and the few calls recorded were from telemarketers. Toward the end there was one call that made her pause.

She rewound it, listening carefully. A woman identified herself as Diane, the assistant to the president of TSW Studios, wanted Kennedy to return her call ASAP.

What would a television station want with me? Yes, she’d heard of Tanner Washington, the studio’s owner, but she and he didn’t move in the same circles. He was notoriously low profile and never even allowed himself to be photographed. Kennedy had never seen him. Curiosity prompted Kennedy to scribble down the number. She’d call Diane tomorrow.

Jet lag was beginning to kick in when Kennedy made her phone call to the bank where she had her mortgage. She navigated the voice activation maze and finally got a living, breathing person.

“Ms. Fitzpatrick,” a stern-sounding service representative said, “you’re two months late on your mortgage. In another month you’ll be in foreclosure.”

Even though she’d been expecting something like this, the cold hand of fear grabbed her heart. She was so angry she could spit. Her precious triplex that she loved, and had worked her butt off to buy, was in danger of being sold to someone else.

Kennedy started to ramble and make excuses, then caught herself. The representative didn’t need to hear her problems, nor did she care.

“What will it take to get current?” she asked quickly.

The woman named a figure. Kennedy did some mental calculations. She should have enough in her savings to make that payment and bring her mortgage up to date. She also had a rather hefty check in her purse. She’d insisted that the Japanese pay her in U.S. dollars, and she’d planned on depositing that check tomorrow. She’d just need to find some way to get to the bank.

Her world was toppling down around her and it seemed as though there was nothing she could do to stop it. She’d tossed the tow truck driver’s card in her purse. His company would be the next place to call. She needed wheels to take care of business and get her life back in order.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the customer service representative asked, reminding Kennedy she was still on the line.

“Can you take my mortgage payment over the phone? Will that payment register today?”

“I’ll have to transfer you to our account services department,” the woman said, sounding smooth as silk. “As you know your account is delinquent.”

Forty minutes later, Kennedy finally hung up with the credit manager. It had taken some explaining, even pleading, but at least she was now paid to date. She’d coughed up the money for the hefty finance and late charges, but she was certain that her credit score had taken a beating. It would take years for her to rebuild good credit.

Several months of rent checks, money she’d counted on to take care of her bills, had disappeared along with Marna. The excess money she’d hoped to have in her bank account would now be used up to pay off delinquent bills. She’d thought she was doing a good deed helping Marna. What was the saying? No good deed went unpunished.

Kennedy’s head continued to pound as she punched in the number for Joe’s Towing. She was placed on an interminable hold only to have an automated voice tell her she was calling outside regular business hours.

“Dammit!” she muttered, hanging up.

As she was close to tossing the receiver across the room, the phone rang in her hand.

“Hello?” she tried not to growl.

“Yes, I need Kennedy Fitzgerald, please?” a female voice she didn’t recognize said.

“This is she,” Kennedy said. Please let it not be a creditor.

“Ms. Fitzgerald, I’m Diane, assistant to Tanner Washington, the president of TSW Studios. He’s been hoping to speak to you.”

Trying to make up for her less than friendly greeting, Kennedy said, “Can you tell me what this is about?”

“Mr. Washington would prefer to discuss the issue in person. He learned through a source that you’re back in town. Since the matter is of some urgency, he’s wondering if you could meet him at the studio tomorrow morning, say around eleven?”

Midmorning would give Kennedy enough time to go to the bank and contact the towing company again. Maybe she would even have a car.

“I’ll be there,” she answered, then hung up.

Bright and early the next morning, Kennedy tried calling the company that had towed her car. She kept being transferred from one area to another, and then decided it might be in her best interest to just show up in person. The challenge now was to rent a car. She called several automobile rental companies until she found one willing to pick her up at home. When she attempted to reserve the vehicle her credit card was turned down.

“How could that be?” she asked the rental agent.

“I don’t know, ma’am, it just says declined and I’ve run it through several times.”

Another call to the credit card’s customer service department revealed her bill hadn’t been paid in months. The account was canceled. Yet another strike against Marna.

Desperate, Kennedy used her bank debit card to reserve the vehicle. She was on her way and had a small measure of peace.

Her first stop was at Puget Sound Mutual, the bank that financed her car and where she did her personal banking. After she’d explained what had happened over and over, a sympathetic bank clerk took her to see one of the vice presidents. By then Kennedy was through talking and very close to crying.

She really was going to knock Marna out when she got her hands on her. She would have been better off trusting her tenants with her bank routing number and having them make their own deposits. She wouldn’t have this headache now if she’d paid her bills electronically. But no, she’s thought it best that someone closer to home pick up her rent checks and pay her bills. What a mistake that had been.

The bank’s records showed they’d made numerous attempts to contact Kennedy and work out arrangements. Hearing nothing back, they’d repossessed the car.

Kennedy explained her situation and the officer expressed sympathy and made several phone calls, but to no avail. The vehicle was most likely being auctioned as they spoke.

By then the headache had become a migraine. How on earth would she get from Bellevue to downtown Seattle in twenty minutes? If there was traffic on the bridge she was toast.

Driving like a speed demon, Kennedy managed to make it into the parking lot of TSW Studios with five minutes to spare. She used that time to comb her hair, shove her headband back in place and apply fresh lip gloss. She’d never been much for makeup and no one would ever describe her as trendy. Kennedy’s clothing was always more functional than stylish.

Once inside, she handed her ID to the guard at the desk in the lobby and waited for Diane to come and get her. Five minutes into her wait a thirty-something, athletically built man came sauntering in.

He was the kind of African-American male who, although casually dressed, turned heads. His hunter-green flannel shirt stretched across his broad chest, and was tucked into baggy jeans that slouched at the knees. His scuffed boots looked as though they’d seen better days. Although his overall appearance shouted mountain man, there was a sensuality and confidence to him that was very appealing.

He approached the guard’s circular desk and flicked a finger at him. “Morning, Andrew. How’s it going?”

The guard, who’d been hunched over his station with an eye on the newspaper, folded it quickly and gave him his full attention. “Good morning, Mr. Washington. It’s been a long time! How was safari?”

This couldn’t be Tanner Washington. Kennedy was expecting someone much older.

“Please call me Salim, Andrew. Mr. Washington is my father,” the man who looked as if he could straddle Mount Rainier in one leap corrected. “Zimbabwe was incredible. Just a beautiful country, but no safari for me. Just my usual humanitarian work for two months.”

“What I wouldn’t give to visit Africa,” the guard said, longingly.

“The Peace Corps might be the way to go. You’d be doing something worthy while at the same time experiencing a new country. I signed up for a two-year stint after graduating college. Since then it’s been very difficult for me to stay in one place for any length of time. Is Mr. Washington around?”

“I didn’t see him leave.”

Salim’s complexion was the color of raw brown sugar and his eyes were equally as light. He did a quick scan of the lobby as if expecting his father to jump out from behind one of the potted ficus plants. His glance rested briefly on Kennedy and she was treated to a warm smile that began at the corner of his tawny eyes and settled in his square jaw. She liked his full lips and the way his mouth turned up at the corners. He looked as though he laughed a lot.

“Who do we have here?” he said loud enough for Kennedy to hear him, turning back to the guard.

She didn’t hear the guard’s response. Probably just as well, she didn’t need some wealthy playboy flirting with her right before she had a meeting with his father. Her priority was getting back her car and she would focus on that once this meeting was over.

The petite, smartly dressed woman who came bustling out of the elevator must be the studio head’s assistant. When she approached the guard, Mountain Man swept her off her feet.

“Di, you look younger than ever,” he gushed.

“Put me down!” she said, chuckling. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. Though I am glad you’re back. We’ll talk later. I’m here to collect your father’s visitor,” the assistant said.

Salim Washington set Diane back on her feet.

The guard pointed to Kennedy and the petite woman came mincing over.

“Ms. Fitzgerald,” she said. “I’m Diane, Mr. Washington’s assistant. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, your timing is perfect.”

Kennedy looked over at Salim and he was no longer the smiling, affable guy who’d come sauntering through the lobby. He threw her a thunderous look of surprise and what looked like—no, it couldn’t be—disgust.

What was that all about? No time to psychoanalyze now, the television mogul was waiting.