Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“Get me one of his assistants, then,” Carey said impatiently.

“Problems?”

“Nothing they can't handle.”

“Care to wait till morning? It's midnight in New York.”

“If I wanted to wait till morning,” Carey said in a monotonic voice, dangerous in its blandness, “I wouldn't have dragged you out of Valerie's bed. I want someone at CRT in New York,” he directed, his syllables rapid now, “and I want two hundred thousand dollars at Midwest Metro at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, care of Jason Evans.” Allen immediately paid careful attention to all the details because Carey was rarely demanding. This must be important to him. “Don't use my name,” Carey went on, “use the name of one of our corporations. I want the note paid in full and I want CRT to speak to someone in authority at the bank concerning the payoff instructions. Ms. Darian is to be informed there's no further problem with her note and she'll receive the renewal papers in ten days or so. She is to be informed with a maximum, stress maximum, of discretion and no details. I'm sure George knows someone on the board at Midwest who can authorize this discretion. I'd like to wring that prick Jason Evans's neck for making Molly uptight over this goddamned note, but for now we'll bypass the asshole. I don't trust him; Molly said he might be friends with her ex. If she doesn't think she's going to get the renewal papers for a few days, it'll give me time to talk her into my loan. Right now she needs her money problems solved. She and I,” he said in a level voice, “can argue the details later.”

“The lady won't take the money?”

“‘Pride,' she says. ‘Won't take it,' she says.”

“Pride,” Allen repeated very slowly as though the word came from a foreign language. “Interesting concept,” he added with an ironic smile. “Is she left over from some ice age?”

“She's a throw-away-the-mold, one of a kind,” Carey said grinning. “She's the best.” His eyes went to the phone, then to the clock. He wanted to call and tell her to sleep tight-Jason Evans was getting a kick in the ass tomorrow. But no way would that work. He turned back to Allen. “Got it now?”

Allen nodded.

“Report back to me after you hear confirmation from the bank.” Suddenly he stretched out his hand and smiled. “Sorry, Allen, for getting you out so late at night, and thanks in advance.”

Allen was at the door when he turned and said, “This one's really different, right?”

Carey looked up, his hand about to reach for the next day's script. Lamplight shone on his gilded head, softened the stark angles of his face, muted the predatory eyes. His thick lashes came up, and his direct gaze answered before his voice did. “She's the girl I left behind. And even though she doesn't know it, she was in every film I ever made. Yeah,” he said softly, “this one's different. She's the first one, and…” a smile flashed across his face, “the last.”

“Sounds like congratulations are in order.”

Carey laughed, a carefree, boyish sound Allen had never heard. “Thanks. A little premature. I haven't officially asked the lady yet. But thanks, anyway.”

When Carey called Tuesday evening, a very different tone of voice greeted him. “My Honeybear sounds happy,” he remarked, stretching out on the hotel room bed.

“The understatement of the century. They renewed my note, after all! Jason called early this morning. Can you believe it?” Joyous spirits were in every animated word.

“Amazing,” he replied calmly.

“This, Carey, my sweet, means I and my business will be totally solid by the end of the year, thriving and out of debt. It was like some miracle!”

“Probably more like a calculated business decision,” Carey said. “That Evans fellow probably had second thoughts after he had time to sleep on it.”

“Do you think so?” Molly queried. “It doesn't sound like Jason. Do you think I should call him back and ask him?” she went on, uncertainty coloring her voice. “This morning I didn't ask any questions. Just said, thanks, and hallelujah!”

“I wouldn't,” Carey quickly interjected. “Hell, it's only business with those guys. No sense in questioning their motives. Bad for their karma. No, my luscious long-lost lover, ask me instead how the shooting went today.”

“How?”

“Terrific and finished.”

“Finished! You finished the midsummer scene? That's a day early!”

“My accountants sounded almost as pleased as you. Remember, I had the very best incentive. Rode the crew like an overseer.”

“So when will you be down?”

“Tomorrow, late afternoon probably. I have some editing to do tomorrow morning. Tell Carrie she can pick out the place to eat tomorrow night. I'm looking forward to taking her and her mom out to dinner.”

“You always did like kids, didn't you? I remember you helping me baby-sit a few times, and the kids always liked you best. You should have had some of your own.”

The silence was abrupt.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry,” Molly apologized. “I forgot.”

“Don't apologize. I shouldn't react that way. You'd think after all these years,” he finished with a small sigh, “I'd be reconciled.”

“The government's still stonewalling it on the Agent Orange birth defects, I see,” Molly hesitantly said, wondering if it was better or worse to talk about it.

“Along with all the other side effects. No one's ever going to admit fault and that's why the vets have taken it to court. At least it'll be out in the open there and the facts will be on record.

“In the meantime, I've seen Jim Hill's daughter and Leroy Gazinski's son and I'm not taking any chances, regardless of the government's assurances Agent Orange is harmless.”

“I suppose you're being sensible.” She didn't dare ask what problems the two children he mentioned had because his voice had broken when he spoke of them.

“I'm not being sensible, I'm terrified of the consequences… and sometime when you have a couple of weeks I'll fill you in on my outrage,” he said harshly. “But let's not ruin my really great mood with this conversation. So-tell me what you want to do when I come down. We could take Carrie shopping or go to the zoo, or both, or something else. What do little girls like to do?”

“She's not fussy. How long can you stay?” Molly understood his anger, his reservations, and his need to set it aside.

“A couple of days this time. We have to talk,” he said seriously. “Which reminds me. Do I reserve a hotel room or can I stay with you? What exactly is the protocol involving moms with eight-year-old daughters?”

“I want you to stay here.”

“Sure it's okay?”

“This is a very progressive, liberated woman you're speaking to.”

“You're sure?” He still sounded uncertain.

“Besides, I've a spare bedroom for you.”

“Is that how you remained celibate for two years? I warn you, I sleepwalk at night.”

“Sounds marvelous. My room is directly across the hall.”

“How very convenient.”

“I thought you'd like it.”

“Are we going to play games?”

“I don't know if I can remember any.”

“I'll remind you.”

“You're probably thinking of Italian countesses or the French model, or-”

“Honeybear,” he broke in, his voice caressing, “only your games are unforgettable.”

“Your reputation's showing, Carey Fersten,” Molly replied. “You're way too smooth for a small-town girl like me.”

“My reputation's much overrated,” he retorted mildly.

“You mean you really haven't slept with every woman between eighteen and forty in the world?” But under her bantering was a very real jibe.

“Sweetheart, give me a break.”

“Really?” His voice was so sincere she began to doubt all the stories.

“Sure. I swore off eighteen-year-olds a long time ago.”

“Carey Fersten! I'm going to beat you!”

“Now we haven't tried that before-that's more British boarding school background-but what the hey, if you want to…”

“You're a libertine.”

“And available,” he murmured. Her jealousy warmed the heart of this man whose heart had remained untouched for a decade.

“Damn you, Carey! I don't want to be one of a cast of thousands passing through your bedroom.” Her resentment was real this time, heated and fiery.

“I burned my bedroom Rolodex this morning. The stench was spiritually bracing.”

“You did? For me?”

“Of course,” he said mildly, “you're my Honeybear.”

From that point the conversation became scandalously amorous. Within minutes of hanging up the phone, Carey, prompted by a healthy libido, decided the editing could wait for a day or two. Leaving Allen with a few crisp orders, Carey was airborne in twenty minutes, copiloting the Lear, only thirty minutes away from Minneapolis/St. Paul International.

W hile Carey was cruising high above the cumulous clouds obscuring the green midwest landscape below, Molly was having a heated telephone conversation with Bart.

“I'd like to come over to see Carrie,” he said in that demanding tone that always grated on her nerves.

“I told you to give me some warning on these visits.”

“That's why I'm calling first.”

“That's not what I had in mind,” Molly replied sardonically. “A day or two, not minutes.”

“Come off it, Molly. If you're not busy and Carrie's not busy, why be pedantic?”

Molly thought of her daughter and sighed resignedly. “She rode her bike to the corner store and won't be back for half an hour or so. I suppose you could come over then.”

“Great, I've missed her.”

“You haven't seen her in six months, Bart,” Molly said dryly.

“Well, I missed her today.”

“In that case, I suppose we mustn't be obstructive,” she said with elaborate sweetness.

“That would be sensible.”

Bart's visit wasn't prompted by paternal affection, but rather by a hellish curiosity. At the club that afternoon, after his racketball game, he'd run across Jason Evans and heard a fascinating bit of information. “Molly's picked up a damn rich friend,” Jason had archly declared.

When Bart had asked who, he'd shrugged.

“Beats me. Some corporation… no names. All very discreet. Two hundred thousand dollars discreet. Your ex-wife is now totally out of debt.”

“Very interesting,” Bart had said.

“I thought you'd like to know,” Jason had replied, a locker-room leer on his face.

Bart deliberately arrived before Carrie returned, intent on discovering the wealthy new “friend” who'd entered Molly's life. With that kind of money it wasn't an anonymous donor. His visit was fueled by nothing more than rabid curiosity-not necessarily malice. He'd always been the type to go through people's desk drawers and medicine cabinets. Insatiably nosy.

After a long, busy day, Molly had changed into a cotton caftan and was lounging on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand when Bart arrived. Out of an inherent politeness rather than any desire for is company, she offered him a drink while he waited for Carrie to come home.

Bart immediately launched into his probing catechism.

The evening sunset heightened the streaked gold of Carey's hair as he pushed open the wooden garden door at the entrance to Molly's home. Walking into a small, colorful English-style garden incongruously growing against an eight-story factory building, he strolled up the serpentine brick path to a carved front door. Near a lush, wandering wisteria which looked as though it had been framing the doorway for at least a century, a young girl was settling her bicycle into its wrought-iron stand. In a few steps he was close enough to say, “Hi, is your mother home?”

Her long pale hair swirled across her shoulders as she turned. A small, straight-nosed face with wispy brows and lacy lashes framing enormous dark eyes lifted from her task. The faintly slanted eyes, like an eastern princess from long ago, studied him.

A dozen searing questions streaked unanswered through his mind as he gazed at the young features so shatteringly familiar, like a miniature mirror-image softened by childhood and femininity. And for a moment, his heart stood still.