Ms. Taken

He put the phone down and thought about opening the Riverside file again. For once, though, he obeyed his mother. He put away his reports and papers and headed off to brush his teeth. He must remember to set his alarm for four-thirty instead of five.

As he got down to the business of preparing for sleep, he tried to remember the specifics of his breakup with Holly. He’d instigated the proceedings, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. It was probably nothing. Nothing at all. She’d make a fine mother to his children. A very capable wife. And, if his memory wasn’t playing tricks on him, she was very capable in bed, too.

He just hoped she’d answer him soon, or he’d have to hire a private detective. Charles wanted to be married soon. If he couldn’t find Holly, it would mean looking for someone new. The thought made him shudder.

It would have been so much easier for him if Mrs. Robinson hadn’t gone off to Idaho for the holidays. Or was it Ohio? He didn’t recall. His work was getting done, but everything took far more of his time than he cared to give. At least that girl—what was her name? Joan? At least she had a firm grip on the English language, and she could spell. Granted, it wasn’t much. But his luck with employees had never been stellar. For now, she’d do.

2

THE DAY THE AD CAME OUT, Jane got up with the sun. Streams of light flowed into the room, buzzing with tiny dancers, the flotsam and jetsam that filled the world and filled her with each breath. She liked knowing she had company all the time, even if it was microscopic.

Her dreams had been delicious, all about Charles and her. Her and Charles. The season had affected him, or was it just the nearness of her? Probably both. He’d been so tender.

Shivering in anticipation, she pushed off her blankets, all three of them, and sat up, her feet immediately searching for her fuzzy slippers. The floor was always painfully cold in the morning, dull wood that seemed to hug the chill like an old friend. But she couldn’t afford to heat the place when she slept. Manhattan might be a magical city, but it was also expensive as hell. She could have mitigated her circumstances by sharing a room with, say, one or ten other people, but that wasn’t for her. She needed her own space, and her little shoe box of an apartment was as private as could be.

Grabbing her robe from the end of the bed, she found her teeth clattering loudly as she headed for the bathroom. This was the worst place in the apartment. The coldest. But she’d worked out a system where her behind never had to actually touch the seat. Creative. That’s what you needed to be in New York. Creative and warm-blooded.

After the loo, which sounded so much nicer to her ears than bathroom, she walked down the short hallway, eager to see her Christmas tree in the morning light. It was so beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, of course. But then, traditional beauty had never appealed to her.

She turned the corner and her gaze fell on the couch, covered with a wonderful old afghan that she’d found at a rummage sale to hide the aged patches and stains. Then the tree, her tree, listing a bit to the right, missing more needles than it should, but decorated with all the love and care she had in her. She’d made bows and sewn little hanging cloth baskets, which she’d filled with candy canes. And she’d made the most adorable fabric frame ornaments, putting a picture of someone she loved in each one.

Of course, Charles’s picture was given the place of honor. Although none of the decorations would claim more than a nickel at the flea market, they meant a lot to her, and that was what really mattered, right?

So what if others couldn’t see what she saw? So what if they thought she had a screw loose? Her vision held wonders, and that’s what made it worthwhile to get up every morning.

It had always been like that. Her poor parents had never understood her. They’d had their nice Long Island life, filled with worries about the right schools and the right clothes and the right friends. Her mother had planned great things for her daughters, and only Jane had disappointed. She’d tried to get through law school, honestly, but it wasn’t her. She’d ended up daydreaming in class, getting into trouble. So what if she hadn’t found her niche yet? There was still time, for heaven’s sake. She was only twenty-six. She had her whole life in front of her.

Only, sometimes she worried that she was spending a little too much time thinking about Charles. Despite the way she looked at the world, she was just Jane, after all. Not Pru, not Felicity, not Darra. Just Jane. Maybe it would be more productive to daydream about men she stood a chance with.

She sighed as she stepped over to her kitchen counter, pressed the button on her coffeemaker, then leaned over the tiny table and turned on her shower. It actually wasn’t bad, having the tub in the kitchen. She could cook breakfast and get clean at the same time. She wondered what Charles was doing now. As if it mattered. But still, what was the harm in wondering? Of course, his bathrooms would be extravagantly large. His kitchen bigger than her whole apartment. Not that she’d been to his place, but she knew him and his taste. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had one of those bathtubs. You know, the kind with the steps and the Jacuzzi whirlpool nozzles?

She wandered over to the radiator and banged it a few times with a tire iron she’d found on Forty-second Street. The gurgle from the basement told her heat was on its meandering way. Then it was back to the shower, which would be warm enough by now. She tossed off her clothes and scurried into the tub, pulling the circular shower curtain around her.

Halfway through washing, she forgot the business with the tree. She forgot that she was just Jane. Instead, she was in the shower with him. He washed her hair with his long, strong fingers. Her knees grew weak as she leaned slightly back to feel his wet, warm body against her spine….

CHARLES ADJUSTED his gray silk tie, then picked up his hairbrush. The speakerphone in the bathroom hummed with white noise while he waited for David to come back on the line.

“You still there?”

“Yes.” Charles finished the last of his ablutions. “And I’m leaving in about two seconds.”

“Oh, keep your shorts on. It was an important errand.”

“Your coffee?”

“Yes.”

“For God’s sake, David, you know—”

“I know you don’t like distractions in the morning, but too bad. I need to know what you’re doing on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s not for a week. I don’t know yet.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know yet? Your life is planned so far in advance you probably know the day you’re going to die.”

“I don’t know, David.”

“Well, figure it out. Sarah wants you to come to dinner, and she won’t leave me alone until I get it confirmed.”

“Why don’t you tell your sister she needs to get out more?”

“This from a man whose last date was what, a year ago?”

“David, I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait. First tell me if today’s the day.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Does the ad come out today?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do if she calls?”

“I’m going to answer the phone.”

“Ha ha. Very amusing.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t you do it! Don’t—”

He did. David would get over it. His former roommate and closest friend had several annoying habits, like calling in the morning when Charles needed the line free for his brokers. The Asian market didn’t care about his Christmas plans, and neither, frankly, did Charles. The holidays were highly overrated and damned inconvenient. Business ground to a halt each year for the weeks before, during and after. But then, this year might be different. What he hadn’t mentioned to David was that he hoped to be getting married during the lull. If Holly called. If she wasn’t married already. If…

What the hell was he doing?

The thought came from nowhere, the words not even his. It was David in his head, warning him away from his very sensible plan. David, who thought his license as a psychiatrist gave him some kind of unique insight into the human condition. But David was a sentimentalist.

Still, the echo of a doubt lingered. Charles had never figured out why he’d broken up with Holly. That was all. Once they met again, it wouldn’t matter.

At least, he hoped it wouldn’t matter. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was date. The mere word made him quake with dread. The fact was, he was bad at it. He didn’t like to do things he was bad at.

He left the bathroom and found his breakfast on the dining room table: a six-minute egg, one slice of unbuttered toast and coffee. The New York Times was already laid out, courtesy of Ellen, his housekeeper, who was at that moment putting away dishes from the dishwasher.

“Morning, Mr. Warren,” she said.

He nodded as he took his seat, then his gaze landed on the headlines. Ellen vanished as he started to read.

ONE CHICKEN LEG. Seven cashews. Three celery stalks. An apple. Half a sesame bagel. Excellent. Jane closed her lunch pail and flicked the lock into place. She’d go by the newsstand before she hit the subway. The ad was due out today. A shiver of apprehension raced up her spine when she thought about Holly Baskin. Would she read the magazine? Would she look in the personals? Would she call?

As Jane trotted down all six flights of stairs leading to the street, she wondered yet again if she should have substituted her want ad for his. She didn’t like to think of herself as selfish. But then, Charles didn’t even know she’d written an alternate ad, so where was the harm? She’d done as he’d requested. Period. No explanations would be needed.

Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, she still felt guilty. Not robbing-a-bank guilty, but enough to make her uncomfortable. If she really loved him, she would have substituted her ad for his. Because with real love, you’re supposed to care more for the other person than you do for yourself, right?

She did love him, that much she knew. But sometimes it wasn’t easy. He was so busy. Under such stress. He worked too hard, that’s for sure. And he laughed way too seldom.

She walked out onto the street and pulled on her gloves as she headed toward the corner. The snow under her feet had turned mushy and brown, slippery, too. It was a good thing she’d left a few minutes early. Charles hated anyone being late. It was really a thing with him. It wouldn’t do her a bit of good to use getting his magazine as an excuse. Lateness, according to Charles, had no excuse.

At least she had time to look at the Christmas decorations in the windows. Her mother was appalled that she lived in Harlem, positive Jane would end up dead in some alley, but her mother didn’t understand Brand Avenue. Although Jane hadn’t met many of her neighbors, the ones she did know were as nice as they could be. Mrs. Franklin, who lived over the butcher shop, had helped her find some gorgeous velvet once, which Jane had used to make her favorite purse. Teddy at the newsstand sometimes liked to talk about books. Very nice people, indeed. Real people.

Even the butcher shop looked festive this morning with all its pretty decorations. The dead chickens hanging in the window almost looked like reindeer.

“Good morning, Miss Jane.”

“Hi, Teddy. How are you?”

The older man, she had no idea how old, shook his head. “Not great, Jane. Not great.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ but old. Old hurts.”

“It doesn’t have to. I know you don’t eat well, and I’ll wager you don’t take any vitamins, either.”

“Vitamins? Are you crazy? You don’t know what they put in them things. They’re hauling pills off the counters every day.”

“You’re talking about herbs. I’m talking One-A-Day multiples.”

“The only thing I need once a day is a piece of apple pie.”

“My point exactly.”

He grinned at her, at the argument they’d had a hundred times. She wished he would take better care, though.

“What can I get you today?”

“I need a copy of Attitudes.”

“That all?”

“That’s all.”

He gave her the magazine and she gave him five dollars. When he turned to ring up her change, she darted away. “Hey!”

“Have a good day!” she called over her shoulder. Then she waved as she walked down the subway steps.

CHARLES UNLOCKED his office door, then flipped on the light switch. He liked being the first one in. Normally, Mrs. Robinson would have been here, would have had his coffee ready along with his agenda. But he wasn’t helpless. He knew how to make coffee, and he knew how to work a calendar. He missed his routine, that’s all. He liked it when the world worked like a well-oiled machine.

He put his briefcase down, then took off his coat and his kidskin gloves. Ben, his driver, had had to drop him off down the street this morning, and Charles’s shoes had paid the price. The construction on the building had become increasingly annoying, and he wished they’d finish. It wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, though, so he’d better make a note to wear his galoshes for a while.

In the meantime, he had to go to his washroom and work for a considerable time to repair the damage to the Italian leather. When he finished, he made coffee, and the moment he turned on the machine, the phone rang.

For Charles, the sound was like the gun at the start of a race, sending him into his day. It would be Frank Toyamichi calling from Japan. Charles had an appointment with Bob Riverside and his people at nine. Lunch, as usual, at Charlemagne. His attorneys were due this afternoon, and tonight David was taking him to an auction at Christie’s where he hoped to purchase a rocking chair that had once belonged to Jack Kennedy.

“Charles Warren,” he said into the speaker phone as he settled into his chair.

“Mr. Warren. It’s Frank. I have the numbers for you.”

Charles glanced at the clock. It was exactly sevenfifteen. Frank was a good man. A punctual man. Charles liked things punctual.

SHE WAS LATE. The subway train had been delayed more than ten minutes several miles before her Wall Street station. She’d passed the time reading the magazine in her lap, returning again and again to the personals. To the unadorned ad. “Holly Baskin, late of Vassar, call C.W.”

Holly. Certainly an appropriate name for the season. She’d be blond, of course. Or maybe her hair would be chestnut. Those Vassar girls liked chestnut.

She’d be beautiful, too. Slender, with good ankles and perky B cups. She’d have impeccable taste in all things. She’d know the right restaurants, the right wine, the right jewelers, the right people. She’d be the perfect complement to everything that Charles was. Only…

Only she wouldn’t love him the way Jane did. She couldn’t. If she had, she never would have left him. Not for anything. Only a fool would leave Charles Warren.

Holly wouldn’t understand his need for laughter. She wouldn’t see that his was a cautious soul that needed lots of loving care. Poor Charles didn’t want anyone to see his vulnerability, and Holly, who might be very attractive and speak umpteen languages, was too selfish to look beyond the facade. The only one, Jane thought, who had an inkling about the real Charles was David Levinson. He came to the office a couple of times a month, and he never failed to ask her how she was, and about her latest project. He was so nice. Such a sweetie pie. He never rushed his conversations, even if Charles tried to hurry him up.

She could see that David was worried about Charles, just as she was. And that David wasn’t having any luck getting Charles to see he had to slow down. But then, David was just a friend. Not a girlfriend. Not a wife.

The train started with a jerk and before she had a chance to fix her lipstick, she arrived at Pearl Street. Jane hustled out with about a million other people who were just as late as she was. No one spoke to each other, no one looked at each other. As far as she could see in this mass of humanity, there wasn’t one smile.

It was too near Christmas for such dour moods. She wished she was brave enough to say something. Just to holler, “Lighten up!” But then someone shoved her in the back, and she nearly stumbled. She sighed. Sometimes it was difficult to keep a positive attitude.

On the street, she breathed in a healthy dose of fresh air. But there was no time to appreciate the morning smells of doughnuts and coffee coming from the cart next to her. She had to run if she was going to make it to the office on time.

She dashed across the street with all the other pedestrians, dodging taxis and limos. The chorus of horns was anything but festive. She didn’t understand the honking. It never changed anything. Maybe all those drivers were just trying to be heard. A primal cry, desperate in its futility.

One of those desperate souls nearly ran her over, and she teetered on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment. No one noticed.

She walked as quickly as she dared, nearing the huge office building in the heart of Wall Street. Somewhere among all the noise and hubbub she heard the jingle of a bell. A street-corner Santa. That made things a little easier to take.

One more street crossed, and then she was under the scaffolding, pushing through the throng of office workers huddled in their heavy coats, their gloved hands thrust in pockets or gripping briefcases.

Again she was bumped. A man on a cell phone. Just as she was about to give him a piece of her mind, a scream, “Watch out!” made her look up.

Something was falling—

It hit her on the head. White light filled her vision and agony turned her legs to mush. Then the white faded to black, and that was all.

HER HEAD HURT. When she opened her eyes, the light hurt, too. “Ouch.”

“Good, you’re awake.”

“Huh?” She blinked, trying to figure out who was talking to her. A man in a coat. A white coat.

“You’re in an emergency room. I’m Dr. Larson. You were hit on the head.”

“I was?” She touched her forehead gingerly, but all she felt was a bandage.

“It’s amazing you’re alive. That was quite a blow.”

“What was?”

“This,” he said, holding up a plaster statuette. After a long moment she realized it was a Cupid. Complete with bow and arrow. Except the right wing was broken and his feet were missing.

“I was hit in the head by Cupid?”

“By about two pounds of plaster.”

“Am I all right?”

“I don’t know yet. Let’s find out, shall we?”

She nodded. Big mistake. Her head throbbed with an ungodly pain, the worst she’d ever felt. For a moment, the blackness threatened. She clung to something cold as steel as she struggled to focus her vision.

The doctor’s concerned look didn’t help matters any. Maybe she was really hurt. Seriously hurt. “It’s all right,” she said finally, knowing that it wasn’t. “I’m okay.”

“Why don’t we let me be the judge of that?” He helped her sit, and it was then she realized she was on a gurney and her hand had been gripping the rail. Her skirt was torn and damp, her sweater dirty. The lump of black wool on the chair by the curtain must be her coat.

“Look at my finger.”

She did, following the digit from right to left and back again. Then the doctor shone a light in her eyes, which made the throbbing worse.

When she could see again, she saw the doctor was young. Thirty? Maybe. Probably a resident. Or an intern. He was pretty good-looking, too. Tres ER.

His little rubber thingy hit her knee, and from the sound of the doctor’s “humph” she gathered her reactions were normal. As he wrote on his clipboard, she noticed a little bit of shaving cream on his jaw just below his ear.

Her hand went to that spot on her own face, hoping he’d catch on. She didn’t want to tell him. He seemed very nice, but also shy, and she had the feeling he would be embarrassed.

“All right, then. Let’s move on. What’s your name?”

Her gaze jerked up, making her wince. Her name. Her name. Why on earth couldn’t she think of it? “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“Uh…”

“Yes?”

“Well. Um, I can’t seem to recall.”

“You can’t seem to recall what?”

She smiled. Laughed, although it really wasn’t funny. “My name.”

His whole body language changed from relaxed to red alert. “I see,” he said, failing to calm her with his words.

“You see what?” Her stomach clenched and it suddenly was hard to breathe. She recognized the signs of a panic attack, and she hadn’t had one in years. Why did she know that, and not her name?

“What’s your mother’s name?”

Nothing came. Her mind was a blank.

“Brothers, sisters? Your father?”

She closed her eyes, focusing every ounce of her energy on not screaming.

“You didn’t come in with a purse. And there was nothing in your pockets.”

His voice faded a bit, and when she opened her eyes again he was standing by her coat.

“This was in your hand.” He held up a glossy magazine. Attitudes.

And then it hit her. She nearly swooned with relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Yes?”

“I remember. Of course. Wow, that was scary.”

“What is it?”

“My name?”

He nodded.

“It’s Holly. Holly Baskin.”

3

LARRY PODESKY, Bob Riverside’s attorney, wetted the tip of his finger slowly, then used that finger to turn to the next page of the legal brief. He went on reading line by painful line in a voice better suited to mortuary work than high finance. The mildly disturbing tableau wasn’t enough, however, to focus Charles.

The damn girl hadn’t even called. That’s what got him. The simple courtesy of a phone call this morning and everything would have been fine. He’d have had time to get a suitable temp, someone who knew how to make palatable coffee, who wouldn’t spill water all over Riverside’s pants. Things would have gone according to plan.

“…the party of the first part, will make appropriate restitution to landowners…”

Charles tried to focus on the contract, but his attention was waylaid by four drops of water on the conference table. Remnants of the mishap of an hour ago, they were perfect bubbles, contained within themselves, shimmering when Podesky jostled the table. For God’s sake, millions of dollars were at stake, and he was busy thinking about beads of water. He dismissed them, turned his attention to the pages before him, but every few words his gaze would dart over to the drops. It was all he could do not to leap out of his chair and blot the water before it could torment him further.

Damn it. Podesky might as well have been speaking Greek. Charles couldn’t listen, hadn’t been able to listen from the start.

He’d have to postpone his decision, that’s all. Which wasn’t a bad idea when he thought about it. Something was amiss here, and in his distraction, the only hint he’d had was the fact that Riverside’s face was a dull pink. Not just some of his face. All of it had a distinct rosy hue. Having met Riverside several times before, Charles knew this wasn’t the man’s normal complexion. The temperature in the office was a cool seventy-two, so what was making the man so nervous?

Charles was pleased he’d thought to do a little digging into Riverside’s past. If there were skeletons to be found, his man Sterling would find them. The importance of today was to listen well, get his own take on the man and the deal.

Unfortunately, he’d failed miserably on both accounts.

“…two-hundred seventy thousand dollars, to be held at Chase Manhattan Bank until such t—” Podesky stopped midword as his gaze jerked to the door of the conference room. Riverside followed suit and reacted with an open mouth and widening eyes.

Charles spun in his chair to see what the hell—

Ms. Dobson? Joan Dobson? With a white bandage on her forehead? With a dirty, torn skirt and blouse? With only one shoe?