Montana Rogue (Big Sky Mavericks Book 7) Page 16

  Just like her.

  “Your reason for quitting?” the HR rep had asked.

  “Because indentured servitude was outlawed several centuries ago. I hate being treated like a peon. I hate being paid a third of what my male counterparts are earning. And I believe the management of this firm is small-minded and petty. Did you get all that down?”

  She picked up her box of personal belongings. The only thing of any real value was the glass figurine of Don Quixote she’d taken from her grandmother’s curio cabinet. He stood on the small shelf of her tiny worker-bee cubicle, a symbol to never give up her dreams. And sitting beside the heroic, if misguided, statuette rested the shot glass that featured a bear juggling huckleberries and the words I Heart Montana. Tucker had bought it for her the first time they made love. She’d found it wrapped in a sweater and hidden in the bottom of her suitcase when she got back to New York.

  She exchanged a rueful glance with the two gentlemen in blue who accompanied her to the elevator. Remembering her first walk of shame made her straighten her shoulders and smile at the nearly invisible camera.

  Although the elevator stopped at two more floors, nobody got on or off. A few seconds later, they arrived at the lobby level. A purposeful design meant to reinforce the difference between the upper echelon whose keys took them straight to the underground garage while the drones like her had to get off the elevator and walk to a second elevator if they wanted to reach the basement level.

  She’d only taken a few steps toward the lower level elevator when she heard a voice call her name. “Amanda? Excuse me. You are Amanda Heller, aren’t you?” a woman about her mother’s age asked.

  Unlike June, this lady was naturally thin, with the inherent elegance and grace her mother tried so hard to emulate but couldn’t quite pull off.

  “Yes. I am,” Amanda said, walking toward her. Force of habit made Amanda brace for the worst. A subpoena maybe? Although the woman didn’t look like a lawyer or process server.

  Her hands remained shoved in the front pockets of her dark gray wool coat. A gorgeous hand-painted scarf encircled her neck, the ends tucked into the coat’s lapels. She didn’t carry a purse, which told Amanda she either lived nearby or had a driver waiting for her. If Amanda wasn’t mistaken, her boots were Manolo Blahnik.

  When the woman took a step forward, her hand leaving her pocket to shake Amanda’s, the truth hit her. “You’re Tucker’s mother.”

  The woman’s face lit up with a smile so like her son’s Amanda nearly cried. “Yes, I am. My name is Caroline Mayhue. My friends call me Caro.” She gestured toward the front doors of the lobby. “I was hoping we might have lunch.”

  “Lunch? Now? I have a car waiting.”

  Caroline gave a tiny shake of her head, a mere hint really. Small gestures that said a great deal. “I asked the doorman to tip the driver well. If you don’t have time for lunch, please, let me drive you home. We really need to talk.”

  Amanda had a million questions, starting with, “How did you know I’d be leaving early today?”

  As they passed by the front desk, Amanda thought she saw a signal of some sort pass between Caro and the uniformed guard behind the desk. Amanda spun around, realizing for the first time her escorts from the upper floors had disappeared.

  Caro paused just before the entrance to the large, revolving door. “The son of a workmate of mine heads up the security for this building. He has an ear to everything that happens. When I made it my business to learn more about you, he graciously took it upon himself to ask the right people the right questions. He called me twenty minutes ago to say you’d quit.”

  Caro smiled her son’s smile. “It’s about time, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  That was the moment Amanda knew she was going to like this woman. “Lunch sounds great. Your treat, I hope. I’m unemployed.”

  Caro led the way through the cumbersome old-fashioned door, which Amanda’s penny-pinching, bottom-line former employer called “classic.” By the time Amanda made it through the whooshing push of air, Caro was seated in the back of a black Town Car motioning for Amanda to join her. The driver, a tall, good-looking man in his mid-to-late forties, graciously took Amanda’s box, set it on the front seat, and then closed the rear door behind Amanda.

  The car was warm enough for both women to remove their gloves. Amanda couldn’t help but stare at Caro’s beautiful, gifted hands. “I’ve heard you play,” she said. “I didn’t know who you were at the time, but I remember being so moved by the beauty of the piece you were playing.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind. One always hopes the music will reach someone who needs to hear it.”

  Amanda started to ask how Caro found out about her—and she assumed her link to Tucker, but Caro stopped her. “I know you have many questions that I will be only too glad to answer, but let’s wait until we’re sitting down across from each other with bowls of lobster bisque between us, shall we? My cook is famous for her lobster bisque.”

  “Your cook? We’re going to your apartment?”

  Caro shared a glance with the driver in the car’s rear view mirror. “More or less.”

  Amanda understood the tiny glimmer of humor in the woman’s eyes a few minutes later when the car pulled up to an elegant manor home in the heart of the city. The kind of home that belonged to dynasties. People with “serious” money, as her father would say. “Old money,” June called it with a hush of respect and envy.

  The driver jumped out and dashed around to open doors, unlock the house and escort them safely inside before turning to leave. “My box,” Amanda said, remembering at the last minute.

  “It will be safe with Philip until he drives you home,” Caro said, showing her where to hang her coat and set her purse.

  “Okay.”

  Amanda made sure her phone was on her person. This whole meeting was starting to feel surreal. She might need photographic proof to remind herself it actually happened.

  “May we offer you wine? A cocktail? Perhaps, a sip of sherry?”

  Amanda made a face, which caused Caro to laugh out loud. The sound seemed a little out of place given the perfection of the decor. “My older sisters used to like to torture me. One time they added red food coloring to sherry and told me it was Kool-Aid.”

  “That’s unkind. Hot tea, then?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Caro led the way to the room Amanda assumed might be called the study in a game of Clue. A small table had been set near the fireplace where a real log was burning in a grate. A uniformed servant at least a decade older than Caro, who probably was in her early- to mid-fifties, carried a tray with a silver teapot, two china cups and all the necessary accouterments to the table.

  “Thank you, Marie.”

  Amanda took her time walking to the chair that had been pulled back for her. On every wall and every shelf something of interest caught her eye. Awards. Several gold records. Photographs with dignitaries and luminaries from around the world. Accolades celebrating Caroline’s philanthropy. But, most interesting to Amanda, were the photos of her son from his youngest years straight to a PR shot from American Male.

  Amanda sat down heavily. “Wow. You didn’t abandon him.”

  “No.”

  “Or lose track of him.”

  “Never. I know where he is nearly every moment of the day.” She tapped her cranium. “Partly intuition, partly a well-paid staff that has the skill and the means to do these things.”

  “Even the CIA loses track of people.”

  “That’s where a mother’s intuition comes in.” She smiled. “Plus, I have an inside source. Ruby-Lee Montgomery. You may know her as Ona.”

  “Tucker’s grandmother.”

  Caro poured the tea as if she’d been born in England and schooled at the knee of a queen. “Yes. She and I have been a team since before Tucker was born. She took one look at me when Rey and I arrived in Louisiana and said, ‘We’re having a boy.’”

  Her express
ion turned sad and a bit wistful. “Not you are having a boy,” she emphasized. “She said we. I didn’t recall this until six months after Tucker’s birth when Ruby-Lee and I sat down to talk about love and loss, real life, and practicalities.”

  Amanda brought the teacup to her lips forcing back the question she wanted to shout, “How could you leave your child?”

  “When my parents found out about Reynard’s death, they started hounding me to bring Tucker back here and resume my real life. The one they’d paid for me to experience.”

  “That sounds familiar.”

  “I thought it might.” Caro added a cube of sugar to her tea and stirred without making a ripple. “In hindsight, I should have given myself more time before making such an important decision. The shock of watching the love of your life die in your arms so suddenly and unexpectedly, robbed me of the ability to think clearly. Ruby-Lee laid out my choices. If I took Tucker with me to New York, he would grow up exactly the same way I had. If I left him with her, he would grow up exactly the same way my beautiful Reynard had. I told myself I was doing what was best for Tucker.” She sighed weightily. “Although I consider this a shameful excuse, my therapist insists that I cut myself a break because I was only twenty-two at the time.”

  “That’s very young.”

  “True. And my parents weren’t anything like Ruby-Lee and Twig—that’s what people called Rey’s father. For several years, I felt rather magnanimous...until the first time I flew to New Orleans to see my son and he didn’t remember me. Or, rather, he knew who I was, but he didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Six.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  “More than I can describe. Strangely, that’s the year I was given a chair at the Philharmonic. My teacher said my playing went from predictable to passionate.”

  Caro set her tea aside and removed her boots. She curled her feet under her and sat forward as eagerly as a girl wanting to hear more about her first crush. “Tell me about my son. I have so much to catch up on.”

  “I haven’t seen him in nearly four months.”

  “He’s in Florida. American Male is headlining a cruise. They’ll be gone for seven weeks.”

  “But not The Full Mountie,” Amanda told her. “Someone—Tucker or his publicist—posted a good-bye to his fans on his Facebook page.”

  Caro nodded. “Yes. Isn’t that the reason you quit your job?”

  Amanda hesitated. “In part, but probably not for the reason you assume. My father threatened to have Tucker fired if I didn’t come home and play ball, so to speak.”

  “You left Montana for his sake.”

  “He needed to be able to finish out the zip line season without some kind of bogus harassment my father would have arranged. And Tucker told me he needed this off-season job to make up for the lost time when the zip line wasn’t operational.”

  “This means you two haven’t gotten back together?”

  “We haven’t talked since I left Montana.”

  Caro shook her head firmly. “No. That’s not acceptable. I have been alone at Christmas for the past thirty-two years. Oh, I’ve had family and friends and a lover or two, but it’s not the same as experiencing a holiday with your own child and his beloved.” She sat forward, her feet landing in the thick rug. “We need a plan. I’ve already started decorating.”

  Amanda looked around. She hadn’t seen a single element of red and green.

  “Oh, not here,” Caro said, reaching out to squeeze Amanda’s arm. “I bought your grandmother’s Victorian in Marietta.”

  Amanda nearly choked on her swallow of tea. “Seriously? Mother said she made a killing on it.”

  “I know your mother. No offense, but she has a tendency to exaggerate. My broker said we paid fair market value and June threw in the piano.” Caroline shook her head. “Who does that?”

  “Someone with no sense of what’s important.”

  “Exactly.” She held out her hand. “We have to act quickly. Are you in?”

  Amanda had to choke back tears. “My grandmother once told me that when one door closes, another opens on the other side of the world. And it might take awhile to get there and the trip might be a real pain, but you have to keep going because the view will be worth it.”

  Caro put her free hand to her heart. “I love Molly already. I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “And I can’t wait to get home.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Okay, Short-timer, you’re up.”

  Max, the stage manager who’d been keeping the American Male dancers in some semblance of order ever since Tucker joined the troupe, was the one person Tucker was going to miss. “Thanks, Max. Can’t believe this is my last show. Wow. It’s been a trip, huh?”

  Max, who looked eighty, but probably was closer to fifty, clapped Tucker on the back heartily. “It’s been a pleasure, Mountie. You’re a decent guy. Sorry to see you go.”

  “Thanks.” Tucker hadn’t expected to feel so choked up over his decision to quit.

  He’d floated the idea past Flynn and Justin during a conference call shortly after Tucker caught up with American Male in Brussels. Getting there from Montana had been a travel nightmare. He’d wound up sleeping on the floor at JFK and nearly getting rolled by a couple of punks. They hadn’t counted on him fighting back, but he’d missed his flight because the airport cops required him to be checked out by a doctor before getting on an overseas flight. Things more or less went downhill from there. His wardrobe had somehow gotten “lost.” He’d had to borrow key items like rip-away pants from a buddy a size smaller.

  First performance back on stage, he ripped the butt out of his rip-away pants. Annoying and embarrassing. Luckily, shouts of praise and shouts of ridicule all sound alike when you’re in a foreign country. Or so he told himself.

  Things improved after that for a couple of weeks, until a bout of food poisoning put him in a Luxembourg hospital. Then he’d lost his place as headliner to an upstart Viking who looked like he could beat the living crap out of The Terminator.

  Now, American Male was poised to sail away on a gazillion-decker cruise line...without Tucker. As a farewell, the booking agent got them a hotel in St. Pete’s Beach for Tucker’s final show. His last dance in public was coming up in two minutes. The butterflies were worse than he could remember anytime in any fire zone. He forced himself to focus on his breathing as he stood in the wings of the stage and watched Ragnor the Bold shake his ass. The man could move, Tucker had to give him that. A touch of hip-hop in his routines seemed to appeal to a younger crowd. Toss in a few slides and spins that made the women in the front rows gasp and blink and you had instant sex appeal.

  What did I just see, he could almost hear them thinking to themselves. Was that his junk?

  All part of the show. Tucker had played a little peek-a-boo when he first started. It was all fun and games as long as there wasn’t some jerk from the morality police sitting in the front row with a video camera. Tucker leaned around the curtain far enough to look at the first few rows. Excited, happy, and lusty women shoulder to shoulder clapping and stomping their feet. Just what you wanted to see if you were about to strip and shake your booty for them.

  He pulled back at the exact second something clicked in his brain. The shape of her jawline? The color of her hair? No way.

  Before he could look again, Ragnor, whose real name was Richie, barreled off the stage, nearly knocking Tucker on his ass. “Hey, old man, watch it. Don’t block the exit.”

  “Grrr.” Tucker would have chosen to track down the jerk and kick his ass if not for Max, who caught Tucker’s shoulders between his hands and gave him a little shake. “Music, dude.”

  Sure enough, the Maroon 5 song Sugar started, and as usual, the beat and lyric worked its magic. He’d gone round and round with management to get a more provocative song, which fit his mood. The lyrics of this one seemed to hit a little too close to home, but once the w
ords triggered the memory of one little taste of Amanda, the rest of the routine came naturally.

  As part of his trademark moves, he got a running start and slid off the end of the stage so he could snake his way through the front rows looking for a likely partner. Someone like...

  “Holy crap,” he swore, holding out his hand to a girl with chocolate brown hair and eyes that said, “Me, me, pick me.”

  The girl he held in his arms every night in his dreams.

  Amanda. And every morning he awoke with more broken pieces. He had a million of them.

  Do I care why she’s here?

  Not if she’s ready to pour a little sugar on him.

  He picked her up, legs straddling his waist.

  “Come on, Sugar, I’m right here. Are you with me?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He spun them about, lifting her to the stage, where the show called for him to pretend to kiss her. Could he stay in character—keep the mask on long enough to survive the pain twisting his insides into a thick, hard knot? He swooped and shook his ass. She laughed and clapped, obviously playing the willing victim.

  But when he pressed his hips to hers, she grabbed his butt cheeks and squeezed hard. He bucked and rolled off her. He made a naughty-naughty gesture, shaking his finger at her. The crowd went nuts. He did a few squats and twirls to the music, then gave her his hand and pulled her to her feet.

  Amanda was here. She looked hot. And available. And damn if he’d let her go again.

  He helped her to her seat so he could finish his dance. Were his moves lighter, more fun and more passionate than they had been since he got back? Had his grin returned to its cocky former self? His audience gave a big “Hell, yeah.” Juices he’d thought were gone for good burst through his veins as he laid his heart on the stage for the girl he loved more than life. And he didn’t give a damn who knew it.

  When the song ended, the standing O barely penetrated the adrenaline rush, blocking the sound of Max’s congratulations, the other dancers’ pats on the back, or the nod of respect from Richie/Ragnor.