London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 5

  Ian had never been so aware of the fact his power was a sham. He might be chief operating officer of this company, but it was his younger brother’s business. His brother’s image. His brother’s name on which he traded.

  For someone who had once been half a second behind an Olympic gold medal, it was a galling thought.

  Ian pushed down the thought as he strode from the conference room to his office. Pure pride. He’d known when he took the position that there was little glory or recognition in it. Only lots of responsibility and an obscenely large paycheck to make sure Jamie could focus on his cooking, his celebrity, and soon, his new wife. Most days it seemed like a fair trade. Regular office hours and the freedom to take holidays when he wanted, whether or not he actually took advantage of it … and yet it in no way resembled the life he’d once envisioned for himself.

  He strode past Dena, who was staring intently at her computer screen, then stopped abruptly in front of his desk. “What is this?”

  The woman popped up from her desk and appeared behind him. “Your lunch. Egg salad on wheat, as you requested.”

  Ian blinked at her. “I didn’t—never mind. I’m eating out today. Help yourself.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the exterior door of the office suite, hoping by some miracle she’d be gone when he returned and save him from firing yet another person today.

  Chapter Six

  Asha promised to be home early on the night of the benefit, extracting from Grace a solemn vow that she would wait so they could get ready together. Even though she didn’t say it outright, Grace suspected her elegant friend wanted to vet her clothing choices. Not that three hours gave them many options should Asha find Grace’s wardrobe unsuitable.

  Grace waited with her laptop at the kitchen table, eyes tracing a constant triangle between the screen, the invitation, and the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. She wasn’t nervous, exactly. She’d been to her share of formal events, particularly in Paris, where even a minor thing like a dinner party was elevated to an art form. But this was different. While she was evaluating CAF to see if she wanted to work for them, they’d be doing the same. Call it an unofficial interview with formal wear and an open bar.

  Put that way, maybe there was an advantage to these kinds of “interviews.” People, she could deal with. People, she liked. It was simply offices, suits, and the associated restrictions that made her edgy.

  But as the clock hands swept by half three and toward four without any sign of Asha, she began to wonder if she’d somehow misunderstood. At last the key turned in the lock at ten after five, and Asha rushed in.

  “So sorry, Grace. I got hung up at work, and the Tube was simply awful. Did you make it to the cleaners?”

  Grace chuckled. Anyone else stumbling in harried and apologetic would be disheveled, but Asha still managed to look as poised and beautiful as ever. “Your clothes are on the back of your bedroom door.”

  “Grace, you are an angel.” Asha gave her a quick squeeze around the shoulders on her way through the kitchen. “I feel bad having you run my errands. First the groceries, then my cleaning—”

  “The groceries were a matter of self-preservation, but you know I’m glad to do it. Call it repayment for letting me crash on your sofa.”

  “That was the plan behind offering, of course. I knew you’d cook, clean, and shop for me. I need a housewife.”

  “As long as you don’t expect me to meet you at the door in heels and red lipstick.”

  “Oh, I know better than to part you from your ugly green Docs. You aren’t planning on wearing those with your dress tonight, are you?”

  Grace laughed at Asha’s expression of genuine alarm. “No, of course not. Besides, who said anything about a dress? I haven’t worn a skirt since I was ten, and that was for my confirmation. I looked like I was being eaten by a wedding cake.”

  “You do have something to wear, right? I might have something that would fit you.”

  Grace snorted. Asha was inches taller than her. Anything she owned would swim on Grace’s petite frame. “I have formal wear. I am an actual grown-up, you know.”

  Asha cast a dubious glance toward Grace’s battered duffel bag.

  “Okay, so it needed some pressing.”

  Asha grinned. “I’m going to start getting ready. The car will pick us up at six.”

  Fortunately with Asha on the job, Grace had no time to feel nervous as they dressed and styled and applied more cosmetics than Grace knew existed. She even managed a pretense of calmness until the sedan’s driver opened the door for them at the River Entrance of the Savoy just before seven. Instantly her stomach felt as if she had swallowed a handful of broken glass. Tonight might set the course for the next phase of her life. The fact she hadn’t decided whether she wanted the job made no difference—simply considering the possibility made this move to London real for the first time. She smoothed down the front of her slim tuxedo trousers, then buttoned and unbuttoned her jacket.

  Asha looped her arm through hers and dragged her toward the brass-studded glass doors, merging into the steady trickle of guests disembarking from their own cars. “Will you stop fidgeting? You look gorgeous.”

  “No. You look gorgeous. I’ll be lucky if I don’t trip in these blasted heels. Why did I let you talk me into these?”

  “Because that outfit demands stilettos. You look like a celebrity, Grace. Haven’t you noticed everyone trying to figure out if they should know you?”

  As they entered into the opulently decorated lower lobby, filled with guests in tuxedos and designer, floor-length gowns, Grace was suddenly happy she’d taken her friend up on her offer to do her hair and makeup. The other woman was beautiful on an average day, but in her fuchsia evening salwar kameez, she was stunning. The sequined and embroidered full skirt swirled around the ankles of her matching trousers, making her look as if she belonged at a red-carpet Bollywood premiere.

  They followed the trickle of elegantly dressed guests to a smaller space outside the ballroom, where others already mingled with drinks in groups of two or three. As soon as they set foot on the patterned rug, a tuxedoed man raised a hand and headed their way.

  Grace blinked. “Is that Jake?”

  “Shines up nicely, doesn’t he?” Asha grinned before she lifted her face for a greeting kiss. Then Jake turned to Grace.

  “All the rumors are true, I see.” Heedless of the event, he put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. “Welcome back. We’ve missed you.”

  “Still a liar, but that’s what I’ve always loved about you.” She laughed, her heart suddenly light. From the corner of her eye, a man glimpsed Asha and made his way toward them. “I’m going to the bar while I still can. Do you want anything?”

  “House white,” Asha said, while Jake shook his head.

  Slipping away before the man was close enough to require introductions, Grace navigated the spongy floor carefully in the unaccustomed high heels. She slid up to an empty space at the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. “A glass of your house white and a tonic with lime, please.”

  “Sure you don’t want some gin with your tonic? These evenings can get pretty long.”

  Grace chuckled when she realized the lad was flirting with her, despite the fact she was nearly old enough to be his mother. “No, the tonic will be fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” He winked at her and set the drinks in front of her on the bar. She bit back a smile and turned, nearly bumping into the man behind her.

  “Smart woman. Hit up the bar before you’re subjected to the inquisition.” Henry leaned past to order a Scotch on the rocks and then turned back to her. “You ready?”

  “I was. You know, I’m usually the one asking the questions.”

  “So ask the questions.” Henry took his drink and gestured with his head for her to follow. “Come, I’ll introduce you round.”

  He led her back over to where Asha and Jake stood conversing with the man from earlier. Grace handed Asha her drink and put on a f
riendly smile as Henry made introductions.

  “Grace, this is Kenneth DeVries, the vice president of communications at CAF.” And my boss, his significant look said.

  “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Grace Brennan.”

  “I know who you are.” His eyes rested briefly on the tattoos exposed by her pushed-up jacket sleeves before he grasped her offered hand. “I’d venture to say everyone knows who you are. Henry tells us there’s already some Pulitzer buzz about you.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Grace said. “But Henry stays much better connected in the journalism world than I do. I’m just a photographer.”

  “Grace is far too humble.” Henry’s message was clear: she needed to play up her experience with the man so he thought he was stealing her away to work with CAF. While she appreciated the thought, the idea still went against the grain. Either DeVries shared her editorial vision or he didn’t. Whether or not she’d been short-listed for a Pulitzer nomination—a long shot if she’d ever heard one—was irrelevant.

  But it didn’t seem to matter. Mr. DeVries gave her a knowing smile. “I’m far more familiar with Ms. Brennan’s work than she probably thinks. Henry, I see a few board members over there by the door. Introduce her, will you?”

  “My pleasure. If you’ll come with me, Grace. Dr. Issar, Mr. Hudson, it was nice to see you.” Henry pressed a hand lightly against her back.

  Grace shook Mr. DeVries’s hand once more before Henry steered her toward another group of tuxedo-clad men. “I take it that’s his tacit approval?”

  “Absolutely. I mentioned you to him this week, and while he knew your name, he wasn’t familiar with your work. I’d say he’s done his research.”

  “Who are we impressing now?”

  “Board of directors, at least a few members. They’ll be the ones who have the final vote on your hire. Assuming you decide you want the job, of course.” He put on a smile and injected himself into the conversation with the ease of a politician.

  Henry quickly made the introductions, and Grace repeated their names to fix them in her mind. Dr. Philip Vogel, director of international programmes. Dr. Leonard Cho, medical adviser. Harvey Kinlan, chairman of the board.

  Kinlan cut straight to the chase. “Symon here says that you’re giving up fieldwork and coming back to London.”

  “It’s a possibility, yes,” Grace said carefully. “I’ve spent ten years covering conflicts, though. It’s not an easy thing to leave behind.”

  “I imagine it isn’t,” Kinlan said. “Yet there are advantages to a steady, less dangerous job, as Symon will tell you.”

  “What I’ve appreciated,” Henry said, “is that I’ve been able to spend time with program coordinators and local volunteers. Being based out of London doesn’t mean being handcuffed to a desk.”

  Henry knew her far too well, neutralizing her number one objection before she could voice it. “I imagine in addition to the creative director position, you have a director of photography.”

  “We do,” Vogel said, “along with staff photographers and freelancers. But I imagine Henry would want you to spend some time in the field if that’s where your interest lies. He tells me you’ve freelanced for other NGOs over the years.”

  Grace shot Henry an amused look, which made him grimace. Those experiences had been exactly why they said they’d never work for an international nonprofit. Apparently he’d left that part out. “I’m curious to hear how you administer your programs locally. Far too many organizations stop at relief, and any further rehabilitation or development fails because they are too arrogant to learn from and understand the local culture.”

  Eyebrows raised at her bluntness, but Vogel answered easily. “We’re well aware of the problems, and I think you’ll find CAF very sensitive to these issues.” His eyes flickered to a point over Grace’s shoulder. “Ah, MacDonald, there you are. I want you to meet someone.”

  Immediately all her incisive, intelligent questions fled, her attention focused to one single point. Surely it couldn’t be. MacDonald was a common Scottish surname. She was being paranoid. When she turned to prove it, though, the smile slipped from her face, turning instead to a grotesque twitch.

  Ian seemed not to notice her discomfiture, or maybe he was enjoying it. “Grace and I know each other already,” he said. He took the hand that she didn’t remember offering, and his piercing blue gaze collided with hers. She went cold in an instant; then her entire body lit up in a furious flush.

  In the past week she’d managed to convince herself that her brief impression of him at the river had been flawed, that he had to have changed in the last decade. And he had—for the better. If he’d been good looking before, maturity had made him even more appealing, the fine lines at the corners of his pale blue eyes and the hint of early gray at the temples adding interest to his handsome face. He also seemed taller and broader than she remembered, his perfectly tailored tuxedo emphasizing both the breadth of his shoulders and his impressive height. No matter which way she considered him, he was heart-stopping.

  Only then did she realize she had gaped at him for a full minute without saying anything. She opened her mouth, and still nothing came out. He smiled coolly at her as he released her hand, then looked past her to the men. “I’m very familiar with her work, in fact. She would be quite an asset to CAF. I’m sure the rest of the board will agree.”

  The three men leveled curious looks at them. Say something, she commanded herself, but shock washed away coherent speech. What was he doing here? Why hadn’t anyone told her he was involved in this charity? Had Asha known they would run into him, or was this all a big coincidence?

  Fortunately the ballroom doors opened at that moment, and the hum of quiet conversation escalated to a roar. Vogel smiled in her direction. “We’ve an empty seat at our table. Please, you must join us.”

  At last, Grace’s voice made a reappearance. “Thank you. I’d be honored.” And yet, instead of drawing her off with them as she’d hoped, he and the other men moved into the crowd themselves, leaving Grace standing there dumbly with Ian.

  The slight twist of his mouth said he wasn’t any happier about the arrangement than she was. “Shall we?”

  Grace moved automatically, even though the light press of his hand at her back sent a tingle straight up her spine. She needed to get a grip on herself. “Wait, what did you mean the rest of the board?”

  “I was elected to the board of directors a couple of years ago. I assume you didn’t know, or you wouldn’t be considering the position.”

  A spark of anger finally burned through the glacier that seemed to have formed over her on his arrival. “This has absolutely nothing to do with you. Henry Symon recommended me for the job, and if I’m coming back to London for good, there are far worse career directions.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Coming back to London.”

  She blinked at him. “I don’t know yet. I guess that still depends.”

  “On the job?”

  On you. The words surfaced in her mind and were halfway to her lips before she arrested them. But from the searching look he gave her, she wondered if she’d voiced them aloud.

  And then the wondering expression vanished, replaced by the perfect, polished composure he wore with as much pride as his tuxedo. He nodded toward the ballroom. “After you.”

  Ian let out a long breath as Grace passed through the ballroom doors. Thirty more seconds alone with her, and he’d make a complete fool out of himself in front of her, his colleagues, and half of London’s elite. When he’d glimpsed her holding court among the rapt members of CAF’s executive staff, he’d flown through dread and anger to something he didn’t even want to name. Considering how the attention of every other male in her vicinity had obliterated his determination to avoid her, it certainly wasn’t the indifference he’d been hoping for.

  Not that anyone would really blame him. In a sea of conservative wool and sequins, she
looked like a rock star, from her short-cropped, blonde hair and sultry eye makeup to her form-fitting tuxedo, the sleeves of which were pushed up to show the tattoos on her right arm. He’d always pictured her as she’d left him—young, wild, and avant-garde—but now he had to add beautiful, sexy, and unapproachable to the list. He certainly hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

  Which was the entirely wrong thing to be thinking as he escorted her to a tableful of his colleagues, especially when her mere proximity made his mouth go dry.

  Grace faltered just inside the double doors, her brows furrowing as she took in the opulence of the expansive room. Glass chandeliers dripped light from above, while roses and crystal decorated the white-robed tables.

  “Seems strange to have all this luxury to raise money for children who are dying of disease and starvation.”

  He dipped his head to speak low into her ear. “You don’t think this actually costs five hundred quid a person, do you? Besides, it’s always good to show donors the lives of the less fortunate when they’re wearing four-thousand-pound suits.”

  “Like you?” Grace raised an eyebrow, taking him in from head to toe in a way that didn’t at all feel complimentary.

  Ian rested his hand on her back long enough to steer her toward a table near the front of the room. “You know, Grace, we aren’t all heartless bastards. Some of us actually feel our success gives us an obligation to those without the same opportunities.”

  Grace looked embarrassed. “I’ve lived lean for so long, all this makes me uncomfortable.”

  “I know. That’s why CAF needs you. I meant what I said, Grace. You would bring something valuable to the organization.”

  Surprise lit her expression, but he purposely didn’t look at her as they approached the table. Of course, the only two chairs left were next to each other. She unbuttoned her jacket when she sat, and he automatically helped her out of it, hanging it on the back of her chair. The skimpy back of her sequined top revealed a pink-and-white peony inked above her right shoulder blade. He barely restrained himself from brushing a finger across it. That was new. Given Grace’s propensity for symbolism, what did it represent?