London Tides: A Novel (The MacDonald Family Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Artfully shaped eyebrows lifted at the sight of Grace’s tattoos, but the women quickly masked their expressions. He wondered if that were the reason she’d chosen to remove her jacket in the chilly ballroom, a sort of litmus test for the board’s tolerance for unconventionality.

  Ian settled beside her and made the introductions of the wives and daughters sitting with the board members she’d already met. When he got to the man sitting on Grace’s other side, a French doctor named André Marchal, he realized he should have switched their seats. Marchal immediately took Grace’s hand with a brilliant smile.

  “Enchanté.”

  “Tout le plaisir est pour moi,” Grace replied immediately with a nod.

  “Ah, you speak French so beautifully. Do you spend much time in France?”

  The doctor’s gaze never wavered from Grace. The slow flicker of irritation built in Ian’s chest. Marchal was always charming—and perpetually bored, it seemed—so the intense interest in his expression was doubly disturbing.

  Ian casually laid his arm across the back of her chair as he leaned forward. “I understand Grace lives part of the year in Paris. Is that right?”

  She gave him a puzzled smile. “I’m based in Paris, yes, though I spend very little time there. Most of this past year I worked in the Middle East.”

  “Ah, very nice.” Dr. Marchal gave a vague smile and a nod toward Ian, as if to acknowledge that he’d made his point. “I hope you spend the best part in France. Our winters can be so dreary.”

  Ian leaned back, but he didn’t remove his arm.

  Grace reached for her water glass and took a sip before she murmured to him, “Are you quite done?”

  He leaned over to murmur in her ear, “Not even close. Marchal is—”

  “I know what Marchal is. I live in France, remember?” She pulled away and gave him an amused smile as if he’d said something funny. Oh, Grace might pretend like she didn’t fit in with this group, but she played the game better than any of them.

  “So, Ms. Brennan.” Kenneth DeVries caught her eye over the elaborate centerpiece. “Henry tells me you’ve had the chance to look over our most recent publications. I’d like to hear what you think.”

  “They’re very well produced.”

  It was a diplomatic answer, and DeVries’s smile said he knew it. “I get the impression you don’t believe that’s a good thing.”

  When Grace hesitated, Ian finally dropped his arm from the back of her seat. “Please, go ahead. We’d like to hear your opinion.”

  She shot him a look that told him exactly what she thought about his interference, but then she leveled her gaze at DeVries across the table. “Quality is always important, and there’s no doubt you have that. But they come across as impersonal.”

  “We don’t wish our communications to be manipulative,” Vogel put in from Ian’s left.

  “I understand that, but there’s an element of manipulation in all art and commerce. It’s as much your job as it is mine to elicit an emotional reaction from donors.”

  “As fund-raisers,” DeVries said.

  “As human beings,” Grace countered. “We relate to each other as individuals, not statistics. A single person can’t help nine hundred million hungry people. Even the figure is too much to comprehend. But a family of seven children, two of whom may not survive past age five simply because they lack access to food and clean water? That’s something everyone can feel.”

  “And that’s what you do with your photos.”

  “Exactly. It’s one thing to look at people as a colored region on a map, but another to see them as mothers, fathers, brothers, sons. That’s what journalists do, and that’s what CAF needs to do as well.”

  As the conversation veered into more specifics of how she would overhaul the organization’s creative branding, then into Grace’s own work, Ian couldn’t help but be impressed. The woman he remembered would never have been able to hold her own at a tableful of suits, let alone talk philosophy, art, and politics with equal confidence. Like the others, he found himself hanging on every word, rapt at the thoughtful conclusions she’d come to over a decade of photographing the world’s war zones. She had changed drastically from the twenty-four-year-old he remembered.

  Twenty-four. Had either of them ever really been that young? For the first time it struck him how laughable it was to have carried a flame for this woman for the last decade. They were not remotely the same people they had been. He’d been a cocky athlete, she as much a thrill seeker as a humanitarian. This Grace Brennan, as impressive as she might be, was a complete stranger to him.

  “Didn’t we, MacDonald?”

  “I’m sorry?” He’d missed the shift in conversation, and Kinlan’s amused glance said he knew why.

  “I was telling Grace that her insights are exactly why we decided to hire someone with experience in the field, as opposed to a marketing director.”

  “Yes, indeed we did.” Actually, Ian only vaguely remembered that discussion, and when Henry Symon had pitched his vision to the board, Grace’s name hadn’t come up.

  Fortunately the lights came up on the stage then, and the emcee for the evening’s event took the podium. Ian settled back in his chair to listen.

  As the evening progressed with speeches, videos, and a beautiful performance from the African Children’s Choir, Ian watched Grace work the table. She’d been slightly aloof and awkward as a younger woman, especially around what she liked to call “posh society types,” and that had suited him fine. After all, he’d spent most of his twenties trying to outrun his association with his mum’s wealthy and powerful family. But like him, she’d seemed to come to the conclusion that it was useless to lump people into categories based on income or postcode. She chatted as easily with the jewel-bedecked wives as she had with their husbands, drawing out discussions of their own hobbies and charitable pursuits. He found his determination to stay cold toward her slipping in the face of her passion and enthusiasm.

  When the program ended and the attendees began to rise from their tables, Kenneth DeVries paused with his wife and handed Grace a business card. “Call me for an appointment when you’re ready. Between what I’ve heard tonight and Symon singing your praises, I’d like to talk with you more.”

  Grace turned over the card in her hand. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”

  “Excellent. Good night, MacDonald.”

  Ian nodded to Henry and said good-byes to the others as the table slowly drained of people. Grace studied the card for a moment longer, then tucked it into her tiny handbag.

  “Are you really considering the job?”

  “Maybe. I’m intrigued. But it still depends.”

  As Ian repressed the urge to again voice the obvious question, he wasn’t sure what bothered him more: that he couldn’t bring himself to ask or that he actually might care about the answer.

  Grace’s nerves returned in force as the ballroom emptied of guests. The benefit had been grand—the food exceptional, the program moving, and the company surprisingly enjoyable. But now that the room was draining of witnesses, she could no longer avoid the inevitable conversation that had been a decade in the making.

  Nor could she avoid the truth that a decade had not diminished her attraction to Ian. Never mind the fact that he’d become the polar opposite of her usual type, that had she seen the bespoke suit-wearing executive ten years ago, she wouldn’t have given him a second look. His observation while she tucked DeVries’s card into her clutch lit up every nerve ending and intensified the flutter in her chest.

  She should have been prepared. Chemistry had never been an issue between them.

  She gathered her courage. “Ian, we need to talk.”

  “Not here.” He gently guided her back through the ballroom doors, ever the gentleman, his stiff posture seemingly meant to cut off any possibility of conversation.

  “Then somewhere else. Let me buy you a drink upstairs at the bar.”

  Ian stopped and looked seriou
sly into her eyes, unsmiling. “You don’t have to play me, Grace. I meant what I said. If you come up for consideration at CAF, I’ll vote in your favor. I think you would be excellent in that role.”

  “You think that’s what I’m doing? Trying to make amends so I can get a job? Clearly you don’t know me at all.”

  “Clearly I never did.”

  His composure cracked for the briefest time, and in that moment she saw the hurt that lingered behind his eyes. He might not have spent the last decade pining over her, and he was obviously mature enough to separate their past from his business considerations, but that didn’t mean the wounds she’d inflicted had completely healed. “Ian, I’m sorry, I …”

  His eyes flicked uncomfortably to an approaching couple who smiled and nodded at him. He was right. This wasn’t the place to have this discussion, but as reluctant as he was to even have a conversation with her, she might never get another chance. She glanced around and pulled him into an intersecting corridor, pushing her way through the first doorway she came to. It was a meeting room of some sort, empty but for the stacks of chairs around the perimeter.

  “Grace, this isn’t necessary,” he began, but she cut him off.

  “It’s absolutely necessary.” Her heart pounded in her chest, and despite the fact it had been her idea to have it out, she suddenly had no idea what to say. “Ian, I’m sorry. I know it’s a shock to have me show up after ten years. I should have stayed and talked to you at the club. I panicked.”

  A faint, humorless smile crossed his lips. “Somehow I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe that when I realized how much anger you still harbor toward me, I’d have rather faced a firing squad than you.”

  “I wasn’t angry; I was shocked. Ten years, Grace. Ten. Not a phone call, not a letter to say you were okay. If it weren’t for your photo credits, I wouldn’t have known you were alive.”

  “You’ve followed my work?”

  “Of course I have. Unlike you, I can’t cut people out of my life that easily.”

  He knew where to strike to inflict the deepest wound. She closed her eyes for a moment, absorbed the impact of the blow. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it like that.”

  “You shouldn’t have done it at all, Grace.”

  The words came out low, barely audible, and against all reason, sent a little shiver down her spine. She tried to gather her dignity around herself again, but she only succeeded in blinking away tears before they could do more than swell on her lashes. “You’re right. And by the time I realized the mistake I’d made, it was too late.”

  She didn’t stay to see the impact her words had on him, just pushed blindly by him and back into the hallway, nearly plowing over a woman draped head to toe in sequins. She mumbled an apology, then threaded her way toward the crowded entrance doors, where she got caught in the throng of people waiting for drivers and taxis at the curbside rank.

  That whole exchange had been pointless. Nothing she said could ever change that she’d promised to love him forever and hadn’t stuck around to prove it. Not even the fact she had, in her own way, kept her promise. A man had his pride after all. That he could still be cordial—and even more shocking, recommend her for a job—was a sign that he possessed far more character than she’d given him credit for.

  Wrapped in her musings, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand touched her elbow. “At least let me see you home.”

  Grace jerked her head up and looked directly into Ian’s face. He didn’t look angry. If anything, his slight smile seemed self-deprecating. She swallowed while her mouth caught up to her brain. “That’s not necessary. Asha should be around somewhere.”

  “I believe Asha left with Jake.” He nodded toward a flash of fuchsia as it disappeared into their hired sedan. Asha probably thought she was doing her a favor, leaving her to work things out with Ian.

  “Even so, London is far safer than most of the places I’ve lived.”

  “Will you stop arguing, please? I’d feel better knowing you made it home safely.”

  She found herself nodding her agreement, even while her mind whirred through questions. Why was he going to this trouble for her? Were there things he wanted to say without an audience? Or did his gentlemanly streak really run that deep?

  The latter, she decided. Even as a cocky, boisterous twenty-something athlete, he’d opened doors for her, pulled out her chair, and helped her on with her coat. To do anything less would have been unthinkable. She imagined he would probably make sure a murderer got home safely, just so he didn’t have to have it on his conscience. He certainly didn’t seem all that interested in making small talk now.

  When they came up next at the taxi rank, he climbed into the cab after her and immediately gave the driver Asha’s address.

  “How do you know where I’m staying?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Jake told me.”

  So he had known where she was but had chosen not to pursue the conversation she’d run away from at his club. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. But as the taxi pulled away from the curb, an uncomfortable silence enveloped them. She had spent her career interacting with victims and witnesses who had experienced things she couldn’t even fathom, conversing with varying degrees of fluency in French and Arabic and Urdu. Yet now, facing a man with whom she’d once shared everything, the only thing that came to mind was stark terror.

  Ian broke first. “You impressed them tonight, you know. You impressed me. And I think I understand now.”

  It was the last thing she expected from him, this gentle, resigned tone. She frowned. “Understand what?”

  He threw a wry smile her direction. “When I heard you talking tonight, I realized you weren’t running away from me; you were running toward something you needed more. I suppose that’s why I don’t understand why you’re back in London.”

  Grace wanted to tell him the truth, but she didn’t know the answer. Tonight had reminded her that her work mattered. The people whose stories she told in photos mattered. How could she weigh her own pain more heavily than theirs? And yet how could she not, when the results of her experiences were taking her apart a bit more each day?

  And so the only thing that came out was a canned answer, a pitiful ghost of the truth. “Looking for a new direction, I suppose. It’s time.”

  His expression closed as if he recognized the evasion, and even though his disappointment shouldn’t have wounded her after all this time, she still winced. Mercifully the cab slowed and pulled to the curb in front of Asha’s building before the silence could turn awkward again. She pressed the fare through the window to the driver, then slid out of the backseat, aware of Ian following. She fumbled for the key in her sequined clutch.

  “Grace.”

  She turned to where he stood on the pavement, his expression raw as he watched her. “I forgave you the moment you left,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.”

  Grace couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t do anything but nod. Still he didn’t move. It took several moments to understand he was waiting for her to get inside safely. She shoved the key into the lock on the third try and burst into the foyer. By the time she turned back, the cab was already pulling away from the curb.

  That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.

  Neither had she.

  Chapter Seven

  “Do you ever sleep?”

  Grace looked up from the hob to where Asha stood in the doorway. “Sorry, did I wake you? I thought you might like some breakfast before you head to hospital.”

  “I would, were it not my day off. I’d kind of hoped to sleep in past six.” Asha pushed a messy handful of black hair out of her eyes and stumbled to Grace’s side. Despite her grumpy tone, her face perked up a bit at the contents of the pan. “Is that chorizo?”

  “Longganisa. You eat it with rice and eggs. Think of it as a Filipino fry-up.”

  “Mmm.” It wasn’t quite acknowledgment or app
reciation, but at least Asha was being a good sport about being awoken early on her day off. She stifled a yawn and flipped on the kettle before collapsing into a chair at the table. “When were you in the Philippines?”

  Grace paused midway through giving the garlic fried rice a stir. “Fifteen years ago, maybe? After I left Los Angeles, I traveled with a friend who was shooting freelance stories on prostitution. We rented a room in Manila from this sweet little lola for a few months, and she taught me how to make this.”

  “Sounds cheery.”

  “You know how it is.” Most of Grace’s subjects had been fairly distressing, but there had been lightness too. The Filipino people were welcoming and hospitable, and their devotion to their Catholic faith reminded her of home—if she could still call Ireland home, considering she’d not been back since she turned eighteen.

  “All right, give this a go.” Grace packed rice into a little bowl, then upended it on the center of each of their plates. A sunny-side-up egg went on top, with several of the longganisa links on the side. She plopped into the seat across from Asha and slid one of the plates toward her.

  Asha took one bite and sighed. “Okay. This might have been worth waking up for.”

  Grace grinned. “Aren’t you glad I cook to work out my problems?”

  “Very glad. You know, times like this I wonder if you didn’t go after the wrong MacDonald brother.”

  “That would have been too many cooks in the kitchen. Literally. Besides, back then James was twenty-four, seven about work. Ian was the one who liked to have fun.”

  “So, I take it my breakfast is due to a blue-eyed-rower sort of problem?”

  Grace popped up out of her chair. “Hold that thought. Tea’s ready.”