He’d done his best to buy her anything she wanted and she’d been more than happy to trade her presence for the things he got her. At least until she’d found someone who could write even bigger checks. On her way out the door, she’d told him, in her Upper East Side, long-voweled way, that even though he was just a roughneck from South Boston, she could tell he was going places…so he should never hesitate to call her if he was ever in the market for oil paintings.
Lesson learned.
Now, it was easy to pick out women like that, although not because he was a genius at reading minds. Pretty much anyone he met in a dress was after money.
Just like anyone in a suit, too, come to think of it.
After he ordered a Tanqueray and tonic from the bartender, he noticed two young guys edging their way over to him. They were dressed well, real spit and polish, Ivy League shiny, and their faces were composed as if they were prepared to play it cool.
Except both of them were rubbing their right palms on their hips as if they were worried they’d offer him a wet handshake.
“’Evening, Mr. O’Banyon,” the taller one said.
Sean got his T& T and pointed to the guy. “Fred Wilcox. And…Andrew Frick, right?”
The two nodded their heads, clearly astounded he knew their names. But you had to keep up with the FNUGs. Some percentage of them were going to make it and thus become useful, and besides, he liked the look of this pair. Smart eyes, but none of that showboat crap some of the other young hardies tried to pull. Plus, if he remembered correctly, they were both HBS like him.
“How you boys doing tonight?” he said.
They stammered over some social nonsense then fell completely silent as a cloud of perfume wafted in. Sean glanced behind his shoulder and then smiled honestly for the first time since walking into the gala.
“My lovely, Elena,” he murmured, leaning down and kissing the smooth cheek of a stunning brunette. As she greeted him in Italian and he replied, he could positively feel the hero worship coming at him from the young guys. He glanced at them. “Will you excuse us?”
“Of course, Mr. O’Banyon.”
“Absolutely, Mr. O’Banyon.”
“Wait up,” he said on impulse as they turned away. “You two want in on some fun?”
Frick blinked. “Ah, yes, sir.”
“Call my assistant tomorrow morning. She’ll put you in touch with the Condi-Food analysts and they’ll find you a little slice of the deal to work on. Don’t worry about your boss. I’ll call Harry and tell him you’re going to come play with me for a while.”
As their eyes bugged as if they’d been goosed by a pair of pliers, Sean smiled. Man, he remembered what that felt like. To be young and green and desperate to be given a shot at the big time…and have a door opened.
The thank-yous from them started to roll fast as marbles on a bare floor. “No problem,” Sean said, then narrowed his eyes. “Just stay tight and use your brains and everything will be fine.”
He turned his attention to Elena. She looked very beautiful tonight, dressed in a red sheath with her hair up high on her head. Rubies glowed from her neck and her earlobes.
“Sean,” she said with her lovely accent, “I have a favor to ask you.”
“What, baby?” As she smiled, he had to imagine that no one ever called her baby. She was a descendent of the Medicis and as rich as her ancestors had been back in the Middle Ages. The thing was, though, in spite of her bloodline and her money, she was a very nice person. They’d met years ago and had shared an immediate, mutual respect.
“Excuse me,” one of the photographers cut in. “May I take a picture?”
Sean flipped into social mode, gathering Elena against him and staring into the lens. There was a flash, a thank-you from the guy, and then he and Elena went back to their conversation.
“What kind of favor do you need?” Sean asked.
“An escort to the Hall Foundation Gala.”
Oh, okay, he knew what this was all about. Her recent marital separation had been messy and public and had involved infidelity on her husband’s side. To top it off, the guy was trying to suck tens of millions of dollars out of her in the divorce…despite the fact that he was still with the masseuse he’d gotten pregnant.
The details of the split had been written up in Vanity Fair and New York Magazine, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Everyone on the A-list circuit was talking about what had happened and not with kindness. They were whispering that Elena had gone out and bought herself a younger man then hadn’t been able to keep him. And that he’d wandered because she couldn’t have children. And that Elena was a cold fish.
Sean didn’t know about the kids part, but he was certain that she’d been passionately in love with her husband when they’d gotten married. Too bad everyone else seemed to have forgotten that.
God, Manhattan could be a very cold place even if you lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue with perfectly good heating and ventilation. All it took was for your private life to become the scandal du jour and you became fodder, not friend. And gossip was like chum to the social sharks, sure to attract a frenzy.
If Elena didn’t show up at the Hall Foundation Gala? She’d look as if she were weak and that would only incite the harping more. But if she arrived at the event with him, she’d appear strong and desirable.
He reached out and took her hand. “I’m there for you. One hundred percent.”
She positively sagged with relief. “Thank you. This has been a very difficult time.”
He pulled her forward and tucked her into his body as a friend or a brother would, for comfort. “You don’t worry about a thing.”
When his phone started to ring in his breast pocket, he took it out. The 617 area code made him frown because he didn’t recognize the rest of the caller’s number.
“I’ll let you take that,” Elena said, kissing him on the cheek. “And seriously, Sean…thank you.”
“Don’t go, baby. This’ll just take a sec.” He accepted the call. “Yeah?”
The pause that followed was broken by the wail of an ambulance siren. Then a female voice said, “Sean O’Banyon?”
“Who is this and how did you get this number?”
“My name is Elizabeth Bond. I got it from your voice mail. I’m…I’m so very sorry to tell you this…but your father has passed.”
All at once, the sounds of the party drained away. The patter of talk, the winding chords of the chamber orchestra, the trilling laughter of a woman nearby—all of it disappeared as if someone had thrown a thick blanket over everything. And then the sight of the 150 people before him fogged out until he was alone in the vast room.
In fact, the very fabric of reality disintegrated until it seemed as if the world had become an intangible dreamscape and him a formless vapor: he couldn’t feel the floor under his feet or the phone in his palm or the weight of his body. Nor could he remember what he was doing in this room full of crystal chandeliers and too much perfume.
“When?” The heavy word came out of his mouth without benefit of conscious thought.
“Less than an hour ago. He suffered a second heart attack.”
“When was the first?”
“Six days ago.”
“Six days ago?” he asked in an utterly level tone.
There was a hesitation, as if the woman on the other end was unsure what his mental state was. Funny, that made two of them.
She