A Bird Without Wings Read online

  “Honey highlights?” Rachel ignored Callie’s strangled attempts to interrupt.

  “Too light. Maple? No, that’ll show too red on her base. Caramel. Stay in the gold zone.”

  “What?” she begged attention.

  Rachel looked at her sternly. “Are you dating anyone right now?”

  Why would she do something so distracting? “No.”

  “All right, good,” Rachel declared. “You and I are going to help each other find boyfriends this summer. Men who will carry over nicely into winter to keep us warm.”

  “I don’t want a boyfriend. Boyfriends are expensive.”

  “Amen,” Todd said.

  “You’ve both been dating the wrong men,” Rachel scorned. “I have mine picked out.”

  “Who?”

  Rachel flushed a little. “Ken.”

  “Really?” The Rachel Meier / Ken Roberts Feud was legendary at FalTech. They fought like Siamese fighting fish: vehement, flashy, and colourful. “Rachel, you are smart, glossy, and perfect. You should be able to bag Ken in a heartbeat. You don’t need me.”

  “He thinks I’m an idiotic glamour girl who got the job because of the family friendship between the Meiers and the Ransomes. But I really like him, the arrogant toad!” she groaned, cringing. “Your word is magic at FalTech, Callie. Everybody listens to you.”

  “They do?”

  “If you support me, Ken will change his mind about me.” She sighed. “Why do we want men who don’t want us, and never see the dozens of men falling over all over themselves to have us?”

  Now she really didn’t know what Rachel was talking about.

  “Amen to that.” Todd plucked Callie’s glasses off her nose. “Damn, look at those eyes!”

  Her lashes dropped in embarrassment.

  “She has no idea, does she?”

  “Clueless,” Rachel concurred. “For such a brilliant girl, she’s a complete idiot.”

  “Hey!” she protested again.

  “Men are dogs, Cal. They might want smart eventually, but first they want shape and skin.” Turning her toward the nearby full-length mirror while Todd ‘amen-ed’ those broad statements, she continued. “This jacket is two sizes too big! If it were fitted—” She gathered the excess material at the waist. “Look at that! Yowza!”

  Callie stared at the much-improved reflection, the blazer snug against her hourglass figure.

  “And you dress too formally for the office. Really,” she chided. “Panty hose in summer? Over the top, especially with those legs. Anyway, everyone dresses casually, unless there’s a client meeting. Except Lucius, of course, but even he doesn’t wear suits.”

  The mention of that name produced a violent blush.

  Rachel whispered in her ear. “Don’t you want to do something about your crush on him?”

  Beet-red did not come close to describing the colour of Callie’s face as she started a spluttering protest. “I-I don’t—he i-is—I-I—”

  Rachel grinned. “Oh, you have it bad! I’ve never heard you stutter before.”

  Did everybody know? If they did, she’d die. “How did you know?”

  Rachel waggled a finger. “Because unflappable Callie Dahl is always fully flapped whenever Lucius’ name is even mentioned! Are you going to pursue him?”

  “Why would I?” she gaped. “It’s all a fantasy. To say I wouldn’t stand a chance is stating the obvious; the same way as saying the sun will rise tomorrow. Probably rise,” she hedged.

  “I know you’re perfect for him. He just doesn’t know it.” She winked. “Because he doesn’t know you. Yet.”

  Callie was afraid he knew her rather too well. It wasn’t her dramatic entrance (though that had been humiliating!) or the anxiety that had her barely able to talk, for those were atypical moments rooted solely in being around him. It wasn’t even the horror of tears rising when Leon phoned and real life came crashing through her first private time with Lucius.

  No, the worst part was when she was most herself, hitting that comfort zone and running off at the mouth about ravens and the Pike, essentially criticising his entire family with her comments regarding that precious family heirloom!

  Of course, she was right about the Pike. But did being a know-it-all matter when Luscious Lucius, Handsome Ransome, he of the luminescent blue eyes and black hair and Body-by-GodTM was speaking to her in that voice of angels and the very devil in his wickedly handsome face?

  When he got up from his desk—so graceful, so overwhelmingly big. Broad shouldered and long legged, decked out in perfectly fitted clothes. The sleeves of his silvery-grey dress shirt rolled back, exposing the fine dark hairs decorating his bronzed forearms, sapphire tie loosened, buttons at the throat unfastened to reveal the sexy hollow there. Immaculately tailored charcoal-grey trousers clinging to muscular thighs and a flawlessly tight butt.

  Wincing, she vaguely remembered promising herself she would not look at that. But how was she to resist? When something so lovely was laid out so readily . . . well, she was only human. He was a wild landscape cloaked in civilisation, and a girl’s eyes couldn’t help but linger on the scenery . . . and imagine stripping away the veneer.

  Her attention came sharply back to the salon as she squinted at the price stickers on the items Todd put in her hands, and promptly had a quiet heart attack. For that kind of money, they’d better fix her hair and contribute to world peace.

  “Sweetie,” he said gently, “I promise these will work. If your hair isn’t glossy and beautiful tomorrow, I’ll refund every dime.”

  She sent Rachel a doubtful look, but a smiling nod confirmed that Todd’s word was good. Heaving a breath, she caved. “All right. That’s a high ROI. I’ll take them.”

  And instantly regretted the impulse.

  “Excellent.” He handed her a business card. “But if—when—they work, you have to come in for a trim and highlights, hm?”

  Smiling a very rare, very wide smile, she made the promise—everybody always wanted something; nothing came for free.

  Her companions exchanged an interested glance.

  “Lucius would notice that smile!” Rachel declared.

  The smile retreated to its more typical bittersweet cast. “Come on, Rache. I have work.”

  ***

  “Yes, Mrs. Turner. It’s just me. Callie. From upstairs. Okay. Have a good night.” She ran automatically through the litany as she came through the front door of the house, fighting the shopping bags as they caught on the doorframe in her rush to get through.

  Not fast enough.

  “Shopping, eh?” Mrs. Turner’s creaky voice came through the ground-floor-apartment door, pulled back on the safety chain, the stale scent of cigarette smoke leaking out. “You’ll still pay your rent, right?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Turner.” Six years of paying her rent on time was not sufficient proof that she was not going to suddenly default.

  But she had spent a lot of money today, relatively. Following in Rachel’s wake after the salon, she found herself dragged into a drugstore and talked into buying a brand of shampoo and conditioner formulated for curly hair that Rachel’s “other mop-headed friend” swore by. And then a tube of soft-pink lipstick that Rachel said would suit her perfectly (“You should wear a lot of pink, Callie! Great colour for you.”). And a little compact of pale ivory powder (“Terrible how shiny the summer makes our skin, eh?”). And a little of this and a little of that, and suddenly Callie had blown her personal budget for the next two years without actually buying anything remotely like a bare necessity.

  She would never go out with Rachel again. Long-term financial planning couldn’t afford it.

  Traversing the worn threads of the once-blue carpet, she went up the narrow, dark stairwell. The smell of cats faded by the time she crept across the second-floor landing to unlock the door to her attic bachelor, and entirely dissipated as she closed the door and climbed the stairs. Dropping everything to the faded hardwood as the oppressive heat and humidity hit her li
ke a wall, she quickly threw open the front dormer windows, providing a breath of hot breeze.

  Pleased with this minor triumph, she opened the window in the bathroom as well, and received a tiny cross-current for her efforts. Blazer shed, hose peeled off, she filled a tall glass of tap water in the tiny kitchen, drinking deeply as she re-entered the main room.

  Sitting on the edge of the futon that doubled as her bed, she booted up her ancient laptop and reached for the TV remote to watch the news, hoping the weatherman would announce a break in the heat. In winter, her apartment froze to the point where she could not remember what it felt like to be warm; in the summer . . . well, she missed freezing.

  The weatherman did not have positive news, however, and Callie resignedly wiped sweat from her eyes, waiting for her body to adjust as it always did, eventually. Could be worse, she mused, indifferent to her circumstances. She would not, could not, admit otherwise. Goals were being met. And she had lived under much worse conditions than these.

  The second-floor tenant had unsecured wireless Internet, and she shamelessly utilised it, having long given up even trying to summon an iota of guilt. Fortunately, he had not heard her come in. She was not in the mood for sweaty middle-aged men in stained wife-beaters and dangerously saggy tighty-whiteys—not to suggest that such a mood would ever strike her.

  The promise of raises and bonuses had her excited to review her finances as she checked her portfolio and signed into her online banking account. The last year had seen good progress. Just a while longer—the first rung of the property ladder was not far away. In a year, maybe two . . . She even went so far as to go to the MLS to check out properties for sale. Some simple, clean condo; her own little box in the sky.

  It didn’t have to be fancy; didn’t have to be downtown. Here in Leslieville, even, would be fine. She loved the neighbourhood, even though this house was a dump. Lots to do and see; convenient transit with the streetcar right there—

  The clang and rumble of a streetcar a block away on Queen echoed through the hot apartment. Okay, maybe not so close as all that. And she widened her search parameters on the website. There weren’t many of condos in Leslieville anyway, and she didn’t want a house.

  She licked at drops of condensation on the water glass, making some fast calculations. Had Luscious said a raise and a big bonus? Or a big raise and a bonus? Regardless, raises and bonuses were contingent on absolutely proving the non-existence of the HRF.

  That shouldn’t be too difficult.

  She idly flipped through documents in the HRF folder. Yellowed Photostats—Photostats!—from the ’seventies of two wills—1862 and 1912, Neville Ransome—a report and exorbitant invoice (1967) from a private investigator—seriously?—who had found no conclusive evidence either way that Neville hoarded Spanish bullion—good lord; another invoice (1984) from a clairvoyant—too hilarious—who extracted a confession of smuggling from Neville’s spirit; a one-page typed report and hand-drawn family tree (1996) from a professional genealogist—how professional could he be?—tracing Neville’s roots back to the House of Plantagenet—oh, no he didn’t!—suggesting that Neville likely had been in possession of the missing crown jewels of King John—oh, brother; and so on and so forth. There were dozens, the first in 1932 (initiated by Piers Ransome, whoever that was), and the last, 2010 (generally billed to The Ransome Family).

  Countless sums, Luscious said. He wasn’t kidding.

  Shuffling the papers, she organised them in chronological order of theory-creation, separating out the wills as the only authentic documentation in the file. She would start from scratch, of course, and prove the HRF did not exist.

  But if it did exist . . . Rolling onto her back, she fantasised for a few moments about finding a treasure worth a few millions and receiving a cheque from a very appreciative Luscious as reward.

  While the idea of the zeros that might be on that cheque was a major part of the fun, imagining the ways he would demonstrate this appreciation had her heart fluttering and her breathing perilously shallow. Seriously overheated now, she rose to refill her water, catching her reflection in the full-length mirror (it had come with the apartment) on the bathroom door.

  Train wreck.

  Impatiently, she shrugged into her blazer again and eyed her blurry self critically as she fastened it. Finally, she removed her reading glasses. Right now, she needed to see herself clearly.

  Yikes. Frumpy and messy, she looked fifty years old. And yet, in the oversized, outdated clothes, as if she had raided her grandmother’s closet, she looked twelve. “I’m twenty-seven,” she said aloud, as if having to convince herself.

  Studying her reflection, twisting at all angles, she shed the blazer again, assessing the outline of her breasts beneath the cami and smoothed a hand over her flat belly.

  Rachel was right. Things hadn’t been like this a few months ago. She had walked into FalTech a professional and put-together woman with hair that frizzed only occasionally. And then, a few weeks later, she saw Luscious and . . .

  Falling head-over-heels in lust with him had had the opposite effect one would expect. Instead of making herself more attractive, she downplayed features even she considered adequate. It was not fear of success with him—even in her most optimistic moments, there was no hope of attaining a man so beyond her on so many levels.

  No, it was to ensure failure, in a typical just-in-case measure.

  In the same way she disliked breaking routine, she feared the distraction of real relationships. Hence the pointless from-afar infatuation. Certainly, it was not love. Just desire. An expression of the sheer singularity of her existence. The terrible weight of lonely nights.

  Fantasising about Luscious filled those blank spots—but why him? Why not Kevin, the good-looking guy who sat at the neighbouring station, who liked to flirt over the cubicle wall? Why not Glen, the account manager, who had hinted about going out together? Why Luscious?

  Because he was unattainable, and therefore the safest distraction on the planet.

  Okay, so the first time she had seen him, she had melted into a puddle of goo. Handsome and brilliant and probably a fantastic lover, she ached for him from the get-go. Even now, while she analysed the situation in rational terms, her body thrummed at the mere thought of him.

  But this?

  This infatuation had gone too far. It was time to find something better to waste her energy on; time to see if she remembered anything about how to present herself, for her own satisfaction.

  And she really had to stop thinking of him as ‘Luscious.’

  Stripping, she collected the salon products and headed into the shower.

  ***

  So, this is Limbo.

  Putting his feet up on the desk with a thud, Lucius sipped bourbon and glared at the crows. Ravens, rather. It was well past midnight, and the numbers he had been running all evening were starting to settle into order in his brain.

  It was perverse, he supposed, that someone who generally did as he pleased, when he pleased, could get so sucked into a situation. This FalTech thing was not the first. But they had changed a bit since the last rescue effort. Their idea of free rein and his were vastly different—if they let him be, it would have been wrapped up weeks ago. As it stood, it would be another two months.

  Mention that time frame to Callie. Keep the family distracted that long.

  The methodical calculations stalled. The way Rachel had run on about the girl while recommending her was hilarious, and Lucius suspected that his tender-hearted friend had taken Callie on as a personal project. Rachel had Cosmo Makeover / Dr. Phil Advice written all over her.

  Clicking the mouse, he opened the PDF of Callie’s résumé, again seeking in its perfunctory details some clue as to what inspired such avid promotion from someone as savvy as Rachel.

  At last, unsuccessful, he closed the file. She was of no interest to him, except distracting the family with the HRF, of course. But she had breathed hope into his world.

  Hope
was both a dangerous and delightful thing, and had him re-plotting his escape route.

  Build an executive team to keep FalTech as independent from the Group as possible. Bump the directors—Ken and Rachel and the others—to chiefs. And a GM . . . Someone strong enough to pull together all the strings and create a bridge between staff and executive.

  But this planning led elliptically to consideration of the family—the moment he left them unattended, they would do something crazy, like reshuffling his carefully reorganised team.

  Ah, to walk away from them and their current calamity! Not listening to one bit of his advice, they still expected him to clean up their messes. His professional reputation was in trouble if he couldn’t fix things this round. So ironic that his reputation was built more on his repeated rescuing of the family than the slick deals of LCR!

  God help him, he almost hated them sometimes. There had been some good, family-free years while at university. But then the first disaster had occurred at Falcontor—covering when Gramps had bypass surgery, and he hadn’t minded for Gramps’ sake. Escape came fairly fast that time, heading back to England to start the consultancy firm. But just as LCR caught some momentum, he was dragged back during some rough times, to “help out for a few months,” which had turned into two years. Again escape. And then this “quick” mopping up at FalTech.

  LCR needed his undivided attention; though successful, the lack of his constant presence kept it from being the giant he had envisioned years ago. God, he’d been a fricking prodigy with the brains, bucks, and balls to skyrocket. On several top thirty-under-thirty lists back then. And now where was he? Thirty-four past with thirty-five lurking not far in the future, and the claws of the family still firmly embedded, slowing him down.

  And the truth was LCR didn’t interest him too much anymore.

  Taking a drink, he swished the bourbon in his mouth. That was a most unexpected realisation. LCR was his dream . . . or was it merely his escape route?

  His brain dodged the question—for the answer was so obviously yes—and focused instead on Ransome corporate problems. Gramps should have retired years ago. Brilliant though he was, Gordon Ransome still needed a better executive team to help him keep pace, and bloody hell, the man was getting on. Thomas did not have the cutthroat nature suitable for the task. Lucius’ father, Christian, had the backbone and brains for it, but not the desire. Then there were Lucius’ siblings, in-laws, and the multitude of cousins; there were many wanting to ride the Ransome business train, but either lacked the skill or did not want the workload. That left James and him, and James had cut and run at a crucial moment.