A Bird Without Wings Page 4

  Millions gone. Though the money was not what angered him. It was the expressions on their faces while he was forced to tell the family that James had deserted—he felt like he was kicking puppies. Drowning kittens. Doing something vile to something innocent. For putting him through that—never mind the other things James had done—he would never forgive him.

  And while he hadn’t told them of James’ embezzlement, he had given them some cold facts about their financial situation. There simply wasn’t the money to support so many freeloaders and spendthrifts. But instead of dialling back on luxury cars and homes and vacations and marble swimming pools and crazy investment schemes, they resurrected the legend of Neville’s fortune over cases of vintage Krug at a family bash on the newly mortgaged estate in the Hamptons.

  He threw back the end of the bourbon, trying to stifle the anger that recollection always stirred. The Hamptons estate had been paid off, inherited free and clear by the family trust from Grand Uncle Sterling ten years ago; it could have been sold, replacing most of what James had taken. Of course, they hadn’t known Lucius had dumped his own money in to balance the books. He should have told them. It was his fault. He knew how self-involved they were.

  But they came home after that weekend, chipper despite the hangovers, with the news that they were going to solve the mystery of Neville’s fortune and with it, all their monetary problems forever. Always a part of family life, the HRF took on new life this time around. The hundredth anniversary of Neville’s death was fast approaching, hence the whole sense that “it was time!” and the inherent superstitions attached to such idiocy.

  Maybe he should give in, surrender to the lunacy, find some nice girl to marry, and produce babies with all of the bad Ransome genes. Seriously, he should think about that more. There had always been the vague idea of settling down one day—he just hadn’t met a woman who inspired forever . . . or even the next five years. He had once thought Anita might be that woman—good thing he’d hedged that bet.

  But in the aftermath of events, his once-romantic notions of marriage stalled, leaving him with a more practical view. He still planned on marrying someday—it was part of his general life plan (and why change well-thought-out strategies?)—but the requirements of the appropriate candidate (a.k.a. the future Mrs. Lucius Ransome) had changed a good deal.

  Rising, he poured another drink, distantly acknowledging that the anger he felt toward his ex-girlfriend had lost much of its acrimony in the last year. Anita had once ticked all the original boxes, but the fine print revealed someone else entirely—not the least of which was a cheat. Perhaps not entirely her fault, for much of the relationship had been long distance, and he had discouraged her hints to join him permanently in London—which hadn’t been too hard, seeing as he spent a good chunk of his time in Toronto at any rate.

  Maybe he had known what she was without really seeing it.

  Regardless, warm and steady emotions were better than deep-seated ones; safer. More practical. He wanted that sort of relationship. An admirable companion rather than a love-of-his-life.

  What would that Admirable Companion be? There were new boxes to check.

  Definitely someone who didn’t care about money. And who was loyal and faithful. A friend.

  Maybe he should just get a puppy instead.

  Wry humour twisted his mouth. Okay, so something more than that. She—whoever she was—should be someone a bit vulnerable. Someone smart, funny, and adventuresome. Someone who retained a bit of innocence and mystery in her worldliness. Someone he cared for, and was devoted to him alone. Someone.

  The ravens glared at him, as if they, too, wondered why the frumpy, unworldly image of Callie Dahl flashed through his head. Barely a single ticked box. And, he sensed, a whole crap load of fine print. She was exactly the sort who’d expect a lot from even the most casual of arrangements.

  ***

  Proving the nonexistence of the HRF meant building a comprehensive history, which in turn meant fleshing out the family tree. But with zero interest in her own family, she knew nothing of genealogical research.

  She Googled the word genealogy. Over three hundred million results. Okay, popular thing.

  Reading through several sites designed for genealogical newbies, she made notes regarding resources, searches, and the importance of documentation, idly playing with her hair as she did so.

  Silky. Her hair was actually silky!

  Tucking a loose silky corkscrew curl into the clip, Callie scolded herself. She was far too serious a person to get a thrill out of hair. But rid of the gunk that weighed it down, and lightly slathered with that miracle anti-frizz serum, her hair was almost magnificent.

  Okay, so the colour was a bit mousy, but it shone now. It probably would frizz out again by the end of the day due to dry ends, for it desperately needed a trim. So, it was not perfect, hence clipping it up as usual—though that was mostly a nod to the heat.

  But still . . . Magnificence was comparative; compared to yesterday, her hair was magnificent.

  Most of Friday evening and much of Saturday morning passed while she lay on her stomach over the edge of the futon, laptop on the floor in front of her while she worked on the HRF, twirling silky strands through her fingers and glancing frequently over the edge of her glasses at her reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door. She was being silly, but she was content.

  So content was she that she actually answered Leon’s call when it predictably came through.

  “Hello, Leon. What do you want?” managing to say it like she didn’t already know.

  Twenty minutes later, she was hyperventilating in the claustrophobic heat of her apartment.

  She couldn’t believe the amount he rattled off as if it were pocket change, or perhaps stashed in the piggybank on her bookshelf. Fifteen thousand dollars.

  Tears threatened as she viewed her shabby apartment and the bare essentials she got by on. To live like this in order to achieve her goals was acceptable. To do it for Leon would be acceptable, if it got him on his feet. But to live like this for zero benefit was heartbreaking.

  If there were even the slightest hope that the money would solve his problems, she would be more willing. His life hadn’t been easy and, like their parents, he lacked drive and focus.

  Was it shallow of her to want some nice things in life?

  She wanted normal! She wanted to have a decent home; have a job she loved without concern for what it paid; have friends to join for drinks and a movie without any thought of the expense. Was it so much to ask?

  Saving every dime had become such a habit, she didn’t know how else to behave. But yesterday’s little taste of Rachel-enforced retail therapy had been so . . . exciting! Ridiculously fulfilling! Even while she was having mini-strokes at the mini-extravagance, she had loved it.

  She thought with equal parts cynicism and practicality: So it just goes to show that money is the most important thing, because if I didn’t have it, I couldn’t spend it!

  Regardless, it was patently obvious that spending money hadn’t given her pleasure; she had enjoyed the shopping in spite of the expense. It didn’t take advanced calculus to figure out that the simple pleasure Rachel’s companionship underscored the general lack of friends in her life. While she made casual friends easily, she hadn’t held on to any of them over the years. It was easy to let people go; it had been many years since any tears had been shed over lost friendships.

  But Rachel was exactly the sort of friend she’d pick out of the catalogue. A keeper.

  Being so alone was—plainly and simply—hard.

  Leon rarely wanted to get together; never reminisced about their horrific childhoods for fun; never asked how she was. Her parents rarely called . . . though the time-lags were a relief rather than an annoyance. Being alone was far better than seeing them; that was for certain.

  With a sigh, she flopped down on the futon, the slightly uneven wooden frame banging on the worn hardwood floor. Something poked her breast . .
.

  Damn it. An underwire had pierced the worn material. The bra was ancient.

  She plucked at the bra through the threadbare tank, getting the jabbing metal out of her flesh. She ran her fingertips over the fraying denim at her knee.

  When had she last bought new clothes? They were desperately needed. She gazed at the bare walls. She’d like some art. Maybe a plant on a stand. All of those things that were on the mental list of Things to Buy When I Move into My Own Home.

  She sat up, depressed and determined all at once. She would give into Leon, as she had in the past so often. But first—it was time to toss herself a few treats. After all, what were a few hundred dollars in clothes and personal care when she was going to dish out fifteen grand on something that would do her no good?

  It was circular logic, but years of privation and self-denial caught up to her in a rush. I’m a Dahl, she excused, and therefore genetically predisposed to occasional financial foolishness and irresponsibility.

  She reached for her phone again. Rachel would love helping her spend some money.

  Chapter Three

  Putting a shoulder against the brick pillar supporting the covered section of the rooftop patio, Lucius glanced down at the traffic on the street two floors below. The zoo of Saturday night in the club district had started, though the crowds had not reached their full potential. It was early yet, the sun still above the horizon, bouncing glare and echoing shadow through the canyons of the core.

  There had been no intention of being downtown tonight. The original plan was a card game with the guys. But then Rachel called, and his friends begged him to go out “to play” instead, declaring en masse the need for female companionship. Lucius had conceded but, the last to arrive, he had been here for all of five minutes and was ready to go already.

  They all went way back, his friends and Rachel’s, and going out to clubs and bars was SOP. But tonight he felt off, antsy, as if he should get away from whatever was happening. There was a strange energy at play tonight . . . if he believed in that sort of thing.

  Keeping somewhat separate from the group, listening to their voices without hearing the words, it occurred to him that he had not been listening to anyone recently. The white noise of conversation had certain soothing characteristics, and he had developed the habit of not focusing on detail that would disturb the buzz.

  Perhaps . . . he glanced around the room. Perhaps he needed some female companionship, too. Start that Admirable Companion Campaign.

  Or at least get laid.

  The selection was good, and he surveyed the women in the crowd, employing his generally successful assess-and-reject system. And then . . .

  It was just a glimpse of shapely bottom and long legs hovering at the bar. A hip-hugging, low-slung black miniskirt, a smooth bit of lower back revealed below the hem of a snug Lycra tank in a soft shade of pink. Bodies moved in the space separating him from it, blocking his assessment of the complete package, but he very much admired what he could see. And considering the attention she was getting from closer observers, other men agreed with his assessment.

  The woman shifted her weight, swaying her anatomy as she switched sexily sandaled feet on the bar rail. High wedged heels—not the sexiest shoe heel, but practical in the stability category for a night out drinking, indicating a degree of intelligent planning. Intelligence and forethought was sexy. No mistake about that. Admirable Companions couldn’t be dull-witted. It simply wouldn’t do. And the feet were small and delicate, and the sandal straps were a pretty and complicated design that was kind of sexy.

  Back arching slightly, the tank rode up a little more, exposing the groove of her spine, the sweet indentation of the small of her back, the dramatic dip of her narrow waist. Loose curls of rich brown and dark-caramel hair swept low enough to brush the pale, bare flesh, and Lucius felt a poignant rush at the thought of those curls spreading out across his pillow.

  Taking a steadying sip of his drink, he debated the academic pros and cons of bar pick-ups.

  A greasy Lothario approached the woman, slithering up beside her; her body language was pure rejection as she shifted away, turning slightly to face the intruder with a bit of challenge. Granted the profile of high full globes of breasts hugged lovingly in pink cloth, Lucius’ eyes didn’t manage to get anywhere near her face; his mouth went dry—much as it had yesterday morning when Callie half stripped in his office.

  Hell, why had he thought of her? Talk about a libido-killer.

  Lothario had obviously been shot down, for the woman was alone again.

  Rachel sidled over. “Why are you being so antisocial?”

  “I’m thinking about taking my society elsewhere,” he smirked, indicating his prize.

  “So I see.” After a pause: “I was out with Callie today. Lunch, shopping, and salon madness.”

  He grunted, still not listening. Another man was cutting in on his territory, he saw with a frown, but relaxed when that competition was rejected as well. The crowd at the bar was thickening, and glimpses of his target were more random, the competition more aggressive.

  Yet oddly, he was thinking of Callie, the tear-tipped doll’s lashes, the shadows they cast on the milky skin of her cheeks.

  Rachel was saying something else about her, but he blocked it. Why couldn’t he get the Dahl girl out of his head? She was plain and peculiar and a whole host of other uninteresting things.

  She was kind of funny, though. And the cool assurance she demonstrated in her ramble about the ravens was attractive.

  Damn it!

  He sent Rachel an annoyed look. “Where is the homely little mouse tonight?” he asked cruelly. “Didn’t you invite your current pet project as your new BFF?”

  Rather than exploding in anger at him, which he more than half expected and fully deserved, her voice was choked with amusement. “Of course I did.”

  There was quite a bit of action, now, around his prey. “Where is she then?”

  “You, my shallow, blind friend, have been checking her out for the last ten minutes.”

  ***

  The reflection in the smoky mirror behind the bar was a mystery and a revelation. The flaws were still there, of course, but seemed less, well, flawed. The over-sized eyes were better now that the quizzical brows were more shapely arcs, lightening her features dramatically; and the wide mouth looked okay wearing pink lipstick—which also did wonders for her pasty skin. It even softened the impact of the dramatic flow of colour when it came in waves.

  And her hair! Wow. It had gone from her worst feature to her best, the corkscrews loosened and smoothed so they fell in luxuriantly abundant curls to her waist, showing off their new highlights. She’d never be able to fully recreate the look, but she was determined to enjoy it while she had it.

  She suppressed a smile, thinking of the expression of . . . relief? . . . on Rachel’s face when her friend saw her, post-fixes.

  “That’s the Callie I remember!” Rachel had declared. “Though the hair is over-the-top great!”

  Agreed!—though why her appearance was of any importance to Rachel remained a mystery.

  Chewing idly on her newly manicured thumbnail, she threw one of the bartenders an Is it ready? look. Rachel and her girlfriends wanted some new cocktail they had read about, but the bartender was out of one of the liqueurs that went in it, and was trying to improvise or something. A bit uneasy under the attention of Rachel’s male friends—though they had been sweet to pay her so much attention—she had volunteered to wait while the group went off to snag a couple of high-tops near the street-edge of the rooftop patio.

  Holding up a hand, begging her patience just a little longer, the bartender gave her a sexy smile for which she would forgive him anything. She smiled back a little shyly, and he winked.

  “Can I buy you a drink, little girl?” a man next to her asked, his eyes outrageously teasing.

  Little girl? How lame! “No, thanks,” she declined, shifting away.

  “I saw her fi
rst,” said the man sandwiching her on the other side. “Come on, cutie. Let me buy you the drink, eh? You can’t trust him.”

  “I’m fine, really.” She backed up a little, feeling somewhat squished, and bumped into a man behind her. “Oh, excuse me.”

  “I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name,” he said.

  The bartender looked her way and frowned. “Guys!” he warned mildly, and instantly she had more space. “Don’t crowd my favourite customer again.”

  The men laughingly agreed, but still tried to talk her into drinks while engaging her in conversation. Deciding they were quite harmless and friendly—and very handsome—Callie found herself participating in light-hearted banter, wondering why such men were paying attention to her.

  They wanted to know her name, where she worked, what she did for a living, did she have a boyfriend, would she take their phone numbers. Though she kept most of that information to herself, and declined the offer of number exchange, suddenly there was a pretty cocktail in front of her, accompanied by a row of shot glasses filled with tequila, lime wedges perched on top.

  “Come on, Callie,” one encouraged, handing shots to his cronies before taking up one himself. “Something to kick-start the night, hm?”

  Why not? A little dangerous living wouldn’t hurt her. Besides, she would be rejoining Rachel and her friends any minute now. Her hand curled around the shot glass.

  The tequila went down like fire; biting into a lime wedge did not take away the taste. She shuddered and laughed, taking a big slurp of the sweet cocktail to clear the bitterness. “Better,” she smiled, and the men smiled back.