Too Tough to Tame
Auteur·e
Annette Broadrick
Lectures
19,6K
Chapitres
16
Chapter One
October 2003
“She’s really gotten to you, hasn’t she, Nick?”
Dominic Chakaris glanced over at Craig Bonner, his friend and the vice president of Nick’s extensive corporate holdings.
“Hell, no. The only reason I had her investigated was to find out why some woman I’ve never met had the gall to paint a portrait of me and publicly display it.” Nick resumed staring at the view from his office high above the canyons of New York City, his hands in the pockets of his custom-made suit.
“Uh-huh,” Craig replied.
Nick turned away from the view and walked to his desk. His cold gaze met Craig’s as both men sat, Craig in front of Nick’s massive desk, Nick sprawled in his chair. “What did our investigator find out?” Nick asked.
Craig had known Nick for more than ten years. He wasn’t intimidated by the hawklike stare of his esteemed leader. He was probably the only one in Manhattan who could say that and not be lying through his teeth.
Okay, so he should have known Nick would deny that the artist and her portrait of him had been like a thorn in his foot, one that had festered since he’d learned of the painting’s existence.
Being a diplomat by nature, Craig said no more. He glanced at the file in his hand and slid it across the desk to Nick, who flipped it open.
“According to our investigator’s file,” Craig said, “the artist’s full name is Kelly Anne MacLeod, age twenty-four. Her parents are dead and she resides alone in the family home on 81st Street. She majored in art history at Vassar. She spent her junior year in Italy and currently brings in a healthy amount of money for the portraits she paints. I understand there’s a waiting list for the privilege of having her do a portrait.” He lifted one shoulder and grinned. “See, I told you that you should be flattered.”
Nick muttered something obscene—causing Craig to laugh—and said, “Is this all you have?” He lifted the few sheets of paper and nodded at the photo attached to the inside cover of the file.
“There wasn’t much to discover. She doesn’t appear to be a stalker, which you should find immensely reassuring,” Craig replied, enjoying Nick’s discomfort. He was glad not to hear what Nick continued to mutter beneath his breath.
“Nothing here indicates why she chose to place my portrait on public display. Damn it, Craig, I don’t care about her orphaned state or how much money she makes. From what I can see,” he said, closing the file, “she appears to be like any other debutante, another pampered member of New York’s elite.” A class of people, Nick silently added, that he had little use for. “And I’m not flattered, as you very well know. Besides, the damned portrait is far from flattering.”
Craig grinned. “Actually, it looks just like you.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Is that right? The review of her show in the Times said that the portrait portrays me as hard and ruthless, a predator ready to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.”
Craig grinned. “As I said, it looks just like you. Maybe I should take some candid photos of you at one of the board meetings and prove my point.”
Nick stared balefully at his second-in-command and said, “Since you have little to add to this conversation, I’ve got work to do.”
“I would imagine that what’s really bothering you is the fact that Ms. MacLeod has accurately pegged you and you don’t like it. She appears to know you quite well.”
Nick shook his head. “That’s impossible.” He studied the photograph.
“I doubt that you could forget having met her.” Craig stood and gave Nick a mock salute before he strolled out of the office.
Nick watched him close the door. He didn’t like mysteries…and the reason behind the portrait of him was definitely a mystery. He’d received so many phone calls and comments about the damned thing that he’d gone to the gallery to see what the stir was about…and received the shock of his life.
There was no question that the painting was exceptionally well done, but he couldn’t fathom why he’d been chosen as its subject, or why the artist had portrayed him as she had.
There were no photographs of him that resembled the artist’s vision. But the painting unnerved him—made him feel as though she’d invaded his privacy.
He focused on the photograph once again. She had pale blond hair and wore it pulled back from her face. Very few women could wear that austere style. Kelly was an exception.
Her intensely blue eyes stared into the camera with humor lurking in their depths. She had the beginnings of a smile curving her lips.
Looking closer, he realized that he had, in fact, seen her before.
He sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and recalled the night he’d first noticed her.
He avoided large social occasions as much as possible but in this case he’d felt obligated to go. A business associate had rented one of the city’s largest ballrooms to honor his daughter for something. Maybe it was an engagement party.
Nick made it a point whenever he found it necessary to attend such a party to greet the people he knew and listen to any business gossip that reached his ear. Then, once he’d spoken to the host, he left, thankful another painful duty had been fulfilled.
On that night he had paused in the doorway to look over the crowd when he saw her. She was dancing and the light from the chandeliers made her hair look like liquid gold. She’d worn it pulled back to the crown of her head where the soft curls tumbled to her shoulders in studied disarray.
He looked to see if he knew her companion. He didn’t. Then he searched for someone that he knew to ask who she was.
By the time he’d struck up a conversation with an acquaintance the song had ended and she’d disappeared.
On his way out of the party a little later she had passed by him within a couple of feet, laughing at something said by one of the women she was with. He’d caught a hint of her light, floral perfume and saw that she was shorter than he’d first thought. Although she looked young, she exuded a self-confidence and grace that intrigued him.
Now he knew who she was. Her name was Kelly MacLeod.
He was intrigued to discover she was the artist who’d painted that damned portrait.
On impulse, Nick placed a call to the unlisted phone number his investigator had included. He waited through several rings before a sultry voice said, “Hi, this is Kelly. I can’t interrupt the temperamental muse to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, number and any message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I escape her clutches.”
“This is Dominic Chakaris,” he said after the beep. “I believe it’s time that we met in person. Call me at 555-1966.”
He hung up and drummed his fingers restlessly on the arm of his executive chair.
Damn, he didn’t have time for this. He was already late for a meeting, the outcome of which would determine whether he was going to be spending more than three million dollars on a run-down factory that he wanted.
The intercom rang and he knew his assistant was reminding him of the time. He stood, slid on his suit coat, adjusted his tie and strode out of the room, dismissing Kelly MacLeod from his mind.
“I’m not joking, Hal,” Kelly said to her luncheon companion. “I’ve never met the man, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She took a bite of her salad and casually glanced around the crowded restaurant. Despite the prices, customers flocked to the place—drawn, no doubt, by the excellent chef working his magic in the kitchen.
When she looked back at her companion, she saw that Harold Covington wasn’t going to give up. “I’ve known you your entire life, Kelly,” he said as soon as he had her attention, “so don’t try to put me off. You could not have produced a portrait that captured the character of the man so brilliantly without knowing him extremely well.”
Kelly met his steady gaze. “I don’t have a rational explanation for you, Hal. I’ve never been introduced to him, but a person can’t pick up a paper without reading something about him in either the business section or the lifestyle section. Plus I’ve seen him at various social functions during the past few years and had idly thought about what a fascinating subject he would make. That’s all it was, an idle thought.
“Then when I discovered that he was behind the takeover of our family business, I couldn’t get the man out of my mind. To think that at one time I’d actually admired him! His ruthless disregard for anyone or anything that stands in the way of building his already gigantic empire was responsible for Dad’s losing the business and worrying himself into a heart attack. And then mother lost the will to live.
“I decided to work out my anger and grief by painting him. From the feedback I’ve received, I gather that I’ve done a good job of portraying the man who destroyed my family!”
Hal sighed and shook his head. “You were my best hope. All I know is that someone is checking into Covington & Son Industries behind the scenes,” Hal said. “It has all the signs of a hostile takeover.”
Kelly paused, her fork halfway to her mouth and said, “And you think I could walk up to him—even if I knew him—and ask if he’s making a run for your company?” When Hal didn’t answer she took a sip of iced tea. “From everything I’ve heard about Mr. Chakaris,” Kelly continued after a pause, “only his closest associates know of his plans until after he’s swooped down and captured another business.”
“I know. It was a long shot to think you knew him well enough to help me.”
They had finished their salad before Kelly asked, “Do you really think he’s behind whoever’s checking into Covington Industries?”
Before Hal could formulate a reply, the waiter arrived with their entrées. Once he left, Hal said, “All I know is that someone appears to be interested in us. You know that the economic downturn has affected many companies. We’ve all been hard hit. I’m doing what I can to keep my business afloat, but if someone is determined to pursue a takeover they must know how vulnerable the company is right now. I borrowed money to make capital improvements a couple of years ago. If I’d had a crystal ball and known what was coming, I would have postponed them. And now if I were sure Chakaris is planning a takeover, I’d borrow from my wife’s family to repay some of those loans—but I don’t want to do that unless I absolutely have to. Of course I know that your field of expertise is art, not business. All of this probably makes no sense to you.”
Kelly leaned back in her chair and gazed at the man who had been her father’s closest friend. “That has to be one of the most patronizing remarks I’ve ever heard from you, Hal. Next you’re going to pat me on the head and suggest I go play in my sandbox while the adults deal with the matter.”
Hal flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean my comment to sound that way. As far as that goes, Arnie has a degree in business, sits in on all the board meetings and actually shows up at work two or three days each week. Despite his education and his experience, he shows absolutely no interest in the company. If I had to guess, I would say that you have a better grasp of the business world than he does.”
She touched his hand, which lay on the table beside his plate. “I know you’re disappointed in Arnold, Hal, but give him time. He’s still young.”
He looked at her with amused disbelief. “Kelly, he’s five years older than you.”
She grinned. “Ah, so he is.”
“I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when the two of you showed no interest in each other. Our families have always been so close. It would have been such a blessing if you had become a member of our family.”
Okay, Kelly said to herself, use a little tact here. There was no reason to tell a doting father that his only son and heir was a complete jerk. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Arnold Covington completely sober and he went through women faster than the Concorde could cross the Atlantic.
“As you pointed out, my world is considerably different from his,” she finally said. She hoped he would assume she was talking about art and business.
“All I’m trying to say is that I have no hard facts to back up my suspicions—just rumors. Chakaris’s name has come up more than once. That’s usually the only hint an owner gets before he grabs your company out from under you. He’s ruthless, you know.”
“Don’t forget that I have firsthand knowledge of his tactics, Hal,” she reminded him.
Once again Hal flushed. “I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t thinking.” He turned his attention to his food and they lightly chatted through the rest of the meal. Once coffee was served, Hal said, “You seem to be adjusting to being alone these days. I hope that’s true and not just an image you’re determined to project. I know how close you were to your mother.”
“I know Mom is happy to be with Dad again, Hal. She was never the same after he died. Even though three years had passed, I’ll always feel that she died of a broken heart.
“Anyway, with a housekeeper and others looking after the place and caring for me, I’m far from alone.”
“You know what I mean. You must get lonely there.”
“At times, yes, of course. On the upside, I wouldn’t have been able to produce enough paintings in time for my showing if I hadn’t thrown myself into my work. Staying busy gave me a chance to distance myself from the immediate shock of losing Mother so unexpectedly…until I could better deal with her being gone.”
“So your painting helped you. I’m glad.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve set this week aside to go through Mother’s belongings. I should have done it sooner, but it was too painful. Anyway, I need to decide what I want to keep and what to give away. Her room is pretty much the way she left it. I know the housekeeper has seen that it’s been kept clean, but the actual sorting of her belongings has been left to me. Even though it’s been almost a year, I haven’t felt I was ready to face that duty before now.”
Kelly glanced at her watch. “As much as I’ve enjoyed having lunch with you, Hal, I really need to return home and start on it. The sooner I begin, the sooner the chore will be done.”
Hal stood and pulled out her chair for her. “And I need to get back as well. I’m sorry I haven’t stayed in closer touch with you, my dear. I hope you’ll forgive me for being so wrapped up in my own affairs.”
Kelly gave him a quick hug. “There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve always been only a phone call away. I know if I ever needed you, you’d be there for me.”
Once they were on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant, Hal turned to Kelly and took her hand. “It was good to see you again, Kelly. We need to do this more often.” The doorman had signaled for a taxi and when eventually one stopped, Hal put Kelly inside and paid the cabbie as he gave him the address.
She waved at Hal before settling into the seat and thinking about their luncheon conversation. She knew Hal would probably have sought her out anyway, but she was uneasy that he was desperate enough to ask her to spy for him.
If Dominic Chakaris had his eye on Covington & Son, he would be a formidable foe. She could certainly sympathize with Hal.
Once home, Kelly checked her phone messages and found four calls waiting.
A member of one of her mother’s charity groups had called to ask Kelly to attend a meeting the next day, no doubt in hopes that Kelly would take over her mother’s position.
Another call was from Anita Sheffield, a friend from college she hadn’t spoken to in several months. She jotted down her number, sorry she hadn’t been there to take Anita’s call.
There was a hang up and then she discovered that Dominic Chakaris had left a rather abrupt message. She shivered at the sound of his voice. How strange that he should have called her right after she and Hal had been discussing him.
She played his message over. She wondered how he’d gotten her unlisted number…although a man of his power and connections probably wouldn’t have any trouble. No doubt he had a staff of spies to do his bidding.
Not that it mattered. She had more or less expected to hear something from him since she’d placed his portrait in the gallery with her other work.
Hal’s question about why she had painted the portrait was one she had repeatedly asked herself during the past several months. Dominic Chakaris had become an obsession with her—her nemesis. His actions had destroyed her family, yet she doubted that he would recognize the family name if she confronted him with it.
Instead of a fruitless confrontation with the man, she had painted him. Even she had been amazed at how quickly she’d been able to transfer her vision of him to canvas. There had been times when she felt that her hand was guided. She’d worked day and night on the project, barely eating, sleeping for only a few hours at a time before she once again found herself with brush in hand before the canvas.
She remembered the day she’d finished. She’d stood back and looked at the painting as objectively as possible and had known that it was the best work she’d done in her career. She had captured the ruthlessness, the arrogance, that she saw in the man.
However, the expression in his eyes had surprised her. She hadn’t thought of him as lonely or vulnerable and yet…there he was, staring back at her, revealing a bleakness that she had never noticed before…at least consciously. She had no idea why she’d painted him that way.
The irony of her present situation was that she had never intended to publicly display the portrait. After all, she had painted it as a catharsis of some kind, to help her get through her grieving process. When Andre, the gallery owner who was presenting an exhibit of her work, had come to her studio to discuss what paintings he wanted to display, she’d given no thought to the painting. Once he’d discovered it buried behind some half-finished canvases, Andre had insisted that she simply must include the portrait in her show. At first she’d been adamant in her refusal, but eventually he’d won the debate. She knew now she should have refused, regardless of Andre’s arguments.
She’d convinced herself that Dominic Chakaris would never hear about the portrait. And if he did? He would ignore it…which is what she thought had happened when she’d heard no response from him for several weeks after the opening of her exhibit.
Well, she’d been wrong, hadn’t she?
Unwilling to postpone the inevitable, Kelly picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d left.
