Golden Lies Page 5

  Which brought David again to her mind. He'd postponed a trip to China when that old woman had discovered the dragon statue in her attic. David never postponed trips to China, which meant the dragon was special. She didn't know why it was different from any other artifact that had come to light, but something about it had filled him with barely restrained energy. He knew something about that dragon, something he had not seen fit to share with her and she didn't like it. Nor did she like the fact that he'd been out of the office all day.

  A knock at her bedroom door cut into her thoughts. For a moment, the quiet tap reminded her of other times when the loneliness had grown too keen, and David had come to the door. A shiver ran down her straight, stiff spine. What would she say if he'd come to her tonight?

  The knock came again, followed by a voice. "Mother? Are you awake?"

  Paige. The disappointment was not as annoying as the anger Victoria felt at herself. She didn't need David. She had everything she wanted in life.

  "Come in," she said. "What are you doing here so late on a Wednesday night?" she added as Paige came into the room wearing running shoes, tight-fitting navy blue leggings, and a short matching warm-up jacket. "What on earth do you have on?"

  "I came from my gym," Paige replied. "I'm sorry it's so late, but I need to speak to you."

  "Why? What's wrong? And you know you can work out here in the house. The gym downstairs is state of the art and completely private."

  "I like to be around other people when I exercise. It's inspiring."

  "It's unsanitary. All that sweat on the machines after people use them. Heaven only knows what you might catch."

  "I wipe the machines down with a towel, but that's not what I came to talk to you about." Paige sat down on the chaise next to the bed. "Have you seen Dad today or tonight?"

  "No." Victoria picked up her brush and ran it through her hair, watching Paige through the glass. Her daughter was biting her nails, a nasty little habit Victoria had never been able to break her of. She remembered when she'd painted Paige's hands with a bad-tasting black polish just to make her aware of how many times she put her fingers in her mouth. It had worked for a while, but apparently the fix had not been permanent. Why was she surprised? Paige had a lot of her father in her.

  "Dad didn't show up for an important meeting this afternoon," Paige said. "He's also not answering his cell phone, and no one seems to know where he is, not even Georgia."

  Victoria's lips tightened. She hated the fact that David's secretary was more up-to-date on his whereabouts than she was, but she didn't particularly want to waste her time keeping track of him, so she'd allowed that to slide.

  "I can't imagine where he is," Paige muttered.

  Victoria heard the worried note in Paige's voice and tried not to let it concern her. Paige was a natural-born worrier. David's unexplained absence meant nothing, absolutely nothing. He was always missing. She'd spent too many hours to count waiting for David to show his face, to be where he'd promised to be, to support her when times got tough. All that had gotten her were more lines on her face. "He'll turn up. He always does—sooner or later."

  "This isn't just about Dad. The dragon is missing, too."

  Victoria's hand paused in mid stroke. "The dragon he was so eager to acquire?"

  "Yes, but he never made an evaluation or an offer. He must have taken it somewhere for some reason. Mrs. Delaney is being incredibly patient. Her grandson is another matter. If Dad doesn't bring that dragon back to the store tomorrow, Mr. McAllister will be a huge problem."

  That would be bad publicity for the store. Damn David. He never thought before he acted.

  "Do you have any idea where he might be?" Paige asked.

  Victoria had a terrible idea, one she didn't care to contemplate, one she couldn't possibly speak to her daughter about. "I'll see if I can find him." She set down the brush and got to her feet. "Why don't you go home and let me worry about your father?"

  Paige rose, hesitating. "Do you think I should speak to Grandfather?"

  "Good heavens, no. Why on earth would you want to do that?"

  "Maybe he and Dad—"

  "No, absolutely not. Your father doesn't confide in your grandfather. You know that. And let's not borrow trouble. Your father will turn up, he always does. There's no reason to upset Wallace." Her father-in-law was hard enough to please as it was, always looking for reasons to keep her in her place, to remind her that she could never run the store as well as he could.

  "I guess you're right," Paige said slowly.

  "Is there something else?"

  "I just wonder—"

  "Don't wonder, Paige. It's pointless where your father is concerned."

  "Don't you ever worry about him?"

  "Does he ever worry about us?" She knew her words hurt Paige, and she wished she could take them back. Hurting her daughter was never her intention, but sometimes it seemed inevitable. Paige had been disappointed by her father time and time again, yet she never seemed to see him for who he really was.

  "You're right," Paige said.

  "Well, he does worry about you," Victoria amended. "You're very important to him. And to me. Since you're here, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

  Paige's expression turned wary. "What's that?"

  "Martin. His mother tells me he's falling madly in love with you."

  "Martin doesn't do anything madly. And we've known each other for years."

  "But things have changed between you in recent months, isn't that true?"

  "We've gone out together a few times," she said with a shrug. "The six-year age gap between us doesn't seem so big anymore, but that doesn't mean—"

  "Six years is nothing. And I shouldn't have to remind you that you're not getting any younger. All your friends are married or about to be. Cynthia McAuley's wedding is in two weeks. Isn't that the fifth or sixth wedding you've been a bridesmaid in?"

  "Tenth, but who's counting?"

  "Don't be flippant, Paige. This is not a joking matter. The fact that Cynthia McAuley, who has the IQ of a lamp shade, is getting married before you is just ridiculous."

  "She's a sweet girl. I'm happy for her."

  "Of course you are. We all are. But we're not talking about her—we're talking about you. Martin is an excellent candidate for a husband. He's very successful and extremely smart."

  "You make it sound like he's running for office."

  "You should make a pro and con list, Paige. You'll see that Martin is right for you. It's important for you to marry someone who can work in the business with us. After all, the store will be your responsibility someday, and a husband who can help you shoulder that burden would be very good."

  "Because you don't think I can handle it?"

  "I didn't say that. You're so sensitive, Paige." She felt a twinge of remorse, but she forced it aside. "This isn't personal. It's business."

  "I'm your daughter. That's personal. Getting married is even more personal. I have to go. Tell Dad to call me." Paige shut the door behind her.

  Victoria let out a frustrated sigh and a muttered curse as she stared at herself in the mirror. Why couldn't the people she loved do what she wanted them to do? If she told Paige to walk, her daughter would run. If she told David to go out, he would stay home. It was as if they took perverse joy in making her life difficult. Paige needed to get married. And David—well, the list of what David needed to do was very long. Right now she'd settle for him coming home and bringing that damn dragon with him. He better have a good reason for taking a valuable artifact out of the store without the customer's permission. He knew better than that. A surge of uneasiness swept through her body. Had something happened to him? Or was this just another one of his famous disappearing acts?

  Victoria walked across the room and looked out the window. A bright moon illuminated San Francisco Bay just a few miles from her home in Pacific Heights. All was quiet and peaceful in this part of town. Too quiet and peaceful for David. She knew
where he'd gone, where he always went when he was on the mainland, as he called it. He'd gone to Chinatown. And she had a terrible feeling she knew exactly who he had gone to see.

  * * *

  She should have known better than to visit her mother. She'd accomplished nothing. Paige tried to slam the front door behind her, but it was so damn heavy and expensively made that it merely swung shut with a quiet thud. So much for venting her anger. She stopped at the bottom of the steps and drew in a deep breath. She tried counting to ten, but she was still feeling angry when she got to twenty.

  Something was wrong. She knew it. She could feel it. But she had no facts, nothing to go on but instinct. She crossed the graveled drive, got into her Mercedes, and buckled her seat belt. There was nothing more to accomplish here. She might as well go home. Halfway down the street, she realized she didn't want to go home, didn't want to sit in her quiet, empty, lonely apartment—whoa, where had that lonely come from? She wasn't lonely. She liked living on her own. She didn't need a man in her life, even one that was as good a candidate for marriage as Martin was.

  Her mouth turned down at the thought of her mother's suggestion to make a pro and con list. Marriage was supposed to be about love, lust, breathlessness, recklessness, falling head over heels; it wasn't supposed to be about IQ, credit rating, college degrees, family connections, business mergers—was it? How would she know anyway? Her mother and father were hardly a shining example of passionate love. Still, they'd been married for thirty-one years. Maybe they'd had all that earlier on, and she just hadn't been old enough to see it.

  She hit the brake as the traffic light in front of her changed to red. She should turn right. It was the fastest route home. But she didn't want to go home. She wanted to talk to someone who would understand.

  Unfortunately, as her mother had pointed out, all of her friends were married or about to be. Besides that, it was almost nine o'clock on a Wednesday night. She couldn't just drop in on anyone, especially not her married friends. Something happened once a woman walked down a rose-strewn aisle toward the man she loved; she changed, became one of a pair, half of a couple, someone you didn't stop by to see without a reason.

  And, to be completely honest, most of her friends hadn't been all that close to her before marriage; they'd been girls she'd gone to private school with, college friends, or fellow debutantes. They were women she had lunch with, not women she confided in, at least not confidences that were more serious than the chocolate she'd sneaked after a Pilates workout. She wasn't in the habit of sharing personal information with anyone. The Hathaways had always been targets of gossipmongers. No matter how close the friendships were supposed to be, confidences always seemed to leak out.

  Making a quick decision, she turned left at the green light and drove across town to the neighborhood known as the Avenues. She found a parking spot just down the street from a popular neighborhood bar. It wasn't the kind of bar a Hathaway was supposed to be caught dead in but she wasn't dead yet, she thought with a smile as she got out of the car and walked down the street.

  Fast Willy's was a cozy sports bar with photographs of athletes in every available space, some signed to the owner, Willy Bartholomew, a third-generation Willy from what she understood and a former minor league baseball player. There were four television sets, one placed at each corner of the room, with small tables crowded together on what was sometimes used as an impromptu dance floor. On the weekends, the bar overflowed with customers, but tonight there was a quiet after-work crowd, content to talk and listen to the jukebox.

  She avoided the tables and headed to an empty stool at the long bar.

  "What's an uptown babe like you doing in a joint like this?" the red-haired bartender asked her as he set down a napkin.

  "Looking for a friend," she replied.

  "Aren't we all? Just how good a friend are you looking for?" he asked with a wicked grin. "Because I can be pretty damn good, you know what I mean?"

  "A monkey would know what you mean. Does that line work on intelligent women?"

  "Did I say intelligence was a requirement?" He gave her an exaggerated wink.

  "My mistake," she said with a laugh.

  "What do you want, the usual chardonnay in a pretty glass?"

  "I'd like a vodka gimlet."

  "You don't drink vodka."

  "I do tonight. In fact, forget the gimlet part and just get me the vodka."

  "Oh, my God!" He clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. "You went to see your mother. Why on earth would you do that?"

  "It was a last resort, believe me."

  "Paige, Paige, when will you learn?"

  "Shut up, Jerry. I didn't come here for a lecture. I came here to get drunk."

  "You don't get drunk." Jerry Scanlon pulled out a bottle of mineral water, poured it into an ice-filled glass, and handed it to her. "Try this."

  "There better be some vodka in there."

  "Then I'd have to hold your hair while you threw up. I'm not going to do that again."

  She tried to frown, but ended up smiling instead. Jerry was the closest thing she had to a brother. The son of one of their housekeepers, Ruth Scanlon, Jerry and his mother had moved into the apartment over the garage when Paige was eleven years old. At thirteen, Jerry had been a tormenting pest, an irritating big brother, and a best friend. He'd saved her from lonely isolation, and their friendship had nourished for five years, until his mother had gotten fired during one of Victoria Hathaway's annual servant purgings.

  Paige could still remember the sixteen-year-old angst she'd felt when Jerry and his mom had moved away to San Diego. Seven years later, Jerry had come back to San Francisco, and they'd found each other again. They'd kept in touch over the years, an odd but close friendship between a red-haired, freckle-faced pro athlete wannabe turned bartender and a sophisticated, blond debutante. She hated to think of herself in those terms, but she knew most of Jerry's friends thought of her in exactly that way. Not that they mingled with friends much. They moved in different circles except when they were together, which wasn't as often as she would have liked. Paige felt guilty about that, but Jerry understood how often she was torn between what she was supposed to do and what she wanted to do.

  "My mother wants me to marry Martin," Paige said, reminded of what she was supposed to do now. "If I make a pro and con list, I will see that he's perfect for me."

  "Martin Bennett? You can do better." Jerry wiped down the bar with a damp towel. "Is that all that's bugging you?"

  She shook her head. "My father is nowhere to be found."

  "What else is new?"

  "It's different this time. He took a valuable artifact from the store. The owners are very upset. I managed to stall them until tomorrow, but I haven't been able to find my dad. He doesn't answer his cell phone. He's not at the store. He's not at home. I'm worried."

  "He'll show up. He always does. You know what you need?"

  "I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

  "A game of pool. Or, as you Hathaways call it -- billiards," he said in a mocking British accent.

  "I don't think so," she replied with a shake of her head.

  "Come on. When was the last time you played?"

  "Probably the last time you talked me into it."

  "I've got a break coming up." He set his towel down on the bar. "Let's rack 'em up."

  "Why do I let you talk me into these things?"

  Jerry grinned. "Because you love me."

  * * *

  Paige Hathaway got off the bar stool and followed the bartender through a door leading into a back room. Riley frowned, wondering what the hell she was up to. He hadn't been surprised when she'd gone to the gym or even to her mother's house, but this latest stop didn't make sense at all. This wasn't the kind of upscale bar she would frequent. These people weren't her crowd. And who was the bartender she'd been talking to for the past few minutes? Their conversation had looked more than friendly. Riley could hardly believe that Paige Hathaway, the
princess of San Francisco's royal family, would be friends with a bartender.

  Maybe this stop had something to do with the dragon, a back room deal. It was a reach, he knew it. She certainly didn't have the dragon with her, but it was possible she knew more about its whereabouts than she'd let on earlier. His grandmother might be content to wait until morning to get her dragon back, but he wasn't. In fact, his impatience had been growing since he'd left Hathaway's a few hours earlier. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut. David Hathaway had taken the dragon out of the store and missed their meeting. Paige had been concerned despite her best efforts to appear calm. That's why he'd decided to follow her.

  Deciding to risk his cover, he walked into the bar. He needed to know what Paige was doing in the back room.

  Five minutes later he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

  Pool! She was playing pool. Paige's sweet ass was all he could see as she bent over the table, her attention focused on the cue stick between her fingers and the ball she was about to hit. It was a good shot, better than good, and she cleared the last two balls from the table. A murmur of appreciation from three old guys watching the action echoed his own thoughts. But he suspected they'd been watching her more than the game.

  Paige exchanged a bouncing high five with the bartender. "Who's the best?" she demanded.

  "That was a lucky shot," the guy replied.

  "Luck had nothing to do with it. So tell me who's the best. Come on, you can say it."

  "You're the best," he grumbled. "And not a pretty winner, by the way. Do you want to play again?"

  "Do you feel like another butt-kicking?"