He felt out of sorts and decided against it. He needed to clear his head. He needed to go for another run.
A few minutes later, he breathed in the scent of pine when dried-needles crunched under his feet as he ran. Along with the scent of pine, there was also the smell of the ocean, and what he hoped was the scent of a coming rain. Through the tall trees he saw clouds forming. He hoped a storm was coming. The drought which the entire island and most of the Pacific Northwest had suffered was getting out of hand. Certain species of trees had weakened and become diseased, making them matchsticks for any forest fire, and the streams and creeks which he passed as he ran were the lowest he’d ever seen.
He picked up his pace, finding that the harder he sucked in air and the hotter his muscles felt, the less he suffered from the day’s events. Switching his thoughts to the video conference call and all that he’d heard, he was certain that Peter Talbert was behind everything. Why else would Peter have lied to him during those quarterly mandatory calls, telling him that the company was doing great, when it wasn’t? What other explanation could there be for the abrupt departure of an executive assistant as loyal and talented as Beatrice, unless she’d got wind of what was going on and resigned?
Or maybe, he thought, breathing hard as he ran, maybe Beatrice no longer worked for Peter because she’d seen something improper coming out of his office, and Peter got rid of her so she wouldn’t spill the beans?
The more Harcourt thought about what Peter had done to him, the angrier Harcourt became, but also the more determined he was to fight it. Swearing to himself that he wouldn’t rest until he proved that Peter was behind everything, including the company’s apparent decline, Harcourt finished his run. He leaned over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
“I’m not going to rest, Peter, you son of a bitch, until everyone knows what a rat bastard you are,” he spat after he caught his breath.
Just saying it empowered Harcourt. He stretched with vigor, his face relaxed yet determined to win. He’d find a way to prove that Peter had manipulated the board, and had orchestrated an elaborate con to fool them all. And when he did, he’d make sure Peter paid for his treachery. Because no one fucked with Harcourt Raymondson. No one.
After completing his stretches, he walked back toward the house at a fast pace, eager to get through to Molly and continue implementing his plan. When he saw a bit of Sharon’s cottage peeking through the trees, it stopped him in his tracks.
Sharon and Cedric. He hadn’t thought about Sharon and Cedric once since getting on that call… nor had he felt that constant thrum of pain and sorrow throughout his body.
He recalled the voice in the back of his head which had been so weak only hours before—the voice that told him walking away from his company was a bad idea. He understood that returning to work meant having something to fight for again, and it was exactly what he needed to do. Working, reclaiming his position would cure him. It would give him purpose again. It would make him whole. It would help him move on, help him rid himself of the guilt.
His natural competitive zeal had been doused by the cold waters of grief and self-hatred, but now they were bubbling and heating up inside his belly like lava in a volcano. Harcourt began to jog, eager to get in his car and drive down to Molly’s. If she wasn’t there, he’d come back and book the travel himself. But as Harcourt came upon the mansion, he remembered something that had totally slipped his mind.
“Damn it,” he said, as he snapped his fingers with frustration. “I forgot about that mosaic artist.”
Deciding he wouldn’t have time to deal with her, he raced into the house and found his keys. He’d have Molly call the woman and get her not to come, and then he’d tell her all about what had happened and enlist her help. He was dripping with sweat, so he took the stairs two at a time to change into a dry T-shirt. He was coming back down the stairs when another thought hit him. Why cancel the artist at all?
He stopped on the steps and tried to recall the picture of the young artist that had been in the article Molly had shown him. He’d not bothered to read it, and given his sullen state of being at the time, hadn’t noticed her picture in any significant way. In retrospect, he was trying to remember what she looked like. She’d been in some evening dress. Definitely attractive, now that he could almost recall. Young, too, probably single. And she was due to arrive at his house in just a few hours. What was he thinking? Why send her away?
Maybe he should fuck her.
He felt his pulse quicken at the thought and felt his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.
Why the hell not? Fuck her, fuck her good and hard, he told himself.
His body hummed with the idea, and a comforting warmth seemed to radiate through his body. It made total and absolute sense. He was about to go into battle with a foe that had all the advantage. Shouldn’t he rally for every ounce of support he could find? During his initial rise to the top, before he’d settled down and married Sharon, he’d sought the pleasure of many attractive women. They’d found his skills in the bedroom as worthy as his skills in the boardroom. Having sex whenever he wanted it kept his confidence up and his energy sharp. If he truly wanted to get his company back, it was clear.
He needed to start thinking with his dick again.
Chapter 5
Jack
When Jack Bressler strode into the Piedmont Coffee House, Cerise Ferris, who worked the counter most days, noticed him straight off. She nudged Michael Souderman, who was loading beans into the espresso machine and said, “Check him out. Whoo-hoo, what a looker, drink bet?”
Michael peered over his glasses at the man as he made his way through the crowded coffee house, stopping to examine the art for sale on the walls.
“Frappe, for sure, he’s a frappe kind of guy, he orders a Frappe I win,” Michael said.
Cerise whispered, “He won’t. I agree he probably wants a chocolaty, frozen Frappe with extra whipped cream, but, he’ll order a coffee with a couple of shots, to look extra macho.”
“You’re on,” Michael said, then moved back to his position in front of the espresso machine to await the results of his bet.
The man finally stepped to the counter. Cerise covered her mouth with her hand, pretended to cough, then muttering under her breath, said, “Tall coffee two add shots, tall coffee two add shots.”
It had worked before, like a witch casting a secret spell, she’d send them a subliminal message, and suddenly whatever they’d intended to get would change. Each time her little trick words, Michael owed her a dollar.
“I’m sorry?” said the man. His perfectly white teeth sparkled like the Canadian Mountie Dudley Do-Right. He leaned forward, his voice barely audible. “I’m looking for Sabrina. Is she here?” he asked, as he craned his neck to look towards the office in the back.
“No one by that name works here.”
“Is that so. But, she was selling art?”
“So. We get a lot of artists selling art. Look buddy, you’re holding up the line. You want something to drink or not?”
The man looked behind him. There was no one in line. He raised his eyebrow, and gave Cerise an appraising look. It made her tingle a little, and she stuck out her chest and flipped the side of her head that had hair. The man studied the board, as if trying to decide what to get, then discreetly pulled a money clip out of pocket, bulging with a thick wad of American cash. He pulled one twenty off, placed it on the counter, then after giving Cerise a meaningful wink, pulled off another twenty and then another.