hear you.”
“I said, I’ll take care of all the details.” He looked down at Zoe, smiling at her through gritted teeth. “Ready, now?”
Without waiting for either assent or refusal, he propelled her into motion, steering her around the piecrust table and across the Aubusson. It was either stumble along beside him as best she could or fall flat on her face and let him drag her. Zoe stumbled along, the shopping bag dangling from her arm, her purse clutched to her chest, her soft, knitted shawl slipping farther and farther off her shoulder. She had to quickstep to keep up with his long-legged, no-nonsense stride as he headed toward the tall double doors. The doors opened outward just as they reached them, and Eddie stepped back, bowing them into the foyer with a nod of his head.
“Sir?” he said in the same formal, sonorous tone he had used before. The word and the tone contrasted incongruously with the bright red shorts and red-and-yellow color-block rugby shirt he was wearing. No one paid any attention to the fact that he must have been listening at the keyhole to have opened the doors so promptly.
“Grab my things, please, Eddie,” Reed said he marched across the marble foyer, towing Zoe in his wake. She was nearly on tiptoes now, and the shawl had slipped entirely off of one shoulder and was dragging on the floor. “I’m running late.”
Eddie already had Reed’s things laid out in readiness, the overcoat draped across the top of a tufted velvet Victorian bench, the briefcase and gym bag side by side on the floor in front of it. He grabbed them up along with his own gym bag and fell in step behind the two scurrying figures.
“I take it you’re not going to change here as usual?” he asked pleasantly, as if the sight of his employer’s great-grandson quickstepping a guest out of the house wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.
“No,” Reed said shortly. “No time. We have to drop Miss Moon off at her apartment on our way.” He yanked the front door open with his free hand before Eddie could maneuver around to do it for him. “I’ll change at Magazine Beach.”
I really ought to let him drive me home, Zoe thought vindictively as he all but dragged her over the threshold and out onto the front steps. Considering his final destination, a detour to the North End during rush hour traffic would make him really late. But it would make Eddie late, too, and Eddie wasn’t the one giving her the bum’s rush. And besides, she wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere with Mr. Stuffed Shirt!
“You don’t have to drop Miss Moon at her apartment,” she said between her teeth, digging in her heels and rearing back as he reached for the door handle of the sleek black Jaguar XJ6 parked—wouldn’t you just know it!—at the curb directly in front of the house. “You don’t have to drop Miss Moon anywhere, because Miss Moon will take the T. Now let go of my arm!”
She yanked her arm out of his grasp and turned to face him, there on the sidewalk in front of his great-grandmother’s Beacon Hill mansion.
“Boy, I sure don’t know what your problem is, mister.” Huffily, head down, Zoe wrestled with the handles of both shopping bag and purse, settling them securely over her arm. “And I don’t particularly care.” She hitched her shawl up over her shoulder with a jerk, draping the excess over her forearm. “But I definitely do not appreciate being treated like some kind of two-bit street hustler who’s out to make a quick buck off a sweet old lady.”
“If a quick buck was all you were after, there wouldn’t be any problem, would there?” Reed said mildly, his tone as urbane and civil as if he hadn’t just dragged her out of his great-grandmother’s house by the scruff of the neck.
Zoe found it really annoying that he could sound so cool, as if that mad dash across the marble foyer and down the wide brick steps hadn’t happened, while she was left feeling frazzled, put-upon and decidedly ill used. “Then just what is your problem?” she demanded.
“My problem is your brazen effort to bilk a sweet old lady out of a small fortune to finance some fly-by-night cosmetic company.”
“Fly-by—” Zoe’s mouth gaped open and she stared at him like a hooked fish for a full five seconds. “New Moon is not fly-by-night!” she exclaimed furiously, and then clamped her mouth shut. Shouting at the top of her lungs might be all well and good in the North End, but Beacon Hill called for a little more decorum. Besides, if she lost her temper, Mr. Stuffed Shirt would win. And she’d implode before she’d let that happen. “I’ve been selling New Moon products to individual clients for over three years, and commercially, on a commission basis, for almost two,” she said with quiet dignity. “I have steady retail customers in two shops in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace and several locations in the Back Bay, including one in a very exclusive boutique on Newbury Street, which, for your information, is where I met your great-grandmother. I’d hardly call that fly-by-night.”
“Regardless of what you’d call it, Miss Moon, you’re not getting any money from my great-grandmother to expand your little…enterprise.” His slight hesitation made the word sound distinctly unsavory.
“Why not?” Zoe demanded, truly puzzled by his attitude. “Moira told me she invests in all kinds of businesses. And with your blessing, too. So just what have you got against me and New Moon?”
“Let’s just say I have a constitutional aversion to con artists and leave it at that, shall we?”
“Con artists!?” She had to fight to keep her voice even. “But I just told you, I’m not trying to con any— Moira’s the one who invited me to tea and I— Oh, forget it! It’s obvious you’ve already made up your mind,” she accused, ignoring the fact that her little act in his great-grandmother’s parlor might have had something to do with his poor opinion of her. “And you aren’t about to change it, are you? No matter what I say.”
Zoe lifted her chin. “All I can say is that you’re cheating your great-grandmother out of a wonderful investment opportunity. New Moon is going to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars some day. Millions, even.” She picked up the end of her shawl and tossed it across the opposite shoulder, haughty as an affronted queen. “It’s going to be bigger than Estee Lauder. And you’re going to be very, very sorry.”
With that, she turned and stomped off down the street, her mass of fiery, corkscrew curls swaying against her back, her purse and shopping bag bouncing against her hip, the heels of her purple suede boots clicking like castanets against the venerable old Boston street.
For once in her life, she had come up with the perfect exit line. Perfect! She hadn’t said too much, or too little. She hadn’t lost her temper. She’d been cool, calm and composed. It took all of her willpower not to ruin it by turning around and rudely thumbing her nose at Mr. Stuffed Shirt Reed Sullivan IV.
“Well,” Eddie said. “That was certainly interesting.”
“Yes,” Reed said slowly, his eyes on her retreating back. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, wondering why it felt so hot and…twitchy. “Wasn’t it.”
3
“BUT I WANT TO INVEST in Zoe’s business, Reed.”
“Gran, sweetheart, be reasonable. Whatever New Moon is, it can hardly be called a business. She doesn’t have a business plan. Nor a P&L. Not even a simple, basic set of books to track income and expenses.” He dug his hand into one of the shoe boxes on the table between them and grasped a sheaf of papers to illustrate his point. “Just this disorganized mess.” Which, he noted, smelled disconcertingly of violets. He lifted them halfway toward his nose before he realized what he was doing, and stuffed them back into the box with a disgusted snort. “You can’t run a business, let alone expect people to give you money to expand it, if you don’t keep decent records.”
“Well, there, you see.” Moira smiled at him approvingly. “That’s just the kind of advice Zoe needs. I knew you could help.”
“Gran, you can’t really be serious about this.” He looked at her over the top of his reading glasses. “Can you?”