Jo Leigh - Ms. Taken

Darra came next. She’d started modeling at fourteen, and then there was that Sports Illustrated cover and she’d become a supermodel. As if that was a word.

Three incredible, beautiful, talented girls, all in a row. And then came Jane. Tone-deaf Jane. Moderately attractive Jane. Mediocre Jane, who was best known in New York society for not being her sisters. When she was mentioned, someone inevitably mentioned her hats.

Her hats.

With a deep sigh, Jane let go of her familial thoughts and turned to something far more interesting. Holly Baskin. It was a puzzle worthy of a woman like herself. Who was this Holly Baskin? Why didn’t Charles have her phone number? What part had she played in his past? Was she beautiful? Of course she was.

Jane typed the ad, printed it, took it back to her desk and decided it was all wrong. Holly wouldn’t be intrigued enough by such a sterile request. What it needed was some pizzazz.

Her fingers flew across her keyboard as she typed and deleted and typed and deleted until she came up with the perfect ad. Not too much, not too little. Holly wouldn’t be able to resist.

The phone book came out, and Jane called to get the address and hours for Attitudes magazine. Of course, she’d thought about placing the ad via phone or e-mail, but that was too impersonal. This was for Charles, and it had to be done exactly right. In person. Besides, she hadn’t decided which ad to use, which was a major big deal.

After she hung up, she called the switchboard, alerting them to the fact that she would be an hour or so late tomorrow morning. And then she took both ads, his and hers, and put them in her purse. There was the afternoon to get through. She had some reports to type up and some filing to do. But first, she picked up her notepad one more time.

Holly Baskin. She didn’t sound at all like someone Charles would love. But what if…?

AS SHE WAITED, Jane read her ad, then his ad, then her ad again. Hers was poetic, sincere, moving. His was bare and cold and clinical. She pictured herself as Holly Baskin, seeing the ad for the first time. The one in her left hand—the one Jane had written herself—would pique her interest instantly. No way would she overlook it. But his ad? No romance whatsoever. No promise of a sparkling future.

It was Jane’s turn at the desk. The woman behind it didn’t seem to like her job very much. She hadn’t smiled once, barely spoke, and her brow seemed permanently furrowed.

“I’d like to place a personal ad, please.”

The woman frowned. “You have it written out?”

Jane nodded, knowing she had to make her decision now. This instant.

“Well? I haven’t got all day.”

Jane knew her ad would bring Holly back into Charles’s life. She knew it with absolute certainty.

She handed the woman the other ad.

She wasn’t stupid, for heaven’s sake.

THE DOW WAS DOWN five points and Charles had a headache. One was not caused by the other. It only seemed that way.

It was eleven-thirty. Maybe he should take some aspirin and call it a night. He eyed the paperwork strewn across his bed. If he quit now, he’d just have more to do in the morning.

He decided to go with the aspirin, however. Putting his lap desk to the side, he headed for the bathroom. Fourteen million for the Riverside complex, and that was just for starters. The architectural firm was a good one, the prospectus top-notch, and yet there was something about the deal that bothered him. Whatever it was, it had better come to the fore soon. The papers were due on the twenty-first.

He turned the light on in the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. The aspirin bottle shared space with antacids: chewable, caplet and liquid form. The rest of the cupboard was bare. The women in his life were always trying to fill this particular cabinet, and Charles had disposed of a plethora of miracle herbs, god-awful colognes and even the occasional feminine hygiene product. Finally, it appeared that his housekeeper had gotten the hint. And since she was the only woman currently in his life, he had his agreeably spare cabinet back.

He took three aspirin, turned off the light and went back to bed. MSNBC was still on, but it wasn’t financial news. It took him a moment to get settled, then he started rereading the Riverside deal.

Not five minutes later, the phone rang. Charles sighed. There were only two people in the world who would call him at this hour. David, or his mother calling from the cruise ship. He hoped it was David.

“Darling, you’ll never guess!”

“Hello, Mother.”

“I won!”

“What did you win?”

“The costume contest. I was number one on the whole ship. It was a triumph. The applause…Oh, Charles I wish you could have been there.”

“I wish I could have, too, Mother.” His gaze fell on the thick file on his lap, then the clock. It was no use fighting it. He’d simply get up a half hour earlier tomorrow. He closed the file, then leaned back. “Tell me about it,” he said.

His mother did just that. In excruciating detail. She’d worn her hair up and used a charming little Hermès scarf across her forehead to give her the look of a flapper. He heard about her dress, her bag, her shoes, her dinner. On and on. When she’d pause he’d say something. Nothing much, just an acknowledgment that he was indeed still there. Still listening.

But his mind did wander. Not too far, or she’d have guessed. Just to his day, then, naturally, to the decision he’d made last Friday. As his mother waxed lavish praise on the lobster claw hors d’oeuvres, he toyed with the idea of telling her. What an uproar he’d cause from here to the Caribbean. She’d tell him he mustn’t go back to Holly. That he needed someone who had a heart. A soul. His mother was very big on souls.

What she didn’t understand was that Holly was exactly what he needed. Her no-nonsense approach to life suited him. She knew how to entertain, and she was savvy enough about business to make any dinner conversation flow. She was attractive, she came from a good family. What he couldn’t remember was exactly why they’d split up. It had been a few years. Probably something to do with his father’s death. That had been a difficult time. But Charles had survived. He’d taken over the company. He’d taken over the care of his mother. Now it was time for the next phase. A wife. A child. He’d be thirty-two soon. By then, he wanted this marriage business over and done with.

It all depended on whether Holly still read that damned magazine. Why she’d left no forwarding address or phone number with her last landlord, he couldn’t fathom. Her parents had died several years ago, and she had no siblings. He’d tried finding her through the alumni association, the Harvard club. He’d even called Le Cirque to ask the maître d’ if he’d seen her.

The only information Charles had was that she’d been living abroad. Maybe she was back in the States, or maybe not. Wherever she was, she’d subscribe to Attitudes. When he’d known her, it had been her favorite reading material.

“Darling?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“You didn’t answer me. Are you reading the Wall Street Journal while I’m talking to you?”

“No. Of course not. I was just distracted by this headache.”

“Did you take something for it?”

“Yes.”

“Chamomile tea will do wonders. You should brew some up right away.”

“That’s a great idea. As soon as we’re done, I’ll do just that.”

Her sigh carried across the ship-to-shore phone line. “You won’t. But I can’t do anything about that, can I?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you think I’m a crackpot, with crackpot ideas. Imagine, winning a costume party at my age.”