get your bag up in a bit. One of these brawny fellows will be willing to serve as aâ¦well, as a brawny fellow and take it up there for you.â
âHey, I can handle a suitcase,â Leslie said.
âYeah, and one of us can be a gentleman and take care of it, too,â Brad told her. âLetâs eat.â He looked at his watch. She had a feeling that Brad had other plans for the evening and that a welcome-back dinner party hadnât been on his agenda.
Â
Leslieâ¦
She was thinner. She looked almost ethereal. He had never known such pain, such longing, as he felt seeing her there that night. He wanted to touch her so badly. He wanted to tell her that it was all right.
He wanted to tell her that Hank Smith was a dickhead. He laughed at himself. He hadnât known he disliked the developer so much. On the surface, the guy was a decent sort. Maybe he was too perfect. Tall, dark and slimy. His Armani suits were pressed to a T. Even his shoes were designer. He was a big man in town. Went to the right clubs. Ate at all the right places. Shook hands with the mayor. Hell, the guy even kissed babiesâ cheeks. He was a partner in Tyson, Smith, and Tryon, and he was the perfect representative whenever the firm had to deal with permits, public opinion and the laws of the state. But he just wasnât the kind of man other men liked. His lines were too smooth. He didnât kick back at a local bar to enjoy a good football game. Did that make him bad? No, justâ¦a dickhead.
And there was Robert Adair, good old Robert, still looking like a bloodhound. Working tirelessly, always concerned, always in the middle of something tragic, criminal, sadâ¦
Ken Dryer. He didnât like him any better than he liked Hank Smith. He never wore Armani. Instead, he was spotless in his police dress best. But then, Dryer had a tough job, speaking to the media, trying to assure New Yorkers that even under the worst circumstances, they were going to be all right. He supposed he should have more sympathy for the man, but he didnât. Dryer liked his job too much. Liked finding a way to put a spin on things that always made himself look good.
Gretaâ¦well, she loved history more than life itself. She was a good old broad, caring, genuine, which was hard, when you came from that much money.
Professor Laymonâ¦he should get to know Greta better. They would make one hell of a couple.
Brad Verdun. He almost smiled. Would have smiled, if heâd had substance and could have. Once upon a time, heâd been jealous of Brad. Like Ken Dryer and Hank Smith, Brad loved the limelight. He was a good-looking dude, too. But heâd never had any cause to be jealous. To Leslie, Brad was a friend and colleague, someone with whom she worked well. Theyâd laughed about a few of his romantic fiascos together. But nowâ¦
His heart ached. Funny, he had no heart, but he could feel the pain. That was then, and this was now. He himself was gone.
He loved Leslie. Wanted her to have a life. Wanted her to find something as great as what they had shared. Reallyâ¦
He just didnât want her falling for some asshole.
All right, so heâd gotten bitter. How the hell not?
Donât touch her, donât you dare touch her, he thought.
Then he amended that.
Donât hurt her, donât you dare hurt her. If you do, Iâllâ¦
Heâd what? He couldnât even appear at will, could barely communicate with the others haunting the same space.
Donât hurt her, he prayed.
Â
Hastings House wasnât huge. The entry was handsome, with the staircase off to the side to allow for a breeze to make its way all the way through the house. Leslie imagined that once those breezes had been plentiful; now, with the house surrounded by skyscrapers, the possibility was highly unlikely. There were two rooms to the right, two rooms to the left, and six bedrooms upstairs. The dining room was the second
âHey, I can handle a suitcase,â Leslie said.
âYeah, and one of us can be a gentleman and take care of it, too,â Brad told her. âLetâs eat.â He looked at his watch. She had a feeling that Brad had other plans for the evening and that a welcome-back dinner party hadnât been on his agenda.
Â
Leslieâ¦
She was thinner. She looked almost ethereal. He had never known such pain, such longing, as he felt seeing her there that night. He wanted to touch her so badly. He wanted to tell her that it was all right.
He wanted to tell her that Hank Smith was a dickhead. He laughed at himself. He hadnât known he disliked the developer so much. On the surface, the guy was a decent sort. Maybe he was too perfect. Tall, dark and slimy. His Armani suits were pressed to a T. Even his shoes were designer. He was a big man in town. Went to the right clubs. Ate at all the right places. Shook hands with the mayor. Hell, the guy even kissed babiesâ cheeks. He was a partner in Tyson, Smith, and Tryon, and he was the perfect representative whenever the firm had to deal with permits, public opinion and the laws of the state. But he just wasnât the kind of man other men liked. His lines were too smooth. He didnât kick back at a local bar to enjoy a good football game. Did that make him bad? No, justâ¦a dickhead.
And there was Robert Adair, good old Robert, still looking like a bloodhound. Working tirelessly, always concerned, always in the middle of something tragic, criminal, sadâ¦
Ken Dryer. He didnât like him any better than he liked Hank Smith. He never wore Armani. Instead, he was spotless in his police dress best. But then, Dryer had a tough job, speaking to the media, trying to assure New Yorkers that even under the worst circumstances, they were going to be all right. He supposed he should have more sympathy for the man, but he didnât. Dryer liked his job too much. Liked finding a way to put a spin on things that always made himself look good.
Gretaâ¦well, she loved history more than life itself. She was a good old broad, caring, genuine, which was hard, when you came from that much money.
Professor Laymonâ¦he should get to know Greta better. They would make one hell of a couple.
Brad Verdun. He almost smiled. Would have smiled, if heâd had substance and could have. Once upon a time, heâd been jealous of Brad. Like Ken Dryer and Hank Smith, Brad loved the limelight. He was a good-looking dude, too. But heâd never had any cause to be jealous. To Leslie, Brad was a friend and colleague, someone with whom she worked well. Theyâd laughed about a few of his romantic fiascos together. But nowâ¦
His heart ached. Funny, he had no heart, but he could feel the pain. That was then, and this was now. He himself was gone.
He loved Leslie. Wanted her to have a life. Wanted her to find something as great as what they had shared. Reallyâ¦
He just didnât want her falling for some asshole.
All right, so heâd gotten bitter. How the hell not?
Donât touch her, donât you dare touch her, he thought.
Then he amended that.
Donât hurt her, donât you dare hurt her. If you do, Iâllâ¦
Heâd what? He couldnât even appear at will, could barely communicate with the others haunting the same space.
Donât hurt her, he prayed.
Â
Hastings House wasnât huge. The entry was handsome, with the staircase off to the side to allow for a breeze to make its way all the way through the house. Leslie imagined that once those breezes had been plentiful; now, with the house surrounded by skyscrapers, the possibility was highly unlikely. There were two rooms to the right, two rooms to the left, and six bedrooms upstairs. The dining room was the second
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