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Jaguar (Painter Place) (Volume 3)

By Pamela Poole

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Chapter One
London, Monday, January 16, 1995


Wilfred Rothschild’s wrists burned, chafed by his struggle against their bindings. His meaty shoulders and back ached under a soiled white dress shirt that rubbed the metal slats of a cold, rusty chair. He pulled his knees together in another futile effort to ease the discomfort of the straps around his ankles, quaking from the damp chill and lack of a strong drink. A rumble in his stomach reminded him he’d been here for several hours, waiting for his captors to set him free from this filthy warehouse office like they’d promised.
Forced into so much time alone, he’d been thrashing through his thoughts of the bad business deals that led to his current humiliating situation. He always came back to blaming one person—Phillip Chadwick Gregory, Jr., current head of the distinguished Gregory Global Corporation.
Wilfred had begun his own career with high expectations thirty-seven years ago, but Gregory took advantage of some complaints about his perceived drinking problem, steering some investors for a big project over to launch his place in his dad’s company. The blow to Wilfred’s ego at the hands of that insufferably arrogant American was bad enough, but it was only the beginning. The hit to his reputation led to the necessity of taking seedy clients just to get by, and he was even more apt to drown his smoldering resentment in a glass.
That cocky Southern yokel drove him to drink. No one should have everything! Phillip Gregory was worth more than almost anyone in the world, he was handsome and fit like some Greek demi-god, everything he touched either made money or turned out right, and he had no vices to gossip about. It wasn’t natural.
In fact, the only thing Gregory didn’t have was a sparkling personality. But no one ever seemed to care about his lack of charm.
Wilfred ground his teeth, seeing those arresting blue eyes in his mind. He despised the pity he always saw in them. But once, he’d seen them wild with a flash of fury, right here in England. If the elder Gregory hadn’t held his son in check, Wilfred and Phillip would’ve ended up in a fistfight at an elegant reception. Wilfred hadn’t been too soused to remember the guy couldn’t be shaken over business matters. His weakness was a woman.
Later, he’d raged to hear that Phillip Gregory was happily married to that woman he set so much by, and then had an heir. He smirked now at the dank, windowless wall of his temporary prison. Who names their son the family name for the third generation? Only someone with an ego the size of the continent, in Wilfred’s estimation. Phillip Chadwick Gregory III—it was ridiculously long and snooty. And then calling him ‘Chad’? Not many people could pull that off. Sounded like a pretty boy, some boyfriend for a girl’s fashion doll.
But the magazines were still eating it up, like Phillip’s son was some idol, begging for interviews with him. He looked uncannily like that movie star in the crime drama Americans wasted their time on. No doubt some Wall Street goons were naming their own sons after the guy.
What better way to get revenge on Phillip Gregory than to endanger his heir? Wilfred’s shady connections knew how. The threatening notes delivered to Phillip couldn’t be traced, and if the men directly involved in the hands-on part of the plan were caught trying to nab the baby boy, they never knew who hired them. They weren’t supposed to get away with it, only to create the illusion that they’d tried. No matter that they’d gotten confused over which blonde baby was the right one and snatched both the Painter and Gregory boys just in case. Phillip would live his life in the knowledge that his son, and therefore the future of the company, was in perpetual danger. He’d think of it every night before he went to sleep, if in fact he could sleep after that.
And then ten years ago, there was that incident in Mevagissey. The newspapers here helped Phillip and that dashing son with the numbers after his name to ruin Wilfred further, ending the decent level of success he’d spent years fighting for. He’d gone to great lengths to pay a kid to get information from Gregory’s careless younger son so he could try to hack into their system and set off an alarm that would land them in court, maybe even with a conviction for Cole. He’d calculated that every passing day with Global’s security in question meant permanent damage to their reputation. Who could possibly have foreseen that the captivating Pollyanna from Painter Place would show up over here in England, stumble into a media hotbed over that rock star, and steal the media’s imagination, gushing to the world about the integrity of generations of the Gregory family?
His scowl crumpled deeply etched lines between his brows and the downturn at the corners of his mouth. Granted, Gregory could’ve made Wilfred’s drunken misstep at British artist Dante Kent’s yacht reception much worse. In his arrogance, he acted like he’d get dirty by twisting the knife. No matter, because Wilfred gained another weapon. He’d seen the same fury in Chad’s eyes that he’d seen in his father’s eyes years before, over the same thing—a woman. His weakness. And like de-ja-vu, just as Phillip’s dad had checked him to stop a fight with Wilfred, Phillip coolly did the same with his son Chad. The whelp had his dad’s bent toward a temper flare that could ruin him, like uncorking a bottle of fine champagne.
He licked his cracked lips at the thought of his favorite champagne before tracking back to his memory of revenge. The new associates he’d hired five years ago were pros, and promised him a healthy cut from a ransom for Chad’s sons, the twin grandsons that Phillip must be looking to as another generation to carry on with Gregory Global.
But that plan in France had ultimately failed, and he’d sweated being connected to it. He’d never expected one associate to try to kill Chad, the same baby boy he’d had nabbed years earlier. Wilfred squirmed again and grimaced at the ache in his back, muttering to a mildewed wall, “I’m not a murderer.” His obsession with Phillip was strictly about making him live in torment about the future and to be the Gregory under whom Global finally failed.
Despite his torturous misery in the metal chair, Wilfred allowed himself a malicious grin. After that threat by Chad’s assailant that he’d be back, Global was covering the cost of that over-the-top body guard. Wilfred’s schemes had ultimately damaged the company he hated, diverting resources for intense security and private planes, because Phillip didn’t want the public endangered in a kidnapping attempt. As long as Wilfred had a breath left in his body, the Gregory family would never know a day’s true peace, and a financial faucet would gush out of Global for security. He’d been so clever that they didn’t even know who to suspect.
He couldn’t help gloating. The latest opportunity to set more trouble into motion had just fallen into his lap, like a gift from a god of revenge. His long-time enemy would soon be investigated, maybe even arrested. Wilfred rolled his bloodshot eyes and smiled. Ever the predictable noble one, Phillip would insist on taking full responsibility, getting his younger brother Justin out of the line of fire here in London. All the negative press would slap him and Global down, and that Golden Boy son of his would have the struggle of his life to overcome the setback.
A convulsive shiver reminded him of the unexpected cost of the dirty blow he was dealing. Last week, he’d found a new investor for an illegal venture, a badly needed injection of capital. His spying connections reported that the guy had dealings with Global--under a different identity. He couldn’t get the other name and didn’t know which one was the alias, but if the guy was laundering ill-gotten gain, he was good business for Wilfred. The plan was to get his money from the deal with the Columbian cartel Temoso, plant some evidence on the investor, and then anonymously tip off the authorities. They’d untangle the link to Global.
Only, the deal with Temoso went sour when Puña, a rival cartel, intercepted the shipment, throwing lighter fluid on the raging fire between them. Temoso blamed Wilfred for setting them up or leaking information, though they had no proof, and they still wanted their payment. He had no product to collect the funds with and no idea how Puña got wind of the shipment for their raid. So, he had to adjust his plan, giving Temoso the information on the other investor, promising that the guy would cover the amount owed.
Now Wilfred was here, temporarily detained by what must be the roughest members of the Temoso cartel while they went to collect their money from the investor. The guy would fork it all over rather than risk having his family killed, Wilfred was sure of that. When the cartel got their money, it was still a successful venture, and they’d set him free. They might even want his business again.
He jumped as the bolt lock on the outside of the door behind his chair slid open and the rusty hinges screeched. He heard a rapid-fire interaction in Spanish among his returning captors. “Did you get your payment? Can I leave now?” asked Wilfred hopefully, turning his head stiffly to his shoulder to address them.
“I promised you could leave, didn’t I?” asked a man with heavily accented English. He only needed one shot at this range. As Wilfred slumped forward, the man snapped orders to his companions. “He’s ready to leave now. Get ‘im wrapped for delivery.”
***
Flames waved their arms in a merry dance of light, warming a spacious family room that was fulfilling its purpose. Books, puzzles, and games were shoved helter-skelter under a low sofa table on which forgotten bits of apple wedges, kiwi slices, dried dates, cheese cubes, and cracker crumbs remained scattered on a ceramic platter.
Phillip Gregory lounged in sky-blue fleece sweats that had seen too many workouts. His running shoes were piled with the others next to the over-sized ottoman where he propped his athletic-socked feet. His twin grandsons flanked him in his favorite spot on the deep-cushioned leather sectional sofa. Although only five years old, they could read many of the simple words in the new book from their Christmas treasure trove. But it was the bright pictures of machines and how they worked that spoke to them. Their grandfather knew how to explain the pulleys and gears, so the twins listened and rested their blonde heads against the worn cotton of his sweatshirt.
Granddaughters Savanna Caroline and Brooke surrounded Camellia Gregory, who made suggestions in her melodic Charleston drawl about how to change their dolls into pretty polka-dot footed pajamas and brush their teeth and hair. Donning the imitated air of a parent, the toddlers put the dolls through the motions of their own nightly routines and assured them that bedtime was an unavoidable fact of life. If the dolls did all this without complaining, they’d have a story and some songs when they were tucked in. The girls had many of the same dolls and toys in different colors, and were almost as inseparable as the twins. When their cousin Summer Painter was with them, it was a tight threesome.
Cole Gregory’s son, Sean, giggled as his father and uncle Chad were wearing him down with a romp on the generous rug. Soft dark curls clung to his forehead, sweaty from staking an early mark on the rowdy reputation of a two-year old. Chad’s wife Caroline and Cole’s wife Shannon sat cross-legged in sweaters and jeans before the hearth, open notebooks spread on their laps and pens in hand. With cheeks blushing pink from the warm fire and cuffs pushed up their forearms, they scheduled the week ahead. The children on the island were all homeschooling their early years, with the parents and grandparents pitching in. They spilled over into the small coastal town of Whitehaven to coordinate gathering with the Grayson and Wallace families, and others in the local churches.
“Natalie and I have it covered,” Shannon assured Caroline decisively over the rich-toned chimes from an antique grandfather clock. She tilted her head in the direction of an open closet door, where shelves were laden like a teacher’s cabinet and baskets were stenciled with the Gregory children’s names. “Just leave the twins’ workbooks and projects in their baskets. It’s only two days.”
“Time for dreams! How about snakes, and snails, and puppy-dog tails?” Chad exclaimed cheerfully as he pushed his nephew Sean effortlessly up into the air over his chest like a barbell. The toddler had finally conked out on top of him, panting for breath after all the roughhousing.
When Sean protested, his uncle tickled him, so he peeled away toward his dad with his giggle-box-turned over. Cole rose to his feet and tucked his son under his arm like a sack of flour.
“Time for a good night kiss,” Camellia told her granddaughters as they put the finishing touches on their dolls’ bedtime fashion ensembles.
“Love you, Mimi Melia!” the girls sang out sweetly in chorus. They reached around her neck to kiss her as Cole hauled Sean in for a giggling sideways hit-and-run kiss.
The twins reluctantly, but good-naturedly resigned themselves to their fate as Phillip closed their book and gathered their hugs and kisses. They waited quietly for the girls to move so they could bestow the same on their Mimi Melia, then turned to follow Chad through the door to their family’s wing of the estate. Caroline rounded up her daughter, who was having her doll kiss everyone all around.
Phillip and Camellia sighed contentedly and looked at one another. The heart of their home was now so quiet that the tick tock of the grandfather clock and the snapping flames in the hearth were the only sounds. The books and games had been tidied away and Shannon had taken the cups and empty platter to the kitchen.
Phillip’s expression became a beckoning gaze across the table. With a slow spreading half smile, he patted the leather sofa cushion beside him. Camellia raised a delicately arched eyebrow. When she didn’t come to his side, he pursed his lips and let his blue-eyed gaze grow more intense. Apparently, all the games hadn’t been stashed away in the closet after all. “I’ve never known you to waste a romantic fire,” he ventured.
“I noticed that romantic fire you’re stoking, but you’ve forgotten how to convince me that it’s a worthwhile way to spend the evening.”
A grin sprang to life on his face, making him look ten years younger. “Just checkin’ to see if I had ya trained after all these years.”
She assumed an airy attitude and crossed her arms gracefully, her emerald eyes soft as they reflected the elusive flicker in the fireplace. “A well-bred Southern lady doesn’t chase a man. He proves he’s worth the time and attention he’s askin’ for.”
Phillip sighed, admiring his wife’s profile. “That’s the same attitude you had on the night we met at the Battery, where you sparkled with as much class as the diamonds you were wearin’. You’re still the impossible-to-get girl I fell in love with the moment I saw you. But you chose me, with a look I’ll never get over, remember? And I didn’t let you down.”
Her lips curved slightly into a smile, and she gave him a sidelong glance before turning again to the fire. “Then don’t start now.”
He groaned and raked his graying dark hair back with both hands before he took two long-legged strides to land comfortably beside her. He pulled her back into his chest. “I’ll always chase you. And about that romantic fire…”
***
Chad let the door to the master suite latch softly, smiling and sighing contentedly before settling back against the varnished wood. He turned the lock behind him with a decided click. Caroline was brushing her long blonde hair and looking at a nearly-full moon through one of the glass French doors. A sheer peacock blue robe made her hair seem luminous. He’d asked her to open this gift on Christmas Eve, after the kids were asleep and they’d placed packages under the tree. It turned into a night he liked to remember.
Now, he stood admiring her silhouette, his imagination stoking heat into the memory of the fluid drape and cool feel of the satin that night. The bedroom was filled with soft romantic music and lyrics that slid like liquid silk from the stereo. “Always and forever, each moment with you is just like a dream to me that somehow came true.”
She held her brush down by her side and turned to speak over her shoulder. “Come and see! It’s a beautiful night. The moon’s sparkling on the water.”
The lead singer for Heatwave continued to coo through unseen speakers, singing, “We've got a life of love that won't ever change…”
Chad sauntered slowly over with a short laugh, savoring the sight of her and catching all her signals with practiced ease. The music was fueling a mood that thrilled him.
“You think too much like an artist, Darlin’. Get inside my head and see what I see. I’m not goin’ to notice that view when I have this one.”
She let him gently remove the brush from her hand before he tossed it onto a nearby chaise, then he wrapped his arms to encase her possessively, sliding a hand over the drape of fabric he’d imagined at the door. “That same moon is bringin’ out my inner wolf,” he murmured against her neck. “Save my place for a few minutes while I change?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” she tried to sound uncertain. “I only put this on because it’s a national holiday. You know, like savin’ the Lamborghini for Sundays and special occasions. And of course, I feel guilty that I have to leave you alone for a couple of days this week.”
Chad made a low growling sound deep in his throat before sweeping her confidently into a slow dance, their steps falling within the moonlight that stretched over the hardwood floor. He skillfully made it to the lamp and clicked it off without missing a step, murmuring against her hair. “It’s too late for excuses.”
The lyrics were perfect. He’d learned long ago to pay attention to them, because Caroline did. Music put her in a romantic mood, and he liked to tease that song and dance were the keys to romance. He sang softly near her ear, “We'll share tomorrow together, I'll always love you, forever.”

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