Clear as day, she pictured him sitting in his Barcalounger in front of his TV, a crossword puzzle balanced on the arm of the chair, his reading glasses down on his nose. He had been so sad and lonely, not that he’d ever shown that outright. It was just…well, Lizzie was a little sad and lonely, too, so she’d recognized the shadows in his eyes as exactly what she saw in her own mirror.
And now he was gone.
She stared down at her cell phone and the piece of paper she’d taken out of his wallet. His son’s name was Sean, evidently.
She started to dial, but then stopped, picked up the bag of Mr. O’Banyon’s things and headed out.
When she talked to the man’s son, she was going to need some fresh air.
***
Standing in the Waldorf’s ballroom, Sean O’Banyon smiled at Marshall Williamson III and thought about how the guy had tried to blackball him at the Congress Club. Hadn’t worked, but good old Williamson had given it his best shot.
“You’re the pinnacle,” Williamson was saying. “Without peer. You are the man I want on this merger.”
Sean smiled and figured that given the amount of groveling that was going on, Williamson was remembering the blackball thing, too.
“Thanks, Marshall. You call my assistant. She’ll get you in to see me.”
“Thankyou , Sean. After all you did for Trolly Construction, I know you—”
“Call my assistant.” Sean clapped Marshall on the shoulder to cut him off because getting stroked was boring. Especially when the sucking up was insincere and business motivated. “I’m going to get a drink. I’ll see you sometime next week.”
As he turned away, he was still smiling. Watching men who’d cut him down eat their pride made up for the social slights he had to deal with. Thing was, there was one and only one golden rule on Wall Street: He who had the gold, or could get it, made the rules. And in spite of his nothing-doing background, Sean was a mine for that shiny yellow stuff.
While he headed for the bar, he looked around the ballroom and saw the crowd for exactly what they were. He was under no illusions that any of these people were his friends. They were his allies or his enemies and sometimes both at the same time. Or they were acquaintances who wanted to have their pictures taken with him. Or they were women who’d been his lovers.
But there was no one here he was particularly close to. And he liked it that way.
“Hello, Sean.”
He glanced to his left and thought, ah, yes, a bridal barracuda. “Hello, Candace.”
The blonde sidled up to him, all pouty lips and big, insincere eyes. She was dressed in a black gown that was so low cut you could almost see her belly button, and her surgically enhanced assets were displayed as if they were up for sale. Which he supposed they were. For the right engagement ring and a generous prenup, Candace would walk down the aisle with a bridge troll.
Her voice was slightly breathless as she spoke. Possibly because of all the silicone on top of her lungs. “I heard you were out in the Hamptons last weekend. You didn’t call.”
“Busy. Sorry.”
She pressed herself against him. “You need to call me when you’re there. Actually, you just need to call me.”
He disengaged himself as if he were peeling free of a coat. “Like I told you a while ago, I’m not your type.”
“I disagree.”
“Haven’t you heard about me?”
“Of course. I read about you in theWall Street Journal all the time.”
“Ah, that’s business, though. Let me enlighten you about the personal side of things.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I never buy jewelry for women. Or cars or plane tickets or clothes or houses or hotel rooms. And I believe in splitting the check over dinner. Right down to the tip.”
She hauled back as if he’d blasphemed.
He smiled. “I see you get my point. Trust me, you’ll be much happier with someone else.”
As he turned away from her and walked over to the bar, he had to laugh. The thing was, he hadn’t said those things just to get rid of her. They were the God’s honest truth: For him, Dutch was the rule with women.
The minute he’d made his first big chunk of cash, he’d become a target for that kind of predatory female and he’d gotten burned. Back over a decade ago, after having lived for years as the poor relation to his roommates and friends at Harvard, he’d finally put together a deal with a percentage point or two in it for him.
The cash had been an avalanche. More than he could ever have imagined filling his account. And within a week of him throwing some of it around, a very sophisticated blonde, not unlike Candace, had shown up on his doorstep. She’d been everything he’d ever wanted, proof positive that he’d arrived. Elegant, cultured, an antiques dealer with style, he’d felt invincible with her on his arm.