As Mr. Fowler had shown her property that she now owned, he had slowly, and almost as though it were not important, told her about Tarik, or Mr. Jordan, as everyone called him. It seemed that only Kady thought of him as Tarik.
C. T. Jordan was a very private man. Even with a firm of attorneys that had dealt with his family for two generations, he had been exceptionally closemouthed. “He trusts no one,” Mr. Fowler said in a way that let Kady know he thought the young man ought to get professional help. “Though I first met him when he was nine years old, I know very little about him.”
Kady didn’t want to ask about a man who had been so very rude to her, but she told herself that if she was going to try to enlist Tarik’s help, she had to know what there was to know about him, didn’t she?
Tarik Jordan had an apartment in New York that was now owned by Kady and a sprawling farm in Connecticut that was his private property.
“Married?” she asked, trying to sound as though the answer meant nothing to her.
“No . . .” Mr. Fowler said hesitantly.
“Ah,” Kady said in a way that she hoped sounded worldly. “Women.”
Mr. Fowler smiled. “Actually, no. At least not the way I think you mean. When he was younger, there were a few starlets, but since then it’s been one-at-a-time.”
When Kady didn’t look back down at the papers, Mr. Fowler continued. “What else can I tell you about him? His only extravagance is those swords of his, and he’s a master at all forms of martial arts. As a boy he won contests in nearly everything he entered.” His voice lowered. “But he does seem to have an unhealthy love of sharp instruments.”
Kady didn’t comment on that, as a few people had accused her of feeling the same way, but she stopped pretending she wasn’t interested. “What about his family life? What about his mother?”
“I only met her a few times. She is elegant, beautiful, and as glassily cold as his father. As far as I could tell, after the woman gave birth to a son, she was free to live her own life, as long as she created no scandal. She lives in Europe, and her husband lived in New York, when he wasn’t on his private jet, that is. The child, C.T. the third, was brought up by servants in the house in Connecticut.”
For a moment, Kady’s heart lurched,
but she refused to allow the loneliness of this man’s childhood to stand in her way. What was a lonely childhood compared to no childhood at all?
At one point during the day, Kady asked Mr. Fowler why he seemed to be so glad that she had been given the money.
He put his hand warmly over Kady’s and smiled avuncularly. “Let’s just say that I’d like to see a nice person like you given an opportunity to do some good with so much wealth.”
Kady smiled back at him, and she remembered how Cole had established orphanages with his money, and she wondered what she could do. If it were actually her money, that is, which it wasn’t, so she had to erase that idea from her mind.
As the day wore on and Kady was shown file after file of papers showing even more of “her” assets, she began to ask Mr. Fowler for advice as to how to deal with Tarik. At first the lawyer was reluctant, but after repeated questioning, he relented and settled back in his chair and began to give her his true thoughts.
“I have no way of knowing what it is you want from him.” Here he paused to allow Kady to explain, but she said nothing. “However, I do know that you must be tough with him. He’s used to dealing with the Big Boys, not a little cook from Virginia. Pardon my saying that, but I think you’d rather know the truth of how he’ll probably look at you.”
Nodding, Kady told him she was grateful for his advice.
He continued. “You must state your demands and make them plain. I don’t think baking him a chocolate cake will work,” he said with an avuncular smile.
But Kady didn’t return his smile. Maybe all this was a joke to Mr. Fowler, but it was very serious to her.
When she’d left his offices that night, she had been driven away in a long, black, stretch limo, and she’d never before encountered anything so luxurious. After what she’d seen that day, she wasn’t at all surprised when the limo let her out at the Plaza Hotel and a young man was waiting to take her up to her suite. Nor was she especially surprised when she looked in the closet and saw that it was full of designer clothes in just her size. Looking back on the day, she remembered a man who had come into the office and looked Kady up and down as though he were measuring her for a coffin. No coffin, just Versace and Chanel, she thought now. Shoes to match were on a rack on the floor, handbags on the shelves. In the drawers were piles of silk underwear.
As Kady headed for the shower, she told herself she Shouldn’t accept any of this. For all that she legally owned the money, she had no moral rights to it. But her strength of will fell in front of a red silk nightgown. Never in her life had she slept in silk.
“If only I had listened to my higher self,” she said now as she guided the car up the old, washed-out mountain road toward Legend. If she’d kept her higher morals, she wouldn’t have faced that scene in Tarik’s apartment, a scene that still made her nearly sick whenever she thought of it.
When she thought of her attitude when she’d entered the apartment building where she was told Tarik Jordan was probably staying, it still made her cringe. She had been prepared for battle; she had prepared herself to fight like the “Big Boys,” not like a cook from Virginia. The way he sees me, she thought with disgust.
Mr. Fowler had called ahead so she had no trouble getting past security, but when the elevator stopped at the penthouse, she started to push the doorbell. But why should I? she thought. It was her apartment, wasn’t it? Besides, she doubted very much if he was actually there. For all that Mr. Fowler said otherwise, Kady figured that a man like Tarik had lots of women. Many, many, many women.
From the moment Kady unlocked the door, she hated the apartment. Even she could see that it was decorated in what some designer had obviously thought was “class.” There were fake Oriental vases and Steuben glass and lots of chrome and black leather.
Was this what Tarik Jordan liked? she wondered.
She made her way around the apartment to the kitchen. She might not know much about decorating but she did know about kitchens, and this one struck her as worthless, just some designer’s idea of what a kitchen should look like. Utterly useless, she thought, looking at the black glass surfaces that would look horrible after cooking one meal.
The bedroom was like the rest of the apartment, done in burgundy and black, and she had no doubt that if she pulled back the expensive spread, she’d find black silk sheets under it.