The Doll Brokers Read online

  “And I’ll take care of checking us in,” Jonathan offered.

  She flicked a glance back at him. “Thanks. What should I order for you?”

  “I’ll take a Sierra, if they have one.”

  She followed Greenspan into the bar and endured a momentary hug from Charlie. The younger woman was overripe with perfume and she didn’t seem to want to let Ann go.

  Ann sat. “Is any part of your trip business?” she asked. “Or is it strictly a vacation?”

  “A little of both,” Greenspan answered. “I’ll move on next week and take care of business, while Charlie will head home.”

  A waitress approached. Ann ordered a Sierra and her usual.

  Sidney began pumping her for information. He was usually the nosy type but something felt strange here, listening to what was starting to sound like an inquisition. She ignored him for the most part and engaged Charlie in conversation instead, asking if this was her first trip to Spain.

  “Me?” The younger woman laughed. “Why, no, darling.” She placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Sidney enjoys taking me practically everywhere. Isn’t that right, honey?”

  Sidney tried to steer the conversation back to where he obviously wanted it to go, just as Jonathan showed up.

  “What did I miss?” he asked, pulling a chair out beside Ann. She had never been so glad to see him.

  He caught her expression and winked. Then he grinned at the beer that was waiting for him. “I love Madrid,” he said. He took a long sip, then turned to Ann. “Want to dance?”

  She looked up at him, startled. “Are you serious?”

  He nodded. “Table-top, or will the floor do?”

  “I’d prefer the floor.”

  “Glad to hear it. Let’s go see if they know any good funeral dirges.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sidney said.

  “You’re not meant to,” Jonathan answered. He stood and Ann let him take her hand. He helped her to her feet and she followed him onto the tiny dance floor.

  Whatever the musicians were playing sounded moody and sweet. Ann had no idea what the Spanish words meant, but to her ears it felt like heartache and love. Jonathan’s hand found her waist. She wondered what exactly was going on, but she let her body flow into his. A not entirely unpleasant heat seemed to radiate between them.

  She really despised him for making her feel so good, for the sensation in the pit of her stomach that made her want to settle in and stay there, rather than pull away.

  “Thanks,” she said, interpreting his gesture. “I couldn’t bear Greenspan’s company for another minute.”

  “Me neither, cara mia.”

  She felt a laugh tickle her throat. “When did you get to be so nice?”

  “Along about your fourth glass of wine. Or maybe it was the first Glenlivet.”

  “So it’ll pass by morning?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Ann laughed. Then she groaned and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “God, I’m tired.”

  “We’ll be home before you know it, and this’ll all be a memory.”

  She thought she felt his hand stroking between her shoulder blades. She had definitely had too much to drink. “No, it won’t,” she said. “We’ve got to do the rounds of the American retailers next.” We? Had she actually said we?

  “When does this happen?”

  “Week after next.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He moved his other arm to her waist and coaxed her even closer. “Ann?”

  “Hmm?”

  “How do you feel about dancing with Mr. Greenspan?”

  “Why?”

  “He’s heading this way with a cut-in look on his face.”

  “Are your Sir Lancelot instincts still in place?”

  “They’re the best part of me.”

  She snorted. “Prove it.”

  He caught his foot around her ankle and tripped her.

  She almost went down. All that saved her was his arms around her waist. Ann tightened her grip around his neck long enough to grab back her equilibrium, then she let go and punched him. “What … was that?” She was so angry she was sputtering.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I—”

  “Can you dance?”

  She felt a hand on her shoulder from behind. “What?” she snarled, turning about.

  Greenspan took a startled step back. “Ann, what happened? Are you all right?”

  “Of course, she’s not,” Jonathan said. “Look at her. She can hardly stand.”

  Ann listed quickly in his direction.

  “I’m going to take her upstairs so she can get off her feet.”

  Ann nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  Greenspan made sympathetic clucking sounds. When they returned to the table, Charlie looked like she could cry. Was it out of sympathy for Ann’s injury or because she would be left alone with her husband?

  “Don’t forget to limp,” Jonathan whispered as they left the bar.

  “I don’t have to fake it.” She gave him another shot in the arm for good measure.

  “Hey, I saved you from having to dance with those sweaty paws of his. Where’s your gratitude?”

  She gave a little shudder at the thought of Greenspan’s hands on her. They stepped off the elevator on their floor. “You know, he’s going to tell everyone in New York that we’re having an affair.”

  “Well, we’re not. Hold up there.” He caught her elbow and pulled her to a stop. “This is your room.”

  “If word gets back to Carmen, you could be in trouble.”

  “You have a hell of a memory for names.”

  She grabbed the key from his hand and opened the door. She thought of saying something profound but found herself at a sudden loss for words. “Good night,” she said abruptly. And she stepped inside her room, quickly closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I am sorry, monsieur, madame, the plane has had mechanical difficulties in New York. You are rescheduled for tomorrow morning. We have arranged…”

  Ann blocked out the rest of the words. This couldn’t be happening. Not after the kind of week they had had. She looked at Jonathan, then back at the airline clerk. She wanted to scream, at the very least throw something at somebody.

  They had left Spain without a commitment for Baby Talk N Glow, which had not been a surprise, but disappointing, nonetheless. And she could almost accept their Italian distributor’s commitment of forty thousand pieces, pre-warned as she was that the doll’s skin coloring might be too light to afford a huge success in his market. But Germany’s forecast of one hundred and twenty thousand reduced to eighty rubbed her raw. And here on their last stop, in France, Ann had been nearly driven to distraction. Charles La Croix, who had always been a strong ally of Hart Toy, had spent their entire meeting decrying the state of the toy industry, and the doll segment in particular. Ann had counted on a commitment of one hundred thousand pieces—the French population was almost as large as that of the U.K., with a potential toy volume to match—yet all they could squeak out was a mere fifty thousand.

  “Ann—what do you think?” Jonathan was asking her.

  “Huh?” She tried to refocus.

  “Oh, never mind.” He turned back to the clerk and took something from him, then proceeded to lead her away.

  “What was that all about?” Ann asked, shrugging off the hand that was gripping her elbow.

  “What was what about?”

  “What did the clerk just give you?”

  He took note of her tone, the wiped look on her face, and he knew it was time to take charge. Much of their trip had been eye-opening for him. The business of toys had paralleled the makeup of too many other industries in the twenty-first century. Consolidation and staff reductions, greed and unethical behavior, had stripped it of its humanity and decency. But what had really surprised
him was the numbing risk involved. His respect for his mother—a true survivor—and for Ann, was enhanced. The woman was suffering. Something inside him wanted to console her, to tell her none of this was her fault, and to somehow make her pain go away.

  “Jonathan—where are you taking us?”

  She looked strung out and her voice was shrill. He knew he was doing the right thing. She would have to go along with it. He would give her no choice.

  “Jonathan—”

  “Trust me,” he said and continued to guide their luggage trolley through the departure level of the airport, outside, and into the queue for a cab.

  They were no sooner strapped into the back seat of the taxi when he instructed the driver: “L’hôtel Le Régent, s’il vous plait. La rue Dauphine. C’est près du Boulevard Saint Germain des Prés.”

  Ann sat up with a start. “What the hell! You haven’t lost your French?”

  He smiled. “And why are you surprised?”

  “I … never thought. After all this time. I—”

  “Just relax. You are in good hands, Fraulein.”

  “Fraulein? Oh dear God. Jonathan, where are we going?”

  Jonathan turned to the driver. “A peu près combien de temps vas t’il prendre pour se rendre à l’hôtel?”

  “Environ quarante cinq minutes, monsieur,” the driver replied.

  Ann punched Jonathan’s arm. “Now you’re showing off.”

  His smile grew. “Just wanted to prove I know the difference between German and French.”

  “And where are you taking me, exactly.”

  “This is what United Airlines expects us to use tonight.” He waved a hotel voucher in her face. “Check in at three p.m. at a hotel convenient to the airport. I refuse to be stranded in Paris in some dumpy, fleabag hole-in-the-wall.”

  Ann instinctively looked at her watch. It was still early, not quite nine in the morning. “But doesn’t the voucher mean our rooms would be comped?”

  “Absolument, ma chère.”

  She was hardly proficient in French, but that much she understood. “I am not going to waste money by staying somewhere else,” she said.

  He took her hand in his. “Sometimes you do what you’ve got to do. Now—would you just relax. We’ve been on the go for the better part of a week. I’ve seen what pressure can do to people, and I see what it’s doing to you. Relax and enjoy. I am going to show you the Paris you have never seen before. Not with the schedule you keep. Today and tonight is on me, so no more complaints.”

  “Complaints?” she said, somehow already feeling restraints being lifted. “I never complain.”

  “No, how silly of me. The great Ann never complains.”

  “But I have a question for you.”

  “Okay. Shoot. But this is the last one you’re allowed.”

  “If this day is going to be on you then why splurge on a fancy hotel?”

  He shrugged. “Who said it was fancy?”

  “Please, I know your expensive taste.”

  “For your information, we are headed towards an area favored by writers, actors and musicians. It is also home to the oldest church in Paris. The tour will commence later. No more talking. Feast your eyes.”

  Ann obeyed, forcing further protest from her lips. And by not talking, or even thinking for that matter, she was able to do what she had never done before. During all her business trips with Felicia, to so many varied and far-off countries, she had never truly gotten away. There was never the time, the money, nor the inclination. Seated now in the back of the taxi she willed her mind to pretend, to act like a person on vacation, a person without a care in the world.

  After checking out of the Hilton Hotel in Paris this morning, it had never occurred to her that she would be returning so soon to the one city in the world she preferred above all others. She opened her eyes and gazed out the window at the countryside whizzing past. All those quaint towns and villages, with their oh-so-many church steeples. She could almost smell the baguette and cheese she suddenly craved.

  By the time the cab wended its way through the intricate, narrow streets of St-Germain-des-Prés, she was sitting wide-eyed and filled with wonder. This was the Paris steeped in tradition, with block after block of crowded cafés and hip boutiques. The architecture of a bygone era appealed to her most, and she imagined herself remaining here for weeks and months, not just hours.

  “Is this where you painted?” she asked Jonathan.

  “Uh-uh. Most of my time was spent in Montmartre,” he said. “Where else? But this area of Paris is where I hung out.”

  When they finally pulled up to a stop at their hotel, Ann cried out with pleasure. Le Régent was nothing she expected. Un-Americanized, unpretentious, small and unassuming, she loved it at first sight. For once in her life she did nothing. She stood by as Jonathan tipped the cab driver, stepped up to the tiny check-in counter to register them, then attempted to squeeze not only their luggage but the two of them into an elevator built for one.

  She continued to hold her tongue as he fought first with one bag, then the other, cursing aloud in frustration, banging the narrow carriage walls, until he finally gave up in despair.

  “May I ask you something?” she said.

  “No, you may not.” He ignored her and continued his efforts.

  Finally, she picked up her bag that was not very heavy to begin with, slipped her room key out of his hand, and turned towards the stairwell.

  “Hey—where you going?”

  “To my room. Do you mind?” She did not look back.

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes,” he called after her.

  She began to mount the stairs, only to find that they were so narrow, by the time she reached her destination on the third floor, she was struggling a bit herself. She turned the key in the door and immediately broke into hysterical laughter. Seldom in all her travels had she been faced with such a small room. The walls were painted a flowery pink. The single bed looked like it barely fit. The dresser opposite only had a few shelves, no drawers. And the bathroom, which she had to squeeze into, had a bath with a self-adjusting shower head but nothing to hold it in place and no shower curtain to keep the water from running onto the floor.

  Yet, she loved it, realized she wouldn’t change it for the world. The entire week had been filled with Hilton hotels or their ilk. It was time to be brought back to reality.

  When Jonathan met her in the lobby she was ready to get out and see the city.

  He took her by the hand and led her to the Metro. One glance at the huge map on the wall by the ticket booth and he knew exactly which train to take. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at their destination. They rode the escalator to street level and the warm sunshine of a cloudless day washed over them. There was a bit of a breeze in the air but the temperature, Ann guessed, was in the high sixties. As they started on their way, she could see the Arc de Triomphe. The closer they got, the more majestic it appeared. “Built in honor of Napoleon’s most celebrated victory,” Jonathan explained once they stood across from it.

  “Wonderful.” Ann paused. “But how do we actually get there?”

  Jonathan laughed, although he could see her conundrum. There were two ways to cross the always bustling traffic circle—one was to follow most of the other pedestrians and use the underground passageway—the other was to chance injury to life and limb and dodge the traffic. He chose the latter, taking hold of Ann’s hand and guiding her in-between the mad rush of vehicles.

  “Watch out,” he warned with some amusement in his voice. “Easy does it…”

  Somehow, Ann found herself being led across the precarious thoroughfare, too nervous to voice a complaint.

  They paused at the entrance to the Arc to catch their breath. When Ann tried to speak, Jonathan hushed her. “Shh,” he said and pointed downwards.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “We don’t want to disturb him.”

  “Who?”

  “Victor Hugo.
He’s been lying in state down there since the late 1800s.”

  She ignored him and moved away.

  “Hey,” he called after her. “The guy needs his rest.”

  She laughed despite herself.

  “But let me tell you something else,” Jonathan quickly added.

  She turned towards him again. “You’re just a font of knowledge, aren’t you?”

  “Better believe it. But this story might even appeal to the hardhearted you.”

  She flinched.

  He took her hand and shook it playfully. “Relax. I’m only kidding. The Arc de Triomphe was conceived in 1805 but took some thirty-one years before its completion. However, Napoleon was getting married for the second time and he couldn’t wait, so he did what any red-blooded Frenchman would do—he had the architect build a temporary replica on this very site, so that he and his bride-to-be could pass beneath it on the way to their wedding at the Louvre.” He paused. “Nice story?”

  Ann shrugged. “Yeah. But I’ll bet you made it up.”

  “No, I didn’t. You can ask anyone. Here—” He made to stop a passerby, a middle-aged gentleman wearing a black, wool beret.

  “Jonathan!” She pulled him back, embarrassed. “I believe you, okay? You don’t have to do that.”

  He hesitated, then motioned towards the top of the Arc. “Elevator or stairs?”

  “Stairs,” she told him. The climb didn’t appear very steep and the exercise would do her good.

  At the top they strolled to each observation post and admired the view. Jonathan pointed out the sprawling thoroughfares: L’Avenue de la Grande-Armée leading toward La Défense, le Bois de Bologne and les Grand et Petit Palais.

  Before Ann knew it—and as Jonathan promised—they were soon strolling side by side along the Champs-Elysées, passing stores of the famous designers, from Chanel to Louis Vuitton, from Yves St Laurent to Christian Dior.

  They stopped for lunch at one of the smaller restaurants along the magnificent boulevard and each had a croque monsieur with a Perrier. Then Jonathan continued his history lesson with explanations of everything from Napoleon’s rise to power to the zealous, French royalty and their notorious behavior.

  Ann found herself completely enchanted by this side of Jonathan, finding him somewhat magnanimous and engaging.