Free The Doll Brokers by Hal Ross Page A

was the I-could-like-you-if-you-really-wanted-me-to vulnerability she let peek out now and then.
    He’d seen how she’d done it with Matthew. Snuggling in, touching the kid’s neck, his hand. Grinning into his eyes, then backing off.
I’m no good for you.
He’d overheard her say that to Matt once, full of regret and shame and hopelessness.
    Patrick had almost respected her then for realizing that she didn’t belong among the Morhardts. He’d cornered her coming back from the beach one night in Long Island, just before Matt had died, and he’d taken that fantastic blond hair of hers in his hand, pulling her head back, kissing her hard. He had been prepared to accept her on her own terms that night. He thought he knew what she wanted. Barefoot in the sand with that dress all fisted in her hands, she would be the perfect receptacle for his disdainful love. But she’d kneed him in the balls, showing herself to be a vicious little street fighter who would feign insult and injury. He had been enraged.
    Two weeks later, she’d gone to Felicia with her pirate ship idea. They’d been planning to go big that year with his idea of a jumbo-sized model boat, but she’d coopted the concept and turned it into a ship, complete with rigging, tiny holds with gallows for the prisoners, cannons that fired ammunition, and treasure chests filled with gold coins and jewels. She’d created a map of the Caribbean circa 1560 that converted into a board game. The ship was a stand alone toy, but any kid who owned one would want an opponent to play against, and that meant another ship sold. The proceeds from the product had pretty much funded the acquisition of the game company from Chicago.
    After that success, there had been no stopping her. She was creative. She was cunning. And she had a way of smiling that made men hurt.
    What the hell was Jonathan doing sniffing around her these days? What was
that
about?
    The train disgorged him in the city. Patrick stood on the platform for a woozy moment, his mind seizing on the conviction that he had to call his brother before the day was over. He had to find out what was going on with him and Ann.
    Jonathan had always hated her, too. Because of her, Jonathan had lied to the authorities. Because of her, his right hand—his painting hand—had been in a cast for six weeks. Part of him wished he could let go of that horrible time, the circumstances leading up to Matt’s death, but he continued to obsess about it, year after year. He was like a dog with a bone—unable to leave it alone and let it lie forgotten.
    Patrick found a cab outside the station and ordered it in the direction of Park Avenue. The office he stepped into thirty minutes later was extravagant, all dark wood and leather.
    He settled into a deep chair that supported and cushioned his back, then began to consider what it would be like to redesign his own office in the style of this reception area.
    The secretary jolted him out of his reverie, speaking in a voice that was silky and seductive. “Mr. Morhardt? Mr. Salsberg will see you now.”
    Patrick went into the man’s office. The carpet was so thick he actually felt himself sinking into it. The incandescent lighting put him in the mood for a drink. The wet bar reminded Patrick of the pubs his brother favored, brass rail, swivel stools. And damned if there wasn’t gold-plating on the chandelier.
    Three-quarters of a million a year in rent, he estimated, at the bottom side. He should have gone into law and left his mother holding the Hart Toy bag on her own.
    â€œPatrick. Good to meet you, finally.” Richard Salsberg rose to shake his hand. Patrick had gotten the man’s number years ago, when his third drunk-driving charge had put him at risk of serving jail time, but he had never used it before now. “I have good news for you.”
    Patrick’s adrenaline spiked. He had dreaded this meeting, but had