The Exhibition (An Executive Decision Trilogy) Read online

  Though Harris Walker was definitely the stuff of sex dreams, with his broad shoulders and outdoorsy good looks, all she wanted was the man’s photos. It was strictly business. At first, she thought he simply couldn’t forgive her for her inadvertent role in her and Garrett’s bumbling attempt to get Dee and Ellis together, the attempt that had nearly had the opposite result. But Garrett he seemed to have forgiven, so she suspected his less than warm feelings toward her had as much to do with her past relationship with Garrett and Ellis as anything. Ex fiancée to one, ex-wife to the other. OK, it wasn’t a shining resume, but she had only been 18, for fuck sake, and that horrible mistake had cost her way more than she could have ever imagined.

  Anyway, it wasn’t like she was asking Harris to marry her, or even to like her. Could he possibly think she’d try to seduce him? There were at least five other wildlife photographers who were practically begging to be a part of her opening exhibition, but it was Harris she wanted. She flipped back through the pictures of devastation one last time, then grabbed the BlackBerry and pulled up his number.

  It rang until it went to voicemail. She rolled her eyes, then put on her sweetest voice and asked him, for the hundredth time, if they could get together to talk about the exhibition. When she hung up, she left a text as well, all the while having visions of the man slapping a restraining order on her. Well, that’s what he’d have to do if he wanted her to give up. She’d beg, bargain and grovel if she had to. She’d try again a little later.

  While she made herself coffee in the kitchenette next to her office, she went down the mental list of questions she’d ask him, just in case today was the day when he actually gave in and returned her call.

  Still thinking about the stubbornly uncooperative Harris Walker, she started a second pot of coffee. The workmen would be here soon and the bakery around the corner would be delivering shortly. She had made special arrangements for a delivery daily as long as the workers were finishing up the gallery. She needed them happy and pleased to do things exactly the way she wanted, and nothing said do it my way quite as nicely as fresh pastries and quality French roast coffee.

  That done, she took her own coffee back to her desk. She glanced through Harris’s photo galleries again, studying the horrendous detail of some of the scenes of destruction and environmental damage. She took a pen and a small pad of paper and scribbled notes about the ones she hoped to include in her exhibition. While she was at it, she made a note to call the young reporter, Carla Flannery, for more details about the illegal landfill she had uncovered in the John Day area. There was a whole series of photos on Harris’ site from that unfortunate incident.

  While jotting down notes, she tried Harris’ number again. Still no answer. She left another message and decided to let it go for the day. She could only do so much harassing before she had to give the poor guy a break. She had dinner plans with Dee and Ellis this evening before she took the red-eye to New York, and if he hadn’t gotten back to her by then, she would exercise her option to manipulate and get the two of them to talk to him. He’d probably like her less for it, but since she didn’t know him well enough to know how much less he was still capable of liking her, she supposed she could live with that. The man was just being stubborn. He’d exhibited his work all over the Northwest and beyond. She’d made it clear the proceeds from the exhibition would go to fund the Vigilant Trust, which Wilderness Vanguard and Ellis and his company had been instrumental in starting between them. The Vigilant Trust was money for reclaiming land that had been damaged and for helping the communities that had suffered from job losses. Stacie was proud that her gallery would begin its life supporting such a good cause.

  Into her silent reverie, her BlackBerry buzzed the arrival of a text, causing her to jump and drop the notepad onto the floor. Maybe this was it. Maybe Harris Walker was finally getting back to her. Her mind was already racing as she grabbed for it. She had no doubt she could convince him to allow her to exhibit his work if he’d just listen to her. She was sure he’d be intrigued.

  When she opened the text, all thoughts of the exhibition, all thoughts of Harris Walker, all thoughts of the workmen she could now hear arriving, went out of her head. Her stomach rebelled, and for a second, she thought she would vomit her coffee. But she forced herself to breathe deeply, forced herself to calm and focus. After all, this was not unexpected. She had lived in the shadow of this moment for ten years, and she would never be more ready to face it than she was now. She took another breath, squared her shoulders and read it.

  Welcome to the West Coast, Stacie. It’s such a pleasure to have you close once again. Feels like old times. We must meet for drinks and dinner. I’m dying to catch up on all your news. I do hope the gallery renovations are going without a snag. So many unexpected, and expensive, glitches can happen when you’re on a tight deadline.

  Yours always,

  TJ

  The BlackBerry slipped from her hands, and disappeared in the mound of papers on her desk as she shoved back the chair and ran for the stairs.

  ‘What the fuck?’ she heard one of the workmen exclaim, and she nearly ran into Ted, the foreman who was racing up the stairs toward her. He caught her before she could lose her balance. His expression was hard; his voice tightly controlled. ‘Ms. Emerson, you’d better come look at this.’

  He kept a protective hand under her elbow as he led her into the main exhibition hall. It was probably a good thing he did. The red paint was splashed over the newly laid floor and onto the freshly painted wall where it dried in thick spatters. Oxygen rushed from her lungs and everything else disappeared as the past forced its way into the void. ‘Zoe!’ Stacie could never remember if she had actually called out her friend’s name or if it were only in her head. She was no longer in the vandalized gallery. She was transported back to Zoe’s flat, back to the gunshot that shattered her world, back to the blood on the walls.

  ‘Everything was locked up just like we left it last night, just like always,’ Ted was saying, but the rest of his words were drowned out by the ringing in her ears and the present fell further away.

  When she allowed herself to think about that horrible time, it was always with thoughts of what might have been if she could have gotten Zoe away from him, if they could have gone somewhere he couldn’t find them. Strangely, it was his scent that permeated all of her memories of him. Every time she had ever been with him it had surrounded her, practically drowned her; when he held her, when he stroked her hair, when he caressed her. He always smelled like the desert, with everything that was dangerous about it. Everything that was poisonous or desolate or sharp-angled and deadly seemed to seep through his pores in a way that was both dark and compelling. How was it that something as simple as the way someone smelled could elicit such desire, such hope, such terror, such rage? How was it that the scent of the man was the first thing she remembered about him and the last thing that haunted her in her dreams?

  When she came back to herself she was seated on a folding chair and Ted was offering her a glass of water. This is how it all begins, she reminded herself. And this was not the time to be squeamish. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t expected to hear from Terrance Jamison. That was inevitable. It was just that she hadn’t expected to hear from him quite so soon, and she had at least expected a little grace period before the harassing began.

  ‘Shall I call the police?’ Ted was saying.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’ There was a shuffling and a mumble of surprise among the workmen. She drank the water down and stood. ‘I know what this is all about, and I don’t have time to go through a police investigation, which will turn up nothing, not if this gallery’s going to open on schedule. How soon can you fix it?’ she asked Ted. Before he could respond, she added, ‘I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t care what it takes. I need it fixed immediately if not sooner.’

  The foreman looked around at his crew. ‘All right, I can call in some extra workers, we can arrange for an extra shift, wo
rk into the night if we have to. But are you sure you don’t want the police to check this out? This is vandalism, ma’am, and no doubt –’

  She cut him off. ‘I know what it is, and I’m sure. Just do whatever it takes. I’ll be in my office if you need me.’ She turned on shaky legs and walked carefully back to the stairs. Already Ted was barking orders and the place erupted into action. Back in her office, she forced herself to read the text through one more time and then again. She forced herself to remember, to remember all of it, all she knew and all that she couldn’t prove, but she knew with a certainty that was unshakeable. She forced herself to remember every detail, every nuance, every injury suffered, and when it felt like a cold, hard stone in the pit of her stomach, she closed the text without answering it.

  Chapter Two

  Harris Walker shifted in the branches of the beech tree just enough to allow the feeling to flow back into his numb legs and instantly regretted it as the pins and needles of returning circulation shot down to his toes. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to hold still. He’d never photographed a family of great horned owls as up close and personal as this before, and he was determined to get just a few more shots into the neighboring tree before he was forced to call it a night. The sun had been up nearly an hour, and the birds should have settled down to sleep by now, but an unexpected bedtime snack had delayed the normal routine.

  The female was divvying up bits of a freshly killed skunk among the three fairly mature branchers. Skunk was one of the favorite foods of great horned owls who, blessedly, had no sense of smell. Harris, however, did, and even olfactory fatigue wasn’t quite enough to keep his eyes from watering at the barbed scent of skunk musk, which didn’t exactly make for good photos. That really irritated him because this was a view into the life of these birds only days, he would guess, before the adults sent their progeny out to fend for themselves and find their own territories. The golds and bronzes of early morning light, with the dappled shadows of the foliage, would make for interesting shots.

  He was in an uncomfortable position, halfway up a good-sized beech tree looking over into the branches of the neighboring oak where the owl family had settled. He knew he shouldn’t be. He knew it was risky, especially being out here on his own. But after the previous night’s less than satisfactory shoot in the hide, he’d opted for the tree this time and was rewarded with some truly intimate shots of the birds. But he was tired now. His body ached from his vigil, and the smell of skunk was becoming nearly unbearable. Just a few more shots, then, when the adults settled in to rest, he’d scramble down and be home in time for breakfast.

  Gradually, the pins and needles subsided in his leg. He blinked his watering eyes and kept shooting. Just a few more shots … He leaned out precariously onto the branch, wrapping his legs around its girth and securing his position with his feet, ankles turned, the soles of his hiking boots pressing hard into the wood. He was just focusing in for a close-up of the largest brancher, who was doing its best to swallow the huge piece of skunk, when, into the silence, his Blackberry rang, and both the adult owls were instantly hyper-vigilant. Shit! Had he really forgotten to turn the stupid thing off? He never forgot. Ever!

  Hanging on for dear life with his legs, he contorted himself to reach it in his pocket before he realized the offending device was still in his backpack, which he had left at the bottom of the tree. It was a damn good thing he had. Immediately, the owls’ necks swiveled Exorcist-style, and those wild yellow eyes honed in on the bag, instead of him. The female rose up silently, the tips of her wing feathers nearly slapping Harris in the face, before both she and the male attacked his pack, talons first, with a terrifying force. He figured the female, who was the larger of the two, weighed in somewhere around five pounds. That might not sound like much, but it was five pounds of super-charged predator on wings that spanned well over a meter, and most of that weight was muscle, sharp beak and talons – talons strong enough to sever the spinal cord of its prey and do severe damage to a human, even one the size of Harris. As the device kept mindlessly ringing they kept attacking. And it wasn’t difficult to see that the backpack was losing the battle. They continued to shred it even after the BlackBerry went silent.

  Harris stayed very still, holding his breath, goose flesh rising on his neck. Jesus! It could have been him. Whatever had possessed him to leave the phone in his backpack could very well have saved his bacon. Great horned owls were known for being aggressive, especially close to their nest or their young. He held tight and watched the destruction below. And when the backpack was truly destroyed, and the owls seemed to consider it no longer a threat, they decided to find a more peaceful place to finish their snack.

  Once they’d flown, he waited a full five minutes before he moved, straining to hear owl sounds or see the returning flutter of wings. There was neither. He eased his aching body down the tree and surveyed the pathetic remains of his pack, which was not only well-shredded but liberally dotted in owl poop.

  He found the offending phone and shoved it into his pocket; he stuffed everything he could salvage into one of the waterproof bags he always carried in the pack for kayaking trips, then stuck the remains of the backpack in on top and sealed the bag. He’d no sooner finished than the BlackBerry began to ring again. But it was quickly drowned out by the squawks of the owls, who returned with a vengeance. With the phone tinkling away merrily and the two adult birds dive-bombing him, Harris half ran, half belly-flopped beneath the partially upturned stump. Fuck! Why hadn’t he remembered to turn the damn thing off, and who the hell would call him at this hour anyway?

  From the safety of his hidey-hole, he pulled out the offending device and frantically clicked it into silent mode, but not before he noticed that it was Stacie Emerson who’d been trying to call him. Damn it, he thought to himself as he listened to the squawks and barks of the angry owls, why couldn’t she just leave him alone? He really didn’t want to work with her. Maybe Ellis and Dee and even Kendra could forgive and forget, but he didn’t find it that easy. How could someone be all sweetness and light and do the things she’d done? And how could everyone just pretend that none of it had ever happened?

  Other than the text that told him he had two missed calls, there was a text from Stacie as well.

  Hi Harris,

  Ellis told me you spent the night with the owls and that I might be able to catch you when you’d finished the photo shoot. Would love to treat you to breakfast and talk about the exhibition. I really think you’ll like my ideas.

  Stacie

  Harris shut down the device with a stern punch of the keys and shoved it back in his pocket. Who the hell did she think she was to pretend like all was well and wonderful, to act like they were best buds? They weren’t! He didn’t want to be her buddy, and he didn’t want to work with the woman.

  He tried not to think about the way she’d draped her arm over his and acted as though they were all but in the sack together at that press conference, back when Kendra was pretending to be the hotshot romance novelist Tess Delaney. Well, at least Garrett Thorne had grown a pair and come clean. Everyone knew now that Tess Delaney was really Garrett. And everyone knew that he was head over heels in love with Harris’ friend, Kendra Davis. Harris still wasn’t sure he liked that idea, but even he had to admit he loved seeing that silly grin that lit up Kendra’s face every time she talked about Garrett.

  That was fine, that was fair enough. And Garrett was Ellison Thorne’s brother, after all. There wasn’t anyone Harris respected more than he respected Ellis. And if Garrett was Ellis’ brother, and he did right by Kendra, Harris supposed he could learn to tolerate him. But in all honesty, he couldn’t see why his benevolence should extend to Stacie Emerson. Stacie had been engaged to one Thorne brother and had eloped with the other. Surely that was not the mark of someone who could be trusted. And no matter how many excuses everyone made for her, well, in his opinion they were just excuses.

  And damned if he didn’t find himself sporting
wood, thinking about her! That really pissed him off. OK, so she was beautiful. No one could argue with that. She had all the right curves in all the right places, and when they were pressed up close in his personal space, well, he was a man, wasn’t he? And in his weakest moments, his very weakest moments, when he was tired from spending the night in a hide taking pictures, when he’d spent the day with the board of directors of Wilderness Vanguard, he had, on the very rare occasion, fantasized about what it might be like to have her no doubt substantial charms turned in his direction. But those were weak moments and they didn’t happen very often. Well, not all that often.

  The sun was properly up now, and sweat trickled down his back and under his armpits as he eased his way out from under the tree stump, secure in the fact that the offending BlackBerry would not betray his presence to the owls again. He shuffled down the slope toward the Jeep, muscles aching from the night in the tree, and, as he settled into the driver’s seat, he resisted the urge to check back and see if there was another message from Stacie. Kendra had told him the woman made incredible blueberry pancakes, and wow, did that sound good right now. His stomach rumbled. His mind conjured an exquisite image of Stacie, that pale hair of hers all bedroom mussed, making him blueberry pancakes, clad in nothing but a loosely tied silk bathrobe barely long enough to cover her luscious bottom. Now he was hungry, and he had a hard-on. Damn the woman! He started the engine and headed down the canyon. He’d stop at a drive-through and grab something. He was anxious to see the photos he’d taken, and not at all anxious to talk to Stacie Emerson, even if it were just business. Even if she bribed him with blueberry pancakes.

  Chapter Three