“So you’re cleaning up your act?” she asked. When he nodded, she added, “What’s driving that? The purse strings or what your grandfather might think?”
“Not the purse strings. I have my trust fund, and no one can take it from me. No, it’s his opinion that matters to me,” he admitted.
Liza shifted on the lounge chair, taking a minute to have another spicy sip, letting the sunshine and alcohol and surprising confessions warm her. “For as much cyberstalking, as you call it, that I’ve done, I don’t know much about your grandfather. He doesn’t get as much media coverage as the rest of you.”
“That’s because he’s the behind-the-scenes manipulator.”
“Is that how he got so rich?”
He lifted his Bloody Mary and tapped the side. “This made him rich.”
Ivory Glass was one of the most well-known brands in the world, as common as Kleenex and Coca-Cola. “Did he invent it?” she asked.
“Actually, his father did. The first James Ivory was a glassblower in Upstate New York at the turn of the twentieth century. He created the compound that made the glass nearly unbreakable but didn’t do much with it. When my grandfather was still in the Marines, working his way up the ranks after the war, he already knew his dad was sitting on a pile of gold. By the time he left the military as a colonel, he didn’t let the wound that gave him a lifelong limp stop him. The post-World War II building boom happened, he mined that gold, making sure Ivory glass windows went into every new skyscraper in America. The rest is family history.”
A history she knew in rough detail. The Colonel and his wife had six overachiever kids and they had kids. Everyone in the family either stayed in the business as it sat on top of the Fortune 500 list or went on to politics, entertainment, finance, real estate, or business.
“Ivory always turns to gold,” she said, quoting a common expression about the family.
“Or a party.” He set the glass down with a thud. “But, like I said, I’m out to change that.”
“Is that why you’ve taken this role as the manager of the Barefoot Bay Bucks?”
“One of the reasons. Starting a minor-league team, building a stadium, yeah, the project has really given me a focus, and I’m stoked for the job and working with such good friends. But there are more steps in my non-evil plan.” He made a sweeping grand gesture toward the yacht. “You might notice the distinct lack of dancing girls and drinking boys, also known as the regulars on N’Vidrio.”
“Dancing girls?”
“A euphemism for...”
“The blondes in the hot tub you referred to the other day.”
He didn’t answer right away, but his golden-brown gaze turned warm as he regarded her. “I don’t even like blondes.”
Heat curled through her, unexpected and unwanted and way, way too strong. She should look away. She should make a quip or stand up or remind him that Carrie was a blonde. She should do a lot of things other than stare right back for five, six, seven straight heartbeats.
Holy hell, she realized with a start. I could like this man.
In fact, she already did.
* * *
When they were close to Key West, the captain tracked south around Tank Island to work the ship to one of the few docks near town large enough to accommodate her. Nate was taking Liza to the bridge to enjoy the process of watching Vicary in action, when his chief steward signaled him for a private conversation.
“Excuse me, sir,” Alex said in a soft voice. “Colonel Ivory is calling your stateroom.”
A call from his grandfather was rare, but not entirely unexpected. Sometimes, the old man had to “spend time in the trenches,” as he liked to say. “Have him hold, Alex. I’ll be right there.”
“Do you have to go?” Liza asked when the steward walked away.
“For a few minutes. Go up to the bridge, and I’ll meet you there. Captain Vicary will make you feel at home.”
“I doubt I’d ever feel at home here,” she said. “But take your time, and I’ll enjoy the scenery.”
He followed another corridor to the oversized master stateroom that took up nearly half of the second deck. Taking a deep breath, he sat in a plush office chair and picked up the satellite phone.
“Hello, Colonel.”
“Key West, young man? That’s never a good place for you. Bad as Vegas, in my opinion. Why don’t you go somewhere less colorful?”
Nate smiled to himself, not at all surprised at the greeting. “I’m entertaining a young woman—”
“Of course you are.”
“—who we are hiring to work as an admin for the baseball team.”
He harrumphed. “Don’t get your milk where you get your bread, son. It’s bad form.”
It was impossible not to laugh at him. “I’ll take your counsel, sir. Is that why you’re calling?”
“I’m calling because we haven’t seen you in over a month. Mimsy gets anxious, you know, and wants as full a table as possible for our family meal. Sunday dinner is critical time for the family.”
Critical for bonding or for the Colonel to stick his nose into the business of every one of them? Both, Nate knew. Every Ivory who could make it was expected to show up at the “Ivory Tower” in “full uniform”—suit and tie for the men, formal dress for the women. It was tedious as hell, but they all knew better than to ignore too many Sundays and risk a surprise visit from the Colonel. “Maybe in a few weeks, sir. I’m really tied up with this new venture.”
“If I know you, you’re tied up, all right. To the bedpost with this female friend.”
“Actually, you’re wrong. She’s not…” Well, she was hot. And he had been thinking about kissing her for the entire trip, but…they had too many complications. “She’s got a kid.”
“Really? Nothing wrong with that, long as you make your own.”
Evidently, he had. He didn’t answer, his gaze moving to the open view of Key West out his sliding glass door.
“Listen to me, Nathaniel.” Nate knew what the softening of his voice meant. The Colonel often used a different tone when he really wanted to make sure his point got across. “I’m watching for that progress you promised. You know I’m not getting any younger.”
He was eighty-three, going on fifty. “I know, sir.”
“And no matter what situation you get yourself into, you can depend on your family—especially me—to help you.”