Jordan and Isabel were on a conference call with Regan, who was in her office in Chicago, and Laurant, who was at her home in Boston.
“Have I left anything out?” Regan asked, and before anyone could answer, she remembered, “Oh, and a little music, too, and maybe a make-do dance floor so couples can dance to the band.”
“Band?” Isabel asked. “What band? It’s supposed to be a casual party . . .”
“It’s just a small band,” Jordan explained. “You know how Regan is. She’s quite the organizer, and she’s planning all of this from Chicago. She’s so impressive and amazing, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is, but . . .”
“She wanted to throw the party at the Hamilton, but Judge Buchanan wouldn’t hear of it. He said it was safer for you on the island so crazy fans will leave you alone.”
“There’s going to be a buffet,” Jordan interjected. “Nothing fancy. By the way, Isabel, you should probably get a bit dressed up . . . for the photographer. Maybe wear one of your new outfits.”
“Photographer? This doesn’t sound like a small get-together,” Isabel protested. “You’re going to a lot of work.”
“The food is being catered, so we won’t have to lift a finger. It’s going to be so much fun,”
Laurant said. “I love a good party.”
Isabel stopped trying to squelch their enthusiasm. They were hell-bent on throwing Michael and her a party, and she wasn’t going to object any longer, though she couldn’t understand why they wanted to go to all this trouble for what they were calling a little get-together with family and a few close friends.
? ? ?
AS IT TURNED OUT, THERE WAS QUITE A CROWD—AROUND SIXTY AT LAST COUNT. WHEN SHE
and Michael walked outside, Isabel was astounded by the number of guests. This was considered a small get-together?
“I didn’t realize . . . I should have invited Damon and Mia and Lexi and JoAnn, and Terry . . .”
“Who’s Terry?” Michael asked.
“The nurse at the hospital who took such good care of Detective Walsh. Oh, I should have invited him, too . . . and his lovely daughter, Kathleen. She and I became good friends.”
“Everyone you meet becomes your friend.” He was smiling, so she knew he wasn’t criticizing her.
Throughout the evening Michael never let Isabel out of his sight. His brothers noticed, of course, and took great delight in ribbing him. Michael didn’t mind the razzing, but he didn’t like that he and Isabel kept being pulled apart by friends.
Isabel was heading to the porch when a valet rushed to her with two strangers following behind.
“Miss MacKenna, this man said he’s a business associate, but he doesn’t have an invitation. He insists he’ll only take a minute of your time.”
“It’s all right,” she said.
She didn’t recognize either of the two men. One looked like a bodybuilder. The other man was short with a stocky frame. He held papers in his hand, and when he spoke to Isabel in that nasally, whiny voice, she knew exactly who he was.
James Reid had crashed her party with a man he called his driver at his side. He thrust the papers toward her and said, “This is your last chance for the deal of the century. One signature, Miss MacKenna, and you will become a multimillionaire. Here, I even brought a pen.”
She dodged the pen he was waving in her face. She was having difficulty believing he had come all this way to give one last sales pitch. The man didn’t understand what the word no meant.
“Is there someplace quiet where we could talk? I’ll only take you away from your party for a few minutes,” he promised.
“I am not interested in selling the land to the Patterson Group. Now please leave.”
Reid made a big mistake then. He grabbed Isabel’s arm and jerked her toward him, inadvertently drawing the attention of Michael and his brothers.
Isabel pulled her arm away and took an intimidating step toward the rude man.
“Mr. Reid, I don’t know if you’ve been in a cave the last few weeks and aren’t aware of what’s happened with Glen MacKenna, or you think you can play ignorant and act like you’ve done nothing wrong—but either way, if I were you, I’d forget about Glen MacKenna and be more interested in staying out of prison.”
“I promised Patterson I would get you to sign . . . Wait, why would I worry about going to prison?”
“Apparently you and a few of your friends discussed getting rid of me. I believe Mr. McCarthy had it scheduled, and you were an eager participant.”