Chapter one
« Declined. »
« Excused me? » Bella blinked at the quasi-Euro sales associate, a black-rimmed spectacled, chic-suited man who three minutes before had been all smiles and pleasantries.
"Your privileges have been revoked Ms Swan."
The woman standing behind her in line snickered. Bella blushed. Exclusive shops such as Bernard's treated their patrons like royalty. So why did she suddenly feel like the rabble? "There must be some mistake."
The associate retained a deadpan expression. "Perhaps you'd like to try another card."
Her business manager, Jacob Black (a financial wizard according to her mother), had asked her to make all of her purchases on one specific credit card until further notice. Something to do with interest rates and consolidation. So seven months ago she'd handed over the bulk of her cards to Jacob, except for the American Express that she'd tucked away for emergencies. As her dignity was at stake just now, she considered this a genuine crisis. Fishing her Gucci wallet out of her matching handbag, Bella handed the sales associate her backup card. He slid her platinum plastic through the gizmo next to the cash register, starting the process all over again, leaving her to ponder the mystery of her "declined" Visa. Obviously, the card was defective. As soon as she got home, she'd call Jake and have him order her a replacement.
The clerk glanced up, with one haughty eyebrow raised, and a trace of a smirk playing at his glossed lips.
Bella's stomach clenched. Stop looking at me like that. I haven't done anything wrong. Funny how many times she'd wanted to scream that sentiment in her cursed life. But as always she kept her feelings inside. Calm. Dignified.
The associate sidled over to the phone and placed a call. Bella tucked silky strands of poker-straight hair behind her diamond-studded ears and willed her pulse steady. I haven't done anything wrong.
Casting her a sidelong glance, the associate mumbled a cryptic "uh-huh" and "I see", and then hung up. He returned and passed Bella her American Express. "Declined."
Bernard's four other patrons – plump-lipped, tight-skinned women who looked as though they frequented the same plastic surgeon – conversed in hushed tones. Bella hated being the center of gossip. Mortified, she leaned over the counter and crooked a finger at –she glanced at his nametag- "Eric. There must be something wrong with your credit card device."
"Our Zon is functioning properly. I'm afraid it's your credit that's in question. Perhaps you'd like to write a check."
"I don't have my checkbook." Jacob oversaw her bank account and paid her bills. She'd been relying on cash and her Visa for months. She'd yet to have a problem. Until now. "Please try again." Panic fluttered in her chest as she re-offered Eric her Visa. Those strapless, wedge-heeled Chanels sat on the counter waiting to be bagged. The perfect mates to the silk shantung dress she'd just purchased at Saks.
Two minutes later, Eric re-shelved the Chanels. On the verge of hyperventilating, Bella fled Bernard's. The shoe fiasco had dashed the last of her tremulous composure as she navigated the bustling city sidewalk. She'd survived two High profile weddings and three funerals in seven years. Not to mention the unflattering media surrounded her bizarre personal dramas. Being labeled « The Black Widow » by an unfeeling gossip columnist had been the cruelest blow. Anyone who knew her, knew the insinuation was absurd. Still, her second husband's sudden death had earned her a fair share of suspicious double takes. Her small circle of friends had dwindled to one. She'd managed to cope and found shopping a temporary cure-all for her ever-increasing bouts of depression. But surely, surely she hadn't shopped herself into the poorhouse. Each of her husbands had left her a fortune.
Her mind racing with one horrible possibility, she quickened her spike-heeled steps and avoided walking under a workman's ladder only to step on a crack in the pavement. Out of habit she clutched her left wrist and stroked the charm bracelet her dad had given her to counteract ill luck. That's when she felt it. The gap. She quickly fingered the charms, ticking them off in her mind-horseshoe, wishbone, four-leaf clover- stumbling twice in her haste to make it to the car. The third time she went down. Face down on the crowded side walks of Fifth Avenue.
Emmett came to her rescue. The muscle-bound chauffeur whisked her up and carried her to his double-parked limousine. « Animal » he said of a snickering passerby and then opened the door and helped her into the back seat.
« I'm all right », she said
« You're crying », Emmett said. « And you've got a run into your hose. »
Bella glanced at her left shin and cried harder. « Darn! »
« I knew this wasn't a good idea. I should've taken you shopping somewhere cheerful and sunny. Like Miami. » Emmett slammed her door, took his place behind the wheel, and revved the engine. « What happened in there? »
« They declined me. »
« What? »
« Never mind. I just want to go home. » Again she glanced at her charms. Twelve. She counted only twelve. There were supposed to be thirteen, unlucky thirteen acting as reversed bad luck. She was missing her gold moneybag marked with the dollar sign. The charm that represented « wealth ». She could have lost it in any one of several stores. Or on the street. Down the grate, in the gutter. Gone, a rational mind whispered. It was the only thing that kept her from going back and searching every square inch of Manhattan. This bracelet had been a gift from her dad, her champion, the good-humored buffer between her and her superstitious mother. Losing a charm was like losing a piece of her hero. It also smacked of a bad omen. Hands trembling, she pushed aside a day's worth of shopping bags and searched her leather satchel for tissues and her cellular.
She punched in her business manager's number while Emmett eased his way into the bumper-to-bumper traffic. « Be home, Jake. Please be home. »