LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter One

      Normally, Adam Braddock steered clear of The Torrid Tomato. The restaurant had found its niche market among the trendy young professionals who spilled from the offices of downtown Providence between the hours of twelve and two, seeking food, fun and a temporary release from stress. Menu items catered to the healthfully eclectic palate, the atmosphere always bordered on boisterous, and over the course of the noon hour, the crowd gravitated toward a high-strung pitch of pandemonium. In Adam’s view, the restaurant had just two things going for it on this day in early May: proximity to his office and a noise level that encouraged speedy conclusions to any business, personal or private, being conducted over lunch. As he had no idea why his grandfather had suggested today’s meeting with a heretofore unknown old friend of the family, Adam wanted to devote as little time as necessary to it. Hence, his request to meet Mrs. Fairchild at The Torrid Tomato.

      She had yet to arrive, and he glanced at the gold Bulgari watch on his wrist, checking the time—ten minutes to twelve—already impatient to be back in the office. The Wallace deal was percolating nicely and he expected a phone call early this afternoon formally accepting the buyout offer. He had a two o’clock appointment with John Selden, the chief operating officer of Braddock Construction, and a three-thirty scheduled with Vic Luttrell, the corresponding executive for Braddock Architectural Designs. At four-forty, he would go over tomorrow’s schedule with his administrative assistant, Lara Richmond, and at five-thirty, he would play handball at the club with Allen Mason, Braddock Industries’ chief corporate attorney. Tonight he was having dinner with the top two executives of Nation’s Insurance Group regarding the possible relocation of their corporate offices to the new Braddock Properties office complex in Boston. All in all, a fairly light day, although he could have skipped lunch entirely and never missed it. But when his grandfather made a request, which he so seldom did anymore, Adam was hard-pressed to find any decent reason to refuse.

      A bubbling brook of throaty laughter flowed somewhere behind him, sparkling and effervescent, a lovely sound rising above the frantic noon-hour gaiety. For all its genuine warmth, Adam judged it as a blatant bid for attention from someone, a look-at-me summons to the whole restaurant, and he firmly declined to turn around. All he wanted was a noisy atmosphere, a sort of homogeneous cacophony, nothing overtly distracting…certainly, not the siren’s song of amusement that echoed out again as if the laugher couldn’t keep it inside. There was something mesmerizing in the lilting tones, something intriguing in the laughter and, despite wanting to ignore the sound altogether, the third time he heard her laugh, he twisted in his chair and craned his neck to see who she might be.

      “Adam?”

      He whipped back around, chagrined to be caught rubbernecking. “Mrs. Fairchild.” He rose with a smile to greet the tall, attractive woman who had spoken, and moved to pull out a chair for her, assessing her age—mid-to early-fifties—her appearance—understated elegance—and the platinum and pearl necklace—genuine, not costume—at her throat, in an appreciative blink. “I’m so pleased you could join me.”

      “The pleasure is mine.” She smiled, extending her hand for a quick clasp of his. The warmth of her greeting held as she took her seat, lifted the folded napkin, and dropped it delicately onto her lap. “Your grandfather speaks so highly of you and your two brothers, I feel I’ve been remiss in not making more of an effort to get acquainted.” She paused, measuring him in a graceful glance. “You are very like James.”

      “You know my father?”

      She nodded. “We were in school together at Exeter and again for a couple of years at Harvard. Well, truthfully, he was two years ahead of me and doubtless never knew I existed. He was always quite charming, though, even during those somewhat awkward adolescent years.”

      That rang with authenticity. While Adam could never imagine his father as an adolescent, awkward or otherwise, charm was James’s calling card, his stock in trade. But Adam was positive his father would have noticed Ilsa Fairchild, no matter what age he might have been at the time. She was very attractive and James Braddock had always had an eye for the ladies. “He would be flattered you remember him, I’m sure.”

      Ilsa’s smile was soft with contradiction. “I’m very taken with this restaurant,” she said, neatly shifting the subject. “The atmosphere is always so…energizing. Don’t you find it’s impossible not to enjoy your meal while surrounded by such joie de vivre?”

      Adam had thought it not only possible, but a foregone conclusion. “You’ve been here before?”

      “Several times, although The Torrid Tomato is a fairly recent discovery for me. The first I knew of the restaurant was three months ago, back in February.” She looked around, obviously not a bit intimidated by the noise. “But since then, I’ve developed a rather alarming craving for the artichoke dip. I’ve been too embarrassed to inquire, but do you suppose

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