Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) by Sidney Sheldon Page B
Authors: Sidney Sheldon
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fell.
“Well,” Gunther said at last. “My client, the Hungarian collector, couldn’t be more delighted with his acquisition. I wired our Italian friends their cut last night. And here, my dear boy, is yours.”
He handed Jeff a check. It was from Coutts, the private investment bank, in his name, and it had an obscenely large number written on it.
“No thanks.” Jeff handed it back.
Gunther looked perplexed. “What do you mean ‘no thanks.’ It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”
“I don’t need it,” said Jeff.
“I’m not sure I see what ‘need’ has to do with it.”
“All right, then. I don’t want it.” Jeff sounded more angry than he’d intended to. “Sorry, Gunther. But money doesn’t help me. It doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.”
Gunther gave a nod of understanding. “You must give it away, then,” he said. “If it can’t help you, I’m sure it can help someone else. But that’s your decision, Jeff. I can’t keep it.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, AN article appeared in Leggo ’s Rome edition under the headline TINY CHARITY RECEIVES REMARKABLE GIFT .
Roma Relief, an almost unknown nonprofit organization devoted to helping Gypsy families in some of Rome’s worst slums, received an anonymous donation of more than half a million euros.
The mystery donor asked that the money be used to set up a fund in memory of Nico and Fabio Trattini, two Roma brothers who died in an accidental fall from a condemned building two years ago.
“We’re incredibly grateful,” Nicola Gianotti, Roma Relief’s founder told us in an emotional interview. “Overwhelmed, really. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.”
CHAPTER 7
THREE MONTHS LATER
STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, COLORADO
T RACY STOOD ON THE deck of her new home and gazed out at the mountains. She’d chosen the place for its privacy, set back off a private road in the hills above the quaint town of Steamboat Springs, and for the views, which were breathtaking. The snowcapped Rockies loomed like protective giants against a vast sky, cloudless and blue even on this cold October morning. Tracy could smell wood smoke and pine, and hear the distant whinnying of the horses in the fields.
It’s a far cry from my childhood in New Orleans, she thought, stroking her swollen belly protectively. Tracy’s father had been a mechanic and her mother a housewife, and although Tracy had been very happy, the Whitneys had never had much money. As a little girl growing up in the city, Tracy had always dreamed of wide-open spaces and ponies. Or somewhere just like Steamboat Springs. You’re a lucky girl, Amy. You’re going to grow up here and it’s going to be perfect.
It had not been an easy decision, returning to the States. Tracy hadn’t been back since the day she set sail on the QE2 from New York, to start a new life in Europe. Released from prison early, having spent years in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for a crime she didn’t commit, Tracy had tried hard to go straight. But she quickly learned that very few people were prepared to give an ex-con a second chance. Her old employer, the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, had laughed in her face when she attempted to get her old job back. Tracy was a brilliant computer expert with a first-class education. But she found even menial cleaning jobs hard to come by, and even harder to keep. As soon as anything was stolen or damaged, Tracy would get the blame and find herself fired. Without a means to support herself, she grew bitter and desperate. It was desperation that drove her to her first job as a jewel thief, robbing a thoroughly unpleasant woman by the name of Lois Bellamy.
That was the job during which she had first met Jeff Stevens. He conned her out of Lois Bellamy’s stolen jewels. Furious, Tracy had stolen them back. So began a rivalry that became an attraction that became love. The love of my life. Jeff Stevens had made Tracy Whitney’s life an adventure, a wild
“Well,” Gunther said at last. “My client, the Hungarian collector, couldn’t be more delighted with his acquisition. I wired our Italian friends their cut last night. And here, my dear boy, is yours.”
He handed Jeff a check. It was from Coutts, the private investment bank, in his name, and it had an obscenely large number written on it.
“No thanks.” Jeff handed it back.
Gunther looked perplexed. “What do you mean ‘no thanks.’ It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”
“I don’t need it,” said Jeff.
“I’m not sure I see what ‘need’ has to do with it.”
“All right, then. I don’t want it.” Jeff sounded more angry than he’d intended to. “Sorry, Gunther. But money doesn’t help me. It doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.”
Gunther gave a nod of understanding. “You must give it away, then,” he said. “If it can’t help you, I’m sure it can help someone else. But that’s your decision, Jeff. I can’t keep it.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, AN article appeared in Leggo ’s Rome edition under the headline TINY CHARITY RECEIVES REMARKABLE GIFT .
Roma Relief, an almost unknown nonprofit organization devoted to helping Gypsy families in some of Rome’s worst slums, received an anonymous donation of more than half a million euros.
The mystery donor asked that the money be used to set up a fund in memory of Nico and Fabio Trattini, two Roma brothers who died in an accidental fall from a condemned building two years ago.
“We’re incredibly grateful,” Nicola Gianotti, Roma Relief’s founder told us in an emotional interview. “Overwhelmed, really. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.”
CHAPTER 7
THREE MONTHS LATER
STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, COLORADO
T RACY STOOD ON THE deck of her new home and gazed out at the mountains. She’d chosen the place for its privacy, set back off a private road in the hills above the quaint town of Steamboat Springs, and for the views, which were breathtaking. The snowcapped Rockies loomed like protective giants against a vast sky, cloudless and blue even on this cold October morning. Tracy could smell wood smoke and pine, and hear the distant whinnying of the horses in the fields.
It’s a far cry from my childhood in New Orleans, she thought, stroking her swollen belly protectively. Tracy’s father had been a mechanic and her mother a housewife, and although Tracy had been very happy, the Whitneys had never had much money. As a little girl growing up in the city, Tracy had always dreamed of wide-open spaces and ponies. Or somewhere just like Steamboat Springs. You’re a lucky girl, Amy. You’re going to grow up here and it’s going to be perfect.
It had not been an easy decision, returning to the States. Tracy hadn’t been back since the day she set sail on the QE2 from New York, to start a new life in Europe. Released from prison early, having spent years in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for a crime she didn’t commit, Tracy had tried hard to go straight. But she quickly learned that very few people were prepared to give an ex-con a second chance. Her old employer, the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, had laughed in her face when she attempted to get her old job back. Tracy was a brilliant computer expert with a first-class education. But she found even menial cleaning jobs hard to come by, and even harder to keep. As soon as anything was stolen or damaged, Tracy would get the blame and find herself fired. Without a means to support herself, she grew bitter and desperate. It was desperation that drove her to her first job as a jewel thief, robbing a thoroughly unpleasant woman by the name of Lois Bellamy.
That was the job during which she had first met Jeff Stevens. He conned her out of Lois Bellamy’s stolen jewels. Furious, Tracy had stolen them back. So began a rivalry that became an attraction that became love. The love of my life. Jeff Stevens had made Tracy Whitney’s life an adventure, a wild
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