THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS

by Judith Duncan

  He heard the door open, then a male voice spoke. "You're free to go, Mr. Donovan."

  Finn opened his eyes and stared at the detective who'd interviewed him, then picked up his jacket and wearily got up, his face stiff. "Who do I see about my truck?" he said, his voice flat.

  The other man stood back to allow Finn to pass in front of him. "That's all been taken care of."

  Finn stepped out into the main room, noticing a small nondescript man in a chauffeur's uniform standing off to one side. His expression flat, Finn signed for the brown envelope holding his personal effects, then dumped out the contents. He experienced a sudden tightness in his chest when the key chain with Mallory's apartment key slid onto the countertop. His jaw locked against the sensation, he put his wallet and the two sets of keys in one pocket. And he was just shoving his cell phone into the inside breast pocket of his jacket when the uniformed man came over to him and smiled, then spoke in a very proper English accent. "Mr. Donovan? I'm Malcolm, Mr. O'Brien's driver. I'm here to take you to your lodgings."

  Finn considered the other man, a thin sliver of humor surfacing. This was Malcolm—the bodyguard? He would never have guessed it. Aware that the detective was leaning against a desk watching, Finn only nodded. Malcolm tipped his head at the detective, then went to the door exiting the squad room and opened it, giving Finn a pleasant smile. "This way, sir."

  Once outside, Finn snapped up his jacket, then stared at the O'Brien's driver. "Where is she?" he demanded.

  The small man opened the back door of a Mercedes. "She's safe, Mr. Donovan."

  Finn was in no mood for games. "I'm not going anywhere until I know what in hell is going on. And I want to know where she is."

  His gloved hand on the door, the other man looked up at Finn, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. "She is at her apartment with her father, under heavy guard." The twinkle intensified. "And not very happy about it, I might add. Ms. Mallory doesn't like anyone making her decisions for her."

  Finn made his muscles relax. "What about Jackson and his crew?"

  The chauffeur gave Finn the coldest smile he'd ever seen. "Two of Mr. Jackson's cohorts are currently resting comfortably at the morgue. Mr. Jackson is resting not so comfortably with several FBI agents. They don't know if they have everyone, so Mr. O'Brien has given orders to have Ms. Mallory held until the FBI can verify her safety." The twinkle reappeared. "Now if you would get in the car, sir."

  After they started driving, Finn considered trying to pump Malcolm for more information, but he was just too used up to push it. It was as if four hours in jail had sucked him dry. Recalling his last look at Mallory, he closed his eyes, the familiar hollow feeling eating a hole in his chest. He was going to miss her. God, but he was going to miss her.

  Twilight was encroaching when they finally turned onto a narrow drive, stopping at an electronically controlled wrought-iron gate. The gate swung open, and they drove through. Finn stared out the window, reminded again of Patrick O'Brien's immense wealth, the heavy feeling in his chest getting worse.

  It was like something out of a novel. The cobbled roadway was lined with trees and the acres of landscaping stretched out, dotted with huge sculptures. If Mallory's apartment had had a sobering effect on Finn, the estate was a hundred times worse. It was like coming face-to-face with the full force of Patrick O'Brien's influence and money.

  Aware that Malcolm was watching him in the rearview mirror, Finn tipped his head back and closed his eyes, a kind of soul-deep weariness washing over him. All he wanted to do was go home.

  They rounded the last curve, and Finn spotted his SUV parked on the wide cobbled terrace in front of the sprawling mansion. He wondered how they had managed that, when he had the keys stowed in his jacket pocket. The vehicle had been freshly washed and waxed, the license plate restored, and even the chrome had been polished. After the craziness of the past few days, the sight of his polished vehicle was almost surreal. It might have amused him if he hadn't felt so damned beat up inside.

  It was a bad scene all around. At every turn, he was reminded of Mallory's absence and how damned alone he was. Malcolm personally ushered him to his room, then showed him where everything was, telling Finn he'd find his things in the armoire. Finn did give up a small smile when he opened the mirrored door and found his clothes, all freshly laundered and perfectly pressed. Even his jeans had sharp creases in them.

  But that little flicker of amusement lasted a split second; then a surge of aloneness nailed him, making his eyes burn. His face set in rigid lines, he picked up some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom. The foul smell of jail clung to him, and suddenly he could not tolerate it any longer. He turned on the shower and shed his jeans, but as he pulled his shirt off over his head, he caught a whiff of Mallory's hand lotion, and that nearly took him down. The loss of her hit with such impact, it was as if he'd just been shot, and another surge of aloneness rolled in on him. Bracing his hands on the wall, he clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, the pain in his chest incapacitating him. He wasn't sure how he was going to make it through the next hour, let alone the rest of his life.

  It was a long time before Finn could pull it together, then he wearily straightened, shed the rest of his clothes and stepped into the steaming shower. He hoped to hell he could learn to switch off again. It was the only way he might be able to make it through this. Not that making it mattered a damn.

  The shower helped a little, and plain old exhaustion helped to numb him. Trying to keep his mind blank, Finn went to stand before the floor-to-ceiling casement windows, staring out into the deepening night, looking down at an arched, vine-covered pavilion and the softly lit elongated reflecting pool. He had never seen anything like it in his life.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and he exhaled heavily and straightened. "Come in."

  An older woman in a plain black dress with a white collar opened the door, a gold watch pinned to her breast pocket. She was pushing a linen-draped trolley. She gave Finn a warm smile. "I thought you might prefer dinner in your room, Mr. Donovan."

  His throat suddenly tight, Finn nodded. "Thank you." Other than the cup of coffee he'd had at Mallory's, he hadn't had anything to eat all day. But just the thought of food made his stomach churn.

  She laid out a table by the fireplace, even including an arrangement of fresh flowers. She completed her task, then straightened and met Finn's gaze. "I want to thank you on behalf, of everyone here for bringing Ms. Mallory home safely, Mr. Donovan. She means a great deal to all of us."

  Finn studied the older woman, recalling Mallory telling him about the head housekeeper who had taught her how to cook. He managed a small smile. "You must be Mildred."

  The woman's eyes immediately filled with tears, and she looked down and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. "She told you about me, then."

  Finn had to swallow hard before he could speak. "Yes, she did."

  Mildred dabbed at her eyes, then looked up at him. "She's a very special young lady."

  Hit with a rush of grief, Finn clenched and unclenched his jaw, knowing he had to make some response. His voice was very gruff when he finally answered. "Yes, she is."

  Mildred stopped what she was doing and stared at him, and Finn suddenly felt so exposed that he had to turn back to the window. An hour. He had nearly made it through a whole hour.

  Her voice was very gentle when she spoke behind him. "If you need anything, just dial twelve on the phone to have me paged."

  Unable to see for the pain welling up inside him, Finn grasped the window frame. "Thank you."

  He heard the door close behind her, but he didn't move. Everything was suddenly closing in on him, and more than anything, he wanted to bolt. But he had to be absolutely sure she was safe before he left.

  He never touched his meal, and he considered heading outside, but the thought of running into anyone, even a member of the staff, made him freeze up inside. Finally needing something other than his own thoughts, he checked his watch and reali
zed it was nearly ten o'clock. Trying to curb the restlessness pressing down on him, he located a TV hidden in the matching armoire. The remote in his hand, he switched channels, hoping to find something that might grab his attention.

  Finn changed again, and he was suddenly confronted with a clip of him and Mallory walking down the corridor of the TV station. He vaguely remembered a cameraman preceding them, but the fact never struck until now. Mallory had on the pair of blue jeans they'd bought, one of his white T-shirts and a rust suede jacket almost the exact same color as her hair. She was hanging on to his hand, at one point she looked up at him, and Finn could feel the effects of that look right through him.

  He didn't even hear what the voice-over was saying—all he could see was her, and far too quickly, the image was gone. He experienced a stab of panic, and started scrolling through the channels, trying to find the same clip on another station. Finally realizing what he was doing, he switched off the TV and threw the remote on the bed, another sudden rush of claustrophobia pressing down on him. He needed to get the hell out of that room. Snatching up his jacket, he headed for the door and yanked it open, only to be confronted by a young man with his hand up ready to knock. The staff member took a step back, looking very flustered. "Umm. Mr. Donovan. Mr. O'Brien wonders if you could join him in the library."

  Finn didn't want to join anybody anywhere, but he locked his jaw together and drew a steadying breath into his lungs. Forcing himself to ease off, he tossed his jacket on the chair just inside his room, then faced the messenger. "Fine."

  The library was indeed a library. Vast high ceilings with groined arches, high narrow windows draped with dark green velvet, ornate bookshelves from floor to ceiling filled with leather-bound books, a huge fireplace with a heavy black walnut mantel, andirons that had to be centuries old. Even the floor was a work of art, inlaid with rare and priceless woods.

  The only light came from a matching pair of Tiffany lamps on either end of the enormous antique desk, the heavy shadows somehow appropriate. It was an impressive room, and it suited the man standing by the huge antique desk, staring out the window.

  Finn heard the door close behind him, and he stood in the shadows, assessing the man by the window. From various reports, Finn knew that Patrick O'Brien was in his late sixties, but he appeared younger. He was wearing casual khaki-colored pants and a dark brown shooting sweater, leather patches on one shoulder and the elbows. His thick, curly hair was the same color as Mallory's, only his was heavily streaked with white, and his neck resembled that of a bull. Wry humor tugged at Finn's mouth. He could recognize a street fighter when he saw one.

  Patrick O'Brien turned. "Ah. Mr. Donovan. Thank you for joining me."

  Finn stared at the other man, sizing him up. Finally he spoke, his tone clipped. "How is she?"

  Patrick O'Brien tossed the gold pen he'd been holding onto the desk. "She's fine." He looked back at Finn. "A man who cuts right to the chase, I see."

  As far as Finn was concerned, that statement didn't warrant an answer. Patrick O'Brien gave him an amused look and came around the desk. "My daughter tells me if it hadn't been for you, she would have never survived."

  Finn stared at the man, feeling unaccountably bad-tempered. "I think Mallory sells herself short."

  Patrick O'Brien chuckled. "My daughter rarely sells herself short, Mr. Donovan. I've got the battle scars to prove it." He picked up a carved alabaster paperweight off the desk and weighed it in his hand, his expression very thoughtful. "I appreciate what you did, Donovan. She means a great deal to me."

  Finn got an abrupt tightness in his chest, and he looked away, trying to keep his expression passive. That was another statement he wasn't about to answer.

  "I understand Malcolm brought you up to speed on what's been going on."

  Finn lifted his head and looked at Mallory's father. "He told me a bit."

  Patrick O'Brien set the paperweight down, then sat back on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. There wasn't a trace of expression on his face. "Jackson is in custody, and two of his henchmen are dead. There was a shootout late this afternoon. We now know that there were also two other men who were involved, all of them hired by Jackson, and employed by my company." He stared at his shoes for a moment, then looked back at Finn, bitter anger glinting in his eyes. "Needless to say, I'm not very happy about that. So I've already brought in a reputable security firm to do an entire personnel audit." His eyes turned cold and hard, contained fury making the muscles in his jaw flex. "I will make damned sure nothing like this ever happens again."

  Finn watched the other man, assessing his face, assessing his body language. "Did they find out anything from Jackson?"

  Mallory's father nodded. "Yes. And you had it figured correctly. My brother-in-law and his wife instigated the whole scheme and approached Jackson. Apparently they were in serious financial difficulty and saw this as a solution. Jackson claims it was one of the dead men who murdered them—panicked and acted on his own, or at least that's the story he's sticking to. I suspect that's not entirely the truth."

  He refolded his arms and stared at the floor, lines of strain showing on his face. "Just to be on the safe side, I've ordered this new security company to keep Mallory under lock and key until the other two are captured. They felt her apartment offered the best immediate security, since she kept it such a secret." He lifted his head and looked at Finn, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "And I'm afraid my very willful daughter is not too happy about that. I expect you already know just how willful she is."

  Finn met the other man's gaze, his expression softening, a small smile hovering around his mouth. "Yeah, you could say that."

  Mallory's father chuckled, but he didn't say anything for a space. Finally he let go a tired sigh. "The real irony is if they had made it all the way to Alaska with her, their whole plan would have fallen apart." Finn looked up and met Patrick O'Brien's gaze, and Mallory's father gave a wry smile. "They weren't aware of it, but Malcolm and I were already at the lodge. I'd wanted to get away from everything for a bit, so I never told anyone where we were going. We didn't get back until three days ago." His expression sobered and he looked down, shaking his head. "I didn't even know she was missing until then." There was another brief pause; then he lifted his head and looked at Finn. "Mallory told me how well you looked after her, Mr. Donovan. I owe you a huge debt of gratitude."

  Unable to hold the other man's gaze, Finn stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. "You don't owe me anything."

  There was an odd silence, then Patrick O'Brien spoke, his tone slightly amused. "Ah. So that's how it is."

  Finn shot him a sharp, hostile look, but Patrick O'Brien turned and picked up the paperweight again. His tone was casual as he handled the carving. "I'm sure Mallory told you that her mother was considerably younger than I—sixteen years, as a matter of fact—and I expect that made me somewhat protective."

  He looked up and met Finn's gaze, his expression casual. "Which was probably not a bad thing, seeing as my daughter is as willful as she is." He gave Finn a lopsided smile. "And I imagine she's making the security team's life a living hell as we speak." He stared into space for a moment, then let his breath go in a heavy sigh. "I think I should forewarn you that the FBI wants to talk to you again, and there could be an issue over your entering the country with a criminal record." He met Finn's gaze again, his own solemn. "The media is having a field day with all this. I will, of course, try to do what I can—and I do have considerable influence. But that's where it stands at the moment."

  It was almost as if Finn was suddenly trapped on a high, narrow ledge, with no way off, and he was faced with a hard, cold choice. There was no way in hell he was going to stick around, just so the FBI could toss him out of the country. And he had no intention of letting his past become part of the media feeding frenzy. He couldn't drag her into the middle of that. He wouldn't drag her into the middle of that.

  The second certainty came hard on the heels
of the first, making his throat close up and his insides twist. It was over.

  And he would never wake up again with her beside him. He would never again experience her warmth and humor, her comfortable silences. And he would never again lose all his aloneness in her.

  He abruptly turned, blinded by the gripping sense of loss. It was time to cut his losses and get the hell out. Needing a minute to pull it together, he reached out and touched the fine old weather vane mounted in a stand by the door. Finally he spoke. "I don't want her subjected to that kind of media circus," he said, his voice very gruff. "She's been through enough as it is." Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned and met Patrick O'Brien's gaze, his expression fixed. "I think it would be better for everyone if I cleared out now."

  Patrick O'Brien stared at him, his expression steady and intent. It was a moment before he responded. "I understand your position. But my daughter won't be very happy about that, Mr. Donovan."

  Finn forced a small half smile. "She'll get over it."

  Finn knew he couldn't say the same for himself.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^

  Finn went back to his room, a heaviness in his gut that he had never experienced before. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he went to stand before the window. It had started to rain when he was in the study, and he watched the slicing drizzle, a mixture of dread and reluctance eating away at him. It was time. He knew it was time. There was nothing more he could do, and staying would only complicate matters for her.

  In another lifetime, he'd had personal experience with the media. They were like vultures, hovering around a carcass, just waiting for any damned scrap to feed on. And if he were deported because of his criminal record, there would be a media frenzy to end all media frenzies. He could just see the headlines—and he knew what that would do to her. And he'd do whatever was necessary to prevent that from happening.