Michael stiffened, staring her down. “Don’t, Morgan.”
Her hand dropped to her side. She hadn’t the right, and she at least had the sense to recognize it. In a quieter voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Michael.”
“No one has died.” This was not going as he had thought it would. In frustration, Michael swept his hand over his face. His fingers grazed the dark stubble on his jaws and chin. It was not the only outward sign of neglect. He hadn’t slept well for some time, but that wasn’t what had worn him down. His whole world and everything that he had believed about himself had been tilted on its axis. He was aware of the searching look that Morgan gave him. He knew what she would see. He had not bothered to change his flight-rumpled clothing before sitting down with his lawyer or coming to see his estranged wife. He was always fastidious about his appearance, even in casual dress. By his standards, he was unkempt, and Morgan would know that.
She asked slowly, “Do you love this person?”
“Leave it, Morgan.” Michael felt a stark shaft of pain under his ribs. How very much he wished that he had been allowed to be even a small part of Chloe Somerset’s life. How much he regretted that Catherine had not trusted in him enough to let him share it.
Morgan understood him well enough to realize that he was under considerable strain. “Was there an accident?”
He shook his head. “It was a long illness—three years. Leukemia. I didn’t know anything about it. She never told me.” He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t stand still, fielding any more of Morgan’s intrusive questions. He swung around, stalking to the mantel over the fireplace. He grasped the shoulder-height stone before turning a shuttered expression to her. “I am not willing to discuss this.”
Michael didn’t like Morgan’s silent, narrow-eyed assessment. She was looking at him with such a strange look in her eyes. What was she thinking? Was it the divorce? There was enough at stake in assets that it could be worth her while to drag things out. Morgan had always had a penchant for the good life.
Then something, something close to pity, flickered across her face. Her voice was even. “All right, Michael. I won’t fight you on the divorce.”
He drew his brows together, staring at her. What the hell was going on in her head? This capitulation was unlike the Morgan that he knew.
She gave a little laugh. “Don’t look so suspicious. I’m not a total bitch.”
There was an awkward pause. Morgan began to fidget under his fixed regard. Then Michael surprised her and himself. He walked up to her, reaching out to take her hand and carry it to his lips. He brushed a light kiss over the back of her fingers. Before he let her go, he said quietly, “Thank you, Morgan.” Interestingly, pale color rose in her smooth cheeks. He didn’t try to interpret her reaction, but simply added, “I won’t stay.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” An echo of the old snap was back in her voice. She tilted her head at a defiant angle. “Peter will be home shortly.” She was obviously braced for his negative reaction.
Michael felt there was little point in making the kind of biting remark that he would have made in the past. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he merely nodded. He took the house keys off his key ring, placed them in her hand, and repocketed the key ring. He looked up to find her watching him with a bemused expression.
“You—you are giving me the house?”
Michael shrugged. “Why not? I’ll send for the last of my things, if you could have someone box them up for me?”
“They’ll be ready by the end of the week.” Her voice was almost soft.
He left then, left her staring after him. He strode quickly to the front door and opened it. When he stepped out of the house and shut the door behind him, Michael felt the strangest sensation of a weight lifting off his shoulders. As he sprang down the steps to the rental car parked out front, Michael grinned. Darryl was right, after all. The knowing bastard. He had needed to settle the past.
Now he was going home to see if he had any right to a future.
* * * *
When Michael returned from his trip, he was tired and anxious about his next step. Contrition and regret colored his thoughts. He felt it was too much to hope that she would forgive him. He had humiliated and hurt her too badly. All he could hope for was that he could convey something of what was going through his mind and heart.
Michael left numerous voice mail and text messages. He rambled on, trying to express what he felt, what it was that he wanted. He knew he must be coming across as a pathetic loser. He wasn’t at all surprised when he received no response.
It was better with the e-mail. There was room to compose his thoughts, time in which to put them down. He rubbed his hand over his face tiredly, rereading the message that he had poured himself into and labored over.
Catherine—our time together, the friendship we developed, was all too brief. I came to know enough about you to recognize your intrinsic worth and character. You have made it plain you do not want to see me or talk to me. I respect your decision. If it means anything to you, I have filed for divorce. Please keep the phone. If you ever need me, and I am not referring to our former relationship, I will be there for you, in whatever capacity you allow. You have my most humble apologies and regrets for all hurt that I have given you. Words are so inadequate. I hope you will one day find it in your heart to be able to forgive me.”
Yours, Michael
He hit send and then saved the message to a folder. He had done all he knew to do.
It was hard to take up his old life, but he had responsibilities that he couldn’t afford to shirk anymore. However, he wasn’t able to feel the same contentment in the smooth, seamless organization of the existence he had before he met Winter.
There was never any reply to any of his messages. He checked his e-mail, in particular, and he was relieved that the message he had sent did not bounce back. She had at least gotten it. He hoped that she had not immediately deleted it but had opened the e-mail first. As an experiment, he retrieved the message that he had saved and emailed it again. It did not particularly surprise him when this time he got a mail failure. She had closed her—or rather, Winter’s—e-mail account. She had probably done so when he had sent the first e-mail.
Michael had discontinued the direct deposit to her bank account. He felt that not to do so would be a slap in her face. She had only agreed to be available to him for the sake of her daughter. He understood that now. With a twisted smile, he recalled that, at the beginning, he had suspected money alone was not her sole motivation. How right he had been.
Michael weighed the ethics of taking a further hand in her personal affairs. He certainly did not have her permission, and he had a fair idea of what her reaction would be if he did ask. It should have given him pause. On the other hand, he loved her, and it was the only way left to him to express it.
Michael pondered his options. He made six figures a year. He had chosen his investments wisely over the years. He could probably make a significant dent in the total of her medical debt. Of course, he wasn’t so stupid to believe that he could buy himself into her good graces. That wasn’t the point at all.
He frowned as he carefully thought it through. If he was going to do this, he would have to move swiftly. He knew once she became aware of what he was doing, she would be furious. She did not want him in her life, and what he contemplated would be an intrusion that she could not ignore. Even if the subsequent communication between them was acrimonious on her part, at least it would establish a fragile contact with her. At the very least, she would acknowledge him. At best, she would permit him to talk to her. His heart thudded with a faint curl of hope, but he cautioned himself against disappointment.
Michael reached for the phone on his desk. First, the liquidity of some of his assets had to be arranged. He would have to discuss the legal ramifications with his attorney, in light of the petition for divorce, but he thought there wouldn’t be a problem if he touched only those investments that had b
een in existence before his marriage.
As for the other thing he had in mind, he would need to run it by his best friend.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Michael saw the Lexus sitting in front of his house, he parked quickly and leaped out of the Porsche. His heart thundered. His hands were shaking before he was able to unlock the front door. He strode inside, leaving the door gaping wide behind him. “Winter? Winter!”
Silence greeted him, the silence of an empty house.
Michael didn’t want to believe it. He swiftly glanced through the rooms on ground floor, circled back to the stairs, and mounted swiftly. “Catherine?” She has to be here. But she wasn’t. The disappointment of not finding her at the house struck hard. Half afraid of what he would find, he searched all the places in the bedroom that he had set aside for her. He opened the closet, the dresser drawers, and the cabinets in the bathroom. All of her things were still there. She had not come back for them. Instead, she had brought back the Lexus.
He went back down the stairs with considerably less speed than he had mounted them. He halted at the open front door, stretched out an arm, and with his hand grasped the frame. He stared, dry-eyed, at the Lexus at the curb, even though his heart was tearing out of his chest. He knew what it meant. She was determined to sever all ties. Well, he wasn’t ready to give up. He still had a hand to play.
As he started to close the door, Michael caught sight of a brown manila envelope sticking up out of his mailbox. Michael stepped out on the porch to retrieve the envelope and carefully opened it. Inside were the keys to the Lexus and the house key that he had given to Winter. There was nothing else. He narrowed his eyes. The cell phone. It’s not here. He checked inside the mailbox, but it was empty.
An hour later, he had thoroughly searched the Lexus and every place that he could think of inside the house. He did not find the cell phone. It looked like she had kept the cell, just as he had asked her to do in his e-mail. It was little enough reason to hope, but he smiled to himself anyway.
Michael had opened an account specifically designated for the purpose that he intended it to be used, the Association of Friends— Chloe Somerset. He had reasoned that printed checks, with the name of a formal-sounding association, would be readily accepted.
At the hospital, Michael represented himself as the spokesman for a group of friends of Catherine Somerset, which wanted to bless her with the easing of her financial burden. “We know how crushing her daughter’s medical bills are to her, and we want to help as much as we can. However, we don’t want to embarrass Ms. Somerset. So we’d like to make an anonymous donation against any outstanding balances on her account. Can you give me a ballpark figure that we might work up or down?”
The hospital billing department expressed guarded interest, as long as client confidentiality was maintained, and provided the sliding scale. When Michael wrote a check for the upper-end figure, the atmosphere warmed considerably. “I am aware that there were other health care providers involved in Chloe Somerset’s treatment. I’d like to contact them as well.” He understood the need for confidentiality, but could the hospital recommend medical service providers that were usually involved with the care and treatment of leukemia patients? He was given the names of other medical entities that might possibly have provided services to Chloe Somerset. When he asked, he was given to understand which providers might be expected to hold the highest outstanding balances.
Michael easily discovered which medical service providers had been involved in the little girl’s treatment. All were willing to embrace his story and to accept payment from the Association of Friends—Chloe Somerset.
He couldn’t settle everything, of course. The very healthy deposit in that special account evaporated like water. However, he had the satisfaction of knowing that some of the medical bills had been either eliminated or substantially reduced.
Michael knew that he had to accomplish what he could in one billing cycle. When Catherine received paid-in-full notices, rather than billing statements, it would not take her long to find out that the bills had been paid anonymously. She was an intelligent woman. She would realize very quickly who was behind the Association of Friends—Chloe Somerset. Then, if she did still have the cell phone in her possession, he expected that she would use it.
When he heard from her, it almost took him by surprise. Michael double-checked the number so that there was no mistake. She did still have the cell. His hands were shaking slightly when he opened the text. Stop helping me! A second text followed. Thank you. She had not left him an opening to build on, but neither had she left him without a generous word.
Michael leaned back in his office chair, rereading the texts, before he carefully saved them. For a long time, he looked out his office window at the sunlit day. The corners of his mouth curled up in a barely-there smile. At last, he blew a soft regretful sigh and put away his cell phone. With renewed determination, he turned his attention back to his work. It was enough.
It had to be enough.
Within days of his final expenditures on Chloe Somerset’s behalf, Darryl barreled into his office. Michael looked up from the papers in front of him. He noticed the grim set of his business partner’s expression. Michael eased back in his chair. He thought he could probably guess what had put that look on Darryl’s face.
Darryl snapped the door shut behind him before he spoke. His normally rich velvet voice was clipped. “I just heard from our accountant that you liquefied a chunk of your assets. What the hell are you doing?”
“I thought our personal financials were confidential,” Michael commented mildly. He wasn’t at all surprised that the accountant had gone to Darryl. Their accountant was caution personified, and the kind of transactions that Michael had been implementing, without adequate explanation, would naturally be of considerable concern to the conscientious man.
“They are, normally. But this isn’t normal. Larry thinks you’ve either gone off the deep end or developed a gambling addiction. He informed me, instead of the board of trustees, because he knows we’re tight.” Darryl advanced until he could flatten his hands on the desk. He leaned in, his weight balanced on his braced arms. His eyes held frowning concern. “Mike. Are you in some kind of financial trouble? If you are, just say the word. I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Did I tell you that Morgan and I are getting a divorce?”
Darryl pushed off from the desk, his expression changing to a scowl. “Is that what this is about? Is Morgan trying to bleed you?”
“No. Our negotiations are surprisingly civil.” Michael sighed. He had debated about taking anyone, even Darryl, into his confidence. He had been reluctant because he felt what he had done was a very private matter. However, since their accountant had run squealing to his business partner, he decided that he might as well tell him. Darryl would give him no peace until he was satisfied.
Michael got up and walked around the desk. He reached up and briefly squeezed his friend’s solid shoulder. “I know you’ve got my back. I appreciate it.” He let go and seated himself on the corner of the desk. “But I’ve already done everything that can be done.”
Darryl lowered his brows in a heavy frown, the trouble deepening in his expression. “What is it, Mike? Just tell me what you’re up against.”
“Do you remember that I was seeing someone?”
“Yeah.” Darryl nodded. His brows were puckered in a frown. “The single mother? Yeah, I remember. What about her?”
Michael scrubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension. “Well, her daughter had leukemia. For almost three years. The little girl just turned eight years old.”
“Damn, Mike. I’m sorry.” Darryl radiated sincere sympathy. The timbre of his voice dropped. “How is your woman holding up?”
Michael didn’t immediately correct Darryl’s misassumption. “She’s a strong lady. Her daughter is her whole life. The insurance played out a long time ago so she is practically drowning under the medical
bills. I…wanted to help her out.”
“So that’s why…” Darryl caught on swiftly. “And why you didn’t give Larry any real explanation. You didn’t want any talk going around that might turn out awkward for her.”
Michael nodded. Beyond his desire to make Catherine’s life easier, he had hoped that his efforts would begin to build a bridge between them. That hadn’t happened. He swallowed over the constriction in his throat. It cost him to say it, because it made it all the more real, but he forced it out. “And she’s not my woman any more. She never will be. I blew it.”
Darryl carefully looked him over. Slowly, he shook his head. He reached out to put a painful squeeze on Michael’s shoulder. His voice was laced with heavy sympathy. “Welcome back to the human race, Mike.”
Michael grimaced down at the carpet. “Thanks. It hurts like hell.” Then he looked up and, very deliberately, edged into his cold-bastard smile. “I do need a favor from you, though. I need you to watch my back this evening while I pay a visit to an office supply store.”
Darryl narrowed his eyes, staring at him for a long, long moment. “Okay, Mike. What do you want?”
In a few terse sentences, Michael explained.
* * * *
The sun was hanging just above the horizon when he stepped out of the shadows. The warmth of his breath puffed white on the cold air. “Rick Stein?”
The manager of the office supply had just finished locking up. He turned from the glass door, peering uncertainly at the stranger. The man was only a silhouette against the dying sun. He fumbled with putting his keys into his coat pocket. “Yeah, that’s me. Who’s asking?”
“Not a friend.” Michael stepped closer, emerging out of the shadows. He curled his lips into his cold-bastard’s smile. Deliberately, he raised his fists. “This is for Winter.”
The man’s eyes widened fractionally. He threw up defensive hands, backpedaling. “You’ve got the wrong guy! I don’t know any—”
Roberts, Sarah - His Sugar Baby (Siren Publishing Allure) Page 25
