Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  Justus’s eyes widened. “The big bed! Did you fall out?”

  “No.” Her smile faded. “Uncle Justus, when can I go home?”

  Angela froze.

  Justus stiffened, his stricken gaze holding Maya’s innocent, trusting one. He shot Angela a look over Maya’s shoulder, and she tried to smile encouragingly, but her mouth had other ideas.

  “Well, little girl,” he said softly, smoothing a braid, “you know Mommy and Daddy—”

  “Are in heaven,” she said dully. “But maybe they’re back now.”

  Justus paused, his mouth twisting with Herculean effort as he strained to master his emotions in front of Maya.

  Angela ducked her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, determined not be the weak link here. If he could keep it together, so could she.

  “They’re going to stay in heaven with God, little girl,” he told Maya gently. “They’re not coming back here.”

  Maya’s lips quivered.

  “But they’re watching out for us, all the time,” Justus continued. “So you have to listen and clean up your room and go to school and work on your letters and numbers and do all the things you always do, okay?”

  Stormy-eyed now, Maya squirmed and pushed on his chest. Justus reluctantly swung her down. Maya climbed back on the sofa and grabbed her dog.

  “Aunt Ang-la doesn’t even have Nick,” she said sourly.

  Justus straightened and caught Angela’s eye.

  She shot him a grateful smile. “Good job.”

  Nodding, he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and studied the floor.

  “I’m bo-ored.” Maya flopped onto her back and stomped her bare feet into Angela’s hundred-dollar embroidered pillows.

  Angela instinctively opened her mouth to stop her—today’s children had no respect for nice furniture or other people’s belongings—but it belatedly occurred to her they all had more important things to worry about.

  Justus, meanwhile, strode into the kitchen, where he filled the sink with soapy water. “Measuring cups?” he asked Angela. “Turkey baster?”

  “Second drawer,” she said, pointing.

  Maya stopped stomping the pillows and looked around to watch the proceedings.

  Justus found the items and dumped them into the water.

  Maya’s flip had apparently been switched, because she sat right up and stared. “What’s that?” she demanded.

  “What, this?” Justus shrugged with elaborate indifference. “Oh, nothing. Just some water play.”

  “Water play!” Squealing, Maya jumped off the sofa and ran into the kitchen, where she grabbed one of the heavy chairs, shoved it across the floor to the sink, climbed up, and happily splashed in the water like a two-armed duck.

  Justus grinned and sauntered over to Angela. “She’ll be there for hours.”

  “Well, aren’t you just the cock-of-the-walk?”

  His grin widened. “I like to think so.”

  They laughed together, but then Maya generated a wave that soaked the front of her clothes, the countertops, and the rug underneath her chair.

  Angela’s inner Martha Stewart cringed. “Who’s going to clean this mess up?” she demanded of Justus.

  He raised his brows. “Last time I checked, water didn’t leave a stain.”

  There was a true distinction without a difference, Angela thought as she put her hands on her hips and glared at the growing mess on the floor, but he seemed not to notice.

  “Do you, ah, want to get a shower?” His gaze slid over her again as he cleared his throat. “We’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”

  Self-conscious again, Angela crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s probably a good—”

  Angela’s phone rang, startling them.

  She picked up. “Hello?”

  “Angela,” said a deep, gravelly voice. “It’s Vincent Robinson.”

  “Oh, Mr. Robinson,” she began, “I’m so sorry—”

  “So am I,” he said. “How’s Maya?”

  Angela looked back at the sink, where Maya was now pouring water between measuring cups. “Fine. She was really happy to see Just—”

  “We need to make some arrangements,” Mr. Robinson interrupted. “If you can come over here, Lena will watch Maya while we talk. Say, in an hour?”

  His tone was perfectly pleasant, yet he somehow managed to convey that this was a command, not a request, and that no excuses would be acceptable. Normally Angela would have bristled and said no just to establish some boundaries, but of course Mr. Robinson was right. They did need to get things started.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “We’ll be there.”

  “See you then.”

  Angela hung up and turned to Justus, who’d been paying close attention.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Command performance?”

  “Yeah.” She suddenly remembered the tension she’d seen between Justus and his father years ago at the wedding reception. “In an hour, if that’s okay.”

  He shrugged, his face tightening. “An hour, two hours. It doesn’t really matter, does it? They’ll still be dead.”

  “Justus.”

  For some unfathomable reason, she reached for his rigid arm. Normally she wasn’t a touchy-feely person, but she felt a strong urge to pull Justus back from whatever dark place he’d gone to.

  He stilled, staring down at her hand.

  She snatched it back under cover of smoothing the loose hair around her face.

  “I, uh...didn’t have the chance to ask how things went with your father last night.”

  He snorted, mouth twisting into a crooked smile that decimated his handsome features.

  “How do you think it went?” he asked coldly. “Vincent’s crown prince is dead. And if it were up to the old man, he’d swap me out in V.J.’s grave in a heartbeat.”

  6

  Justus took Maya in his SUV and Angela trailed behind in her own car as they drove to the Robinson...estate? Mansion?

  This place was just...wow.

  She’d grown up hearing Vincent Robinson’s name, of course. He was one of Cincinnati’s most prominent civil rights attorneys and had also written several commercially popular books about the law. But she’d had no idea he’d done so well financially. Normally she was pretty low-key about such things, but as she climbed out and started up the walk past Justus’s car, she felt her mouth fall open into a gape.

  “You grew up here?” she breathed.

  “It’s just a house,” he snapped as he unbuckled Maya.

  “O-kay, then,” Angela said, stung.

  Maya bounded out of the car and rang the doorbell. Vincent immediately appeared.

  “Gran’pa!” she shrieked, throwing her arms around his legs.

  Laughing, he stooped down to hug her. “Miss Lena’s in the kitchen waiting for you, Maya. She’s got some chocolate chip muffins.”

  That was all Maya needed to hear. She raced off down some long hallway and disappeared.

  Vincent straightened and turned to Angela, his expression somber. She was startled to see how much he’d aged in the ten years since she’d seen him—and how poorly.

  “Angela, dear.”

  To her surprise, he opened his arms and gave her a big hug that was almost as wonderful as Justus’s hug had been last night. Tragedy created the strangest intimacies, apparently. She put her hands on his shoulders, startled by how frail they were, and tilted her head to accept his kiss.

  “It’s good to see you,” she told him.

  “How did Maya do last night?” He pulled back, holding her hands in his cool grip.

  “Very well. She doesn’t ask many questions. I think she’s trying not to cry.”

  Vincent nodded thoughtfully. Finally—and belatedly, Angela thought—his flinty gaze went to Justus, who stiffened perceptibly.

  “Son.”

  “Pops.”

  Vincent took their coats and then steered them into a grand living room of some sort. Or was it a sittin
g room or library?

  Her first ridiculous thought was that she’d underdressed in her black slacks and sweater.

  Her second ridiculous thought was about where the live-in servants were hiding. A house like this surely had some.

  It was hard to take it all in, but she tried. A huge bay window with mullioned panes dominated one wall. Blue silk drapes to match the blue silk sofas and loveseats, all of which put her hundred-dollar embroidered pillows to shame. Carved mahogany tables. Antique Oriental ginger jar lamps. Jade bowls. Black-and-white family photos in heavy sterling frames. A gleaming black concert Steinway. Gorgeous Persian rugs.

  In a word? W-O-W.

  “Sit down,” Vincent told her as he chose a carved chair for himself.

  Angela perched on the edge of the nearest sofa. Justus sat next to her. In some distant room a phone rang and was quickly answered.

  “We’ve been making a lot of calls.” Vincent reached for the ornate silver tea service—hang on; tea service?—on the coffee table and poured a cup. Also on the heavy silver tray? Raspberry scones and the aforementioned chocolate chip muffins. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  He passed the teacup and saucer to her, along with a heavy linen napkin. She hastily took them and draped her napkin over her lap, making sure to keep her posture perfect because the setting, occasion, and host seemed to require nothing less.

  Although...

  Justus flung his arm over the back of the sofa and slouched deeper into the cushions.

  Vincent did not bother asking him if he wanted tea. “They’ll start arriving soon.”

  “Of course,” Angela said, adding cream and sugar to her tea.

  “To my knowledge neither of them had a will—”

  “Not that she ever told me, no.”

  “—even though my son was a lawyer. Even though I told Vincent Jr. when Maya was born that they needed to get their affairs in order in case—why do people always think nothing bad can ever happen to them? Why do they...?”

  His voice cracked.

  Pressing his lips together, he poured a second cup with unsteady hands and hastily took a sip.

  Angela studied her cup and waited for Vincent to compose himself. She did not look at Justus, who kept quiet.

  “A-hem.” Taking a deep breath, Vincent put the tea down, flipped open a manila file on the coffee table, and slid a pair of bifocals onto his nose. They seemed to infuse him with brisk efficiency. “Please excuse me. Is First Methodist okay with you for the service on Tuesday?” he asked, peering at her over the rims of his glasses. “That’s where they were married.”

  “That’s fine,” Angela said.

  He picked up an expensive pen and checked something off his list. “The minister will be by this afternoon.” Another check. “Lena’s ordered some flowers and the limousines.” Check.

  He kept talking, and Angela watched him with a sort of fascinated horror. The man was so coolly efficient—so detached—one would think he lost a son every other day.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Justus fidget impatiently, but he remained silent.

  Vincent flipped to the next page in the file. “Now, for the interment, we have a family plot at Spring Grove and—”

  “No!” Angela said, jolted out of her apathy.

  Vincent’s head snapped up and he watched Angela with a steady, narrowed gaze.

  “Carolyn always said she didn’t want to be put in the ground.” Angela choked up and had to pause a minute to collect herself. How many times had she and Carolyn had that same offhand conversation? “She said it was a waste of money to buy an expensive casket and bury someone in it. She said she wanted to be cremated.”

  “I see.” Vincent rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. “But you do agree Carolyn and Vincent Jr. need to remain together...?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, my wife is buried in a very nice spot on a hill under a flowering crabapple tree,” Vincent said quietly, the very soul of persuasive logic. “I will have the plot next to her, and we bought plots for the boys and their spouses a long time ago. We always thought we’d be together. In heaven and at Spring Grove.”

  He did what?

  It was all Angela could do to keep her jaw from hitting Vincent’s polished wood floor. And on top of everything else, her head began to pound anew.

  “Angela, dear, how long has it been since you spoke with Carolyn about it?” Vincent continued. “Isn’t it possible she’d changed her mind?”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “Well.” Rueful smile from Old Vince, followed by a conciliatory tone. “I’m sure if you think about it, you’ll realize the reasonable thing—”

  “Hang on,” she said.

  The renewed throbbing in her temples told Angela she’d had enough. He was charming; she’d give him that. But she’d been practicing law long enough to know when someone had cranked up the Caterpillar and was trying to bulldoze her.

  With great deliberation, she replaced her teacup and saucer on the silver tray, refolded her napkin, and smoothed lint off her pants.

  “Mr. Robinson,” she said, keeping her tone pleasant. “I don’t care where we have the service. I don’t care what kind of flowers you order or what kind of limousines you get. I don’t care if the service is Tuesday or Wednesday or Friday.” She set her jaw. “But I am telling you that we. Will. Not. Bury. My. Sister. In. The. Ground. Do you understand me? She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes scattered, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Their gazes, equally unyielding, collided and held for what felt like years. Gradually it seemed to occur to Vincent that she wasn’t about to back down. His brows came together, lowering in a forbidding line that threatened to obscure his eyes. He snatched the bifocals off the end of his nose and opened his mouth to set her straight.

  “Let it go, Vincent,” Justus said quietly.

  Surprised to hear his voice, Angela looked around to discover he was now sitting up straight and had his father in the crosshairs of his unblinking gaze. To her further surprise, he leaned closer to her and rested his fingers on her back.

  The cavalry, it seemed, had arrived.

  Which meant that someone else could carry the flag. Just for a minute.

  His support was an unspeakable relief.

  “We can cremate them both,” Justus continued. “V.J. wouldn’t want you arguing with Angela over something like this. Just let it go.”

  Purple splotches took over Vincent’s face as he shot Justus a look designed to melt the flesh off his son’s face. When all this silent anger had no perceptible effect on Justus, Vincent slid his bifocals on again. Lowering his head, he flipped to another page in the file.

  “I think we’ll just have them both cremated,” he said, as if it had been his idea in the first place. “That makes the most sense.”

  Angela somehow resisted the wild urge to snort with disbelief.

  What a piece of work!

  “Now, about the donations—”

  “Mr. Robinson.” Angela’s relief quickly swung back to profound sadness, and her headache seemed to know it, because it worsened. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I wonder if we could handle some of this later. I still need to call the office and Maya’s preschool for tomorrow, and I’d like to go to the house and pick up some of Maya’s toys and clothes. I thought maybe she could stay here while I did that.”

  That forbidding frown passed over Vincent’s features again. Obviously Vincent did not appreciate being interrupted midway through his Funeral List, but that was too damn bad. A little dissent would be good for him.

  “That’s fine, Angela,” he said with relative grace, replacing the cap on his pen. “Will you be back in an hour or so?”

  “Yes.” She stood up.

  Justus trailed her to the foyer. “I’ll come with you.”

  As always, she bristled at the suggestion she couldn’t handle something alone. “Oh, you
don’t need to come. I’ve got it under control—”

  “I’m still coming.”

  “Seriously, Justus,” she persisted, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I can—”

  Whoa. Why was he looking at her like that?

  “I know you’re Wonder Woman and all,” he said. “But your sister just died. We need to help each other, and if you think I’m going to let you go there by yourself, you damn well better think again. So hang your cape up and put it back in the closet.” He smiled a chilling smile that was as clear a warning as the first horseman of the apocalypse or the Nile running red with blood. “Okay?”

  Caught completely off guard, Angela spluttered.

  He stared her down, crossing his arms over his chest and looming like a fed-up bouncer blocking her entrance to a club. She had zero doubt that if she said no one more time, he’d throw her bodily into his car to drive her to Carolyn’s house, and dare her to call the police if she wanted to lodge a complaint.

  His attitude was intimidating. Infuriating. Breathtaking.

  And a teensy bit thrilling.

  “Fine,” she snarled, unwilling to give him the final word. “If you’re going to be a caveman about it.”

  Justus’s frown intensified, streaking past irritated and sliding home to murderous.

  Oh, no, she thought, trying not to cringe openly.

  Poor word choice, there, Angela.

  Their gazes locked for a long and challenging moment, during which the skin on her face seemed to blister from his hot anger.

  “This ain’t nothing, Duchess,” he said quietly.

  Aaaand...there came the second horseman of the apocalypse, fiery red and sword raised, heading for her in double time.

  Pissed as she was, she didn’t want to stick around for the third.

  All but choking on her frustration, she snatched her purse and jacket from the chair.

  “Let’s go,” she barked.

  Justus gave her a mocking little bow and opened the door for her.

  As she swept through it with her shoulders squared and her chin in the air, she caught a glimpse of Vincent’s astonished face staring after them.

  Justus trailed Angela into the oppressive emptiness of his brother’s house, keeping an eye on her as she flicked on lights in the foyer and living room. She hadn’t said two words on the short drive over, for which he should’ve been grateful. At least she wasn’t still arguing about whether she could do this alone, right?