by Sarah Andre
Tall, Dark and Damaged
Damaged Heroes, Book One
Sarah Andre
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Beach Reads
Beach Reads First Edition June 2016
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
About the Author
Also By Sarah Andre
Title Page
TALL, DARK and DAMAGED
Damaged Heroes: Book One
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are all a product of my imagination, meaning they’re fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016, by Sarah Andre. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Beach Reads
3250 Bonita Beach Road, 205-204
Bonita Springs, FL 34134
Edited by Anya Kagan, Touchstone Editing
Cover Design by Christa Holland of Paper and Sage
Manufactured in the United States of America
Beach Reads First Edition June 2016
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9975607-1-8
To Scott, the love of my life,
for creating a world where I can pretend to be
the empress of everything.
In loving memory: John A. Dawson, Annie Joe Dawson,
John H. Dawson, and Mary Dunbar. I miss you all so much.
And of course, the breathtaking house on Sheridan Road.
Acknowledgments
My eternal gratitude to:
Hank Phillippe Ryan for reading enough chapters in 2013 to tell me the story started twenty pages in.
The exceptionally talented Anya Kagan, of Touchstone Editing, for taking a hot mess of words and ideas and once again shaping them into a romance novel. I’m getting an amazing craft education one tiny margin balloon at a time.
Maura Kye-Casella, my fabulous agent, for your years-long patience. One day I’ll be rich and famous!
Christa Holland of Paper and Sage for the hottest cover ever.
Faith Williams from The Atwater Group and Arran McNicol for copy editing and proofreading at the drop of a hat.
My BFFs, Lark Brennan and Susan Breeden, for the critiques, advice, support, and talking me off the ledge several times over this story. And the last one…
Gayle Evers, as always, for your remarkable insight and honest advice. Twice! You should not recognize this third version.
My Kiss and Thrill blog mates for the cheerleading, unconditional love and support, and the ongoing publishing and marketing advice. It’s one big Workshop about Puppies given by Twins!
The Prosecco-drinking 2014 Dreamweavers for being the most fabulous GH group of support, love, lessons and advice. I’m so lucky to be among such formidable talent.
The 2010 restoration staff at Joel Oppenheimer Inc. in Chicago for teaching me about restoring paintings with smoke damage, and answering amateur questions I had for future plots.
M.E. Stanton and R.S. Andre for relentlessly reading and correcting passages about business, hostile takeovers, and private equity firms. Good thing I’m a writer, not a businesswoman. Love you!
Ginny Engler for your guidance through the complicated maze of Medicare Part A, B and D, Home Health and long-term health insurance. You’re a godsend to confused writers and senior citizens.
Sue Kinzie, Karen Stupalski, Ida Carlson, Colleen Stenholt and all the members of Bonita Springs Newcomers Club for welcoming me, inviting me to share my passion, and all the lovely compliments that end with: “When’s the next book coming out?” Here it is!
This is a work of fiction. All mistakes are mine, but then again, I wouldn’t call them mistakes since it’s a story in my head that I simply wrote down. :)
Chapter 1
Devon Ashby cut the engine. “I can’t believe someone tried to torch the place.”
On the other end of the Bluetooth earpiece, his cousin grunted. “Happy fucking birthday to your old man, right?”
Devon climbed out of the rental car, and inhaled the chilly night air. Yep, overlaying the scent of Lake Michigan and decaying fall foliage was the distinct whiff of acrid smoke. If it hadn’t been for the foolish risk of his siblings’ lives, he’d have shaken the perpetrator’s hand. “Gotta go. I’m about to walk into the lion’s den.”
“Don’t screw this up,” Eric said. “Go in, make nice, get out.”
“Relax. I’ll lay that olive branch right on a Wickham silver platter. After signing for the trust.”
“I’m popping the champagne now.”
Devon clicked off and stuck the earpiece in his overnight case. Wind buffeted his coat, its high-pitched whistle and the swishing clack of tree limbs the only sounds in this sleepy suburb. Fine gravel crunched underfoot as he headed toward his childhood home, majestic and formidable in the strategic landscape lighting. Christ, how he used to despise this mammoth symbol of wealth and power and success. Now the thick stone veneer and white-trimmed windows tantalized his adult sensibilities. He’d own a mansion like this one day—only in White Plains or New Canaan. He’d come a long way since leaving Chicago, and after tonight, he’d have it all.
Crisp leaves skittered past his ankles as he passed the Poseidon fountain centering the stately circular driveway. The statue’s trident was raised in triumph at the harvest moon. Talk about symbolism. Devon saluted the sea king, and bound up the marble steps guarded by life-sized stone lions. He vigorously pressed the doorbell. The deep, gonging chime—so familiar—raised goose bumps. You shouldn’t have come. Go home and have the documents express-mailed. As if in agreement, a gust swirled in off the lake, slicing icy talons through his wool coat. Devon scowled at his thoughts and swiveled so his back took the force of the wind. Still, a thin shiver rolled through him.
The massive oak-and-wrought-iron door slowly opened. Golden light and warmth spilled out onto him, like the first rays of a spring sun. At the sight of the ageless butler, Devon broke into a wide grin. “Hey, Joseph.”
“Good evening, sir. It’s a great pleasure to see you again.”
Devon stepped past him, fighting the childish urge to embrace the man who’d adopted his father’s role too often to count. “It’s been a long time,” he said instead, as if the older man wasn’t aware of his twelve-year absence. Inwardly he winced. Talk about lame.
The door closed with an echoing thunk. He should unbutton his overcoat and comment on the weather, but the words died on his lips. One glance around the vast hall evoked memories that crushed him like a steroid-laden linebacker.
The Christmas mornings he’d flown down the sweeping staircase into the formal livi
ng room where his presents lay. The black-and-white art-deco tiles, and that dumb game of all-white-tile hopscotch Frannie used to coax him into. Or how they’d race each other past these glowing wall sconces to a dinner as abundant and comforting as his mother’s smile. The ache he thought he’d conquered so long ago almost doubled him over. Who’d expect to be ambushed by good memories?
Behind him, Joseph coughed discreetly. Devon consciously steadied his breathing and fumbled with the coat buttons. “How is Mrs. Farlow?”
“She’s well, sir. Very busy with the festivities tonight. May I wish you a happy birthday?”
“Thanks.” Devon grinned as he handed the coat over. Happy birthday. The phrase restored the confidence he’d had climbing out of the car. “I’ll try to stop in the kitchen later and see her myself. I’ve missed her apple pie something fierce.”
The butler bowed, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. “She’ll enjoy seeing you again. I’ll put your bag in your mother’s old bedroom, if that’s all right with you.”
Devon nodded. “Any news about the fire?” The question clearly caught Joseph off guard; family members would never have asked the help, but Devon had long ago parted from the Wickham ways.
“No, sir. Very little damage to the theater itself, but your father’s art gallery needs restoration.”
“Do they know who did it?”
Joseph flushed and swallowed. “I don’t believe so, sir. An arson investigator was here most of today.”
Devon nodded. It wouldn’t surprise him if the investigator found multiple people with a motive. In fact, if he’d been here Tuesday night, no doubt he’d be the number one suspect. “I’m glad no one was hurt.” He gazed around the foyer again, seeing the opulence instead of the memories, and his shoulders relaxed. “Are they in the dining room?”
“The party moved to the formal library for dessert and coffee. Dinner was served at eight.” Joseph’s dry tone held volumes of warning.
Devon glanced down the long hallway at the arched doors gleaming in high polish. Even after all this time, he knew what lay in wait. Just like with Henry VIII, when one person displeased the old tyrant, they all got punished. And Devon was an unavoidable hour and a half delayed. He broke into a grin at the challenge ahead. The fearlessness he displayed in the boardroom was a direct result of growing up here. “I’ll handle him.”
“Yes, sir.”
He headed swiftly toward the living room, elation growing. Tonight, on his thirtieth birthday, the provisions from his mother’s trust came into effect. It had been a long, difficult twelve years, scraping and clawing his way from a broke and homeless eighteen-year-old to an up-and-coming force in Manhattan. This gift from his mother couldn’t come at a more perfect time in his career. He’d already signed over the inheritance to secure a business loan. The high-risk venture had required the personal guarantee; banks were still too cautious. But the property was a steal, the value from developing mixed-use dwellings too substantial not to snap up. And he wasn’t nicknamed Renegade because he invested cautiously. This deal would ensure his status among corporate giants.
At the arched doors, Devon straightened his tie and shot his cuffs. Soft strains of classical music wafted from within, one of Mozart’s violin concertos. A woman laughed, throaty and melodic. He inhaled deeply, grasped the century-old crystal handles, and thrust both panels open. The laughter died mid-note. Time came to a freeze-frame halt, as if the guests posed for a portrait. His sister, Francine, hair shorter and darker than he remembered, held a china cup to her mouth. Beside her, his half-brother, Rick, had a chokehold on the slim neck of a Château Latour. Across the room, two men sat in wingbacks, their backs to the door, profiles turned to the platinum blonde—the source of the laughter—her mouth still open. And beside her, too close for any misinterpretation, sat his father: majestic, patrician, and grim. No one would ever confuse the etched wrinkles on his face for laugh lines. An expression flashed across his face, too quick for Devon to catch. Regret, maybe?
The old man broke the spell by glancing down his hawk nose at his Rolex. “Ah, the grand return of the prodigal son. My eldest, who goes by a different name…”
Nope, not regret. Devon managed a half-smile, but already his olive branch goal was faltering. “Happy birthday, Harrison.” The irony that his father and he shared a birthdate when they had nothing else in this entire world in common…
Someone cleared his throat, and Devon’s gaze swept over the men again, who’d turned in their seats to face him. He nodded to George Fallow, the family lawyer. He hadn’t aged well by the looks of his sunken cheeks and hunched posture, but the fact he was still here even though Devon was so late was a great sign. Hopefully the trust business could be concluded tonight.
“Honey, Wesley,” Harrison said, “this is my eldest son, Devon Wickham.”
Really? “Ashby,” Devon corrected.
“Grown men don’t use their middle names—unless they’re rednecks from the South.” The condescending tone baited, and Devon’s muscles tensed.
“Ashby is my mother’s maiden name.” He looked pointedly at his father. “Or had you forgotten?”
Those ice-blue eyes sparked with animosity, but when Harrison continued, his voice remained affable. “This is Honey Hartlett and Wesley O’Brien.”
A second passed as Devon waited for how they related to the Wickham birthday dinner to be disclosed, but no explanation came. He nodded once to each of them. Honey responded with a thin-lipped smile, and the young blond guy studiously ignored him.
“Sit down, Dev,” Frannie said sharply. She patted Rick’s arm, and he rose with a grumble. Devon clapped him on the shoulder, murmuring a greeting as he passed by. The last time he’d seen his half-brother, Rick had been a chubby nine-year-old. Their communication over the years had been infrequent and stilted, a shattering example of the collateral damage from that horrific night exactly twelve years ago.
Devon sat beside his sister, and they exchanged a hug. They, at least, had kept in touch through email and holiday video calls. She was thinner than her screen presence, her skin the kind of bluish pale that came from exhaustion. The divorce must not be going well. He grasped her hand, ice-cold and twig-like in his, and squeezed.
An enormous silver tray on the cocktail table before them held coffee and Wickham china. “My dear,” Harrison murmured, and Honey immediately leaned forward, pouring coffee with an elegant tilt of her wrist. She looked about the same age as Frannie. How long had she and Harrison been dating? Frannie hadn’t mentioned her the last time they’d spoken.
When Honey handed Devon the coffee, her cornflower-blue eyes regarded him coolly. Clearly she knew about his black-sheep status. He thanked her, though he didn’t intend to stay at the party long enough to finish it. “I’m actually here for—”
“Drink your coffee,” Harrison interrupted. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my vast years, it’s to enjoy the company of loved ones over business.”
Devon sipped the piping-hot liquid to stifle the abrupt laughter rising up. Never had a man less deserving of the title “father” walked this Earth. He was pretty sure Harrison knew it, too, and couldn’t give a shit. Not to mention the man had run through three wives… Loved ones over business. Yeah, right.
Still, Devon was in his father’s house, and an olive branch could turn into lucrative business contacts or partnering on future ventures with Wickham Corp. Why not take the high road and try to build a bridge across the great divide? “Frannie told me about the fire last night,” he commented. He didn’t tack on Joseph’s update about the arson investigator.
“Yes, last night was quite dramatic,” his father answered, his tone lacking any drama.
Interesting. The fire had been in the old-fashioned theater, but it shared a wall with Harrison’s climate-controlled art gallery, filled with masterpieces. “Is your art damaged?”
“There’s too much oily soot covering the paintings to be sure.” Another clipped response. His
father wasn’t the kind of guy who kept his displeasure under control like this. And back in the day, a three-degree temperature malfunction in either of his two galleries was considered catastrophic. This was a freaking fire. What had changed? Maybe it was the fact that the perp might be in this very room. Devon glanced at the faces surrounding him, all filled with the usual tension associated with just being in his father’s presence.
Francine crossed her legs. Her foot nudged Devon’s twice. “I saw workers in the gallery this afternoon,” she said to Harrison, then threw Devon a pointed look.
So? He gave her an imperceptible shrug. His disinterest in art was in direct proportion to his father’s obsession for it.
“Some woman with red corkscrew curls,” she added sharply. A buzzing began in Devon’s ears.
“I hired Moore and Morrow Art Restoration.” Harrison poured himself more coffee.
Corkscrew… Moore and Morrow…? Hannah Moore? His Hannah? Something must have registered on his face, because his sister widened her eyes like: Yes, idiot, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!
The buzzing grew louder, and goose bumps covered Devon’s arms. Hannah had been here today? Regret at missing her flashed through him a second before his heart squeezed so hard he squinted. Yet another “twelve years ago tonight” memory, the wreckage he’d left in his wake… Jesus.
His hearing returned in time for the tail end of his father’s remark: “—company that discovered those Rubens forgeries.”
“I heard the Art Institute almost closed down after the Rubens scandal,” Francine said.
Devon pulled himself together, focusing on three details. Based on the name of the company, Hannah didn’t just work for a restoration firm; she owned part of it. Second, he’d heard about that forgery scandal at some exhibit Nicole had dragged him to. The well-respected Art Institute of Chicago had unknowingly hung three forged paintings, and the discovery sent the staid art world into a frenzy of paranoid speculation over their own works. Third, his father had unwittingly hired Devon’s high school sweetheart yesterday. Harrison had never met her; Devon had gone to great lengths all senior year to make sure of it.
