by Sarah Andre
She closed her eyes and tried to capture this memory, then realized she stood there stiff as a surfboard in his embrace.
He drew back, his stubble pulling several strands of her hair. “Sorry,” he murmured, looking anything but, as he scraped them off his cheek and tucked them behind her ear.
She caught his curling fingers and stepped clear of him. “The caterer is waiting to speak to you,” she bleated, much too loudly.
He blinked. “Me?”
“Well, you and Honey. Frannie’s looking for her, although I told her she’s probably with you.” Was she babbling now? Clearly yes, because he studied her like she was that pinned frog in their biology class. “You are engaged.” It wasn’t a question. What game was he playing?
More seconds of frozen silence lapsed. His knotted brows rose. Then he threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and deep. Long cords strained along his stubble-covered neck, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. She stared greedily, but it ended all too soon.
“Jeez, Han, I’d forgotten your sweetness,” he said, and the warmth of his gaze overpowered her curiosity at his strange remark. He was looking at her like he used to, as if he saw all of her, not just the mask she showed the world. He pressed her fingers and sobered. “If you only knew how sor—” He broke off, glancing over her shoulder.
She snatched her hand back and spun around. In trooped her team: too-cool-for-school Sean; Tina, who was too young to be that world-weary; and their skinny intern Robbie, whose allergies had kicked into high gear yesterday with all the smoke and soot. He stood in the doorway rubbing his nose. At least he’d shown up.
Hannah nodded at them and smoothed her lab jacket, face heating unfairly at the close call of almost being caught wrapped in Devon’s arms. Besides Gretch, no one at Moore and Morrow knew of her past with this man, and she didn’t need the gossip or questions. She stuck out her hand and shook Devon’s in a brisk, hard grip. “Thank you for stopping in,” she said formally, as if it were Joseph or Mr. Wickham. He quirked a brow but shook back with the same pressure. Thrusting the clipboard of itemized lists at Sean, she followed Devon to the doorway, her nosiness screaming at her until her lips formed the words. “I don’t understand why you laughed so hard.”
He glanced back, his face splitting into an easy grin, and for a second he was young Devon again, who’d brighten up like this every time he laid eyes on her. “Honey is my father’s fiancée. But thanks for the chuckle. I really needed that.”
At the threshold, he stopped abruptly and bent over a small, framed painting. She hadn’t noticed it before, probably because it hung obscurely behind a lamp on an antique writing desk. Had she not been standing so close, she’d have missed his soft grunt. “Well, whaddaya know,” he murmured. “My father didn’t throw everything out.”
He left without a backward glance. She numbly turned, answered Tina’s question about crating, and handed Robbie a packet of tissues from her briefcase, desperate to go see what was in the frame. Finally, as her team began focusing on their tasks, she inched her way over.
The scene was painted in watercolors and clearly the work of a child. A summer landscape with emerald lawns dropped to a stretch of beach the color of Cheerios. In the distance, a Caribbean-blue lake shimmered, or else the globs of white were rippling waves. Bobbing in the center of the scene was a disproportionately large sailboat. A shiver ran down her spine at the scrawled signature. He must have painted it before he was nine. The scene was an exact replica of the back of this property, even the willow tree at the edge of the cliff, although this one leaned like Pisa.
Devon had taken her out back only once. He’d stood her at the precipice, where the lawn abruptly disappeared, and they’d stared at the thirty-foot drop to the sand below. Even the rough stone steps to the right looked too dangerous and narrow to descend to the beach safely.
The palm clamping hers had been damp, his body rigid. He’d told her tonelessly this was the exact spot where his father had pushed his mother. And that it’d been Devon, aged nine, who found her twisted body below.
Chapter 6
“You think we can’t see through your little game, Honey?”
Devon halted abruptly outside the dining room door, recognizing his brother’s bluster.
“Shouldn’t you be finding a job? A place to live?”
Before Devon could palm the brass handle, he heard shattering glass.
“I’d be real careful if I were you,” Rick said in a low voice, as Devon lunged into the room. They both turned in surprise.
“Oh.” She tilted her head. “I see you made it out of the solarium. So much for your scary ultimatums.”
He ignored her and glanced at the ugly flush on his brother’s face, then the crystal goblet that lay in pieces at the foot of an antique breakfront. Orange juice puddled in the shards, and an indentation marred the wood three feet up.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he asked Rick curtly. The last thing either sibling needed was for Harrison to come down even harder on their heads.
“Like reading the want ads?” Honey said.
Devon spun toward her. “I don’t need your help.”
“She’s ruining all our lives, and no one’s saying the obvious—”
“Let it go, Rick. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Fuck that. I can.” His brother’s large hands fisted. “And I will!”
Honey’s lips curled without the smile entering her eyes. She raised her own juice glass and sipped delicately, her bearing like the Queen of England. When she swallowed, she tilted her head, glancing up between her lashes at Devon. “What? No more defending me?” Her sugary purr ratcheted the tight muscles in his back. This was a woman confident in her ability to play men against each other for her own amusement. How was Harrison blind to this?
“Come on, Rick.” He didn’t bother to keep the disgust from his tone as he turned away. “I have an appointment downtown; I’ll drop you somewhere.” Anywhere. Out of this house, until you get your shit together.
“Are you two running away from me?” He wouldn’t turn back. Wouldn’t take the bait, although she probably stood there in a provocative stance, with a smile guaranteed to egg a man on.
“Yeah,” Rick said, “that’s right. We’re running from a fu—”
“Stop!” Devon yelled, and spun around. A kitchen maid had slipped in from the swinging doors. She stood poised for flight, eyes large as saucers. Rick’s hands were still fisted at his sides, his eyes slits.
“Oh, please.” Honey fluttered a hand and glanced between the maid and Rick. “Go ahead and finish. Especially now that we have a witness.”
It was on the tip of Devon’s tongue to warn his brother again, but the guy was an adult. Still, every muscle strained as he willed his brother to keep his mouth shut. Moments of silence passed where three of them looked like mannequins. Honey just sipped her juice with an arched brow. Jesus, she was cold.
“Let’s go,” Rick mumbled, and stalked past Devon, slapping the door open so violently the panel slammed against the foyer wall. “Fucking bitch.”
In the car, Devon kept the radio off, anticipating the inevitable explosion. He didn’t have to wait long.
“It’s just that she’s ruining my life,” Rick seethed, his hands balled in his lap, his face still an unhealthy shade of rage.
“You don’t need to keep repeating that.”
“But no one cares. She gets to waltz in and take our money and home—”
“Had she not waltzed in, Rick, what was your life plan? Bum around, mooching off Harrison?”
Rick faced the passenger window, his jaw clenched tight. “Pretty much. That money is my birthright.”
“You remind me of that kid let off for being so spoiled he didn’t know right from wrong.”
“Bite me, asshole.”
Devon headed south on Lakeshore Boulevard. “Where do you want to be dropped?”
“There’s a twenty-four-hour bar down
town on North Clark Street.”
“No.”
Rick swung in his seat to face him. “Jesus, you’re worse than the old man. Don’t force me outta the house and then drive me somewhere I don’t wanna go.”
“Dude, the last thing you need is a drink. Why don’t I let you off at an El station, and you can go to Northwestern. Find the alumni resource center.”
“What don’t you get?” Rick jabbed a thumb at himself. “I’m not getting a job. I’m going to fight that marriage.”
“How?”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
Devon glanced over. “Do you have money to hire a private eye and check into her background?” His brother stared out the front window. Devon waited a beat. “But you have money to drink.”
Rick’s fist thumped the dashboard. “Let me off here, fucker.”
Devon was about to refuse, but he didn’t need this added hassle. He’d gotten his brother out of the house before any more harm was done. He’d offered him a job and a home in Manhattan. Without Rick’s willing participation, and a major attitude adjustment, there wasn’t much else Devon could do. He pulled into the nearest El station and braked harder than necessary. “We may not know each other well, Rick, but I sure know Harrison. Don’t fuck with Honey. Just get out of that godforsaken house as fast as you can and find a new life.”
His brother bolted from the car, muttering a string of obscenities. Devon shook his head as he headed for the project manager’s office to deal with whatever emergency had prompted the urgent email. Anything work-related was a thousand times better than the Wickham shitshow.
Twenty minutes later, he had a death grip on a Styrofoam cup. “It’s just people blowing off steam,” he said calmly, taking in O’Callaghan’s linebacker build, almost cartoonishly large compared to the utilitarian desk he sat behind. “It isn’t a big deal.”
The developer thrust out his jaw. “It is a big deal, Mr. Ashby. I can deal with anger. But death threats? From this neighborhood? That’s a whole different ball game.”
Devon let a moment of silence go by, a negotiating tactic but also to defuse Peter’s rising emotions. O’Callaghan pushed a stapler a few inches to the left and adjusted the angle of an acrylic picture frame. The harsh fluorescent lighting shone like a spotlight on the rosy flesh of his bald head. The way O’Callaghan fidgeted and avoided Devon’s gaze was a good sign. In the corporate arena, it meant the person was undecided—reluctant to take the action they were threatening. Devon shifted in the uncomfortable chair and crossed an ankle over his knee.
“I don’t want to make light of this, Peter,” he said, “but anyone can say anything on social media and remain anonymous. We should’ve expected a backlash.”
“No project is worth dealing with unbalanced people. It’s a well-known fact that this neighborhood has its own watch because the police can’t handle all the drugs and violence.”
“Exactly how many people have threatened you?”
O’Callaghan finally looked up. “Six voicemail messages and fourteen emails.”
“Did any of them state specifics, like: ‘I’m going to shoot you in the parking lot tonight’?”
“No, just a bunch of obscenities and the phrase ‘I’ll kill you.’”
Shit. He planted the coffee cup on the desk between them. The Styrofoam was misshapen from the abuse. “Let them rant. They know you’re not responsible for the teardown.”
O’Callaghan swiped at the sheen on his very pink head. “I don’t care. I’m still withdrawing from your project.”
“You’re under contract.”
“Sue me.”
Devon clenched his jaw and studied the multitude of fishing photographs that littered the walls. He had to negotiate today as if his company wasn’t about to be taken over. He didn’t know enough about his father’s plan to shrug off this emergency. And he needed a better strategy, fast. Ashby Enterprises had no time to conduct the vetting process for another top-notch developer; the loan he’d personally guaranteed was not that generous. Besides, O’Callaghan was the best man to manage this project. He had a great rep with Teamsters and kept construction projects within budget—two miracles for Chicago. “Look, if you stay on, I’ll raise your salary twenty percent.” Eric would have his fucking hide.
O’Callaghan’s slow blink was either a shrewd tactic, or he really was thoroughly insulted his life was worth such a pittance. “Fifty percent.”
Devon held back the scoff and pretended to think about it. Even at twenty percent, all of this had to be presented to the board, if there was a board to even present to next week, but at the moment it was a shoot-now-ask-questions-later situation.
“Twenty percent and a fishing trip to Cabo after the project completion.” He jerked his head stiffly toward the photographs. “Take your whole family for a week on us.”
Wrinkles etched O’Callaghan’s forehead. “Mr. Ashby, I’ve got two kids in high school. I want to be around when they get married and have kids of their own.”
“Do you want me to hire a bodyguard? Or a PI to track down who’s calling? The police?” His hands cramped from squeezing the thin arms of the chair. He spread his palms impatiently. “What?”
O’Callaghan shook his head. “It wouldn’t make much difference. You’re dealing with a volatile neighborhood here. This location could’ve been sold and redeveloped a long time ago. Even your father was interested at one time, but no one—”
“My father?”
“You are Harrison Wickham’s son, aren’t you?”
Devon planted both feet on the floor and leaned forward. “When was my father interested in the place?”
O’Callaghan shrugged. “Several years ago.”
“Why?”
The manager looked at him like he was a lunatic. “I don’t know; you’ll have to ask him. All I can say is he’s been interested in most of Rogers Park, not just the parcels you have, and he’s steadily bought them up.”
Devon’s heart drummed against his ribs. “What’s he done with his land?”
“Torn down his old buildings. Built high-end condos and townhouses.”
“Wait a minute…his old buildings?” Once again O’Callaghan shot him that look, like how could the eldest son not know the business ventures of the father? “Just give me the history on how my father connects with the area,” Devon barked.
O’Callaghan shrugged. “The Wickham Corporation built Rogers Park back in the sixties, when the population was low income—so these houses were slapped up, and the neighborhood turned into one big melting pot of ethnic diversity. Fast-forward to the present, and all I know is that for the last several years, your father’s been buying those same parcels, and trying to get zoning approval for upscale retail. I hear he plans to develop the next Magnificent Mile.”
Similar to the Ashby Enterprises plan, only on a gigantic scale. Devon had just found the reason behind the hostile takeover: Ashby’s set of parcels. “How much property has he bought so far?”
Peter scratched his forehead. “Most of the south and west. The fact that you purchased the northeast quadrant and have the lakefront and access to all the public beaches is a coup for you, but word is your father wants it at all costs.”
“Yes,” Devon answered shortly. “I’m aware of that.” The lakefront benefits alone were worth all the inheritance money he’d sunk into buying the property, but hadn’t his father ever heard of outbidding a competitor? Or offering the new owner an even higher price for the property—a price high enough that a small private equity company wouldn’t refuse? “My father has many more city contacts than I do here. Why wasn’t he able to, I don’t know…”
“Pay someone under the table to refuse your bid?”
Devon reined in the urge to squirm. It wasn’t every day you discussed your father’s well-known cronyism and corruption with a semi-stranger. O’Callaghan leaned his arms on the desk, which creaked under the weight. “Word is, he’s made enough enemies over the years tha
t this time, and with this particular city hall director, it came around to bite him in the ass. Your deal was done before your father knew of it.”
“Why didn’t he start out buying the lakefront area?”
“And we’ve come full circle. Because of the reputation of this particular neighborhood. He probably figured once the other neighborhoods were gentrified, your renters would get the picture and start moving before it came time to snap up those blocks. Until you came along, no one else wanted it, so the Wickham Corp was in no hurry to buy it.” He shook his head. “Believe me, if even half these apartment dwellers had left already, I could deal with this situation.”
With the takeover mystery solved, Devon pushed his luck. “Does the word Bryant mean anything to you?”
O’Callaghan frowned and shook his head again. The secretary buzzed in, announcing an urgent call from Lincoln Park High School, and Devon sat back digesting the information while the developer took the call. It ended in seconds. O’Callaghan slammed the receiver down, his pate and face flushing an alarming beet red.
Devon took a wild guess. “Another threat?”
“Yes. Apparently they even know where my kids go to school.”
Devon scraped his face with his palms, unable to find words of reassurance. How could he negotiate when kids were threatened? “Tell you what, Peter—give me two business days to come up with a plan. If I don’t, then go ahead and bail on this project. Tuesday is all I ask.”
O’Callaghan pulled at his lower lip, and Devon waited, his breath shallow. He was exhausted from the never-ending catastrophes, but keeping O’Callaghan was crucial. Seconds turned into minutes. Devon kept still, eyes on the man’s face for any sign, but got nothing. O’Callaghan must be quite the poker player. Finally the other man cleared his throat, and Devon’s gut seized in simultaneous dread and hope. “Mr. Ashby, I’ll put up with the threats until Tuesday only if you agree to stand before the neighborhood at the community meeting tonight.”
