Tall, Dark and Damaged (Damaged Heroes #1)

by Sarah Andre

  “Shouldn’t we”—she pointed to the table—“clean up? Put the furniture back?”

  He glanced at the picnic items impatiently, torn between the betrayal of her pitying expression moments ago and the desire to hug her for those absurd questions. Her personality was so alien in the world he’d grown up in, and now built for himself. And yet it was that difference—her love of family, the brave resolve in the face of high school taunting, her perpetual kindness toward the disrespectful restaurant patrons she’d served—that had drawn him like a moth to a bonfire. He gestured for her to go ahead of him. “We’re at the Wickham house,” he said as gently as he could. “We don’t clear tables. Someone will come for it.”

  She slipped by him, but he caught her stunned expression. Clearly she’d forgotten the ways of the Wickhams. Although, come to think of it, they’d spent most of their time at her house. Her mother had worked two jobs and rarely been there.

  Their journey across the lawn and into the sunroom remained wordless. Which was stupid. He had so much left to say. He’d completely botched the apology, the whole point of lunch. His sentence would’ve been fine if he’d spilled milk or sworn rudely twelve years ago, but it didn’t come close to covering the Godzilla number he’d done on their relationship. He’d started off all right, but the remorse for what could have been had choked the words in his throat. And now they were out of time, and worse, Honey had wrecked the final moments of their tenuous reunion.

  They halted in the foyer. He glanced left, down the long hall to where his father’s office lay. The tension in his muscles felt like radioactive waves. He’d take all this anger and smash his father’s plans to bits. Fucking seek and destroy. He took a deep breath and refocused on her. She’d collected her little lunch sack and still clutched it tightly. “You hardly ate anything,” he remarked.

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “I still have so much to apologize for—”

  “Never mind.” Her eyes flitted away. “It was so long ago. Who even thinks about silly teenage stuff?” She scraped the nails of her free hand over her palm. So even as a grownup she had that same tell. She followed his line of sight and clenched her fist, blushing. “Well,” she straightened her shoulders, “I need to check on my team and get to work on your father’s second gallery.”

  Her words registered through all the crazed thoughts. “Wait. That gallery is all the way down the hall. The smoke reached that far?”

  “No. While we’re here, your father asked us to check it for conservation purposes. Anyway—it was great seeing you again.” She tilted her head and smiled. The kind of smile that didn’t trigger her dimple or reach her eyes. The kind that would have made him crawl on his knees and beg for forgiveness back in the day.

  He stuck his hands deep into his pockets because the dumbass urge to embrace her again reared its desperate head. “Yeah. You too, Hannah.”

  He stared unabashedly as she glided with ballerina-like grace out the front door. Somewhere in all the agitation inside, he recognized haunting regret. They wouldn’t meet again. They’d chosen different paths long ago. But seeing her, talking to her, had been the single blissful fragment these last two days.

  He probably should have told her that too.

  Chapter 8

  Devon glanced at his watch. He was seriously late, and payback would be a bitch. The lunch he’d wolfed down turned to lead in his roiling stomach. With one last glance at the front door, he stalked down the hall, passing the open doors to the formal parlor, gentlemen’s room, and music room. All boasted large windows showcasing the lawn and sparkling lake, and in each view he watched the progress of a servant carefully descending the stone steps to the beach, precariously balancing a tray of iced tea.

  “Didn’t your mother commit suicide down there?”

  That lancing pain stabbed him behind his eye again. He halted, shutting them tight—a catastrophic mistake. In a heartbeat, he’d jumped back in time.

  His nine-year-old self racing across the summer lawn, thrilled at the cloudless sky and calm water—a waterskier’s dream. Skipping down the treacherous steps to gather the equipment from the boathouse, determined to slalom without falling. Then catching sight of his mother lying far below, fully clothed and without a towel. Why wasn’t she in a swimsuit?

  Calling to her, even as a frozen part of his mind wondered about the odd angle of her neck and how it didn’t look like her. She looked plastic, and her wide eyes were scary. Calling more sharply—why wasn’t she moving?

  Then his mind unfreezing. His mother—dead. Horribly mangled dead, like in the horror movie he’d seen the month before. Then his screams, the paralysis in his limbs. He couldn’t climb the stairs to get help. His inability to look away from her twisted neck and glazed eyes. And finally the dozens of faces peering over the ledge—every one of them unable to help her too. Then Joseph’s arms carrying him up, up…

  The flashback shut down as fast as it’d come, but the emotional overload he’d fought since descending the stone steps with Hannah detonated. He drew in a ragged breath, barely hearing it above the roaring in his ears. “Don’t,” he whispered through clenched teeth. There was no time for this weak stuff right now.

  “Uncle Devon, are you all right?”

  He blinked several times, and the roaring noise faded. With relief, he raised his head. Cold sweat trickled down his temple. Todd stood a few feet away, an alarmed expression on his young face.

  “Yeah.” Was that feeble voice his? Devon straightened and rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. “Just a killer headache.” The sharp pain had matured into a rhythmic throb, the kind that would last for hours, no matter what. “What are you doing out of school?”

  “Half-day. Parent-teacher conference.” Todd shifted his weight. “Grandfather’s been asking if anyone’s seen you. He’s…uh, real mad.”

  Devon shook off the vestiges of his past. He lifted a weary shoulder. “He’s always mad at something, kid. Shouldn’t let it worry you.”

  “When Grandfather’s pissed, everyone worries.”

  Despite himself, Devon barked out a laugh. “I guess I’ve been away too long, then.” He jerked his head for Todd to accompany him, and they walked toward the office. “I used to head the counterinsurgency in this house. It got to the point where my father’s anger was as regular and expected as the tide.”

  “Really?” His nephew jogged a couple of steps to keep up, eyes shining. “What kind of stuff did you do?”

  “Anything noisy. Holding neighborhood tryouts for Olympic track and field down the halls. Tossing my little brother down the laundry chute—”

  “Uncle Ricky?”

  “Yeah. It was all fun and games until he grew so chubby he got stuck. Fire department had to be called.”

  Todd laughed. The thick oak door of Harrison’s office lay ten feet ahead. Devon’s pulse jackhammered, even as his jaw cemented in determination.

  “What else?”

  He quelled the urge to brush the kid off. He needed to think, to psych himself up, dammit. But the brusque gesture was too reminiscent of the man behind the door, so he glanced at his nephew and rummaged in his memory. “I, uh, drove the Rolls down Sheridan Road when I was about your age.”

  “No way!”

  “And convinced your mom to climb one of the apple trees in the orchard out front and see how many apples she could pitch into the koi pond. She could really throw.”

  “My mom?”

  “Sure. And man, could she run! Faster than me. Tag was her favorite game. The neighborhood kids and I rarely played with her. It was no fun—she’d whip our butts.” He slowed four feet from the door and took a bracing breath. “She was such a tough girl. Wonder what happened to my fearless little army.”

  “If you mean Mom and Uncle Ricky, they aren’t like that anymore.” Todd sounded sulky, as if he’d missed out on something.

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  The boy frowned. “Why isn’t she like that now?
Why isn’t she more like you? I mean, she never has fun. I can’t remember the last time I saw her smile, even.”

  Back to this topic. Like it haunted the house.

  Devon massaged his tense jaw, feeling the prickle of whiskers. Shit, he’d forgotten to go shave. His father would love this. “She changed a lot when our mom died,” he said quietly. “I mean, it was hard on both of us, but Frannie changed the most.” The champion apple pitcher, who’d often been the brains behind their childish pranks, had turned into a quiet, pathetic mouse. She’d come through once in a while, but more often just took the punishment for stuff she hadn’t even participated in. In that stoic, silent way of hers. Used to drive him crazy. He shook his head. What was the subject again? “My point is—don’t ever let that old man scare ya.” He cuffed his nephew gently. “Listen, I gotta get in there.”

  Todd nodded and stepped aside, but as Devon reached for the door handle, he blurted out, “Would you eat dinner with me and Mom tonight? I mean, if you’re still in town? We’re going to Uno’s.”

  Devon hid his wince. His evening was jam-packed, and the moment it let up, his plan was to jet back to Nicole, slip into bed, and make it up to her. “I can’t…” The words died on his lips. The look of hero worship twisted something in his chest. Was this what having a son was like? Had he ever looked at his father this way? “I can’t promise anything,” he said in a gruff voice. “But I’ll try.” Maybe before the meeting.

  Todd beamed. “Great. And Uncle Devon?” He flushed painfully. “Give him hell.”

  Harrison’s head was bowed, the phone stuck to his left ear as he scribbled on a pad of paper. There was no indication he’d heard the door open, but he definitely had. Devon stepped fully inside the office and closed the door with a loud click, which still elicited no reaction from across the room. He mentally snorted; it would take more than this to make him sweat.

  The air wove expensive cigar smoke with rich leather, a combination that always evoked memories of his father and this office. So little had changed in here over the years. Polished walnut paneling gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from the wall-length window. Hunting prints in forest-green matting lined the walls on the opposite side of the room. And behind the massive mahogany desk, an oil painting still hung of a brown bear raised on hind legs, jaws open in a ferocious roar. Devon’s mother, a lover of art, had hated that painting. Harrison had refused to take it down.

  Devon strolled to the window where two gardeners on purring mowers crossed each other’s path, cutting the grass in a precise diamond pattern. Off in the distance, the lake glistened serenely. Hannah’s gaze had strayed to it throughout lunch. Her constant distraction had been just fine with him. He’d gotten to stare freely at her profile, wondering how anyone managed to get to adulthood so unjaded. Even thinking about her now eased some of the tension in his shoulders.

  Harrison barked out a last order, and the phone hit the cradle hard. Devon ran a dry tongue around a drier mouth, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned to absorb the full impact of the old man’s glare. Harrison’s gaze swept over his unshaven face, and Devon waited for the scathing comment with relish.

  “You’re over an hour late,” he growled instead.

  “I was detained.”

  “Any other employee would apologize.”

  Devon forced himself to smile. “I’m not your employee.”

  “Not yet, boy, but by God, things are going to change around here.” The comment eerily echoed of lectures past, as if he’d been hauled in for one of the dumbass things he’d just described to Todd.

  He frowned at the personal slant, prepared for an epic corporate war, not a paternal demand for respect. This meeting was about the takeover, the Ashby parcels, and Bryant stealthily buying up shares while hiding their identity with a Cayman Island address and New York phone number. Devon mustered a casual voice. “So who’s Bryant?”

  “Part of being a savvy executive is knowing your enemy.”

  “Part of being a savvy executive is answering direct questions. And bottom-lining a meeting so we aren’t here all day.” Devon waited a beat and bit out the words. “Who is Bryant?”

  Harrison folded his arms, a tight smile crossing his face. “Let’s assume I am.”

  “How interesting. And by that, I mean in a cheap, dirty trick way.”

  “Whatever it takes, Devon.” The smile turned condescending. “And as a CEO, you really shouldn’t act so surprised at stealth and aggression in the corporate world.”

  “Successful leaders don’t need to rely on deception.”

  “It’s how Troy was defeated.”

  “Here’s how I see it.” Devon kept his voice lethally soft. “After lording the weight of the mighty Wickham name over me all these years, you declare war by hiding behind another name. Sounds cowardly to me. I wonder why you went to the effort.”

  A hiss escaped his father’s lips. Devon couldn’t recall ever getting to his father this fast or this easily, but the first point went to him, and he strode confidently across the room and dropped into the chair across from the solid desk.

  “Bryant is a code. It holds great meaning.” Harrison snatched up the phone and held the receiver toward him. “Dial your office and get an emergency board meeting on the books. By the end of today, Bryant will have transferred their shares to the Wickham Corporation, and I’ve ordered a press release to hit on Monday.”

  Devon made sure his shrug came off bored. “Bryant is nowhere near acquiring a majority of shares.”

  “Just as Sparta could not have defeated Troy by itself.”

  The triumphant glint in Harrison’s eyes stirred up sick misgivings. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Sparta brought Argos and Hellas to war. But majority only counted for half the strategy. The other half was trickery, traveling right through the city gates disguised in friendship.”

  Friendship? The old man had mentioned that last night. Icy fear trickled down his spine.

  “I’ve convinced two of your major shareholders on your board, Devon—shareholders you view as friends—to join the Wickham Corporation in tendering an offer for your ragtag little company.”

  Blood thundered through his veins.

  “After the purchase, we intend to divide Ashby among ourselves.”

  “You…son of a bitch.”

  “I won’t stand for employees speaking to me that way!”

  Devon exploded from the chair. “I will never be your employee.”

  “You will be, effective today, Friday, October twenty-seventh. At four o’clock Central Time.”

  He paced to the window, hands fisted at his sides. Jesus, who were the two board members? What could he do? His company was finished.

  No, it wasn’t. He just had to think. He turned back. “What does building the Rogers Park neighborhood in the sixties have to do with grabbing my company now?”

  His father blinked in surprise. “There’s no connection.”

  “It’s too convenient to be a coincidence. Toxic waste? Buried skeletons? What happened on my parcels that you’re so eager to hide? You had no intention of a hostile takeover until we bought that land.”

  Harrison sputtered out a laugh. “Your perceptions have always been so narrow-minded and obstinate. You’d do well to look at the whole forest, not the veins on one leaf.”

  “And what the hell does that mean?”

  Behind him, the door opened. What were the odds it was Joseph bringing refreshments?

  Devon braced himself and looked over. Wesley carried in a stack of files, his smile smug. “I haven’t been able to get through to your CFO. Get him on the phone, will you?”

  Devon’s lips curled into a snarl.

  Chapter 9

  “…the butler did it.” Robbie laughed. “How clitchie.”

  “Cliché?” At Sean’s droll tone, Hannah bit her lip to keep a straight face, and turned in to the sitting room. Robbie and Sean were on their knees, carefully pressing a Renoir into the Styrofoam
at the bottom of the custom crate. Ten paintings remained. Her team had kicked ass getting the art crated and loaded today.

  “The butler did what?” she asked, and both guys glanced back in surprise. Those industrial fans made it a breeze to wander the creaky upstairs undetected.

  “He started the fire.” Robbie pointed in the general vicinity of the theater, as if she didn’t know—quite intimately, in fact—where it was.

  “Joseph?” She scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

  “We overheard the arson investigator talking on his cell phone. He was near our van and didn’t know we were inside. That’s who he suspects.”

  “What?”

  “He said the butler called it in, but couldn’t come up with a reason why he was walking by the theater in the first place. That he acted very fidgety during the interview.”

  “It was near midnight,” Sean added, almost sympathetically.

  She glanced at him sharply, but his face gave nothing away. Could her history with this place and these people somehow be telegraphed to her employees? Only Gretch knew about Devon, and she wouldn’t blab it around the office. But it had been a tumultuous day, and Sean was remarkably observant of emotional undercurrents. He could easily have been a psychiatrist. Or an FBI profiler.

  “Well, I don’t believe it,” she declared, which was idiotic, because it didn’t really matter what she believed. “Have they arrested him?”

  Robbie reached into his pocket for another tissue. His nose was crimson and raw-looking. “The arson investigator didn’t take him. Just called someone and left.”

  “That’s because it’s a police matter now,” Sean said quietly, turning back to gently press the painting into the Styrofoam. “Arson investigators turn the case over once they find the point of origin and evidence of ars—”

  “What’s your ETA on crating the rest of these?” she interrupted. It was imperative that they keep on task, especially since anyone could walk by and overhear them gossiping, and they’d never know it.