Tall, Dark and Damaged (Damaged Heroes #1)

by Sarah Andre

  “But Unc—”

  “Take it or leave it, Todd.”

  The boy pouted. “I’ll take it.”

  “And never smoke again. That’s the other condition.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t fun anyhow.”

  “Your mom’s probably called the police by now.” As he scrolled through his cell phone for her number, Todd ducked his head, but not before Devon saw the tears shining in his eyes.

  The call was answered in half a ring. “OhmyGodDevon, he’s gone.” Her hysterical shriek must’ve been heard across the row, because Todd stiffened.

  “He’s with me. He snuck onboard.”

  “OhmyGod.” There was a fumbling sound. “Put him on the goddamn phone.”

  Across from him, Todd paled. “He’s…asleep.”

  “I’m leaving for the airport right now. When will you be landing?”

  His phone beeped a low battery warning. “I’ll let him stay for the weeke—”

  “No!” She screamed the word so loud he and Todd straightened in their seats.

  “Jesus Christ, shut up! You’ll wake the whole house.”

  “I’m in my car. I’ve just been to Brady’s looking for him. He caught me peeking in the window. It was awful.” She sobbed. “You can’t believe what I’ve just been through. Just bring him home.”

  He couldn’t. There was too much at stake. He had to get to New York. “Okay. He’ll be on the next commercial flight back—”

  “Noooo! He’s not allowed out of state!” Her words were hard to understand, given the hysterical crying. “Putting him on a flight will be proof. His name will be in the computer. Turn around now!”

  “I can’t—”

  “Forget your company for once! He’s all I have left!”

  Devon sucked in a breath. His headache had picked up the rhythm of his pounding heart, and his stomach protested the whisky. “It’s not just about my company, Francine. The pilot still has to get to Tucson for an early pickup tomorrow. He can’t turn back to Chicago and still take me to New York.” Which was true. Ashby Enterprises only rented hours with this company; they had no pull whatsoever.

  The hiccupping sobs sounded far away, as if she’d dropped the phone. His cell beeped insistently, and his mouth dried up. He prayed the battery lasted. Having her think he’d hung up would seriously suck. “Frannie,” he said loudly, hoping she’d hear his voice. “Frannie!”

  “Brady was awful… They’re going to take Todd…my baby.”

  Another jagged round of crying, and he tried to shout his message over her sobs. Whether she heard or not, he was left midway through his sentence holding a dead phone.

  “Fuck.” He threw it on the seat next to him, then realized all over again that he was in the presence of a kid. “Sorry.”

  “I didn’t mean to worry her this much.” Todd looked so forlorn that there was no doubt Devon was about to have another crier on his hands. He quickly patted Todd’s knee.

  “I don’t think she’s upset with you as much as having to go to your dad’s to look for you. It didn’t sound like that went too well.” Hell, she just handed Brady a buttload of ammunition for the custody battle. And wait till the bastard found out about his son driving on suburban streets and stowing away in an airplane toilet.

  Devon stared at his nephew, whose eyelids drooped. The poor kid was stuck in the middle of a vicious divorce and had tried to figure a way out of it. Instead, his dumb stunt had set off a shitstorm. If Devon went against Frannie’s wishes and kept Todd for the weekend or stuck him on the next flight home, she’d be lucky to end up with supervised visitation rights. But if he instructed the pilot to turn around, drop them off, and head to Tucson for his next passenger—and who knew if that was even feasible—breakfast with Westcott was a nonstarter.

  And he’d be breaking another promise to Nicole.

  Chapter 15

  Hannah brushed the toast crumbs from her fingers and typed an apologetic text, canceling her Internet date. Besides having way too much work to do, in the end Gretch was right: Hannah would compare everything about the poor guy to Devon. The fact that she was furious with Dev, that he was no longer in town, and that she should go on this date didn’t matter. Her heart wouldn’t have it.

  She tossed the phone in her purse and picked up the four apartment listings she hoped to tour sometime today. All but one had longer commute times to get to work, but they were affordable, had two bedrooms, and took cats.

  “You don’t look so good, dear. Did you drink too much wine last night?” Aunt Milly said from the other side of the table.

  Yes. “No. I just slept badly.” Which was true. Between her hangover and a second night of tossing and turning, her mood was sour. And today stretched bleakly before her: crate the remaining nine paintings with Sean, race to the office and finish the Matisse, then visit these apartments. She should probably schedule some moving company quotes too.

  She glanced at her aunt’s kitschy clock, a black-and-white cat’s head, whose eyes glanced left and right in conjunction with the ticking seconds. Seven o’clock. The annual Chicago Halloween Gathering Parade was this morning, smack in the middle of the direct route from her office to Winnetka. No doubt there were road closures already, but she’d better leave now to pick up the company van and Sean before traffic and crowds widened the detour.

  “I probably won’t be home for dinner.” She rinsed out her plate and coffee cup, then grabbed her purse and kissed her aunt’s withered cheek. “Don’t forget, the new home health aide comes at nine thirty. Try not to run this one off.”

  “I don’t mind a bit of exercise. I draw the line at training for the Olympics.”

  Hannah pressed her lips to keep from smiling; it only egged her aunt on. “Walking to and from the bus stop twice is hardly the Olympics,” she said over her shoulder, heading into the living room.

  “Walking?” As Hannah gathered her coat and headed to the door, Aunt Milly was still muttering. “…I may have even hurdled something.”

  Hannah hurried down the windy street, juggling the pros and cons of efficient routes past the parade, but paused as she neared the center’s playground. Day one of life after Devon. Again. Thank God he was gone. After last night, she couldn’t deal with facing him. A part of her still wanted to verbally rip him to shreds. In reality, the tiny amount of outrage she’d displayed horrified her. So much for confrontation, or as Bernice put it: triumph. He’d hate her forever. The fact that she even cared was damn pathetic. Hannah climbed the stairs to the El platform. From this second on, she was going to be as jaded as her mother during her dark days.

  A few minutes to midnight. Hannah tiptoed past the open door of her mom’s bedroom, holding her sandals, and her breath. Please God, let Mom be asleep! Or not back from her own date yet. It was way past curfew, but whenever Hannah was with Devon, time ceased to exist.

  Her lips felt singed by his fervent kissing, and her insides still tingled with frustrated desire. If only they could just go off somewhere—anywhere, just the two of them. A place of their own where her mom and his dad didn’t ruin things—

  “You’re grounded.” The words floated out into the hall, and Hannah’s breath whooshed out at the tone. Mom’s recent “up” ride was over. Even though the manic energy was hard to take, it was so much better than the depressive slide that would enclose this place in days of darkness. Worse, nothing from now until the next up cycle could come out of Hannah’s mouth without it being considered talking back. Protesting being grounded was suicide.

  “I’m going to the kitchen. Can I get you anything, Mom?” she asked timidly. What she wanted to say was, “Act like an adult and take your meds.” Why were Mom’s highs so great she risked this very thing—the basement of moods instead of living an even-keeled life?

  A whisper of movement and then her mother was in the doorway, her dress disheveled, mascara smeared. A partially filled highball quivered in her hand. “You seem to be confused which one of us is th
e mother and which is the child. I said eleven.”

  Dread scurried up Hannah’s spine. Mom on a slide and drunk and wanting to pick a fight. It never ended well for Hannah. Not ever. Her tongue tangled around all the words she wanted to say. Words she would say one of these days when she grew a backbone.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” Clutching her dangling sandals in her fist, she focused on her door at the end of the short hall.

  “And by grounded, I mean the next three weekends.”

  Hannah spun around with a shriek.

  “I warned you—”

  “I’m only an hour late,” she sputtered. “We had car trouble.”

  Mom swayed slightly. “If you’re going to lie, I’ll take away your phone privileges next.”

  “I’m sorry you’re upset with whatever happened on your date tonight, but don’t take it out on me!” Hannah’s breath stilled. She’d blurted it without thinking.

  A long moment of excruciating silence. Then her mother turned and drifted back into her room. “Call Devon in the morning and tell him you won’t be at prom.”

  Hannah stumbled to her room, tears blinding her. She slammed the door with all her strength and fell to her knees. “I hate you!” she whispered, despising the cowardly inability to scream it at the top of her lungs. “I fucking hate you. I wish you were dead!”

  Devon jerked awake at the distant gong of a doorbell. What day was it? His eyes felt gritty, and his mouth tasted like rotten whisky. Where the hell was he? He rolled over with a groan, surveying his surroundings in the dim light streaming through a crack in the curtains.

  His mother’s room? Oh, shit! By the time he’d carried a soundly sleeping Todd upstairs to a still weeping Francine, he’d been so damn tired he must not have been thinking straight. If he’d turned right around and driven to O’Hare, he’d have been on the first flight out. Instead he’d come in here, plugged in his cell phone, left emails and voicemails at three in the morning, and promptly fallen asleep.

  He sat up stiffly and squinted at his watch. Seven forty-five. Shit, shit, shit. Emitting a long sigh, he rubbed his bristled jaw. Hopefully the stowaway excuse would wash with Eric, Nicole, and Westcott. He’d instructed Eric to take the meeting at the club and provided a few talking points to sway the stodgy old man not to sell so quickly. Anything to delay him until Devon got home. It was eight forty-five in New York. They ought to be in the middle of the discussion. Please let it go well.

  He went over to the frilly drapes and parted one side a few inches. The lake looked like a rippling mirror, the sky baby blue. A breeze ruffled the giant willow by the cliff, which swept the lawn in graceful laziness. Beds of boxwoods and thick flowers in burnt autumn colors bordered the massive backyard. Three gardeners were already trudging toward them with wheelbarrows of supplies and piles of moist black soil. Just another beautiful fall morning at the Wickham estate. He let the curtain drop and grabbed the shaving kit from the overnight bag.

  As he padded across the white-tiled bathroom, he mentally listed the additional calls to make, the excuses to give. Muffled voices passed by out in the hall, a guy’s and a lyrical response sounding a lot like Hannah. His heartbeat jacked to an insane rhythm, and some primitive instinct urged him to burst into the hall. He quickly turned on the crystal taps until the rushing water drowned out any sound. After last night, she was the last person he wanted to run into. Opposites may attract, but they were not compatible as life partners. He needed to get back to Nicole and the ideal life they’d been building before the wheels had come off the cart with this godforsaken trip.

  Within minutes, Devon repacked his belongings and headed for the door. He made it three steps down the grand staircase when he heard a scream from the backyard. The panic in it catapulted him down to the landing, where the giant bay windows overlooked the lawns and lake.

  One of the landscapers tore toward the house, red-faced and waving his hat, as if he were chasing down the last city bus in a dangerous part of town. He hollered repeatedly as he ran. Devon turned abruptly from the window, but instinct held him immobile as the patio door slammed and the man yelled again in rapid-fire Spanish. The only word Devon understood was muerta. Dead? Jesus Christ… Frannie? Todd?

  He swiveled to race downstairs when Joseph’s commanding voice cut through the stream of Spanish. “What’s going on here?”

  “Sir.” This came from a shrill female. “Pedro says it’s Miss Honey. She must have fallen off the cliff.”

  Devon froze mid-step. Honey—dead?

  “Oh dear God in heaven, not again,” Joseph said.

  A ringing started in Devon’s ears amid the bursts of Spanish and English, now out-shouting each other as everyone in the house seemed to have rushed to the foyer. He backed up slowly until he bumped into the wall of the landing.

  Honey was dead…twisted on the beach like his mother, with her broken neck and glazed eyes, and she wouldn’t move even though he kept calling to her. Sweat dampened Devon’s forehead, and bile rose in his throat. He opened his mouth and panted, but couldn’t get enough oxygen. The horrifying sight his nine-year-old self regurgitated threatened to drop him where he stood.

  Then a sharp British accent forced its way through his daze. Mrs. Farlow, the cook. “Where’s Mr. Wickham?”

  “He left early.” That from Joseph, in his everyone-calm-down voice. “He had a meeting.”

  “On a Saturday?” More unfamiliar voices rose up the stairwell.

  “Has anyone called nine-one-one?”

  “I will.”

  Ice water couldn’t have snapped Devon out of his paralysis faster. The police! Honey had clearly been murdered. He knew her real identity, his father knew, and so did the person eavesdropping on the line. Rick? He was the one who’d answered last night. And both his father and his half-brother had undeniable motives to kill her.

  You’ll be sorry you ever messed with Ashby Enterprises. Joseph and two maids had witnessed him threatening her. Devon had seen enough TV to know he’d be a suspect too. She’d died while he was under this roof. Even without a cause of death, his presence in this house, on this property, was not a good thing. Once the cops began crawling all over the estate, they’d detain everyone to get statements, and he’d never get back to New York.

  He screwed his eyes shut. So much for putting family first. I’m fucked! He had to see Nicole this morning, first thing upon landing. He had to know they were solid. How would he get out of here unseen? Think! He glanced around the empty landing and clear passage back to his mother’s room.

  Wait a minute. No one except Frannie had seen him set foot in here last night, and he’d left her sitting at Todd’s bedside over in the south wing. For all she knew, he’d simply walked back out into the predawn night.

  He drew in a steady breath, mentally mapping out the pathway to freedom. He could take rarely used passageways to the east side, get down to the basement through the tiny servants’ staircase, then slip out the side entrance that let out by the garages. With everyone clustered in the foyer, this’d be a piece of cake. He eased soundlessly up the carpeted steps and turned the corner, his back hugging the wall.

  Chapter 16

  Hannah’s mood didn’t get any better when they walked into the sitting room and Sean realized Robbie hadn’t left the toolbox as instructed. “Sean, you gotta supervise him better than this,” she snapped.

  “Sorry, boss.” He’d never called her “boss” before, and she scowled at him. Giving him an involuntary peek at her personal life last night hadn’t done her any favors. As it was, the team knew she couldn’t reprimand or fire anyone if her life depended on it, and now Sean got to see the dumb, lovesick side. You should’ve gone for that drink. Relationship advice from Sean, who equaled Gretch when it came to fear of intimacy.

  With a start, she realized he was still speaking. “…like I’m starting to think he’s an idiot savant. He can’t follow basic instructions¸ but on his first try, he’ll choose a color hue to match the exact palet
te an artist used centuries ago.”

  “Well…” She blew out a breath. “I guess we better ask Mr. Wickham for a power drill and screws.” Really. Could this day get any worse?

  Sean swept a hand through his dark-brown hair. “No. I’ll text Robbie and find out where he put the toolbox. I’ll go back and get it.”

  “That parade already delayed us. This’ll put us back hours,” she protested. “I don’t have the time.” Even without this delay, it’d be a late night.

  “Then I’ll go ask Wickham. It’s my fault.”

  She almost said yes. She would’ve, had he not seen the side of her last night that stood there passively while her high school sweetheart destroyed her. It was time to grow a backbone. “He doesn’t know who you are. Besides, if I can hunt down Joseph, he’ll find some tools, and our unprofessionalism will never reach Harrison’s ears.”

  Sean looked at her oddly. “Sure, if you think he hasn’t been arrested yet.”

  She wound her way down the hall, anxiety building. Had Joseph been arrested? She’d given up trying to find him yesterday afternoon, wimping out in the face of Frannie’s drug-induced dismissal, and Harrison’s innate intimidation. Joseph hadn’t greeted them at the front door this morning, and he’d always seemed omnipresent. If he was down at the station, she’d never forgive herself.

  She gnawed on her lower lip as she crossed through the enormous first editions library. Her gaze swept to the far corner and the majestic desk where Devon had sat, blowing her off to take a phone call. How had she missed seeing him as a corporate shark? What a perfect career for someone so emotionally withdrawn.

  No doubt he was just waking up in his Manhattan condo. Making love to his fiancée. A stabbing sensation left her breathless. Maybe they were breakfasting in robes out on their private balcony overlooking Central Park. Why did she care? She was over him. Jaded. She no longer believed in a happily-ever-after.