by Sarah Andre
“Where’s Todd now?” Harrison asked.
Devon looked his father right in the eye. “He’s down in the basement. Behind the boxes marked Easter decorations.” Francine bounced off the sofa and hurried across the room, her sweatpants sagging at the butt, her socks noiseless as she fled out the door. “I’ll need my cell phone back,” Devon called.
Harrison glared down at Brady, clearly conscious and clearly anticipating the old man’s wrath. “Joseph, throw this man out of my house, and have him arrested if he ever trespasses on this property again.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“And Detective,” Harrison said, in the same mild-mannered tone, “arrest that man.”
“Jesus.” Devon shook his head. “Can we just talk about Rogers Park, Father?”
“Arrest your son, sir?”
“No, we cannot talk about Rogers Park, and yes, Detective, my son.”
“On what charge?” Devon asked in resignation. “Protecting your grandson?” He balled his hands at his sides, immediately realizing his mistake when the detective and his father glanced at them. He flexed his fingers, but the simmering hate built, shaking him to his core.
“I don’t care what you boys charge him with, but keep detaining him until you find the proof you need that he murdered my fiancée.” Harrison spun on his heel and left. The detective stuffed his notebook in his breast pocket as Joseph assisted Brady off the floor and out of the room. Devon offered his wrists, psyching himself up to spend another few hours in that uncomfortable metal chair.
“I suggest you leave here lickety-split, son. I have no cause to take you downtown, but the longer you remain here, the more I’ll be forced to find something.”
Devon nodded. No doubt Harrison had his clutches deep inside the upper echelons of the WPD. “Thank you,” he said, hearing the pitiful relief and not caring. He walked back to the foyer, massaging his hand, which sported minor bruises and red welts from the spilled coffee. Joseph opened the door and helped a stumbling Brady out. In the distance, thunder split into an ear-shattering boom.
Static energy shivered through Devon. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be stuck here until the weather cleared. Storms over Lake Michigan were living beasts, surging waves that slammed into the cliff, shaking this ancient house to its foundation. Driving the curving suburban roads would be hazardous, flooding likely.
On the other hand, he was reluctant to follow Brady out this soon. He didn’t trust himself in a second encounter; the need to unleash was still too near the surface. Should he ignore caution and dog his father for new insight on why Rogers Park warranted a takeover? No, the old man was fixated on having him arrested. He’d give Harrison some space, and hope for more evidence from the PI.
Lightning lit the foyer. He counted the seconds… Eighteen before more thunder cracked. Maybe he could find an excuse to return to the basement and shove himself into Hannah’s life, because those invisible ties that had bound him to her so long ago had tangled around him again. She was right. He should never have walked off that night. It’d taken twelve goddamn years, but he got it now. He could’ve manned up and taken a job somewhere, found a buddy to let him bunk on a sofa. He debated going to tell her so she’d know with absolute certainty that he understood the depth of his mistake. Aw, hell. Just leave her alone.
The door opened, and Joseph stepped onto the threshold, his white hair billowing wildly. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
The temperature seemed to have dropped another ten degrees, and Devon bit back a shiver. He stood aside, and as the butler strode past, he watched Brady’s red Porsche taking the long driveway at Mach 2.
“This came for you a short while ago.”
Devon closed the door and turned. Joseph was picking up an express-mail envelope from the console. “Thank you.”
“Will you be leaving, sir?”
“Soon.”
“I’ll collect your coat.”
“Go update Ms. Farlow on all the drama.” He grinned at the old man. “I can get my own coat.” It was so easy to fall into a state of helplessness around here.
Once the butler disappeared into the breakfast room, he slit open the envelope. Wedged in the left corner was Nicole’s diamond ring. Not packaged, or stuck inside a smaller envelope, or even wrapped in a tissue. Just the platinum-set, four-and-a-half-carat, ideal-cut, D-color solitaire winking up at him. Ring’s in the mail, pal. So much for a figure of speech.
Should he be impressed or humiliated that she’d paid premium to make sure he got it on a Sunday? And it wasn’t lost on him that his thoughts shifted immediately to the corporate fallout this would have. Tucker would pull out every last crony. It didn’t matter whether Harrison stole the company. The final song on the Titanic was fading, and the lifeboats were long gone. There wasn’t even a one percent chance Ashby Enterprises would survive all this. His inheritance would disappear in default. Several moments passed before he got his breath under control.
He put a call in to Eric, who didn’t answer. Shit. He texted: Call. It’s urgent. He peered down at the ring, luminous even wedged in cardboard. She should have kept it; he didn’t want the damn thing.
Wait a minute. He turned the envelope over, and the ring tumbled into his palm. Maybe he’d just found a legitimate reason to see Hannah again.
“Hey, Uncle Devon.”
He turned and forced a grin at the boy lurking in the shadows. “Did you save any donuts?” The boy blushed, and Devon laughed. “No worries; I’d have done the same thing. Where’s your mom?”
“Upstairs crying.”
Jeez. Did Todd know Devon had just beaten Brady to a pulp? He shifted his weight, squeezing the ring in his fist. Just as he was about to utter a blanket apology for anything his nephew might or might not know, Todd brightened.
“You wanna play Grand Theft Auto Five?”
Devon kept the smile on his face as his mind screamed the instinctive answer. But he’d blown the guy off for two meals and returned him to a house he’d tried to run away from. The least he could do was look like an idiot playing someone with “a hundred percent completion,” whatever the hell that meant.
“Lead the way,” he said. “But get ready for an ass whooping.”
“Yeah,” Todd said. “Yours.”
Chapter 25
“We’d better stop,” Hannah yelled. Thunder boomed in surround sound, and a vicious squall slammed her into the Moore and Morrow van. She steadied her footing and shouted, “Hurry, it’s getting too dangerous.”
Sean nodded, eyes screwed against the flying foliage and twigs. Together they shoved the crated painting farther into the belly of the van, and she scrambled in to secure it to the custom rails with bungee cord. She hopped back out and stood clear as he body-slammed the doors. Each blast of wind ripped more strands from her ponytail to swirl like mini tornados. She futilely pushed her hair back from her face, her fingers shaking from the cold. Her cheeks felt raw and inflamed, and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
“Get in,” Sean hollered, even though he was only several feet away.
Hannah shook her head and gestured behind her. “I have to finish the second gallery. I’ll order an Uber.”
He nodded again and shoved his hands into his jeans, his lean body curling like a billowing sail against the wind as he made his way around to the driver’s side. For an instant, she almost went after him. It was four in the afternoon, and they’d been delayed from carrying these to the van because of rain on and off. Why not quit for the day? To hell with the mess of packing paper and board strewn about the basement, or the second gallery barely inspected. She’d grab this ride while she had a chance—return bright and early tomorrow.
In two steps, she halted. This was the Wickham project. The profit would push them to a new tier of operating, and their swiftness and professionalism here would reverberate in the art industry for years. Even if she was no longer going to be a partner, responsibility forced her to wave good-bye to Sean.
As the van roared to life, she raced into the warm foyer. The wind sucked the doorknob from her grasp, and the massive door slammed shut, echoing like a sawed-off shotgun. Hannah cringed, glancing around for Joseph, or any staff. The great hall held the gloom of evening, the silence thick and creepy. Seconds passed. Where was everybody? It must be her imagination, but the house seemed to shudder. What the hell?
The dark foyer double-flashed blinding neon, followed by a roll of thunder reverberating so low, the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Shuddering, Hannah folded her jacket and laid it beside the statue of Zeus. She rubbed her cheeks until they warmed and glanced around again.
She’d been here half a week; not once had she stood in this main hall and not encountered a variety of servants crossing through it. The foyer lights were on long before it ever got this dark in here. Seriously, where was everyone?
Footsteps rang, swift and dominant. Thank God. She turned to apologize to Joseph for the racket, but it was Devon. Her mouth dropped open. He’s back? Maybe it was the electric atmosphere, but tension emanated off him like a force field. He stalked closer, his long-legged stride stiff, his posture impossibly rigid. A brutal scowl marred his handsome face.
She frowned. Maybe she’d finally gone round the bend, and he was just her imagination. Nothing could’ve brought him back here—he’d told her so last night. But the white buttoned-down shirt had fold lines. Part of one cuff was coffee-stained. The hand beneath red and swollen. She didn’t daydream in such detail.
He was ten feet away and closing in fast. She stared up at that frown, pulse skittering. Another fucking confrontation. She’d gotten in the last word the night before, and he wasn’t letting it go. She drew her shoulders back, mouth suddenly dust dry. She was sick of being afraid, of not sticking up for herself and her needs. She was going to give it to him with both barrels.
He halted in front of her, torso muscles rippling beneath the fitted shirt as though he was bracing himself for something. “Hi.” His tone was low, his eyes a shocking blue with dark circles beneath.
“Why are you here?” It came out exasperated. Rude. A part of her was thrilled.
His scowl flickered to surprise. “Frannie had a problem.”
“Don’t tell me…that only you could solve?”
He studied her like she was an alien species. “Under the circumstances—yes. What’s wrong with you?”
She clawed the mess of hair behind her shoulders, suddenly physically and emotionally drained. The upheaval with him last night and this morning with Bernice, then hammering crates for paintings, and struggling under their precious weight to transfer them into the van in this freezing weather… “It’s been a shitty day.” Lightning flashed, illuminating the stark angles of his handsome face.
“Try getting your ass handed to you by an eleven-year-old all afternoon,” he muttered. The scowl flickered back, but then he grinned, and her heart fluttered up to her throat like a cartoon bird. She was so pathetic! “Sorry.” He stuck a hand into the pocket of those formfitting jeans. “I’m sure your day was shittier than the video game from hell, but I’m about to make it better. I’ve found a way to solve your problem.”
Maybe if she’d had more sleep or they’d parted on less hostile terms, she’d have come up with a pleasant response, but his tone drove an iron rod through her spine. “Which problem, Devon? Moving my chronically ill great-aunt? Selling my partnership? Finding out the guy I once thought roped the moon is a heartless corporate shark?” She threw her hands up and let them fall until they slapped her hips. The sound was lost in the rolling thunder.
He frowned, pulled his hand out, and opened his fingers. In the center of his palm lay a gargantuan diamond ring. Even in the dim hallway, it glittered like fire. “Take it.” His voice was soft. When she didn’t move, he picked up her hand and placed the beautiful ring onto her palm. She stared at it hypnotically. It shone like it was alive. It was so heavy! And huge. And…beautiful. The band was warm from being in his pocket, and her chilled fingers closed over it. She lifted her eyes. He was clearly waiting for a response.
Wait, a ring? Solving a problem? He was proposing? Her thoughts fragmented in a million directions. “Take it?” she whispered.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
She blinked. “That’s…the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”
His brows rose close to his hairline. “It isn’t a proposal, Han. Either my company or my father’s is going to raze your neighborhood. That train has left the station, and no apology will ever be enough. Here’s a solution so you don’t have to sell your partnership.” He nodded at the glittering gem in distaste. “Hock it. You need money, and I don’t want it. Problem solved.” His cell phone rang, and he reached into his pocket.
She blocked his arm. “What?”
“I’ve made your life miserable, and I’m fixing it. Take the emotions out of the gesture and think about this rationally.” He pulled the phone out and glanced at the screen. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.” He turned his back on her. “Yeah, hi, Eric.”
He began walking away, as if the phone call was more important than…this! Giving her his fiancée’s ring?
“Are you kidding me?” She whipped it at his broad back, and he stiffened on impact. The ring fell to the marble with a tink. “If you think you can assuage your guilt by bribing me with that, then you’re stupider than I ever thought possible, you son of a bitch!” She spun around and fled up the grand staircase.
“So,” Eric said, “whoever the hell that was confirms you really are clinically retarded when it comes to the workings of a woman.”
Devon muttered incoherently, scooping Nicole’s ring off the black tile. He was at a complete loss. His plan was brilliant. Yeah, it was a used ring, but for fuck’s sake, take the symbolism out of it, and it was a solution! He’d paid enough for it that Hannah would never have to worry about finances again. His pulse thumped wildly as her frozen expression stayed in his head. She’d thought take it was a proposal? He’d fucking botched this good. “What’s going on at your end?”
“Back at the office, going through files.”
Devon’s gut seized. “What aren’t you telling me, Eric?”
“Nothing. If Wickham Corp marches in on Monday, I don’t want us to get caught with our pants down. I’m buried in stacks, making sure everything’s in the right sequence and accounted for.”
A flash of lightning almost blinded Devon. “Call Sally in to help.”
“I know where everything is, and how to do it right. It’ll take longer to explain my OCD methods than to just do it myself.” Even with thunder booming through the foyer, Eric’s voice sounded thin and exhausted.
Had he been at this since last night?
“Eric, seriously. Call Sally. You need to rest.”
“Why’d you call?” His tone was brusquer than Devon had ever heard before. Eric was the jokester, the guy who impulsively told the staff to take off an hour early on a Friday and paid for their first round of drinks. Where Devon was the workaholic with the drive, the ideas, and the contacts, his cousin schmoozed investors’ money from them and figured out how to double their profits. Eric choosing to work all weekend was as shocking as having a ring whipped at him, but to worry was a waste of time. There was nothing fishy on their books; the board would have caught it long before now.
Devon sighed. The last few days had been a disaster for both of them. “Just got Nicole’s ring back,” he said instead.
“Shit.”
“I gotta find Harrison and finish this. Even if I did convince him to do a catch and release, Tucker’s definitely pulling out, Westcott’s flipped us off, and our shareholders are mostly made up of their cronies.”
“We are so fucked,” Eric mumbled.
Devon frowned. “You, of all people, taught me to never give up,” he said sharply, “and to never take no as a final decision. Maybe I can turn this around and convince my father to be an investor instead, but you need t
o give me something to twist his arm. Did the investigator pull up any suspicious activity during the initial Rogers Park construction?”
“We’ve got nothing. No doubt Wickham Corp used asbestos like everyone else, and although there are a bunch of class-action lawsuits for mesothelioma, it’s directed at construction workers or insulation repairmen. Taking our land will make no difference.”
Devon sighed his aggravation. “Keep me posted if anything changes.” He hung up and slipped the cell phone in his pocket. It clinked against Nicole’s ring. Hannah. A low burn ignited in his belly.
Outside, rain drummed on the driveway and blew in sheets against the rattling windows. Devon bolted up the main staircase, jaw set.
Chapter 26
“Stupid jerk,” Hannah muttered as she stormed through the first editions library. Her clenched fists began to cramp, and she shook out her hands, huffing a breath. Actually, Devon handing her his fiancée’s ring was perfect, because she was done excusing his emotionally stunted behavior. Growing up with a father who didn’t like children could only go so far. She turned left. The long hall stretched before her, and abruptly she slowed her pace. Icy fingers skittered along her spine as she tuned into the unusual silence up here too.
She hadn’t passed anyone in the halls the whole way here: no music was playing, no voices in the distance—not even the roar of industrial fans. Someone had to be upstairs, though, because lights blazed throughout the second floor. Hannah walked right past the final few paintings in the sitting room and down more halls, her eyes peeled, ears straining. “Hello?” Only eerie silence inside and shrieking fury outside. Dread settled in her chest. As in: horror-movie, something-was-about-to-happen dread.
