by Lori Ryan
Now anger crossed Warrick’s face. “You should have fought harder. You should have tried harder.”
“Sleep it off Warrick,” Simms said, ushering Sara out of the office with one hand on her shoulder. He shut the door behind them, then turned to apologize. “Sorry about that. I had a feeling he might not get himself home for that this year, what with selling the house and all. He’s got the condo to go to of course, but I figured I would check here for him.”
“This year?” Sara didn’t know why she was asking anything. She should go. She could give the report to him at work in the morning.
“He does this every year. It’s the anniversary of his wife’s death. Only time he drinks.” Simms looked back at the office door and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll stick around a few hours then see if I can wake him up and drive him home. Thank you for your help. I’m Warrick’s uncle, Jonathan.” He extended his hand and she shook it, still a little stunned at what she’d just witnessed. She honestly wasn’t sure what to think of Simms. The employees here talked about him as if he were greatly missed. They made him sound like he was Santa Claus or something. Always happy, always kind and friendly to everyone.
To her, he was partly responsible for a number of people being killed, including veterans. She was friends with Jax Cutter, who had lost his best friend, Leo Kent. Leo had been a Marine at one time, but battles with PTSD and alcohol had led him to the streets. He’d been one of the men killed by William Tyvek.
She couldn’t help but feel Jonathan Simms should have foreseen something. Then again, who would’ve foreseen what William Tyvek had done? Still, going to him with the formula that was proprietary just because his own company had decided they wouldn’t work on the drug any longer, had been the catalyst for everything that had happened from there.
“Sara Blackburn.” She shook his hand. “Why was he calling me Vicki back there?” She tilted her head toward the door and fought the urge to shiver at the strange feeling she had.
“It’s nothing,” Simms said. “His wife’s name was Vicki.” He squinted his eyes at Sara. “I guess you do have her eyes. It’s not the exact eye color or anything like that. It’s hard to put my finger on it. Her hair was a completely different color and her face was a different shape. But there’s something about your eyes that look just like hers.”
Sara took a step back. It was odd being told you looked like a dead woman. Or rather didn’t exactly look like a dead woman, but sort of looked like her. The whole incident was odd and she wanted nothing more than to get out of there.
“Okay, well I’m just going to get going.”
He didn’t argue, nor did he say anything as she walked toward the elevators. She looked back and saw him settle himself on one of the lobby couches. She’d be lying to herself if she said she wouldn’t spend the ride home wondering what Warrick’s questions had meant.
Chapter 6
Warrick knocked on the door frame of Sara’s open office. “Got a minute?”
She swiveled in her chair to face him. “Sure, what’s up?”
He had to hand it to her, she was doing a damned good job of acting like nothing happened the night before. He was grateful for her performance. The physical effects of his night were killing him, but worse, he was embarrassed anyone besides Jonathan had seen him that way.
He glanced over his shoulder and stepped in. “I just wanted to say I’m…” He paused, not really sure what to say here. He never had to apologize to someone who worked for him for making a fool of himself, for putting them in the uncomfortable situation of seeing him not only wasted, but falling down.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for last night. It was completely unprofessional and it won’t happen again.” God, he sounded like an ass.
She nodded and turned back to her computer, apparently either not bothered in the least by his behavior or not caring if he apologized.
He stood there for a minute trying to figure out how to tell her the rest of it. No, tell was wrong. He wouldn’t tell her anything. He hadn’t shared anything with anyone about his wife or what had happened the night his wife had died. But for some reason he needed her to know that what she was thinking wasn’t right. Because he knew exactly what it would sound like.
“I just want you to know I wasn’t talking about a mistress.”
Now she spun with her mouth open. “I’m sorry, what?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Shit. Look, I’m screwing this all up. I just wanted you to know I wasn’t cheating on my wife.” He remembered what he’d said last night in his drunken stupor and it had hit him earlier that it would sound very much like he’d been having an affair. Vicki and he had had their issues—Lord knew they had their issues—but he never in a million years would’ve cheated on his wife. He didn’t know why, but he wanted Sara to know that. “I loved my wife. I never cheated on her. I just want you to know that. It’s important to me that people know that.”
“Okay.” She nodded again and turned away from him, but turned back almost as quickly. “So who were you talking about? Who is the her?” She stilled for a moment as she seemed to realize what she'd just asked, and shook her head. “No, sorry, never mind. Don’t answer that. It’s not my business and I don’t need to know.”
Which was good, since he could never say the words. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took her at her word, changing the subject without answering her question. “I got your report on the manufacturing set-up. We’ll need a facility that lets us come fit the prostheses and helps us match up with people who need them. I was thinking we might talk to Carrie about using some of the extra space she has at the shelter.”
“She has extra space at the shelter?”
Warrick nodded and walked into the office, taking one of the chairs she had in front of her desk and sinking down into it. His body felt wrecked from the treatment he’d given it last night, and he realized he should have brought his water bottle down with him. He needed to hydrate if he was going to get through the day. “With Connecticut’s new initiatives to end chronic homelessness, the shelter actually has open space. She was planning to turn a lot of it into additional clinic space. Of course, they have a lot of bad press to overcome right now, so that might not be an option any more. Honestly, they’re probably suffering more in this whole thing than we are. They lost a lot of funding. I was able to make some of it up, but of course the Tyvek contributions are gone, and many other small contributors have walked away after the scandal.”
“Yeah, well, having your doctors test on their homeless constituents will do that to you.”
Warrick looked up sharply. “Carrie had no idea. I swear to you, she’s a good person.”
“I believe you. I know she didn’t know what was going on. You have to be honest though, that in and of itself is a little troubling. The fact she and the director had no idea this was happening doesn’t exactly speak well about their ability to do their jobs.”
Sara wondered if she should just quit her job right now. She seemed to have an inability to keep her mouth shut when she should keep her opinions to herself. She watched Warrick’s face and saw the flicker of anger in his eyes, but also saw him get it under control. With the exception of last night, control seemed to be what he excelled at. She wondered if he ever let any of that emotion out.
Not that she cared.
Warrick nodded slowly. “I see your point, but they are good at what they do. Even the other doctors didn’t seem to know what was happening.” He sighed. “I don’t know if it would help matters or hurt things if we continue to get involved with the clinic. I mean, it could help if we were there once a month fitting veterans with free prostheses. Or, people could see it as a bad thing that the clinic would still be involved with us after everything that happened.”
“If it’s a chance the shelter is willing to take, I guess you should take advantage of that. And it’s not like there’s any danger to the veterans here. We’re helping them by giving them a free prosthesis. Th
ey could spin it as them reaffirming their commitment to help veterans and those in need.” Sara fidgeted with the pencil on her desk with her right hand. He made her nervous, and she didn’t like to think about why that was.
Sara hadn’t thought about sex since her fiancé had walked out of her hospital room a month after she’d come home from her overseas tour. At least not sex where someone else was involved in the equation. She blamed Samantha for the thoughts that ran through her head every time she saw Warrick. Samantha had been the one to put the ideas there. Ideas about what he would look like under that suit. What he would be like if he let loose. What being in bed with him would be like.
Hot. Hot as hell is what it would be like. It didn’t take a genius to see that. A man couldn’t look like he did, move the way he did, and have the confidence he did without taking command in bed. Sara squirmed in her chair at the thought.
“You seem like you don’t want to be here,” he said, tilting his head and studying her with those eyes that overwhelmed her.
Sara swallowed and caught herself. For a minute, she’d thought he could see right through her. That he could see she wanted to be in bed, not in the office. She had to push down the laughter as she realized he meant at Simms, working on the project with him. Well, that much was true. She still had mixed feelings on that one.
“The jury’s out,” she said, not offering more.
She hoped that would be it, but he sat there, watching her. She could see the challenge in his eyes. He wasn’t saying it, but he was calling her a chicken for not telling him more. Those damned eyes of his said everything.
She huffed. “I don’t like feeling like a poster child for gimps just so you and the shelter can save your asses.”
He watched her for a minute, then nodded. “Cool, then we’ll cast you as the smart-as-hell hottie who built her own prostheses and is sharing that technology with the world for free.”
He stood and walked out, leaving her staring after him with her chin on the floor.
Hottie?
Chapter 7
Warrick looked down at the bag of potting soil and tried to judge if he’d put enough in the giant planter he’d set in the corner of the room. He looked up at the sun shining through the French doors and hoped it would be enough. The woman at the gardening center had told him he might have enough sun for the rose bush on the south-facing patio. She’d also assured him this was the right kind of soil and the ceramic planter was large enough to let the rose flourish for the next couple of years until he had a yard to plant it in again. He hoped so. The pot was as big around as a tractor tire and as tall as his hip.
He tugged at the knot on the burlap wrapped around the root ball, loosening it before lifting it into the pot.
“Warrick! You here?” His Uncle Jonathan walked through the living room.
“Yeah. Out here!” Warrick wiped at his brow with the back of one hand, then looked at the dirt on his pants and shirt. He probably should have changed out of his work clothes for this. He’d taken off his coat and tie, but his dress shirt and pants didn’t need this kind of abuse. Maybe he should get rid of his suits. He shouldn’t really need to dress like a damned banker. He owned the company. He could put a business casual dress code in at work and be done with it. He was sure none of his employees would object.
“What are you doing?” From the tone, his uncle sounded like he’d caught him milking a cow in his condo instead of planting a rose.
“Transplanted it from the house.” He didn’t turn around as he answered, but instead busied himself packing the soil around the roots and pressing it into place. “Shit.”
“What?” His uncle came and peered with Warrick at the soil in the planter.
“I was supposed to add water before I topped off the soil.”
“Does it matter?”
Warrick didn’t know. “The woman at the gardening place told me to do it that way.”
“You could scoop out the dirt, then water it and put it back.” The two stood staring at the plant, as though the answer might appear in the dirt.
“She said keep the disruption to a minimum. Apparently, roses stress easily.” Warrick lifted the bucket he’d filled with water and poured it around the base of the bush.
“Roses stress?” Jonathan looked perplexed.
“Apparently,” Warrick repeated. He added more water to the planter, then set down the bucket and went to the kitchen, trailed by Jonathan. Things hadn't been the same between them since Warrick discovered Jonathan had shared confidential information from Simms Pharmaceutical with William Tyvek. It had felt like a punch to the gut to find out Jonathan had supplied the information Tyvek had used to kill people and frame Warrick, even though he’d done it unwittingly.
But, aside from his mother and some distant cousins, Jonathan was Warrick’s only family. He wouldn’t be having a family of his own, he thought, as his eyes cut back to the rose bush on the patio. Their family line would be coming to an end with him. As dramatic as that seemed, for a family like his, it was a big deal. Another way he’d let his father down.
He’d never forget the fight he had with his dad only days before his dad had died. It didn’t matter that cancer was kicking his ass. His dad had still wanted to tell Warrick he was letting him down. Not having a son to carry on the Staunton name or even a daughter to carry the Simms and Staunton blood had topped the list.
“Even your prick can’t get it right,” his dad had said with a laugh, right in front of one of his nurses. His dad had always been crude and blasé where “the staff” was concerned. To him, anyone who worked for them was the staff, even if she was a highly skilled nurse making sure he was as comfortable as possible in his last days. As far as his father was concerned, she was being paid to ignore anything she heard. This particular nurse had rolled her eyes behind his father’s back in what Warrick guessed was an attempt to make him feel better.
He’d appreciated it, even though he hadn’t cared much that his father thought his “prick” wasn’t good enough. What he’d cared about was that, in his father’s final hours, they still couldn’t find a way to connect. He’d left the room, and his father had slipped into a coma shortly after.
He hadn’t woken up.
Warrick pulled himself from his thoughts and rinsed his hands, watching the dirt run down the kitchen drain. “Beer?” He asked his uncle, then grabbed two from the fridge when he received an answering nod.
“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
His uncle’s question made him pause, beer halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”
Jonathan smiled, but there was pain and sadness behind it. “I can see you’ve got one foot out the door. You’re planning to pull the company out of the tailspin and then leave, aren’t you?”
Warrick set down his beer and nodded. “Yeah, probably.” He and his uncle had always been close. In fact, sometimes it amazed Warrick that his mom and his uncle had been raised by the same people. His mom hadn’t had time for him. She and his dad liked to travel. They’d been happy to have other people raise him.
But Uncle Jonathan had always been there for Warrick. Sure, he was a bit of a spacey guy at times, burying himself in the lab when something caught his focus. But, for the most part, he’d been there for Jonathan when his parents hadn’t.
His uncle looked sad now, and Warrick hoped he wasn’t going to apologize again. He didn’t know if he could take that. He knew Jonathan was sorry. And he forgave him. The only problem was, the wound had cut deep. It would take time to scar over.
“Where will you go?”
Warrick shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure I’ll go anywhere. I might just stay here and do something new.”
Now Jonathan’s eyes lit. “Is something calling to you?”
Warrick laughed. Jonathan had always talked about the way science called to him. He’d wanted that for Warrick, but Warrick hadn’t felt that same draw to anything. He was meant to lead the family company. That was
what his role was. His dad had never had an interest in running it. He’d wanted to spend the money it supplied, but that was it. Warrick had plunged neck deep into running the business when his turn had come.
“Sorry, Uncle Jonathan. Nothing is calling to me.”
“So what will you do?”
“I have no idea. I just know I shouldn’t be doing this anymore.”
Before his uncle could say anything more, the doorbell rang. Warrick wasn’t expecting anyone. In fact, not a lot of people knew where his new place was. Not that he had people visit him at his house even when he lived at the old address.
His uncle followed him out toward the door. “Oh, that’ll be Jack, Andrew, and Chad.”
“Excuse me?” Warrick turned to look at his uncle.
“Open it, open it.” Jonathan waved his hands toward the door. “They’re here to pick you up.”
“Pick me up for what?” Warrick asked as he swung open the door.
“Basketball.” Andrew Weston walked through the door, flanked by Jack Sutton and Chad Thompson. Jack was the one that Warrick knew best, having worked with him a few times as Sutton Capital took on its new role with Simms Pharmaceutical. He’d met Andrew Weston, Sutton Capital’s chief financial officer and Chad Thompson, Sutton’s head of security and Jack’s cousin, during the negotiations. He liked all three of the men, but he hadn’t expected them to show up on his doorstep.
“And we don’t have much time,” Jack said. “We need to be on the court by seven.”
Andrew looked at Warrick’s clothes. “It’s an interesting look,” he said, no doubt in reference to the dirt that still clung to the front of Warrick’s suit. “I’m afraid it’s not going to work for basketball.”
“Uh.” Warrick looked at the three men, then back to Jonathan. “What?”
