by MJ Rodgers
He watched her eyes darken in new defiance. She, obviously, still didn’t think he’d kiss her. He leaned down until he was close enough for their breaths to mingle and waited only for the space of a heartbeat before brushing her mouth with his, dipping his tongue in quickly as her lips separated in surprise.
Her taste flared on his tongue, as intoxicating as a lick of hot buttered rum. He pulled back quickly to watch her cheeks color with indignation and warning golden flames flicker in the center of her cinnamon eyes.
The exciting possibilities of seeing those golden flames ignited by passion instead of fury sent scores of images through his head. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms to taste and feel the warm substance of those images.
He might have, too, if he hadn’t suddenly heard a loud thud behind him.
Marc whirled around, a new kind of adrenaline pumping into his body, readying him for action. He peered at the point of the fence from where he judged the noise had come, looking and listening intently. Nothing moved but the rapid beat of his heart.
After a moment, he heard Remy call from behind him. “Who’s there?”
A brown shadow flashed through the wooden slats on the other side of the fence. Marc heard the sound of scurrying feet. He bounded quickly across the grass. He leaped up and grabbed hold of the topmost wooden slat of the eight-foot fence. Then he pulled himself up to peer over the top of the narrow slit that separated the cedar fence from the restraining wire mesh above it.
Marc was just in time to see the back of a ginger-haired man wearing a long ponytail, blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. He ducked behind the building next door.
Marc realized there was no way he could get through the swirls of wire mesh barrier above, so pursuit was out. But he took advantage of his current position to study the ground on the other side of the fence. He saw the large, smashed wooden crate almost instantly, its newly splintered slats sticking up in jagged edges.
Well, that explained the noise he had heard. The guy had been standing on that crate and had proved too heavy for it. But why stand on it at all? The only thing on the other side to look at was the outdoor play area of the Primate Language Studies Lab.
What was here that anyone would want to see?
Marc released his hold on the top of the fence and dropped to his feet. He rubbed the dust off his hands as he turned and retraced his steps back to where Remy waited on the cedar deck.
“This ever happen before?”
She rubbed her hands up and down her sweatered arms as though suddenly chilled. “No. Today was our first day out after two weeks of rain.”
“But something else has happened during that time?” he guessed.
She nodded. “Lately, I’ve had the feeling I’m being followed.”
Marc knew A.J. was thorough, but he hadn’t expected she would do a surveillance on Remy. And even if she had, he doubted her people were sloppy enough to alert Remy.
“When did this feeling start?”
“Right after my name and picture got splashed all over the front pages, thank you very much,” she added pointedly.
Marc ignored the gibe. “Have you seen anyone?”
“No. But sometimes I turn around and it’s as though someone has just darted out of sight.”
“Being suddenly thrust into the public eye could make anyone a little jittery and sensitive.”
Her mouth set and her chin rose. “I’m not a little jittery and sensitive. I’m being followed.”
He smiled at the pique in her tone. “I stand corrected. Who’s normally in this backyard area?”
“The chimp and the children when it’s not raining. There’s nothing for anyone to really see and, certainly, nothing to steal, even if someone could get over the fence, which they can’t.”
Marc’s eyes once again followed the several feet of thickly swirled wire mesh positioned atop the eight-foot fence. There certainly didn’t seem to be any way through that.
“The security guard demanded to see both my identification and the signed authorization from Dr. Feeson before he let me into the building this morning. Have you been having problems with people trying to get in lately?”
“Of course we’ve been having problems. That’s why we have a security guard now. Right after the Bio-Sperm trial was the worst. All sorts of kooks and reporters showed up nearly every day that first week. They banged on the door constantly, and one day one of them jimmied the lock and got in.”
“What happened?”
“Phil ordered him out, after which she called Dr. Feeson and had the university arrange for the security guard to be posted outside during our work hours. Not that it’s stopped the newspeople. They still show up, concocting some of the most outlandish stories to try to get past the guard in order to get to me. If they knew Nicholas was here, I’m sure they’d have been clamoring to try to get at him, too.”
“Maybe that’s who your prowler was—just an overeager reporter looking to get a picture.”
“Just an overeager reporter. Oh, that’s so comforting, Truesdale,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I hate to think what the press will try once they find out about this new suit you’ve dragged Nicholas and me into.”
“Oh, I’m glad you reminded me,” he said, refusing to go on the defensive. “Be at the courthouse nine o’clock sharp Monday morning.”
She glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “I hope you have trouble sleeping nights.”
Her voice had remained mellow, but the little licks of flame had entered her eyes once more.
“Actually, I sleep just great,” he said with a deliberately charming smile as he drew closer to her. “But if you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to come by anytime and check.”
His smile expanded as she stepped quickly back. She’d learned her lesson the last time; she no longer insisted on holding her ground.
Marc smiled as he stepped past her to turn the knob to the back door of the center. It opened easily. “You don’t keep this locked?”
“It remains open only as long as one of us is out here. Last one in locks it.”
“You ever leave the chimps or children out here alone?”
“Never. One of us is always with them.”
A sudden autumn breeze swept through the small yard, rustling the fallen copper leaves beneath the deciduous trees. Remy started at its sound, stepped forward and grabbed Marc’s arm as her eyes darted around nervously.
She was very jumpy. And worried. Marc guessed that this prowler incident had really frightened her. He didn’t blame her.
He put his hand over hers where it still gripped his arm. “It’s all right. If I have to, I’ll hire more security guards to walk the area and make sure the undesirables are kept away.”
She looked up, directly into his eyes. “Good. I’m putting your name at the top of that list of undesirables.”
Then, before Marc knew what was happening, she snatched back her hand, twirled around, snapped open the door and disappeared inside, banging it behind her.
Marc chuckled at her retreat. But the sounds of his amusement quickly died in his throat when he turned the knob to go in after her and found that she had locked him out.
* * *
GAVIN YEAGHER SLAMMED one of his killer serves off the back wall of the racquetball court. Marc recognized it immediately as one of those that was destined to take an idiosyncratic bounce that would defy the laws of both geometry and gravity.
Marc tensed as his sharp eye followed the ball’s trajectory. He was determined not to be fooled this time. Yes, he was certain it would shoot off to the right at a forty-five-degree angle. He dove for it. And missed. The ball lumbered off to the left, barely dribbling three degrees above the floor.
“Ahhggggh!” Marc groaned as he landed nose first on the racquetball court.
Gavin laughed as he walked over to retrieve the ball. He nonchalantly paddled it into the air with his racket, smacking his
gum in his mouth as he strode over to where Marc lay, breathing hard and drenched in sweat. He looked down at him and shook his head.
“A little payback for your beating me at the triathlon this year.”
Marc continued to fight to fill his lungs. “What is it that you do to that ball to make it bounce like that?”
“Maybe someday I’ll tell you,” Gavin said with a wicked smile. He offered his hand to Marc. Marc grasped his friend’s hand and pulled himself to his feet.
“Come on, let’s hit the showers and you can tell me all about this kid who’s supposed to be David’s and what you want me to do about him.”
Marc’s eyebrows rose. “How did you know I came to see you about him?”
“Hey, give me some credit here. I normally trounce you in racquetball on Mondays, not Fridays. You only show up off schedule when you want to talk business.”
“Still, how did you know what business?”
“Simple. First, you cancel out on our two-week water-skiing trip, telling me you’re too involved in some legal thing to get away. Then, the day I get back, you call up and tell me we have to talk. Hell, buddy, even I occasionally read something other than the financial pages. All the papers are still speculating about the billion-dollar-baby claim. So, what’s the story? Is the mother trying to grab David’s estate for her kid?”
“No, nothing like that, Gavin. But you should know, I notified the societies two weeks ago that they wouldn’t be receiving another dime.”
Gavin’s hand gripped Marc’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Marc turned and watched in satisfaction as the surprise stole over his friend’s face.
“There’s only one reason you’d have done that. By God, you think the kid really is David’s!”
Marc smiled as he pushed open the door to the locker room and began to strip in preparation for a shower.
“How can you be sure?” Gavin asked.
Marc laid his sweatshirt on the bench. “Remember that really embarrassing home movie of David as a kid?”
Gavin shook his head as he wrestled his sweatshirt over it.
“Come on, Gavin, you must remember the one. Halloween weekend, our third year in undergraduate school. We spent it at the Demerchant estate. David’s grandmother brought out that old projector and insisted on showing us that baby reel of David as a two-year-old in a tiger costume.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember now,” Gavin said, throwing his sweatshirt to the floor. “Little ole Davy kept tearing off his costume and his diaper every time he said ‘Trick or treat.’ What a hoot! We had a great time needling him. I even had him convinced that I had gotten a copy of that home movie from his grandmother and was going to show it to this cute coed he was dating. Remember when he tore our room apart looking for it?”
“How could I forget? That was the night we poked holes in a couple six-packs of beer and squirted each other in an all-out fight. Damn, that dorm room reeked for weeks. Not the most mature time of our lives.”
“But they were damn good times, Marc. I miss them. Miss ole Davy, too.”
“Yeah. Those days everything seemed possible. We thought we were immortal. I still have trouble believing he’s gone,” Marc said, concentrating a little too pointedly on laying his socks on the bench.
“So,” Gavin said, “something about that home movie business makes you think this kid could be David’s, is that it?”
Marc nodded. “Seeing the kid the other day was like seeing that movie all over again. The boy doesn’t just look like David. He even walks like him. Smiles like him. Everything. It’s...eerie.”
“David’s kid,” Gavin said, smiling. “Well, what do you know? I like it, Marc. It will be good working together on David’s estate—me making the money and you managing it—now that we know we’re doing it on behalf of David’s kid instead of some impersonal nonprofit societies.”
“Speaking of those impersonal societies, I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I want you to use your financial networks to see if either of the presidents of these nonprofit societies have been dabbling in any personal big-time financial maneuvers. They’re fighting my decision to cut them off, of course. I’m looking for any ammunition I can use in return.”
“You suspect misappropriation of David’s trust funds?”
“A.J. has found that Brian Pechman is living pretty high. And Norma Voyce is living far below what seems reasonable. I want to know why.”
“Okay, I’ll check them out. So when does the trust transfer the funds into the boy’s hands?”
“Haven’t you read your copy?”
“Nope,” Gavin said, unlacing his shoes. “Just put it in a file somewhere. Hate to read all that legalese stuff. Anyway, that’s what I keep you around for. So what does it say?”
“A third of the money goes to David’s son when he’s twenty-five, another third when he’s thirty, and the final third when he’s forty.”
“So, until then, it’s business as usual?”
“Almost.”
“Almost? What does that mean?”
“Not to worry. You’ll continue to be in charge of the investments as specified in the trust. Hell, it was your financial wizardry that turned the few measly millions David earned with his first invention into a billion-dollar estate virtually overnight. It would take a crazy person to fire you. I just won’t be part of the team much longer.”
“You won’t? Why not?”
“Because the trusteeship is going to transfer to the mother of David’s son.”
“Remy Westbrook?”
“Yes. According to the provisions of the trust, the estate goes through a complete audit, and she takes over six months from the date that I discovered the boy’s existence—a fact that I very much doubt will please her when she finds out about it. She doesn’t want the money for herself or her child and is refusing to even admit that her son is David’s child.”
“And you told me not to worry. Marc, the estate is going to end up being in the control of somebody who doesn’t care what happens to it!”
“I admit it poses something of a problem.”
“Understatement of the year. What if she refuses to serve as trustee? Will the job automatically default back to you?”
“Once I hand the reins over to her, she’ll either serve or appoint someone else to serve in her place.”
“But, Marc, she could pick anyone. Buddy, we’re talking about a billion dollars here. I mean, it was one thing when the money was just earmarked for some nonprofit groups. But now it rightfully belongs to David’s son. It has to be safeguarded for him, and you say this woman doesn’t even want it.”
“She could change her mind.”
“Even if she does, what if she appoints some cretin who knows nothing about handling money or, worse, some charlatan who is out to bilk the funds? It won’t matter how much money I make on one end if it’s only going to be thrown away on the other.”
“I know what you’re saying, Gavin. Don’t think I haven’t considered the possibilities. I’m not easy about it, either.”
“Damn it, Marc, why in the hell did you write this change-of-trustee thing into David’s living trust in the first place?”
Marc stripped off the last of his clothing and led the way through the doors into the showers. “Because it seemed perfectly natural that the mother should become the trustee of her child’s estate in the event something happened to David. Hell, Gavin, I never thought David would have a child this way, never even knowing the mother.”
Gavin shook his head. “Well, Marc, old buddy, looks like you blew it. Any tricks left you can pull out of your legal hat?”
“Not a one.”
“You do understand that remaining as trustee of his estate is the only way you can really protect the financial future of David’s kid, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Any chance the kid’s mother will appoint you?”
“At the moment, no.”
&nb
sp; “Then what in the hell are you going to do?”
“The only thing left,” Marc said. “I’m going to sweep her off her feet and get her to change her mind.”
“You? Sweep a woman off her feet?”
“Why the surprise, Gavin? You know I have no trouble where women are concerned.”
“That’s the point. You have no trouble because the women have always come after you. You’d better leave this Remy Westbrook to me.”
“No way, Gavin. She’s mine,” Marc said as he stepped into the shower and turned on the water full blast, immensely irritated at the image of Gavin going after Remy.
“You’re making a mistake, Marc.”
“No, I know exactly what I’m doing,” Marc said, licking his lips and swearing he could still taste hot buttered rum.
* * *
REMY SAT AT THE KITCHEN table, working late into the night. She was evaluating and quantifying the most recent data from the sign-language sessions between the children and the chimp for entry into the computer the following morning.
She had put Nicholas to bed hours before. The old house creaked around her as the wind and the rain battered the worn wooden shutters. The coffee in her cup was cold. The ache between her shoulder blades was beginning to stab. But there was a smile on her face.
The preliminary results of her and Phil’s work were fascinating. In the separate sessions between just the two children, neither progressed very far in learning sign language. In the separate sessions between a researcher and the chimp, the chimp learned the signs, but the progress was painfully slow.
However, in the sessions between one child and the chimp or between both children and the chimp, the learning curve for both the children and the chimp rose substantially.
Why? What was at work here?
Remy was filled with the impatience of every scientist who had glimpsed something out of the ordinary and wanted so much to charge ahead to discover the reason. But she knew there would be no charging ahead. She and Phil were at the beginning—the very beginning—of a lifetime of work. The scientific method involved a painstakingly slow, methodical process that would only reveal answers after many years. If it revealed them at all.
