by J. A. Coffey
Hm. She shoved the panties back into the drawer. "Don't trash my bathroom," she called out. "I've got to shower."
He cracked the door, and she could hear him urinating. "If you really wanted to get caught, Princess, you would have showered there."
Chapter Sixteen
Considering her morning, Jess got to work only a half-hour late. The good-natured ribbing of her staff turned to concern as she shared the news of her night. Since everyone had met Darius, and- she suspected they were aware of her blossoming feelings for him- they all wished him well.
Mrs. Boscoe stormed in and waved for Jess. She suppressed a groan and plastered a large grin on her face. "Mrs. Boscoe, how are you this fine day?" It was a fine day, but Boscoe wouldn't know that. She lived so firmly in the future that the present was currently her past.
The imperious woman looked right through her and around the store. "Where are the new arrivals?"
"Of course, Mrs. Boscoe. We haven't arranged them yet. They're back here." She led her to the back room, where everything was a hodgepodge while they rearranged up front. "These were out of England and just got here two days ago."
"No, no, no." A dismissing wave accompanied her words. "I'm looking for the estate ones. The ones that are all over the news."
Now she wanted to growl. "Oh, the Covington estate? I'm sorry, it's all still in deliberation. We can add your name to the list of people interested." The very bottom, she decided.
"I want the Rococo sideboard. The one in the great room. And I don't care how much I have to pay for it, you got that?"
The one Jess and Darius had first met and talked over.
Jealousy gripped Jess' chest and held it in a metal fist. Boscoe had a tendency to buy and return items three months later, insisting on a full refund after scratching, marring, chipping or breaking pieces on them. It never mattered how much she spent on them because she always assumed she would be getting a full refund back.
Perfect time to implement a new return policy- or lack thereof.
Jess vowed right there that this particular antique would come straight to her own house. Better the basement than Boscoe's.
"Okay," she hedged, leading Mrs. Boscoe to the register and taking out the request book for her. "May I have your phone number? I can call you when the estate gets settled." As if. She waited while the woman scrawled her information in it and then underlined the words "Rococo sideboard" several times with a hard pen stroke.
But the shrew fastened her gaze on Jess and pointed. "Wait. The papers say you're getting the estate. What's to settle?"
Jess took the notepad back and placed it under the counter, wanting to tear this particular request out of the book. "It's all now in litigation. We're not sure we're getting any of them until a judge reviews the case."
Incredulous, she stood taller and proclaimed, "But you're in the Will. This is ridiculous."
She shrugged, not wanting to keep this woman in her store any longer than possible. "People dispute Wills all the time. Our case is being disputed." She gave her a smile. "But you'll hear from us soon."
The woman sniffed out her disdain and headed towards the front door.
Once the harbinger of horrible children left, Jess hid out in her office. She just knew if she looked hard enough, she could find a bill to pay or invoice to file or estate to call about.
Something in her purse rang. It was a phone, just not her phone. She fished it out and saw her name on Jeremy's caller ID. "Hello?"
"Hi, Cookie."
She knew they could not possibly have accidentally exchanged phones. "How did our phones get swapped, Jeremy?"
"Now, Cookie, don't be mad, but I'm going to Cape Cod for a few days. With your phone."
Something prickled the back of her skull. "Ok, just give me my saved numbers, and I'll see you when you get back."
His tone changed. "You only have seven phone numbers saved." He rattled off, "You better know my numbers and your parents numbers by heart. You don't need a haircut or mani-pedi for three days. Your brother will live without your call, I'm sure."
"Jeremy." She knew where this was going. "Give me Darius' number."
"A good friend passes along all important messages, dear."
Her teeth clenched.
"A fairy godmother screens all calls. Tootles." He hung up.
"You dirty bastard," she grinned and mumbled into the dead phone. Never had he resorted to this level. Could he see Darius as a threat to their friendship? Or did Jeremy truly believe he did what was best for her love life?
Another call had come in on the business line, but one of her staff had gotten it. Arthur rapped on her door. "Darius, line one."
Mentally sticking out her tongue to Jeremy felt profoundly satisfying, if childish. She picked up and said, "Hey, how are you feeling?"
He seemed quiet. "I'm okay. You?"
"Except for Jeremy stealing my phone, I'm fine." She grinned. "Miss me already?"
"Too much." But she sensed he paused.
Another round of prickling manifested at the base of her skull. "Is...everything alright?" So much for asking for his phone number.
"Jess...." he blew out a breath. "I'm a little concerned for you. I mean, what if you had been in the car with me? What if this really is over the antiques?"
She had been shaking her head the whole time. "It can't be. I've been thinking. Only my staff and you are really involved in it, and everyone was present and accounted for yesterday. And their cars."
"Okay...." he trailed off. "That was only the first reason. The second is...all those things I said."
As if any woman would ever forget those words! "About wanting to catch me?" And never letting go. She thrilled at the prospect, but his silence told her otherwise. She replayed the entire evening in her head and knew she found it when she ventured, "Fear of the dark?"
"I'm not afraid of the dark, Jess. The drugs made me feel, I don't know, spacey. I'm all bruised and battered, and my face is turning purple and green, and, well, Jess...."
"You don't want to look weak in front of me." Not only did she have a brother, she had cops for parents. She knew all about strong outward appearances.
He made no utterance to negate her suspicions.
"Dar?"
"Point is, Jess, I had a concussion. And a car accident. I don't want you seeing me broken and damaged like this, because, whether or not you believe it, you're going to start seeing me as weak, or at the very least, just a friend.
"I'm not weak, Jess. And maybe being just friends is alright with you, but I'm not ready to stop right there. Not yet. Not now. Three or four days of you at my sickbed is not going to endear me to you as dating material, I guarantee it. So...I don't want you seeing me like this."
Everything around her froze, as if she stepped into a painting, or a movie set. "What are you saying?"
"I'm asking you, please, don't visit me here. Not like this. I'll call you when I'm checking out." He took a deep breath. "Will that be alright? Will you do this for me?"
Not see Darius? For how long? Couldn't even call him, thanks to Jeremy. She remembered what the nurse had said, about calling Darius' father. He probably blamed Jess in some way and intervened once more to save his son from "a girl of no worth."
Not again. She couldn't handle it again. Her throat thickened and her eyes burned as she fought the rush of emotion.
Jeremy would have his head handed to him on a platter when he got back. She would spoon feed his decapitated skull all that drivel about Darius being in love with her, when in reality it was just another break-up call.
Tears slid down her cheeks. "Of course I can. I understand. I'll leave you alone." Damn, her voice cracked.
"Aw, Jess, honey, it's not like-"
She hung up the phone.
Chapter Seventeen
Never had a cell phone felt so heavy, or a postponement so difficult to bear. His head ached with every motion, his eyes sometimes blurred, and if Darius pushed himself, he wanted
to vomit.
Not a way to endear himself to Jessalyn.
The torch he held for her burned too brightly.
He took shallow breaths as he studied the receiver. He had hurt her feelings. Blast and damn. He shook his head despite feeling like his brain shifted with the motion. He would make it up to her. He would crush her in his arms and kiss away any doubt of his desire for her.
Once his body performed as expected, of course.
Three days. By that deadline he would be cured.
Completely.
Meditation would help. It always did.
He looked to the chair in his room and believed the cushion might come off. He could sit on that on the floor and medit-
A knock on the door made him look around. He suppressed a moan as he turned and stared at the familiar face, but it took a minute for his aching head to make the connection.
"Aren't you...Ollie's lawyer?" He looked like Kris Kringle.
"Mr. Brinkley, yes. May I come in?"
"Of course." Darius indicated the chair and leaned against the phone table, pushing himself to stay upright. "What brings you here?"
"Well," the man puffed out a breath as he lowered himself into the chair. "Wow. Very comfortable. Darius, I hope you don't mind," he plopped an attaché case onto his lap, "but I saw your name in the paper, how you were a victim of a hit and run, and finally saw I had a chance to catch up to you."
"Finally?" Strange word.
"I've called several times, but only reached your voicemail."
"Several...oh, what is the name of your company, again?"
"Brinkley and Myers and Masters and Son. It would show up as BMMS on your ID screen."
"Oh." Darius edged over to the bed. He'd have to sit down for whatever was coming, anyway. "I saw that call come in a few times and figured it was a wrong number."
"I don't leave messages if I can avoid it."
The bed squeaked underneath him. "So, the paper said it was a hit and run, did they?"
"Yes." He patted his pockets as if he had tucked the newspaper in them. "Looking for a black car with a damaged front bumper and right side, possibly silver paint on it."
"Hm." He folded his hands on his knees and waited. Ollie's lawyer visiting him in the hospital? It must be too serious to wait for his recovery.
Unless he feared Darius wouldn't leave short of a body bag.
That thought, surprisingly, did not comfort him.
Mr. Brinkley smiled. "Please, not the morbid face. Save that for the jury. I bring good news. Extraordinarily good news."
"Oh?" He sat up. "A nice turn of events today, I must say."
The man smiled and withdrew a manila envelope containing a parchment paper, Last Will and Testament in calligraphy across the top.
The breath backed up into Darius' lungs. Ollie died at a mere seventy-two. Still too young, by his standards.
"Well, son, take a look at this." He frowned. "You're able to read with your head like this?"
He groaned out, "Yes. It might just take a second longer to focus." At least the light no longer bothered him. He began reading and stopped at his name. Tears filled his eyes. "Oh, Ollie. Is this correct? Really? Eighteen million? To me?"
"Every single penny of it. Completely lucid the whole time. Wrote it well before the cancer settled in."
Blinking made most of the burning go away. "I don't even know where he's buried."
Mr. Brinkley harrumphed. "He's not. I thought you knew that."
He looked up at that. "What do you mean?"
"It was strange, really." Brinkley shifted in the chair. "He told me he was going to spend his last days in the Caribbean, so that's where he went. I heard they simply cremated him and sent him home in an urn. I guess it was his last request. His other lawyer is holding Ollie's remains."
"His other lawyer." Darius seemed thoughtful when he leaned back, his eyes trained on the sheet in his hands without focusing on a single word. "I know he has one, but I can't remember his name."
Brinkley rummaged into the manila envelope and pulled out a card. "He made me write this down. He said, and I quote, 'A mouse is able to practice law.'" He looked up. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"I'm sure it will when my brain is working again." He flashed a weak grin, then slumped further into the mattress. "I just can't believe he's gone." Guilt tore at him, shredded his innards, made him choke on the bile of his own regret. He should have visited more often. "I should have...." He should have just moved here four months ago, when Ollie had taken a bad turn. But the competitions had started, his sponsors had him scheduled all over Europe, and he had learned as a youth that jet lag helped no one on the mats.
He stopped his train of thought, for nothing good ran on the What If rails, only sorrow. Only pain.
He swallowed around the lump in his throat and refocused his energies. "I don't understand why he overshot his brother. The inheritance is by primogeniture. It always has been. Ollie never had children." He looked up. "Does my father know about this?"
Mr. Brinkley blew out a breath as he shifted in the chair. "Unfortunately, yes. Wanted to overturn it. That's up to you, now, son. You can forfeit, and it will pass rightfully to him."
"So he can gamble it away? I think not. Honestly," he tapped Beauregard's name on the Will, "I don't even know if five hundred thousand will cover his debts. He's completely addicted."
Mr. Brinkley leaned forward, his voice low. "Did your uncle know this?"
"We all knew."
He sat back. "Then I'm certain he did what was best for all involved."
Darius shook his head again; it didn't hurt quite so badly as yesterday. "Still, it's an awful thing to do to the next in line." He held his lawyer's eyes. "How do I handle this? Issue my father a stipend? Cut him a check as needed? Or leave it as it stands and listen to him bemoan his life for the next twenty years?"
Brinkley chuckled and slapped a knee, setting his attaché case on the floor. "Honestly, I don't think your father has another twenty years. Most miserable son-of-a-bitch I've ever met."
"Here, here." He toasted with his medicinal paper cup.
Brinkley leaned onto the chair arm. "Truth be told, it's your money. You may do with it as you please."
"Like... buy back an inheritance of antiques?"
"Or buy a sports car for every day of the month."
"Trip for two to Paris?" Now that sounded nice. Jess would love the French Riviera. Mm...Jess in a bikini....
"Son, you could buy a small island." He grinned. "Now, I'll draw up the papers for you to sign. Everything will have to be notarized." He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a business card holder, then handed one to Darius. "Call me when you're ready to meet with me. I should be able to gather all the necessary documents in two or three days."
Darius grinned when he accepted the card. "Wow, two business cards in two days. I feel like I'm networking." He looked up at his lawyer's grin. "Does...anyone else know about the inheritance? Newspapers or anything?"
"The staff does, as they draw up all the documents, and your father does. Since his name was on the Will, I couldn't legally withhold the information from him."
"No one else?"
He shook his head, making his beard jiggle. "Unless Ollie told people beforehand."
Darius leaned forward. "What about Jessalyn Swan?"
Brinkley skimmed down the Will and saw her name. "Oh, yes. She gets all the antiques. A considerable amount, here."
"Would she have known about the money coming to me?"
Brinkley held his eyes. "I honestly don't know what she knows, son. Best thing might be to ask her."
If she'd talk to him again. "Really, how does one broach that?" He pitched, "Jessalyn, did you know I was worth eighteen million the day I walked into your store, demanding Ollie's antiques back?"
"Ah, so that's why you asked about buying antiques. So she gets Ollie's furniture, and you want it back."
He didn't answer. Right now
he only wanted Jess back.
"Well, son, I can't see Ollie airing all his dirty laundry like that. I was there when the Will was restructured, and I know he focused only on the antique portion with Ms. Swan and her staff. I don't believe anyone hovered over his shoulder as he wrote, but no, I won't swear to it.
"My honest guess is no, she wouldn't have known about the money. Frankly, I believe she's well off in her own right."
Darius leaned back, relaxing with his lawyer's words. "She is. Has a beautiful thriving store. Nicest displays I've ever seen." It felt as homey and relaxing in her store as it had been in her house. He felt himself smile. Anywhere Jess settled would feel like home to him.
"Boy," Brinkley clapped him on the shoulder as he stood. "If that cream-lickin' grin is about Ms. Swan, you better get yourself checked out of this room and snatch her up. A woman like that won't stay single forever."
Wow. Darius froze. "You read all that in my expression?"
"Son, I make a living on reading people." He tapped his eye and pointed at Darius. "I'm heading out. I've lots more good cheer to spread today." He paused in the doorway and smiled, his blue eyes merry and his cheeks rosy. "I swear, some days I feel just like Santa Claus."
Chapter Eighteen
Several days in the hospital did not warrant a single visit from his father. Darius figured he'd call when he would be checking out, then he scoffed. Ollie would have visited daily.
Then he felt a wave of guilt for not coming to America at all this last year, even when they diagnosed Ollie.
A knock on his door broke him from stewing in a bottomless pot of should haves. "Come in."
The same officer as before inclined his head as he entered. "Hello, Mr. Covington. How are you feeling?"
"Fine. William Dillwright, is it?" At his nod, he continued, "Nurse says they're getting my discharge papers ready. Won't even have to make a break for it."
The man refused to smile. "We found the car that hit you."
"Oh, yeah?" Darius set down the book from the hospital's lending library and gave the cop his full attention.
"Yes." He flipped through his notepad. "Brand new Dodge Durango. Belongs to a sixty-seven year old woman who had been visiting her daughter and newborn grandchild in Boston since last week. Didn't know it had been stolen. A neighbor heard the car start the day of the accident, but couldn't see who drove it."
