by Meryl Sawyer
Conrad said, “I don’t think anyone will ask me—”
“Bet on it,” Browne insisted. “Someone at the station alerted the press about Hayley’s return. That’s why there’s a flock of carrion eaters gathered out front. The media will do anything to get a sound bite on the news.”
Garver was in his late thirties—a few years older than Hayley and Ryan, but his prematurely gray hair made him seem much older. His hairline was creeping upward above a ladder of lines on his forehead, which gave him a scholarly appearance. The lawyer had a self-assured way of holding himself, of speaking, that complemented his reputation as the go-to attorney in SoCal if you were in trouble—and could afford him.
“Garver’s right,” Ryan said, speaking for the first time. “Our response to questions about Hayley should be no comment.”
“What about family?” Meg asked. “They’ll want information.”
Garver considered this for a moment. During their initial meeting at Aunt Meg’s place, they’d explained that the rest of the family wasn’t very close to Hayley. “Stick to the basic facts. Hayley was in Costa Rica doing a mural and had no idea what had happened. Other than that you don’t know anything.”
Hayley doubted her so-called family would really care. She told herself that she’d been prepared for what Ryan had found on her mother’s computer and to some extent she had been. In other ways, it was difficult to imagine two children you’d grown up with, played with—shared a father with—would destroy trust documents, then try to kill you. And what about Chad, who claimed to love her even though she’d broken up with him? She forced herself not to think about the depth of his betrayal.
“Be certain to say you don’t know where Hayley is staying,” Ryan added.
“That’s a fact,” Aunt Meg said with a trace of anxiety that made Hayley feel even more guilty for what she’d put her aunt through. Aunt Meg’s heart was weak and this stress certainly wasn’t helping.
“Have you rented a car and bought an untraceable cell phone for Hayley?” the attorney asked Ryan.
The two had conferred at Twelve Oaks before Hayley and the attorney went to the police station. They’d agreed that nothing should have Hayley’s name on it. For the time being, they were going to keep her whereabouts a secret.
Ryan handed her a small cell phone without looking her in the eye. Hayley could tell by the way he used his left hand that his shoulder was still bothering him. She couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking. Was he sorry he’d gotten involved?
“I’m the only one who’ll have your number,” Garver told her.
“What about me?” Aunt Meg wanted to know.
“Sorry,” Garver replied unapologetically. “Hayley will have to phone you. That way no one can force you to reveal her number.”
A swift shadow of alarm swept across Aunt Meg’s face. “Is she in so much danger that I should be careful?”
“We all need to be careful.” Again, Garver took his time and looked at each one of them in that direct way of his. “What you don’t know, you can’t tell.” He turned to her. “Don’t drive for a few days. You have a place to live where no one will look for you. Stay indoors—don’t let anyone see you.”
Hayley nodded, careful not to glance in Ryan’s direction. She gave her aunt credit for being a smart woman. Why tip her off that there was something between them? Not that there was.
“WHAT DID YOU THINK about Ryan and Hayley?” Meg asked Conrad.
They were still in the limousine on the way back to Twelve Acres, having driven around a lot to be sure they weren’t being followed, then dropped off Hayley, Ryan and the attorney in a parking structure near the airport so Garver’s pilot could helicopter him back to Los Angeles.
“I think we’re lucky to have such great kids.” Conrad’s smile wavered. “For a while there we assumed you’d lost Hayley.” His hand covered hers. “I’m thrilled she’s back even though there’s a lot to settle yet.”
Meg nodded; she could see how weary Conrad had become since she’d called him to her suite before sunset and introduced him to Hayley. He’d immediately phoned his son and Ryan had come over. Meg hadn’t waited to hear Ryan’s advice. She’d called her personal attorney to get the name of a criminal defense lawyer.
This whole situation was perplexing. She wasn’t buying the theory that Hayley was involved with drugs. The Fordhams were another matter. They could be up to anything. She’d never trusted Cynthia or either of her children. But she had no idea what was really going on. Her duty was to protect Hayley.
Seeing her niece again had been the greatest gift Meg Amboy had ever received. Just holding her, knowing she was alive was nothing short of an answer to her prayers.
So what if Garver Browne was a disciple of that great philosopher Jerry “Show me the money” Maguire? Browne’s retainer had been outrageous, but Meg had immediately authorized a wire transfer to the attorney’s account. What good was having a fortune if you couldn’t help someone you loved?
“Is that what you meant about Hayley and Ryan?” Conrad asked, breaking into her thoughts. “What good kids they are.”
Meg shook her head. “No. I was thinking about them as a couple.”
“A couple? They just met under horrible circumstances. How could they be attracted to each other? They barely had a conversation.”
“True.” Meg knew Ryan Hollister had the kind of masculine good looks that gave women cardiac arrest. Even in a crisis, a woman would notice him. Not Hayley, apparently. She’d paid little attention to Conrad’s son other than to listen to his recommendations about her safety.
Meg had watched them carefully. She’d tried to gauge Ryan’s reaction to Hayley. There was something odd about him, as if his mind was elsewhere.
Why? Most men found Hayley very attractive and always had. But not Ryan. Could he still be grieving over his wife? She’d been gone for some time now.
Maybe the situation—the car bombing, the drugs, being presumed dead—had them both off-kilter. It was an unusual situation, to say the least. Under the circumstances, why would two unattached people notice each other? They probably wouldn’t.
Still, something seemed strange to Meg. It was an unprecedented state of affairs, Meg acknowledged. She’d lived a long life, seen a lot, heard many unusual tales, but this beat all of them. Even so, the situation wasn’t bothering her as much as Ryan and Hayley themselves. Something wasn’t right.
TRENT WAS DIVING underwater, catching a wave at the Wedge. He surfaced on the backside of the breaker and turned to bodysurf the incoming wave. He could hear the smaller waves—which came in sets of three when surfing was at its best—crashing on the shore. The sound—usually background noise—distracted him and he missed his opportunity to ride the perfect wave onto the beach.
He bobbed beyond the break line and surveyed the water in the distance for “bluebirds”—the next set of waves. The noise of the crashing waves seemed unusually loud. He turned and looked toward the shore. No one was there. No one at all.
He sat up, sweating and breathing hard. He wasn’t in the ocean, he realized. He was home in bed and the phone on the nightstand next to him was ringing—not waves crashing. He glanced at the clock beside the phone. Almost two in the morning. He grabbed the phone before it woke Courtney, even though she showed no sign of stirring. Pills had her out cold—again.
“Trent,” Farah said the moment he pressed the receiver to his ear. He mumbled something and she added, “Go somewhere you can talk.”
Trent put the phone on Hold and stumbled down the hall to his office. Why was Farah calling in the middle of the night? He could tell by her voice that she was upset, which was out of character. Even as a child, Farah hid her true feelings and over time had become almost inscrutable to those around her.
“What’s happening?” he asked as he picked up the telephone on his desk. He quietly closed the door as she spoke.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Yes,” he replied e
ven though he was standing next to his office chair.
“Hayley is alive. She didn’t die in that car bombing.”
He swallowed hard, striving to control his jellied knees. “You’re shitting me.” He swiveled the chair around and dropped into it like a sack of lead.
“Don’t I wish this was a joke.” The cold edge of irony cut through each syllable. “Kyle went to the police station to bail out a friend of his. There were television cameras everywhere. It seems that little Miss Hayley Fordham and her frigging attorney—Garver Browne, no less—waltzed into the station to tell them she was alive.”
Trent stared out the window at the ocean where a sailboat’s mast light bobbed in the water. “Unfuckingbelievable! Who died in her car?”
“Kyle couldn’t get the details. The police were questioning Hayley.”
“Why did she have a lawyer with her? What’s going on?”
“Good question.” Farah’s voice hardened. “I’ll bet that battle-ax aunt of hers is paying Garver Browne’s fee. The prick doesn’t come cheap.”
“For sure.” The thought of money triggered a gut reaction. “Now probate will have to be recalculated again.” What in hell was he going to do?
“At least we’ll be splitting it in thirds. Hayley won’t get control of Surf’s Up.”
Trent wondered if there would be enough left of the company to worry about. His creditors were circling like sharks with blood in the water. He had to feed them money—soon.
There was a long pause before Farah spoke again. “Look on the bright side. They can’t pin the car bombing on us.” There was a thin chill in her voice that Ryan didn’t like.
“So? Nothing seems to be stopping them from trying to implicate me. Not us. You’re in the clear. Just me.”
“Let’s not discuss this on the telephone,” Farah cautioned. “Go over and meet with Chad in person. Maybe he’ll have a few helpful ideas.”
TRENT RANG THE BELL of the mansion on Harbor Island where Chad Bennett lived. The island was even more exclusive than nearby Linda Isle where Trent’s father had lived, but it didn’t have a guard at the gate. A card key was all that was needed to access the island. Of course, the metal bar didn’t rise to admit your car without one. This hadn’t bothered Trent. He’d merely parked on Harbor Island Drive and ducked under the steel arm.
It was nearly 3:00 a.m. now. Few lights were on in the yards of the thirty homes on the private island. They must use timers, Trent thought as he leaned on the bell again. Through the leaded glass door, he saw a light go on upstairs.
This home had belonged to Chad’s parents. His mother had passed away long ago and his father had never remarried. Chad inherited the mansion when his father died, along with his father’s law firm. It was a huge place for one person to kick around in, Trent thought, but then Chad was rarely alone.
He saw Chad taking the stairs two at a time while cinching a robe around his waist. Chad turned on the porch light and peered through the glass before unlocking it and saying, “What’s wrong? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”
“Hayley isn’t dead.” Trent kept his voice low. Land on the small islands in the bay was so valuable that lots were not much bigger than a parking space. They were just a few feet away from the neighbors. Trent didn’t want any of them calling the police about a disturbance. “She’s back and she’s hired a lawyer—Garver Browne.”
Chad stared at him as if Trent was speaking in tongues. He grabbed Trent’s arm and pulled him inside. “Browne? No shit?”
Trent waited for Chad to close the door before saying, “It’s true.”
Chad’s brow furrowed and he pointed upward, then put a finger in front of his lips, indicating he had a woman upstairs and they should keep their voices down. “Where’s she been? Who was in the car?”
“I don’t have all the details. Farah and I thought I should come here to tell you rather than use the phone and leave a record.”
“Good thinking.” Chad ran his fingers though his hair. “This certainly fucks up everything.”
“How long do you think it will take to recalculate the probate?” Money wasn’t Trent’s only concern, but it was his most pressing problem.
“The lowlife bureaucrats almost had it figured out for three. They’ve just started on dual calculations. Now they’ll have to start all over.”
“What? Can’t they go back to what they originally had?”
“No. It doesn’t work that way. Papers were filed, including the death certificate. Now that will have to be corrected and appraisals of property resubmitted. Guaranteed to take—” he shrugged “—who knows how long?”
Just what Trent feared. What was he going to do?
“Still need a loan?” Chad asked, then added without waiting for an answer, “Try Laird McMasters. He’s hot to be involved with Surf’s Up.”
“Might have to,” Trent admitted. He hated the thought of dealing with Laird, but what choice did he have?
Chad cracked the door, a clear sign for Trent to leave. “Don’t worry about Hayley’s reappearance. They can’t prove squat.”
“I’m not so sure…”
“Trust me.” Chad opened the front door. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Trent walked outside without another word. Trust Chad? Did he have a choice?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BAREFOOT, HAYLEY silently walked across the tile floor in an oversize T-shirt and panties to the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the beach. A scythe of a moon gave off pale light that bounced across the waves and highlighted the sand in front of Conrad Hollister’s home. A window nearby was open and the fresh scent of the ocean filled the room. The wind chimes hanging from the roof danced in a whisper of a breeze along with the lulling sound of waves breaking on the beach.
It was the middle of the night and she couldn’t sleep. Hayley had believed meeting with the police would solve her problems. It hadn’t. If anything, the situation was now more complicated.
The police couldn’t tie her to the drug cartel but that didn’t mean Trent wasn’t involved. By association she could easily be implicated. Once she would have laughed at the thought. Those things only happened on television, but now she knew better. Look at all the bizarre events surrounding her lately.
White-hot anger mushroomed inside her. The soothing sound of the sea that usually calmed her didn’t help. She didn’t have much of a temper. Most of the people she’d known always described her as “laid-back”—a typical SoCal expression. She might have been mellow once, but no longer. A single thought kept ringing in her brain: Someone wants you dead. It was frustrating as hell not to know exactly who and why.
“See anyone out there?”
She whirled around, her heart thumping. Ryan. Sitting in the shadows on the sofa facing the magnificent view. But even as the thought registered, telling her that she wasn’t in danger, it was impossible to steady her erratic pulse. Someone had tried to kill her. Was she ever going to feel safe again?
“I—I w-wasn’t looking for anyone,” she managed to say, remembering how little she was wearing and wondering if he could see she was nearly naked. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
“I know what you mean.” Ryan patted the seat next to him.
A now familiar shiver of awareness swept through her. In the dark room his features were hazy, but she could make out the strong line of his jaw and his glossy black hair. Her heart fluttered wildly as she ventured toward him.
She sat, putting an appropriate distance between them. A professional distance. He was so compelling; his vitality captivated her. He didn’t feel the same way. Get a grip, she silently instructed herself. You’re in real trouble.
“How’s your shoulder?” she asked to fill the awkward silence.
“Okay. Sports teach you to ignore pain.” His teeth flashed white in the shadows and the ambient light glinted in his eyes.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-oh,” he said, his tone light. �
�Thinking about what?”
“Playing this a different way. Not hiding.”
“Got a death wish—” he leaned toward her “—or what? Your attorney told you to stay out of sight.”
“Hear me out.” She ignored the flutter in her chest brought on by his closeness. “What would I do if I didn’t know about the erased CD of my parents’ trust?”
“Well, I suppose you’d go about your business, thinking the bombing was a mistake of some kind.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t hide. I’d take some precautions. Obviously a vicious cartel has mistaken me for someone else.”
“Hold on, sweet cheeks.”
Sweet cheeks? Her eyes were adjusted to the hazy light and she could see his expression. He was concerned about her. Was “sweet cheeks” a term of endearment he used with his wife and it just slipped out? Undoubtedly. Easy, Hayley, let it go. This man is trying to help you.
“I have my doubts about the cartel angle even though the ATF traced the bomb to them,” Ryan told her. “I think Trent and Farah—possibly their mother—and maybe Chad Bennett are the real threats.”
“Agreed, but what good does it do to hide forever?”
“It’s not forever. It’s just until the police get the copy of the CD and realize the trust was altered. They’ll put the pressure on the Fordhams to get a confession.”
“Possibly if it were just Trent, but I think Farah is too smart and Cynthia too conniving to admit anything. The CD you’re going to give your friend Ed is a copy of a CD that my mother supposedly gave me along with several design CDs that I never bothered to look at. The Fordhams will claim I made a fake CD. Chad Bennett will back them to the hilt rather than risk being disbarred for his part in the scheme.”
