by Cheryl Holt
A muscle ticked in Lucas's cheek.
He didn't want to fuss with Dustin, didn't want to fight or debate. He wanted to get in his car and drive to Boulder so he could be with Faith.
He'd hired a realtor and had him searching for a place in Boulder so Lucas could live there off and on. He liked the town, and there was no reason it couldn't be his base as opposed to other spots on the globe. If he had a house in Boulder, he'd have an excuse to see Faith. He could drop by to visit Peanut and Bryce. He could attend more of Bryce's games.
Since he'd met Faith, his world was changing so rapidly that he was almost dizzy with trying to keep up. Yet from the determined gleam in Dustin's eye, his brother wouldn't quit yapping until Lucas did as he'd demanded. Sometimes, it was easier to relent.
"I'll give you five minutes," Lucas said. "Make it fast."
He flopped down on the couch, watching as Dustin sat in the chair across. Dustin pulled out a small tape recorder and laid it on the table.
"I want you to hear this," Dustin explained.
"What is it?"
"A conversation."
"All right."
"First, though, I need to tell you that I'm sorry."
"About what?"
"About this supposed kid you have."
"I don't have a supposed kid," Lucas snapped. "I have a son named Bryce. He's ten. And you and I have a half-sister named Peanut. She's four."
"Mother says they're not related to us. She says it's all a big lie."
"Mother is a…"
With a curse, Lucas bit off his remark. There was no point in crude insults.
"You're all stirred up," Dustin said, "and I feel bad about that."
"You'd be stirred up too if you'd had the week I just had."
"I guess you've been spending time with Faith Benjamin."
"What if I have?"
"I think you like her more than you should."
"Not more. I simply like her. She's terrific."
"Okay, she's terrific," Dustin agreed, avoiding a quarrel. "Listen to this—to the entire thing. Don't comment until the end."
"What is it?"
"It's a recording of her—speaking confidentially with an acquaintance of mine."
"A recording? You wired somebody to tape her? Why?"
"I thought we should. You're all hot to let her keep the money, and now, she's got you worked up over these kids."
"Just play the damn tape."
Dustin sighed, actually looking remorseful, as he leaned forward and hit the on button. There was some static, then Faith's voice was clearly audible. Lucas had no doubt it was her.
You know I only like men who shower me with millions.
Like Harold?
Yes. What are a few paltry diamonds when I can have the whole bank account?
It was great, how you tricked him into leaving you his estate. The poor guy didn't stand a chance.
Not after I'd worked my feminine wiles on him. I had him so confused he didn't know up from down.
Lucas grabbed the recorder and slammed it off. A deadly silence filled the room.
"Where did you get this?" he seethed.
"I told you: An acquaintance of mine got her talking. I wanted you to see a different side of her." Dustin nodded at the recorder. "Turn it back on. You have to hear the rest."
Lucas couldn't bear to, but he felt as if a magnet was dragging his thumb to start it again.
It was so amusing to tie him to that chair, to badger him: Sign the papers, Harold. Sign the papers.
Did you hold his hand when he signed his will?
I didn't have to hold his hand. He was so terrified of me that he was scared to disobey.
Lucas gasped and shut it off. For an eternity, he stared at it, pondering, wondering. He'd assumed he knew Faith. Could she have tricked him? Was she a greedy, cruel manipulator?
He didn't believe it. He was no fool. She couldn't have deceived him so completely.
He glared at his brother, hating him suddenly, and he took a deep breath, struggling for calm.
"Who is the woman with her?"
"Her foster sister. Her name is Angela Turner. They were raised together as teens in Vegas."
"I've met Angela. I was under the impression they were close. How did you persuade her to betray Faith?"
"The right promises can convince some people to do all sorts of things they wouldn't normally do."
Lucas scoffed. "You slept with her, I suppose."
Unrepentant, Dustin shrugged.
"Does she think you're hot for her now?" Lucas asked.
"I wouldn't try to guess her opinion."
"A convenient answer."
"To a pointless question."
Another protracted silence ensued, as Lucas reflected. Faith's horrid words couldn't be true, but there was no mistaking her voice or comments.
Why would she blithely admit to committing crimes? She'd be risking everything, including prosecution and jail time. Then again, Angela was a friend and family member. Faith would never suspect that Angela might have an ulterior motive. She'd be candid in a manner she wouldn't be with anyone else.
Dustin interrupted his miserable reverie.
"You shouldn't," Dustin warned, "automatically accept what she told you about those kids."
"Why not?"
"You need DNA tests, and if they come back as a match, we have to get them away from her."
"I don't know what to believe, Dustin."
"Dammit, Lucas, what do I have to do to make you open your eyes? Whack you over the head with a two-by-four?"
"If you'd met her, if you'd met Bryce and Peanut…"
"She's a con artist, Lucas." He reached over and grabbed the recorder. "She brags about it. Listen!"
He hit the play button again.
You know me. It's all about expensive clothes and cars and jewelry. It's all I think about; it's all I want.
"What are you asking me?" Lucas fumed. "Do you want me to confront her?"
"No! I want you to sue her! I want you to have her arrested!"
Lucas studied his brother, torn over how to proceed. It seemed wrong to go after her, but on the tape she sounded so ruthless.
What was right? What did she deserve? What should happen to her?
"I can't decide," he muttered. "I have to consider this."
"You're joking. Has she bewitched you? Has she put you under some sort of spell? Why can't you see through her game?"
"I'm not sure it's a game. Give me tonight. I need to figure out what's best."
Dustin threw up his hands in disgust. "You're insane. You have absolutely leapt off the deep end."
"Maybe." Lucas pushed himself off the sofa. "We'll talk in the morning. I'll let you know how I plan to handle this."
"You're not the only one who has a choice."
"What?"
"Brittney and I have a stake in this too, and we won't sit quietly while you screw it up."
Lucas was too weary to continue the argument.
"We'll talk in the morning," he repeated. "First thing."
He stumbled out like a blind man, unable to find his way.
CHAPTER NINE
The phone rang, and Faith leapt to answer it. She was positive it would be Lucas.
"Hello?"
"Is this Mrs. Merriweather?" an unfamiliar male voice asked.
"There's no one here by that name."
"Faith Merriweather?"
"I'm Faith Benjamin."
"But you were married to Harold Merriweather, right?"
"Well…yes."
"Hi, Ms. Benjamin. I'm a reporter with the—"
She cut him off. "A reporter?"
"Yes, and I'd like to know if you have any comment."
"About what?"
"About the charges Lucas Merriweather's attorney levied against you this morning at the press conference."
Faith's stomach dropped to her toes. "What charges?"
"Let's see, there's elder abuse, fraud, t
heft—"
Faith hung up and hurried over to the front window. The drapes were closed, and she pulled back a corner to peek outside. There was a TV news van parked by the curb. Several technicians were hustling about, fussing with gear. A bored newscaster watched them, holding a microphone and obviously waiting to go on the air.
Faith went to the kitchen where Gracie was drinking coffee. There was a small television on the counter, and Faith punched the power button.
Gracie frowned. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure."
"Who was on the phone?"
"A reporter. He wanted to know if I had any comment about Lucas's charges of elder abuse against Harold."
"You're kidding me."
"I hung up on him."
They sat, stunned, staring at the TV, as the morning news show droned on.
Just before a commercial break, the anchor said, "In local news, lawyers for Lucas Merriweather, CEO of prominent Colorado company, Merriweather Industries, announced today that the Merriweather family would be meeting with Boulder police to discuss filing of charges against the young widow of Merriweather patriarch, Harold Merriweather. Merriweather died in December at the age of ninety."
Gracie gasped as Faith hissed, "That bastard."
"He seemed so nice," Gracie complained. "I can't believe he'd do that to you."
Faith couldn't bear to listen to the rest. She grabbed the remote and hit mute, but they continued to gape at the screen.
A picture flashed of Harold that was only two or three years old, so he appeared very frail. It faded and was replaced by a very recent photo of Faith. She didn't have to struggle to recollect when it was taken: her first date with Lucas.
They were at the restaurant where they'd gone to eat, and she'd just stepped out of his limo. The expensive car was behind her, as if she'd posed in front of it, as if it was hers. She was wearing her sexy black dress and spiky silver heels, and she'd never been more beautiful or more glamorous.
She didn't recall seeing a photographer that night, so he must have been lurking in the bushes. He'd managed to get the perfect shot, one that absolutely conveyed the image Lucas was trying to portray: rich, gorgeous, bored, and very, very young—much too young and much too pretty to have married such an aged man unless she'd done it for nefarious purposes.
She clicked off the TV as Gracie fumed, "The little shit."
"Did I look smug?"
"Yes."
"Crap."
"When was the picture taken? Do you remember?"
"On our date when we went to dinner."
"He must have planned it."
"Could he really be that calculating?"
The moment Faith asked the question, she realized how naïve she sounded.
Of course he could be that calculating. He was a Merriweather. Harold had told her plenty of horror stories and she'd believed every one.
"He set you up," Gracie said, "then he slept with you afterward. That is so low."
"It's lower than low." An alarming prospect rattled her. "You don't suppose he has a video of us. Would he have made a sex tape?"
"If he did, we still have that gun of Harold's in the hall closet. He taught me how to load and fire it. I'll track Lucas down and murder him."
Faith chuckled miserably. "I don't understand this."
"Neither do I."
"I thought he liked me."
"He did. I could tell."
"Then why would he act like this? He has to know I'll never speak to him again. We're back to battling over the money."
"This is his version of foreplay. He thinks you'll be impressed by macho posturing."
"He could have just never called me. He didn't have to be so mean."
"He's a Merriweather," Gracie pointed out. "Cruelty is in his blood."
"Bryce and Peanut will be dragged into the middle of any public fight. Why would he want that?"
"He's a man, and they're all fools. It probably never occurred to him that there would be consequences for the kids."
"Their lives will be splashed across the tabloids."
The phone rang again and they both grimly stared at it.
"Should I answer?" Gracie asked.
"No," Faith said, but Gracie went over and picked it up anyway.
She listened for a moment, then barked, "No, you may not." A pause. "Because she doesn't wish to talk to you, and even if she did, I wouldn't let her." A second pause. "Well, I have a gun, and if I see you out in my yard, I'll shoot you with it."
She slammed down the receiver.
"Who on earth was that?" Faith inquired.
"Lucas Merriweather."
"He had the nerve to call me?"
"He wants to see you. He wants to explain."
"I'd rather have all my teeth pulled without an anesthetic."
"My thought exactly."
"He wouldn't dare show up here, would he?"
"If he does," Gracie said, "he'll be sorry he tangled with me."
The phone rang yet again, and Gracie unplugged it. "We don't need to have that turned on."
Faith peeked out the window. Another news van had joined the first.
Would she become a hostage in her own home? Would she have to run a gauntlet of microphones and cameras whenever she walked outside?
She staggered over to a chair and slumped down.
"My heart's broken," she said. "I hardly knew him, and my heart's broken anyway."
"Be glad you didn't have time to grow too attached, honey. You'll get over him in a hurry."
"I hope so."
"Especially after you consider what an ass he is. You won't be sad. You'll be very, very angry."
"I'm already there."
"Good. Now let's have breakfast. I refuse to let Lucas Merriweather ruin my day."
Faith gaped at her. Could Gracie really get over it—just like that? Faith couldn't. She and Lucas had had such a potent connection. Would she never see him again? It didn't seem possible, yet what other ending could there be?
"Go ahead and eat without me," she told Gracie. "I'm not feeling very well."
She trudged out, close to weeping and not even sure why she was bereft. His true character had been revealed. He was a snake in the grass.
She should have known better, but she'd been lured in by that handsome face, by that charm and charisma. Too distraught for words, she climbed to her room and locked herself in, wondering if she would ever come out.
* * *
"No comment."
Lucas pushed past a reporter, but another mike instantly appeared. How many stinking news stations were here?
The street in front of Faith's house was lined with vans. Reporters and their crews were hovering, waiting for something to happen.
By showing up, he'd certainly given them a scoop. Not that they'd needed one. He shouldn't have driven to Boulder—Gracie had been very clear in telling him not to—but he never listened to women, and he wasn't about to start.
"Lucas! Lucas!" A skinny blond reporter hustled up.
"Beat it," he growled.
She was undaunted. "What are you doing? Are you serving papers on her? Are you here to seize the house?"
The idiotic questions brought him stumbling to a halt.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Give me something I can use. Our readers are fascinated. How did she trick him into marrying her? Was he in possession of his faculties? How would you describe his mental state at the time of his death?"
Lucas rolled his eyes. How would they react if he admitted he hadn't seen his grandfather since he was a small boy, that he had no clue as to Harold's mental faculties or anything else.
Other reporters circled, trying to hear his every word, and he demanded, "Don't you people have somewhere more important to be?"
"What's your problem, Merriweather?" a thuggish man asked. "You're the one who set your dogs on her."
"I didn't. I have no idea where that story came from, but I deny it. I can official
ly say that neither I—nor my family—has any quarrel with Ms. Benjamin."
"That's not what your brother told me," someone said.
Lucas didn't respond. He wasn't about to get into a debate over Dustin's allegations. The situation was already hideous, and he wouldn't exacerbate it.
"Be careful what you print or say," Lucas warned. "If I am slandered, or if Ms. Benjamin is misrepresented, you'll answer to me."
He shoved through the mob and marched up her sidewalk, fervently wishing he hadn't come.
When Gracie had hung up on him, he'd been thoroughly annoyed, so he'd jumped in his car and raced to Boulder. He'd never considered that they might be under siege, but he should have guessed.
What tale could be juicier than a beautiful young woman swindling a doddering, elderly man out of millions of dollars?
Cameras filmed his every stride. If Faith refused to let him in, the entire, humiliating episode would be captured on tape. But it was too late to turn around. His retreat would be captured too. He couldn't decide what to do except keep moving forward.
He hurried up her steps and knocked. He rang the bell. He knocked again.
She had to know who was on her stoop, who was pounding so vehemently. The fact that she was ignoring him, that she would let him dangle in the wind with all the reporters smirking and laughing, lit his temper on fire.
"Faith, dammit!" he muttered. "Open up! Right now!"
Footsteps stomped toward him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The door was jerked wide, and Faith was there.
"Stop pounding on my door!" she hissed.
"If you'd answer like a normal, courteous human being, I wouldn't have to make all this noise."
"How dare you come here. What do you want?"
"We have to talk."
"I'd rather be boiled in hot oil than talk to you."
"Could we discuss this inside?"
"No. Go away."
She started to close the door in his face, but he was much larger than she was, and he blustered his way in. He yanked the door from her grasp and slammed it, shutting out all the nonsense in her yard. Suddenly, it was very quiet, and they were alone. They squared off like a pair of boxers about to battle.
She was angry? Well he was too.
Did she think he enjoyed all this chaos? He'd been her biggest champion. He had defended her to his family, to his lawyers, and this was the thanks he got?
Was he supposed to ignore Dustin's tape?
