Brady put the car in gear and resolutely centered his thoughts on the tasks at hand. He'd had enough introspection for one day. Besides, it wasn't getting him anywhere.
First, he had to pack. Then he had an errand to run. It was, perhaps, the most important errand of his life. This afternoon, before he got on that plane to New York, he was determined to give Haven the one thing in the world she wanted above all else. He was going to give her Anna.
* * *
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," Pete replied.
"Let's go, then."
They climbed out of the car onto the circular driveway fronting an elegant stone mansion. To the untrained eye, the place exuded wealth and social standing. However, armed with the information from his sources, Brady could see the subtle signs of the beginning stages of neglect. The paint on the window frames had begun to flake just the slightest bit. The grounds, while not unkempt, were less than immaculately groomed. Another couple of months and the weeds would own the place.
And it was all because Douglas Zieglar was having money trouble. Big trouble. Brady couldn't be more delighted.
"Is this what it felt like when you left on one of your missions?" Pete asked when they reached the door.
Brady pressed the doorbell. "How do you mean?"
"Adrenaline surge, heart beating like a drum, blood pressure soaring, nerves stretched to the breaking point. Little things like that."
He nodded. "Pretty much." Although the stakes today were much higher than any he'd faced before.
"Now I know why you gave it up." Pete grimaced. "If my stomach was tied in knots like this every day, I'd be in ulcer city in no time. I'm amazed you lasted as long as you did."
So was he, but he didn't want to waste time thinking about it now. He needed to focus all his energies on the task at hand.
"Do you have the contract?" he asked Pete.
"In my pocket, along with a pen. And before you ask, it has plenty of ink." Pete lifted his hand so that the small black box he held cupped in his palm was in full view. "Camcorder's ready, battery newly charged, film in place. You have the check?"
Brady patted his jacket. "Signed and duly certified."
"Then I guess we have everything. I only have one question. You sure this is legal?"
"It's legal."
"Then why do you need me?"
"You're my insurance policy. If we get the whole thing on tape, there's no way Douglas Zieglar will be able to weasel out of the contract later. Or claim he signed it under duress."
The door was answered by a uniformed butler, and Brady wondered if the man knew how close he was to standing in an unemployment line. "We're here to see Mr. and Mrs. Zieglar."
"Who may I ask is calling, sir?"
"Tell them that Brady Ross is here."
Two minutes later, he and Pete were ushered into a living room that was easily the size of the entire first floor of Haven's house. The walls were painted a deep, oppressive green, the ceiling was nosebleedingly high and heavy brocaded curtains hung at the many floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything about the room was dark and brooding, including the intricately carved furniture, the Oriental carpets scattered across the floor, the oil paintings hung precisely at eye level and the expensive objets d'art that were strategically displayed.
Absently, Brady ran a finger over a Fabergé egg that sat atop a marble fireplace mantel. How soon, he wondered, before Douglas would be reduced to selling these pieces off, one by one? Had he already started?
Pete gave a low whistle as he did some exploring of his own. "Pretty fancy."
Brady eyed his surroundings with distaste. "If you like this sort of thing." His tone of voice left Pete in no doubt that he didn't. The good news was that the Zieglars did. They wouldn't take losing all this very gracefully. Especially, from what little he knew of her, Pamela.
He was well aware that he could be living like this, but the idea held little appeal. It never had, partly due to Charles's influence. His father had always insisted on living far below his means. But the real reason that Brady never could be comfortable in a place like this was that, after everything he'd been through, after all the suffering he'd witnessed, he would like to see his adoptive father's money used for something a little more important than the collection of "things." Besides, he much preferred the cozy intimacy of Haven's house. That was a home. This was just a showcase, with no personality. No warmth. Like its owners.
Their hosts kept them waiting for over twenty minutes. When they finally entered the room, Douglas and Pamela Zieglar looked cool and regal and condescending. Their patrician noses were pointed so high in the air, Brady thought it a miracle they could see in front of themselves. He wondered how cool and regal they'd look once he told them he knew, practically to the penny, the amount of the debt Douglas had run up.
Douglas's eyes flickered over Pete. "There was no need to bring a bodyguard, Mr. Ross," he said stiffly. "You are certainly in no danger here." His tone implied that he and Pamela might be.
"Mr. Loring isn't my bodyguard. He's my oldest and most trusted friend. I asked him to accompany me so that he could film our conversation."
"Why would you want to film our conversation?" Pamela inquired with a sniff.
"I want there to be no mistake about what was said … afterward."
"I'm not accustomed to having my conversations taped," Douglas said haughtily, "and I resent the implication that I can't be trusted."
He raised a brass bell from a side table and rang it once. Immediately, the butler appeared in the doorway.
"Gordon, Mr. Ross and his … friend are leaving. Would you please show them the way out."
The butler stood aside and waited for Brady and Pete to precede him into the hallway.
Brady shrugged. "Have it your way. But before I go, there's something I'd like you to see."
He pulled the check out of his pocket and waved it in front of Douglas's nose. The older man's eyes widened when he saw the amount written there, an amount large enough to cover his debt, plus leave him some money to play with afterward.
"It's made out to you, and it's certified. Of course, there are some conditions attached. However, if you're not interested…" Brady let his voice trail off before saying, "Let's go, Pete."
They were two steps from the door when Douglas spoke. "Perhaps I've been a bit hasty. Gordon, the gentlemen will be staying after all."
Nodding, Gordon left the room.
Hiding a triumphant smile, Brady slowly turned to face the couple who had wreaked such havoc in his and Haven's lives. He stood silently in the doorway, refusing to be the first to speak. It was important they know who had the upper hand here. He could tell by the look on Douglas's face that it galled him no end, but Brady also knew the man was too desperate to let him go.
In the end, greed won out over pride. Squaring his shoulders, Douglas drew an audible breath and visibly schooled his features into an impassive mask. "Why have you come here, Mr. Ross?"
Brady nodded to Pete, who raised the camcorder and began filming.
"First, I'd like your permission to tape our discussion."
Douglas gave a grudging nod.
"Out loud, please," Brady said, moving to stand next to the man so that Pete could get them both in the frame. He nodded toward the camcorder. "For the record."
"You have my permission to film this conversation," Douglas said tightly.
"Thank you. For the record, then, let me state the date and time. I'm here today to make you an offer. In exchange for the withdrawal of your petition for custody of Anna Dolan, and for your sworn written statement that you will never again seek to remove her from Haven Adams's custody or try to gain control of any of her inheritance, I will give you this check."
Brady held the check up in front of him, and Pete duly zoomed the camera lens in on it.
"You're just afraid we'll win the court case," Pamela burst out. "If you think we can be bought off, you have another think coming."
"Shut up, Pamela," Douglas said softly.
Tossing a wounded look to her husband, Pamela shut up.
It wasn't that Brady didn't think Haven would prevail. He did. He was certain that any reasonable judge would choose her over the Zieglars. But, like Haven when she'd come to him and begged him to assert his parental rights, he couldn't take the chance that he might be wrong.
"You might win," he conceded, his gaze locked with Douglas's. "And if you do, you'll undoubtedly be able to get your hands on a lot more money than the amount I've written on that check. But then again, you might not win. You see, Haven's lawyer plans on parading a whole slew of witnesses before the judge who will make her look more saintly than Mother Teresa."
"And we have witnesses who can prove she isn't," Douglas said.
"All you have is a vindictive ex-employee. All your charges can be rationally explained away. You know Haven. You know the impression she'll make on the judge. Your case is by no means a sure thing. But the check I'm offering you is. The question is, how much of a gambler are you? If my information is correct, and I have no reason to believe it isn't, your instincts haven't served you too well lately."
It took Douglas and Pamela all of two seconds to come to a decision. A phone call was made, and the petition for custody was withdrawn. Once that was accomplished, the butler and maid were summoned to witness the signing of the contract, and the check was placed in Douglas's hot little fist.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," Brady said, "I have a plane to catch." At the door, he paused and turned one last time. "A word of advice. I'd keep my investments in blue-chip stocks from now on. They're much safer."
"Why are you doing this?" Douglas asked, his face a mask of bewilderment. "She's not even your daughter. I'd think you'd be happy to get rid of her."
Brady felt nothing but pity for this sorry excuse for a human being. "Why am I doing this?" he said. "For a reason you will never understand. Love."
* * *
Too restless to sit, Haven crossed her office and stood at the window. Outside, the sun blazed, the birds sang and the flowers filled the air with their fragrance. But it could have been gray and rainy for all she noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. At the moment, they centered on one person in particular: Brady.
He'd been gone only one night, and already she missed him dreadfully. The house seemed empty without him there, her bed unbearably lonely. Last night, she'd worn one of his shirts to bed, because it had comforted her just to have the scent of him near. Still, she'd tossed and turned all night, longing for the feel of his arms around her.
The phone rang, startling her to sudden awareness. Reaching behind her, she raised the receiver to her ear.
"Are you sitting down?" Syd asked without greeting.
"Should I be?"
"Sit down, Haven."
Her heart lurched at the seriousness of his voice, and her fingers tightened involuntarily around the receiver. Whatever it was, it had to be bad.
"All right," she said, willing herself to remain calm as she moved behind her desk. "I'm sitting. What is it?"
There was a long pause, during which her heartbeat accelerated. "You'll never believe it," he said finally. "The Zieglars have withdrawn their petition."
Relief left her light-headed. If she'd been standing, she knew her knees would have given out on her.
"But why? How? What happened?" She realized she was laughing and crying at the same time. She couldn't believe it. Anna was safe.
"I have no idea," Syd replied. "All I know is, I got a call from their lawyer not ten minutes ago, informing me the petition had been withdrawn."
When she hung up the phone several minutes later, Haven wished she could call Brady to give him the good news. Unfortunately, he hadn't left a number where he could be reached.
Brady. Some of the joy went out of her. The last week in particular, she'd noticed a strain in him, a peculiar tension. She knew she was the cause. Whenever he'd tried talking about something personal, she'd been so terrified he'd bring up the subject of children that she'd made a joke or deliberately steered the conversation to a safer topic. At odd moments, she'd caught him looking at her, his eyes questioning. She hadn't been able to keep from wondering if he'd regretted his decision to stay, once he learned the DNA test results.
He'd told her that Anna needed them more than ever now, because of the threat the Zieglars posed. Well, the Zieglars no longer posed a threat. Anna was safe. There was no reason for him to stay.
Except that he was an honorable man. Though he'd avoided them all his life, he'd made a commitment to Haven and their marriage. A commitment that had nothing to do with love, but a commitment nonetheless. She knew he would abide by it, unless she gave him an out.
From her hazy recollection of a law course she'd taken in college, she knew that when one party entered into a contract fraudulently, the entire contract was rendered null and void. It was time for her to tell Brady the truth, that she could never give him a child. Time for her to let him know she'd accepted his offer of making their marriage a real one under false pretenses. Time to give him an out.
And if he walked away?
Haven swallowed hard and blinked back tears. Deep down, she didn't know what would be worse: Brady walking out on her when he learned the truth, or spending the rest of her life with him without possessing his love.
* * *
It was pure impulse that led Brady to the phone booth when his plane landed Friday evening. Pure impulse that had him leafing through the dangling phone book until he located the address of one Asa Adams. Pure impulse that had him driving to the house where Haven's parents lived.
He was riding on a wave of euphoria. The threat to Anna had been removed, and his meeting had gone far better than he'd anticipated, leaving his mind churning with dozens of ideas he couldn't wait to implement. For the first time in more years than he could remember, he felt hopeful about the future. And it was all Haven's doing. Haven's and Anna's. They'd opened his eyes to all that was possible. They'd made him believe in goodness again.
He couldn't wait to get home to them, to tell them both that he loved them. But first, he needed to take a slight detour. Because it was time to start courting his wife, and he hoped Haven's parents could shed some light on the best way for him to go about it. And if, in the process, he brought about a reconciliation between them, so much the better. More than ever now, he realized the importance of family.
* * *
The woman who answered the door of the nondescript stucco house was Haven thirty years from now.
"Mrs. Adams?"
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice distant but polite. "We don't talk to salesmen."
"I'm not a salesman. My name is Brady Ross." Since there was no tactful way to break the news that their daughter had married without their knowledge, he simply forged ahead. "I'm Haven's husband."
She took the news without showing any emotion whatsoever. "So Haven's married."
"Yes."
He'd expected to be bombarded with questions about where they'd met, how long they had known each other and why hadn't she and her husband been invited to the wedding. At the very least, he'd expected to be asked about what he did for a living and how he planned to support their daughter. But the woman just stood there, staring at him politely. For all the interest she showed, they might have been discussing the weather.
"May I come in please?"
She led him into a room that was as impersonal as a hotel. It was neat and sparsely furnished, with just a sofa, coffee table and two armchairs. The sofa and armchairs were brown; the carpet beneath his feet, olive green. There were no family pictures scattered about. No knickknacks. The only personal touch was the books. Wall after wall of them. From where he was standing, they all looked scientific in nature.
Brady's gaze went to the middle-aged man sitting in one of the armchairs. He was smoking a pipe and reading the latest edition of the Journal of Biological Chemistry.
<
br /> "Asa?" Doris Adams said. "This is Brady Ross. He says he's Haven's husband."
Asa Adams showed even less reaction than his wife had to the news. With obvious reluctance, he lowered his magazine. Standing, he extended his hand to Brady.
"Mr. Ross."
What was wrong with these people? Brady wondered as he shook the proffered hand. They acted more like robots than living, breathing beings. It struck him then that this was the state he'd been striving toward for so many years. If he'd reached it, he would have been just like them. The thought was chilling.
"I thought it was time we were introduced," Brady said. "And, while I was here, I was also wondering if you had any photo albums of Haven that I could look through."
Asa Adams shook his head. "None, I'm afraid. My wife and I aren't into photography. We're scientists, you see."
No, Brady didn't see. What did being a scientist have to do with taking pictures of your only child?
"Well," he said, struggling to remain calm against the anger surging through him, "perhaps you could tell me what she was like as a child. What was she interested in? What activities did she participate in?"
"I'm afraid I can't help you much there, either," Asa said. "That was her nanny's province."
"She did act in a play at school once," Doris volunteered. "Remember, Asa, when we traveled up to see her?"
"Oh, yes," the man said, nodding. "It snowed the whole way. Terrible trip. Terrible."
These people couldn't be real, Brady thought. Next to them, the Zieglars gave him the warm fuzzies. He was beginning to think that nothing short of a heart transplant would warm them up. He'd thought Haven had been exaggerating when she told him how they'd ignored her all her life. Now he knew she hadn't.
"Would you like to see her bedroom?" Doris Adams asked. "We've kept it the way it was when she lived here."
That didn't surprise him. It didn't look as if they'd changed a thing in the house since the mid 1970s.
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