“No, really, cereal would be fine. I’ll be leaving as soon as Warren Dillon gets here,” Lauren replied, wondering if she had time for a shower. Her question quickly answered.
“Mr. Dillon is already downstairs having breakfast himself. He said to tell you not to hurry; he has some calls to make while he waits for you. And Jon said you’re a coffee person,” Mary told her. “He also told me to try to make you stay here for the weekend. Those are farm clothes he ordered, I think…”
Lauren smiled regretfully. “I’m afraid, the answer’s no. I have to get back and start to get my studio, and my life, back in some sort of order. You know what happened?”
Mary Wilson nodded, her expression sympathetic. “Well, at least I can tell him I tried. It’s not my fault he’s met someone as pig-headed as he is.”
“Gee, thanks - I think. And about the clothes, I can’t accept them. I’ll wait until I get home and change.”
Mary looked embarrassed. “Well, I understand from Jon that he and the police chief ordered all your clothes at the studio to be disposed of. He said the…er, condition…they were in, both he and the police chief agreed you’d never want to wear them again. And as for your other clothes, well, I sent them out to be cleaned. So I guess you’ll have to do as Jon says.”
“Does he always get his own way like this?”
The other woman shrugged, grinning. “Usually. At least, ever since I’ve known him, since he was thirteen or fourteen…”
“We’ll see about that,” Lauren muttered, furious that decisions about her possessions had been made without her having any part in the process.
She dwelt on Jon Rush’s high-handedness as she showered, with a mild sidebar thought about plotting a suitable verbal revenge on police Chief Mike Ohmer. But as she toweled her hair dry she suddenly realized why they had done what they had done. She’d read about some of the things that occurred in break-ins, when the owner’s belongings were horribly defiled as well as vandalized. Lauren’s stomach lurched, and she thought that perhaps she should be grateful to the two men rather than angry. She suddenly didn’t want to know what it was they had protected her from.
To her surprise, the good quality jeans, flannel shirt, and warm sweatshirt Jon had ordered for her fit perfectly. Opening another, smaller box, Lauren felt her cheeks heat as she surveyed a selection of luxurious silken under things, then she smiled mischievously as she considered the consequences on Jon if she decided to model his purchases for him. The larger box contained fine leather boots of a type suitable for both walking and riding, and she wondered if Jon kept horses on the farm and his intention was that they should ride together.
Looking out of the window across fields where the dull browns and greens of frost-rimed grasses were rapidly overwhelming the remaining patches of sun softened snow, Lauren felt a real temptation to put everything out of her mind. She could take a leisurely breakfast, explore the books she’d seen on Jon’s study shelves and, when he got home, she’d have him take her on a tour of his beautiful home and its environs. Maybe she could pick up some inspiration for new paintings in this unfamiliar countryside.
And thinking of painting again brought her mind right back to the ruined bobcat portrait and the need to take some action to see if it could be repaired. And to get her own life back on track.
One thing marriage to Terry had taught her, she wasn’t going to give up control of her life to Jon Rush, or anyone else, ever again. With a last wistful glance out of the window, she pulled on the stiff boots and went downstairs.
Following her nose along the scent of coffee, Lauren found Mary and a heavyset man she guessed must be Warren Dillon in a spacious, bright kitchen. Country-kitchen touches such as soft, sprigged muslin curtains, and a gleaming antique round pine table with press-backed chairs softened the sharp lines of polished stainless steel state-of-the-art appliances. Red and salmon pink geraniums gave out bright sparks of color in deep windows, and a huge Boston fern drooped its healthy-looking bright green fronds over a pine dry-sink, another antique piece, in the corner of the room.
Warren Dillon stood as she entered and offered a large hand in a friendly gesture. Lauren instinctively trusted this man and the thought that Jon chose his friends wisely ran through her head. She apologized for keeping him waiting, and asked Mary if she could use the telephone for a few moments.
In the study, she quickly looked up the number of Judy Harris, the artist specializing in repairing damaged canvases. She was relieved to find the other woman home, and her explanation received the sympathetic response she knew it would engender in another artist. Without hesitation, understanding the importance of the exhibition to Lauren’s career, Judy said she would put other work on hold to do what she could to restore the acrylic-on-canvas piece that had been so cruelly slashed by Lauren’s intruder.
Relieved, knowing that she was putting her work in the hands of one of the best repair artists in the business and that there was nothing further that she could do, Lauren returned to the kitchen with a lighter heart. Dillon was alone there, nursing a mug of coffee and staring morosely out the window. As she approached the table, he indicated a bowl and selection of cereal packets, and reached over to fill another large mug with fragrant fresh-brewed coffee from a French-style stainless steel cafetiere that stood on the table.
Lauren thanked him, sensing from the man’s abstracted demeanor that there was something on his mind and that he hadn’t yet made up his mind to offer her the same kind of instant trust that she’d felt for him.
The reasons weren’t long in coming, and she admired the loyalty that lay behind his attitude. Warren looked at her over the steaming coffee cup, which was dwarfed in his huge paw. He seemed to be taking her measure and Lauren tried to look casual as her heart and mind raced. What was in the mind of Rush Co.’s top security man, that he should direct such a look at her?
“You know, Jon Rush is the most honest man I know. What you see is what you get. Not a game playing character, at least when it comes to relationships.” She nodded, mesmerized by the other man’s deep gaze, which seemed to look into her heart and soul. “He’s also my best friend. I’d hate to see him hurt.”
Lauren felt a surge of irritation, which came through in her terse reply, “And this has something to do with me?”
“You know damn well it does. Or you should. And if not, well, you’d better tell him, pronto. So he can get over it before you really hurt him.”
The silence in the room was palpable. Defensive hostility seemed to breathe in the small gap between Lauren and Dillon. Lauren’s first reaction was anger, she wanted to tell the man to mind his own business, and that Jon was a big boy who could take care of his own heart.
Yet you’re both on the same side. You both love the man, the niggling little voice wriggled into Lauren’s mind, and she knew it spoke the truth. Her anger evaporated as quickly as it had flared, and she sighed as she leaned back in her chair and looked Warren Dillon in the eye.
“I don’t think you have cause to worry on that score. To tell you the truth, I think I’m a bit afraid on my own behalf. No one has ever come as close as Jon, and I’m scared to feel so vulnerable.”
The other man looked at her hard then nodded in satisfaction. “I don’t think you need fear Jon. He’s one of the good guys,” Warren said, obviously relaxing as he poured more coffee and scooped sugar into the steaming cup, then topped it with a generous helping of cream.
“Seems like we have a lot in common, Mr. Dillon,” Lauren said, a small smile playing around her lips as she set about dumping sugar into her own coffee. Seeing Warren’s questioning glance, she flamboyantly poured a sizeable quantity of cream in, stirred the rich-looking liquid, and raised her mug to him in a salute. “It seems like we both love the same things,” she said, and enjoyed his grin of understanding.
Lauren was just finishing a helping of breakfast cereal when Warren’s cell phone shrilled from its perch on the table. A look of strain and shock came over hi
s face as he listened to the news that came through the small black receiver, and he asked a few terse questions.
“Why the hell wasn’t I informed of this sooner?” he demanded, then: “A memo on my desk? Jeez, man, didn’t you think…no, no, I suppose you didn’t know. No, it’s all right. You couldn’t really have known how important this is. What hospital did you say again? And who’s the investigating officer?”
Lauren’s heart began to pound and the breakfast cereal she’d eaten rose in her throat. Had something happened to Jon? Anxiety made her breath catch. Seeing her stricken look, Warren hastened to reassure her.
“It’s a member of staff, an accountant named Pippa Williams. She was involved in a hit and run accident last night. She’s still unconscious in hospital. Looks like she’ll make it, but it was a lucky escape. If you can call something like this luck.”
“Oh God. I’m so sorry for her…but for a terrible moment, when you were so angry, so shocked…I thought…”
“No,” he said gently, briefly patting her trembling fingers with his hand. “Jon is fine, as far as I know he’s in a meeting right now giving some poor unfortunate major supplier’s representative hell over a late delivery which has cost us contract penalties.”
Lauren felt as though she could breathe again. After all that had happened, it was probably natural that she should worry in this way. But she hated to feel so vulnerable, so easy to wound. Warren looked thoughtful.
“The thing is, really, that Pippa had asked me to see her, day before yesterday actually. I put her off because I wanted to be in West River with Jon, in case there was any problem there…”
Lauren flushed at the memory of the protest incident, knowing the part that Warren had played, remembering his hard grasp on her wrist when he thought she’d assaulted Jon. Then she thought about the security chief’s last words, something clicked in her mind. “Do you think this has something to do with things going wrong at the company? Mary told me there’d been several crises recently.”
Warren was silent a moment, assessing her with his eyes. Then he sighed heavily. “Yes, yes, I do. Pippa is the accountant with responsibility for the special projects accounting, and the difficulties seem to center on that area. The area concerned with selecting the West River site, among other projects. If she found something out of line…”
“But why didn’t she simply contact her department head?” Lauren asked, frowning.
Warren thought of Stephen Rush and his own dark suspicions about the man’s activities. “Maybe she couldn’t, maybe she suspected she wouldn’t get a sympathetic hearing,” he told Lauren. Or maybe she was afraid something bad would happen to her if she went to Stephen Rush. Like maybe a hit and run accident, he thought grimly to himself.
“When did the accident happen?” Lauren asked, scooping the last of the cereal from her bowl.
“A little after midnight last night.”
The spoon stopped on its journey to her mouth as her fingers reminded her of the damp touch of melting snowflakes on Jon’s jacket, the memory bringing back in full force the shock of passion she’d felt when his lips settled on hers. There couldn’t be a connection. But she had to ask.
Carefully placing the spoonful of cereal, untouched, in her bowl, Lauren looked Warren Dillon in the eye and stated, “Jon went out before midnight last night, and he didn’t get in until late.”
Anger blazed across the other man’s features, and Lauren had a sudden insight into just how dangerous an enemy Warren Dillon could be. He kept his voice under tight control as he replied. “Not much in the trust department, are you? I’m not sure you’re really the one for Jon, not if you jump on every little excuse to call his integrity into question.”
Lauren flushed, feeling about two feet tall at his words, but still she had to know, and she looked mutely at the security chief.
After what seemed like an age, he decided to answer. “Jon was with me. To save me having to drive out of my way to meet him here after a long day, and longer evening looking over your break-in, he met me at an all-night truck stop outside Port Hope. While some heartless bastard in a dark Jeep-style vehicle was running poor Pippa Williams down and leaving her half-dead in the street like a dog, Jon Rush was turning out on a bitter cold night because he needed to meet with me and talk to me about how to keep you safe.”
There was an edge of anger and contempt in his voice and a sick feeling of shame flushed through her. She should have trusted Jon, yet knew if the scenario played again, she’d still have had to ask the same questions.
The room was silent aside from the occasional squawks of birds that crowded a bird feeder in the kitchen garden near the window.
Finally, Lauren sighed and said, “After all that’s happened, you can’t blame me for running scared.”
The big man’s eyes took in her pale face and the lines of tension around her eyes and mouth and his expression softened.
“No, no, I guess not. You’ve certainly had bad experiences recently.”
“But nothing like what has happened to Pippa Williams. Maybe you should be at this woman’s bedside, in case she has anything to say, or needs some protection.”
“But I told Jon I’d see you safely back to West River.”
“I’m a big girl. Let me have a vehicle and I can see myself safely back to West River. I think you’re needed elsewhere.”
Warren thought for a moment, seemed to argue with himself, then nodded.
“Jon keeps his personal truck in the garage here, and I’m pretty sure he’s been driving a company Jeep, so you could take his vehicle. I’ll drop your canvas off with the repair artist, so you don’t need to detour into the Toronto area, and I’ll also alert the police chief in West River to be on the lookout for you,” he told Lauren, picking up his phone.
“Great, that’s all I need. Maybe he’ll put my name out on the police radio band and then everyone in the area with a scanner’s going to think I’m some kind of wanted desperado,” Lauren said, rolling her eyes.
Warren grinned. “Just promise me you won’t trash Jon’s truck. He restored that baby himself, and he loves her.”
* * *
Things were moving too quickly, spiraling out of his control. Or maybe they’d always been out of his control, and he just hadn’t known it. But ever since he’d overheard Pippa Williams talking on the phone to Warren Dillon, on the same day that he’d realized his biggest, most recent investments were going wrong, it had seemed like every move he’d made had been a step towards an inevitable end. There could be no going back. However, if he were going to crash and burn, then he’d take the others with him. They, too, would fry in his final blaze of glory.
* * *
Jon’s personal truck turned out to be a lovingly restored Ford half-ton of 1950’s vintage, deep maroon in color with gleaming chrome accents.
“Ooh, I’m gonna love driving this baby!” Lauren said gleefully to an anxious looking Warren Dillon and Mary Wilson, as she hoisted herself into the cab.
“Does she know how much work Jon put into this truck?” Mary asked Warren nervously.
“Jeez, Lauren, I meant what I said. Jon loves this truck. He rescued it from a farmer’s field back over Orangeville way and has done all the restoration work himself. For all our sakes, don’t let anything happen to it! Not even a little, tiny, superficial scratch, or he’ll know and he’ll have our heads!” Warren was only half-joking, but Lauren was much too delighted to have the opportunity to drive the magnificent old truck to care about their attack of nerves.
“Gee, guys, don’t worry, everything will be fine. This truck and me are gonna do some real drivin’,” she said, in her best mock Texan accent.
She grinned with delight when she turned the ignition key and heard the purr of a beautifully tuned engine. After surveying the dash to make sure she knew where everything was, Lauren gunned the accelerator and took off down the driveway with a spurt of snowmelt-wet gravel and a cheerful blast of the musical horn.
/> As she predicted, everything went well as she cruised the side roads and Highway 401 without a care in the world, enjoying the envious glances many of the male drivers who passed her cast over the truck. Several times other drivers of ancient trucks and cars blasted their horns towards her in courteous recognition, and when she stopped at a truckers’ café near Belleville for a sandwich and coffee she almost had to fight the guys off. In this case, she knew it was the truck’s body they were interested in, not hers, and the horsepower and all the other works under the gleaming maroon hood.
Finally, on the last leg of the journey home, she was singing along with an Elvis Presley tape she’d found in the cd/cassette player on the dashboard—tut, tut, Jon, not an original fitting!—when she noticed a big dark colored Jeep in the rear view mirror. He was coming up fast behind her on the narrow lane and Lauren wrestled the steering wheel so that she could pull over to give the other vehicle room to pass.
“Slow down, you creep!” she muttered to herself as she saw the other vehicle was making no effort to slow as it hurtled towards her. Suddenly afraid she’d be hit, Lauren debated whether to hit the accelerator and try to get out of the way or pull right over and risk getting stuck in the ditch that she knew probably lurked beyond the tall pile of dirty, melting snow on the side of the road.
Before she could make a decision, the Jeep skidded past her, cutting in front at great speed and clipping the front wing of the truck Lauren was driving. Panicked, Lauren wrestled the wheel to keep from losing control as the heavy truck slewed crazily off the road, the brakes catching just as it hit the snow bank.
The other vehicle disappeared with an insolent blast of its horn but not before a shaken Lauren had seen the Rush. Co. insignia emblazoned on its passenger door.
She sat for a few moments, paralyzed by shock and fear as she tried to come to terms with what had just happened. Her left shoulder ached where she had struck it on the driver’s door as the truck skidded to a halt, and her left wrist was beginning to throb ominously with the pain of what she prayed was a sprain, not a break. A glance at the sky showed dusk approaching and with it would come freezing temperatures. This quiet road was no spot to be stranded overnight.
Judgement By Fire Page 12
