“You’re right, I know—but you will always factor into my decisions. Because I love you.”
“Then let me tell you this: I will support your decision no matter what. Whether you go back to RCK or not, I will be here. That will never change.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Two days later
Each footfall down the stairs made Sean’s cracked ribs sing in pain. He knew he shouldn’t have gone downstairs. But what Lucy had said at the hospital hung heavily around his heart. She was right. He had to make this decision for himself.
Duke stood with his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t have any luggage because he had come to New York only with a backpack, which had disappeared along the way. And now he was leaving Sean’s town house the same way.
Duke said, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Sean shook his head. “No more lies, Duke. No more platitudes. No more hedging.”
Sean needed to sit down, but he was afraid if he turned his back on his brother, Duke would leave and they’d never be brothers again.
Sean didn’t want that.
“I love you, Duke.”
Damn, it was hard to say. Maybe because they were guys, they were brothers, they couldn’t just let their emotions leak all over the place. But after all this time of trying to be what Duke wanted, Sean realized he’d failed. Not because he couldn’t, but because he shouldn’t have tried.
“You’re coming back to RCK.”
Sean shook his head.
“Sean, when I said I was sorry, I meant it.”
“I know.”
“What more do you want? I can’t even tell you how bad I feel.”
“Duke—” Sean winced and held his side. “Can we sit down?”
“I should go.”
“Don’t. Not yet. Give me ten minutes.” Why was Sean pleading with his brother? It wasn’t going to change Sean’s decision. He needed his brother back. Not a boss, not even a partner, but his brother.
Sean hadn’t had a brother since his parents died.
Duke nodded and followed Sean into the family room in the back of the house. Sean made coffee. He didn’t drink it, but Lucy would want some when she got up. Sean poured himself a glass of milk, then sat in the big chair. He shifted until the pain faded to a light throb.
Duke sat on the sofa. “I’m sorry I said what I did. I was angry and if you’d only told me—”
“Duke, this isn’t about that. I know you were mad; I counted on it. It gave the undercover operation believability. I couldn’t risk being exposed.”
“But that doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have lost it like I did. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
Duke was upset. “Sean, you’re my brother. I would do anything for you; you know that.”
“This isn’t about loyalty. It’s about how you see me. I’ve done a lot of things that were wrong—or illegal—but I did them with full knowledge of what I was doing. I weighed the consequences and decided that I could live with my actions. My priorities have now changed. I have someone in my life who my actions impact, and that’s going to factor into all my future decisions.
“I can’t work for you. You will always view me as the fourteen-year-old rebel. I told you once I wanted a brother, because my father was dead. I thought when you sent me here, to D.C., that we were equals. But I don’t think you can accept that.”
“I’m working on it. Sean, I’m proud of you. God, you know I am! You’ve accomplished more for RCK than anyone. We make a great team.”
Sean didn’t think he’d ever heard Duke tell him he was proud of him. Maybe Duke had, but Sean hadn’t heard it through the criticism that generally preceded or followed praise.
“Maybe, in the future. But ever since Mom and Dad died, I’ve been living for your praise. After Stanford, I resented you. You didn’t stand up for me. You fixed it. I didn’t want it fixed. I was willing to take responsibility for what I did because I believed then, and I believe now, that I was right. It was obnoxious, it was arrogant, but it was right to expose that bastard. And the security that supposedly was going to prevent things like this was deeply flawed. I could have gone through the proper channels, but I was seventeen and even if you had listened, it would have taken years to effect the change that I accomplished in one day.
“I rebelled again, and I knew it. Working with Colton, with someone who believed passionately in what he was doing, drew me in. Colton isn’t a bad guy. He was loyal and honorable, and even though we broke more laws than I’ll ever admit to, in the process we fixed problems. I don’t regret it—but I’m not going to do it again. Not in the same way. I have too much to live free for. And I think after a while I realized that a lot of my decisions were to spite you. Because I’d disappointed you and didn’t understand why. Believe me, I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the last couple days, after grasping all the games Kurt LeGrand played, things I didn’t even know, that affected me and my decisions. He got a perverse pleasure in hurting me and me not even seeing it. I think I was doing the same to you.
“After Robert Martin killed himself—after I thought he killed himself—I did a one-eighty. I did everything to get back into your good graces, to prove that I was a mini-Duke. But I’m not you. I used to want to be; I thought that would make you like me more.”
“I’ve always loved you, Sean. You’re my brother. I was your guardian.”
“Because no one else would take responsibility for me. Kane wouldn’t come home. Liam and Eden were off in Europe. I had no one else. I love you for staying, but it was your duty and you treated it like a duty. I don’t blame you for that, my God, you were twenty-five, and suddenly you had a badass, grieving, angry kid you were responsible for. And worse, I had the brains to get into a lot of trouble. I thought after I graduated from MIT that you would finally not look at me as a duty and obligation, that you would be proud of me.”
“I always have been.”
“You’ve never told me.”
“Of course I have!”
“Not until today. But this isn’t about you; it’s about me. I can’t live my life to please you. I need to stand on my own. Patrick is more than capable of running RCK East. Send him someone. Hire someone. I don’t know where Lucy is going when she graduates, but wherever it is, I will follow. I’m going to focus on private investigation. I’m good at it and I can do it anywhere.”
“You can work for us anywhere as well—”
“But I don’t want to. I need to do this for me. I’m thirty years old, and if I stay, I will continue to seek your approval and praise. I can’t live like that anymore. I don’t like how every time you say ‘Good job,’ I lap it up like a puppy. I need to stand on my own. Without your protection, without RCK.”
Duke didn’t say anything for a long minute. “I would take back everything I said if I could. I hate that I hurt you so deeply.”
“I forgive you.” Sean smiled, but it felt funny, especially since his eyes were burning. This wasn’t good-bye forever, he wanted to say, but it was good-bye for now. Because Sean didn’t want to rely on Duke or RCK and it would be so easy to do it.
“After Nora has the baby, in March, I hope you visit.”
“I will.”
“I need to go.” Duke stood up. Sean tried to stand. “Stay.” Duke put his hand on Sean’s head. “I love you, brother,” he said, his voice cracking.
Then he left.
Lucy came down the stairs when she didn’t hear voices. Duke was standing by the front door, looking at his feet. He glanced up at her, tears in his eyes. “You have a good man in my brother, Lucy.”
“I know.”
She hugged Duke, then locked the door behind him and went to the family room where Sean sat in his favorite chair. He looked as upset as Duke.
She sat on the arm of the chair and took Sean’s hand. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “I made the right decision. I’m ready to be on my own. I just didn’t want to hurt him.�
��
“Honesty can be painful, but to save your relationship, you needed to tell him the truth.”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re okay with this, right?”
“Okay with what?”
“I’m going where you go.”
“I can’t tell you the weight that has been lifted off my chest. I think in the back of my mind I expected you to stay here, because I knew how much you loved RCK, and I didn’t want to ask you to come with me.”
“I love you more than my job.”
“It’s more than a job for you.”
He shook his head. “Without you, it doesn’t mean anything. But when I said about going where you go—I mean it literally. I want to spend every night with you. I want our place, not your place and my place.”
“That’s kind of what I expected,” she said, confused. “Did you think I wasn’t ready for that big of a commitment?”
“I didn’t want to presume.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it; the way he was talking made her giggle. “Sean, I can’t wait to graduate. To find out where we’re moving, to find a home we can share, to wake up every morning with you. I love you, Sean Rogan.”
Lucy sat on his lap and kissed him. “How are your ribs?”
“Just don’t move,” he murmured.
Sean considered himself extremely lucky to have Lucy. That she stood by him without question, that she trusted him and his love for her, that even when she learned his darkest secrets she forgave without hesitation. She’d said there was nothing to forgive.
He was scared. Change was scary, because right now his future was both out of his hands and solely in his grasp. He didn’t know where the FBI would send Lucy; for the next seven weeks they would be in limbo, waiting for her orders. And then they would go, together, to forge their future.
It was a challenge. And Sean had never shied away from a challenge.
Read on for an excerpt from
Allison Brennan’s next book
COLD SNAP
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
San Francisco
Patrick Kincaid had a problem: he couldn’t say no.
Whatever was asked of him, he did it, usually without complaint. He was amicable that way, and his friends and family knew it. He didn’t mind helping out; if he could do something for someone, why not? He had a challenging job he liked, a family he loved, and a few good friends who had stuck around even during his two-year stint sleeping off a coma in the hospital. Life was too short to be stingy with it.
But this time, as he circled the arcane street system in San Francisco that seemed to have no methodology, looking for a parking place in a dense fog, he wished he’d said no.
He would have, if anyone else in the world had asked him to drive two hours out of his way (which took three because of the inclement weather) to hunt down a family friend he hadn’t seen since he graduated from high school. He’d have found an excuse or found a replacement. Except, his mother had called. And Patrick had never, not once, said no to his mom. His older brother Connor had told him—often—that he was Mom’s favorite because he was her “yes-man.”
His job, because he’d chosen to accept it, was to bring Gabrielle Santana home for Christmas. Gabrielle Santana—the girl who’d staged a sit-in sophomore year to protest the expulsion of three students who she thought hadn’t had a fair hearing with the school board. The same girl who’d been arrested at seventeen for organizing a rave in an abandoned warehouse in downtown San Diego. The girl who’d been suspended for skinny-dipping in the high school pool. Patrick was three years older than Gabrielle, but she’d done more her freshman year—both good and bad—than he had his entire four years of high school.
The problem was that Gabrielle had called her mother two days ago and said something came up at work and she couldn’t come home for Christmas. Now, she wasn’t returning her mother’s phone calls, or those from anyone else in her family. They were worried, and because the Santanas were worried, Rosa Kincaid was worried. And if Rosa Kincaid was worried and called upon one of her children for help, the worry fell onto them. In this case, Patrick.
“You’re already in Sacramento,” his mother had said. “It’s not that far out of your way to help the Santanas.”
She had to have sensed the hesitation in his tone because she gave him the hard sell—and the guilt. Irish Catholic guilt compounded by the fact that he had a Cuban mother. No one said no to Rosa Kincaid.
After fifteen minutes of driving around in widening circles because there seemed to be no street parking in the vicinity, he finally squeezed the rental car into a spot four blocks from Gabrielle’s loft in a converted warehouse off Howard Street. At least he was driving in a flat area and not the insanely steep hills that made up so much of the city.
Patrick pulled the collar of his jacket up against the cold, damp air as he walked briskly down Howard. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he reluctantly pulled it out. He hadn’t brought gloves. He’d packed for San Diego—where it had been 78 degrees today—not wet San Francisco. He glanced at the text message from his sister Lucy.
Be glad you’re in Sacramento—we’re stuck in Denver. Airport shut down. Blizzard. Won’t get out until tomorrow night, if then. Love you! ~Lucy
He responded that he was on an errand for their mom in San Francisco and would be delayed as well, then pocketed his phone and continued up the hill.
Maybe this side trip had a silver lining. He didn’t want to be the fifth wheel stuck in Denver with Lucy with her boyfriend, Sean. It would make it doubly awkward. Patrick wasn’t a prude, but Lucy was his little sister, and he would always think of her as his little sister. While he’d grown to accept her relationship with his best friend and partner Sean Rogan, she was still his little sister. There were some things he didn’t want to think about.
The fog was so heavy a layer of moisture quickly coated his jacket. Driving here, he’d thought of all the reasons why Gabrielle was incommunicado. Off with a boyfriend. Working. Drinking with her girlfriends. It was selfish and cruel not to respond to her mother’s calls for two days, but it didn’t mean anything was wrong. He’d already checked hospitals and her employer. Nothing. The only odd thing was that her employer said she would be out of the office until after the holidays. Patrick couldn’t get any other details from the snippy receptionist.
Again, not being in the office didn’t mean something was wrong. In fact, that she’d informed her employer she would be out told Patrick there was nothing to worry about.
Except … he had to talk to her. Find out what she was doing and give Mrs. Santana peace of mind. Give her a piece of his mind, too. He would never have needlessly worried his mom, as a kid or as an adult. He’d been a cop and now worked for the private security firm of Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid, and when he was going to be unreachable for more than a day, he made sure his family knew his plans. It was common courtesy.
He rounded the corner of Gabrielle’s narrow street, not wider than an alley. One car could barely fit. The buildings were a mix of very old and renovated. Mostly businesses, with apartments upstairs. In Gabrielle’s converted warehouse, the heavy metal door was accessible only by a keypad. A sign indicated that the lobby was open from 6 a.m. until 6 p.m.
Patrick rang her buzzer. No answer. He tried her cell phone number—she didn’t have a landline in her name—again, no answer. He looked around for an external security camera and didn’t see any. He easily hacked the keypad and the door opened.
Sean had taught him a lot of tricks over the years, and the former cop in Patrick winced at breaking and entering. Though, as Sean would say, he wasn’t breaking anything.
It took Patrick a few minutes to get his bearings. First, he was surprised at the quiet. Even the traffic from the interstate a few blocks away had dimmed once he stepped inside. Music faintly played from somewhere upstairs. The lobby was a small square with mailboxes—sixteen—built into the wall. Eight of them were large
r boxes labeled with business names—a realtor, an interior decorator, and similar white-collar professions. The other eight were narrow and had last names only. Bruce. Carmichael. Santana, in Unit 12.
The building was a mix of new and old, with the warehouse structure built out, but the polished concrete floors made the place feel cold and sterile. The staircase upstairs was metal—new and reinforced, but it also added to the cool interior. It was probably young and trendy, but Patrick shivered. The building seemed lonely, if a building could feel anything.
On the second landing he found Unit 12 in the far back corner. He knocked on the door and silently swore. It was solid metal. He rang the bell.
No one came.
Patrick tried the door, not expecting it to open, but it did. Gabrielle left her apartment unlocked? Even in a semi-secure building, he’d never leave his door open.
He pushed open the door and glanced around before entering. The entry was small and narrow. It was completely dark. He called out, “Hello? Gabrielle?”, then felt along the wall and found a light switch. This lit up not only the entry, but lights in the living room. A short staircase led to a large room with lush, bright throw rugs tossed haphazardly across most of the cement floor. The exterior walls were brick; one was embedded with small, square warehouse windows; the other was dotted with bright and wild contemporary art. The raised, galley-style kitchen included a long, low bar with two benches. The ceiling was more than twenty-five feet high. A spiral staircase led to a loft above the kitchen. Small, but the ceilings and wall of windows made it seem much bigger.
Patrick felt like an idiot standing in the middle of Gabrielle Santana’s apartment. Nothing appeared out of place. Two mismatched couches that looked comfortable. Several bean-bag chairs. Scuffed coffee table covered with books and magazines. He tilted his head. One side of the table was definitely shorter.
Stolen (Lucy Kincaid Novels) Page 32
