by Alyssa Kress
"Griffith?" Deirdre teetered on her high heels. Her hand went tight on the telephone. "Griffith Blaine," she exclaimed. "Where the hell are you?"
The low, scratchy-smooth voice she hadn't heard in two weeks answered blandly. "I'm at Grace Church. It's near USC. It would be nice if you could come get me."
"I'll be right there!" With one hand in a death grip on the phone, she fumbled with the other to find her car keys inside her briefcase. Holy Cow. Griffith!
"It's on Western," Griffith went on, still bland, as if no time had passed since he'd last spoken to his assistant. "Vernon's the closest cross street."
"I'll find it," Deirdre promised. Her hands were shaking so much she couldn't close her fingers around her keys, which had fallen to the floor. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"The sooner, the better," Griffith replied, nonchalant. "I do rather stick out in this neighborhood."
"But Griffith — "
"I'm returning this phone to its owner now — Thanks, José — and I'll see you in about...forty minutes, Deed."
"What — ?" But she was talking to dead air. She hissed a curse and glared at her cell phone. If she'd had her boss in her hands right then she would have wrung his neck. He'd been gone for two weeks and he thought he didn't have to answer any questions? Deirdre set her jaw. He could think again.
It took her forty minutes to get to South Central, and another fifteen to find Grace Church. When she did, Griffith was standing in front, wearing clothes that looked like they'd come from Sears, and a face that said, 'don't tread on me.'
Deirdre didn't blame Griffith for the forbidding expression, considering the roughness of the neighborhood, but she was utterly disgusted by his hale and hearty looks. If she wasn't mistaken, he looked tanned.
Surely the man hadn't taken a vacation?
Griffith strode up to her car when she pulled to the curb, but Deirdre didn't unlock the door. Instead she pressed the passenger side window open an inch.
"Talk," she said.
"What?" Griffith tried, and failed, to open the car door. "Open this thing, would ya?"
"No way."
Griffith lifted his gaze from the door handle to stare at her. "Excuse me?" His voice held all the authority and power Deirdre remembered.
But he owed her. Big time.
"You aren't getting in this car until you talk." She raised her voice so he could hear her through the inch-high opening. "Where have you been and why the hell didn't you call?"
Griffith's eyes paled to a cold steel color. He fixed them on Deirdre with a hardness she might have quailed before two weeks ago.
Today she merely stared back.
Finally, he gave in. "I was kidnapped. Then stranded. It's not until today I was able to get a ride back to Los Angeles."
Deirdre's jaw dropped. "Kidnapped!" Of course she'd considered the possibility, but it was still shocking to hear it expressed as reality.
"Will you open the door now?" Griffith growled.
"What? Oh, yeah. Sure." With a flick of a switch, Deirdre unlocked the car's doors.
Griffith jerked on the handle, got the door open, and shifted his tall frame into the passenger seat.
"Griffith. We should call the police — "
"No police." The words were crisp and firm. Griffith sat back in the seat and closed the door.
"No police?!" Deirdre gaped at him.
"It's a private matter." Griffith twisted to face Deirdre. She received another blast of the hard, gray look. "No police."
A private matter? No police? Ricky's accusations flitted through Deirdre's brain. "Uh...Yeah, it may be private," she asked carefully, "but is there something I should know?"
Still wearing the hard look, Griffith tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean — is there something you're hiding, something...illegal?"
Deirdre nearly wilted under the power of his glare then. But one corner of his mouth twitched. "I have not done anything illegal. But this kidnapping? It's private, and will be dealt with privately. Now, can we get a move on? I have two weeks to catch up on." Griffith gestured. "Hand me your phone, would ya?"
Deirdre hesitated. He'd just said he hadn't done anything illegal. Call her naïve, but she believed him. Griffith was cutthroat, but not dirty. On the other hand... "I don't know if I would call it completely private," she told him, wondering at her own gall again. "You might say I have a vested interest in the matter, having kept your office running without you for two weeks. Do you know who kidnapped you? And where did they keep you for two weeks?"
Looking at her grimly, Griffith gave her the almost-smile again. "You want payback, do you?"
"If you want to put it that way, then yes."
He lifted a shoulder and faced forward. "Simon Grolier kidnapped me. You can guess why. And as to how I was kept away for two weeks...?" Griffith paused and squinted out the windshield. "You could say I was...brainwashed."
Deirdre stared at him. Brainwashed?
He turned to stare back. "But I'm back now." Suddenly, abruptly, his face split into one of his ferocious grins. "Boy, am I back."
Deirdre felt a shiver go up her back. She wouldn't have traded places with Simon Grolier just then for a million dollars. "What — ahem — What are you going to do?"
A shutter seemed to close over Griffith's eyes. His grin faded and he turned to look out the passenger window. "Why, I'm going to win of course."
Deirdre simply looked at him. When he looked back, she handed him her phone and pulled into the road.
As she stepped on the gas, she thought she heard Griffith mutter once again, "I'm going to win."
~~~
He was going to win.
Griffith repeated this to himself as he walked into his office for the first time since getting kidnapped. Wading through the maze of half-wall cubicles, he could feel tension stretch across his neck and shoulders as one person after another looked up and stared at him. They simply stared. Nobody cheered his return with, "What the hell?" Nobody stepped forward with a smile to slap him on the back and welcome him home.
And why should they? In Deirdre's car on the way over here, she'd told him she was the only person who'd even noticed he was gone.
The looks Griffith was receiving were not of astonishment at his presence, but of fashion disbelief. The well-tailored Griffith was showing up at the office in a polyester shirt?
Griffith kept walking, wearing a nonchalant expression despite the gnawing ache in his gut. He told himself it was good no one had noticed he was gone. It meant he'd organized a well-managed office. It meant there were no complications beyond those he'd already discovered via his flurry of phone calls on the way back here from Grace Church. He could get right to making money again.
His protective bubble, alas, was gone, but that was okay. Making money was as good as a bubble. He'd learned that lesson a long time ago. Money cured all kinds of pain.
Griffith entered his office and walked over the plush carpet to his walnut desk, feeling like he was sinking back into his previous life.
But the pain had been bad there on the sidewalk outside the church, with all the campers milling around, waiting to meet the friends or relatives who'd arrived to fetch them home.
Orlando had walked up to Griffith with his customary swagger. But then he'd tossed the dark hair out of his eyes and looked up with a grave expression on his face. "Don't worry," Orlando had said. "You're a good guy, and she'll see it. She's got to...eventually."
Now, standing behind his big desk, Griffith leaned his palms on the surface and closed his eyes. He shouldn't have been surprised. Orlando was sensitive enough to realize things had gone terribly awry between Griffith and Kate. Perhaps what had been the real surprise was that Orlando didn't automatically blame Griffith. He'd...sympathized.
That had been bad enough, having anyone sympathize — having Orlando, in particular, even care. Then the kid had reached out, awkwardly, in obvious impulse, and given Griffith a hard emb
race.
Caught off-guard, Griffith still would have embraced Orlando back. Hell, he would have hugged the kid so hard he probably would have suffocated him. But Orlando had skipped away before Griffith could do any such thing. Griffith had soon seen the reason why. Coming toward Orlando was a woman with the face of a hardened felon. Tattoos covered her well-muscled chest and shoulders.
The woman's expression darkened considerably when she saw Orlando. Catching him by one shoulder, she issued a curt question in Spanish that Orlando was careful to take his time to negate. Then she'd sent a glare around at the crowd, the kind of glare someone on the outside gives those they perceive to be on the inside. Griffith had done his best to act like he'd never seen Orlando in his life. He had a feeling it would be much better for Orlando that way.
On his desktop, Griffith's hands curled. He hoped Orlando would use the phone number Griffith had scrawled on a laundry tag and handed to him during the drive to Los Angeles. Although, of course, hearing from Orlando would only bring back the pain...
Griffith straightened abruptly. Yes, there was the pain. And so it was all the more important to get back to business, back to money. Money had never let him down.
He blinked and saw Deirdre was standing in the doorway, dithering.
She pressed her hands together and then separated them. "Are you sure you don't want me to take you home, after all?" Her gaze toward his casual dress was pointed. "Or perhaps I could run to your place and bring you something else to wear."
Griffith snorted. "At the moment I don't even have a key to my own place."
"Oh, my goodness." Deirdre's hands went to her mouth. "That's right. I didn't think." She whipped out her smartphone. "Shall I contact the building manager? Would they have a copy? Or do we need a locksmith?"
"Go straight for the locksmith. I'll want to change the locks, anyway." Indeed, for the first time it occurred to him Grolier's thugs might have stolen his car and cleaned out his condo.
"But all that can wait." Griffith indicated the seat across from his desk. "Close the door. There's one more matter we have to discuss." Yes, the only matter he'd assiduously avoided during all his phone calls in the car. But it was time now. Time to look it in the face, and put it in its proper place; a challenge to overcome.
Looking wary — nobody could say Deirdre Marshal was an idiot — she closed Griffith's office door. "What is it?" She lowered into the chair across from Griffith's desk.
Griffith forced himself to lower to a seat, as well. In as casual a voice as he could muster, he said, "Wildwood. I need you to tell me exactly what problem on Wildwood prompted you to call Kate Darby."
Deirdre's big hazel eyes widened. "How did you know about my call to Kate Darby?"
Griffith's smile felt as dry as the desert. "You could say it had...repercussions. So, what was the issue?"
Deirdre set her elbows on the chair arms. "Well, it had to do with GoldFed Financial." As she continued with the trials and tribulations of the loan agreement, Griffith found his attention starting to wander. The barren beauty of the countryside between Sagebrush Valley City and Taft rose before his eyes. He could hear the energy of the kids on the bus, and recall a spreading oak tree...
"Wait," he told Deirdre. This was ridiculous. He had to concentrate, strategize, plug up the holes and smooth out the snags. He had to make money, because money solved all problems. In particular, he needed to make money on Wildwood.
That, Griffith was certain, would solve the very worst of his problems.
"I need to take notes," Griffith explained. Yes, taking notes ought to keep him focused. Grabbing a pen and some paper, he looked back at her. "Now, go on."
As Deirdre went on, he took careful notes, assuring himself all the while that the profit he'd make on Wildwood would make the ache in his gut go away for good.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"What do you mean there's nothing we can do?" Kate's frustration caused her voice to rise above the hum of conversation around them in the Denny's restaurant. It was the Saturday after camp let out, and she and Arnie had driven down to meet Ricky in Gorman, a farm town halfway between Sagebrush Valley and Los Angeles. They were, of course, discussing Griffith's dastardly plan to take her water for his money-grubbing housing project.
Ricky, looking miserable, held up both hands. Although it was the weekend, and Kate was hardly a real client, he'd worn full professional regalia for their meeting: suit, tie, and everything. It made him look grim. Or perhaps he would have looked grim anyway.
"That's why I held off telling you about it," Ricky explained. "I wanted to see if there was some way I could finesse this. Some clever out." He lowered his hands. His face managed to get more miserable. "That was a complete bust."
"I don't believe this," Kate muttered. She'd been furious with Ricky for not telling her about the approaching catastrophe. She wasn't some fading lily who had to be protected. But his obvious guilt and concern had calmed her down on that point.
But not on this one. "There has to be some recourse," Kate told Ricky. "I have a lease. A twenty-year one!"
Ricky sighed. "That's part of the problem. Your lease. Nowhere in that lease does your landlord give you guaranteed access to the water. That's why Griffith knew buying the land would buy him the water." Ricky's mouth twisted. "He only had to make sure you didn't find out about it beforehand. You might have had a chance — a slim one — of working something out with the previous landowner before the sale."
"The sneaky, underhanded bastard." The more Kate found out about this deal, the more she saw Griffith's ruthless cunning. He was, in his own evil way, a genius.
Ricky shrugged. "It would have helped if you'd let me take a look at that lease before you signed it."
Kate shot him a glare. "You were fourteen years old at the time."
"Oh." Ricky huffed. "True."
Arnie, seated beside Kate, contributed nothing to the exchange. In fact, he'd said very little since Kate had first told him about the Griffith water situation that last day of camp. Now he merely sat at the table, bending a sugar packet, and eyeing whoever was doing the talking. His customary inscrutability was deeper than ever.
"Can't we sue anyway?" Kate asked Ricky. "At least slow him down?"
"Mm." Ricky spread his fingers on the table. "We could, but it would be expensive, and in the long run futile. I'd call it throwing good money after bad. He will win."
"I am so glad," Kate said, "you don't bother sugar-coating things."
Ricky gave her an apologetic half-smile.
Kate beat the table softly with her fist. She'd been hoping Ricky would have something constructive to offer. Not only did she want to save the camp — that was her top priority — but she wanted to shove Griffith's face into something very stinky. When she thought of those nights under the oak tree, the way he'd made her care... She wanted to explode.
"However..." Ricky rubbed his mouth with one hand. "Though there's nothing legal we can do, there are some extra-legal actions we could take."
Kate snorted. "That's already been tried." Even a kidnapping hadn't stopped Griffith. He was still alive and kicking.
"Excuse me?" Ricky asked.
"Never mind," Kate mumbled. "You probably weren't talking about anything criminal, were you?"
Ricky shot her a startled look and smoothed his tie. "No, I wasn't talking about anything criminal, but — What about a media campaign? Get the press interested in our plight. You know, big, bad developer steamrollers little camp for poor children."
Kate could see Arnie look up with interest. She, too, focused on Ricky's suggestion. "You think that could actually make him stop?"
"I think it might scare off investors, even his biggest, GoldFed Financial. If they fled, it might be enough to kill the whole deal."
Arnie raised his eyebrows. "You seem to know an awful lot about Griffith's business."
Kate was surprised to see color dusk Ricky's face. "Yes, well...I have been doing a lot of research. I've been
on this, you know." He ran a finger up the knife at his place setting. "Anyway, what do you think? Should we contact the media?"
"Let me think about that." Kate leaned back in the plastic upholstery and closed her eyes. She imagined Griffith in front of a bank of news cameras. She saw that million-dollar smile, that muscular charisma. "He'd eat us alive," she said, opening her eyes.
Ricky frowned. "What?"
"She's right." Arnie nodded sagely. "The man's got charm by the busload. He'd sweep us away."
Ricky's frown deepened. "You two sound like you've met him."
"We have." Leaning back in his seat, Arnie looked completely relaxed, no guilt whatsoever. "Griffith showed up at Camp Wild Hills the second week of August. Stayed for two weeks."
"Two weeks!" Ricky's eyes popped wide.
Kate cleared her throat. "Yes, uh... That was another legal matter I wanted to run by you."
"Excuse me?" Ricky's eyes were still wide.
Kate crossed her arms over her chest. "Um, is there a law that says you have to let somebody use your telephone?"
Ricky stared. "No... I can't say I know of one."
"Good." Kate tightened her fingers on her upper arms. "What about feeding somebody? Is there a law you have to give someone food if they're not paying you for it?"
Ricky's wide eyes began to narrow. "If they're starving, it's certainly not moral, but illegal? I don't think so."
"Good." Kate let out a breath. "Then I'm fine."
Arnie scoffed. "Not if the media got a hold of what you did."
"We already decided we aren't going to the press." Kate shrugged.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Ricky made a time-out gesture with his hands. "What was Griffith Blaine doing at Camp Wild Hills for two weeks, and what is this about not feeding him?"
Kate shot a glance toward Arnie, who returned it, looking arch. Jeez. Where did he get off looking arch? As if it hadn't been his idea to keep Griffith in the first place.
But Arnie turned to Ricky, still arch. "Like I said, Griffith just showed up. Said he'd been kidnapped."
