Halfway across the room, he turned in surprise at the sound of her voice, his expression impatient but nonviolent, so Claire forged ahead. Reading from Sophie’s notes, she said in a quick, professional voice. “According to your calendar, at eight-thirty tonight, you’re supposed to be at the theater for the opening night of Three Days of Rain. Afterward, you’re supposed to have dinner with Kira Dunhill, Leigh and Michael Valente, and Zack and Julie Benedict.”
“Call everyone and tell them an emergency has come up and I can’t be there,” he said as he turned and headed away.
“Mr. Wyatt?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, but kept walking, and in an effort to fulfill her professional responsibilities to the fullest extent of her considerable capabilities, Claire hurried after him so that she could warn him of a detail he might be overlooking and would later regret. “This is Miss Dunhill’s first opening night on Broadway, and you’re not going to be in the audience. There’s a note here that Sophie’s already ordered flowers sent to Miss Dunhill’s dressing room. Since you’re going to be absent tonight, do you think you should try to make up for that by—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, catching her meaning. “Send her a lot of extra flowers,” he instructed without slowing his pace.
“Extra flowers? For missing her opening night?” Claire said, rushing along in his wake as he crossed the reception area. “Are you certain she’ll feel that flowers are atonement enough for being stood up by you at the last minute?”
“No, that probably calls for a jewelry,” he conceded. “Pick out something and have it delivered to her at the theater before she goes on stage.” Without slowing down, he shoved the main office door open, and headed down the hallway. Stunned and a little flattered that he’d evidently decided to entrust her with a task that—according to Sophie—he’d never entrusted to any employee before, Claire halted in her tracks, and then she realized that in order to accomplish that task, she needed to ask him a vitally important, and rather delicate, question. She raced to the door and saw that he was already so far down the hall that she couldn’t possibly catch up with him. Left with no other way to find out what she desperately needed to know, Claire raised her voice enough to cover the lengthening distance, and called out, “How much should I spend on her gift, Mr. Wyatt?”
The polished marble floors and marble-trimmed walls acted as an echo chamber, amplifying her voice to the level of a loud, demanding shout that reverberated up and down the hall exactly as if she’d yelled through a megaphone at him while standing in a canyon. Claire winced in dismay, but he seemed not to hear her at all. Instead, he turned into an intersecting hallway that led to the elevators, and disappeared.
Chapter Forty-six
WITH HIS CELL PHONE PRESSED TO HIS EAR AND HIS ATTENTION on the information Sophie was giving him, Mitchell stepped into the street and jerked the car door open while Calli was still maneuvering it toward the curb. “We’ve got to get to LaGuardia fast,” he told Calli as he slid into the backseat.
“It’s going to be tight,” Calli replied. “Traffic is heavy, and if there’s a long line at airport security, we’re in trouble.”
“Then make sure we’re there in time to get through security,” Mitchell said sharply—but not completely unreasonably. Behind a steering wheel, Calli possessed the superb reflexes and daring courage of a test pilot, and—when necessary—the aggressive stealth of an assassin. At that moment, he was already barging at an angle across four lanes of traffic, aiming for the front of the line of vehicles waiting at the corner to make a left turn. Satisfied that Calli would do whatever needed to be done, Mitchell resumed his conversation with Sophie. “How long is the flight?”
“Two and a half hours. It lands at O’Hare at three-thirty, Chicago time.” When Mitchell didn’t comment on that, she moved efficiently to the next unresolved issue. “Do you want me to have a car and driver waiting for you when you land?”
“No. Matt Farrell is sending his chauffeur to get us.
You’ll need to call him and give him our flight information.”
“I’ll take care of it. What about hotel accommodations—do you want to stay at your usual hotel?”
“No. Ask Matt Farrell to recommend a hotel that’s close to Kate Donovan’s restaurant, and get me reservations at whatever hotel he suggests. I’ll call you later to find out where it is,” he added; then he ended the call and frowned at his watch, waiting impatiently for his attorneys to phone him. He was still frowning when Calli’s amused inquiry made him lift his head. “Who is Kate Donovan?” he demanded impertinently, “and why are you busting your ass to get to her restaurant? What is she—a goddess? Or just one hell of a cook?”
Normally, anyone who tried to pry too deeply into Mitchell’s personal life ended up with a severe case of frostbite—not information. Giovanni Callioroso was one of the few who could pry with relative impunity. Two years older than Mitchell and half a foot shorter, Calli was the youngest of the five Callioroso children Mitchell had believed were his actual brothers and sisters until he was suddenly sent away from them to his first boarding school. Until then, Calli had been Mitchell’s hero and his self-appointed protector, the “big brother” who let Mitchell tag along with him everywhere while threatening the older boys with dire physical retribution should they dare give Mitchell any trouble. Unfortunately for Calli, who loved to fight, most of the local children in that picturesque little village in northern Italy were almost as placid as their families. That pretty much eliminated the need for Calli to fight on Mitchell’s behalf, as did the fact that by the time Mitchell was three and a half, he was nearly as tall as Calli and becoming almost as cocky. As a result, on Mitchell’s fourth birthday, Calli announced his decision to “promote” Mitchell from the rank of “little kid” to the lofty rank of “sparring partner.” It was a promotion of which Mitchell was extraordinarily proud, and he applied himself diligently to learning every martial arts move that Calli taught him—most of which Calli was either inventing or learning himself.
When Mitchell left for boarding school, his focus switched to sports and studies, but Calli pursued his own goal with single-minded dedication, eventually fighting his way around the globe, winning championship after championship, moving up the ranks until he was universally regarded as a world-class martial arts contender. He chased women and squandered his winnings with the same success and determination until he took a particularly bad battering during a fight that he nearly lost and decided it was time for him to do something else. He had very little money saved, and no job skills that weren’t physical, so he contacted Mitchell and suggested that Mitchell hire him as a driver-bodyguard. At Calli’s request, Mitchell sent him for a special training course where sophisticated evasive maneuvers were taught to drivers of high-profile people who were subject to attack on the road or kidnapping. Calli emerged as one of the finest drivers ever taught at the school. Mitchell had Calli’s lifelong loyalty; he would have walked in front of a truck for him, Mitchell knew.
For those reasons, Mitchell met Calli’s gaze in the rearview mirror and forced himself to state aloud that which he could barely accept himself. “Kate Donovan’s little boy was kidnapped this morning.”
“Oh, Jesus—” Calli said, sounding sickened and outraged. He had inherited his family’s love of children, and although he had none of his own, he carried photographs of all his nieces and nephews and frequently sent them gifts. “How old is he?”
Mitchell paused, calculating the total number of months that had passed since he’d seen Kate Donovan in St. Maarten, subtracting from that a full nine-month pregnancy. “Twenty-two months.”
“I’ve never heard you mention the mother’s name before, so I guess she’s an old friend of yours—from before I started working for you?”
“She’s no friend of mine.”
The scathing distaste in Mitchell’s voice registered on Calli, and he glanced in surprise in the rearview mirror again. “Then, I guess the boy
’s father is a friend of yours?”
“I’m the boy’s father,” Mitchell said, his tone terse with submerged emotions he was struggling to suppress so that he could focus on what needed to be done.
“What!” In his shock, Calli hit the brake; then he slammed down on the accelerator to recover lost speed and glared accusingly over his shoulder at Mitchell. “You’ve got a son you’ve never bothered to tell me about—not me, not Mama, or Papa, either?”
“I didn’t know he existed until a half hour ago, when Matt Farrell phoned to tell me he’d been kidnapped.”
“Do you mean Farrell has known all along that you have a son, but he didn’t tell you until this morning?” Calli said, his outrage expressed by his contemptuous use of Matt Farrell’s last name alone.
“No one knew anything about the boy until this morning, when his mother phoned Matt and gave him the facts,” Mitchell said, staring fixedly out the side window, his patience at the breaking point as the moments ticked by without a phone call from either of the attorneys. “Right now, all I know is that he’s being held for a ten-million-dollar ransom—”
In a well-meaning but transparent effort to soothe Mitchell, Calli said, “Maybe she’s lying about you being the father because she needs someone rich to give her the money, so she can get her boy back.”
“She’s not lying about it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“When the Chicago police were investigating my brother’s death, I gave them a sample of my DNA. This morning, the state’s attorney assured Matt Farrell that he can provide DNA proof that I’m the father.”
As he spoke, he stared at the silent cell phone, his jaw clenched with impatience, and abruptly decided he’d waited long enough for his attorneys to return his call. He snapped the phone open just as the screen lit up with an incoming call, and David Levinson’s name appeared.
“Mitchell, what’s going on?” Levinson asked, managing to sound concerned, rushed, conciliating, and thoroughly competent—all at the same time. “Bill and I are in the middle of arguing an important motion in front of an judge with a bad cold and a surly temper. I managed to wangle a five-minute recess out of him after my secretary had a note brought in to me saying that you have some sort emergency, but—”
“You’re going to need a postponement, not a recess,” Mitchell interrupted curtly, and then he told him exactly what the emergency was.
Levinson listened in appalled silence to the scanty bits of information Mitchell was able to provide about his unknown son and the kidnapping itself. “That’s all you know?” he uttered.
“Yes, and that’s all I’m going to know until I hear back from you,” Mitchell reminded him pointedly. “However, keeping me informed isn’t your first priority. This is—” Mitchell said, and he then outlined the financial arrangements that he’d already put into play during his conversation with his New York banker, James Philson. “Philson is coordinating everything with the Chicago banks,” he finished, “but I need you to stay in touch with Philson while I’m on the plane. He’s going to tell you what banks are providing the cash and where to meet the couriers who’ll be carrying the money. Find out where Donovan’s restaurant is and pick somewhere very close by to make the exchange. The place will undoubtedly be crawling with cops, so your safety shouldn’t be a worry, but try not to attract any attention during the exchange or when you arrive at the restaurant.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Levinson expelled his breath in a nervous rush, but he sounded resolute even while he questioned Mitchell’s methods. “Why don’t you let the couriers deliver the money to the restaurant? Or better yet, why not let the banks send it all in an armored truck?”
Mitchell forced the explanation out. “Last year, in Rome, kidnappers saw their ransom money arrive in an armored truck, and they decided there was no need to keep the victim alive any longer.”
After a moment of silence, Levinson said, “Do you want anyone at the restaurant to know you’re on your way?”
“No, I want you to get information, not give it out. I don’t want to be greeted with rehearsed answers and explanations from the cops or anyone else.”
Mitchell hung up after that, but his conversation with Levinson, particularly the last part of it, had brought a sharp, agonizing reality to a situation that had seemed only a painful nightmare before.
Calli had heard the entire conversation and he began firing questions at Mitchell in a transparent effort to prevent him from dwelling on the deadly outcome of that Rome kidnapping. “When I meet my new nephew, what should I call him?”
“What?”
“What’s your son’s name?”
Mitchell’s thoughts were in such upheaval that he couldn’t remember if Matt Farrell had mentioned his son’s name during their phone call that morning, and even when he tried to recall the conversation, he could remember only the beginning of it with any clarity because Matt hadn’t yet dropped his “bomb.” “Kate Donovan has a little boy who was kidnapped this morning in a city park … his nanny was left unconscious … police have issued an amber alert … kidnappers are demanding a ten-million-dollar ransom, or else they’re going to kill him. They’re going to phone with instructions at eight o’clock tonight. Kate called me a few minutes ago, Gray Elliott was with her … I talked to him. And then, the bomb dropped: He’s your son, Mitchell.”
Matt had said more after that, but Mitchell’s brain and his emotions had been going into overload, and although he’d listened, he couldn’t remember now what he’d heard.
“I don’t know his name,” Mitchell replied to Calli’s question. “I don’t think Matt Farrell told me what it is.”
“What about his mother—how did you meet her?” Calli persisted. “Where was it? Obviously, you two hit it off. What’s she like?”
“We barely knew each other,” Mitchell said in a cold, sharp tone that warned Calli not to question him further on that subject. “She’s just someone I met when I was down in the islands. We had a meaningless fling for a day or two, and then my brother’s body was discovered. I flew back to Chicago and forgot about the whole encounter.”
That last sentence wasn’t entirely accurate, Mitchell knew. The embarrassing truth was that he’d missed her terribly, from the time she’d left him standing on the dock in St. Maarten until the night he ran into her at a fund-raiser and discovered what a shallow, manipulative fraud she was. In the brief interval between, he endured all the humbling doubts and the regrets, the painful longing and bewilderment, of a man who has lost something he desperately wanted and had arrogantly believed was already his.
Intellectually, he accepted that when Kate chose to leave St. Maarten with her boyfriend, instead of meeting Mitchell at the dock, she had simply been making what she believed was the right choice for her. He understood that, and yet his besotted brain couldn’t understand why she hadn’t realized that he was the right choice.
He knew the only sensible way to deal with the situation was to put it behind him, and that the only way to put it behind him was to stop thinking about her. Forgetting her was the only solution, and yet he persistently subjected himself to the sweet torture of remembering. He, who was extremely adept at compartmentalizing troublesome emotions and barricading truly painful ones, could not—no, would not—put Kate Donovan out of his conscious awareness, where he knew she needed to be.
Kate had chosen to be with her boyfriend instead of Mitchell. He’d lost her to another man, and it hurt like hell. He laid awake at night, trying to figure out why he’d lost her, thinking of ways he might have prevented it. He did that, even after he realized he was acting like a heartbroken, jilted lover—a cliché he’d never imagined could apply to him.
All that came to an abrupt end the night he discovered that she was Evan Bartlett’s fiancée and he watched her saunter up to him with that coy smile on her face. She was a total fake, and he had fallen for her. At the villa in Anguilla, he’d wanted her so badly after less than three h
ours that he’d let her wheedle information about William out of him, and then he’d gallantly offered to wait until the next day because of “delicate” sensibilities about sleeping with him in her boyfriend’s suite.
But worse than that—much, much worse—was the fact that the next day at the hotel in St. Maarten, he’d actually let her con him into admitting that he felt “magic” with her. And worst of all—he’d believed it when he said it.
In two short days, Kate Donovan had managed to discover a weakness in him that he’d never suspected existed—an eager, naïve, sentimental gullibility that filled him with self-disgust whenever he thought of his time with her. Shame and self-disgust were the only emotions he still felt in connection with her, and so he chose to avoid any thought of her or mention of her name. Once he realized what she really was, she became easy to get over and eminently forgettable—but what he couldn’t forget or get over was the fact that he had been a malleable dupe in her hands.
In the almost three years since that night, he’d been to Chicago several times, but he’d heard her name mentioned only twice: the day after the fund-raiser, Matt had casually inquired about the confrontation between Kate and Mitchell, and Mitchell had told him brusquely that the subject of Kate Donovan was closed. Forever.
A couple of months after that, Mitchell had flown back to Chicago to see his ailing grandfather, and during that trip, his aunt Olivia insisted he accompany her to dinner at Glenmoor Country Club, where the Wyatts were founding members—and where she could hold court in the dining room while simultaneously showing Mitchell off. As Mitchell had already discovered, Olivia Hebert was much more than a font of social gossip; she was universally regarded as the undisputed authority on all things pertaining to the ancestry, connections, and activities of five generations of Chicago’s true “aristocracy.” In truth, she was a human encyclopedia of minutiae that encompassed five generations of her social peers, from long-dead ancestors to modern-day teenagers. As a widow without a husband or children of her own to fill her life or occupy her active mind, she’d obviously invested herself in the lives of everyone she knew, but what amazed Mitchell was how apparently accurately she was able to chronicle everything she knew. No matter how long ago something had occurred, she could remember the dates, people, and conversations involved—and with so much accuracy and detail that when Mitchell was with her, people who knew her frequently stopped to ask her a question or verify a fact. Others stopped by to impart or receive tidbits of gossip, and she was happy to participate in either transaction, but woe to anyone who attempted to tell her anything she knew to be slightly inaccurate. Among Chicago’s socialites, Olivia was the equivalent of a Hedda Hopper or Liz Smith, but unlike those women, who specialized in “insider” gossip, Olivia Hebert disdained rumor or exaggeration. As much as she loved gossip, she prided herself on accuracy.
Every Breath You Take Page 34
