Often, she attempted to share her knowledge with Mitchell, who always concealed his detached boredom behind an amused grin, but when she brought up Kate Donovan during their dinner at Glenmoor—and also attempted to extract information from him—his reaction was anything but amused and bored. She broached that particular topic after dinner, while finishing her dessert of crème brûlée, but she did it with such feigned nonchalance that Mitchell instantly realized she somehow suspected she was treading on dangerous territory with him. Looking at her lap, she reached for her napkin and daintily dabbed at her lips as she said with false innocence, “The last time you were here, I introduced you to Kate Donovan—Evan Bartlett’s fiancée—during the Children’s Hospital benefit. Do you remember her, dear?”
Instead of nodding, Mitchell leaned back in his chair and stared silently at her.
“Well, they aren’t engaged anymore,” she said, meeting his narrowed gaze, then hastily dabbing with her napkin again. “The engagement was called off a few weeks later. According to gossip, Evan and Henry both decided she wasn’t really fit to be a Bartlett, and Evan tossed her over. He’s been going out with several other women, but he’s also said some very ungentlemanly things about Kate. I couldn’t help noticing a bit of a strained atmosphere the night of the Children’s Hospital benefit when I introduced you to Kate—rather as if you and she already knew each other, and had some sort of falling out. Is that right?”
Instead of replying, Mitchell signaled to the waiter for their check.
Her face fell. “I was hoping to enjoy a glass of sherry with you the way we always do when we dine together. Is dinner over?”
“Is this conversation permanently over?” Mitchell countered as the waiter promptly arrived at their table.
She gazed at him in wary understanding, nodded meekly, folded her hands on the table, and looked down at them; then she drew a shaky breath and blinked rapidly. Aware that she was crushed, Mitchell asked the waiter for two glasses of sherry instead of the check, but that wasn’t enough to assuage the guilt he now felt for having hammered his point home about Kate Donovan with absurd—and needless—force on an elderly aunt who normally beamed with pleasure whenever she was with him.
As he contemplated his aunt’s bent head and the wide, black velvet ribbon that held her thick white hair in a neat bun, he considered the best way to neutralize the situation. Despite her advanced years, his aunt was astute, curious, and a hopeless romantic. Because she was those things, Mitchell realized that his extremely negative reaction a few minutes ago might cause her to imagine that he harbored some sort of secret, unrequited feelings for Kate Donovan. Since he couldn’t and wouldn’t go into that subject with his aunt, Mitchell covered her hand with his own and asked her to dance.
She had never mentioned Kate to him again, nor had anyone else, and in the ensuing months, he forgave himself for his blind infatuation with Kate because he realized it was probably the timing of his encounter with her that had caused his total lapse in reason and judgment, rather than a streak of idiocy and sloppy sentimentality that he’d originally blamed. After all, a few short months before his trip to Anguilla, William had traced him to England and turned all of Mitchell’s concepts about himself and his life inside out. William had begun by presenting Mitchell with the facts about his birth, and then he’d presented Mitchell with a ready-made family, including an elderly great-aunt who tugged at Mitchell’s heartstrings and an aging, autocratic grandfather who awakened all sorts of conflicting reactions in Mitchell. Within a matter of weeks—and somewhat against his will—Mitchell found himself thinking of William’s beautiful, gentle wife, Caroline, as “my sister-in-law” and young Billy as “my nephew.” And then there was William … if Mitchell had ever been asked to describe his vision of an ideal brother, and a magnificent man, he would have described William without knowing him. Long before Mitchell allowed himself to regard any of the others as his relatives, William was already “my brother” in his thoughts. And then William disappeared. As quickly and suddenly as he’d strolled into Mitchell’s life, he was wrenched from it.
In view of all the upheaval Mitchell had experienced in his life shortly before meeting Kate, it was logical—and excusable—that his guard had been down and his judgment severely diminished when they met. The truth was, he never thought of her except on those extremely rare occasions when someone, or something, reminded him of her. When that happened, she flickered briefly across his mind like a pale light from a feeble candle, and then she simply … went out.
That situation had been the comfortable norm for almost three years, but Matt Farrell’s phone call had changed all that. It had changed everything except one thing: Just as in the long-ago past with Kate, Mitchell now found himself, once again, in the position of being her uninformed dupe. Only this time his son was an innocent pawn in her heartless game.
Chapter Forty-seven
KATE PACED SLOWLY BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE LIVING room, watching the clock on the wall tick off the seconds of each tormenting minute that passed without a return call from Mitchell. Nearly three hours had elapsed since she’d spoken to Matt Farrell, and there hadn’t been a word from the heartless man she had once thought she loved.
Her uncle James had rushed over right after Marjorie had called him, and now, seated on one of the sofas, the priest waited helplessly for the phone to ring. His head was bent, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He was praying Mitchell would call.
Gray Elliott was sitting on a stool at the island counter that divided the kitchen area from the living room. He was Danny’s new best friend, intent on doing everything to ensure his safe return. If the darkening scowl on Gray’s face was any indication, he was fantasizing about yanking Mitchell from wherever he was, charging him with a gross lack of humanity, and throwing him in jail for life.
MacNeil was standing at the window overlooking the street in front of the restaurant, where police cars with flashing lights were jammed together at crazy angles. The sidewalk was packed with reporters, concerned citizens, and curiosity seekers, who were hoping for firsthand information. Kate wasn’t sure what MacNeil was thinking, but he kept glancing at his cell phone as if willing it to ring. He was probably hoping for a tip, Kate thought, a lead that would send all those police cars racing away with sirens wailing to rescue Danny.
Holly had left Maui in the middle of a veterinarians’ conference and was on her way back to Chicago. A task force had been set up in the main dining room downstairs, and calls resulting from the amber alert were starting to come in on the newly installed phone lines. Kate had ordered the restaurant closed within minutes of learning Danny was gone, but most of the staff were still down there, keeping a silent vigil for the little blue-eyed boy with the bright grin who had long ago captured their hearts.
Childress was somewhere on the premises, Kate knew, and she supposed he was downstairs working with the task force.
MacNeil’s cell phone gave out a sharp chirp, and he snapped it to his ear so swiftly that the motion was blurred. A moment later, he turned around and looked from Kate to Gray. “Two lawyers are downstairs—David Levinson and William Pearson. They represent Mitchell Wyatt.”
Gray Elliott had straightened sharply at the sound of the lawyers’ names. “Tell the officers at the front door to let them in and bring them up here,” he replied. “Hopefully they aren’t here to threaten Kate with a lawsuit for claiming Wyatt is Danny’s father.”
David Levinson announced the actual reason for their appearance as he strode swiftly into the living room, carrying a black suitcase identical to the one in Pearson’s hand.
“Mr. Wyatt has instructed us to deliver ten million dollars in cash and to remain here awaiting further developments.”
Kate’s arms dropped to her sides and she stared at them, overwhelmed with shock and relief, her eyes flooding with tears. If Mitchell had been there, she would have fallen to her knees in front of him and wept with inexpressible gratitude. Instead, she turn
ed away and covered her face with her hands, weeping helplessly, alternately thanking Mitchell and God over and over again.
“I’ll have you at Donovan’s restaurant in a few more minutes,” Joe O’Hara promised as he hammered on the limousine’s horn, ran a red light, and turned down a side street packed with rush-hour traffic.
Too tense to reply, Mitchell glanced at his watch. It was already five P.M. As soon as his flight landed at O’Hare, he’d phoned Levinson, who was waiting at the restaurant with pearson, the ransom money with them. Levinson had no new information to report about the kidnapping. All he could add was that he’d seen the actual DNA report confirming that Mitchell was the father of Kate’s little boy, and that Mitchell’s son’s name was Daniel—Daniel Donovan, not Daniel Wyatt, a fact that further antagonized Mitchell.
He added that issue to the others he intended to hand over to his attorneys in the morning, when his son was safely home. Not once, not even for a second, did Mitchell allow himself to consider any other outcome of the kidnapping. That would have given fear an opening, and that he could not, dared not, allow.
Beyond that, all he’d learned from Levinson was that Kate had apparently been raising Daniel on her own. Until Levinson said that, Mitchell had been braced for the unpardonable likelihood that she was married and had been raising Mitchell’s son as if he were another man’s child!
Mitchell looked again at his watch, and then he reached toward the lighted panel of buttons on the car’s ceiling and began tuning the radio from one station to the next, hoping to find a local station that was broadcasting information about the kidnapping. He found what he’d been searching for, but the announcer’s words sent a chill crawling up his spine:
“This morning, the twenty-two-month-old son of restaurateur Kate Donovan was kidnapped from Danbury Park after his nanny, Molly Miles, was struck in the head and left unconscious. The police department has issued an amber alert.”
Mitchell’s frayed control began unraveling. The limo was in the left-hand lane, inching along at a crawl toward a red light. “I can walk faster than this,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “Tell me where the restaurant is.”
“Stay put,” O’Hara urged as the red light turned into a green arrow and their lane began surging forward. “It’s a mile away and there’s a break in traffic up ahead.” As he spoke, he handed a slip of paper over his shoulder to Calli, who was sitting directly behind him, facing Mitchell. “This is the phone number in the car,” he told Mitchell. “I’ll wait for you as close to Donovan’s as I can get, but if you don’t see me when you come out, call me at this number. I’ll be nearby.”
“Don’t bother to wait,” Mitchell said, his attention on the traffic, which was moving more steadily now. “I’ll take a cab to the hotel when I’m finished.”
“Matt gave me strict orders to wait for you,” O’Hara said emphatically, “and he also told your secretary to have your suitcases delivered to him at home. Matt and Meredith are expecting you to stay with them, no matter how late it is when you get there tonight. They’re your friends, Mitchell, and you gotta let them be with you at a time like this. Don’t bother trying to shut them out, because they’re not going to let you do it.”
“Fine,” Mitchell replied absently, scanning the streets ahead. “Where in the hell is this restaurant?” he demanded after what seemed like at least a mile.
“It’s just around the next corner, a block and a half up the street.”
Mitchell reached for his briefcase on the floor as O’Hara flipped on the turn signal, made a left, and then swore under his breath at what he saw ahead. “It’s a zoo,” he said lamely.
In grim silence, Mitchell took in the chaotic scene—a barricaded intersection with cops redirecting vehicles away from it, and beyond the barricades, a street packed with police cars, television vans, and crowds of pedestrians who couldn’t find standing room on the sidewalk.
And in the middle of it all, was the canopied entrance to an elegant restaurant that took up most of a city block, and that Kate had once described as “a little Irish pub.”
Mitchell flung the car door open and got out with Calli close behind, vigilant, watchful. “There’s a television camera aiming at you from the top of that white van,” Calli said as they skirted around the barricade and began wending their way around the mass of vehicles and humanity. “Maybe they’re just curious because we got out of a limo.”
“Reporters have long memories,” Mitchell said flatly. During the media uproar surrounding Billy’s trial, Mitchell had acted as the Wyatt family spokesman, and he knew there was little chance of getting all the way to the front door without being identified and having microphones shoved in his face. “Ignore them and keep walking.” He turned sideways in order to squeeze between the bumpers of two police cars, and added, “No more English when you’re inside the restaurant. I want to know what’s going on, and people will talk more freely in front of someone they think can’t understand what they say.”
From his post at a front window in Kate Donovan’s apartment above the restaurant, Detective MacNeil watched a very tall man and a shorter man get out of a limousine together. Both men looked lean and athletically built, both had dark hair, and both were wearing suits, but the taller one was carrying a briefcase, and he moved with the long strides and squared shoulders of a man who was supremely confident of himself. MacNeil didn’t need to see his face; he identified Mitchell Wyatt by his height, his walk, the width and set of his broad shoulders, and his casual indifference to the crowds on the sidewalk and the reporters and photographers rushing toward him.
In contrast with Wyatt’s aloofness, the man with him was sharply alert and subtly aggressive in his movements. Had he been carrying a briefcase, it would have looked out of place. He looked as if he ought to be carrying something else … like a handgun? Which meant he was probably … a bodyguard?
MacNeil watched both men a moment longer; then he looked over his shoulder and announced his conclusion to Gray Elliott, who was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter staring grimly into space with the apartment’s cordless telephone an inch from his fingers. Father Donovan was sitting next to him, his elbows on the counter and his forehead resting on his clasped hands in a posture of exhausted prayer. Kate Donovan had gone into her son’s bedroom a while ago to wait there until it was time for the ransom call, and since MacNeil had no idea if Wyatt’s arrival was going to be regarded as a good event or a bad one, he kept his voice low so that only the two men would hear him. “Wyatt is here,” he said.
Father Donovan lifted his head and said fervently, “Thank God! Make sure he gets up here right away.”
Gray looked sharply at Father Donovan. “It might be better if you went downstairs and persuaded him to wait there with his attorneys. If he wants a more active role, we could ask him to help answer the hotlines.”
“He wouldn’t settle for that, nor should he be asked to do so. Based on what Kate told me long ago about his prior behavior, I didn’t think that man was capable of doing ‘the right thing,’ but today he’s done it twice, and he’s done it magnificently. First he arranged for the ransom money immediately, and without protest. Now he’s come here to wait with Kate for news of their son, which is exactly the right and proper thing for him to have done.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, but—” Gray began; then he paused long enough to look at MacNeil and say, “Call down to the uniforms at the front door and tell them to get Wyatt through the crowd as quickly as possible and without calling unnecessary attention to him. If the media recognize him, his arrival tonight will start an uproar of conjecture, and I don’t want anything distracting public attention from Danny’s kidnapping.”
MacNeil nodded, and Gray turned back to Father Donovan to explain his concerns about Wyatt’s arrival. “I agree that he’s acted admirably today—more than admirably, in fact—but Kate is in an emotionally charged, treacherous situation right now, and when Wyatt gets up here, he’s probably g
oing to be feeling—” the phrase royally pissed off lodged itself in Gray’s mind, and he stared at the priest, completely unable to think of an adequate substitute, so he uttered the first lame one that occurred to him. “He’s no saint.”
“Believe me when I tell you this—” Father Donovan replied somewhat grimly, “I am not under the slightest delusion that there’s anything remotely ‘saintly’ about Mitchell Wyatt. However,” he finished in a more normal tone, “that doesn’t change the fact that he has a legal, moral, and ethical right—and responsibility—to be up here with us, and to be granted all the consideration he’s due as Danny’s father.”
Chapter Forty-eight
TWO COPS WERE STATIONED UNDER THE DARK GREEN awning at the front door, and another one was standing on the sidewalk near the curb, apparently waiting for Mitchell, who by then was completely under siege from a battalion of reporters who had recognized him and were trying to get a statement. The cop at the curb shouldered his way through them to Mitchell. “Come with me, Mr. Wyatt, and don’t talk to anyone,” he said; then he turned and began plowing a path toward the front door.
Every Breath You Take Page 35
