by Andrea Kane
Okay, part of the truth.
The rest would have sounded like melodramatic drivel or soapbox spouting to a man as seasoned, as fundamental about "taking the next step, as Greg.
She realized it wasn't fair. But she couldn't help who she was. So she'd suggested to Greg that they see a little less of each other. That hadn't flown. He'd eased up the pressure immediately, apologizing for rushing her and assuring her that he was more than willing to wait, to back off and give her as much time as she needed.
The problem was, she wasn't sure time would change anything. Especially if what her mother had said the other night was true. Whatever spark was supposed to be there between her and Greg—at least from her perspective—still hadn't ignited. Nor had any real feelings started to develop. She liked the man. Period.
"Julia?" Robin prompted.
"There's nothing else to tell, Rob." Julia closed the subject firmly, her troubled gaze drifting back to Brian. "Sorry to disappoint you, but..."
"That's not it." Her friend was peering past her, scrutinizing the far section of the playground. "There's a guy watching the kids. Over there by the fence. Behind the trees."
"A guy?" Julia whipped around, angling herself so she could see past the cluster of oaks. She spotted the tall man who was leaning against the fence, arms crossed atop it as he gazed steadily toward where the children were playing.
Recognition was immediate.
'That's Connor Stratford," she murmured. "Brian's uncle." She turned to Robin. "Will you watch the kids for me for a minute?"
"Sure."
"Thanks." Julia headed straight for the fence, rounding the trees that shielded Connor from view. He must have seen her coming, but he gave no sign of that feet
"Hi," Julia greeted tersely as she came up to him. "Can I help you?"
Those cool blue eyes flickered over her. "I don't remember asking for help."
"True. Does that mean you're here to observe recess? Or are you just waiting for a swing to free up?"
His lips quirked ever so slightly, as if the response was against his will. "The swings were never my thing. I was more of a dodge ball guy myself."
"Dodge ball. Now, why doesn't that surprise me? You could aggressively go after people, then calculate the direction of their return swipes so you could sidestep them and win. Sounds right."
This time, he surprised her by chuckling. "You don't have a very high opinion of me, I gather."
"I don't know you well enough to have any opinion of you. Except where it comes to Brian. You obviously adore him." She paused and glanced quickly over her shoulder to see the boy still playing alone. "You're also worried about him," she surmised quietly. "So am I. He's been uncharacteristically withdrawn today. I tried to talk to him but without much luck." She turned back to Connor. "I don't suppose you want to give me some insight into what's bothering him."
She didn't hold out much hope of getting a response.
Sure enough, Brian's uncle met her request with a tight-lipped silence.
"Does it have something to do with his father's campaign?" she pressed, stating the obvious. "Are things becoming tense at home? It certainly seemed that way the other day. And the signs are there "
"Are they?" Connor straightened, his expression closed.
"Yes." Julia gripped the fence, frustrated at the wall that was being erected to shut her out. "Mr. Stratford, I have experience in this field. I know when a child is hurting."
"Really. You're a psychologist? I thought you were a teacher."
"I'm both. I have degrees in child psychology and early childhood education. I also give lectures at hospitals on topics that involve children's emotional well-being. I'm more than qualified. So, believe me, I'm not just blowing smoke."
A hint of interest lit his eyes. "Childhood psych and elementary ed. I'm impressed."
"Somehow I doubt it. Neither profession commands the kind of income that would impress you. And the workshops are pro bono."
"You just finished saying you don't know me. How would you know what I'd find impressive?"
"A shrewd guess. Venture capitalists value money and opportunities to make more of it. That's a far cry from what teachers and psychologists value."
Rather man annoyed, he looked intrigued, inclining his head to study her. "I take it you know quite a few venture capitalists?"
She flushed, realizing he had her there and he knew it. She was speaking out of anger and frustration, not fact. What's more, it wasn't like her to be so judgmental.
"Don't look so guilty," he said bluntly, reading her expression. "Your assessment's accurate. I was just wondering if it was based on your observations of anyone other than me. But let me clue you in. There's a big, ugly world out there. It's not only financial types who are driven by greed and power. Most everyone is. Take a peek outside your classroom sometime. You'd be surprised."
With that, he pushed away from the fence. "I'm going to take off before Brian sees me. I'd prefer he didn't know I was here."
Why? she wanted to ask. Because it would upset him when you had to say good-bye? Or because he'd tell his father about your visit?
"Mr. Stratford." Without thinking, Julia grabbed his arm, needing to have her say before he left.
He paused, his smoky-blue stare focusing on her fingers, then shifting to her face. "What?"
Hastily, she released him. "I know you dislike me. That's your prerogative. But it has nothing to do with Brian. Your nephew is very special to me. So, if he's in pain, I want to help."
Connor's features hardened. "I realize that. But you can't. So stay out of it." He retreated a few steps, then halted, turning until their eyes met. "For the record, I don't dislike you. And my name is Connor."
Scanned by Coral
* * *
6
Connor didn't get back to the city until late Monday afternoon.
He drove around for hours after leaving Brian's school, bothered as hell by the dejected slump of his normally exuberant nephew's shoulders. It killed him to see Brian so low. And it made him want to beat some sense and, more important, some priorities into his brother.
Couldn't Stephen see what he was doing to his son?
Striding into his Upper West Side apartment, Connor shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the couch. He was beat. He'd left the apartment at dawn, been in the office before seven, and taken off at ten to drive back to a suburb he'd roared out of two days ago. And why? Because he'd hoped to find something there that would ease his mind. Instead, he'd found Brian worse than he'd been on Saturday. Obviously, the tension between Stephen and Nancy had blown wide open sometime between Saturday afternoon—after the biting words he and Stephen had exchanged behind closed doors—and Monday morning when Brian left for school. Being as sensitive as he was, Brian would internalize every drop of his parents' stress. Stress that was totally preventable, if Stephen wanted it to be.
Goddammit. The man was gambling again.
With a muttered curse, Connor stalked over to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. He took it with him, going over to stand by the stretch of windows in the living room, gazing across Manhattan's skyline.
Stephen's gambling had started in high school. Even before, if you counted small-time stuff like betting with his buddies on whether or not the school team was going to walk away with the year's trophy. From there, it was on to bigger bets and pro ball clubs—smaller wagers for regular-season games, up to thousands for Super Bowl and World Series wins. The compulsion got worse as time passed. With it, Stephen's personality became more and more erratic, sometimes exuberant, sometimes withdrawn. His dramatic highs and lows spoke volumes.
Connor understood the root of his brother's problem better than anyone. Stephen needed to prove himself, to come out a winner.
To live to to their father's expectations.
Connor harbored no illusions. Harrison Stratford was an overbearing son of a bitch, whose fixation with making money was dwarfed only by his fixation w
ith power. He believed in winning, always and regardless of the odds. He'd accept no less from his sons.
Stephen had the bad luck of being born first A year older than Connor, he was immediately slated as his father's golden boy. The best schools, the best grades, the captain of the most competitive varsity teams. From there, it was on to Yale and Yale Law. The plan was a series of stepping stones: first, attorney extraordinaire; next, strong local political figure; then a jump to the state senate, then to Congress and—with the right record, image, platforms, and backing—straight to the White House.
What Stephen himself wanted was never discussed, since, in their father's mind, it was of no consequence. Neither were his aptitudes, his areas .of interest, or his backbone. Harrison Stratford called the shots. And Stephen fell in line.
Connor's path had been easier. To begin with, he was the second child. The expectations were different. Also, he fit his father's professional mold admirably. He had a natural inclination for making money. In Harrison's mind, that made him a chip off the old block. And with no role to fulfill, no national mark to make, Connor was free to pursue his goal, plowing his way through Harvard and right up through its graduate business school. From the start, it was clear he had a talent for making just the right investments. That earned him high-powered jobs and huge financial returns. By the time he was thirty, he'd formed his own company and was out on his own. By thirty-three, he was a millionaire. As a result, he'd earned his father's respect and fulfilled his expectations.
The expectations for Stephen were much higher and much longer-term. Connor was a fait accompli; Stephen was a work in progress.
Harrison had no idea of his son's gambling problem. Connor made damned sure of that, bailing Stephen out whenever he got in over his head, covering for him as needed. More important, he talked to him, or maybe lectured was a better word. Professional help wasn't an option—if the press got wind of the reasons behind the therapy, Stephen would be finished. So it was up to those who cared about Stephen—initially Connor, eventually Nancy—to give him the strength he needed to abstain.
With marriage, fatherhood, a successful mayorship, and Connor's badgering, Stephen finally improved. He managed to take control of his life, locking away his gambling in a dark corner of his past, where it stayed.
Until this damned senatorial race got under way.
Suddenly, the pressure of having to succeed, to be bigger than life, to win, was back in his face, looming over him like some predatory animal.
Connor sensed the transition in his brother's personality around New Year's, when plans for the campaign were launched. He observed Stephen quietly, saying nothing to anyone—even Nancy, whose overly bright eyes and too sunny smile told him she already knew. Connor prayed he was wrong. But Ms every instinct screamed that Stephen's old ghosts were rearing then-heads. Unable to shake his concerns, he began visiting Leaf Brook more frequently, studying Stephen's behavior and, even more crucial, scrutinizing its possible effects on Brian.
Until now, Brian had seemed okay.
But this past Saturday, everything unraveled. Stephen's behavior—the urgent phone call he left the ball game to make, his hypersensitivity over the topic of his financial backing—confirmed the worst of Connor's suspicions. And Brian's adverse reaction confirmed the worst of his tears.
That terrific kid was becoming a casualty of Stephen's war.
Connor's argument with Stephen hadn't been pretty. He hadn't minced words, brutally reminding his brother of past binges that had cost a fortune and put one hell of a strain on Stephen's marriage. He further reminded Stephen that he now had a son who was old enough and insightful enough to sense his father's behavior and, consequently, to bear the subsequent emotional scars.
Stephen had snapped, and the two men had had a knock-down, drag-out shouting match. It had ended with Stephen accusing Connor of being a sanctimonious bastard and, in plain words, telling him to mind his own business, to take his damned money and his patronizing lectures, and to go straight to hell.
Connor was furious. He was sorely tempted to walk away and not look back. And he just might have, if it weren't for Brian.
But he couldn't stand the thought of his nephew suffering as a result of Stephen's weakness and Nancy's refusal to face the truth. Brian needed stability in his life, someone he could count on. And, for now, his Uncle Connor was it.
His Uncle Connor and Julia Talbot.
No doubt, Brian had an ally in Miss Talbot. Her devotion to Brian these past few years spoke for itself. And today—well, she'd certainly made it clear how much she cared about him. Not to mention her protectiveness toward him. It was admirable how deep her commitment ran.
Rolling the tumbler between his palms, Connor contemplated Brian's teacher, reflecting on their brief interaction earlier today.
Julia Talbot wasn't exactly what he'd originally surmised. Oh, some of his observations had been accurate. Her unaffected manner, for one. She viewed the world through eyes that were startlingly unclouded by cynicism or the desire to realize a personal agenda. Her physical attributes were equally natural and equally remarkable— a reality Connor couldn't help but notice even with his mind preoccupied with Brian. And, of course, there were her feelings for Brian, which were genuine to the core.
On the other hand, she was more gutsy than he'd originally thought, with some bite to her humor and an impressive directness to her approach. In his experience, people were glib, sometimes caustic, but rarely direct. And coming from an idealistic elementary-school teacher, it surprised him.
As for her take on Brian, it had been dead-on. In one way, that was good. She'd be keeping an eye on him, watching him like a hawk for signs of stress. On the other hand, if she didn't like what she saw, she might take the matter a step further. She might contact Nancy and Stephen or discuss her concerns with one of her superiors. And that could snowball into trouble.
For Julia Talbot to become any more deeply involved in this problem wasn't an option. She had to stay out of this.
It was up to him to see that she did.
Using whatever means he had to.
* * *
7
April 5
Panic was setting in.
Stephen paced around his office, sweat dampening his shirt. He yanked off his sports coat and tie, threw them onto the chair, and rolled up his sleeves.
Think. He had to think.
Everything was going wrong. He was in too damned deep, and he had nowhere to turn. Even turning to Connor was no longer an option. Not after insulting him and throwing him out the other day. And not with this massive debt. It was three times more than he'd ever owed. Connor would have his head.
Half a million dollars. How was it possible for his losses to add up to such a staggering sum? He'd only made a few damned bets. They'd all been sure things, strategically placed, carefully researched. The problem was, he'd bet on hockey games. And he didn't have the natural instinct for hockey that he had for football and baseball. But the timing of things had stunk, and he'd had no choice. With the Stanley Cup drawing close, hockey was the only sport yielding stakes high enough for his purposes. Football season was long over, and baseball's opening day had just taken place this week. As for the preseason games, they didn't yield a damn.
So hockey it had been.
And now he owed five hundred thousand dollars.
He dragged a palm across his forehead. Bad enough that a little more than one hundred fifty thousand of that money had come from his personal accounts. But the rest of it—three hundred forty-seven thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact—had come from his campaign funds. And a huge chunk of those funds were his father's investment.
He wasn't sure which would be worse, going to jail or facing his father.
What in the hell was he going to do?
He had to get that money back—and fast. Before Cliff found the discrepancies, before the press dug deep enough to uncover his questionable activities. He didn't hav
e much time, but he did have some—a few days, maybe a week. He had to get that cash back where it belonged.
But how? Where could he go for help?
The thought of Connor reasserted itself. Did he have the guts to call his brother?
Did he have the option not to?
He was still deliberating when his private line rang.
Numbly, he stared at the phone, making no move to answer it. The business day was long over, which meant the call was personal. Well, he didn't want to talk to anyone. If he had to bet—not that his picks were worth much these day—he'd bet it was Nancy, wondering where he was and when he was coming home for dinner. He couldn't talk to her. Not now. He certainly couldn't face her. And Brian—how could he meet his son's eyes, knowing what a mess he'd made of their lives?
Brian thought his father was a hero.
Well, he was no hero. He was a crooked, spineless fraud. Brian would find that out eventually.
But did he have to learn the truth before he was eight?
The phone stopped ringing, then started again, this time without letting up.
Fine. He'd get this over with.
Clearing his throat in an attempt to sound normal, he leaned over, plucked the receiver from its cradle. "Nance?"
"No, Mr. Mayor, it's Philip Walker. Sorry to call on your private line, but I just hung up with Greg Matthews. He passed along the results of the city council meeting. I must say, I'm not very pleased."
Great. This was the last thing Stephen had expected. In the frenzy of the past few hours, he'd completely forgotten about the city council meeting that had taken place earlier. He'd asked Greg to call Walker with its outcome. He should have anticipated this return call. Although how Walker had gotten his private number, he hadn't a clue.
What difference did it make? The man was sitting at the other end of the phone waiting for an answer.
