by AC Arthur
“I’m comfortable here.”
“Why don’t we take a walk? You can show me the canal pathway. I know it’s one of your favorite spots here, but Tuppence said you haven’t been out walking yet. Let’s go together.”
“No.” Not a shout like before, but just as final.
Tamika closed her eyes and tried to come up with the right words. As close as she and her mother used to be, she didn’t have a clue how to get through to her now.
“None of this is the same without him.”
She barely heard her mother’s words in the hushed tone, but her eyes opened and she stared down at Sandra once more. Her mother’s cinnamon-brown skin tone, which Tamika had proudly inherited, appeared a little ashen, her lips drawn. High cheekbones were now the dominant feature of a face Tamika had always thought was the most beautiful she’d ever seen.
“I came here because I wanted to be closer to him, but he’s not here.”
“No,” Tamika whispered. “He’s not here, Mama.” And for that, Tamika was sorrier than she could ever explain.
“He’s gone.” Sandra’s voice cracked on that last word, and Tamika felt a sharp pang in her chest. “Gone for real.”
Death was pretty final, but Tamika knew better than to remind her mother of that fact. Instead, she eased over on the bed and put her hand on top of her mother’s. “I’m here, Mama. I’m right here with you in the house you and Daddy loved so much.”
Sandra closed her eyes. She made no effort to take Tamika’s hand in return, or to hug her daughter, or any other motion that might give both of them some semblance of relief. “I want to sleep now,” her mother said. “I just want to sleep.”
Chapter 4
Dynasty Manor
Gloucestershire, England
Nestled in the heart of the Cotswolds—that was how his mother had always described Dynasty Manor. Roark drove through the open iron gates, tires crunching along the gravel path that lead to the front doors of the seventeenth-century estate. His father had purchased this property as an investment thirty years ago but hadn’t had time to visit frequently. It was run as a B&B, with eight luxury suites and a private clubhouse available for rent. One of his mother’s favorite hobbies was interior design. The Hyde Park house where Roark and his siblings had grown up was impeccably designed and redesigned every five years because Maxine had known how quickly trends changed. The year after she’d applied a redesign to the Hyde Park property, she’d visit Dynasty Manor for two weeks, redesigning the rooms here as well.
Roark parked his car and walked inside. He was greeted by Geoff, the concierge he’d spoken to on the phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Donovan. As I stated on the telephone, I’m honored to accommodate you for as long as you like.” Geoff was a short man who stood like a trained soldier, shoulders back, chin up. His rheumy eyes remained focused on Roark.
“Thank you.” Roark extended his hand and shook when Geoff accepted it.
“There are empty tables at the back of the Garden Breakfast room. Lily will show you the way. Will you need a workstation set up?”
Roark shook his head as he looked around. He’d never been to the manor before had never had the time or the need to get away from his life until now. “Not necessary. This won’t be a long meeting.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll take care of your bags.”
Geoff introduced Roark to Lily, a pretty brunette who chatted about the flowers and the cool summer air while they walked. Once in the breakfast room, he sat at a booth, his back against the velvet-studded seat, his gaze focused on the entryway. He wanted to see her when she walked in, wanted to take his time and assess everything about her before she joined him at the table. Before she said what she had to say about his mother.
Tamika Rayder, that was her name. She’d been calling him since the funeral last week, and yesterday, she’d sent him the first text message.
When he was settled at the table, Roark pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the thread of messages from Ms. Rayder.
Mr. Roark Donovan, my name is Tamika Rayder and I need to speak to you regarding a private family matter.
Roark had ignored that message because her name wasn’t familiar, and at that point he hadn’t realized the phone number was the same as the one that had called him at least twice a day for the past six days. Then, around ten last night, the next text came.
I realize you may be wondering who I am and why I continue to reach out to you, but I think you’ll be very interested in seeing this letter your mother wrote to my father last year…three days before his death.
That, the last part, had stopped Roark cold. He’d just stepped out of the shower and had held the towel around his waist in one hand, his phone in the other. He’d read the message again and then five more times before he’d responded.
If this is some type of joke, I’ll have you arrested and jailed.
She hadn’t responded until five this morning. The pinging sound of his phone notifying him of a new message had woken him from the light sleep he’d been struggling through.
I don’t have time to joke. I just want answers and you will too. I’m in Painswick but I can come to London to meet with you.
After rubbing his eyes and reading the message again, he’d replied: We’ll meet in Painswick.
He’d provided the place and the time and now waited for her arrival. Waited and wondered who the hell Tamika Rayder was and how she or her father knew his mother.
What he knew so far was that she was prompt. At exactly eleven-thirty, she walked into the breakfast room and immediately met his gaze. That was how he knew it was her, because while Roark had never seen her before, he was certain she’d seen him. At least a picture of him. All she had to do was visit the website for Donovan Oilwell or Donovan International. And why would she have done that? Because Maxine Donovan, as the wife of a Donovan and heir to one of the largest corporations in the country, was well-known in London. If Ms. Rayder was bold enough to reach out to him via phone and text messages, she would’ve done her research the minute she’d seen his mother’s name on a letter. Finding his personal cell phone number would have taken a lot more effort.
He watched her walk toward him. Confident steps, taken in high-heel black shoes, black pants, black-and-white print blouse, a chunky necklace that hung to the center of her bodice. Her hair was past her shoulders, dark, straight and silky. She carried a purse, its thin strap over her right shoulder, and she smiled when a server almost bumped into her. When the server mumbled her apologies, Ms. Rayder replied, “No worries. I’ll hurry and move out of your way.”
“Congenial” and “cheerful” were words he might use to describe her so far.
“Mr. Donovan,” she said when she finally stood close enough to him. “I’m Tamika Rayder.”
Roark didn’t smile. He met her gaze and inhaled slowly but didn’t react to the sweet scent she’d brought with her. “Where’s the letter?”
She tilted her head, her mouth turning down in a frown that disappeared seconds later. “Well, okay then, we’ll get right down to business.” With a hand on the back of the chair, she pulled it out and took a seat across from him. She hooked her purse on the side of the chair beside her and signaled to the server to request a glass of water. “My father’s name was Lemuel Rayder. He was the fire chief in Alexandria, Virginia.”
So, she was American. He could tell by her accent, but he’d learned long ago not to make quick assumptions. In business, as well as in life generally, Roark was a slow thinker and a contemplative reactor. “You’re a long way from home. Are you sure you’re just following up on a letter?”
Her water arrived, and she immediately picked up the glass to take a sip. Then another as she sat back in the chair, staring at him over the rim. “I’m not a stranger here. My parents loved Painswick.”
He watched her lips while she talked and ignored the way her fingers gripped the glass and her arm lowered it to the table. Her lipstick was a dark
crimson color that didn’t seem to be too much and he shouldn’t have cared if it was. Yet, he couldn’t stop staring at her. “It’s still a long way to come for a letter.” He finally tore his gaze away from her mouth, finding her eyes once more. “Where is it?”
“Don’t you want to know what it says that would make me come all this way to speak to you?”
“We’ve already settled how far you’ve come, and I can read.”
She smiled. It was a slow movement, each side of her mouth lifting until the smile was not only an alluring distraction but also added a light to her chestnut-colored eyes. “I’m betting you can also be a little friendlier. I mean, you run not one, but two multi-million-dollar companies. You can’t possibly be this borderline rude with your business associates. Perhaps you just don’t like women who call you repeatedly and leave cryptic text messages, things I can totally understand. But still, you could at least have something to drink and try to be cordial.”
“I’ve never been called borderline rude.” But he could definitely see why she was the first to bring that character flaw to his attention. “Look, now’s not a good time for my family. If you really have something my mum sent, I’d like to see what it’s about.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. When he didn’t say another word, she set the envelope on the table and pushed it until it was right next to his hand.
Orange , or another very light citrus fragrance mixed with something more floral—that was what her scent was. Soft, a tad sweet and sensual, very sensual.
Roark felt his brow furrow and reached for the envelope. He pulled out the letter and began to read, going through what read like a pen-pal style of correspondence.
Haven’t seen you in years—hope all is well. It’s nice to know we all turned out to be upstanding adults, even when nobody thought we would.
There was a smiley face drawn after that sentence, the circle of the face not closed completely, the way his mother used to do. Forty-year-old Roark still remembered how his mother drew, probably because whenever she’d written his and his siblings’ names on their gifts for Christmas, she’d drawn either a smiley face, a heart or a Santa face beside it.
His chest tightened as he continued to read.
I wonder sometimes. Do you? It’s been a really long time, but then some days it doesn’t seem like that long ago. It was probably silly of me to write to you, but we were once close and as we get older, I think more and more about our time together.
The letter ended there with her name signed, the slash from the “x” longer than the rest of the letters. It was his mother’s signature.
Roark folded the letter again and put it back in the envelope. “You said your father died.”
She nodded. “Three days after he received this letter.”
“How do you know when he received it?”
“My father was very organized, to the point he had an accordion folder with dates where he filed his business mail. I found this in there.”
“Because he didn’t want your mother to see it.”
“They weren’t having an affair.” Her tone was adamant, and he was given a glimpse of the fire buried beneath the softness.
“My mother was a widow, but I’m assuming you already knew that.”
She shifted slightly in her chair—trying to regain her composure, he figured. “Why would you assume I knew anything about your mother?”
“Because you didn’t come all this way just to visit the place your parents loved. You found this letter, saw my mum’s name and return address and wanted to find out who she was. A simple Google search would’ve provided enough preliminary information. But not my private cell number. The fact that you have that tells me you did some digging, very deep digging. The logical next question is why? If not an affair you want to keep your mother from finding out about, then what?”
“I want to know how exactly they knew each other.”
He noted she didn’t address his comments about her digging to find his number. He’d let it pass, for now. “Why is that important if you don’t believe it was an affair?”
“Timing. This letter arrives, and from what I can tell after going through everything my father owned in his work and home office, it was the only letter he’d ever received from your mother. And three days later, he’s dead.”
“But he died in the US. My mother hasn’t been to the States in years.”
“Perhaps she knows someone else in the States. Perhaps she was planning a trip to see my father.”
Roark had had enough. He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at, and this letter means nothing to me. So, I’ll bid you a good day, Ms. Rayder.” He stood and was about to walk away when she grabbed his arm. There wasn’t a bolt of heat, or even a pinch of shock, but there was something, he thought as he looked down at her fingers on the dark sleeve of his suit jacket.
“I believe this letter’s connected to my father’s death,” she said, looking up at him with enough sincerity and banked passion in her eyes to have his mind warring with his body for a few seconds.
“I disagree.” He eased his arm out of her grasp. “Don’t call me again.”
To her credit, she didn’t try to stop him again. She didn’t speak another word. He didn’t turn back to see what she was doing, not until he was at the entryway, and when he looked back, she was on her phone. Roark shook his head and tried not to think about that letter or anything Tamika Rayder had said.
The Dynasty Clubhouse was located down a winding path behind the manor and could accommodate up to twenty-four guests. There were six sleeping rooms, several lounge areas, a formal dining room, extensive gardens, a private pool and more space than Roark needed on this solo trip.
Even the room where Geoff had left Roark’s bags was enormous. It was the size of the entire first floor of his flat in London. There was a grand four-post king-size bed on a platform to the far left, a work area with an antique-looking desk in the center and a cozy seating area facing a second set of windows. A fully stocked bar with leather stools, a walk-in closet and a luxurious bathroom.
Again, too much space, but for now, his home away from home. He removed his suit jacket and he walked across plush beige carpet leading into the sitting area. Two couches faced each other, a large square glass-top table between them. A fireplace with a flat-screen television mounted on the wall above was in one direction. The wall of windows on the other. Roark chose to sit on the couch facing the windows and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Had he really come all the way out here just to see that letter?
Of course not. He’d come because he’d needed to get away from London for a while, to clear the fog that had settled over his mind in the past few weeks. After two days at the office and the reading of the will, he knew he wasn’t ready to be back at work full-time, nor was he ready to deal with all that was on his shoulders as the head of his family. He had no choice about the latter, but where work was concerned, he’d notified his assistant that he’d be working remotely until further notice.
As for Ridge and Suri, in an effort to abide by his promise to keep them in the loop about everything, he’d sent a text last night, explaining he needed some time alone. Only Ridge had responded this morning, telling him to take all the time he needed. Suri was still angry with him about the autopsy. Roark didn’t blame her. He’d been more than a little annoyed when Cade and Linc had kept information about his mother away from him. But he also didn’t regret keeping the secret from his siblings. He’d planned to tell them everything eventually, he’d just wanted to get the full story first.
At any rate, the meeting with their criminal attorney, Ed Burrows and Detective Gibbons had taken place on Thursday, the day before yesterday. To Roark’s dismay the police hadn’t wanted a notarized affidavit. That was just as well because during the meeting, Roark, Ridge and Suri had each declined to answer anything other than the question of where they’d been during the t
imeframe in question. Gibbons hadn’t been happy about their refusal to cooperate while he’d attempted to incriminate them, but Roark hadn’t given a damn. They’d left the meeting, and Gibbons had been advised any further questions would go through their solicitor.
Still, the accusation weighed on Roark, that and the fact that he still had no clue as to who’d want to kill his mother.
And as if that weren’t enough to be dealing with, there was Tamika Rayder.
On a huff, Roark lay his head against the back of the couch and scrubbed his hands over his face. He needed a drink. It was only a little after noon, but still, he desperately wanted a drink.
His ringing phone probably saved him from an early afternoon bender. “This is Roark,” he answered after grabbing his jacket and retrieving the phone from the inside pocket.
Cade immediately began speaking. “Hey, just checking in with an update. I spoke to McGee about the fire late yesterday afternoon, and he didn’t have anything new.” Roark immediately sat up. “The fire chief doesn’t want to go public with an arson declaration just yet. I suspect that’s because it’s also a murder investigation.”
His temples throbbed, because this was exactly what he’d come to the manor to get away from.
A part of him had felt like he was abandoning his family during their time of need, but another part had acknowledged he was no good to anybody in the state he was currently in. He couldn’t erase the picture of flames coming out of the windows of his familial home from his mind. The house’s once-pristine white stone now had black stains surrounding those windows, stretching down toward the ground like vicious claws. So, no matter how far he got away from the house in Hyde Park, he still had to face the facts.
“Gibbons isn’t gonna let McGee tell us much of anything anymore,” Cade said.
“Because we’re suspects—at least me, Ridge and Suri are.” His free hand fisted before he could think to stop it.
“Your mother was worth five hundred million dollars at the time of her death. She was an equity shareholder in both Donovan Oilwell UK and Donovan International.”