All It Takes

by Proby, Kristen

  Dedication

  For Steve Berry, who is kind of a big deal. Thanks for the balcony plot time. It was an honor.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Also by Kristen Proby

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  ~Quinn~

  Five Years Ago . . .

  I ease the sexy sports car through the turn, and then hit the gas, smoothly shifting through the gears as the Porsche picks up speed.

  It’s summer, and late enough in the evening that the sun is casting shadows through the trees as I zoom faster and faster away from the city on a country road.

  Away from my family.

  Away from death.

  I take a deep breath, blow it out, and then shift gears again, my body tense with adrenaline and anger.

  Driving fast is the best way to clear my head. Always has been. I prefer it over drinking, drugs, or even fucking a beautiful woman.

  This is the only time that I can truly empty my mind and just live.

  But my sister, Darcy, can’t.

  And now my father can’t.

  The pain is swift, leaving me breathless and sweaty, so I speed up further, despite the deep shadows and harsh light from the time of day. I’m racing away to forget, but the fucked-up thing is, I can’t forget.

  Darcy and Dad are both gone, and it’s left me with an ache I didn’t expect, and a hole that I can’t fill.

  Even while driving.

  Red and blue lights start flashing behind me.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I slow the car, then ease it over to the shoulder. I have my license and registration in my hand when the officer approaches my window, his hand resting on his sidearm.

  “Good evening,” he says.

  “Hello.”

  “I pulled you over because you were driving one hundred ten miles an hour in a fifty-five zone.”

  I take another deep breath but can’t muster up the emotion to give a rat’s ass.

  “Did you know that you were going that fast?”

  “No, sir,” I lie.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No, sir.” This one isn’t a lie.

  “I’m going to ask you to step out of the car.”

  I frown up at him. “I have my license here.”

  “I see it. Step out of the car, please.”

  I unfasten my seat belt, then climb out of the car, and stand respectfully, waiting. I know better than to start something with a cop. I don’t need to add to my family’s stress by getting arrested.

  “I’m going to have you walk the line for me, sir.”

  “Sobriety test?” I feel my eyebrows climb in surprise.

  “Yep. You say you haven’t been drinking, but at the speed you were going, I can’t imagine you driving that way unless you’re either under the influence or just plain stupid.”

  I shrug and immediately walk a straight line, then touch the tip of my nose with my forefingers. I even recite the alphabet backward, only mixing up n and m.

  “Stupid then,” the officer says with a half smile and reaches out for my license. “You can get back in your car. I’ll be right there.”

  I sit, trying my best to empty my mind and go numb. I’m anxious to get back on the road, and if that leads to another ticket, well, so be it.

  I don’t give a fuck.

  It’s not long before the officer returns and passes me the license along with the slip of paper, giving me instructions on how to pay or show up in court.

  “Be careful, Mr. Cavanaugh. I don’t know what’s eating at you, but I’m not blind. If you do something stupid and kill yourself today, it’ll hurt your family.”

  Bull’s-eye.

  But I just mumble out a thank-you, then pull away, not speeding like I was, but not turning toward home yet either.

  No, I don’t want to hurt any of them. That’s what this is all about. But I need this, and I have it under control.

  I have everything under control.

  Chapter One

  ~Sienna~

  Today sucks.

  I thought thirty days ago sucked, when we had to bury my grandpa, Louis Walter Hendricks. He and I were close. We did lunch once a week, at the same table at the same diner, where he wanted to hear all about my most current cases. A former attorney himself, he enjoyed the legal banter, and I loved filling him in.

  He was wise and funny.

  And not a little eccentric.

  “Are you nervous?” my older sister, Louise, asks from the passenger side of my Ford Focus. She’s twisting her fingers in her lap and biting her lip, and her brown eyes are sad when they turn to me.

  “No. Why?”

  “I hate courtrooms,” she mutters with a shudder, and I laugh, merging onto the freeway from the Bronx, where we live and work, toward Manhattan where we’re meeting with Grandpa’s attorney.

  “We won’t be in a courtroom,” I inform her and reach over to pat her knee. “You’ve seen too many movies.”

  “Where are we going then? Grandpa’s attorney works in the Bronx.”

  I shake my head. “I know, but he wanted the will to be read in Central Park. I don’t know why.”

  Lou frowns. “Wait. We’re going to Central Park?”

  “Yep. Didn’t you read the letter?”

  “No, I knew you’d read it.”

  She brushes me off, and I can’t help but chuckle. Louise and I are exact opposites. She’s carefree, impulsive. Sometimes she’s careless.

  And then there’s me, as organized, structured, and boring as it gets if Louise were to describe me. But damn it, life works better with lists and rules. Stability.

  I play it safe because just the thought of doing anything else makes me break out into hives.

  Not only was Louise named for him, but she is more like Grandpa than I am, and that always made me a little jealous because I loved him so damn much. And she did too.

  But my relationship with him was different.

  “A will reading in Central Park,” she says, shaking her head. “Well, that sounds like him. He loved the park.”

  I nod and search for parking, which isn’t easy in Manhattan. We should have taken the train, but I have to go to work when we’re finished here, and this was just easier.

  Until the parking.

  “There,” Lou says, pointing to a spot, and I slip inside it. We step out of the car, and walk inside the park, our heels clicking on the cement.

  My shoes are black, and a sensible two inches. Not high enough to kill my feet, but classier than flats.

  Lou’s wearing mile-high Louboutins that she most likely charged to her Visa.

  I don’t want to even think about the fact that she still owes me five hundred dollars from last month when I helped her with the rent.

  It’s not that Louise is a train wreck. She has it together for the most part, and she’s my dearest friend.

  But she’s not great when it comes to money. If she has five dollars in her pocket, she’ll spend six.

  It’s ju
st how she is.

  I push that from my thoughts and steer Lou to the area of the park where the attorney said we’d meet. It’s near the water, with mothers pushing strollers nearby, and businessmen in suits sitting on benches with their lunches.

  Summer has just begun, but the heat is hanging heavily around us already, and I’m grateful when I see Grandpa’s attorney standing in the shade, along with our parents and a few family friends.

  “Hello, darlings,” Mom says as she leans in to kiss our cheeks. Dad does the same, then smiles when he sees his brother, Patrick, arrive and offers him his hand to shake.

  “It looks like we’re all here,” Dad says, but the attorney, Mr. Mills, shakes his head.

  “We have one more party joining us.” Someone walking behind us catches his eye, and he nods. “Here he is now.”

  We all turn to find a tall man approaching. He has dark hair, a square jaw, and he’s wearing an expensive suit. The kind of suit that screams money and importance.

  His eyes are covered by aviators.

  “Who is that?” Lou whispers to me, but I just shrug and turn my attention back to Mr. Mills, who has opened a folder and put his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” he begins. “Mr. Hendricks has left his home, along with its contents, to his sons, Louis and Patrick. He assumed you’d sell and split the profits, but there’s no rush on that.”

  Both Dad and Uncle Patrick nod in understanding.

  This isn’t a surprise.

  “He also left each of his sons $250,000.”

  Neither my father nor Patrick’s expressions change. Again, this isn’t a surprise.

  “He left a sizable amount of money to his granddaughters, Louise and Sienna, at $250,000. Each. The remainder of his money is to be donated to St. Andrew’s Church in the Bronx.”

  Louise and I exchange a look of shock. We weren’t expecting to inherit any money, especially since both of Grandpa’s children are still living, and he spoke often about leaving the majority of his estate to the church.

  Not that I’ll complain.

  “And finally, there’s the matter of a piece of property in the Bronx, which currently stands as a park for the community, and has for more than seventy years. Mr. Hendricks has bequeathed the property to the city, with the stipulation that it remain a park for the community to enjoy for no less than one hundred years.”

  “Wow,” I whisper, happy and relieved. This park is an important part of our community. Uncle Patrick squirms in his seat.

  “I have something to say,” the stranger says from behind us, and we all turn in surprise. “I’m Quinn Cavanaugh, and I am the attorney for Big Box, LLC. Louis Hendricks can’t will the property in question to the city because he didn’t legally own that property.”

  “What?” I stand and turn to him, my hands planted on my hips. “He most certainly did own that property. It’s been in our family for generations.”

  “I have documentation that proves differently,” he says, taking off his glasses. Brown eyes are pinned to mine, and I feel warmth low in my belly.

  Which is just ridiculous because this man is calling my grandfather a liar, so I cannot be attracted to him.

  “He never sold that property,” my father says.

  “No, he didn’t,” Mr. Cavanaugh agrees. “But his father did, in 1913, to Reginald House.”

  “Do you have a deed?” I demand. “Have you done a chaining of the title?”

  Quinn’s lips twitch, and his eyes narrow on me. “I don’t have a deed with me.”

  “Well, we won’t continue this conversation until you have those things with you.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “If there’s an attorney you’d like me to contact—”

  “That would be me,” I interrupt him. “I’m a city attorney, and trust me when I say, this case will be mine. I’ll be happy to meet with you right now.”

  He blinks fast and frowns as he looks down, then back at me. “I know this isn’t easy,” he says, his voice suddenly soft, putting me immediately on edge. Does he think he can get his way by playing on my grief?

  Asshole.

  “No, it isn’t easy, but it is simple. Louis Hendricks owned that property, and I’ll be happy to continue this conversation at a later time.”

  He nods once, then passes me his card. It’s on thick stock, the writing in gold, of course.

  QUINN A. CAVANAUGH

  Attorney at Law

  Cavanaugh Cavanaugh & Shaw

  (212) 667-5555

  I tuck his fancy card in my purse before passing him one of mine and Quinn nods, pushes his dark glasses back on his nose, and turns to walk away.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” Mom says. “Could he be telling the truth?”

  “No,” I reply before anyone else can answer. I look to Mr. Mills for confirmation.

  “I hold an original deed to the property that Louis gave me,” he says. “The paperwork is ready to be given to the city.”

  “I’ll take it,” I say and then hug everyone, reassuring us all. “This is just another big corporation trying to buy the block so they can build on it. Same story different day, but I never expected that they’d try this at the man’s freaking will reading.”

  “I know you’ll handle him,” Dad says with a wink as we gather our things to leave.

  “If you need any help, just give me a call, kitten,” Patrick says before placing a kiss on my forehead. Uncle Patrick is also an attorney, and along with Grandpa, one of the reasons I went into law.

  “I’ll call if I have questions, but I think this should be pretty cut and dried,” I reply. “If I need to, can I get into Grandpa’s house to go through the files in his attic?”

  “Of course,” both Dad and Uncle Patrick say in unison.

  “I already have a few boxes at my house,” Uncle Patrick says. “I started going through some of his paperwork last week. You’re welcome to come get it.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep you all posted.”

  Lou and I return to my car, and I’m a ball of anger and frustration as we pull away.

  “Who the hell does he think he is?” I begin, my rage finally boiling over. “Our grandfather was a lot of things, but a liar and a thief aren’t among them.”

  “He’s just a creep,” she says. “But a hot creep. Do you know him? He’s an attorney.”

  “No, I don’t know him.” I scowl at her. “Do you know how many attorneys there are in Manhattan?”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault that he’s good-looking.”

  “You shouldn’t think he’s good-looking,” I inform her. “He’s trying to take the park away. There’s nothing good-looking about that.”

  “He represents a company trying to take the park away,” she says, and I silently concede that she has a point. “He’s not doing it. He’s the messenger. You’re not your clients either.”

  I let out a gusty breath. “It irritates me.”

  “I get it, but you need to calm down because getting riled up won’t fix it.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you riled up about anything.”

  “I practice what I preach,” she says with a satisfied smile, her beautiful face lighting up. “And can I just say that I was not expecting Grandpa to be so generous? I mean, he always said he’d make sure we were taken care of, but this is a lot of money.”

  And you’ll blow it. I wish he’d put it in a trust, but Lou’s thirty-five, and an adult.

  I’ll pay off my student loans, and have plenty left to remodel my house, and even pay down the mortgage.

  “I’m going to Paris,” she announces, and I cringe.

  See? I knew it.

  “I know, it’s not very responsible of me, but Grandpa would want me to have fun.”

  “And a roof over your head,” I remind her, but she rolls her eyes, and I don’t push.

  I pull up to her apartment building and she hops out of the car. “Call me later,” she says before
slamming the door and sauntering up to her place.

  I don’t waste any time. I drive straight to my office, files in hand, and begin to research. I can’t find anything on record that implies that my grandfather was not the owner of Hendricks Park.

  Quinn Cavanaugh is full of shit.

  But just as I’m about to write it off to another whack job trying to get his hands on this valuable property, I get an email from Quinn himself.

  Ms. Hendricks,

  I look forward to meeting with you in regard to the property referenced in Louis Hendricks’s will. My client would like to set up a meeting for mediation, and ultimately, settlement.

  Does June 20 at 2:00 p.m., in my office, work with your schedule?

  Sincerely,

  Quinn Cavanaugh

  cc letter to follow via mail

  I scowl and read the email again. He’s not going to back down.

  And neither am I.

  I check the date and reply with confirmation that I have the meeting in my schedule.

  I have four days to prepare.

  It’s hot outside, and that means it’s hot inside because I don’t have central air in my house. It was built in the 1920s, and no one had A/C back then.

  But I love my old house. I updated the kitchen and bathrooms when I bought it five years ago, and last summer, I gave it a new paint job in all the rooms. It’s bright, mostly white with a sunny yellow master bathroom.

  It’s been two days since the reading of my grandfather’s will, and I’m no less upset. The anger has simmered down from a rolling boil to just steaming, but I’m anxious to get this meeting out of the way.

  And because I’m anxious, and it’s a Saturday, I’m painting.

  When I’m mad, I paint with oils.

  When I’m excited or happy, I paint in watercolor.

  It goes without saying that I’m working with oils today. I started a new piece on a giant canvas because I have a feeling this case is going to take a while, and I’ll spend many hours working on this particular project.

  “I need more red,” I mumble and squeeze paint out of the tube onto my palette, then stand back and stare at the canvas.

  I’m painting the park, how it looks in the fall after the leaves have turned. It was my grandpa’s favorite time of year, and this whole case is about him.