by A. C. Arthur
Roark hadn’t needed Cade to tell him what he already knew. His mother had those holdings partly because of his father’s will and also because Roark had insisted she be a part of any businesses he ran. At seventeen years old, he’d stood over his father’s casket and vowed to always take care of his mother and siblings. Unfortunately, he’d failed Maxine when she’d needed him most.
“We have our own money.” Not that he needed to explain their innocence this time.
Cade was a Donovan and while he hadn’t gone into the family oil business but had instead decided he was better suited to be an FBI profiler, he still held stock in the family’s American companies.
“I know that, and you know that. Now it’s up to us to prove it to the MPD and figure out who did this.”
Roark stood and walked to the window, holding the phone up to his ear in one hand, stuffing the other hand into the front pocket of his pants.
“I’ve got another member of my team working on this with me,” Cade continued. “Since it’s family and the FBI has no jurisdiction, I’m sort of operating under the radar for the time being. Anyway, Pierce splits his time between working with the Bureau and assisting Interpol on special cases, so he’s got a bead on the international side and he was in Paris when the fire happened. He’s got some vacation time so he’s offered to stick around to give us a hand. First, he’s gonna take a look at other shareholders and anyone who was maybe unhappy that you’d left the oilwell or that you and Dane started a new venture.”
“Competitors, both on the Donovan side and on the side of Dane’s other business, Imagine Energy,” Roark added.
The clouds seemed thicker, heavier than they had just moments ago when he’d first entered the room, but still, the view from the east side of the manor was breathtaking. Gabled rooftops and cobblestone streets blended into the rolling hillsides just miles away.
“Right. I’m taking a different approach. I’m focusing on the arson.” Cade spoke in the confident and succinct manner he always used when working.
“Because we know without a doubt that’s what it was.” Roark shook his head as the charred remains of the rooms on the second floor of the Hyde Park house flashed in his mind.
Cade continued. “We already know the type of accelerant used. The point of origin was at the nightstand on the left side of the bed.”
“The side of the bed she slept on.”
“McGee let that slip before he backtracked and clammed up with info. I’m gonna try and get into the Fire Brigade’s computer system to see if I can pull his notes. But the coroner’s report definitely states there was smoke in Aunt Max’s lungs, meaning she was alive when the fire started.”
“Alive but paralyzed so she couldn’t scream or get the hell out of that bed before being burned to death.” The words were like acid in his throat, and Roark closed his eyes to the incessant burn.
“Succinylcholine isn’t an over-the-counter medication. It’s only used by anesthesiologists in operating rooms. I’m going to start there and cross reference names of who made purchases in the last six months with the names of enemies on the list Pierce comes up with.”
All the words replayed over and over in Roark’s mind. Everything Cade was saying mixed with the coroner’s report Roark had read personally more than a dozen times. Suri’s sobs the night she and Ridge had come to his flat after the reading of their mother’s will and Roark had reluctantly let her read that same report
“Roark? You still there, man?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry about that. Um, I’m gonna be here at the manor for a while. I can work from here and—” He couldn’t say he felt closer to his mother here than he had at the Hyde Park house.
“I get it. Look, Aunt Birdie’s staying in London for as long as it takes, or until Suri ships her back to Texas.” Cade chuckled. “Linc’s nearby for Ridge, and even though I’m back in the States, I’m just a phone call away.”
“I know.”
“We’re gonna find out who did this and why, Roark. Believe that.”
Roark did believe it. If there was one thing the Donovan family did, it was stick together. Now that they knew it was murder, none of them would stop until they found the person responsible and saw that justice was done. How justice would be meted out, well, that scenario could have a lot of variables.
After ending the call with Cade, Roark turned away from the window and its melancholy setting. He went back to the couch and dropped down heavily. There was just so much going on right now, so many unanswered questions.
He inhaled deeply and recalled a scent he knew was no longer near, but had remained embedded in his memory just the same.
Tamika Rayder.
She’d contacted him with questions of her own.
Roark could only sigh, because he didn’t have answers for anyone at this point.
Chapter 5
Roark Donovan was fine as hell.
And rude as fuck.
But “fine” was definitely sticking in her memory more than the rudeness, and it shouldn’t be. Tamika knew this and continued to reprimand herself as she drove from the Dynasty Manor back to the cottage.
He was tall, over six feet, she could tell even though he’d remained seated during their meeting because he’d stretched one leg out to the side of the table. That was after he’d read the letter, or rather, when he’d decided the letter meant nothing to him. She still chafed at that. But apparently not enough to forego thinking about how even that long outstretched leg had appeared muscular—from his thigh down, she’d detected muscles beneath the tailored pants. Not that she couldn’t see from the waist-up view that he was in fantastic shape. His jacket had hung on broad shoulders, the collarless shirt he’d worn beneath had been molded to his chest. Her libido had kick-started into action the second she’d sat across from him.
And that was before she’d given any credit to his sculpted jaw and honey-brown complexion.
She tried to ease the car around a ridiculous round-a-bout in the center of the street and mistakenly swerved into another lane. Beeping horns yanked her out of her thoughts, and she cursed. Driving on the left side of the road was an adjustment and she’d probably end up crashing into something or, worse, somebody if she didn’t get the hang of it soon.
“Roark Donovan’s a jerk!” The words tumbled out as she struggled to right the direction of the car and to ignore the curses coming from drivers who’d rolled their windows down to yell at her—from the wrong side of the road as well.
He was a jerk because he’d been dismissive and curt and she should’ve demanded he listen to her, that he take her seriously. That was what she would’ve done with any other man. It was what she’d sworn she’d do in her life forevermore. Yet, she’d sat there and taken his flippant attitude. She slammed her hands on the steering wheel to keep from cursing again.
There was something to that letter—she was sure of it, because if not, her father wouldn’t have kept it in his work file. He wouldn’t have kept it at all. After going through all of his things because her mother hadn’t been up to it, that was the only personal letter she’d found. It was the only letter from Maxine Donovan, and it’d been in a place where her father knew her mother would never find it. Why?
She didn’t believe for one minute that her father had been having an affair, nor was she trying to get anything from Roark Donovan or his family. That was probably what the brooding millionaire thought. She’d considered that after she’d done her research on the Donovans. Rich people always thought everybody was after their money. Well, Tamika wasn’t. Her mother was living comfortably off her father’s pension and life insurance policies. She didn’t need Tamika’s financial help with anything, which maybe was a good thing, since Tamika was currently unemployed. Still, with no checks coming on the horizon, Tamika wasn’t destitute and she’d never stoop to begging for anything, especially not from a stranger. She’d just thought the letter was strange and she’d wondered if Maxine’s son would think the sam
e thing. But he hadn’t, because he was a very good-looking jerk.
She allowed herself to crack a smile as the visual of him sitting in that dining room acting so casually unbothered filled her mind once more.
Just as quickly as she smiled, Tamika’s entire demeanor changed the moment she saw the first flashing light. Instinct had her pressing on the gas pedal harder until she almost slammed into one of the many police cars lined along the street in front of the cottage. An officer was waving in front of her car as she stopped and jumped out.
Of course, that officer continued his waving as he approached her. “Stand back, ma’am. Get into your vehicle and turn around.”
“My mother’s in there!” she yelled. “This is my mother’s house!” The last word died in her throat as she inhaled a familiar scent and her heart sank.
Her mother’s house was on fire and there was no doubt in Tamika’s mind that she was still lying in her bed. Every inch of training Tamika had kicked in, pressing back the fear already bubbling in her throat.
“It’s in the back,” she said, pushing past the officer, who was either too frail or too inexperienced to stop her. “How many trucks were called?”
Without waiting for an answer, she ran down the path leading to the driveway and made her way around one fire truck. They’d need at least two more. She could already see heavy fire coming from one of the side windows. The sitting room beside the kitchen. Six firefighters were outside the house, several of them pulling two hose lines that attacked the fire from the outside.
“Somebody needs to go in!” she yelled. “There are people inside. Most likely two, but definitely one. Upstairs in the front bedroom, there’s a woman—”
“Who the hell are you?”
Tamika turned when a burly man grabbed her arm and began pulling her away from the house. She met his gaze—beady and accusing dark brown eyes—and yanked her arm away from his. “I’m Fire Investigator Tamika Rayder, that’s who I am, and I’m telling you now, you’re gonna need to call in more trucks. And get someone inside to get them out!”
He shook his head and put his body in front of her as some form of barricade. “I’m Watch Manager Keyworth, and I don’t know you. So, stand back!”
“I won’t stand back.” She pushed at him the same way she’d done the cop a few minutes ago, but this time that didn’t work.
Keyworth was a lot sturdier than the cop. “Look, don’t make me arrest you. Back off my scene!”
“This is my house!”
And he didn’t care. All he was trained to care about was putting the fire out. He wasn’t supposed to let her in, nor was he there to take orders from her, of all people. Tamika understood his position all too well, because she’d once been in his shoes. But now things were different.
“My mother’s in there,” Tamika said, this time her voice much smaller than it had been. “You’ve gotta get my mother out of there.” Because she couldn’t die. She just couldn’t die…not like her father had.
Fear engulfed her in the next few minutes as she watched flames lick at the side of the stone walls. Thick black clouds of smoke filtered up into the air, and the scent, she coughed to keep from inhaling it. This was how it happened; it was the preamble to the reason her job existed. The fire that burned bright and full of energy but brought death and despair in its wake.
More sirens sounded, ones that were on the way combining with the ones already here. Lights continued to flash all around as firefighters dressed in turnouts, boots, gloves and helmets held on to the two lines, aiming water directly at the blaze. The fire wasn’t dying. It was hungry and vicious and still climbing, ready to claim every life in that house.
Tamika’s legs buckled; a sickly sound escaped her throat as she gasped. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, save my mother.”
Strong arms wrapped around her in that instant, holding her upright and pulling her back. “Let’s get you someplace safe,” the firefighter said. He was around her height, five feet nine, but his turnouts and boots made him appear larger than life. He wore a helmet and his face was covered with soot, as if he’d been in the house but was now out here with her.
“Why?” she asked, her voice raspy. “Why aren’t you in there helping her?”
He continued pulling her back, stopping when they were at the back of an ambulance, its doors opened wide.
“I want you to take a seat,” he said to her, and then, “Get her some oxygen!” That directive went to one of the paramedics.
When Tamika looked around, she realized there were more people than when she’d first arrived. All of them in uniform, hustling around doing their job to contain the situation. This firefighter was trying to keep her calm. “I don’t need oxygen,” she said, shaking her head as he eased her down so she was sitting in the doorway of the ambulance.
“Ma’am, I need you to put this on your face and take deep breaths,” a paramedic directed her.
“But—”
The firefighter shook his head, and the paramedic clamped the face mask over her nose and mouth. “We know there’re people in there. We got somebody in there looking for them. There’s nothing you can do but sit here and wait.”
Because he wasn’t lying, she didn’t try to get up or swing on the paramedic who pressed the mask into her face with unnecessary force. Instead, she took slow and steady breaths, feeling her lungs silently thank her for the effort.
She hadn’t noticed how much smoky air she’d inhaled while standing there watching her parents’ house burn, hadn’t understood the danger she’d put herself in. Because she didn’t matter right now. She hadn’t mattered for the last year. Nothing but finding out who’d set fire to her father’s office had mattered. That was how she’d ended up losing her job, and that was why she was here in the UK tracking down the only leads she had.
“They’re coming out!” she heard somebody yell and she immediately stood, pushing the face mask and the rude paramedic holding it out of her way as she ran toward the house. Two firefighters came from the side doors of the house, each carrying a body in their arms. As tears sprang to Tamika’s eyes, more paramedics ran past her. Two of them were pushing stretchers, another two carrying large bags over their shoulders.
“This is the last time I’m gonna tell you to stay back, lady!” The firefighter who’d been nice to her a few minutes ago was now pissed. Well, Tamika was okay with that—she was angry as hell too. Her parents’ house was on fire and something, a deep dark something that’d been churning in the pit of her stomach for the last year, was telling her this wasn’t a mistake. It was arson.
“Dammit!” Someone else had been in the house.
He sat in his car across the normally quiet road from the country house and watched.
There was only supposed to be one person inside. He’d watched that housekeeper leave. When had she come back and why, dammit, why?
Gritting his teeth, he kept from cursing out loud, even though nobody would hear him if he did. In the forty-five minutes he’d been sitting here, nobody had glanced his way. The thought infuriated and empowered him. They had no clue he was here or that he’d been inside that house just an hour ago. His gloves still smelled like gasoline.
Lifting one to his face, he inhaled deeply, letting the scent seep into his soul. He’d had to move fast this time, because that housekeeper didn’t take long when she went out to shop for food. He knew her schedule well. He also knew that someone else was now staying in the house.
Tamika.
His gaze narrowed on her now, standing on the sidewalk crying the same way her mother had when she’d watched him lift the can of gasoline and start to pour. He’d wanted to stand there and watch the fear fill her face, to pool into her eyes until they bulged out like a cartoon character. He’d wanted her to know she was going to die because of him. But he’d heard footsteps and he’d had to get out quick. Damn housekeeper! She deserved to die too for interfering.
Rage shot through his body in powerful thrusts ju
st like the water bursting from those hoses. They were too late; the water wouldn’t work. Sandra Rayder was going to die, just as she deserved.
The sight of Tamika climbing her big ass into the ambulance ripped him from the glorious thoughts, and his lips peeled back from his teeth. “No,” he mumbled. “No. No. Fucking no!”
He slammed a fist into the dashboard as the doors of the ambulance were closed, but not before he got a glimpse of a woman on the stretcher inside. It was Sandra, no doubt and she must be alive. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have let Tamika get back there with her.
The next sound that came from him was feral, ragged and animalistic, and more familiar to him than his own name. Sandra had to die. If she didn’t, it would be his first mistake, and he didn’t make mistakes. Not now. Not ever.
The ambulance whizzed by his car, and he switched on the ignition, planning to follow and to make sure this ended the way he wanted it to.
Chapter 6
By six that evening, Roark was hungry and cranky. He wasn’t sure if he should’ve
upgraded that to “crankier,” since he’d been in a foul mood for weeks now, but shrugged the thought away and continued to work on the memo he needed to send with his thoughts on last week’s R&D meeting. His mind had been on other things during that meeting, but he’d managed to jot down notes. For the last few hours, he’d been sitting on the loveseat in his room, attempting to blend the notes into a cohesive summary.
The fact that he was still on the first page of the memo meant he wasn’t doing too well. More often than not, Roark found himself looking away from his laptop, letting his gaze fall on one piece of furniture around the room and then another. His mother had selected every piece. Roark remembered being at the Hyde Park house with her one Saturday afternoon and commenting on all the design books and fabrics she’d spread out in the den. Maxine had loved working in the den at Hyde Park because it had a wall full of windows that faced the garden she’d tended to herself. She’d loved the scent and color of different flowers and had thus brought that love to the manor and the clubhouse, as was visible through the large vases of fresh flowers in every room Roark had been in so far. Just like the warm beige, yellow and cream hues in this room spoke of her calm spirit.