Out of Time

by Monica McCarty

  Normally she wouldn’t encourage someone to use a cell phone while driving, but the two-lane highway they were on was deserted—and breaking cell phone laws was the least of their problems.

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “She won’t care.”

  He must have agreed because he made the call. Natalie tried to keep up with his half of the conversation, but it was clear that Colt hadn’t passed on Scott’s message. It was also clear that Kate wouldn’t say why, and Scott’s “What the hell did he do to you?” summed up what he assumed happened.

  It was also clear that Kate wasn’t talking. She shut down his protective-brother instincts so fast Natalie wished she could have heard how she’d done it. With guys like Scott who were used to giving orders and having them followed, that was a useful tool to have in the toolbox.

  Natalie wasn’t exactly pretending not to listen to his conversation, but her ears really perked up when—after explaining what had happened and assuring Kate that he was fine (no, his shoulder hadn’t opened up again)—he told her that he needed a place to hole up for a while.

  Hole up? Startled, Natalie’s gaze shot over to him. But he didn’t notice. He was concentrating on the road and on his sister. Whatever Kate’s response was to his request, it was clear he didn’t like it. His expression got that stony look that Natalie hated, and his flexed jaw was about as yielding as El Capitan.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a safe house,” he said.

  Safe house? He wasn’t taking her in?

  There was a long silence on his end. Kate obviously had a lot to say. It must have been effective. By the end of the conversation, Scott had agreed to whatever she’d suggested even though he didn’t look happy about it. Swallowing nails about summed up his expression.

  Natalie hoped she had a chance to meet Kate at some point; she could obviously teach Natalie a few things.

  “Fine,” he said. “You win, but it won’t change anything.”

  Another long silence while Kate talked.

  “Yeah, I know.” He glanced over at Natalie, who was pretending not to be hanging on every word. “I’ve heard it before. But for the record so are you.” Natalie suspected he was talking about being stubborn—which she agreed with. “Fix this thing with Colt or don’t, but don’t let him hurt you again. I have enough problems right now without a homicide charge—even if it is justifiable.”

  Natalie waited a few minutes after he hung up to ask if Kate was all right.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “She sounded pretty wrung out.”

  “Are she and her ex trying to patch things up?”

  Scott shrugged. “Some things are beyond patching.”

  Natalie sucked in her breath. Was he talking about them?

  As there were no pointed looks, he didn’t seem to be. She relaxed—a little. “I thought you were taking me in.”

  He shot her a chastising look as if she should know better. “I won’t risk it until we figure out what is going on.”

  Natalie couldn’t believe he would do this for her. She tried to breathe evenly, but the sudden swelling in her chest had created a logjam for air. “Where are we going?”

  His mouth tightened again, and she almost regretted asking. “Fort Knox until Kate can find someplace else.”

  From his tone, she knew that was all he was going to say on the subject. “Get some sleep, Nat.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  But a few minutes later, her eyes closed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Natalie woke as Scott was pulling out of the drive-through and back onto the highway. She was surprised that it was light out, and after a quick glance at the clock, even more surprised to see that it was almost eight in the morning. So much for not being tired.

  But it was the smell emanating from the fast-food bag that was her biggest surprise.

  “Doughnuts?” she said with only slightly exaggerated shock. “Surely fried rings of dough dipped in sugar aren’t part of the Scott Taylor dietary regime. What were you saying about filling your body with poison?”

  He gave her a forbidding SEAL-officer frown. “They have surprisingly good coffee.” She let out a sound that showed how much she believed that. “And I got them for you.”

  “Perfect,” she said, taking the bag and digging in. “These are delicious.”

  He held out about a minute, which was pretty good given that they smelled like ambrosia (they tasted even better) and that she’d already eaten two in quick succession.

  “Mostly for you.” He grabbed the bag from her before she could take another. “But I wouldn’t want you to get sick eating all that crap.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” she said wryly, as he practically inhaled the last two.

  He had sugar on the edge of his top lip when he smiled back at her. For a moment all she could think about was leaning over and kissing—licking—it off. She might have made a movement toward him before she collected herself.

  She tried to cover her embarrassment. “It’s nice to know you aren’t perfect and that Mr. Discipline has a few weaknesses.”

  His mouth quirked. “Maybe one or two,” he conceded with a suggestive look at her that hinted at what the second might be. “But I’m pretty perfect otherwise.”

  She laughed and slugged him in the arm. It was like punching steel. She was the one who said “ow.” “You are horrible,” she added, rubbing her sore hand. “And arrogant.”

  He grinned and for a moment Natalie forgot where they were and that what had happened had changed everything between them.

  It felt like old times, and it was . . . wonderful.

  She finished off the last doughnut and sipped the coffee he’d ordered for her.

  “I’m afraid no almond milk,” he apologized teasingly; he thought any order other than black was ridiculous for coffee. “With the baby, I wasn’t sure whether caffeine was all right so I got decaf.”

  She felt her cheeks heat. It felt strange talking about the baby with him. Strange, but also nice. “That was thoughtful. Thanks. This is perfect.”

  She had been avoiding caffeine.

  He nodded.

  Figuring the subject might be strange for him, too, she asked, “How much longer before we arrive?”

  “A few hours. We should be there by lunchtime. It wouldn’t have taken this long, but I wanted to avoid the interstates.”

  Wherever “there” was, it was clear he still wasn’t going to tell her.

  “You must be exhausted,” she said.

  She knew he didn’t sleep much, but driving all night like that couldn’t have been easy.

  “I’m fine. I’m used to it.”

  She bit her lip. She should have stayed awake to keep him company. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

  “You needed it,” he said firmly. “And if I was in any danger of falling asleep I would have woken you up.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Besides, I was able to listen to some good music.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you maligning my taste in music?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Scott!”

  He grinned unrepentantly. “The angry-chick music isn’t so bad though.”

  She lifted one brow with a smirk. “I’m glad you like it as I’m sure you hear it a lot. And ‘angry-chick music’ is demeaning.”

  He just laughed.

  The next few hours flew by so quickly that when Scott pulled off the highway, she was shocked to realize that it was almost noon and they must be near their destination.

  They’d entered Virginia a while back and had been on the highway headed toward Fredericksburg. But he’d exited before that in a town called Warrenton.

  “Is this it?” she asked. It seemed to be a charmin
g old small town, which summed up a lot of this part of the country. The Old World, colonial American quaint towns surrounded by lush, verdant countryside. It was hard to believe DC was only an hour or two away, depending on traffic.

  They drove through town—which didn’t take long—and turned onto a single-lane country road that had a scattering of houses along with trees and grassy fields on each side.

  As the countryside became more rural, fencing and short stone walls became the boundaries, and the space between houses started to spread out and increase in distance from the road. The houses also started to become more impressive in stature.

  Eventually Scott turned left into what looked like the drive of a private estate. There was an iron gate, a gatehouse, and a stone wall with square pillars and flower beds. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a signpost with WELCOME TO SOMETHINGBURG, HOME OF INSERT-SOME-IMPORTANT-HISTORICAL/POLITICAL-FIGURE.”

  The gate was opened by an older man who’d come out of the house. Natalie assumed they would pull into the gravel courtyard, but Scott drove past the gatehouse and continued on what must have been the longest driveway she’d ever been on.

  If something almost a mile long could be considered a driveway.

  They drove under an enormous and very Southern-looking canopy of trees before the house came into view.

  Oh my God! Her mouth dropped. “House” didn’t cover it by half. The two-story gray stone building sitting atop a rise seemed to be the width of a football field. It reminded her of the English country estates that she’d seen in the movies.

  She looked around for a lake just in case Mr. Darcy, wearing a wet shirt, decided to come walking out of it.

  Darcy. Suddenly she gasped and looked at her romantic fantasy man. “This isn’t yours, is it? I thought the compound was in upstate New York?”

  He waited until he pulled the car up to another stone gate, this a good ten feet tall that seemed to encircle the property—she understood the “Fort Knox” reference now—before turning to her. “No, it’s not mine, and I told you it’s a country house.”

  “What’s this?” she teased. “Just so I can get the verbiage right.”

  He threw her a not-amused look. “An estate.”

  “I’d say,” she murmured as he pushed the button on the intercom.

  An instant later the gate opened. Whoever’s “estate” this was, they were obviously expecting them.

  Natalie had been so blown away by the house she hadn’t noticed the guy in a suit with an earpiece patrolling the vast parkland that surrounded the main house.

  The car rolled up the flagstone circular driveway and stopped before the entrance. She wasn’t familiar enough with architecture to identify the style, but it looked old, big, and English. Flat stone front, lots of windows, and a triangular-shaped white wooden pediment entry with columns. Maybe Regency?

  She was back to Darcy again.

  Scott parked and Natalie noticed another secret service–looking guy on the opposite side of the house as she pulled her bag out of the trunk. Whoever lived here was obviously concerned with security. “Do you have mob ties I don’t know about?”

  Scott gave her a glare. “Very funny.”

  She probably shouldn’t have teased him when he was so obviously tense, but this place was out of control. Who lived like this? Did Scott? It was awe-inspiring and off-putting at the same time. It was one thing to know the man you’d been dating was wealthy and another to realize you might have no concept of what that kind of wealth might mean.

  She let Scott lead her up the handful of stairs. Before he had a chance to knock the door was opened.

  At first she thought the distinguished older man who stood there would be the butler. Surely a place of this size had one? But if it did, he wasn’t the one to open the door.

  She was barely able to control her gasp. She turned to Scott in disbelief, but he was too busy staring at the man before them.

  The men were staring at each other, actually, and Natalie felt as if she’d disappeared. Scott had that swallowed-nails expression on his face while the other man’s gaze was with something more like desperation. He was trying to hide it, but it was there in the glassy shine of his weary, sagging eyes.

  The silence went on a few moments too long. Seeming to recall his duties, the older man said, “Lieutenant Commander Taylor, I’m glad you called.” Natalie knew what an understatement that must be. He turned to her and held out his hand—something he hadn’t done with Scott. Probably because he sensed it would be rejected. “I’m Tom Greythorn.”

  Introductions weren’t necessary, and not just because she recognized him from the news. Though he was clearly very ill, there was also enough of a resemblance for her to realize that he must be Kate’s father and Scott’s biological father.

  She would have shot Scott another look—he’d been holding out on her big-time—but his father was watching. “Natalie Andersson,” she said, taking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Senator.”

  Senator Tom Greythorn had had a long and distinguished political career in Congress. She also recalled that he’d also had some kind of connection to the CIA, which perhaps explained the security and Kate’s chosen profession. Scott had always referred to Kate by her married name so Natalie had never made the connection.

  The older man shook his head. “I’m retired from all that. Please just call me Tom.”

  She nodded. As it seemed Scott was just going to stand there and stew silently, she took it upon herself to say, “Thank you so much for, uh, having us.”

  House party it was not, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  She was about to elbow Scott, but he mumbled something like “yeah, thanks.”

  Natalie understood his reticence—if not outright rudeness—but it didn’t make the situation any more comfortable.

  What did you say to the man who she’d wager Scott had no intention of ever meeting but whom he must now be indebted to?

  It took a moment for Natalie to process that. Scott had done this for her. The fact that he’d been willing to put aside his anger and resentment toward his biological father to keep her safe had to mean something.

  Could he possibly be—she almost didn’t want to put it into words—starting to forgive her?

  The former senator was trying to hide his disappointment at Scott’s continued stoniness, and something about the longing in his expression broke her heart.

  For both their sakes, Scott needed to talk to him before they left. It was clear they might not have another chance. Though the senator stood tall and was dressed impeccably, he was barely recognizable from the powerful, distinguished man she remembered from TV.

  With forced lightheartedness, the former senator said, “I will have Dalton show you to your room.” The butler she’d expected suddenly appeared out of nowhere behind her. “You must be tired. Dinner is at six, or if you would prefer, food can be sent up. Just let Dalton know.”

  Natalie didn’t need to turn to feel his eyes on them as Dalton—who was about fifty and not, to her disappointment, wearing tails but khakis and a tailored button-down—led them up the grand flight of stairs.

  It was clear Scott didn’t want to talk and she knew this would not be the time to push him. She’d let him rest first.

  After a long walk down the hall, she was shown into the first of two connecting rooms. From the pink tones of the room, she suspected it was the female half of a master suite. It was enormous and beautiful, furnished comfortably but tastefully with a mix of antiques and modern pieces that somehow all went together. The large windows looked out on the back of the house, which she could see contained an enormous pool and guest quarters.

  She would explore more later, but for now she didn’t know what she was more excited to see: the big fluffy bed or the enormous white marble wading pool–sized tub in the bathroom.


  When she slipped under the warm bubbly water about fifteen minutes later, she knew. The tub. She sighed and closed her eyes. Definitely the tub.

  * * *

  • • •

  Scott wasn’t just edgy, he was downright agitated. The long, hot shower had helped, but as soon as he’d lain down on the bed to try to sleep his mind had raced in all kinds of directions.

  He shouldn’t have come here. He didn’t want to feel sorry for the bastard who’d cuckolded his father.

  Seeing the senator face-to-face had been a shock. Not because Scott could see the resemblance. He’d seen that from photos—it was one of the reasons he’d been pretty sure he and Kate were related even before the test results came back.

  No, the shock had come from realizing that Kate hadn’t been exaggerating about the old man’s health. Thomas Greythorn III was a shadow of the imposing figure Scott had seen for so many years on the news and in the papers. It was as if all the lifeblood and vitality had been sucked out of him.

  Greythorn had once been Scott’s size and build, but he had to be three inches shorter and forty pounds lighter now. “Emaciated” was putting it lightly. More alarming than the shrunken appearance, however, was his skin tone, which was so sallow it looked almost green. His once-thick head of white hair was now thin and military buzz-cut short—probably due to his treatments. Scott knew he was in his early sixties, but he looked decades older.

  The former senator had been diagnosed with prostate cancer two years ago. He was now in the late stages of the disease, which had metastasized to the bones. He’d been through the gamut of treatment from surgery to immunotherapy, to hormone therapy and chemo, but nothing had worked. Now the cancer was impacting his spinal cord, confining him to bed most of the time. Kate mentioned that he’d been trying a new drug that was supposed to be promising, but it just seemed to be making him weaker and more ill.

  It was one thing to confront an older, healthier version of yourself like Scott, with anger and resentment, had seen on TV, and another to confront a man with one foot in the grave who’d obviously used a good portion of his remaining strength to get out of bed to greet the son who’d refused to meet him for over three years.