I made up the story about your bad daddy, about how he'd ruined me for ever being with a man again. It was easy to make people believe that I'd really had a husband, an awful man who had abused me. I would just think of Blake whenever I spoke of Dekker, Sr., and everybody got the message real clear that I couldn't bear to talk much about my past and I truly didn't want a thing to do with men ever again.
Blake left us alone, after he set us up. I am sure he kept tabs on us. He was that way. He kept track of people, he wanted to know what they were up to. If he's still alive, I'm sure he's still that way.
But he never bothered us. The last news I had of him was a few months after he got you and me our house. He said he was getting married, to that woman from Norman. I never heard from him after that. I certainly didn't go looking for him. And he left us to live our lives.
Dekker, I go to my grave a bad sinner. Sometimes I think of your real mother and father, of that little boy that Blake almost killed. I did read, in the paper, a few days after we took you, that the boy had survived what Blake did to him. But after that, I don't know what happened to him. Blake told me that your father died, some time in that first year after we took you. And that your mother had been locked up in a mental hospital. He laughed over that, the death of his own brother, his brother's wife going crazy. I tried not to listen to him. I did not want to know what had happened to your real family. More sins. Sins piled on top of sins. I am a sinner, through and through, my dearest Dekker. A cowardly sinner who never would face paying for the evil that she did.
And the most terrible sin, the worst sin of all, is that I would do it all over again. Steal you. From your real family. To have what you gave me. To see again your baby smile. To be there when you took your first step, to walk you to school that very first day, to feel your little hand holding so tight to mine.
Right now, I want only to burn this book. To destroy it, so that you will never know what I really was. But I will not destroy it. And someday soon, you will know the truth about me. Coward to the end, though, I will ask you not to read it until I am gone.
And I know that you will do what I ask. You had your hell-raiser days, and I know that lately, things have been real tough for you. But to me, you have always been a good son. The best son. So much more than I ever deserved.
And please. Do not go looking for Blake. Only bad things happen where Blake Bravo is. Go to your real family. In Los Angeles. I think it will be easy to find them. They were rich, as I already mentioned, rich and well-known in southern California. Your father was Harry Bravo. Your mother was Blythe. Your brother, that little boy who almost died trying to save you, was Jonas. They lived in Bel Air. In a beautiful house on a hill. A house they called Angel's Crest.
Go to them, Dekker. Show them this book. Tell them who you are. You are Russell Bravo, the one the newspapers called The Bravo Baby all those years ago.
* * *
Chapter 24
«^»
Dekker remained in Los Angeles until Friday. Jonas rearranged his work schedule as much as possible in order to spend all the time he could with his brother. They stayed up late into the night both Wednesday and Thursday, trying their level best to fill each other in on the last thirty years.
Dekker met Mandy. And he asked where Emma was.
"Emma has decided that I need some time away from her."
"Why?"
"That was my question."
"And?"
"It's a very long story."
"I've got the time – if you're willing to tell it."
So Jonas told Dekker about Blythe's will, about the marriage that had been undertaken, in the first place, for Mandy's sake. "Emma was determined to make me a better man."
"And did she?"
"Damn right. She made me a better man and then decided I couldn't possibly know my own mind when it came to our marriage."
Dekker asked, "So what are you going to do?"
"As of now, I'm in a holding pattern."
"Waiting for…?"
"I don't know. Some new approach to come to me. So far, I can think of two. One entails force, the other calls for begging."
"Not great options."
"That's why I'm in a holding pattern."
Jonas heard all about the Tilly girls, how DeDe, the middle sister, had been a rebellious teenager, but had really settled down the past year or two. Now, she was in love and getting married that very Saturday. He said that thirteen-year-old Niki had caused her share of trouble, too. And that Joleen, the oldest of the three, was the best friend a man could ever have, the solid, dependable sister who'd only made one mistake – falling for a rich SOB who knocked her up and left her flat.
Jonas said, "I think I saw her little boy."
"Sam?"
"That's the name. Looks like a great kid."
"He is. The best."
Dekker wanted to hear about Blythe. Jonas told him. About her breakdown, her recovery, her big heart and her determination to save the world.
"She sounds like a damn saint," Dekker said.
"Far from it – though the tabloids sometimes called her the Angel of Angel's Crest. Did I mention her passion for decorating?"
"No, you left that out."
"She'd no sooner get one room completely redone than she'd start on another one. I think she changed everything in this house at least four times over before I was twenty. It drove me nuts. It seemed as if we spent our lives tripping over painters and paperhangers."
"But you miss her, now she's gone."
"Yes. I do. More than I can tell you."
"I wish … I had known her."
"And she would have given anything, to have found you before she died."
Thursday night, Dekker said he'd decided he would change his last name to Bravo. "What is 'Smith' to me? It's just a name on a forged – or possibly stolen – birth certificate. I'm keeping Dekker, though. I'm just plain too used to it, if you want to know the truth."
Friday afternoon, Jonas and Dekker paid a visit to McAllister, Quinn and Associates. Their meeting with Ambrose McAllister took three and a half hours. They turned over the diamonds, Blake's trophy book and Lorraine's diary. Ambrose would be contacting the authorities. As the family lawyer, it fell to him to explain how, after three decades, The Bravo Baby had come home at last.
There was also the little matter of Russell's inheritance. Blythe had never let go of the hope that someday her younger son might be found. Arrangements had been made for him. Dekker Smith was now a multimillionaire.
"I think I need a beer," Dekker said when they got out to the street again and were ducking into the waiting car.
They went back to Angel's Crest together and raised a couple of tall ones. After that, there was time for a meal, and then Dekker wanted to leave for the airport. He had to get back to Oklahoma City. He'd promised to be at DeDe's wedding the next day. In fact, he'd agreed to give the bride away. Jonas had already tried to talk him into taking one of the Bravo jets. But Dekker insisted that a commercial flight would do just fine.
After they'd eaten, Jonas walked Dekker out to his rental car, which one of the drivers had brought around and parked in front.
"We still have a lot to talk about," Jonas advised. "Come back as soon as you can swing it."
Dekker said that he would.
"And give Marsh a call when you get a chance." Jonas had already provided his brother with their cousin's address and phone number. "It would mean the world to him, to hear from you."
"I'll do that," Dekker promised. "And listen. Tell that wife of yours that your brother says hi. That day at my office, she seemed more determined to get through to me than you were. So I want her to know that I came to my senses."
Jonas nodded, hoping that would be the end of that particular subject.
But Dekker had no intention of stopping there. "I think, as a matter of fact, that you ought to tell her right away."
"Oh, do you?"
"Yeah. I do."
&n
bsp; "Is that some kind of challenge?"
"You bet it is. Go get her, big brother."
"I thought I explained—"
"Forget what you explained. You love the woman, right?"
Jonas fell back a step, then shrugged. "Right."
"And she loves you?"
"That's what she says."
"Do you believe that she loves you?" Dekker asked with great patience.
"Yes. All right. I believe that she loves me."
"Then go get her, damn it. Right now. Tonight. Give her my message. Make her understand that you know your own damn mind and you are in love with her. Beg if you have to." He chuckled. "I'd skip using force, though."
"Get in the car. You'll be late for your flight."
"Do it, big brother."
"All right, damn it. I will."
* * *
Chapter 25
«^»
Twilight had spun out banners of purple across the darkening sky when Jonas reached Emma's North Hollywood duplex. The Santa Anas had died down, though the acrid smell of fire lingered, faint, but recognizable, on the evening air.
Light bled through the bedroom window he strode past on the way to her door. He took that as a sign that she would be home. When he rang the bell, he heard the Yorkies barking. They were pacing around her ankles when she answered.
He glanced down at the dogs and saw that she was wearing polka-dot polish on her toes – red with little dots of white. His gaze moved upward, over long naked legs, red shorts and about a half of a T-shirt – the thing ended underneath her breasts, leaving a smooth expanse of stomach for him to admire.
"Jonas." His name on her lips was a plea.
He looked in her eyes, then. Saw it all. Right there. In her beautiful face. How much she had missed him. How bad it had been for her. And how damn glad she was to find him at her door.
He said, "You were right about a lot things. But you were wrong about leaving me."
She caught her lower lip between her pretty white not-quite-perfect teeth. "Oh, Jonas. I just wanted … I needed … for you to be sure."
"I am sure. Let me in."
She gripped the edge of the door. "Well, I don't know if—"
"Let me in, Emma. Let me in, now."
Her smooth throat moved as she swallowed. For one bleak and awful second, he thought she might refuse.
But then she stepped back. And he stepped forward. He pushed the door shut behind him.
"My brother said to tell you hi."
"You mean…?"
"Yes. He came to see me. He knows now that he's a Bravo."
"Oh, Jonas. I am so glad. It's all worked out, hasn't it? Just perfectly."
"Not quite, it hasn't."
Right then, one of the Yorkies whined in happiness. He knelt and greeted them, then snapped his fingers. They trotted off.
He stood again. "They missed me."
He watched those full breasts move beneath that little bit of shirt as she sucked in a deep breath. "Uh. Yes. It looks like they did. They missed you…"
"Did you miss me, Emma?"
"Oh, Jonas…"
He repeated the question, with tenderness. "Emma. Did you miss me?"
She seemed to be having trouble looking at him. She looked at the wall over his right shoulder, at the ceiling, the curtains across the room and finally down at her feet, where she appeared to be studying those polka-dot toes.
"Uh-uh." He put his finger under her chin and made her meet his eyes. "I already know the answer. But I want to hear you say it, anyway."
"Oh. Well, I…"
He rubbed his thumb over her smooth and only slightly stubborn chin. She trembled. That pleased him.
He offered, "I'll even go first. I missed you. So much. You ripped my heart out, Emma, and you took it with you when you left."
She gave a small cry. "No. Jonas. That wasn't what I wanted."
"It was what you did. Now, did you miss me?"
"Oh, please! You know that I missed you. Every day without you has been—"
"Empty?" he suggested. "Gray? Ugly? Sad?"
"Yes," she said angrily. "That's right. All those words. Exactly right."
"Then why the hell did you leave?"
She put up both hands, then dropped them to her sides again. "Because I really thought it was the right thing. To set you free. Aunt Cass used to say, 'If you love somebody, you have to be able to set them free.'" She must have read the look on his face. She scowled. "Well, all right. Maybe Sting said it first, but Aunt Cass said it, too."
"I don't give a damn who said it. It doesn't apply when the somebody you love has no desire to get away from you."
"But I thought—"
"Don't say it. I know what you thought. And you were wrong."
"But—"
"Emma. In this, you were very, very wrong."
She said nothing. Her sweet mouth was quivering.
He said, "I love you, Emma Lynn Hewitt Bravo. I love you and I miss you and I want you home with me. I want you to put your wedding ring back on and I want to tear up that damn prenuptial agreement I made you sign and I want us to spend the rest of our lives side by side."
She let out another cry.
He elaborated. "If I die, I want you to have everything that was mine. Understand? I want us to have kids, Emma. Nieces and nephews for Mandy to grow up with. I want—"
"Stop." She threw her arms around him. "It's enough. You got me." She rained kisses on his jaw, his neck, his chin. "And no more talk about dyin', Jonas Bravo. I want you alive."
He put his hands on her waist and slid them down, until he had a good grip on her round bottom. He lifted her. She jumped up to him eagerly, wrapping those gorgeous legs around him. He started walking toward the hallway, turning down it once he reached it. "Which one is your bedroom?"
She laughed. "I thought you said we were going home."
"We are. In a few minutes. This won't take long. Which way?"
He went where she pointed. Into a yellow room with a white bed and white curtains on the windows. He laid her down and quickly dispensed with her clothes.
She held out her arms to him.
But before he went into them, he reached in a pocket and took out her wedding ring. He slipped it back on her hand where it belonged.
"Never leave me again."
"Never," she vowed, and lifted her soft lips to receive his kiss.
* * *
Sometimes, in the years to come, Jonas would wake in the night and turn his head and see his wife sleeping at his side. He would remember the dream that had haunted him for thirty years, the dream that had carried the clue that had led him to find his lost brother at last. He would remember the man he had been before he knew Emma, and he would feel pride at what he had become, through her guidance and her wisdom and her love.
And he would know gratitude.
Not only to his wife, but to the women who had shaped her. To a west Texas waitress named Cassandra Hewitt. And to Blythe, who on her deathbed had seen to it that he got his chance with Emma, whether he thought that he wanted that chance or not.
He was a fortunate man. And not because of his billions. Because when he woke in the morning, he did not wake alone. When he climbed the stairs at night, it was with Emma at his side. Her love was his fortune.
He was the richest man alive.
* * * * *
THE BRAVO BILLIONAIRE Page 23