by Lisa Jackson
She shook her head. “No, but—”
“Aren’t you?” he demanded again, his voice rough, his expression hard to read.
“I just want to know the truth.”
“Do you?” He arched a dark brow. “And if you find out that Baldwin was Brig and now he’s dead? What then?”
“At least I’ll know.”
“You’re hopeless!” Was there a hint of wistfulness beneath the harshness of his words? “Grasping at straws.”
“The man was clutching a St. Christopher’s medal when he died.”
“So?”
“I—I gave Brig a medal like that on the night that he left.” Inside she was shaking, her heart beginning to pound as she finally admitted what she’d never breathed to another living soul—not even her own husband. He’d suspected that she’d given her virginity to his brother, but he’d never really asked, and they’d both avoided the subject. Past loves were, for the most part, a taboo conversation. Off-limits. “I was with him that night, Chase. He’d been at the fire and swore he didn’t set it. I believed him, talked him into taking Remmington and…and gave him the chain and medal.”
“Jesus.” He hobbled to the bar, reaching for a bottle. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
“I thought I loved him.”
“This just gets better and better,” he mocked. “I suppose he loved you, too.” Chase splashed some liquor into a glass.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think he loved you, but you clung to his memory for all these years? You’re unbelievable, Cassidy. Damned unbelievable.” He took a long swallow, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His face was twisted and pale, as if fighting a losing battle with long-buried feelings.
“Look, I know I made a mistake. I know that you and I have this unwritten rule that we don’t discuss our sex lives before our marriage, but—”
“You slept with him.” The statement was flat, without any condemnation.
“Yes.”
“Christ.” His gaze met hers in the mirror over the bar.
“You suspected.”
“I don’t want to hear the sordid little details, okay?”
“Look,” she said, walking up to him, seeing him stiffen. “All of this has got to end, Chase. Even though I believe T. John has the best intentions, I’m not sure he’ll be able to sort it all out.” She reached for his glass. Lifting it from his fingers she took a sip. Scotch hit the back of her throat and drizzled a burning path to her stomach. “I’m just trying to put it all to rest. For us.”
His eyes darkened a shade. “Us?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Damned impossible,” he said, but his words lacked conviction. He stared at her long and hard, his eyes studying the contours of her face as if seeing her for the first time in years. Reaching forward, he touched her cheek slowly. Tenderly. With fingers that trembled slightly. She leaned into his open hand.
“A lot of people wear religious necklaces—chains, crosses, stars, medals,” he argued. His breath was irregular.
“I know.”
His thumb traced her cheekbone. “You can’t pin your hopes and dreams on a piece of tarnished medal.”
“I don’t.” His hand lowered to rest at the curve of her neck and he scrutinized her so intently, she was certain he would kiss her. Her throat worked. His gaze centered on her mouth. Her heart began to thud in anticipation. It had been so long since he’d looked at her with such yearning. So long…
Throat thick, she turned her face up to him. “We can work this out.”
“Why do you want to?”
“Because…I love you.” She stumbled over the words earning her a cold stare.
“Don’t turn this around, Cassidy. I don’t believe…I can’t believe…oh, hell! I can’t do this anymore!” Abruptly he grabbed the drink from her hands and took a long swallow before throwing his glass in the sink. It crashed against the porcelain, chipping a fixture for which he’d paid thousands of dollars. He didn’t seem to notice—didn’t so much as blink. “I should be done using this damned crutch in one week—two at the latest,” he said, stepping away from her and ignoring what had just transpired.
Cassidy couldn’t let it go. She reached for his arm. “Chase—”
“Don’t, Cass—” he warned, but there was no anger in his voice, only pain.
She bit her lip. “How long are you going to shut me out?”
Shoving his crutch forward, he hobbled to the door. “Leave it alone, Cassidy. For both our sakes. For now, it’s best if we just leave it the hell alone.”
Thirty-eight
Derrick shouldered open the glass doors to the lobby floor of Buchanan Industries. This was it. His empire. He’d grown up being groomed to be heir, being told that one day he’d own it all. It didn’t matter that Rex Buchanan had two daughters—his son would become the next czar.
Except that Chase McKenzie had muscled his way into a spot of power. Not only that, but the old man respected that piece of white trash with his self-earned law degree. Derrick had never planned on having to deal with a brother-in-law who had aspirations of his own. Well, maybe he was lucky. He had only one social-climbing, ass-kissing in-law to deal with. If Angie had lived, he might have had to deal with another.
Angie.
A pain settled deep in his soul when he thought of her, which, thankfully, he did less and less over the years. It didn’t do to dwell on the past. Instead, he concentrated on the present and his birthright—Buchanan Industries.
This main office building was unique, and even though it wasn’t as grand as a big-city skyscraper, it served its purpose well. Built in the late sixties of concrete and steel, the building wasn’t much to look at from the outside, little more than four stories of glass walls reflecting the sun of the late summer afternoon, but inside it was impressive: leather furniture arranged around marble-topped desks; trees in planters that grew a full two stories and were rewarded by sunlight filtering through a skylight high overhead; brass fixtures and a polished brick floor.
Ignoring the no-smoking signs, he lit up as he took the elevator to the fourth floor, where the executive offices were housed. His father’s suite of connecting rooms occupied one end, Derrick’s the other. Derrick had been awarded the same setup as his father when he was appointed senior vice president. His suite of offices was a mirror image of Rex Buchanan’s, with an identical reception area, inner office, executive bath, dressing room and bedroom at his disposal. Wedged between the two suites were the board room on one side of the bank of elevators and Chase’s office on the other. Chase was the only other employee whose office was on the executive floor, and the fact that he was there bothered Derrick a lot. Like a burr under a saddle, Chase’s presence continually irritated Derrick.
Too bad he hadn’t bit it in the fire.
Flicking his cigarette into the sand of an ashtray, Derrick was nearly past Chase’s doorway when he heard his name.
“Derrick.” That raspy drawl he’d learned to hate over the past few weeks. “I was hoping you’d show up today.”
Chase’s voice had that same old mocking ring to it Derrick despised. But then he hated just about everything associated with the McKenzies. Low-life bastards, that’s what they were, and Willie or Buddy, or whatever the hell his name was, wasn’t any better. But now they were blood kin. It made his stomach turn over to think he was related to a retard.
Silently cursing the son of a bitch who was his brother-in-law, he walked into Chase’s domain. Huge desk, neat piles, law degrees mounted on one wall, leather-bound volumes stuffed into a ceiling-high bookcase on the other. A window with a view of the street and potted plants with wide fronds open to the sun. On a corner of the desk was a color portrait of Cassidy—not one of those glamour shots like Felicity had given him last Christmas, just a natural pose of Cassidy astride a horse. “You want something?” Derrick asked, glancing to the corner of the sectional, beside which Chase’s crutch was tuc
ked away.
“Just a chat.”
Warning bells clanged in Derrick’s head. Chase looked like shit. It had been six weeks since the fire, but he still wasn’t healed. His face wasn’t as swollen, but it sure as hell was discolored where the wires in his jaw had been removed. His eyes, however, were clear and blue and mocking. Chase had always been arrogant enough to look down his broken nose at his brother-in-law. Derrick didn’t understand it. He was the rich one—the one born to privilege. Chase was just a hick with a crazy half-breed witch for a mother and a father who’d taken a hike. What right, what goddamned right, did he have not appreciating the fact that Derrick was and always would be his superior?
Chase motioned toward the sofa tucked in a corner and leveled Derrick with that same damning gaze that made him want to cringe. “Have a seat.”
Derrick eased into one of the overstuffed cushions. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting; that Chase was holding something over him. Just as always. Christ, the man who had nearly been blown up was now staring at him from a face that looked like yesterday’s garbage while twiddling a pen in the fingers of one good hand. Despite his injuries, Chase had the goddamned audacity to lord something—Derrick didn’t know what yet—over him.
“I was just going over the books. It took a little while to put them all back together what with the fire and trouble with the backup disks,” Chase told him.
“And?” Derrick asked, waiting for the bomb to drop.
“Looks like we’re a little behind. You’ve taken a few personal draws to the tune of…let’s see here. What? Forty-five, maybe fifty thousand dollars? And that’s just in the past few months.”
Derrick began to sweat. “You know Felicity’s into remodeling. What’s a few grand?” Derrick’s nerves were strung tight, his muscles flexing a little as he crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee.
“Ah, right. The never-ending renovation. She’s mentioned it a couple of times when she came in to work.” Chase was playing with him now, a regular cat-and-mouse game. His smile on that discolored face was hideous. Gave Derrick the creeps. “You know, if the money isn’t in your account, or hasn’t been paid to the contractor, some people might begin to wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Derrick asked, but he knew where this was leading. “Felicity checks everything. You know she does. She works in accounting—”
Chase lifted a hand, as if warding off any more feeble excuses. “Felicity’s your wife. And she doesn’t work every day. Only when the spirit moves her.”
“She’s the daughter of one of the most respected judges in the damned state.”
“And my mother reads cards. Big deal. What old Ira does—whether it’s sitting on the bench or playing golf with his cronies—doesn’t mean a thing when it comes to covering up payoffs.”
“Payoffs?” Derrick wasn’t following, but he could tell from the quiet anger in Chase’s eyes that it was bad.
Chase leaned forward. “To the schmuck who did it.”
“Did what?”
“Set the fire for you.”
“Are you nuts? Why would I set fire to the mill?” Derrick demanded, scared spitless. What the hell did Chase have on him?
“I can think of lots of reasons. Let’s start with insurance money—since that’s the one the Sheriff’s Department is so keen on. You’d end up with over three million in cash if the mill burned down, wouldn’t you?”
“The mill’s worth a lot more as long as it’s running!”
“Yeah, but that might not be forever, what with all the restrictions on federal land, and the depletion of Buchanan forests. And hell, we could sell Buchanan lumber to other milling operations and let them take the risk.”
“As well as the profit,” Derrick blustered.
“It’s the old bird-in-the-hand theory,” Chase said, his lips barely moving.
“No way.”
“Well, what about for revenge?”
“Against my own mill? Shit, you’ve flipped.”
“Against me.” Chase’s eyes were as cold as the North Sea. “You’ve never hidden the fact that you hated my family—Brig and me—that you didn’t like me marrying your sister, that you weren’t crazy about me working for your old man, and now that I’ve got a little power, it would be a whole lot simpler for you if I was out of the picture.”
Derrick leaned on the small of his back and dug in his jacket pocket for a pack of Marlboros. “Hell, Chase, if I wanted to kill you—’specially if I was gonna hire it done, then I wouldn’t bother with burnin’ down the mill. I’d take you out and no one would be the wiser and I’d still have the damned mill.”
“But no cash.”
“You really are a nutcase. Probably runs in the family. Your mom—she still missing?” Derrick flicked his lighter to the end of his cigarette and sucked hard, dragging calming smoke into his lungs. Where was Chase going with all this? He was surprised at the face-to-face approach. Chase was usually the sly, move-when-your-back’s-turned type, a real kiss-ass to your face.
“My mother has nothing to do with us.”
“Doesn’t she? Hell, she’s been screwin’ my old man for years. We end up with the same moron for a brother and you’re married to the only sister I got left. This involves both of us. I just hope the cops find her soon and lock her up.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Chase said, his eyes glinting as if he had one helluva secret. “She’ll be found when she wants to be.”
The way he was staring gave Derrick the creeps. Sometimes he wondered if Chase had inherited Sunny’s E.S.P. or whatever the hell it was. Shit, maybe Willie had it, too. Derrick thought of all the times he’d been cruel to the half-wit and decided that Willie, had he been the least bit clairvoyant, would have gotten out of his way or chanted a curse at him or something. Still, it was sick. This whole incestuous damn family made him sick. And he was part of it. Caught in the middle.
“I think you should put the money back,” Chase was saying. “Otherwise the police might get suspicious.”
“They know what I did with it.”
“Do they? Do they know you were at the mill that night?”
“Me? Man, you’re really reaching. I have an alibi!”
“Your wife, I know.” Chase dropped his pen and clasped his good hand with his bad. “But I saw you at the sawmill. Just about a half hour before the whole thing blew.”
“I wasn’t there,” Derrick said, hoping he sounded convincing as the sweat trickled down his back. He’d been careful; no one had seen him and it was long before the explosion.
“Sure you were. The only reason I didn’t tell our friend T. John Wilson is that I wanted to gather the evidence against you and see you face-to-face first and let you know that, when the police come knocking, I’m the one who sent them.”
Derrick’s lungs seemed to freeze. Even when he took a drag from his cigarette, he didn’t feel any warmth from the smoke, no sense of calm from the nicotine. “You set me up,” he said.
“You set yourself up.”
“No way. I’ll deny it. My alibi is ironclad.”
“Is it?” Chase lifted a dark eyebrow. “Your wife would stand up for you no matter what? Lie for you? Why? Because you treat her so well?”
Derrick’s mouth was suddenly dry. He couldn’t suck in a bit of saliva. Chase was going to screw him over. Big-time. Somehow, some way, the bastard was going to make it look like he was behind the fire! It wasn’t enough that he’d caught him skimming a little off the top of the books, but he was going to make him the fall guy for the blaze as well. “I won’t let you get away with it, McKenzie,” he said, calling up the bravado that had bluffed him out of more fights than he could count. Use the right words and most men backed down, but then, Chase wasn’t most men. “Fuck with me and I’ll see to it that your neck snaps.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“No? Think about it.” Derrick jabbed his cigarette out in the soil of a potted plant. “Maybe you don’t
care about yourself anymore, maybe you don’t give a shit about anything, but Cassidy does and your mother does, and the way I see it, they’re sitting ducks for, say…another attack.”
Chase, despite his injuries, leaped over his desk in an instant. The plant turned over, the picture of Cassidy tumbled to the carpet, pencils and books scattered. Chase didn’t appear to notice. He shoved Derrick against the wall.
“You think about it,” he warned, throwing Derrick’s words back at him, his arm rammed hard against his brother-in-law’s throat. “Think long and hard.” His body, tense and lean, pressed so tight against Derrick’s that Derrick could barely breathe. “Try anything and I swear, Buchanan, you’ll regret it for as long as you live.” Chase’s breath was hot as it fanned Derrick’s face, his eyes blazing with a livid fire. “I promise that whatever pain you think you’ll inflict, I’ll pay it back to you a hundred times over. This is between you and me. No one else.”
“Don’t push it, man.” Derrick reminded himself Chase was still a cripple, still hobbling around on a crutch and seeing a damned physical therapist. Why then did he feel fear—cold and gnawing and deep in the middle of him? Ice seeped into his blood. With all his strength, he pushed Chase out of the way, kicking at his bad leg.
Chase’s face turned white as a sudden jab of pain ripped through his body. Good.
“Don’t ever threaten me, McKenzie. You’re scum and you’d better remember it. I know that your mother’s a half-breed whore and your old man a spineless wimp who left his family. You’ve worked hard, smiled a lot, and licked more asses than I can count to get where you are, but you’re still a poor, white-trash sonuvabitch in an expensive leather jacket that cost more than your mother made all those years of lying on her back and spreading her legs for my old man.”
Chase lunged, his fingers at Derrick’s throat. Derrick kicked his good leg away from him. Chase crashed against the wall and Derrick sidestepped him easily, leaving him writhing. “Pathetic, McKenzie. That’s what you are and all you’ll ever be. Pathetic.” To make his point he spat, a wad of spittle hitting Chase square on his forehead.