by Mary Stone
At least, she thought she needed to dress the part, until she went into Saks, priced out an outfit, and realized it cost more than her monthly salary. She still had some of the bonus money left over from her last big case, but Kylie was too thrifty to spend it on something she wouldn’t wear a hundred times.
For a moment, she considered wearing the expensive outfit and then returning it, but knowing her luck, she’d probably spill something down the entire front. As she was wandering down the sidewalk, she looked up and saw a Jackie O style dress suit in the window of a thrift store.
Lady Ravenclaw would totally wear that, she told herself, even though she wasn’t sure.
Fifty dollars later, she walked out wearing the dress and a gently used pair of pumps, carrying a giant black bag. Stuffing her old clothes into the bag, she stood in a store window and put her hair up into a severe bun. The dress had a moth hole in the sleeve and wasn’t perfect. And maybe, just maybe, it was a little too pink. But it would have to do.
She was ready to meet her father.
If this was even her father. Maybe it was just a man who shared his name. But something inside her rippled as she crossed the street with the flood of bodies and walked to the imposing revolving door of the D & H Construction building.
Even if her father wasn’t in this building, she felt like she was on the right track. Even if she had to be Kyleen Ravenclaw and sacrifice her dignity again and again, she would find him. This had to be done.
8
At two in the afternoon, Kylie walked into that imposing, all-black building with her chin up high. The receptionist’s desk was massive, as was the security stand near the elevators. The four security guards didn’t look suspicious of her, so that was a good sign.
“Hello, my name is Ravenclaw,” Kylie said, still sporting that ridiculous British accent. Why, when she decided to pretend she was rich, had she also decided to pretend she was from across the pond? Now she was stuck speaking like this, and everyone was giving her double takes. “Kyleen Ravenclaw. I am here to see Mr. Hatfield, if you please.”
She gritted her teeth. She sounded so ridiculous, she wanted to smack herself.
“Yes. Please wait one moment.” The woman lifted a phone to speak into the receiver. When she whispered, “Ms. Ravenclaw is here to see you,” Kylie cringed with embarrassment. Two points to Slytherin.
To keep herself from staring at the receptionist, she walked around the expansive entrance. The entire place sparkled, with its modern chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling Japanese artwork, and a giant glass fountain. Mr. Hatfield was clearly an important man. She strolled back up to the receptionist and peeked over.
The woman’s smile was tight. “Mr. Hatfield’s assistant will be down to fetch you momentarily.”
“Thank you.” Kylie knew she was only minutes from getting booted out, but she pressed her luck anyway. “Pardon me, but is this entire building owned by William Hatfield?”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Mostly. It’s a joint purchase between Mr. Hatfield and Mr. DeRoss. They lease a few floors out to other companies, but it is a D & H property. One of six in the city and there are many more in the boroughs,” she said, seeming pleased with her employer.
Wow. Mr. Hatfield wasn’t just important. He was a bazillionaire.
Was her father a bazillionaire? And growing up, she’d sometimes had to spend Christmases with some lame thing she told her mother she wanted that didn’t cost too much money, and she and her mother ate ramen noodles more times than she could count…why, again? If he was really that rich, and he’d just left them to rot?
Kylie felt her blood grow warm but calmed herself. There was nothing saying this was her father. As she’d learned from her searches, Hatfield was a fairly common name.
“Ms. Ravenclaw?” a voice behind her said.
She turned to find a small man, not much taller than she was. He was about her age, too, despite the misfortune of being nearly completely bald on top, with a very shiny, red pate. “Yes.” She held out her hand like she’d seen in movies, limply, palm down, like a proper English lady should. “And you are…”
He studied her hand curiously, then shook just the tips of her fingers. “Mr. Wiener. Mr. Hatfield’s assistant.”
“Mr. Wiener. Charmed, I’m sure,” Kylie said.
He ran a suspicious eye over her. “You say you had an appointment?”
“I did, but I seem to have misplaced my datebook and can’t recall the precise time. But I was interested in your shopping mall work.”
“Well. We’ve done extensive commercial work such as that, but if you’ll forgive me…Mr. Hatfield might be a little unprepared for your questions. Ordinarily, he prepares quite extensively for his engagements. He didn’t remember having an appointment with you. And I have to say, since I book in all of Mr. Hatfield’s appointments, neither do I.”
“Well,” Kylie said, sweat trickling down her rib cage. “It might be possible I booked in with his…partner.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Mr. DeRoss?”
Kylie nodded, relieved to find out he actually had a partner. “Yes. That name does ring a bell. Perhaps it was with him. But Mr. DeRoss did say that Mr. Hatfield would be present. This project requires his insight. I was very adamant I speak to the great man himself, so do see that he’s available.”
Kylie caught his dubious expression reflected in the shining glass of the elevator doors and told herself to shut up and not say anything else. Even so, Wiener seemed to buy it.
“I will be sure to. Mr. Hatfield is very hands-on,” he said as they stepped into a sparkling, circular glass elevator and the tiny assistant pressed the button for the top floor.
When the doors slid closed, Kylie kept her eyes on the climbing numbers above the door, but she could feel the little assistant’s eyes on her, quietly assessing her. It was probably the accent. She’d been straddling the lines between British, Australian, and snooty American the whole time. How much longer did she have to keep that up?
They climbed to the eighty-second floor of the building, and Mr. Wiener stepped aside to let her pass through the open doors. “To your right. Double doors. Feel free to go right in. Mr. Hatfield is waiting for you.”
Kylie’s knees wobbled as she looked at the doors. She managed one step, then another, wondering what the man on the other side would look like, be like. Was he her father? The man who had wooed her mother? Held her when she was a baby? Left them both without any explanation?
She froze. For a second, she had the strangest urge to run away, straight back to Asheville and Linc, and never return.
As she stood there with her feet planted, the door opened, and a tall, slim man in a three-piece suit stepped out.
And Kylie knew it at once.
The hair was shorter, grayer. The skin sagged from his face, giving him slight jowls, and a squarer face. He had a gray goatee. But it was him.
It was the man in the picture on her mother’s refrigerator. Adam Hatfield. Her father.
She took a deep breath as he neared her, her legs still unable to move. He extended his hand and smiled broadly. “Ms. Ravenclaw?” he said in a voice much more gravelly than she’d expected in the millions of times she’d imagined him speaking to her.
“Yes,” she said, her British accent long since forgotten.
He waved her on. “Fantastic to meet you. I hope you weren’t waiting long. Come on inside. My office will be much more comfortable,” he said, bringing her into a large space with a massive wood desk silhouetted against a series of floor-to-ceiling windows.
She followed him, stumbling a little in her too-tight shoes as he closed the door. She sat down in the chair across from his, just as he lowered himself into a tufted leather executive chair. He looked down at a piece of paper on his desk, where a few words had been scrawled. “There’s a brownstone you want to transform into a shopping mall? Where is this located?”
Brownstone? What the hell was he talking about? Didn’t he recog
nize her? His own daughter?
Quickly, the story flooded her. “Uh. Yes. In…” She couldn’t think.
He leaned forward, smiling in such an accommodating way, and all she could do was think that this was the man who had left her and her mother, without any excuse.
She could bear it no longer. Linc had said she had no patience, and he was right, because the second she thought of her poor mother, she exploded, her voice dry and full of accusation. “I’m here about Rhonda.” She strained to remember her maiden name. “Rhonda Whitman.”
He stared at her, a smile frozen on his square face. He looked younger than her mother, mid-forties, maybe. Trim and tanned and handsome too. He clearly hadn’t had any of the worries her mother had. “Rhonda Whitman?” he asked, his brow wrinkling.
“My mother,” she said, her voice clipped and full of annoyance. “Your wife.”
“I’m sorry. Your…” He stopped, and Kylie could pinpoint the exact moment when realization crept in, because his face turned pale, and his eyes widened. “And you are…”
“Kylie,” she spat out. “Kylie Hatfield. Her daughter. Your daughter.”
His eyes slipped over the shiny surface of his desk. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Finally, he laced them together and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Why are you here?”
With that one question, any hopes Kylie had for a happy reunion disappeared.
She frowned at him. “Because you’re my father. Isn’t that a good enough reason? What, you really expected to just walk out and never hear from us again, after the way you left things? You didn’t think I’d come looking for you? That I’d have questions?”
He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again, he looked at her like she was invading his personal space. His voice was just as clipped as Kylie’s had been. “You’ve made a mistake, my dear. I’m sorry, but—”
“Why did you leave us?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his eyes darting to the door. The man looked terrified. “You need to leave.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper as he hissed, “I’m serious. You need to leave. You’re not safe. Leave New York now.” His voice went loud again as he pushed to his feet. “Please don’t—”
The door flew open, and a gorgeous blonde woman barreled in, carrying along the scent of an entire rose garden with her. She carried herself like an older, more sophisticated woman, but her body was tight and toned, and whatever wrinkles usually came with age were nonexistent, so Kylie had trouble placing her true age.
She had very short, stylish platinum hair and was dressed head-to-toe in red. With five-inch platform heels, she looked like a real NYC fashionista, not a fake one, like Kylie so desperately felt like right then.
“Oh, Will, I missed you at breakfast, and what’s this about having an appointment at two? You told me you were free—” She stopped and looked at Kylie, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh, dear. You’re already here. And what is the meaning of this, taking over my hubby’s free time so that his wife can’t even come in and visit with him?”
She batted some thickly mascaraed eyelashes at Kylie. The woman was clearly trying to be cute, smiling sweetly, but as she stared at Kylie, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
And had she just said “hubby?”
Kylie just stared, every cell in her body frozen in place. “Uh…”
William Hatfield stood up and strode to the woman, taking her hand and stroking it gently. He looked calm, but his voice was anything but. “Yes, but we’ll only be a minute. This very important meeting came up, and I couldn’t get out of it…with Miss…” he looked at Kylie pleadingly, silently begging her to keep up appearances, “Ravenclaw.”
Dear? Hubby? The dots connect with a crash, and Kylie felt her face grow hot. It couldn’t be…it sounded like…
Kylie had been knocked speechless by the mere thought. Was her father married to this woman? Had he dumped her mother for this piece of plastic garbage? How could that be? He and her mother never officially divorced. Or had they?
She was so very, very confused.
The woman eyed her down to her toes and back. “Ravenclaw?” she asked, doubt dripping from the word. No doubt she could see every false, knock-off item in her wardrobe for what they really were. “And what do you do, Miss Ravenclaw?”
Kylie lifted her chin. “I’m building a shopping mall.” It was on the tip of her tongue to scream out her name.
She should have. It would be immensely satisfying to blow the whole thing in front of his sham of a wife. The more she turned it over, the angrier it made her. It’d been a mistake, he’d said in his letter to Rhonda. So why was marrying this blonde bimbo not a mistake? What, in his eyes, made her better wife material than Rhonda? And according to the law, wasn’t this illegal? She wanted to scream that at him, but all she could do was stare.
Her father, who had completely written them off, moved on, and was now married to…someone else. Even though he was still married to her mother. The last Kylie’d checked, that was called bigamy, a federal offense. So her dad, in addition to being an all-around awful guy who couldn’t live up to his promises, hadn’t reached out to his firstborn a single time while she was growing up…was also a bigamist?
She’d come here expecting disappointment. After all, he’d left them, and never sought them out in all this time. But she didn’t know she’d learn her father was the worst scum of the earth that ever lived.
What an asshole. What a fucking asshole.
“Oh, a shopping mall?” the woman said with dramatic flair, as if she didn’t believe a single word Kylie was saying. She wrapped an arm tighter around him, kissed him on the cheek, and gave Kylie a superior glare. “So sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t know that this was such an important meeting. You know how I like to stop in during your free time and catch up. But shopping malls must be built. If you’d like me to—”
Kylie shot to her feet. The woman was definitely on to her. And the more she spoke, the older Kylie placed her. Now, she thought that the woman was at least fifty. Hefting her purse onto her shoulder, she mumbled, “No. We’re all done. Don’t let me keep you.”
So very, very don’t.
Coming here to find him was the biggest mistake Kylie had ever made in her life.
She didn’t even look at her father, or at the woman, who she practically felt clawing a suspicious eye over her. Kylie simply walked to the door, opened it, and went out. She didn’t even have the heart to slam the door.
9
William Hatfield had had a feeling, when he woke up this morning, that today was going to be a doozy. He didn’t like surprises, so he did his best to keep a strict schedule: gym in the morning, breakfast at six, in the office by seven, desk work in the morning and meetings in the afternoon.
Wiener, his assistant, understood he liked to have everything planned to a tee, which allowed for fewer unexpected wrenches to be thrown into the mix. It worked well that way, letting very few surprises intercede and tear apart the entire day.
But when his penthouse bedroom on the Upper West Side lost power and his alarm clock didn’t sound on time, forcing him to get up at five-thirty instead of five, everything had been thrown off. He’d had a rushed workout and hadn’t been able to attend yoga, missed breakfast with Christina, and ended up traveling to his office right in the middle of rush hour.
Definitely a doozy.
And now he felt like a wrench had hit him square in the head.
He’d already known it wouldn’t be an ordinary day. He had a lot of meetings scheduled, so he hadn’t minded adding one more to his afternoon. A Ms. Kyleen Ravenclaw.
Kyleen Ravenclaw. He snorted at the ridiculous name. He should’ve known.
Although, how could he? He’d walked out on them almost a quarter of a century ago, making a clean break and wiping his hands of them. He’d thought that by now, they would’ve forgotten him entirely.
Though, t
ruth be told, he hadn’t done a good job of forgetting pretty little Rhonda Whitman.
She was the prettiest waitress at the Brooklyn diner. She looked so cute in that candy-cane striped waitress dress, with her long legs and her sunshine-blonde hair spilling down her back. Every one of her male customers tried to flirt with her, but she didn’t give them the time of day. She’d go along, delivering their breakfasts with a bright smile all while putting the men in their place if they ever tried to get too personal.
William had probably been the only one of her regular customers she’d let try his luck. And it hadn’t been easy. He’d been going in there for months before she’d finally scribbled her phone number down on one of his checks.
He thought of sweet, beautiful Rhonda now, as his wife blabbered on about things that didn’t concern him. Though he kept Christina in the lap of luxury in their penthouse overlooking Central Park, she always had to drop by his office to keep tabs on him.
Missing breakfast had been a no-no—it hadn’t allowed her to get her fill of what he was up to. Oh, she kept a close leash on him. The other wives shopped to their hearts’ content during the day, went for spa appointments and fitness classes, and ate expensive, long lunches with too many glasses of wine.
Christina did all those things, but she also seemed intent on coming to visit him in his office at least three or four times a week. She didn’t make appointments; she just dropped in unexpectedly, as if she was hoping to catch him in the middle of something.
“I said that cream is a more sophisticated shade than vanilla, but I wanted to run it by you,” she said, lounging in the chair and cocking a thin, manicured eyebrow in his direction.
“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. Christina often used the pretense of “running it by him” to make him feel like he had some control in their relationship, but she always went and did her own thing. He wasn’t sure what she was talking about now—probably some renovation project that he could care less about. He’d been thinking of that day, nearly twenty-five years ago, when he’d left their apartment for good.