by Meg Tilly
She attempted to return his smile, still crying though. Tears, water from the pool streaming down her trembling body. He would have loved to dally, sample all that was on offer, but he was operating on a time crunch now. “Please don’t tell. Please . . .”
“Life is full of difficult choices,” he murmured.
“If there is anything I can do”—her tongue darted out in an attempt to moisten lips that had gone dry as dust—“to help make the decision easier, just say the word.” Her hands were still in the air. She was trying so hard not to freak out, it was really quite luscious.
Too bad she had to die.
38
“You aren’t hungry?” Mick’s voice cut through Sarah’s tangled thoughts. She glanced at the slice of avocado toast in her hand. It was perfectly fine. The avocado was soft and silky. The crushed heirloom tomato confit added a nice touch of acid and color, so why was she having such a difficult time getting it down?
“It’s delicious,” she replied, taking another bite even though her stomach was in knots.
They were eating breakfast in the Garden at the Four Seasons on East Fifty-Seventh Street. When they were finished, they would head over to 450 Lexington. Sarah forced herself to chew and swallow. She needed to eat, to fortify herself, to ensure that she fed her body and mind so she was battle ready and sharp. She took another bite, chewed. Reached for her glass of fresh-pressed orange juice to help wash it down. “Although, when one considers that they are charging thirty-two dollars, and that doesn’t include tax and tip.” She looked at the piece of avocado-smeared toast on her plate. “If you cost out the ingredients . . .”
“I can afford it.”
“Still. Doesn’t make it right.” Sarah was aware of her mouth opening and shutting, of inconsequential words coming out. Words that had nothing to do with the anxiety she was experiencing internally. After four years, she was going to be seeing one of her father’s oldest friends, a man whom she had considered an uncle. She was going to look Phillip Clarke in the face, confront him with the facts, and find out whether or not he had betrayed her and, by proxy, her father. “I never noticed the price of things before going on the run. Wouldn’t have thought twice about ordering something like this and then leaving the majority of the food on my plate.” She made herself take another bite.
“You’re trying to muscle that down, aren’t you?”
“So?”
“And you don’t want to leave it because of the cost.”
“Can’t take it to go. The avocado would go brown.”
“I see,” Mick said gravely. He tipped his head toward the other slice still on her plate. “You want me to eat that.”
“Would you?”
Mick laughed. “Happy to oblige.” He reached over and snagged the remaining piece of toast and took a bite, still chuckling. “You’re such a weirdo. You look so relieved.”
“I owe you.”
“I’ll add it to your tally.” A minute later the avocado toast had disappeared down his gullet. He glanced at his watch, took another slug of coffee, glanced at the check, and peeled a few bills from his wallet. “You ready?”
Sarah’s stomach lurched, but she rose to her feet, keeping her face serene. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
* * *
* * *
They stepped out of the revolving door, past the doorman, and onto the bustling sidewalks of New York City, a mass of humanity streaming past in both directions, everyone seeming to have somewhere to go. Mick paused, taking it in. “Blindfolded, I’d still know I was in New York.”
“The noise?”
Mick shook his head. “The smell.” His cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
“Anything important?”
“Another message from Paul.” He turned the phone toward her so she could see the screen. IMPORTANT, YOU SON OF A BITCH. ANSWER THE GODDAMNED PHONE! “Such drama.” Mick slid the phone back in his pocket.
“You aren’t going to call?”
He shrugged. “Later. Everything’s always ‘important’ with Peterson. He gets especially wound up when we’ve got a new movie coming out. Loses sleep combing through the preview feedback forms, frets over the various projected box office estimates. Shits a brick at the slightest provocation. I’ll give him a couple of hours to sort it out, calm down, and then I’ll check in.”
“Okay. And for the record, New York doesn’t stink.”
“That’s not what I meant. There’s something about the quality, the texture, and taste of the air here that is unlike anywhere else in the world. Breathe deep. Smell that? It’s the scent of cultures colliding, the crush of humanity, humidity, pavement, automobiles, salted pretzels, warm toffee nuts, big dreams and broken ones. The city has got this unmistakable unique pulse that’s constantly thrumming.” He glanced up the road at the oncoming traffic. “Fewer taxis though. Used to be way more of them when I first visited. A sea of yellow cabs as far as the eye could see.” He moved toward the curb. Sarah snagged the crook of his arm.
“Would you mind if we walk? It’s not too far, and I think moving would help dissipate my nerves.” She wasn’t looking at him. However, she could feel his gaze scanning her face.
“Sure. Lead the way.”
Sarah kept her hand tucked in the crook of his arm. The better to steer him with, she told herself, knowing it was a lie. The human contact, the strength she could feel under the fabric of his clothes, comforted and settled her. Made her feel safe. She wanted to bury her face in his chest and breathe in the spicy, clean male scent of him. She wanted to slide her hands under that fitted charcoal-gray T-shirt and imprint the texture and warmth, the contours onto her fingertips, her palms. “We’ll take Lexington,” she said, proud of how even-keeled her voice sounded. She gave his arm a little “we’re just pals; nothing to see here” pat for good measure as they headed up the road.
“Hey,” he complained, a grumpy bemusement in his eyes. “I’m not a dog.”
No kidding, she thought, stifling a snort. You are a hot-blooded, sexy man who is driving me wild with lust. “Note to self,” she said as they strode along the pavement at a good clip. “Mick Talford is not a dog.” She smiled cheerily up at him. “Thanks for the clarification. Kind of hard to tell.” She waved her hand in his direction. “What with your shaggy hair and the lolling tongue.”
“Shut up and walk,” he growled.
“Ooh. Tough guy.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. The man had distracted her from the jangly nerves that had been plaguing her all morning, bless his heart. Sarah felt she could face anything striding alongside this man, enjoying the sunshine on her face.
39
Mick had kept the conversation trotting along as they wended their way through the packed crowds, but once they stepped into the elevator, Sarah had fallen silent. By the time the button for the twenty-eighth floor lit, her chin was up, her shoulders were back, and her face was as serene as still water. However, her grip had tightened fractionally on his forearm. He didn’t turn, could see her blurry reflection in the polished metal elevator door. Mick placed his hand over hers, just for a second, a fleeting contact to say, “I’m here. You aren’t alone,” before the elevator doors opened.
“Thanks,” she whispered, facing forward as well.
The elevator pinged, the doors glided apart, and Sarah released her grip on his arm and sailed forth, spine erect, class, breeding, and grit emanating from every fiber of her being. There wasn’t even a second of hesitation. Sarah knew exactly where she was going, and Mick followed, close enough to be backup, not so close as to draw attention or cramp her style. She strode past a corridor of occupied cubicles and desks. Mick was aware of heads turning, a building buzz of whispers, but Sarah didn’t look right or left. It was almost as if she were unaware of the furor she was creating. However, Mick could see the slight ten
sion in her jaw, the faint flush of color staining the tips of her delicate ears. As Sarah approached a set of large steel-gray doors at the end of the corridor, she glanced to the side at the fresh-faced young woman who sat at a desk to the left of the doors.
The woman looked up from her keyboard and smiled politely. “Hello. May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m a client of Mr. Clarke. Sarah Rainsford. I’ve lost my ID. Mr. Clarke has copies of all my pertinent papers: driver’s license, passport, birth certificate, et cetera. If you could please gather them for me while I’m meeting with Mr. Clarke, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“Certainly.” The young woman was skimming through the day calendar on her desk. “Sarah Rainsford, you said? I’m new here.” She clicked open a corresponding calendar on her computer and scanned it. “Don’t have all the client names down yet.” She lifted her gaze from the screen and shook her head, a helpful smile on her face. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find you on his schedule. Perhaps you got the day wrong?”
Sarah hesitated for a split second. If Mick had blinked, he would have missed it. “Nope,” Sarah said decisively. “Our meeting was scheduled for now. Not to worry.” She briskly stepped past the young woman, grasped the door handle, and swung the door open. “I’ll announce myself.”
“Please hold Mr. Clarke’s calls,” Mick instructed to the startled secretary. He felt his cell phone buzzing in his pocket again as he followed Sarah into the large corner office. Mick shut the door behind him with a thunk and locked it for good measure. He could hear the scramble of the secretary’s heels as she rounded her desk. Could feel the rattle of the metal door handle as she frantically tried to get it to open.
“Mr. Clarke,” she called. “I’m sorry. I tried to stop them. Do you need me to call security?”
There was a shriveled old man with sparse strands of hair carefully arranged over his balding pate. He appeared to be in his early seventies and was seated behind the massive polished mahogany desk. His head had snapped up from the paperwork at the commotion. Irritation vibrated through his frail frame. “For God’s sake,” he barked at his secretary, who could be seen gesticulating frenetically through one of the glass panels flanking the door. “All I asked is that you man the goddamned desk.” His annoyed gaze traveled from the glass panel to his unwanted visitors. His jaw dropped, and his rheumy eyes widened. “Sarah . . . ?” The old man rose shakily to his feet, and he clutched the desk for support. Dazed. “Is that you?”
* * *
* * *
Sarah drew to a halt in front of her lawyer’s desk. Her heart felt like a trapped bird in her chest. “Mr. Clarke.” She gave a curt nod. Sarah could hear the new assistant secretary’s shrill voice on the other side of the door. Was grateful for Mick’s strong, solid presence standing sentry beside it, making certain she was not disturbed. She watched her old lawyer jab the intercom button. “I’m fine, Hannah,” he said into the speaker. “Please carry on with your work.” His eyes didn’t stray from Sarah’s face. “And hold all calls.”
Sarah kept her face calm and expressionless. “Please sit. We have some things we need to discuss.”
“Sarah . . . my dear . . .” His gnarled, birdlike hand extended toward her, palm upward like a beggar crying for alms. He had aged so much since she had seen him last, shrunken several inches, and lost that brisk vitality that had always seemed to crackle around him. Seemed skinnier, too, like a shell of his former self. Was he sick? No, she told herself firmly. You can’t allow nostalgia and emotion to cloud your judgment. You must approach this situation with a clear-eyed, logical pragmatism. That is the only way you will get to the truth. “Thank God you are alive and well.” There was a quaver in his voice. “I’ve been so very worried.” Sarah’s eyes felt hot. He started to round the desk.
“No.” Sarah held up her hand to stop his approach. This was no happy homecoming, and she’d be damned if she’d pretend it was. The room was silent. She could hear the ticking of the antique clock her father had given Phillip. It was nestled on his bookcase among leather-bound books. Phillip was watching her cautiously. “Please. Sit.”
Her father’s lawyer sank to his seat. “Are you all right, my dear?” he ventured. There seemed to be genuine concern in his voice. “I didn’t know what to think when you disappeared like that. I tried to track you down, but you’d vanished into thin air.”
Anger flared in Sarah’s chest at the duplicitousness of that statement. There was a time when she wouldn’t have said anything. Not wanting confrontation. Scared to face uncomfortable truths. Not anymore. “Why did you tell Kevin where I was?”
An expression of confusion flittered across his face. He leaned forward with his brow furrowed, head tilted as if his hearing were fading.
“Kevin,” she repeated louder, enunciating clearly, so there could be no mistake. She could hear the coldness in her voice and feel the stiff remove in her face, a mask to keep the hurt at bay, because he wasn’t worth it. This old man whose hand she’d clasped so trustingly as a child. She had a memory of walking down the street, her father on one side, “Uncle Phillip” on the other, both of them big and strong. Her father would call out, “One . . . two . . . three . . .” and then the two of them would swing her up in the air, soaring, sailing, and then gently alighting on the pavement once more. “You told him where I was.”
Phillip stared at her in consternation, blinking his pale, watery eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Sarah kept her expression calm, her hands folded neatly in her hands. “I am not a fool, Mr. Clarke.” He looked wounded. Good. She’d be damned if she’d address him informally. This was business, plain and simple. She’d made that mistake once. Trusted. Never again. “When I was on the run, I contacted you, asked you to send legal separation documents so I could begin the process of dissolving my marriage. I gave you the address of a post office box.”
“Yes. I remember that. I filled out the forms as per your request and had them sent out that afternoon. Express post.”
“And what else did you do, that same afternoon?” The acid bite in her voice had him stiffening slightly.
“It’s hard to remember. Was a long time ago—”
“Shouldn’t be hard to remember. Unless you make it a daily practice of backstabbing clients, breaking your vow of confidentiality, and putting their lives in danger?” The man was a good actor. He really gave the appearance of having no idea what she was talking about. “However, in the name of expediency, let me refresh your memory. You contacted Kevin—you remember him—the husband I was trying to discard? Told him my whereabouts. I hope he paid you well because you—”
“I did no such thing.” Phillip Clarke rose from his chair. His face had turned an unbecoming shade of puce as he slapped his hand on his desk. He was doing a pretty credible imitation of a man who had been falsely accused—she’d give him that. However, there was no way she was going to remain sitting as if she were a misbehaving child in the principal’s office. She was a woman grown, powerful in her own right. Sarah shot out of her seat, stepped forward, slammed her hands on the opposing side of his desk, and leaned toward him, teeth bared. Part of her hoping, praying that he would prove her wrong.
“Then kindly explain to me how Kevin magically managed to appear in the tiny town of Brimfield, Illinois, population eight hundred and thirty-four? Not exactly a thriving metropolis. Not exactly a place that Kevin would visit.” Her words were spoken clearly and succinctly, smashing into him like a volley of well-placed blows. “And yet there he was, staked out in front of the damned post office where I was expecting to receive a package from you.”
Phillip Clarke stared at her as if she’d produced a ghost. “He was . . . waiting for you?” Sarah nodded, a bitter taste in her mouth. “But how? He tracked you to Brimfield, Illinois?” And then a pained expression crossed his face. “Sweet Mary, mother of God
,” he murmured as he sank back into his chair. His breathing had become irregular pants, as if he were suddenly having difficulty catching his breath. His fist rose and pressed against his chest. He didn’t look good.
“Mr. Clarke . . . ?” His head wobbled back and forth on his skinny stalk of a neck. The movement didn’t succeed in shaking any more words out. There was a slight sheen of sweat glistening on the top of his head, his forehead, and dotting his upper lip. Shit. Is he having a heart attack? She rounded the desk. “Uncle Phillip, are you all right?” She could see Mick in her periphery crossing to the water cooler as she placed her fingers against the old man’s carotid artery. His pulse was erratic. His skin felt clammy and smelled of old age, sweat, and cologne.
“Vicki . . .” Phillip Clarke rasped as if all the moisture had vanished from his mouth and throat. “Had to be her.” His eyes were like a drowning man’s, tormented, as if he had received a fatal blow. “She must have . . . told him. She’s the only other person who had knowledge . . . of your whereabouts . . .” His eyes fluttered shut. “I’m sorry. So very . . . sorry.”
Sarah’s mind was spinning as she wrapped her hand around Phillip’s shoulder to steady him. Vicki? Did his secretary give the information to Kevin, and if so, why? It didn’t make sense. The lawyer slumped forward slightly. Damn. Sarah tightened her grip and tapped her fingers on his shoulder to keep his attention in the room. “Uncle Phillip.” Her voice seemed loud and slow to reach her ears. “Nod if you can hear me. Can you hear me?” He nodded. Thank God.
Mick appeared beside them, nudged a glass of water into the old man’s hand and curled his gnarled fingers around it. “Take a sip,” Mick said as he helped bring the glass to the old man’s trembling mouth. “Nice and easy.” Phillip took a sip. A trickle of the water escaped his lips, dribbled down his chin, and dropped onto his cream-colored shirt like an oversized tear making a grayish spot.