At the Midnight Hour

by Alicia Scott

  One thing was for sure: she was certainly earning her keep.

  It was now after nine o’clock, and her time was officially her own. The first few nights, she’d spent learning the house. But with all its sprawling hallways, that was easier attempted than done. On the third night, she’d discovered the library in the west wing, and every night since, she’d gone there. It was a beautiful room, large and lined with row after row of leather-bound books and intricate wooden paneling. A thick crimson and gold Oriental rug padded the hardwood floor, while delicate Tiffany lamps accentuated carefully arranged reading spots. With a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, it was the only room in the mansion that felt at all comfortable.

  Now she settled down on the overstuffed leather sofa to enjoy one of the many classics that lined the walls. She was almost completely engrossed in Wuthering Heights, her imagination lost in the haunting intensity of the Yorkshire moors, when the hair on the back of her neck prickled and she looked up.

  He was there.

  “Hello,” she said softly and the word seemed to reverberate through the arched ceiling of the room. He looked tired, she noticed immediately, no longer standing quite so tall and dignified as he had that first day in the foyer. The gray hair at his temples glowed under the faint light of the hall, making him look, all at once, more stately and more exhausted than ever.

  “I see you found the library,” he said at last and the words were completely devoid of emotion. He had been on a plane for the last fourteen hours, and of the past twelve days, he’d only slept about twenty hours. He was exhausted and all he really wanted to do was collapse. But there were phone calls to make and meetings to confirm and diagrams to check and equations to compute, and...

  And there was this woman, with her long brown hair falling down the back of the chocolate-colored couch, the strands gleaming a burnished copper by the firelight. This woman in her deep purple skirt and brilliant pink blouse. This woman with her silver bangles on her arms and her dangling earrings tangling in her hair. This woman with the most beautiful midnight blue eyes he had ever seen. Once more her smile was open, once more the look on her face was genuine and warm.

  How many times in the past twelve days had he seen her in his mind’s eye? How many times, after endless hours of computations and arguments, had he returned to his hotel room only to be haunted by images of her?

  He’d only seen her for one day, damn it. And she was his son’s nanny, he shouldn’t even remember what she looked like. But he did. His damned scientist’s mind had remembered every little detail, from the way her hair curled down around her face, to the delicate arch of her cheekbones, to the haunting intensity of her eyes. Mostly, he remembered the way her face had lit up when she’d smiled at him that once, as if every bit of her had felt that smile.

  “I like your collection of books,” Liz managed to say as she swallowed under the intensity of his gaze. It seemed an eternity had already passed since he’d walked into the room, and she’d spent it all pinned under the scouring examination of his eyes. But nothing showed on his face. He’d stared at her for several long moments, and she still had no idea at all what he was thinking. It seemed that even tired, Richard Keaton remained as elusive as ever.

  “I didn’t select them,” Richard said abruptly, indicating the books as he pushed himself away from the doorframe. His lips thinned into a grim line and he crossed the room to the small bar. There was a decanter of brandy out and he poured himself a stiff glass.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked curtly.

  “I’m fine,” she replied softly. What went on in that mind of his that he always looked so controlled and grim?

  She found that she really wanted to know. This was her new life now, and in a way, this was her new home. Certainly it would be easier if she could at least carry on a simple conversation with this man.

  “How are things coming?” Richard asked abruptly, surprising them both with the sound of his voice. “I see that you are still here.”

  “Well enough,” Liz said, hope flaring at the possibility of conversation. “Andrew’s trying, but he hasn’t driven me to murder yet.”

  “Is he eating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sleeping?”

  “I’m actually not so sure about that,” she said honestly. “I think he may be reading on the sly, after lights-out, but I have yet to catch him in the act.”

  Richard merely nodded.

  “How was Geneva?” Liz asked after a bit, setting the book aside once and for all as she took in the man in front of her.

  “Busy.”

  “Did the conference go well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “You look tired,” she said softly.

  “I am.”

  “You’re not much for conversation, are you?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  She smiled at that, not noticing the way his hand suddenly trembled at its impact. He was still as reclusive and reserved as she remembered. But she could try, couldn’t she? After all, Mrs. Pram wasn’t much for friendly overtures, and as much as Liz honestly liked Andrew, it would be nice to have some adult conversation from time to time.

  The thought of Andrew, however, brought her to a more sobering point.

  “I imagine,” she began slowly, “that you would probably like to spend some time with your son now that you’re back.” Not waiting for his reply, she rushed on. “I had planned to take Andrew fishing, but I could cancel that if you’d like.”

  “Fishing?”

  Liz smiled wanly. “It’s part of my campaign to get him out of the house more. I have to tell you, he’s a rather morbid child.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not yet,” she admitted. “Now he brings his books with him and reads while I do whatever.”

  Richard nodded, but remained silent, his eyes focused on the fire while he slowly turned the glass in his hand.

  “So would you like me to cancel my plans? Perhaps he would enjoy it more if you took him fishing,” Liz pressed. Andrew needed his father; it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that.

  “I don’t fish,” Richard said, and whether he’d intended it or not, in that instant he sounded exactly like his son.

  “Then do whatever,” Liz prompted. Why was he so cold to the idea? Andrew was his son, for goodness sake. His only child. Somehow, she would have thought that with the mother’s passing away, the father and son would be even closer. Yet...

  “That won’t be necessary,” Richard said abruptly. “Continue as scheduled, Miss Guiness.”

  She paused now, getting the distinct idea that Mr. Keaton was indeed determined to avoid his son. On the other hand, she was just as determined that the two do something together, if only for the sake of her six-year-old charge.

  “What about joining us for lunch?” she suggested levelly.

  “I have an appointment.”

  “Tea? Dinner? A midnight snack? I’m sure it hardly matters to Andrew, as long as he gets to see you.”

  “I don’t know if that will be possible just yet.” Once again, the words were emotionless.

  They began to anger her. How could he ignore his own child? Couldn’t he see how insecure Andrew was? Couldn’t he see how much his own son missed him? Maybe that was the problem. Maybe with all his science and experiments, he didn’t understand how children worked. She selected a new tack.

  “He talks about you a lot,” she said softly. “He has really missed you.”

  But whatever response she was hoping for, it wasn’t what she got. Once again, the words were clipped and cold.

  “Miss Guiness, Andrew has not seen me in five years. He doesn’t even know me.”

  “But I think he’d like to,” she countered immediately, not willing to give up.

  The words were coaxing, tugging at him, but he fought them off with another sip of the brandy. Yet, deep inside, he felt the depths of his turmoil swirl again. The guilt, the uncertainty, a
nd perhaps most of all, the vulnerability. He had cared once for Alycia and Andrew. Sometimes, late and tired as he was now, he could almost remember other nights, when he’d looked down at the sleeping baby, and had felt his heart constrict in his chest. But Alycia had destroyed that, as she’d destroyed everything that had ever meant anything to him.

  He couldn’t look at the boy without seeing her. And he couldn’t look at the child without wondering... Alycia’s death had been her final victory, leaving him alone with all his doubts. Andrew was the symbol of that triumph, the small blond reminder of Richard’s vulnerability, and all the things the tenth smartest mind in the nation would never know.

  “I am a busy man,” he finally said. “You and Andrew will just have to accept that.”

  She looked at him a long time from across the room on the couch. His coldness intimidated her, but she drew up her spine against it. She’d never been a timid person, she reminded herself. She’d led a sheltered life, but it wasn’t as if she’d been hiding from the world. There simply had never been the need to explore it until now. But here she was, and darn it, this man was being stubborn. She would not let him scare her into silence with his scowling face and cold eyes.

  “I can’t,” she said suddenly out loud, her chin coming up as she openly challenged him. “Andrew is your son, and he needs you. You are his father, and you need him.”

  His lips turned wryly, but he hid it by downing the last sip of brandy. Putting down the glass, he turned to face her with dispassionate ice-blue eyes.

  “If you cannot accept my terms,” he said curtly, “you are free to leave.”

  The finality, the coldness of the statement, shocked her. For a moment, she felt a rush of panic. She’d blown it. She’d pushed her employer too far, and now she would be sent home. But after the panic, came the anger. How could he be so distant toward his own child? How could he possibly be so cold?

  She couldn’t understand it. All her life she had been surrounded by the easy laughter of a large family. She was accustomed to sharing, touching, reaching out. She’d already called home twice in the twelve days she’d been here to tell everyone she was all right and get her mother’s advice on handling her young charge. That was the way the Guiness household worked. Everyone was there for everyone.

  She didn’t understand the Keaton kind of remoteness at all. And she could not accept it.

  “Look,” she said at last, sitting up straighter. “I know I’m overstepping my bounds here, but I really feel you should reconsider spending more time with Andrew. He’s in a new environment now, in a large and lonely house. He’s insecure.” Her voice grew more earnest. “He’s scared. And his own thoughts offer no comfort. He thinks his mother was murdered.”

  The last words were spoken softly, but she could see the impact even across the room. The man froze completely, his face turning to utter granite.

  “He knows?” Richard questioned harshly.

  She could only nod.

  He laughed, a mirthless sound in the firelight. “Of course, the Wynstons told him. That would be something they would do. Take the child and turn him against me completely. Anything to advance their petty war. I should have known.”

  “The Wynstons?” she questioned quietly, feeling confused. He knows? Not, what a foolish thought, but He knows? Good God, was it true?

  “Alycia’s parents, of course.” And then, because he was tired, he found himself saying, “Andrew is right, after all. Alycia was murdered.”

  He could see her eyes go wide with the impact of the confirmation, and it prodded him on.

  “Everyone thinks I did it.”

  If he’d been trying to shock her, Liz thought vaguely, well, then, it had worked. She was shocked. She was sitting on a leather sofa with so many thoughts running through her mind, she didn’t know where to begin to sort them out.

  Could he really have murdered his wife? And if so, why hadn’t the agency warned her about this? Surely they wouldn’t send her to a house where the father was a suspected murderer. But then, if no charges had ever been filed, it would be just like the prim and proper Bradford Agency not to mention something as undignified as rumors in the file. She supposed there might be legal implications, as well, such as slander, but still...

  Could this man be capable of murder?

  Looking over at him, she couldn’t be sure. His face looked so harsh in the shadows, his eyes so cold. He had an aura of power around him, an aura of total control. And his features gave away nothing—no hint of softness, no hint of anything at all.

  She shivered slightly on the sofa, and immediately his sharp eyes caught it.

  “So, my dear Miss Guiness,” he drawled from across the room, “do you think I did it? Do you think I killed my wife?”

  He shouldn’t be prodding. A part of him knew that. But he was tired and the brandy was rolling through his veins even as the bitterness gnawed at his gut. He wanted to know. He wanted to know what this beautiful, fresh creature thought of him. He wanted to see the disgust and horror in her eyes now, so he could replay it in his mind night after night after night. So he could block her out of his mind completely.

  “I...don’t know,” Liz said at last, the words halting. She grappled for a complete thought. “I don’t know any of the details, so I guess I can’t come to any conclusions at all. I mean, did you kill your wife?”

  It seemed like a rather inane question. Would a true killer actually answer yes? But she was still feeling frazzled and rather out of her league. It was the best she could do.

  He smiled his mirthless smile once more.

  “Would you believe me if I answered that?” he asked roughly.

  “I don’t know,” she found herself uttering yet again. “I don’t really know you yet.”

  She was trying to be honest, trying to recapture her hold on the situation. Perhaps he would at least give her credit for her honesty.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, his face grew darker, and for a fraction of an instant, his grip on the brandy glass tightened until his knuckles grew white. Then abruptly, he set the glass down, his face returning to its traditional, dispassionate state.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said curtly. “It doesn’t matter at all. Now if you will excuse me, Miss Guiness. I believe I have some work to do.”

  Then, just as abruptly, he turned and walked out of the library. She could do nothing but watch him leave, the doubt and uncertainty sharp and cold in her mind. For a minute, she wanted to call him back. She wanted to search his face for any kind of emotion at all, anything she could latch on to. Anything she could believe in.

  Because she was far from home, in a dark house with echoing halls and moaning drafts. In a dark house with a child who rattled off death statistics, and a man who might be a murderer.

  What had she done?

  In a moment of crashing despair, she wished desperately that she could turn back the clock. It would be one year earlier, and she would be home in bed, curled in the warm embrace of her husband. She would stretch out and roll over, safe in the arms of the man she had loved to one extent or another, for all her life. And he would wake up, and brush her cheek and look at her with his warm hazel eyes. And...

  And there was no going back. Nick was gone. It had taken her months to come to terms with that grim fact. At first, right after the murder, she hadn’t been able to eat, she hadn’t been able to sleep. Her oldest brother, Mitch, had flown in from his FBI job in D.C. to be with her. When he’d had to return, Cagney had taken a short leave of absence from the D.C. police to hold her hand. Even Garret, who served as Navy SEAL for classified missions that even Mitch couldn’t access information on, had come. He’d materialized one night in her bedroom, and talked her to sleep. When she’d awakened the next morning, he’d been gone. Finally, Jake, the Harvard man and middle brother, had called from Singapore or wherever he was making his latest fortune. He’d started a scholarship in Nick’s name and had told her jokes until she’d laughed thr
ough her tears.

  Everyone had been there for her, but mostly, she’d had to acknowledge that her past was over. Nick was dead, and she was still alive.

  She’d known then that she had to do something with that, had to build some sort of a new life. The girl from North Carolina wasn’t so fragile, she’d survived the worst so far. She would survive this, too.

  She would do some checking on Mr. Keaton, she decided. Find out what kind of man he really was, and what indeed had happened to his wife.

  Perhaps she would even find a clue as to what went on in those remote pale blue eyes of his in the dark hours of the night.

  * * *

  Whatever small progress Liz had made with Andrew quickly deteriorated with his father’s sudden appearance and then equally sudden disappearance. Liz tried to inquire as to the whereabouts of Mr. Keaton several times, only to be informed by Mrs. Pram that he was working and could not be disturbed. Which left her alone with a six-year-old prodigy who was deeply intent on ruining her sanity.

  “Five thousand nine hundred and thirty-seven Americans die a day,” Andrew announced over breakfast the next morning.

  “I see,” Liz replied patiently. She launched into her new tactic, formulated late the night before when it was two in the morning and she still couldn’t sleep. “And how many Americans are born?”

  “That’s over two hundred people dead every hour!” Andrew continued intensely.

  “Yes, but how many people are born?”

  “That’s four people every minute! That...that means by the time you finish eating your eggs, forty people will have died.” His eyes were growing rounder in his agitation, and Liz was fast beginning to lose her appetite.

  “That may be,” she said as calmly as she could while she set down her fork. “But I believe over fifty new babies will have been born in the United States alone in just the time it takes me to eat my toast.”