These days, Sherm thinks, kids would call old Andrew a wimp. Back then, he was a sissy.
But a sissy who has money, Sherm had learned, is more attractive to women than a virile kid who doesn’t. When they were in their teens and met vacationing girls on the island, it was Andrew they were always drawn to, once they found out who he was.
And you didn’t care when they bypassed you, Sherm reminds himself. You always had Carly.
His mouth set grimly at the thought of his wife, Sherm steers around a huge pothole in the lane, then turns his thoughts back to the Gilbrookes.
As Andrew Junior grew older and was being groomed to take over his father’s business, he had spent less time on the island. Then his parents died within months of each other and he met Aurelia, and that was it.
The big old house has been virtually abandoned ever since.
But maybe the son is back, Sherm thinks, maneuvering the last sharp bend in the lane. Stephen, his name was. Rumor had it that Andrew hadn’t named his son after himself and his father because of what he referred to as the boy’s “hideous facial deformity.”
Supposedly, he’d wanted his wife to bear him another son, one worthy of being a namesake. But Aurelia, according to the island gossips, had wanted no part of pregnancy and childbirth, having already experienced the “torture” once.
Sherm had only met Andrew Junior’s wife once or twice. Though she was an attractive woman, her disposition made her unpleasant to look at. Her mouth was permanently turned down at the corners, as if in distaste, and her black eyes had perennially borne a sharp, beady gleam.
She had undoubtedly married poor Andrew for his money as she clearly had no patience for him, or anyone else. And as for Andrew—Sherm supposed he had married Aurelia because she told him to. He was that kind of man.
He pulls up in front of the Gilbrookes’ sprawling old Victorian and sees fairly recent tire tracks in the snow. Is Stephen Gilbrooke back on the island?
Or did the tracks come from Pat’s car . . .
And if so, where is it now?
Sherm had driven by Pat’s small house on the way out here, but there was no sign of anyone there. The few inches of wet snow on the driveway and walk had been undisturbed.
Sherm had considered stopping by Rosalee Gerkin’s place to see if she’d heard from her son, but had decided against it. Ever since she lost her husband, Rosalee has been a nervous wreck. No need to worry her if Sherm doesn’t have to.
Frowning, Sherm puts the police car into Park and leaves it running as he gets out and picks his way across the messy drive to the front steps. They’re snow-covered but he can make out indentations where someone walked up and down at some point recently. Probably Pat, checking on things.
Clinging to the icy railing and wincing against the stinging wind and snow that are whirling off the ocean, Sherm climbs the steps and knocks on the door.
He waits, then knocks again, and calls, “Anyone home?”
He doesn’t expect an answer. The wind would probably have drowned out his voice, and anyway, there doesn’t seem to be anyone here.
With a sigh, Sherm goes back to his car and gratefully slips into the heated interior.
“Where the heck are you, Pat?” he says aloud as he shifts into reverse and backs carefully away from the house.
“You okay?” Keegan calls, looking over his shoulder at Danny Cavelli and his wife Cheryl. They’re huddled on the bench behind him, clinging to the sides of the boat as it rocks violently in the foaming water.
“Fine,” Danny shouts above the roar of the engine and the wind.
Cheryl doesn’t reply. She looks green.
Keegan sees Danny glance at her in concern, saying something in her ear.
She nods and offers him a valiant smile, clinging to his hand.
She must really love the guy, Keegan thinks, turning to look ahead again at the surging gray-black water. She’s doing this for him—risking her life on this damn boat in a storm, with an inexperienced idiot at the helm.
And Keegan, the inexperienced idiot, is risking his life for Jennie.
And why? he wonders bleakly.
She doesn’t even care about you. And you don’t even know that she’s definitely in trouble. . . . You just think she might be.
What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?
No, he tells himself, he’s not crazy. He’s doing it for Jennie because he really loves her. And he can’t make himself stop, no matter what she’s done to him.
And she loves you, too, he thinks, then narrows his brows in surprise.
She does. If you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be hanging on after almost two months.
Keegan ponders the notion that Jennie loves him and feels hope surging within him at the realization that it’s true. Somehow, he just knows that it is.
She loves you, but she can’t be with you for some reason. There’s definitely something she’s not telling you.
But, Keegan promises himself, when he reaches the island and finds her, he’ll make her see that no matter what her reason is, it isn’t good enough to justify leaving him.
He pictures her lilac eyes and wonders why he never asked her about the haunted expression that sometimes filled them. He’d always sensed that she was keeping something from him, but he’d figured that she’d tell him when she was ready.
Never had he imagined that there wouldn’t be plenty of time for that.
And even after she’d unceremoniously broken up with him, he hadn’t quite grasped that she meant it. Reeling from shock, he kept thinking that she would come to her senses eventually . . . that if he could just talk to her, she’d realize that they belonged together.
Never had he expected her to refuse to answer his calls or see him.
But this time, Jennie Towne, he tells her silently, I’m not going to let you get away with it.
As soon as I get to you—
A monstrous wave breaks over the front of the boat then, and Keegan grips the steering wheel with all his might to keep control, remembering the few pointers the fisherman had given him back at the dock.
If I get to you, Keegan amends, wiping the stinging saltwater from his eyes with his shoulder as he clings to the wheel, I’m going to grab you and hold you and I’m never going to let go again.
Stephen drives as fast as he dares along the slippery coastal road, still jittery from the shock of seeing Liza jump out of the car.
He hears a thump and a muffled groan from the trunk and grits his teeth. His knuckles are white as he grips the wheel, clenching it as much out of necessity as out of fury.
What the hell did she think she was doing? he asks himself, his eyes narrowed into angry slits behind the tinted aviator lenses.
Then again, it shouldn’t surprise him that Liza would figure out what he was up to and try to escape. She’d always been the perceptive type, he remembers, even when he first met her.
He remembers the way her green eyes had sized him up that first day . . .
He’d been browsing through a stack of imported woolen socks in the large Brooks Brothers store on Madison when he’d felt someone watching him. Glancing up, he’d seen a gorgeous, slender blonde standing a few feet away. She had a scarf in her hands, and she was running her fingers lovingly, absently, over the fine cashmere as she looked directly at him.
He’d found himself mesmerized, first by the sensuous way her fingertips stroked the scarf, then by how she slowly and oh-so-tantalizingly slipped her tongue from her mouth and ran it over her full lips.
Then she’d smiled and raised her eyebrows slightly at him, as if in silent invitation.
Stephen had glanced over his shoulder to be sure it was he she wanted, and not someone else. But he was the only one in the vicinity, and Liza had tilted her head coyly at him, appearing amused at his uncertainty.
He’d moved to stand beside her in a matter of seconds.
“Hello, there,” she’d said in that wonderfully throaty voice of hers.
“I’m Liza Danning.”
“Stephen Gilbrooke,” he’d responded, holding out his hand and taking the manicured fingers she offered. Her grip was warm and confident, and she’d let her fingertips play over his knuckles before he released them.
Then she’d let her green eyes wander down the length of him, and Stephen had felt as though he were standing there stark naked and absolutely alone with her.
When she raised her gaze to meet his again, she had grinned suggestively.
“Married?” was all she said.
Stephen blinked and shook his head.
“Good.”
With that, Liza had slipped her arm through his and leaned up to whisper in his ear, her cloying perfume swirling around him in an enticing, heady cloud. “Take me to dinner tonight.”
Of course, he had. It wasn’t every day that a beautiful woman threw herself at him. Oh, Stephen was used to gold diggers, of course—he’d always encountered his share. They were easy to pinpoint, because they wanted nothing to do with someone who looked like him . . . until they found out who he was.
“You’re one of the Gilbrookes?” they would ask, their eyes growing suddenly interested.
But Liza was different, at first. She seemed interested in him right from the start, before she even knew his name. It wasn’t until later that night, over dinner at Le Cirque, when he’d caught the calculating way she looked at his Rolex, that Stephen realized she was a gold digger like the rest of them.
But by then he didn’t care, because her hand was doing astonishing things in his lap beneath the tablecloth and he thought he would die from sheer pleasure.
He had taken her back to his brownstone that night and watched her absorb the authentic antique French furnishings, the Impressionist collection started by his grandfather, the Persian carpets, and the rest of the trappings that trumpeted his vast wealth. He told himself it didn’t matter that she was obviously fascinated by his money, that all that mattered was the fact that she was there, that she was going to let him make love to her.
But she hadn’t . . .
Not that first night.
No, she had made passionate love to him, pleasuring him repeatedly, beyond his wildest dreams, leaving him sated and exhausted and mad with the need to see her again and again and again.
He had showered her with gifts over the next several weeks, not caring that she hinted for the lavishly expensive things she wanted or that she barely bothered to hide her greed as she accepted them from him. All that mattered to Stephen was that she did incredible things to his body with hers.
And then one night, out of the blue, Liza had seemed moody and cold over dinner at Lutèce. Stephen had tried to draw her out, plying her with fine French food and champagne and outrageous compliments in his flawlessly accented French.
But he had sensed, when she turned those bored green eyes on him as he’d helped her into the mink he’d bought her, that she was about to bring their affair to a close. She had gotten everything she needed from him.
Simmering with rage, Stephen had driven her back to his place, not bothering to ask whether she wanted to be there. She’d gone along with it, probably planning to play him for a fool one last time and see what he would give her in return for her sexual services.
But the moment Stephen had closed and locked his bedroom door behind them, he had been the one in control for a change.
Instead of letting Liza tease him by undressing bit by bit, he had ripped her clothes off her. Instead of lying back, naked, and letting her hands and mouth and hair trail over his body, he had thrown her onto the bed, face down. And instead of turning her over, he had entered her, roughly and swiftly, from behind, eliciting a scream of fury and pain from those pouty lips of hers.
When he was finished, he had roughly flipped her over onto her back, expecting to see her sobbing, or at least weakened and ashamed.
Yet to his utter astonishment and dismay, those hard green eyes of hers had betrayed nothing but disgust for him.
“Are you finished?” she’d asked coldly, sitting up, then standing. “Because I’m going home now. I’m through prostituting myself to a cretin like you, although it was definitely worth it. Even this last little tantrum of yours.”
Stunned into silence, he had merely watched as she pulled her dress over her head.
“And Stephen? If it weren’t for your money, I never would have given you the time of day in the first place. I was hanging around Brooks Brothers that afternoon just waiting for a rich sucker like you to come along.”
Laughing, she had grabbed her coat and purse and left the room, leaving him lying on the bed reeling from her cruel words . . . even though he had known the truth all along.
Now, as Stephen slows the car to make the turn into the lane leading to his family’s old summer house, he thinks, We’ll see who gets the last laugh now, Liza.
He’s chuckling to himself when he stops short, spotting a car coming toward him down the lane . . .
A police car.
Stephen’s blood runs cold as he slows and pulls over to the side. What else can he do? There’s no room on the narrow lane for the cars to pass each other, and anyway, it would seem suspicious for him to try to keep going.
Panic screams through his mind as the other car stops alongside him. The uniformed man behind the wheel is rolling down the window and leaning out, despite the nasty weather.
Stay calm, Stephen commands himself, pasting an artificial grin on his mouth and raising his right hand in greeting after rolling the window down with his left. The wind will muffle any sounds coming from the trunk. And no one can possibly recognize you or the car.
After all, he hasn’t been to the island in years, and the last time was before he had the plastic surgery. And there’s nothing flashy about the American-made black sedan he’s driving. He left his own silver Mercedes and cherry-colored Porsche back in Manhattan. He won’t need them where he’s going after this.
“Hello there,” the man in the cop car calls, waving back. “I’m Sherm Crandall, chief of police on the island.”
Stephen nods, still grinning, and says over the roar of the wind, “Nice to meet you. My name’s . . .” He hesitates for the merest second before uttering the first thing that pops into his head. “LaCroix. John LaCroix.”
“Oh, yeah? I was half-expecting one of the Gilbrookes.”
“You were?” Stephen wonders if the cop can tell that he’s barely managing to keep himself together. Hopefully the blowing wet snow is obscuring his face somewhat. “Who are the Gilbrookes?”
“The family that owns this place.”
Play dumb, and he won’t get suspicious.
“What place?” he asks, making his eyebrows furl as though he’s confused.
The officer gestures with his head at the house behind him, just out of sight, Stephen knows, around the bend.
“There’s a big old mansion back here,” Crandall tells him, his breath coming out in white puffs in the frigid wind. “Thought that was where you were headed.”
“If I am, it’s not on purpose.” Does he sound too edgy? He shrugs, trying desperately to appear casual. “Just wanted to turn around . . . looks like I’m lost.”
“You a tourist?”
“You bet.”
“Where are you trying to go?”
“Back to the inn where I’m staying,” Stephen says, thinking quickly.
“Which one is that?”
Is the cop just making conversation or is he suspicious? It’s impossible to tell. It feels like an interrogation, but it might just be Stephen’s own guilt.
“Where are you staying?” the cop asks again.
“The Bramble Rose,” Stephen says quickly.
“Oh, yeah? How is that place?”
“Very nice. I like it.”
“Good. I might have relatives coming to visit soon, and I thought they might like to stay there. The place is new, so I haven’t heard much about it.”
“Uh huh.” Why won�
�t the guy just move on? Stephen wonders, agitated. He realizes that he’s jiggling his leg impatiently on the brake pedal and stops abruptly. He makes a big show of shivering, as though it’s the cold that’s making him antsy.
Sherm Crandall doesn’t seem to have noticed. But he’s not moving on, either.
“Say,” he says, as though he’s just thought of something, “you wouldn’t have happened to run across a young girl named Cindy staying at the Bramble Rose this weekend would you? No, wait—not Cindy. Sandy. Italian last name . . . Cavelli. That’s it.”
Fighting to maintain his composure, Stephen shakes his head and blandly responds, “Nope. Didn’t see her.”
“Huh.” The cop rubs his chin thoughtfully, then shrugs. “Well, if you do, you let me know, okay? You can call me down at the police station.”
“I sure will.” He hesitates, wanting badly to ask, knowing he should just leave it be, but ultimately unable to stop himself. “What’s up with this girl, Officer? Is she in some kind of trouble?”
Is it Stephen’s imagination or is Sherm Crandall suddenly eyeing him more closely?
You shouldn’t have asked, Stephen scolds himself. Now look what you’ve done.
“No, she’s not in any trouble that I know of,” the cop says. “I just want to talk to her, is all.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll let you know if I see her.” Stephen gives a cheerful wave and shifts in his seat to let the cop know their conversation is over.
“You have a good day now,” Sherm says with a wave and rolls up his window.
Stephen does the same, pulling the car ahead then turning it around on the narrow road because he knows the cop is probably watching him through his rear-view mirror as he drives away.
Stephen slowly drives away from the house, following the police car back out onto the highway. It turns left, toward town, and Stephen watches until it disappears around a bend in the road.
He waits a long time after that, parked at the edge of the lane, hoping the cop won’t decide to get nosy again and turn around and come back to check on him.
Dearly Beloved Page 24