Good.
It was just as he had anticipated, and it showed that Bart wasn't entirely ruthless. In Michael's experience, ruthless men were rarely nervous about their ruthless deeds.
Patiently, Michael waited until the waiter brought Bart a fresh Scotch on the rocks. And out of respect, Michael also waited until Bart had swallowed his liquor before he dropped his bombshell.
As furious and disgusted as he was with Bart, he didn't want the old man choking to death.
"How long have you been ripping people off?” he asked, so casually it was a few seconds before Bart's expression changed from slightly wary to slack-jawed disbelief.
"Pardon me?"
"I asked you,” Michael deliberately pronounced each word slowly and distinctly, “how long you've been ripping people off."
Bart hastily closed his mouth. His thick brows furrowed. “If this is a joke, Michael, I have to tell you, I don't think it's a funny one."
Michael sighed and shook his head. He had expected Bart to deny it, so it wasn't any surprise that he did. But it was an insult. “I know about the video camera, and I know about the jewelry. I also know that Birdie was never actually kidnapped. Ashley knows it, too.” Michael ignored Bart's outrageous sputtering and leaned across the table to whisper, as if he were confiding a secret. “Here's the six thousand dollar question, Bart; does Birdie know her husband's a thief?"
Red-faced and refusing to drop his outraged act, Bart pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “If you really believe that I'm a thief, why haven't you gone to security?"
With a shrug, Michael reached for his Corona. He took a deep drink and wiped his mouth before answering. “Because Ashley has a big heart, and she believes you've got your reasons for manipulating people, then ripping them off.” He inclined his head, his eyes hard. “Have a seat, Bart. For Ashley's sake, I'm willing to listen."
Bart sank into his chair again. His face had gone two shades whiter, and his trembling had increased to the point that he gave up trying to lift his glass.
There was true regret in his eyes when he finally met Michael's expectant gaze. “To answer your first question, I've been ripping people off for about a year and a half. Three years, four months, and two weeks ago, we found out Birdie was in the early stages of Alzheimer. She—she takes medicine, but she's not responding well. Some unfortunate people don't.” Slowly, Bart reached out and picked up his glass. He managed to take a drink without spilling it, but his voice broke as he added, “I live in constant fear that I'll wake up one morning and she won't know who I am."
Michael studied the older man closely, trying to decide if he told the truth. If he wasn't, then he was the best damned actor Michael had ever met. “She seems clear-minded to me."
"That's because you don't know her,” Bart said. Pain, whether real or imagined, clouded his eyes. “Has she told you about our kids?"
When Michael shook his head, Bart continued.
"That's because she doesn't always remember that we have kids, and let me tell you, our kids were her life. We've got two daughters and five grandchildren. Women always brag about their kids, especially grandkids. She—she does okay as long as I leave little reminder notes for her to find."
Despite his determination to remain tough, Michael couldn't stop the sympathy that flooded him. He hated it when Ashley was right. The guy did have a good story. “Does she know?"
Bart shook his head, his eyes full of tears. “She knew when she was first diagnosed, but when she seemed to forget about it, I didn't have the heart to remind her. When she asks the nature of her medicine, I tell her that it's for her blood pressure. I ... I even transfer her medicine over to different bottles. As for the reminder notes, I tell her they're for me."
"Can you prove any of this?"
"Yes. The ship's doctor has a copy of her medical records. I could get them if you'd like."
Michael tried to resurrect his earlier fury, but didn't succeed. The most he could do was make an effort to sound furious. “I'm sorry about Birdie, but that doesn't excuse what you did to us or what you've been doing to other people."
"I know, I know,” Bart said, following his words with a heavy sigh. “She just has such a good time on these cruises ... meeting new people.” He hesitated, picking at the coaster beneath his glass. “As long as she's always meeting new people, people she doesn't have to remember, then she doesn't suspect anything."
Okay, so he was a gullible fool, but he had to ask. “So you steal money—"
"Only from people who won't miss it,” Bart inserted firmly. “Rich people.” He flicked a glance at Michael, and then focused on the table again. “People who have money to spare and never much from one person."
"And you steal this money so you can take Birdie on more cruises?"
Bart nodded. “All we have is our social security benefits. I, um, sold our house, but after I paid off the mortgage, there wasn't much left. We've been living in hotels in between cruises."
Michael finished his beer. He signaled for the waiter to bring another round of drinks. “You knew that Ashley had won the lottery?"
"Yes. I—I wasn't planning on taking much, I swear. I did a background check on her—"
He broke off as Michael let out a short, nasty curse.
Casting him an apologetic look, he said, “I'm sorry, but I did a background check on you too. I have a friend that works for the FBI."
"How convenient,” Michael clipped out, grateful to latch on to a thread of his earlier anger. “So you know that I won the lottery, too."
"Yes.” Bart braved another look in his direction, but quickly looked away from the obvious fury in his face. “I know that your business is doing well and that Ashley is very good at selling houses."
"And knowing this soothes your conscience?"
Surprisingly, Bart nodded. “Yes, it does. I would never take money from someone who needed it worse than I do."
"How noble.” Michael didn't bother hiding his sarcasm. He might be sympathetic, but he hated the thought of anyone abusing Ashley in any way. “You're like a twisted Robin Hood. Take from the rich, give to yourself."
For the first time, Bart's voice held a hint of anger. “I don't take pleasure from stealing, young man. I do it for Birdie, and it's a short-term career. In another year or two—three if I'm lucky—Birdie will be tied to a hospital bed in a nursing home somewhere. She won't know me or herself. She'll die without the love of her family because she won't know she has the love of her family.” He ran his hands through his remarkably thick hair. “Sometimes I can't decide if that's a blessing, or a curse, and you might not believe me, but I plan to pay as many people back as I can. Birdie has life insurance. I'm keeping track of the people I owe—I have the notebook in my suitcase, if you'd like to see it."
"I just might.” Michael felt himself softening again, and wondered if he was being taken for the biggest fool on earth. “And I'd like to see those medical records, too. In the meantime, you will pay Deckland and Tanya back their money. If you do that, I don't see any reason to tell them the truth."
Bart's mouth fell open. “What about—"
"I don't know, yet. A lot will depend on whether I find out you're telling the truth or not. I will also want your solemn and sincere promise that you will stop stealing.” Michael made his voice hard, hoping to balance the sympathy he couldn't help but feel for this man and his eccentric wife.
With great dignity, Bart held out his hand. “That's more than fair, Michael. You're a decent, honest man, and I wish that I could be more like you."
Michael didn't say that he wasn't sure he wouldn't have done the same thing if it happened to him and it was Ashley who was suffering from the ugly, memory-robbing disease. He didn't say it because he didn't want to encourage the man.
But he thought it. He definitely thought it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One look at Deckland's face and Ashley knew that every improb
able conclusion she'd came to while sitting in the tiny bathroom had been shockingly, impossibly, right on the nose.
And even then, she wasn't satisfied. Not until she heard a verbal confirmation.
She waved both copies of the list beneath Deckland's nose. “Is it true? Is Michael the other lottery winner—the one I've been searching for?"
With a sigh, Deckland nodded. He motioned her inside, looked right and left along the hall before shutting the door. “If Michael finds out I've been talking to you about this, a good friend of mine could lose his job."
Ashley frowned. “You're not making sense."
"He told me that if I didn't keep my mouth shut—and stop slipping you clues, like the list, then he would see that Ian lost his job."
"Who's Ian?"
"He's the guy that gave me the passenger list."
"Michael blackmailed you?” Ashley squeaked out, trying to wrap her mind around the thought. “But why didn't he want me to know?” And why would he go to such lengths?
Deckland gave her a shame-shame look. “Come on, Ash. Think about it. He bought a lottery ticket using the same numbers, which I happen to know are the dates of your first date and your wedding anniversary."
"Kim?"
"Yeah, but that's not an issue."
Ashley didn't agree, but she let him continue.
"He just happened to luck out by buying that ticket on the same day that those numbers were picked. He's afraid of what you'll think if you found out."
She went very still, absorbing his words, trying to absorb the pain as well. “He was afraid I'd think he cared about me. That—” she swallowed hard. “That he might still love me."
"Precisely. Which, I might add helpfully, he does."
"Right.” Her voice came out hoarse and wobbly. “If he loved me, then why wouldn't he want me to know?"
"Come on, Ashley! You broke the man's heart and stomped on the pieces."
Ashley gasped. “I did not! He broke my heart by sleeping with that—with that blonde bimbo!"
"He didn't have sex with her."
"The hell he didn't! I saw them, Deckland, and I assure you that they were having sex.” Her stomach rolled with that old familiar sick feeling she felt anytime she thought about that horrible moment. “So please, spare me your testimony. You weren't there. You didn't see what I saw. Nobody else did."
Deckland lifted his hands in an exasperated gesture. “You are so pigheaded, but then, I knew that from Kim. What I find hard to believe is that you're narrow-minded on top of being pig-headed. You didn't strike me as the type.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to speak. “Okay, okay. So you won't believe me, either. Have you thought about just forgiving him? He obviously made a mistake. He's paid for it, don't you think?"
She didn't know how to respond. Hadn't she been thinking the same thing? That maybe it was time to forgive and forget? She still loved Michael ... and if there was a chance that he still loved her, then wouldn't she be crazy to throw the opportunity away?
"What if ... what if I forgive and forget, and he does it to me again?” She hadn't realized she'd whispered the fearful words aloud until Deckland spoke.
"I honestly don't think he will. And really, you can't go around being scared to love someone. You'll wind up a lonely old woman."
Ashley made a face at him. “Thanks for the insight, doctor. Now give me another good reason to trust him again."
"Because you love him?"
She swallowed hard. Okay, so he had her there. “I do, but—"
"Just leave off the but, will you? Just tell him that you love him. See if he doesn't tell you the same thing right back. You two could get married again and live happily ever after."
Narrowing her eyes at him, she asked suspiciously, “Are you really writing a book or was that all a cover?"
Deckland chuckled. “Not even Kim has that kind of pull. Of course I'm writing a book.” He wiggled his eyebrows, making her smile despite her inner turmoil. “She promised me some good research, and she was right. I think you and Michael invented the word ‘body chemistry'."
"Glad to be of help,” she murmured sarcastically, still thinking about his suggestion. Did she have the guts to tell Michael that she still loved him and wanted to try again? What if Deckland was wrong, and all Michael wanted from her was sex?
"Don't you believe in fate?” Deckland asked, as if he sensed her hesitation. “He bought a lottery ticket using your numbers on the day those numbers were picked. If that's not fate, I don't know what is."
True, true, Ashley mused silently. Out loud, she whispered, “I'm scared, Deckland. I'm scared of getting my heart ripped apart again. I—I don't think I could live through that a second time.” Just thinking about that kind of pain sucked the air from her lungs. She took a deep breath to regain it. “You have no idea how much I love Michael. And loving him gives him all sorts of power."
"It goes both ways, my dear. It goes both ways."
So it did. The question was, did Michael love her the same way she loved him? If only she could be sure.
She stared down at the passenger lists she clutched in her hand. It was proof that he hadn't forgotten her, but was it actually proof that he still loved her?
Deckland crossed the cabin room and put an urgent hand on her shoulder. “Tonight's the last night of this cruise. Don't let him walk away tomorrow without telling him, Ashley. If you do, I think you'll regret it for the rest of your life."
She had a funny feeling Deckland was right.
* * * *
She was dressed and ready for their last dinner aboard the ship by the time Michael returned. His tuxedo lay ready on the bed, and she'd shined his shoes.
Wifely things, she'd thought, and judging by the glow in Michael's eyes when he saw what she'd done, he thought so too.
She found herself blushing. “I, um, saw that you were running late, so I got everything ready for you. Did you talk to Bart? How did it go? I've been going out of my mind waiting on you to get back.” Actually, she'd been going out of her mind wondering if she would get the courage to tell him that she loved him. “Did he—he admit to everything?"
Michael took his time answering, his hot, lazy gaze moving over her figure, then wandering back to her face. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice disturbingly husky.
She wore a short black dress, black high heels, and a silk shawl draped casually over her bare shoulders. She'd fashioned her hair into a loose French twist. Glittering black onyx earrings dangled from her ears and a matching collar necklace circled her throat.
Michael made her feel as if she wore a diamond-studded evening gown and Cinderella's slippers.
Blushing again, she said softly, “Thank you. Now, please tell me about your meeting with Bart."
His heated gaze cooled a few degrees. He handed her a manila folder as he said, “You were right. He wins a medal for having the most convincing sob story."
"Don't be cruel,” she chided, taking the folder. She opened it, taking her time scanning the contents. By the time she finished, she had to blink the tears from her eyes. She sniffed, daring Michael to laugh at her. “Poor Birdie and poor Bart. We have to do something, Michael."
"We have done something,” he said. “We've given them a small fortune in jewelry, and I told him that he could keep the six thousand."
"You mean the eight thousand. I don't want my money back."
He turned her and finished zipping her dress, his hands lingering on her shoulders, his breath warm on her neck. “I figured you'd say that, so I told him to keep it. In return, he's promised to stop stealing."
Suppressing a shiver at his touch, Ashley glanced over her shoulder at him. “Do you think he will?"
"He'd better."
"So, he's been stealing money to finance their cruises to keep Birdie happy during her last years?"
"That about sums it up, yeah. He claims that Birdie isn't aware of the disease. Meeting new people all the time keeps her in the dark
. She doesn't have to remember them, like she does her family."
"They have children?"
"Yes. Two grown daughters and five grandchildren."
"She's never mentioned them,” Ashley said, blinking at the tears that welled in her eyes. Poor Birdie.
"That's because—according to Bart—she doesn't remember them often."
A tear trickled down her cheek. Ashley wiped it away, but another soon followed. So much for her careful makeup job! “That's—that's awful.” She sat on the edge of the bed, watching him get dressed. “I'd like to help them, Michael. I won five hundred thousand dollars. I can afford to be generous."
Shooting her an enigmatic glance, Michael slipped into his tuxedo jacket. He began to fiddle with the bow tie.
Ashley rose and went to help him. She brushed his hands away. “Let me do it."
He gave up without a fight, watching her face intently as she worked. “He says he has a notebook in his cabin. He claims he keeps up with everyone he robs, and how much he owes them. Birdie has life insurance..."
"Oh.” Ashley blinked rapidly again to clear her eyes. “Maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe he does intend to pay everyone back. Bart doesn't strike me as the ruthless criminal type."
"Apparently,” Michael said dryly, “He doesn't strike anyone as the ruthless criminal type. That's why he's been so successful at robbing people. I forgot to ask him, but I think Birdie's missing brooch was the first step in pulling the wool neatly over our eyes."
Unfortunately, Michael's theory made sense. “In reporting the brooch stolen, he made sure that when another theft was discovered, he was already a victim, not a suspect."
"Exactly."
Ashley frowned as a new thought occurred to her. “But Birdie was so upset over her brooch."
"Birdie has Alzheimer,” he gently reminded her. “Chances are the brooch has been missing for a long time, and she doesn't remember."
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