by Mia Marlowe
Someone grabbed her shoulders and dragged her back. She resisted, but was too weak to stop them.
‘Come on, kid,’ she speechread on the middle-aged man’s lips.
“I can’t hear you.” Sara spun back to face the ocean, her chest so constricted by panic, she could hardly draw breath. “There’s someone else in the water. Ryan!”
A sleek head surfaced near Lulu’s bobbing form and Sara started breathing again.
“Ryan!”
He must have seen Lulu floundering, for he sliced the waves with sure strokes toward her. Ryan grabbed the little dog and then worked with the surge of the waves to kick toward the shore.
“Sara, are you all right?” his lips formed as soon as he could stand. Lulu scrambled up his wet shirt with her sharp little claws to cling to one of his shoulders, panting and licking his neck and cheek.
Forget bites of his muffin. After this, the little drowned rat would adore Ryan for life even if he never brought her another treat again.
Sara pulled away from the couple who’d yanked her from the water and stumbled back in. She threw her arms around Ryan and kissed his neck, too, shaking with relief. “I thought you drowned.”
‘I did, too,’ he signed after peeling Lulu off his shoulder and handing her to Sara. ‘Couldn’t get the seatbelt unfastened. Thank God for my Swiss army knife.’
“Thank God you’re still enough of a Boy Scout to carry one,” she agreed, shivering from the cold. Even in high summer, the water temperature off Maine barely made it to the 60’s.
Ryan put an arm around Sara’s shoulders and together they trudged out of the surf. The couple who pulled her out the first time was still waiting, dancing excitedly at the water’s edge. They climbed back up the steep slope to the other couple’s waiting vehicle. Ryan spoke to them and Sara was able to follow enough of the conversation to realize he’d asked them for a ride.
The last thing she wanted was to spend hours in a police station dripping salt water and relying entirely on speechreading, but that was probably where they were bound. When she climbed into the tiny back seat of the Good Samaritans’ convertible, she decided any place that promised a warm blanket sounded like heaven.
Sara hated getting sea water and sandy grit all over these kind strangers’ car, but there seemed to be no help for it. She tried to keep Lulu on her lap. The dog gave a power shake that threw drops of salt-water everywhere.
“Sorry,” Sara said to the couple.
The woman gave her a sympathetic smile, but didn’t say anything. Either Ryan had explained about her deafness or the lady believed in the same policy as Sara’s mother.
If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.
Ryan gave the driver directions and they drove back to the highway and up the coastline a short distance. Instead of heading toward the authorities, Ryan directed the couple to pull into a private drive. There was a heavily fortified, gated entrance with a guard station. A ten-foot-tall brick wall disappeared into the thick woods around the property.
“These people don’t look like they want visitors,” she said.
‘It’s ok,’ Ryan signed back. He jumped out of the convertible and spoke to the guard who quickly opened the electronic gate and waved them on. As they passed, Sara noticed the guard was armed and there were surveillance cameras trained on them.
They drove through a Sleeping Beauty-style woods, thick and unkempt and pressing close to the narrow lane. Then the woods dissolved abruptly into immaculate spreading grounds. They passed a brick building that looked too elegant to be a stable, but it was hard to argue the point when several horses peered out at them over open half-doors. Next Sara saw an elaborate glass greenhouse that looked like it had been lifted in one piece from a Victorian garden and plunked down in Maine, complete with vining ivy.
They passed a caretakers’ cottage that was so big, Sara mistook it for the main house until she looked down a long tree-lined lane.
Usually, granite lions in front of a house made Sara want to laugh. They were invariably overblown attempts at grandeur that failed miserably. At the end of the lane, there was a monstrously grand edifice in weathered gray stone that wasn’t rendered ridiculous by the granite lions crouching by the front steps. There was no other word for it. It was the first home that deserved to be called a mansion Sara had ever seen with her own eyes.
Ryan helped her out of the back of the convertible and pulled out his waterlogged wallet. The driver tried to wave away his offer, but Sara saw a couple damp bills change hands.
Very large denomination bills.
By his own admission, Ryan wasn’t finished with his doctorate or in private practice for himself yet. But he lived in a luxury high-rise, had a classic car (emphasis on had, she added with a sigh of regret) and seemed to carry as many hundreds in his billfold as Sara carried ones. For the first time, she wondered how Ryan supported himself. Could he be one of those disgusting trust fund brats her blue-collar father claimed were the bane of civilization?
The convertible pulled away.
‘Shouldn’t we ask them to wait to see if the people here will help us?’ she signed.
‘Not to worry,’ Ryan motioned back as he mounted the granite steps. He grasped the brass knocker and pounded a couple times. ‘This is my uncle’s place. One of them anyway.’
Sara wondered if he meant one of his uncles or if this particular uncle had more than one place. With a spread like this, who would need anything else?
‘Relax,’ Ryan signed. ‘It’ll be ok.’
~
It was far from ok, but he didn’t see what else he could do. Sara’s eyes were wild. She was probably suffering from a mild case of shock. She looked like she was holding on by a thread. He didn’t want to upset her more than she already was.
Still, the last thing he wanted to do was ask his Uncle Nicky for a favor. Nicholas Garibaldi had a disconcerting habit of making sure his debtors repaid him and usually not in coin of their own choosing. But right now, the family estate was a safe place and Sara needed safe.
Until Ryan figured out what just happened.
Braxton, his uncle’s exceedingly proper English butler, opened the double doors before them. “Ah! Master Ryan, how good to see you again, sir.”
‘Did he just call you master?’ Sara signed.
Ryan nodded. ‘And I can’t get him to quit it.’ He turned back to Braxton. The little English twit was a nervous sparrow of a man, but Uncle Nicky thought he added a touch of class to the estate. But Braxton was ruthlessly efficient and Ryan needed someone who could handle a mini-crisis. For that, Braxton was perfect. “Is Uncle Nick home?”
“Not at present, sir.” Braxton eyed the puddles Ryan and Sara were leaving as they wandered across the marble floor of the two story foyer, but the butler was too well-bred to say anything. He even refrained from comment on Lulu when the sodden mutt gave another full-body shake and spattered one of the waist-tall Ming dynasty vases flanking the front door.
“How about Grellner?” His uncle’s security chief would do in a pinch. Herbert Grellner should know about this attack anyway. He’d be able to tell Ryan just who Uncle Nick had pissed off recently. And if any of them were upset enough or ballsy enough to take a swipe at a member of Nick’s family in retaliation.
‘Is he going to call the police?’ Sara signed.
Oh, Uncle Nick would love that. The cops would have a field day with an invitation to stroll into Nicholas Garibaldi’s stronghold. They wouldn’t even need a warrant to snoop around.
‘I’ll take care of it,’ he signed back. “Braxton, this is Sara Kelley. She has a hearing impairment, but if you face her squarely and speak slowly and distinctly, she’s able to speechread.”
“Greetings, Ms. Kelley,” the unflappable Englishman said with a slight bow. “May I see you to a guest suite where you can…freshen up?”
‘Come with me,’ Ryan signed. ‘A hot tub and some dry clothes will make you feel better.’ He sco
oped up Lulu and handed her to Braxton. “I’ll take care of Sara. Perhaps you can see that Lulu…freshens up as well.”
~
Sara tried pinching herself, but nothing changed. She’d watched reruns of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous a few times, but this grand house beat anything she’d ever imagined. With Lulu tucked firmly in one arm, Braxton insisted upon leading Sara up a curving staircase to a sumptuous collection of rooms on the second floor. The space looked like a centerfold from Architectural Digest, furnished in rich antiques that had certainly never seen the inside of a flea market.
“Oh my gosh!” she said after Braxton left her alone with Ryan. She knelt to run a hand over the thick Oriental rug that floated in the center of the inlaid hardwood.
‘Yeah, Uncle Nick likes to impress.’ Ryan switched to fingerspelling. ‘The floors are Brazilian cherry.’
“So much for the rainforest,” Sara said aloud.
‘What can we do about your hearing aids?’ he signed.
“I’ll take out the batteries and dry them with a hair dryer and see if that works,” she said. “It fixed them when I was caught in a rain shower once, but they weren’t totally soaked like now.”
‘Give them to me,’ Ryan signed. ‘Braxton will see to it and if you need new batteries, he’ll send someone to get them.’
Then he opened the door to a closet that would easily hold her entire bedroom and admonished her to choose something from the wide assortment of clothing hanging there. Arranged by size and color, the tags were still hanging on the garments.
‘Uncle Nick likes to bring guests up on short notice, so he keeps these rooms stocked with whatever someone might need,’ Ryan explained. ‘Choose what you like.’
She ran her hand along the collection of casual wear. Open mouthed, she fingered a designer trouser in grey silk. In her size. “Who lives like this?”
“My Uncle Nick does,” Ryan said. “And for now, we will, too.” He held out his hand. “Let me see what I can do about your hearing aids and I’ll be back after you’ve had a bath.”
She took them out and plopped them into his waiting palm. “Thank you,” she said, still in awe of her surroundings. Then she forgot them as she looked at Ryan. His wet shirt clung to his chest, showing the definition of his musculature. The man had a six-pack, for pity’s sake.
Who was he? Gorgeous, rich and making sure she had batteries for her hearing aids. Maybe he wasn’t kidding about the Superman thing. But there was something mysterious about him as well, something that didn’t quite make sense to her mind.
“Thank you for saving Lulu, too.” She stood on tiptoe to peck his cheek with a quick kiss. Everything had happened so fast, it was almost too much to take in. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t thanked him before now. “I’ll never be able to repay you.”
A wicked smile curved his lips. “A smart girl like you?” he said slowly and distinctly so she’d be able to read him. “You’ll think of something.”
Something definitely came to mind. She rolled her eyes at him, thankful again that she hadn’t shaved her legs that morning.
“Give me half an hour,” she ordered as she turned him around and gave him a gentle shove toward the door. Out of habit, she locked it behind him.
Then she headed for the bathroom.
It was a symphony of tile and sleek chrome. There was a waterfall shower in gray granite. A stained glass window arched above a jetted tub that would easily accommodate three people. Light dappled the private sanctuary with a kaleidoscope of colors.
Sara filled the tub and stripped out of her sodden clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap. She sank into the hot bliss of swirling water and willed herself to put her questions aside for the length of time it took to enjoy this decadently opulent bath.
“This isn’t a bathroom,” she said with a sigh as her clenched joints unstiffened. “It’s a religious experience.”
Chapter 8
Ryan showered and donned a fresh Izod polo and Dockers shorts. He winced as he stooped to adjust his Chaco hiking sandals. He had a few aches and bruises from his frantic moments wrestling underwater to escape the sinking T-bird. There was a puncture wound on his knee that probably came from banging against the keys in the ignition as he struggled to free himself. It had taken every bit of his will not to panic as the vehicle slowly sank. If his military training hadn’t kicked in, he suspected he’d be dead.
And who wanted him dead?
More precisely, which of his uncle’s competitors might want to send a message to Nicholas Garibaldi via a dead nephew?
The fact that Sara was caught in the message as well made a red haze settle over his vision. It was probably a good thing Uncle Nick wasn’t here. Ryan couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t say or do something he’d later regret.
Angering Nicholas Garibaldi was not only unwise, it was unhealthy.
Not so much to Ryan himself. After all, he was the only son of Nick’s only brother. His only dead brother. And since Nicholas hadn’t managed to sire a son of his own through any of his half dozen serial marriages, Uncle Nick made no secret of his hopes that Ryan might relent and join the family business some day. So Ryan probably didn’t have anything to fear personally from Nick’s wrath.
But there was still his mom. And his grandparents.
And now Sara.
He decided it was a very good thing Uncle Nick wasn’t here.
~
Sara wandered down the stairs in her borrowed finery, feeling as if she’d slipped into someone else’s life along with the designer clothes. She stopped to admire a Monet hanging in a little niche, almost as an afterthought.
She knew there were people who lived in homes that would easily house her entire extended family, who wore single outfits that cost more than her whole year’s clothing budget, who surrounded themselves with exquisite furnishings and museum quality art. She just never expected to see them doing it up close and personal.
Of course, as empty as the house seemed, maybe personal wasn’t the right word.
So far, everyone she met was an employee. Her hearing aids had been returned, dry and in peak operating condition with new batteries. Lulu was back with her as well, freshly bathed, trimmed and, to the dog’s annoyance, decked with purple ribbons above each ear. Someone had even painted her claws to match the new frippery and Lulu’s plain brown leather collar had been replaced by one that winked with rhinestones.
Surely they were rhinestones…
Lulu was as upscale as a mongrel of indeterminate parentage could ever be. Sara suspected, even with the gray silk trousers and pale peach twinset, she looked similarly out of her element.
A union-man’s daughter playing dress up in a rich man’s mansion.
May as well enjoy it while I can. She turned back to the Monet. It was one of his water lily pieces, ethereal and soft-edged. It was the kind of painting that made more sense the further away from it you stood.
But up this close, she noticed a small corner of white sticking from behind the frame. She reached up to tuck it in, but it fluttered to the floor instead.
Guiltily, she looked around. No one was in sight, so she stooped to retrieve it.
An envelope embossed with an official-looking seal. It had been opened already. She glanced up again. Still no one.
This time when she looked at the seal, she recognized the pattern. It was the seal of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Obviously, Ryan’s uncle moved in rarified circles. Burning with curiosity, she slipped the note from the envelope. In gilt letters the stationery proclaimed “From the desk of—”
Oh my gosh! Senator Wellesley. He was a veritable institution in New England politics, a name to conjure when lines were drawn and deals were made.
‘Thanks for…something indecipherable, maybe protecting?… ALICE.’ The penmanship was worse than any doctor’s. The cryptic note was signed with a squiggle Sara assumed was the senator’s signature.
At her feet, Lulu began turn
ing circles. Someone was coming. Sara fumbled with the envelope and managed to stash it back behind the painting just as Ryan rounded the corner and appeared at the foot of the long staircase.
“You look fabulous,” he said.
Her cheeks burned, but he hadn’t caught her being a snoop. She nearly sagged with relief as she descended the stairs to join him.
“You look pretty good yourself.” She was glad he’d switched to shorts. The man had great legs—long and straight and lightly dusted with golden hairs. Along with his thickly muscled calves, she noticed a bandage on his knee. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” His mouth turned up in a wicked smile. “Unless you’re offering to kiss it and make it better.”
She swatted his chest and to her puzzlement, his smile only deepened. The man must thrive on rejection, though truth to tell, she felt less and less like rejecting him. She’d even relented and shaved her legs in that decadent tub.
But only because prickly nubs would have been sacrilege under silk trousers, she told herself.
“You know it really is a miracle that we only have a few scrapes to show for this morning,” she said. “Have you spoken with the police?”
“Better than that.” Ryan took her elbow and steered her toward a light-kissed dining room with a panoramic view of the ocean. “I turned the whole thing over to my uncle’s head of security. Mr. Grellner will take care of things.”
“But isn’t it a law or something that we have to notify the police?”
“And what would we tell them? Did you get a look at the driver?”
She shook her head.
“Me, neither.” He pulled out a Queen Anne chair for her at the mahogany dining table. “Face it, we don’t have anything to offer the police but a chance to write up a report that will end up in a file someplace for unsolved crimes. Grellner’s already on his way over to take casts of the tire tracks and see if he can turn up anything else. Believe me, the local authorities don’t have the time or the resources to run this down. My uncle’s people do.”