by Mary Campisi
“Rourke?”
Dead. “What happened?”
Miles slid the portfolio across the desk. “He was a demolition subcontractor. Fell fifty feet onto concrete.”
“Did his fall harness malfunction?” Rourke imagined the harness strap breaking and the unknown man’s horror in the millisecond before he hit concrete.
Miles shook his head. “Not that the inspectors can tell.”
“Christ.” Rourke grabbed the portfolio and scanned the report. When he noticed the date of the incident he cursed again. “Why am I just hearing about this if it happened almost five months ago?”
“We tried to insulate you. It’s not good for the head of the company to get dragged down by something like this.”
“Dragged down? The man died, for Christ’s sake. I should have been told.”
“I apologize. You were in the middle of the Chemstrol acquisition.” Miles fiddled with his bow tie and added, “That’s why we brought this to Diana.”
“She knew about this?”
Miles nodded.
He’d deal with his aunt and her subterfuge once he handled this situation. “What problem could be larger than this man’s life?”
“A lawsuit.”
Of course. “I see.”
“We’ve already begun preliminary work on our end and hired our own investigators.”
“To prove what?” That despite all the precautions people still died?
“We’re trying to determine if we might have some level of responsibility here.” Miles cleared his throat—not a good sign—and added, “The man also had a wife and daughter.”
Rourke stared at the file in front of him. Now there was a widow and a fatherless child involved. “I want to meet the widow. Express my sympathies. It’s the least I can do.” And then, “How old is the child?”
“I have no idea.”
Nothing could replace a father, but he had to do something. “I’ll set up a college fund.”
“If you do that, you might as well wear a banner that says, ‘Guilty’.”
“Do you know what it’s like to lose a father?” Rourke knew. He knew what it was like to lose a mother, too. And inherit an aunt who—
“Thankfully, my father is alive, well, and the Dapper Dan of the Senior Center.”
That provided an interesting picture and a welcome interruption. Dwelling on the past served no purpose. “Give me the woman’s address and I’ll have Maxine make flight reservations.”
Miles hesitated. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Very well.” Miles turned the folder around and searched for an address. “Here it is. Montpelier, New York.”
“Montpelier?” Dread wrapped itself around Rourke’s gut, and squeezed, tighter and tighter as a kernel of possibility exploded. How many demolition contractors were there in a town like Montpelier? He guessed no more than three.
“Yes, Montpelier,” Miles repeated. “It’s a small town west of Syracuse. Quaint. Backward. Less than a half dot on a map.” He rose from his seat and picked up the portfolio Rourke had tossed aside. “Just a minute and I’ll get you the woman’s name.” He rifled through the papers as Rourke’s gut churned with disbelief and panic. “Ah, here it is. Name’s Kathryn. Kathryn Redmond Maden.”
Kate. Rourke pushed back his chair and moved to the set of windows overlooking Chicago. She was out there, hundreds of miles away, just as she’d always been. But one freak accident was about to erase that distance and demolish the walls between them. He could change his mind and send someone else to visit her. He wouldn’t have to see her, wouldn’t have to remember the taste of her…
“Would you like me to see what I can find out about this Mrs. Maden?” Miles asked. “I could do a bit of poking. Perhaps it would make your visit easier if you knew more about her.”
Fourteen years ago I knew everything about her. “Thank you, Miles but that won’t be necessary. Let me look over the file and I’ll get back to you.” Such a calm delivery—as though they weren’t speaking about her. Rourke waited for Miles to leave before phoning Diana. “Can you spare a few minutes? There’s something we need to discuss.”
“I’m on my way,” she said with the casual self-assuredness that had become her trademark in the business world.
He’d thought about dealing with this over the phone so his aunt couldn’t read his body language or the tiny nuances that might slip through when he referred to his old girlfriend. But if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to study her body language. Had she kept this from him for business reasons or had she connected the family ties and discovered who the widow was?
“Rourke?” Diana Flannigan moved toward him, a dynamo of power and authority covered in Bill Blass and pearls. The woman had demolished her share of businessmen who’d been fooled by her tiny stature and casual elegance. She’d never married, never expressed maternal desire or interest in anyone not connected to RF Renovations. “Do you have word from Gamitrond?” Diana asked as she slid into one of the wingbacked chairs opposite his desk.
Always the businesswoman. “Actually, Gamitrond’s on hold right now.” He ignored the raised brow and plowed on, “Why didn’t you tell me we lost a man at the New York site?”
“You were in the middle of a major negotiation. Involving you would have proven too distracting.”
“Since when is a man’s death distracting?”
Her blue eyes flashed. “When you’re in charge of a multimillion dollar corporation you can’t concern yourself with every unfortunate incident that occurs. That’s why you have people to take care of those things for you.”
“Dammit, Diana, the man died.”
“Yes, he did.”
“He was from Montpelier.” There. He’d said it.
She met his gaze head on. Even smiled. “America’s own Green Acres. I’m surprised you remember that place.”
How can I ever forget it? “I knew the man who died. Clay Maden. His family had a demolition business in town.”
“Ah.”
“I’m going there to pay my respects to his widow.” Kate. Remember her? That got her attention. So, she did remember. He doubted she’d bring it up. Memories of her eighteen year old nephew crying until he puked were better left alone.
“Do you really think that’s necessary? Miles said there could be litigation. Aren’t we risking exposure?” She must have seen the determination on his face, because she softened her approach. “Can’t you at least send a representative with a check instead of making a personal appearance? Money is all those kind of people want anyway.”
Doubtful, but he wasn’t in the mood to debate the issue with his aunt who insisted everything started and ended with dollar signs. “I’m leaving as soon as Maxine can make arrangements.” Had her complexion shifted from pale to paste? The change was so minute he couldn’t tell but he’d swear it had.
“I see.”
“Just so you know, I’m making provisions to care for the child.”
This time her face downshifted to the color of soot. She coughed and sputtered. “What?”
“There’s a daughter.” She probably has mud-brown eyes and red hair, just like the rest of the Madens.
“Rourke—”
“It’s time to make things right.” He dreaded the thought of seeing Kate again, but maybe it was time to do that too.
When Diana left, Rourke retrieved the key from his middle desk drawer and fit it in the credenza behind him. He opened the drawer and shuffled through several folders, searching for the most current, which he removed and laid on the desk in front of him. The file tab was marked with his own bold handwriting—Kate E. Redmond. He refused to think of Kate by her married name. There were eight such files, all reports dating back as many years. He drew in a deep breath and buzzed Maxine. “Hold all my calls for the next twenty minutes.”
“Yes, Mr. Flannigan. Even your niece’s?”
“Especially my niece’s.”
Click.
Rourke ran his fingers along the tab, tracing the name on it twice before he slowly opened the folder and began to read.
Chapter 3
“We’ve got fourteen years of questions between us.”—Rourke Flannigan
“He’s back.”
Kate’s brush slipped, smearing red paint onto the gray siding of the miniature dollhouse. Damn. She snatched a rag and began dabbing at the red spot.
“Kate?”
She dabbed harder as if she could blot out Angie’s words. “I heard you.”
“And?”
Kate glanced up, proud of the outward calm she displayed when her insides were a jumble of panic. “And what?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s me you’re talking to here, the one who sat up with you for three nights straight after that jerk left.” Angie swore under her breath and muttered, “He didn’t even have the decency to say good-bye.”
“It was a long time ago.” Fourteen years in July.
“Sure.”
Angie Sorrento was a pint-size dynamo with a giant-sized temper who swore in Italian and English and could carry a grudge longer than anyone Kate had ever known. The only grudge larger than the one Angie had for Rourke Flannigan was the one relegated to the ex-fiancé who skipped out on her three days before the wedding.
“Really, Angie. Fourteen years is ancient history.”
Angie’s dark eyes narrowed. “That’s what I’m worried about, Kate. Your history with Mr. Jerk.”
“There’s no need to worry.” Kate dipped her brush in red and filled in the trim along the roof. This house was a four bedroom cape cod, designed for Rachel and Jared Hennessy and their seven year old twins, Jeffrey and Jason. The family had relocated from Richmond, Virginia last year so Jared could teach sophomore English and coach basketball in Montpelier. Great family—devoted couple, beautiful kids, even a golden retriever named Jed.
Angie started up again. “Even if it weren’t ‘Mr. Holier than Thou, let me grace you with my presence in this Podunk town’ and even if said man-boy weren’t someone you’d been intimately involved with, I’d still be worried.”
“Unnecessarily.” Kate ignored the way her pulse skittered when Angie talked about him.
“You’re vulnerable.”
“Stop.” Her pulse tripled.
“You buried Clay five months ago. That makes you a lonely widow. The perfect target.”
“You watch too many Lifetime movies.” Had he heard about Clay? That was ridiculous, how could he have heard? She had no idea where he lived and now, suddenly, he was here. Why?
“Katie? Are you all right?”
No, she wasn’t. She hadn’t been all right since—Kate pushed the unwelcome truth away and glanced at her friend. “I’m fine.”
“Fine is code word for no. Look, I know you don’t want to talk about him, but there are some things you’ve got to know before this guy comes waltzing back into your life.”
“He’s hardly waltzing back into my life.”
“Steamrolling then. You just wait and see.”
“We haven’t seen each other since we were eighteen.” A marriage and child ago. “We’re strangers.”
“You were planning to marry the guy.”
Kate set down her brush and plastered the same expression she’d worn when well-wishers patted her hand and offered prayers for strength to endure her newly-widowed state. She’d never told Clay how much he meant to her, not really and now one freakish accident had stolen her chances of ever telling him.
“They say he kicks people out of their homes to get a deal.”
“That’s crazy. He would never—” She stopped. How did she know what he would never do? He was a man now, not a teenager.
“They say he buys the buildings dirt cheap, after he kicks the tenants out, and then renovates the places into posh apartments for his rich friends.” Angie crossed her arms over her small chest and tilted her head to one side so several black springs of hair bounced off her shoulders. “While you were watching Barney with Julia, I was watching him on E and seeing his face plastered in People.”
Rourke had always hated media in any form, said they made it hard to find a nugget of truth in anything. Kate started to shake her head in denial and ended in a shrug. What did she really know about him anymore? The truth slipped out again. Nothing.
“He flew to Sweden to have dinner with some beauty queen. And spent Easter skiing in the Alps.”
“Busy man.” While Rourke was globetrotting, she’d been burying her husband and trying to console her daughter.
“Still not married though plenty have tried to snag him.”
So, there was no wife.
“Here.” Angie slid a folder across the table. “Everything you need to arm yourself against Mr. Rourke Connor Flannigan.”
Kate glanced at the manila folder in front of her. “You make him sound like a villain.”
“If he gets to you again, you won’t survive.”
“Are there pictures in here?” Kate fingered the folder.
“Of course.” Angie let out an indelicate snort. “Okay, he’s drop dead gorgeous, I will give him that, but not much else.”
With a flip of the folder, she could satisfy fourteen years of wondering. “Maybe I’ll just take a peek—”
“Damn! Close the folder. Quick.”
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Jerk’s standing right outside.”
***
Rourke hesitated at the door of the little shop with scalloped pink and blue trim. Dream Houses by Kate. She was in there, the woman who had ripped his heart into tiny shreds, invisible to the human eye.
That was history. He was here to offer condolences, nothing more. But when he opened the door he realized two fatal errors; never engage on foreign ground and never underestimate the past.
She was more beautiful than the photo he obtained two weeks ago. A photograph couldn’t capture the aura of femininity, vulnerability, and raw strength that emanated from her. If he weren’t so good at masking his emotions, he’d be on the floor, sucking for air.
Not Kate. Other than a trimmed wariness flashing in the brilliance of her blue eyes and a slight flair of her delicate nostrils, she appeared unmoved. Where was the girl who had cried on his shoulder during Love Story?
She spoke first. “Hello, Rourke.”
Her voice swirled around him and threatened to pull him under. “Kate.” He hadn’t spoken her name since he was eighteen and the raw unfamiliarity of it burned his lips.
She opened her mouth to speak and Rourke zeroed in on her lips. Full, kissable.
“Well, if it isn’t Rourke Flannigan.”
He snapped his head up and glanced at Kate’s best friend. He hadn’t missed the censure or the distaste in her voice. Some things never changed. “Hello, Angie.”
She dismissed him with a flounce of wild curls and turned to Kate. “I’ll be in the back room if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
He waited until the she-witch disappeared and picked up a strip of miniature lattice, feigning great interest in the delicate wood, anything to keep from staring at Kate. “She never did like me.”
“She’s very protective.”
“Of course.” She always said I’d hurt you. He met Kate’s gaze and the years chipped away. Did I hurt you? Did I rip your insides apart? Did you think of me when you were lying in your husband’s arms?
“Why are you here?”
Was that a tremble in her voice? “Business. And my niece.” He hadn’t meant to mention Abbie, but two seconds with Kate and already his guard started slipping.
“Niece?”
There was a distinct tremble in her voice. Did he make her nervous?
“Rourke? What about your niece?”
“Gwendolyn was killed in a plane crash three months ago. I’m Abbie’s guardian. She’s having some adjustment issues and I thought Montpelier might be a
nice break.”
She looked away. “I see.”
“I don’t know anything about being a father.” He slid into the chair opposite her workstation. “It’s damned harder than when we were kids. I think. Hell, I don’t know.”
“It’s never easy, being the child or the parent.”
“I can see why people opt for the childless route.”
Those huge eyes rimmed with emotion. “Some do.”
“But not you.”
“No.”
She was pulling him in, one whispered word, one doe-eyed glance at a time. He was not a testosterone-crazed teenager anymore. He had been surrounded by far more beautiful, more sophisticated women than the one sitting across from him with red paint smeared on her fingers and a smudge of red on her chin. But none of them were Kate. That was the problem. That had always been the problem.
“I heard about Clay.” He fidgeted with his keys, but couldn’t quite look at her when he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She bowed her head and for one absolutely insane second, he wanted to pull her against him and inhale the scent of her chestnut hair. Would it still smell like coconut? What the hell was he doing here? This wasn’t the Kate he remembered. This one was untouchable. What had he expected? That she’d gaze upon him with something akin to hero worship, like most other women did? He needed to get out. Now. He calculated his exit and just as he’d worked a strategy, he noticed his name in neat print on the tab of the folder lying in front of Kate.