Bannon Brothers

by Janet Dailey

  “No,” she said softly. The merest ghost of a smile flickered across her set features.

  He took courage from that. “Okay. Now that we discussed it, the commission sounds more and more like a great opportunity. Go for it.”

  If it was possible to die of insincerity, he was a goner.

  Erin unfolded her crossed arms and sighed. “I can’t figure you out, Bannon.”

  He grinned. “Just as well.”

  She made a growly noise at him, a girl-type growl of frustration, and Charlie looked up at her, surprised by it. “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing important.” He took a step toward her but she took a step back.

  “Whoa. Mrs. Meriweather said to meet her at the Montgomery house, the new one, first thing tomorrow morning. Apparently he gets up with the sun. So will I.”

  Ouch. He got the message: He was about to be kicked out, nicely enough. It happened. Not the end of the world. He hadn’t expected that phone call any more than she had.

  “Which means I have to get ready tonight.” She sighed.

  Before he could disagree with that statement, she turned around and went into her bedroom—to take off her jacket and jeans, he assumed. The door closed behind her with a firm click.

  He felt a little like Montgomery had deliberately come between him and Erin. It occurred to him that someone might have tipped the old man off to his presence in her house, but he decided he’d done enough overreacting for one day.

  Bannon went over to the window and looked out at nothing, vaguely hearing the sound of running water. He saw her reflection in the window when she came back out from her bedroom—she was walking slowly, brushing the windblown tangles out of her long hair until it shone.

  Double hell. He loved to watch a woman doing that. It soothed his soul and made him hot at the same time.

  Forget it, he told himself. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Erin stopped when she noticed he was watching her in the glass.

  He turned around. He pretty much knew what she was going to say before she said it.

  “I set my alarm and the shower’s heating up. It’s been really nice, Bannon. Thanks for stopping by.”

  Her tone was cool. But she stretched up on tiptoe and planted a sweet little kiss on his cheek.

  “You sure you want me to go?” In a split second, he had himself an armful of warm girl and he was kissing her. It was Erin who stopped it, pulling back, but with her arms twined around his neck and a smile on her lips.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Bannon was disappointed, but he didn’t argue. “Okay, angel,” was all he said.

  CHAPTER 8

  A beautifully manicured hand brushed over prescription pill bottles set in rows inside a mirrored bathroom cabinet, picking up one and then another to examine their labels, then returning them to the shelf.

  “Aha.” Caroline found the one she’d been looking for. She peered at the label to make sure and rattled it. “Almost full,” she whispered angrily.

  She’d had a feeling Monty hadn’t been taking these. This prescription was the important one, meant to lower his high blood pressure and lower the risk of stroke, but he grumbled about the side effects, even though they were mild.

  The other bottles held a few tablets each—she’d been helping herself now and then—sedatives, muscle relaxants, and sleeping pills. Nothing very strong; nothing that could cause addiction. But then Hugh Montgomery wasn’t the type to get addicted to anything or admit he even needed medicine of any kind. He seemed to be able to keep going on pure strength of will.

  Caroline held the bottle between her forefinger and thumb, looking at the small pills through the amber plastic as if she was counting them. How to get him to take these—and take his declining health seriously—she didn’t know.

  She was enormously afraid of missing out on everything she’d been hoping for since the day she’d set her mind on bedding and wedding the last of the Montgomery men. An extravagant ceremony at the church. A baby she could dress up and show off. A secure position in Virginia society. Bolstered, of course, by the Montgomery fortune.

  Admittedly, Monty was old enough to be her father. But men of his generation produced second and third families all the time nowadays, she thought irritably. With a little luck, a young wife could provide living proof of her aging husband’s virility. One bouncing baby was enough. There was no need for a second set of stretch marks.

  And when overindulgence in bourbon and cigars and marbled beef finally caught up with said husband, a wife could inherit everything and enjoy it—and hand over the baby to a nanny.

  But Caroline wasn’t his wife, wasn’t even close to being engaged to him. Age had made him cautious and a surprise pregnancy wasn’t going to happen. He swore he didn’t want more children anyway. The romance had long since fizzled, but they had a . . . relationship of sorts.

  And now there was an added problem: the little girl from his first marriage. Long gone, never found. But Caro had a feeling that deep down he still had hope. The TV newscast and all the Web buzz had gotten to him, whether or not he wanted to admit it.

  She rattled the bottle again. If he didn’t take his medicine, he would be dead before she could persuade him to make her the second Mrs. Montgomery. Once in a blue moon Caro wondered what had happened to the first, the mother of the little girl, but she never dared to ask.

  Probably living quietly somewhere far away. Bought off, no doubt. That was Monty’s favorite tactic.

  She would almost settle for that herself at this point, if the severance package was attractive enough.

  Living with him had its perks, but oodles of cash to spend wasn’t one. He was actually fairly stingy and it seemed to be getting worse as he got older. Caroline had no idea of his actual wealth, though. Or whether she was mentioned in his will.

  It would be a nice gesture if he didn’t plan to marry her. She was farther from that goal now than she had ever been, fighting the first signs of middle age, which had made an unwelcome appearance when she’d turned thirty. Now, two years later, her porcelain skin was looking a little . . . cracked. And the best plastic surgeon in Virginia had told her she was too young for a face-lift.

  Shots and wrinkle creams could only do so much. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered with either. Monty probably hadn’t noticed the frown line between her graceful eyebrows before her dermatologist zapped it with a needle full of magic. She gazed into the mirror on the cabinet door, willing her features into a calm mask.

  The veined black marble tiles on the walls of Monty’s bathroom didn’t flatter her skin. There were gray hollows under her eyes that expensive concealer didn’t hide anymore. Her salon stylist was staying ahead of the gray in her hair—the woman was always telling her to put on a happy face to brighten up the pale blond shade. As if smiling would help turn back time. Caroline’s lips, recently plumped with injected collagen, curved in a stiff smile at her reflection.

  From a distance, she was gorgeous. Up close, the maintenance showed.

  Caroline put the bottle of blood pressure medication back among the others and closed the cabinet door almost noiselessly. She wanted to slam it. But the housekeeper might hear and come running.

  She walked out of Monty’s bathroom, through his bedroom and past the immense bed, upholstered in masculine and pricey dark charcoal fabric. The side of the bed where she should have slept, summoned from her peach-hued chamber when he felt like it, was pulled tight, undisturbed. It had come to that.

  Caroline lifted her head as she walked past the stocky older woman starting to vacuum the carpet in the upper hall. Her high heels caught the vacuum’s power cord and she kicked it viciously out of her way, not stopping to listen to the woman’s apology for being in the way.

  Ahead was another room that faced the back garden of the house and a sheltered area for Monty’s collector cars. Monty knew how to spend his money. On his non-human toys, anyway. The expensive vehicles were kept polished and
in perfect working order. Lucky for them, they didn’t wrinkle. She herself had gone from being adored to ignored in the last couple of years.

  The room was undecorated and nearly empty, except for a telephone on a small table and an ugly armchair next to that. She could slam the door, now that the vacuum was going full blast and droning monotonously, and sit there as long as she liked.

  Caroline stalked inside, flung herself down into the chair, and looked out the window.

  Well, well. Monty was going somewhere. He hadn’t told her about it. She scrambled to her feet and made sure of which way he was driving before she raced down the back stairs to her own car, parked close to the house. There was only one road in that direction and it led to the Montgomery stables and stud farm, twenty-seven miles away.

  The morning mist was burning off, floating away through the white-painted rails of the paddocks and exercise areas. Its departure revealed the springy dark ground inside the working areas, and the close-clipped grass outside them, emerald green and flawless.

  Trying to stay out of sight, Caroline squinted at the back of a man walking toward the stables until Monty came into focus. Bifocals were the next humiliation she would have to endure, she supposed. She ought to have recognized him just by his clothes. He wore the same patrician and deliberately shabby riding jacket he’d sported for decades—rich people could be so strangely cheap about things like that—buff-colored breeches, and riding boots. He turned to speak to someone following him whom she couldn’t see yet.

  Caroline drew back into the doorway of a small, remodeled house that served riders and trainers as a hangout and a place to change. It was never locked. She tried the door and ventured a look inside. Not a sound, not a soul around. Thank God. She dashed inside and upstairs, positive he hadn’t seen her.

  From an upstairs room with sloping eaves, she listened to Montgomery from behind a window with a cracked pane and blowing curtains.

  His voice was low, with a courteous note in it she knew, although it had been a while since he’d spoken to her that pleasantly. Feminine instinct told her that he was with a woman, and that instinct had claws.

  Still listening, she extended her red nails and examined them. Made for scratching. But she was a Loudon, and she had never indulged herself in a catfight.

  However, there was a first time for everything.

  Caroline waited, dragging in breaths that hurt. Monty had paused. She pushed aside a section of curtain and peeked out. A smile, something she hadn’t seen on his face in longer than she could remember, eased the lines of age and strain on his face.

  The woman came into view. She seemed awfully young to Caroline, with long, shining chestnut hair that flowed freely down her back. Slender. Wearing jeans and a short shearling jacket, unbuttoned.

  Was Monty hiring her as an exercise rider? She didn’t look like a jockey, and no female jockey had ever worn Montgomery silks. But he’d hired a few women to exercise his horses.

  That had been forever ago, during a time she referred to as B.C., as in Before Caroline. She hadn’t wasted any time in easing them off the payroll and out of the stables.

  She desperately wanted to move closer to the window, even open it slightly so she could hear better. But the two people below might hear her do it. She stayed behind the curtain, her hands keeping it from blowing around too much. She clutched the plain material when the woman in jeans turned around. Caroline studied her face intently. Whoever she was, she looked young enough to be his daughter. The thought made Caro want to gag.

  It hadn’t been that long ago that she got taken for his daughter. As compliments went, it was on the creepy side, but she’d laughed it off. Monty never had, now that she thought of it.

  Her eyebrows went up when a second woman joined the twosome. Was she the mother of the first? Probably not. She was older than Montgomery, by the looks of her. Her pure white curls bobbed as she spoke to both of them in a fluty voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Caroline.

  The right name came to mind in a few seconds: Mrs. Meriweather. From the historical society. But what was she doing out here at this hour of the morning? Had the roof fallen in at his ancestral manse? Or was she hustling Monty for more money for that dusty little museum of hers? Maybe she was reminding him that she hoped he’d write a history of the Montgomery clan. He’d never even gotten around to opening the accordion files of family papers and documents someone had organized for him years ago. Good luck with that, Caroline thought sourly.

  If that old house collapsed, good riddance. For no particular reason, Caroline hated that place. He should have given it outright to the society, not just used it for a tax deduction. She’d overheard a couple of phone calls on that subject, understood that he would need more and more deductions to offset his quarterly somethings. What she didn’t understand was why the well of cash seemed to be drying up. She would give anything to find out, but Monty didn’t talk about his financial affairs.

  Caroline just might have to hire someone to sleuth for her. She’d only stayed with him for the payoff, after all. And if there wasn’t going to be one, then it was back to Daddy’s house for her.

  The group below moved out of her line of vision and into the stables. She leaned against the window frame, waiting to see if they would come back out, but no one did. Caroline moved the curtain, staring out boldly this time.

  Erin was several feet behind Montgomery and Mrs. Meriweather, standing just inside the sliding doors of the stables. Then something made her look back at the tiny house opposite. She realized a trick of the light rendered her invisible to the pale blonde she glimpsed at an upstairs window.

  Looking angry, the other woman stood there for only a second, long enough for Erin to notice that she dressed well and wore a lot of makeup. The haughty tilt of her chin said socialite, but that was a guess and nothing more. She did seem to belong here somehow. Suddenly she whirled around and disappeared into the dark recess of the room behind her.

  Who was she?

  Erin glanced at Hugh Montgomery, deep in conversation with Mrs. Meriweather, who was singing Erin’s praises as an artist. Interrupting them to ask if the woman she’d just seen was his wife didn’t seem tactful or wise.

  Mrs. Meriweather, chatting a mile a minute in the car while Erin drove, had mentioned that Hugh Montgomery lived with a much younger blonde named Caroline, but not whether they were married or engaged or what. Erin didn’t think the woman at the window had been wearing a diamond ring or any rings on her fingers—the light would have caught it. For what it was worth, Erin had noticed that Montgomery didn’t wear a wedding ring. But a lot of men didn’t.

  She hoped and prayed he wasn’t going to make a wrong move. Bannon’s uneasiness and oblique comments after last night’s phone call came back to her. What did he know that she didn’t? She hadn’t wanted to listen.

  Montgomery kept right on talking to Mrs. Meriweather, who was so much shorter than he that she didn’t seem to notice him looking at Erin and not her.

  His gaze stayed mostly on her and an inexplicable feeling of being under a microscope made her tense up every time he caught her eye. Accompanying it was a very strange sense of déjà vu. Yet she was sure she’d never met Hugh Montgomery before.

  Wait, she told herself. In a way she had. There was the portrait at the old house, done when he’d been much younger. She had been struck by the sadness behind the authoritative face in the painting. At this late stage of his life, the second quality was even more evident.

  “The cost is no object,” he was saying to Mrs. Meriweather. “So long as I get what I want.”

  Erin cringed inwardly. What a way to put it. Well, there was nothing in writing. She could back out. One thing for sure, she suddenly didn’t like the idea of being alone with him. If—and it was getting to be a big if—she took this project on, she would make sure she never was. Fortunately, a stable of this size and complexity was a busy place, with grooms and riders coming and going with horses often.


  She wondered if he was going to talk to her directly at some point. Maybe not. Some rich people delegated everything, including relationships.

  But the way he looked at her and the unhappy woman she’d seen at the window turned the fresh mood of the morning into something off-kilter. She no longer wanted to be there. However, it wasn’t as if she could walk out and leave Mrs. Meriweather.

  To distract herself, she walked down the paved center of the stable between the stalls. Tack and saddles were hung up in designated places on board walls and the floors were clean, with fresh straw carefully strewn about in wet spots.

  She took a small notepad out of a jacket pocket and opened it, sketching details at random for later reference. Not the horses. She was concentrating on the setting. A mare stretched her neck and looked at Erin curiously, flaring velvety nostrils to get a whiff of the newcomer to the stables.

  Erin scribbled a note to herself: Bring carrots.

  She put the pad back in her pocket and walked on. Mrs. Meriweather had followed Montgomery into an office that had a wide interior window set into a wall so the stables could be viewed from it. He was pointing to framed photos on the wall. Erin could just see a row of trophies and silver cups in a glass-doored cabinet, show ribbons pinned to its back.

  But she couldn’t hear them. Fine with her. Erin wandered on. She found a rough wooden bench in a quiet part of the stables and sat down. Thinking about the painting he wanted her to do was easier than thinking about the man who’d commissioned it.

  What was he expecting?

  A lot of horse portraits were just heads against plain, dark backgrounds—an Elvis-on-velvet look that she hoped he wouldn’t ask for. Horses looking over stall doors were popular too. Neither interested her very much. She’d much rather portray Montgomery’s champion racehorse at liberty.

  Granted, a horse worth millions wasn’t going to be let loose just because she wanted to see it gallop around. Just painting the head would be a lot easier. But what if it ended up looking like an ad for equine grooming products, all lustrous mane and sparkling eyes?