Slow Burn

by Ednah Walters

  “But it’s a good thing I did too, sir. I saw the lady who just left…Ms. Fitzgerald…talking with Doyle’s son only a few seconds ago.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “She pulled up a little past their gate.” Johnson brought the binoculars to his face and peered through the lenses. “She’s still there.”

  Ron wanted to grab the binoculars and see for himself, but restrained himself.

  “Doyle’s son is entering his limo right now. He’s paused…looks back. She’s—”

  “Let me see.” He accepted the binoculars from the guard and trained them on the road. It wasn’t hard to find Ashley’s red sports car. Anger, disappointment and jealousy zapped through him in quick succession when he saw her smile and wave at the limo. A hand waved back through an open back window before the limo disappeared around a bend in the road.

  Smoldering anger replaced all other emotions. Why would Ashley stop to talk with Vaughn Doyle? Had she lied to him about not knowing the Doyles were after Carlyle House? He could have sworn the woman was a straight shooter, but it could be the attraction between them blinding him to reality. He didn’t know what her game was, but he intended to find out.

  Ron set the binoculars down, and without saying a word to the guard, stepped out of the security booth and hurried back to the house.

  ***

  “She still refuses to sell the house to me,” Ryan Doyle said.

  Frankie didn’t respond, but his alert expression said he knew who Doyle meant—the only woman Doyle had ever wanted but couldn’t have, Nina Noble.

  A man in Doyle’s position, a man of his wealth and connection should not have to ask for anything. Over the years, he’d bought properties and women whenever it suited him. But his billions, offices and homes across the country couldn’t guarantee him the one thing he’d always wanted, a willing and devoted Nina by his side.

  Born in Culver City, Doyle had been drawn to the stately homes on the north with their pristine swimming pools and neatly trimmed lawns. The most impressive of them was Carlyle House, owned by the Neumann family. At first, he would climb the trees and peek into their compound. Later, he became their yard and pool boy. Often, he would watch Nina and her friends by the pool while he trimmed hedges, or look at her with longing as she danced and laughed at her birthday parties. She would flaunt herself on the pool deck in her bikini, glancing his way whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. And when he could afford it, he bought her presents and left them on top of the deck table. She never failed to look at him and smile as she opened them. She’d loved him as much he’d loved her.

  Everything changed the day she slipped on the wet deck, hit her head and fell into the water. Doyle had gone by instinct, rescuing her and administering CPR. A heated kiss had followed. All her parents saw was the pool boy on top of their precious daughter. He saved Nina’s life that day, yet he ended up in jail on sexual assault charges. Nina never told the truth about the incident, but he forgave her. She was young at the time, only seventeen, and scared. By the time he was released from jail, Doyle had learned an important lesson—the rich got away with everything. He made a vow to amass as much wealth as possible.

  Doyle studied the thin, bumpy skin that ran from his right middle finger and disappeared under his pale blue custom-fitted shirt with detachment. It was a scar from the day he rescued Nina. He even wore a ring on the finger to draw attention to it. He could easily have taken care of the blemish and the occasional twitch with surgery, but it was a reminder of what he was owed. Nina Noble belonged to him.

  A sneer touched Doyle’s mouth. He’d watched over her as she grew from the pampered girl to the beautiful actress adored by all her fans, but it had given him a great deal of satisfaction to punish the bastard who’d been her first lover and the next ones, too. They had hurt her. He was the only man who could make her truly happy. Robert Noble did for a while, which hadn’t sat well with Doyle. But in the end he made the bastard pay. Dead or alive, no man who’d touched Nina ever escaped him. Ten years ago, she’d said she was in mourning and needed time to get over her husband’s death. He was tired of waiting.

  “Do you want me to do something about her?” Frankie asked.

  “No. Nina is my problem,” Doyle warned. One minute in front of a computer and Frankie could make a person disappear without a trace. Having no bank account, no social security number, no credit history and no birth certificate wasn’t his plan for Nina.

  Doyle rested his elbows on the polished mahogany desk and formed a steeple with his short, thick fingers. His gaze locked on the older man seated opposite him—Francis ‘Frankie’ Higgins. They first met on the streets of L.A., before Doyle’s mother married his brute of a stepfather and moved them to San Bernardino. Frankie bailed him out when he got in a tight spot with a local drug lord, and even though he paid back every cent to Frankie, Doyle never forgot the deed.

  Years later, when Doyle started making a name for himself on the streets, he’d gone in search of Frankie. Between his business acumen and Frankie’s computer skills, they became a formidable money laundering team for major drug dealers along the west coast, until the day the Feds caught Doyle during a sting operation and threw him in jail. He never fingered Frankie. Although his businesses were mainly legal, he occasionally found that he needed Frankie’s expertise, like now.

  Physically, they were nothing alike except for their dark hair. Frankie was taller and leaner. But what Doyle lacked in height, he made up for with a wider girth, a presence and a desire to leave his mark on this world. Outside his computer skill, Frankie’s nondescript features and unassuming demeanor made it possible for him to blend in crowds and shadows.

  “What did you learn from Blackwell?” Doyle asked.

  “Ron Noble went to see him during the convention and showed him the letters. Blackwell didn’t tell him anything.”

  Doyle’s eyes narrowed. For the amount he paid off the former fire chief, he’d better keep his mouth shut. “And the ex-firefighters?”

  Frankie chuckled. “They know better than to talk to the boy.”

  “Good. Find the person who sent those letters, Frankie. Nina’s boy would not be sticking his nose in things that don’t concern him if it weren’t for those damned letters.” Doyle sat back and loosened his tie. He just lost control and didn’t like it. The fact still remained that someone was out to get him. But who? Why now when things were finally going right for him? He’d just discovered the existence of his only son, and now had an heir to carry on his legacy. And he was in a position to court Nina Noble.

  He was already the main investor in her new play, although he had no intention of letting her know it. He also had a man on the inside making sure the expenditure kept shooting up until the other sponsors backed off. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t run to her family to bail her out, just as she hadn’t ten years ago. She would become completely dependant on him.

  There was a discrete knock on his door, then his assistant stepped inside the office. “Sir? Your son’s limo just pulled up.”

  “Thank you, Gayle. Ask him to come into my office when he arrives upstairs.” He got up after the door closed behind the woman and approached the bar at the corner of his spacious office. He poured a slash of cognac in two crystal glasses and offered one to Frankie.

  “How’s Vaughn doing?” Frankie asked.

  Instead of answering, Doyle sipped his drink, savoring the woody taste, and walked to the window. He studied the glass and concrete structures lining the street below with indifference.

  The offices of Doyle Enterprise were temporarily in a high-rise in downtown Los Angeles. His company owned the building and rented most of office space to other businesses, including the L.A. branch of Neumann Security, which presently occupied the top floor. He hadn’t needed the building, but it had amused him at the time to outbid the boy. Now the victory didn’t matter.

  Acquiring new buildings, refurbishing and then selling them had lost its app
eal. The hunger that had pushed him to the top on his field had waned. Simply put, he was bored. He needed to diversify, try something new. He wanted a slice of Hollywood, not in secret but overtly, with his name out there for the world to see.

  What did a producer tell him a few years ago? Accepting his money was like lying in bed with a drug dealer. Frankie had made sure the bastard paid for the slight. Pictures of the producer with young boys had appeared online overnight. Within a week, the man’s career was over. Still, the incident was a reminder that his past mattered. No matter how much he tried to clean up, his name was still linked to his old, money-laundering activities. Being with Nina meant much more than fulfilling a fantasy. With her by his side, doors that continued to remain closed to him would open. He’d gain respectability, which would flow to his son. Above all, Vaughn must not be tainted by the past.

  Doyle turned and studied the panel of screens on the wall to his left. Two of them showed Vaughn inside the elevator. At only twenty-two, the boy had a nose for business, a chip off the old block. Charming and astute, he used his age to disarm people before turning the tables on them. His next target was the Fitzgerald girl and outbidding her on Carlyle House. Should he mention the past to Vaughn? How her parents outbid Doyle? No, his son was untouched by the ugliness from the past and Doyle meant to keep it that way.

  Doyle glanced at Frankie and smiled. “The boy has a solid head on his shoulders. He’s spearheaded the acquisition of several buildings in Burbank through his private company and is negotiating with Nina’s agent. He wants Carlyle House, to fix it and reopen it as a private club. With its history, it should be a successful venture. He’s the future, Frankie. My future. And nothing must mess with it.” He pursed his lips as his thoughts shifted to his son’s mother, the crazy woman who’d tried to hide his only son from him. His right hand twitched and hatred burned in his heart. Before he could speak, the intercom flashed.

  Doyle smoothed his tie and nodded at Frankie. “Come on, my friend. Allow me to introduce you to my son,” he said with pride.

  ***

  Ashley was rummaging through boxes of childhood memorabilia when the musical sound of her cell phone reached her ears. She pushed aside several rag dolls and stuffed animals to reach it.

  “Faith, I thought you were too busy to talk,” Ashley told her cousin.

  “You know how it is when I’m in the fitting room with a client,” Faith said. “And this client was one of those difficult ones. What’s wrong, Ash? You sound funny.”

  “Coming down with a cold,” Ashley lied smoothly, then got up and headed toward the kitchen.

  “Nice try. I know you, missy.” There was a pause, then, “Are you worked up over the meeting with Nina Noble?”

  “Ha. I just left her place.”

  “Oh? I thought you were meeting tomorrow.”

  “She changed the time.” Every time she thought about Nina Noble, guilt washed over her. “She doesn’t want to sell the house, Faith. Not to me, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “She still blames me for her husband’s death. She couldn’t even meet or talk to me, sent her son instead.” She poured herself a cup of coffee, stepped back to open the fridge and reached for hazelnut creamer.

  “That’s rather childish, isn’t it? I hate to be brutally blunt, but someone ought to tell Miss Movie Star that firefighters sometimes die in the line of duty. Her husband must have known the risks involved in his profession.”

  Ashley had thought the same argument before, but it never once made her feel better. She added the cream to her coffee, slid on a stool at the kitchen counter and took a sip as she listened to Faith.

  A sigh escaped Ashley’s lips. “The bottom line is, she’s never gotten over her husband’s death and still resents me. To compound the problem, Ryan Doyle wants Carlyle House.” She briefly explained what Ron had told her.

  “What are you going to do? Maybe you need to talk to Aunt Estelle or Lex.”

  Not if she could help it. She might not know what her next move would be, but she was through running to their aunt or older cousin whenever she had a problem. As it was, their aunt had done enough by taking her in after her parents died.

  “No. I’m not going to push for Carlyle House. Not now.” She couldn’t dare tell her cousin about Ron’s investigation or her decision to help him. Faith would think she’d gone crazy. “I’ll ask Toni to start checking what else is available out there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She was on autopilot now, not confident about anything anymore. It was funny how so much had changed within a week. The morning she spoke to Ron, she’d known exactly what she wanted.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Her voice came out weak and lacked assurance.

  “Don’t give up yet, Ashley. Let’s discuss it tonight, okay? Instead of going out, I’ll pick up dinner from Chase’s place and join you and Jade immediately after work.”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. There was really nothing to discuss. Until she learned the truth about the fire, she wasn’t going to bring up the sale of the house, not with Ron. But her cousin didn’t need to know that.

  “Sounds good. Have you spoken to Jade today? I’ve left several messages in her voice mail, but she’s not returning my calls.” Jade had just gotten out of a bad marriage and was struggling to find herself.

  “Mine either, but I’ll try to get a hold of her and see if she’s still coming.”

  “She’d better or—”

  The sound of her doorbell reverberated through the loft, interrupting. Ashley froze, her coffee mug in mid-air. “I’ve got to go, Faith. Somebody is at my door.” She put the drink down and stood up. “See you tonight, okay?”

  Whoever it was pressed on the bell again as she approached the door. “Sheesh, hold your horses.” Thoroughly annoyed, she yanked the door so hard her sunglasses slid from where she’d pushed them on her forehead and settled on her nose. Her eyes widened when her gaze landed on her visitor’s furious expression. “Ron? What are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk.” He didn’t wait to be invited, just stepped right in. Concern flitted across his face when he took a proper look at her. “What’s wrong?”

  Ashley crossed her arms and scowled at him. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

  “You sound funny. Have you been crying?” Then his gaze shifted to the chaos behind her. “What happened in here? You had a break-in?”

  She shrugged and gave her loft a sweeping glance. The room did look as though a tornado had hit it. Boxes overflowing with stuffed animals, dolls and photo albums were all over the floor.

  “No. I was searching for something.” The letters his mother had written to Ashley years ago seemed to have disappeared, but she was determined to find them. Maybe she’d missed something in them that could explain Mrs. Noble’s present attitude. “What do you want to talk about?”

  His attention shifted to her. He scowled at her sunglasses. “It can wait. What happened?”

  She closed the door, ignored his probing gaze and walked past him. “Nothing happened. As you can see, I’m in the middle of something. But since you’re already in, make yourself at home.” She led the way to the kitchen, and could feel his eyes boring into her back. “So, what is it that couldn’t wait until Saturday? I barely left your home—”

  “My mother’s home,” he corrected.

  “You were raised there.” She picked up her coffee cup, then turned to face him. “Weren’t you?”

  “Yes and no. Are you going to wear those glasses while we talk?”

  Without them, he’d know for sure she’d been crying. She wasn’t ready to discuss why. “Yes. Do you have a problem with them?” she challenged.

  He leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at her upturned face. A wry smile crossed his lips. “No, but they’re not hiding the fact that you’ve been crying, Ashley.”

  Sighing, she yanked the glasses off her face, and without making eye contact with him, walk
ed around the counter. She caught a glimpse of her face on her toaster and saw that her mascara had run. Oh, God, raccoon eyes. Too late to do anything about it. “Do you want some coffee?”

  His gaze stayed on her. “Sure, thanks. Was it something I said or did?”

  She snickered softly as she refilled her cup and poured some of the dark brew for him. “What makes you think you could do or say anything to reduce me to tears, Noble?”

  His lips curled into a derisive smile. “You have a point there. That leaves my mother.”

  She stiffened, but still managed to pass him his coffee without spilling it. Taking her time, she settled on a stool opposite his, then lifted her chin, daring him to say something about her smudged mascara. “Your mother? I didn’t even speak with her.”

  “But you overheard what she said.”

  Wasn’t he just Mr. Perceptive. “Is that why you’re here?”

  He wrapped one large hand around the mug and took a long sip of his coffee. His gaze didn’t leave her, but he appeared to be rearranging his thoughts. “My mother can be very blunt, Ashley, but she doesn’t always mean what she says.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. Did he blame her for his father’s death, too? Ashley bit her lip, undecided on how to proceed. He could either listen to what she had to say or blow her off. Either way, there was no going around it. “She’s still hurting, isn’t she?”

  A scowl settled on Ron’s face. He was quiet for a moment, then he nodded. “Things haven’t been easy for her.”

  “She must have really loved him.” Warmth leaked out of his eyes until they were cold, but she ignored it. She refused to stop until she had her say. The guilt chewing her insides needed to be eased. “I know it’s my fault your…your father died, Ron, and no one is sorrier than I about that. So I understand why she still hates me—”