by Lisa Jackson
She felt the blood drain from her face and heard her heart thudding. She wanted to argue but the look in his eyes, the dare she saw in their smoky depths, convinced her that he was telling the truth. She sank back on the pillows and felt sick inside. “How long ago?”
“Fifteen years.”
“And in the interim?” she asked, bracing herself.
“Nothing.”
She let out a slow breath.
“You asked,” he reminded her.
“Yes, I . . . I know.” She was sick inside. What kind of a person was she?
For the first time since she’d woken from the coma, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“You said a hundred grand.” He was irritated and jittery as he spoke into the pay phone. The streets were wet, shimmering under the streetlights near the waterfront. The smell of salt water mingled with the fresh scent of rain. “Twenty-five doesn’t cut it.”
“She didn’t die,” was the cold response. “The deal was an accident that killed her.”
“The deal was that there wasn’t supposed to be another person in the car,” he reminded the man on the other end of the connection. “I want the rest.” Traffic shot past, tires humming along the waterfront. Someone flicked a cigarette butt out of a window of an old Nova. Heavy metal music screamed through the wet night, the thump of bass cranked to the max.
“You’ll get your money. But she has to die. And it has to be an accident.”
“I could go to the police.”
“Try it.”
“I will.”
“Not with your record.”
Shit. There wasn’t even the tiniest bit of concern in the bastard’s voice. A police cruiser rounded the corner, splashing through the puddles, easing along the curb. He turned away instinctively, hid his face as the dampness of the city invaded his bones.
“You’ll get your money, once the job’s done and done right. No fuck-ups. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.” For the time being he had to go along. He was in too deep not to go through with the hit. And he had his own, personal axe to grind in this one. The woman goddamned deserved to die. “I need a number where I can reach you.” His nose was beginning to run. He swiped at it with his sleeve and sniffed.
“No. I’ll contact you.”
“But—”
Click.
The connection was severed.
“You son of a bitch. You goddamned rich son of a bitch.” Jaw clenched, he slammed the receiver down. He checked the coin return slot out of habit, then shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked against the rain as he jaywalked to his Jeep. His ankle, the one he’d ripped up still ached, but he felt a moment’s satisfaction that the cocksucker would get his and get it soon.
A neon Budweiser sign glowed in the windows of a seedy tavern one block up and he hesitated, then decided he deserved a drink. And a woman—any whore would do.
Dealing with rich bastards usually made him thirsty.
Besting them always gave him a hard-on.
Chapter Five
“I remember this place,” Marla whispered as the Bentley sped up a narrow, winding street to the summit of Mount Sutro. Her heart leaped as she caught her first glimpse of the house mounted at the most prestigious point on the ridge. Yes, yes, yes! She’d been here before; she was sure of it.
She’d been in a bad mood since leaving the hospital, but some of that was disappearing as bits of memories—tickles of her past flashed behind her eyes. There was a ring . . . she looked at her hand and frowned because it wasn’t the diamonds on her left hand, but a simpler ring that she recalled, and walking along a beach and riding horses . . . yes, yes, yes. Bits and pieces, but still her life.
Less than half an hour ago when she’d been pushed out of the hospital in a wheelchair, she’d had a sense of trepidation even as Alex had helped her into the buttery leather interior of the Bentley. The chauffeur, a behemoth of a blond man with a fragmented smile and cold blue eyes, had held the door for her. Lars Anderson. Nordic. Silent. Harsh looking, like some evil presence in a James Bond film, Lars had been with the family “for years” according to Alex. With only a tip of his hat and that eerie smile, he’d driven unerringly from the hospital, past the lush greenery of Golden Gate Park and the gingerbread Victorians of Haight-Ashbury to this gated fortress.
Home.
Electronic gates opened and the huge mansion, dozens of windows cut into the shake, brick-and-mortar exterior, glowed in the twilight. Ancient rhododendron and azaleas guarded the brick paths and stone steps to a front door that was familiar.
Relief brought tears to her eyes. “I remember this,” she whispered, feeling like a maudlin fool.
“Do you?” Alex’s smile was wide, but there wasn’t much warmth in his eyes, as if he didn’t quite trust her.
“Did you think I would fake it?”
“No, of course not.” Seated in the plush rear seat, he took her hand and linked his fingers through hers. But the short feeling of elation that her memory might be returning slipped away as Lars nosed the car into a basement garage and the glimmer of recognition faded. A silver Jaguar was parked in one spot and there was still room for another vehicle—undoubtedly her car.
“Where’s—”
“Your Porsche is in the shop, waiting for a part.”
“I drive a Porsche?”
“You did,” he said. “You will again. As soon as you’re well and we get the car back. But you might want to wait a while . . . because of the accident.”
She swallowed hard. Shivered. If only she could live that one night over again. “And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride . . .”
“Pardon me?” Alex asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing, just something my mother used to say . . .” Yes! Her mother, she had a vague image of a woman, but it wasn’t clear.
“You remember her?”
“Yes . . . no, not quite, but I will.”
Alex reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
“You said she was dead.”
“That’s right . . . Years ago.”
Too bad, she thought. Right now she could use a mother. And so could your children. You’d better go inside and take care of them. Her heart beat a little faster when she thought of the baby. She ached to hold him, and yet she couldn’t even recall his little face. A fine mother you are.
The thought was discouraging, but she pushed it aside as Lars cut the engine, then hurried around the Bentley and opened the door for her. He offered her a hand as she climbed out of the car and into a garage that smelled faintly of diesel, oil and dust. She felt foolish and awkward, as if she’d never accepted his help before.
But then why would she have? She’d probably always driven herself.
“Thank you,” she muttered automatically and saw a flicker of surprise in his wide-set eyes.
“Over here—the elevator,” Alex reminded her as she glanced around the concrete walls of this basement garage. She studied the hubcaps and tools mounted over a workbench in an adjacent room, and experienced the gnawing feeling that she’d never set foot in here before.
But you remember the house! You did! Don’t worry about it. “Do you want to go straight to the bedroom so you can lie down?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“What I’d like to do is see my baby.” Marla followed him and a stream of smoke to the elevator.
“He’s probably sleeping.”
“But I want to see him. Now.” She turned to stare her husband straight in his eyes. “You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course. But I thought you might want to acclimate yourself with the house, reacquaint yourself with where things are before you see James and . . . .” The elevator door opened and he jabbed his cigarette out in a canister in the garage. They stepped inside and he pushed the button for the third floor.
“And what?”
“Nothing.” His lips compressed as if he were irritated.
“No. You were going to say
something,” Marla insisted, her jaw aching.
“It might be hard for you if you don’t recognize him,” he said slowly, as if she were a child, “or conversely, if he doesn’t immediately bond with you . . . I was only thinking of your well-being.”
“My well-being is just fine,” she snapped, tired of everyone treating her as if she were some fragile hothouse flower even though she was leaning against the interior of the elevator car as she was tiring already. Damn it all. She didn’t know a lot about herself, but she was certain she’d never been a wimp. “Let’s go see our son.”
“Are you sure you’re strong enough—?”
“Just show me the way, Alex,” she insisted.
Her husband didn’t say another word as the old elevator ground slowly upward and Marla was sorry she’d snapped. After all, he was only looking out for her; it wasn’t his fault her memory was shot to shreds.
On the third floor she stepped into a carpeted hallway that circled a center staircase. Alex led her to double doors. “Our suite,” he announced as they entered a sitting area complete with a corner fireplace, small couch, and reading table between two chairs. “My bedroom is that way,” he said, indicating a doorway to the right, “and this is yours.” He opened narrow French doors and allowed her to walk into a bright room decorated in navy, peach and beige. A rosewood bed, canopied in lace dominated the room and matched several other pieces. Leather-bound volumes filled a bookcase, two vases of fresh cut flowers were arranged on tables, pictures in gilt frames were hung on a wide expanse of wall and the room had the feel of a showplace, as if it should be roped off for the guided tour later in the afternoon.
“You and I, we don’t sleep together?”
“Not often, anymore.” Alex yanked on the knot of his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “We do sometimes, of course, but no, not in general.”
“And you don’t think that’s odd?” A headache was starting to form at the base of her skull.
He shook his head. “Not really. We’ve been married a long time. The situation’s just kind of evolved over the years.” He shrugged. “It’s not such a bad thing. We have separate lives.”
“But we managed to conceive a baby.” This seemed wrong to her.
“Yes.” He smiled and Marla thought she saw a flicker of boyish charm beneath his veneer of wealthy sophistication. “That we did manage. Come on. You’re right, it’s time you met the little devil.” At the far end of the room, he led her through a glass-paned door to the nursery, a tiny room painted a soft baby blue and trimmed with a wallpaper border of pastel animals and Noah’s Ark.
This room felt lived-in and warm. Just right for an infant. Pillows and stuffed animals were clustered in the corners, a bookcase was filled with toys and a night light glowed from a lamp shaped like the Ark.
From the crib the sound of a baby’s soft snoring could be heard. Marla beelined to the crib, and swallowed a thick lump in her throat. In the crib an infant lay sleeping on his back, his little legs curled, his tiny hands clenched into fists. Downy soft reddish hair barely covered his scalp and his lips moved as if he wanted to suckle.
Her heart squeezed, not from motherly love, but in despair. How could this little cherub not have engraved his way into her heart, into her memory? Why could she not recall anything about him? She blinked against tears. Carefully she reached into the crib and gently lifted him and the blanket surrounding him into her arms.
This is your son, Marla. Yours! The thought was as heartwarming as it was frightening. What did she know about babies? Obviously she’d raised one child to adolescence but right now her own sense of innate motherhood escaped her.
James let out a soft little cry as she put him to her shoulder. It felt so right to hold him, to place him close over her heart, and yet there was something . . . on the very edges of her memory . . . teasing her.
Rousing, the baby opened his eyes and stiffened. He stared straight at her for a split second, eyes round.
“Hi there,” Marla whispered, her heart swelling in pride. The baby was just so . . . precious.
He blinked, then as if he found her scarred face frightening, he opened his mouth and wailed for all he was worth. His face turned red with the effort of screaming at the top of his small lungs.
“Shh, little one,” she whispered, cradling his tiny head with her hand. “You’re fine.”
James was having none of it. His back went ramrod stiff and he only stopped screaming long enough to catch his breath.
“I was afraid of this,” Alex said, for once looking as if he had no idea what to do. “I’ll call the nanny.”
“No.” Marla tried not to panic. This was her baby. Hers. She had the right to hold him, to wake him from his sleep, to try to bond with her son.
“Quiet, sweetheart. Shh. Mommy’s here and everything will be all right,” Marla said, lying through teeth that couldn’t move.
Somewhere far off in another part of the house, a dog started barking like crazy.
“Great,” Alex muttered, raking stiff fingers through his hair. “I knew we should have let him sleep.”
Ignoring her husband, Marla slowly rocked side to side. “Just take it easy, James,” she said, though she felt like a complete klutz with her own child. Maybe he was hungry, or needed to be changed, or maybe he was just cranky and ticked off that she’d woken him. Her headache was hammering through her brain, but she wasn’t about to give in to the pain right now. “I’ll take care of you,” she promised the baby as she moved to a changing table and let his blanket drop to the floor. Placing his little body onto a tiny mattress, she fumbled with the snaps of his pajamas. All the while he screamed loud enough to wake the dead.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, just hold yer horses, Jimmy boy,” an unfamiliar voice called from the hallway.
“Thank God,” Alex muttered under his breath.
The door to the hallway burst open and a slight woman with wild red hair and granny glasses bustled into the room. She cast a disparaging glance at Marla and without so much as a hello, took charge, almost bodily pushing her to the side. “I’ll take care of him,” she said with the authority of one who knows her position.
“And you’re?”
“Fiona. The nanny, Mrs. Cahill. Don’t you recognize me?”
Of course she didn’t and felt embarrassed as the woman tended to her son. Along with her curly flaming hair, Fiona sported large teeth that overlapped a bit in front, and white skin dusted with freckles.
“I’m sorry,” Marla apologized, the pain in her head beginning to pound. “I don’t remember much.”
“So I’ve heard. Everyone here’s been worried sick over ya,” she said with a trace of an English accent. “But don’t worry about it, yer memory, it’ll come back. My uncle’s did. He was in a skiing accident, nearly killed him it did, and when he finally came ’round, he was his old self again . . . well except that he never did quite get rid of that limp of his.” With incredibly deft and efficient fingers, she stripped the baby of his diaper, flung it into a diaper pail, whipped out another disposable from a drawer and amid a cloud of baby powder, had him changed, dressed again and was cuddling him on her shoulder within seconds. Worse yet, he actually stopped crying. “He’s a fussy one, he is,” she said, rocking side to side and holding the quiet infant as if he belonged to her. “Ain’t you supposed to be restin’ or somethin’?”
“Marla!” Eugenia said as she entered the room, a scowl of disapproval drawing her features together. “What’re you doing up?” She turned on Alex. “She just got out of the hospital, for goodness’ sakes. Fiona’s right. She should be resting.”
“Marla wanted to see James.”
“Well, of course, of course, but all in due time.” Eugenia turned concerned eyes in Marla’s direction. “The baby will still be here, you know. They don’t disappear, not for a good twenty years or so,” she chided, but there was a hint of steel in her soft words. “Now, Fiona, you’re to always use correct English a
round the children, you know that.” She glanced at her grandson and a prideful, beatific smile eased the little lines around her lips. “He is adorable, isn’t he?”
“He wasn’t too adorable a few minutes ago,” Alex countered, then grinned. “Just kidding, Mother. Look, I’ve got to run back to the office, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Look after my wife for me, will you?” he said to Eugenia before planting a swift kiss on Marla’s cheek and winking at his mother. Then he was out the door.
“Alexander doesn’t slow down for a minute, and this one,” Eugenia indicated the baby, “he’s going to be just like his father, aren’t you, little man?”
Fiona, satisfied her duty had been fulfilled, placed the baby back into his crib as Marla reached down and picked up the blanket from the floor. Carefully she tucked it around him as he searched for and found his thumb.
Eugenia was still beaming. “He’s special, that boy is. We waited so long and finally, finally, we have a Cahill to carry on the name.”
“You mean a grandson.”
“Yes.”
No wonder Cissy was so upset. “You’ve been waiting for one?”
“Let’s just say I consider James a blessing of the highest order.” She leaned over the crib and ran an age-spotted finger along his chin. “The highest order.”
“And Cissy?”
“She’s a blessing, too. Of course. All children are gifts from God.”
“But some are Rolexes and some are Timexes, is that what you’re saying?” Marla demanded, irritated beyond belief at the antiquated notion that females were less valuable than males. What archaic, deluded waters did that spring from?
“Of course not. Everyone has a purpose. Cissy’s is different from James, but no less important,” Eugenia said quickly, correcting herself as two points of color tinged her pale cheeks.
Marla didn’t believe her mother-in-law for an instant. No matter how she tried to rationalize it, Eugenia’s mentality was straight out of the Dark Ages.
The older woman cleared her throat. “Now, dear, you really should take a little nap, if you can. Or read. There’s an intercom on the bed stand and just ring when you want something. I already asked Carmen to bring you tea, a pitcher of water and your medication, already mixed in with a little orange juice.”