The Secret Baby Bond

by Cindy Gerard

  Emma closed her eyes, turned her hand into Grant’s when he laced his fingers with hers. “How?” she asked. “What happened?”

  Grant shook his head. “I don’t—they didn’t—aw, hell, I don’t know anything. They asked me to come down to police headquarters and identify his body.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” Tara’s eyes were glassy with shock and sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”

  Grant pushed slowly away from the table, stood on wooden legs. “Please just have Ruby order a car brought round.” He dragged a hand to his hair, clearly shaken.

  “Let me take you, sir,” Michael offered.

  He didn’t add that he didn’t think Grant was capable of doing this on his own in his present state.

  The older man glanced up, his eyes relaying gratitude. “Fine. Yes. That’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll come, too.” Tara stood, placing a supporting arm around her father’s shoulders.

  “No,” both men said in unison.

  Their eyes connected across the room, an acknowledgment of this rare moment of agreement between them.

  “Stay here, Tara,” Michael said gently. “Stay with your mother and Brandon.”

  He didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to stay with her, talk about last night, talk about their future. But that had to take a back seat for the moment.

  “Come on,” he said, a hand at Grant’s elbow. “We’ll walk to my car. It’s parked just outside the gates.”

  The short walk would do him good, Michael decided. Grant needed the fresh air, needed the time to stabilize, to gather himself.

  On the grim ride to police headquarters Michael listened as Grant took him into his confidence and talked out his anger and grief. He talked about the investigations, about the integrity of Tom Reynolds, a man Grant respected and liked.

  And Michael listened, letting himself be a sounding board. Grant needed to vent. He needed to rage. And for the first time since he’d known him, Grant had needed him. Had accepted him.

  That acceptance served to strengthen Michael’s resolve to save his marriage and resume his place in the Connelly household, not as an outsider looking in, but as a member of the family. A member that Grant Connelly could count on to not let him down.

  Michael had to give the older man credit. He stood strong in the face of death.

  They had just left the morgue after Grant had given the police a positive ID on Tom Reynolds when a lovely young woman with shoulder-length, tawny brown hair and beautiful chocolate-brown eyes met them in the hall.

  Her pocket badge identified her as a detective with the Special Investigation Unit.

  “Grant.” She folded him into her arms. “I just heard. I got here as soon as I could.”

  Grant hugged the younger woman hard, then set her away. “They killed him. The bastards killed Tom Reynolds.”

  “I know,” she said gently. “I’m so sorry.”

  Michael stood back, not wanting to intrude on what was obviously a close relationship.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, finally noticing Michael. She searched his face as if she thought she should know him. “I’m Elena Connelly, Grant’s daughter-in-law.”

  “Brett’s wife,” Michael concluded with a friendly smile and extended his hand. “I’m Michael Paige.” Michael knew she’d recently given birth and hadn’t yet returned to work. Her efforts to be here for Grant spoke volumes about her affection for her father-in-law.

  “Michael, I’m so glad to finally meet you. I only wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

  “What’s happening, Elena?” Grant interrupted, dragging himself out of his shock. “Who killed Tom?”

  “They don’t know. What they do know is that he was killed in the back alley behind Broderton Computing.”

  “Broderton?” Grant frowned. “That’s the firm Charlotte hired to repair our computer system. In fact it was Charles Broderton himself who did the work. Said he didn’t want to trust it to one of his technicians.”

  “Yes. We know.” Elena steered him calmly down the corridor and toward a bank of offices wedged around a main booking area. “And they’re already looking at the connection. Why don’t you have a seat here in the hall?”

  Grant stopped abruptly, craning his neck. “Wait, that’s Charlotte.”

  Michael turned his head in time to see the woman he recognized as Charlotte Masters, Grant’s executive secretary, being escorted into what appeared to be an interrogation room.

  “Charlotte!” Grant shouted and bolted toward her.

  The young woman turned away, her posture one of abject defeat, and allowed the detectives to guide her into the room.

  With a look, Elena begged Michael to help her contain Grant.

  “Hold on, Grant,” Michael urged, pressing a firm hand against his chest. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s beginning to appear all too logical,” Grant said sadly.

  Michael glanced toward the closed door behind which the detectives held Charlotte Masters. She’d looked pale and shaken. Michael figured maybe he’d look the same if he’d been responsible for hiring a computer tech and then the detective investigating the case turned up dead right outside the tech’s firm.

  “I want to be in there when they talk to her,” Grant demanded. “I insist on being in there. I want to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Please, Grant, stay here with Michael. Let me see what I can find out, okay?”

  Grudgingly, Grant settled into a chair. When Elena came back a few minutes later, Grant sprang to his feet.

  “It’s a no go,” Elena said, her face grim. “I can’t even get in on the questioning because officially I’m no longer on the case.”

  “That’s ridiculous! You’ve been on this case since the beginning.”

  “But I’m not on it now and officially I’m still on maternity leave,” she pointed out. “Please. You’re not doing anyone any good here. Go on home. I’ll find out what I can and come over to the house later, okay?”

  Clearly, it wasn’t okay.

  “Come on, Grant.” Michael put a hand on his arm. “Elena’s right. There’s nothing you can do here. As soon as she knows something, so will we.”

  Later that afternoon, however, when Elena stopped over at Lake Shore Manor, they didn’t know anything more than they had that morning.

  “They’ve sealed Charlotte’s testimony,” she said gravely as Emma and Grant along with Tara and Michael sat in the den.

  “What does that mean?” Grant pressed.

  Elena drew a hand through her hair. “It means that only the detectives currently involved in the case have access to what she’s told them.

  “My best guess, however,” Elena continued, “is that Charlotte may have implicated Angie Donahue because shortly after they talked to Charlotte the detectives picked up Angie for questioning.”

  “Angie Donahue?” Michael held up a hand. “Wait—I feel like I’ve walked into the middle of a movie here. What does Seth’s mother have to do with any of this?”

  Everyone in the room waited in tense silence for Elena to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle.

  “Angie’s father is Edward Kelley,” she said and let the information sink in.

  “Kelley,” Michael mused aloud, a frown creasing his brow. “As in the Chicago Kelleys?” he asked, incredulous as recognition dawned.

  Elena nodded grimly.

  “Oh man. You’re talking organized crime here. Organized crime that’s as big and bad as it gets. And you’re thinking the Kelleys may ultimately be behind—” he stopped, not wanting to voice what he was thinking. “Behind what exactly?”

  “Well, now that Angie’s connection to the Kelleys has been brought to light, we’re figuring they’re behind basically everything,” Elena said. “From King Thomas and Prince Marc’s deaths to the attempt on Daniel’s life after he launched the audit on the Rosemere Institute and most recently to Tom Reynolds’s death. />
  “I’m so sorry, Grant, Emma.” Elena turned to her in-laws, her eyes filled with sympathy.

  At Michael’s look of confusion, Tara explained. “The Institute was founded a few years ago after my grandmother, Queen Lucinda, died of cancer.”

  “Go on, Elena, please,” Grant said, looking like a man whose world was falling apart around him.

  Elena shook her head. “I’m sorry, Grant, but I don’t have anything more of substance to share with you. Angie lawyered up once she realized she’d already said more than was wise for her health. Everything from this point on is speculation.”

  “My God. You mean they—the Kelleys—might kill her, too?” Emma’s face had drained to chalk.

  “Her father would try to protect her, I’m sure, but he’d have to contend with Franklin Kelley—and if our conclusions are right, Franklin is behind three deaths already and the failed attempt on Daniel.

  “In any event,” she continued after a painful silence, “we have to be thinking the worst—with Angie’s connection to the Kelleys—the fact that it was Angie who told Charlotte to recommend Broderton to Grant to repair Connelly Corporation computers and now, Tom Reynolds murdered behind Broderton’s—well, there’s something more afoot than we’d ever suspected.”

  “How much worse could this get?” Emma said sounding horrified.

  “Much worse, I’m afraid,” Elena said on a heavy sigh. “Obviously it was Charlotte who gave the police the information to implicate Angie because it was right after Charlotte’s interview this afternoon that they brought Angie in.”

  “And that makes Charlotte the Kelleys’ next target,” Grant stated, his tone filled with abject defeat.

  Elena crossed the room, took Grant’s hands in hers. “As Charlotte was leaving headquarters, a sniper with a rifle took a shot at her.”

  Emma gasped.

  Grant swore.

  “She wasn’t hurt, fortunately. After the incident, she agreed to cooperate with the police and to accept their protection.”

  “Where is she?” Grant said. “Where are they keeping her?”

  He stopped short, then went ashen when he saw the look on his daughter-in-law’s face. “What?”

  “She asked to go to her apartment to pick up some clothes and personal items. While our man was waiting for her in the unmarked, she slipped away from him.”

  Tara glanced at Michael who shook his head. This was not looking good for Charlotte.

  “What do you mean, slipped away?”

  “She’s gone, Grant. She ran. We’ve got as much manpower as we can afford looking for her but it was three hours ago and she’s just plain disappeared.”

  “Your father’s pretty much devastated.”

  Michael watched Tara carefully later that evening. She clutched a wineglass in her hand as they sat alone in the den, finally. He’d been trying to get her alone all day. She’d managed to avoid that until now. But now the entire house had gone to bed and she was literally forced to face him alone.

  She’d been playing with her wine more than sipping it, Michael noticed. He hadn’t done much better with his own glass, fighting an encroaching sense that all was not as right with his world as he had thought.

  He watched her carefully, watched and waited for some sign, some reason to make him think that true healing had begun last night. That they had finally found their way back to each other.

  “This doesn’t look good for Charlotte,” he offered up as a way to break her silence.

  “It’s so hard to believe she has anything to do with this mess,” she said at last. She pinched her lips between her teeth and shook her head. “Dad practically views her as one of the family.”

  “What about Tom Reynolds’s partner?” Michael asked, unable to keep his mind from straying back over the events of the day even though what he wanted to do was talk about the two of them and where they went from here. “Where does Lucas Starwind fit into this?”

  “He was called out of town on a personal emergency not long ago. He’d given Dad a number to reach him before he left so Dad was able to reach him this afternoon and tell him about Reynolds.”

  “Must have been hard.”

  Tara nodded. “The two men were close. Dad said that Starwind’s stone-cold silence on the other end of the line was very unsettling.”

  After a lengthy and troubled silence, Tara rose, walked to the fire. “Dad put in a call to Rafe this afternoon.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Arizona, I think.” She pressed the wineglass against her temple as if to soothe an ache that had settled there. “Some big software project he’s been wrapped up in for Connelly Corporation.”

  “I take it he won’t be wrapped up in it much longer?”

  She smiled tightly. “Dad told him to get his tail home pronto. He needs someone he can completely trust digging into those computers to see if Broderton corrupted them in any way. That someone is Rafe.”

  “Grant’s right,” Michael agreed. “He does need someone he can trust.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist at this point to put two and two together. With Angie’s connection to the Kelleys, the fact that she told Charlotte to recommend Broderton to repair them, and now Tom Reynolds murdered behind Broderton’s—well, there was something bigger afoot here than even Michael had first suspected.

  “Dad has never wanted to believe the worst of Charlotte,” Tara said, interrupting his thoughts, “None of us have. But what choice does he have? And now that she’s disappeared…” her thoughts trailed into silence.

  Michael thought of the tall, slender strawberry blonde. Personally, she’d always seemed like a cold fish to him. Cool, reserved, standoffish. But Grant Connelly had trusted her. That had to count for something. He hoped for everyone’s sake that she would turn up soon and either clear her name, which had gotten muddied up pretty badly with the disappearing act she’d pulled today, or shed some light on a situation that was growing more volatile by the moment.

  “Come with me to Ecuador,” he blurted out before he fully thought it through. After he’d said it, however, he knew it was the right thing to do. He had to get Tara away from here. He had to get her alone, get her away so they could build on the foundation he’d been laying the past week and then cemented last night.

  “Michael—”

  “You and Brandon,” he interrupted, warming to the idea. “Don’t say no this time, Tara. I don’t like what’s happening around here. I don’t like to think of you in the line of fire of some plot or whatever the hell is going on that involves murder and missing persons.”

  She looked from him to her wine. She was afraid to go with him, he realized. More afraid of being alone with him than staying here and facing this deplorable situation.

  “We owe this to each other, Tara. What happened between us last night—”

  “Was physical,” she said quickly. “It was sex.”

  If she’d hurled a rock and struck him in the chest, she couldn’t have inflicted sharper pain.

  He looked at her as if she’d just arrived from another planet. A cold, black dread seeped into his chest and spread. Anger, deep and disturbing, joined his railing emotions. “Excuse me? I was there, remember? That wasn’t just sex. That was— For God’s sake, Tara. I was the one whose name you were calling. I was the one—”

  “Michael, sex was never our problem.”

  He couldn’t believe she was reducing what happened between them last night to sex.

  And that was when it hit him. If last night hadn’t convinced her, then he wasn’t going to win this fight. There wasn’t enough of the old Tara left in her to want to make it work.

  And yet, the part of him that would always love her, would always want her, had him butting his head up against that brick wall one more time.

  “So let’s talk about our problem,” he ground out, his teeth clenched against a reality he’d been foolishly determined to ignore—just like he ignored the sharp stab of pain pulsing at his tem
ple. “Oh no, that won’t work, will it? Because it takes two to talk, and it’s damn hard to talk when you always run away.”

  She met his eyes warily. She had nothing to say. No denial. No plea for understanding. And it was her silence, echoing with apathy, that finally had him tossing in the towel.

  “God, Tara. What else can I do? I’ve told you I’ve changed and you choose not to believe me. I ask you to open up and you shut me down like a damn cell phone. Click. Problem solved.”

  She pinched her eyes shut, then turned her back on him. “I think you’d better leave now.”

  He shook his head, hung his hands on his hips and looked at the ceiling in utter defeat.

  “Yeah,” he said, fatigue weighing him like lead. “I think I’d better. I’m wasting my time here. I give up, okay? I give up. On us. On you. Because, you know what? You were right. You’re not the same woman I married. That woman was a fighter. That woman was passionate about what she wanted and who she loved.

  “That woman,” he said with a weariness that had settled so deep he felt the ache in his bones, “is gone. She’s the one who ‘died’ two years ago, not me.”

  The room had grown eerily quiet. Only the fire in the fireplace crackled softly. Above it, he heard the thunder of his blood pounding through his ears.

  “I don’t like this woman who took her place. This woman’s a coward. This woman believes that what happened between us last night was sex.

  “The woman I married, the woman I loved, knew the truth. The woman I married knew that every time I held her, every time I made love to her, I was giving her a piece of my soul.”

  He walked away from her to the door, all fight gone, all passion bled out of him as surely as if she’d fired a shell and hit him straight in the heart. And even then, he waited. Waited for denial, for her tears. For anything that would tell him he was wrong. But he wasn’t wrong, not about this. “I won’t contest the divorce,” he said at last. “All I ask is liberal visitation with Brandon. Your attorney can reach me in Ecuador. I’ll get the address to you tomorrow before I leave.”

  He stopped with his hand on the door handle, waited several heartbeats and turned back to her.