by A. C. Arthur
“I had a feeling,” she told him. “And I was staring at that car. Then I turned around and this guy almost knocked me down.”
“What guy?” he asked immediately. “Where is he? Did he get into that car?”
They both startled when “that car” suddenly started and screeched across the asphalt on its way out of the parking lot.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” he said.
Bailey didn’t even wait for him to grab her this time. She walked quickly beside him to their car and got inside. She wasn’t totally sure why this situation seemed eerie, but after the past weeks she’d had, she wasn’t in the mood to find out.
“Stay close and I’ll do the talking this time,” Devlin said as they walked up to the front door of Dane’s sprawling mansion.
At the gate, she’d replied to the intercom’s automated voice, stating who she was once more. The buzzing sound allowing them entrance through the ten feet iron gates was immediate. The driveway was only about thirty feet up a slight incline until they parked at the side of the house. Bailey stepped out, looking around the property with its seemingly endless green grass and the aristocratic brick mansion at its center. The two story, shingled roof structure looked like something out of the Better Homes and Gardens books with its stately demeanor and low key elegance. She wasn’t sure the house suited the man. Then again, she didn’t know Dane well enough for that statement to be accurate.
Devlin waited for her to circle the car and then they both walked up the brick steps that led to a porch. That porch circled around to the front doors of the house. When they stood in front of the doors, Devlin looked at Bailey. She straightened her glasses on her face and gave him a slight smile, just before the door opened. A tall man with drawn cheeks and frosty gray eyes stood stiffly.
“Come in,” he directed in a whispery voice.
Once again Devlin looked at Bailey. She replied to the clipped nod he gave her by entering the house, offering a smile to the eerie looking doorman as she passed him.
“Follow me,” the doorman continued after he’d closed and locked the front door.
He walked them across gleaming wood floors. The foyer was grand, complete with a sprawling staircase with shined to perfection cherrywood railings and bright white balusters. An ornate brass and crystal chandelier hung in the center of the room, its gleam highlighting the dark cherrywood doors and crown molding as they walked further back into the house. Moving around to one side of the staircase they continued down a hallway until the doorman knocked swiftly on a set of double doors, in the same dark wood that seemed to be the theme throughout the house. After waiting a beat, the doorman opened the door and stepped to the side so that Bailey and Devlin could follow him. When they did, Bailey couldn’t help but stare in awe.
This room reminded Bailey of her grandfather’s study in the Houston house Ike and Dot Donovan had raised all six of their children in. Before her grandparents passed away, Bailey remembered spending long summer weekends with them and climbing up on her grandfather’s lap as he worked behind his desk in the home office. This place had that same feel with its dark wood walls and built-ins filled with books and knick-knacks. Her grandfather’s shelves held pictures of his children and their children, his parents and his brothers.
Her heels were quiet on the ornate chocolate and gold colored rug. Another chandelier, this one of dark iron and crystal, hung in the center of the room. On both sides were dark wood railings, beyond which was a loft with more shelves and more books. Behind the desk was a floor to ceiling window—stretching more than twenty feet, she was sure. Sitting at the desk was the man.
He reminded her a lot of Linc. Sitting in the black leather executive chair, the collar of his sky blue dress shirt slightly loosened, gray tie still knotted around his neck. He’d sat back in the chair watching with unflinching interest as Bailey and Devlin walked further into his office. He had a full beard, cut closely against his rich, dark complexion. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair, fingers laced together as he held them just a few inches from his face. He did not offer them a seat. Devlin did not bother to take one. Bailey took a deep breath, and a chance. She sat down in the brown and gold box guest armchair positioned directly across from Dane’s desk.
“Where’s your mother?” Devlin asked before Bailey could come up with a suitable icebreaker.
This wasn’t a social call. Each of them knew that without any doubt. Still, she’d thought the conversation should start as cordial as they could possibly make it. Obviously she’d been naïve in those thoughts.
“Where’s yours?” Dane countered as he met Devlin’s gaze.
“This is not a game,” Devlin warned. “I assumed you were smart enough to pick up on that when you saw your sister lying on that floor.”
Dane didn’t move, but Bailey noticed the slight twitch in his jaw. Uncle Bernard did that when he was irritated.
“If you know where she is, please just tell us. Maybe we can work together to get her institutionalized where she can receive the help she needs,” Bailey said before Dane could respond to Devlin’s candid, but brutal, statement.
Dane hadn’t looked as if he would pounce, but Bailey picked up on something much more alarming. It was that slow rise to anger. The boiling just beneath the surface that Bailey had seen in her Uncle Bernard and a few of her cousins. While Devlin was in-your-face intimidating, Dane—displaying a true Donovan trait—possessed that sneak-up-and-grab-you-in-the-jugular allure.
“You don’t know her,” Dane said when he slowly, reluctantly, tore his gaze from Devlin and focused on Bailey.
“I know what Brandon told us. He spoke personally with your uncle, Elder Ausby, while he was in Chicago. I know about the personality disorder that has gone mostly un-medicated in Roslyn’s adult life,” she told him.
“So what does that mean? She’s crazy so nothing she’s said or done can be counted as justified. Lock her up and throw away the key and all will be well in the Donovans’ perfect world,” Dane countered.
Bailey folded her hands in her lap and held his gaze. It wasn’t hard because the longer she stared at him and listened to the tone of his voice, the more she was convinced. He was definitely a Donovan.
“My world’s not perfect, Dane. And neither is anyone else’s in the family right now. Are you really going to sit there and tell me that your life is perfect? You’ve found out who your father is, you own a huge and successful company, live on this lavish estate and go around picking up the carnage that your mother and sister leave in their wake. That’s your idea of perfect,” she quipped.
“I did not start this,” he said.
“Neither did I,” Bailey replied. “But we can both end it.”
“The easy way or the hard way, it will end,” Devlin added.
“If this was your plan to scare me into handing my mother over to you, all tidy and gift wrapped,” Dane told them. “I’d say you’ve failed miserably.”
In the next instant Devlin had his gun drawn, pointing it directly at Dane.
“I’d say you’re the one who’s failing at this point,” Devlin told him. “Where’s your sister, Dane? How about Giovanni Morelli and Detective Anthony Lucas? The dead bodies keep piling up. You can either join them, or cooperate and tell us where to find your mother.”
Bailey hadn’t moved. She was certain Devlin wasn’t going to simply shoot Dane in cold blood. At least a huge part of her prayed that wasn’t what was about to happen. Dane stood slowly, never once taking his eyes off Devlin. Nor the gun that was now pointing to his chest.
“You think because you’re holding a gun you have the upper hand?” A smirk crossed Dane’s face as he clasped his hands in front of him and spread his legs apart.
“Shoot me,” he dared Devlin. “Shoot me, watch my dead body fall to the floor and then what? You think that will end this? You think hunting my mother down and dispensing your warped, or,” he said as he looked over to where Bailey still sat, “her privileged idea of pu
nishment, is going to stop what was so carelessly put into motion in the first place?”
“Surely, you’re not that stupid,” Dane finished.
It was in that moment, that second that his dark eyes held her still in her seat that Bailey really saw it. He was Uncle Bernard’s son. From the build of his body, to the cockiness in his stance. He behaved exactly like a Donovan would in this situation. Just as she was sitting calmly and intently focused on her mission, Dane was now standing, stating his position and daring anyone—even Devlin with his loaded nine millimeter—to deter him. He was a Donovan, no matter how many years her father and uncles had tried to deny him.
That was the second Bailey’s heart slowed, her mind shifting to another place and time, another child who had been helpless to the unfolding situation.
“I don’t know where my mother is,” Dane told Bailey.
He shrugged then and folded his arms over his chest as he continued to stand behind his desk.
“If I did know, I wouldn’t tell you,” he stated evenly. “Would you have told me who my father was if you knew and I’d shown up at your office to ask for your help?”
Bailey didn’t reply.
“No. You wouldn’t have. You would have kept that secret just like the others in the renowned Donovan family did. You would protect your own, just as I am now forced to do,” Dane said.
“You’re protecting killers,” Devlin countered. “In my mind that makes you one of them.”
“I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else thinks about me. Like I said, your options are to kill me right here and now, or get the hell out of my house,” Dane insisted.
Devlin did not lower the gun. Bailey stood then. She felt shaky, always had whenever memories from her past assailed her. But now was not the time or the place to take that unwanted trip down memory lane.
“Stop it,” she said. “Nobody’s going to kill anybody. At least not on our end.” She didn’t bother to look at Devlin to see how he felt about her declaration. What she knew without a doubt was that if he continued to aim that gun at Dane, she was going to have to step in between them. That would certainly piss Devlin off but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to stand here and watch him shoot her cousin.
“Your boyfriend here is thinking otherwise,” Dane said with a nod in Devlin’s direction.
Bailey moved closer to stand beside Devlin then. “He’s not going to tell us even if he does know where she is,” she said as she touched his arm and tried to push it down.
Devlin was strong. If there was ever any doubt in her mind to that fact, she knew now because his arm didn’t budge at all as she continued to try.
“I thought we were in agreement that there had already been too much death,” she continued, refusing to move her hand. “Killing him won’t stop this. In fact, it might push Roslyn further over the edge and that’s the last thing we need.”
For the first time since she’d walked over and touched his arm, Devlin looked down at Bailey. It took a few seconds but it seemed as if he finally realized the truth to what she’d just said. His arm relaxed, but before Bailey could push it down, he engaged the safety on the gun and moved out of her reach.
“Where would she go?” Devlin asked Dane. “If you were looking for her where would you look?”
Dane gave a slow shake of his head. “My mother is very good at hiding. She’s made a living out of staying out of sight, but still being exactly where she needs to be in order to do whatever it is she has planned.”
“What does she have planned? Are you working with her?” Bailey asked Dane.
“I wanted to find out who my father was. I bought up all the stock in Donovan Oilwell because I could. I’m a businessman. A no-nonsense one. But I am not a killer.”
“How did you escape that since your sister and your mother are obviously in that line of work?” Devlin asked.
Dane shot a heated glance to Devlin before once again taking his seat. “I am not like them,” he replied. “I love my mother and I loved my sister, but we did not see eye to eye on how to handle this situation. I’m sure you know how that feels, Bailey.”
She nodded in agreement because she did know how it felt to disagree with her siblings and her parents for that matter. She was doing so right now.
“Did you know that she ran my mother’s car off the road?” Bailey asked.
Behind her she could feel Devlin tensing, as he immediately stepped closer. He didn’t touch her, just wanted her to feel his presence. It was an intense presence, but Bailey did not stop looking at Dane.
“She was angry because my father had married and had two sons. He was living happily with his family, but still had refused to help her find out who had fathered her child,” she said.
This had not been what she’d intended to say to him when Devlin announced they would be making this visit. She hadn’t planned to talk to anyone about what her father had finally admitted happened to her mother.
“He wasn’t even your father and she killed my mother,” Bailey continued. “Did you know that?”
The way he was looking at her said he hadn’t known. Still, she would have liked to hear him say it.
“I can’t explain away what she’s done,” Dane replied. “I won’t even try. What I will say is that Henry Donovan and the others are no less responsible for this fall-out than she is.”
Bailey couldn’t believe he’d just said that. She also couldn’t argue his logic. Her father and her uncles had kept this secret for far too long.
“Let’s go, Bailey,” Devlin said.
This time instead of grabbing her by the arm, he laced his fingers through hers and stood still until she moved.
“Jaydon’s dead,” she said quietly. “Doesn’t that make you want to help bring this to a close?”
“Yes,” Dane answered quickly and surprisingly. “But I won’t help you handle my mother the way you see fit. Just because you’re a Donovan doesn’t mean you know what’s best for everyone.”
“You’re a Donovan too,” Bailey said as she gave Dane one last look. “After all this time wondering who you father is, now you know. So what are you going to do about it?”
Devlin tightened his hand in hers.
“I’m watching everything you do,” he told Dane. “Wherever you go and whoever comes to visit you, I will know. And the moment Roslyn Ausby shows her face, she’s mine.”
“Don’t threaten me,” Dane replied to Devlin in a tone as laced with animosity and barely restrained rage, as Devlin’s was. “You’re not the only one with government manpower behind you. Fall back and let me handle my mother in my own way.”
“Not a fuckin’ chance,” Devlin replied and turned to walk out of the office.
Bailey followed him because she didn’t know what else to say to Dane. She didn’t know how she felt about standing a few feet away from a person who was related to her but that she didn’t know a damn thing about. And she especially didn’t know how to stop comparing Dane’s situation to that of Carmen Stafford, the little girl who’s life Bailey had been hired to save, but had, instead watched die right in front of her.
Carmen Stafford was the three-year old daughter of Dr. Norman Stafford, a renowned psychiatrist in the Greenwich area. The good doctor had three bestselling books and a television show where he gave weekly mental health advice to a special guest and two or three who sent him letters with questions. Carmen’s mother died during childbirth in Indonesia. The little girl was taken from her bedroom in Stafford’s Greenwich mansion. She’d been missing for three days before the first ransom note was delivered. Bailey was there, at the Stafford mansion when the courier delivered the letter.
Three million dollars. That’s what Carmen’s life was worth to her abductors. Dr. Stafford was ready to pay immediately. Bailey knew that was a mistake. The local cops and the hostage negotiators had advised the same thing. As Dr. Stafford had hired D&D Investigations to do their own investigation into what had happened to his daughter, Sam and
Bailey decided that it might be good to set up a meet and greet with the kidnapper. They had an idea who it was and had shared the information with the police officers. The police, of course directed them to stand down. Dr. Stafford, on the other hand, was paying good money for D&D to handle the case and return his daughter to him. So a drop was set up. Bailey would hold a briefcase and a wire. Sam would be a few feet away in a van listening and watching.
On the day of the drop Bailey stood in the hallway of an old abandoned warehouse where the kidnappers had requested they meet. She had a gun tucked in the back ban of her pants and another one in the holster at her ankle. The wire was taped to her chest, the briefcase full of newspaper held securely in her right hand. She was ten minutes early. The kidnappers were ten minutes late. They came in shooting. Bailey ducked and reached for her gun but the minute she wrapped her hand around the handle she felt the first kick to her lower back. The air was sucked out of her, pain ricocheting throughout her body. Another kick followed, and one more for good measure just as she looked up to see her attacker. A man with fire engine red hair and freckles on his face. She opened her mouth to scream but the sound died as she her body rolled down not one, but two flights of stairs.
There were multiple footsteps, gunshots, yelling, and motion, all around her. But Bailey couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak and she couldn’t fight. Her eyes blinked, tears filled them and she finally gave in to the dark.
When she awoke Bailey was in a hospital room, a doctor with a sad look on his pasty face staring down at her.
“I’m sorry to inform you that you miscarried,” he’d said to her.
“What?”
“The injuries you sustained to your back and the fall down the stairs caused you to miscarry. We performed a D&C an hour after you were brought in. You should make a full recovery and you should be able to conceive again.”
A week later when Bailey was released from the hospital, she found out that one of the staff members in the Stafford house was working with the kidnappers. The maid had heard Sam and Bailey speaking with Dr. Stafford about their plan. The kidnappers had known she was coming. They’d killed Carmen that morning and came to the scene to kill Bailey as well.