by Mary Birk
Anne pulled on Reid’s sleeve, inclining her head to the hallway leading from the kitchen.
He glared at the interruption, then nodded.
She put her hand on Grainger’s shoulder. “I need to talk to Terrence, Andrew. I’ll be right back.” Her voice was gentle, protective.
Protective could be the way she felt about a friend, though. It didn’t mean they were lovers.
Reid followed Anne out of the kitchen. Her long hair swayed in the opposite direction of her hips as she walked, the heels of her riding boots clicking on the hardwood floor. She stopped when they reached what was probably the house’s main reception area, an oversized room full of magnificent furniture and art. On one end, a large staircase led up to where an open hallway spanned the top of the room.
As soon as he was sure Grainger couldn’t hear, Reid let his anger out, “He’s a bloody fool.”
“He’s scared, Terrence.”
“A kidnapping is not something he can deal with alone. Not if he wants his little girl back alive.”
“Shh-h.” She took his arm and led him over to one of the sofas, then pulled him down next to her. “What if the kidnappers find out? What if they get mad and hurt her? Or kill her?” She looked at her hand on his arm, then dropped it quickly.
Reid felt suddenly bereft at the loss of her touch but made sure his feelings didn’t show. He’d missed her so much. Her voice, her touch. Her. Everything about her.
“His chances of getting the child back are much better if the police and FBI are brought in. No matter what the note says.”
She bit her lip, considered. “You’re sure?”
He nodded, clenching his hand to keep it from reaching out to her. “Aye, lassie.”
“If it were your child, would you call the FBI?”
His stomach knotted at her words. His child? His children were supposed to be hers as well. “Without a doubt.”
She frowned, thinking.
Reid kept his voice calm. “Anne, you need to convince him that every minute he waits makes it that much harder to get the child back.”
“He’s terrified.”
“This can’t wait. You have to get him to call in the authorities. Use your influence with him.” Reid hated to think about that influence.
“You heard him. He’s worried it’ll get her killed.”
“No matter what he thinks, girl, he cannot handle this himself.”
“I know.” She screwed up her face as if she’d tasted something bitter but raised her hands up in surrender. “Let me talk to him.”
He nodded his professional, authoritative nod. “Soon, Anne, or I’ll call them myself.”
She studied him, inclined her head. “He’ll agree.”
Reid had to ask. “Just to be clear, Anne, what exactly is your relationship to him?” Even as he asked, forcing her to say it, he dreaded her answer, prayed he was wrong.
Her bottom lip went out an almost imperceptible fraction. If he hadn’t known her mouth intimately, he might have missed it. She looked away, then studied her boots. “I guess you could say we’re involved.” Her voice sounded small, but a little defiant.
Reid’s world started spinning, but he made himself press on. He had to know for sure. He needed the truth.
He made his voice bland, neutral, as if he were asking her if she’d gotten the mail from the post box. “Involved? You mean you’re sleeping with him?”
She closed her eyes, dropped her face into her hands, and he wanted to die from the crushing weight of despair that sucked all the air out of his lungs.
“Anne, are you sleeping with this man?” The effort it took to keep his face from showing his pain was almost too much. “You need to tell me. You owe me that much if you want me to help.” He tried to hold on to that calm voice, but knew he was on the edge. He waited, wanting to reach out to her, pull her to him, make her deny it.
He let the silence sit there.
Finally she spoke, her voice soft. “Yes.”
“And he knows we’re still married? That I’m still your husband?” He gave up the effort to control his reaction, and now his voice was harsh. He didn’t care. He felt harsh. Harsh and used.
“Yes. And that we’re separated.” She gave him a speak-at-your-own-peril look. “And that you’re getting an annulment.”
“Great.”
“What do you care? You dumped me, Terrence. I didn’t leave you for God’s sake.”
Reid stood. “Go on. Talk to him.”
“Will you stay?”
“For now.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated as if she wanted to say something else, but couldn’t think of what it was.
“Go on, Anne.”
He watched as she left, then let the white hot waves of pain roil up from within him, charring everything in their path as they sped through his organs, his bones, and finally, when they reached his skin, burst into open flames.
He silently congratulated himself that no one watching would have noticed his demise.
Chapter 7
REID SAT ON THE OTHER SIDE of the kitchen, wondering what horrific sin he’d committed that had sent him to this particular hell, while Grainger and Anne finished their conference. His mobile vibrated and he glanced at the caller i.d. His office again. He pressed the ignore button.
Grainger broke away from Anne. “Okay, Terrence, call the FBI, but for God’s sake, tell them to be careful.”
Reid nodded, then went into the front hall to make the call. He asked for Jack Shelton, an FBI agent he’d known for years, a man who’d met Anne as Reid’s wife. He didn’t tell Shelton that Anne was there or about Anne’s relationship to Grainger. Reid had kept the separation a secret from everyone he knew, kept up the fiction of their long-distance marriage being a happy one. Shelton would find out the truth soon enough, and the news that Reid’s fairy tale marriage had gone to hell would spread through his acquaintances at the FBI in no time. Of course, if they’d seen the magazine photo, they would have already guessed.
He ended the call and went back to the kitchen. “It’ll be about an hour and a half before they get here. In the meantime, they’re sending the local police to help secure the scene.”
Grainger nodded, looking relieved now that the decision had been made.
“Thank you, Terrence.” Anne went over to a coffee maker that sat on the counter, got the carafe, and refilled Grainger’s cup.
Reid watched her bustling around the kitchen as if it were her own. Maybe it was, or would be soon. He and Anne had never had a place together. He’d brought her back to his flat in Glasgow right after their honeymoon, planning that they’d look for a house together, but she’d stayed less than a week before going back to the States.
Her tentative voice broke into his thoughts. “Terrence, would you like some coffee?”
He nodded and she filled a mug, bringing it over to him before sitting down next to Grainger. Jack Shelton had whistled when he’d heard the name of the kidnap victim. No surprise. Even Reid had heard of the Grainger art dynasty. Andrew Grainger’s grandfather, his father, his aunts, had all had their share of success, but none had reached the level that Andrew Grainger had. He already had two presidential portraits to his credit, but his most renowned paintings featured women. Beautiful women. Women like Anne.
Reid pulled up a chair at the table across from Grainger and sat down. “Tell me everything you remember about last night.” He deliberately kept his focus on the other man, blocking Anne out of his peripheral vision.
Then Grainger took Anne’s hand in his.
Reid took a deep breath. He wouldn’t look at their hands, wouldn’t look at the way she rubbed her thumb along Grainger’s palm, wouldn’t look at the way Grainger’s fingers closed over hers. This wasn’t about Anne and Grainger; this wasn’t even about Anne and him.
This was about the child.
Chapter 8
REID LISTENED, keeping his face a stone. Once the FBI arrived, he’d leave, but he’d
agreed to do a preliminary interview. He shouldn’t be the one interviewing his wife’s lover, but at least since she was there as well, it would look like he didn’t care, like they were all fine with how things were, like it wasn’t torturing Reid to see them together.
Grainger didn’t seem to have any misgivings about talking to him or about holding Anne’s hand in front of her husband. “It was the last day of a two-week artist conference and there were a lot of preparations going on for the party. A lot of people going in and out all day.”
“You were here all day?”
“Yes. Lenore’s been sick, so we’ve been sticking pretty close to home.”
“When you say she was sick, you mean what?” Reid kept his eyes on Grainger’s.
“Her kidneys. We’re supposed to see a specialist Monday. She wasn’t feeling good Saturday so I had our family doctor come over.”
“His name?”
“Will Kempton. He’s a good friend of mine. And Anne and his wife are friends.”
“Go on.” She and this man had friends together. Reid desperately wracked his brain trying to think of any couples he and Anne had been friends with, but couldn’t think of any. There hadn’t been time for them to get to that stage.
Grainger went on, and Reid forced himself to pay attention. “He came over in the afternoon. After he left, Anne’s sister Jeanne came over with her children to bring Lenore the Valentine’s box that the kids in her class had made for her.” He paused. “Phillip is in Lenore’s class at school.”
“Kindergarten, right?” Reid remembered Jeanne’s children, remembered he’d hoped that because Anne’s younger sister was such a devoted mother, Anne would eventually get over her reluctance to start a family. He’d not wanted them to wait, but she’d just been finishing her graduate degree when they’d married, and been adamant that she wasn’t ready to even think about children yet.
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“Anne came over early for the Valentine’s Day Gala because we were hosting it, and Lenore was downstairs with us before the party started. I had the string quartet that was set up for dinner play a song, and I danced with Lenore. Anne took a video of us.” Grainger pulled Anne’s hand closer so he could capture it in both of his own hands.
Reid bit the inside of his cheek. She and Grainger hosted parties together. He waited until he tasted blood in his mouth before releasing his bite, back in control. “How many artists were here?” He got up and went over to the kitchen door, looked out the window that comprised the top half of the door. The rain had begun again. He looked back at Grainger, waiting for his answer. If he angled his gaze exactly right, he could block out Anne and their hands.
“Eight. The party had about eighty people though. Our board members, the artists and their guests, some of the models, and as many of our benefactors as could make it.”
“Were the artists staying here in the house?”
“No, they stay in the cottages on the property and work in the big studio in the barn.”
Grainger clenched at Anne’s hands, and Reid turned back to the window. Did it rain every day here, he wondered.
“You have the video, Anne?” Reid went back over to the table, deciding he wasn’t going to let this woman, even if she was his wife, put him into retreat.
“It’s on my phone.” Her voice was soft.
“You’ll need to give it to the FBI.” He spoke to her, but directed his gaze at Grainger.
Anne said, “I can download it to Andrew’s computer.”
Reid shook his head, then to Grainger he said, “Don’t do anything with your computer yet. The FBI will want to look at it first.”
“I can e-mail it to you from my cell, Terrence.” Anne was trying to be helpful, he knew, but he just wanted her to shut up. To shut up and go away.
He went over to the kitchen island, leaned his back against the cold granite, and focused on Grainger. “What happened after that, Andrew?”
“Afterwards, we,” Grainger looked at Anne, “took her upstairs. Martha Warren, my housekeeper, was here by then to watch Lenore, and Anne and I said good night to Lenore, then went down to the party. Martha came downstairs later to tell me when Lenore went to sleep. That was about eight, and Martha stayed until eleven. I looked in on Lenore at about nine and I checked on her one more time before we went to bed—a little after eleven, I think. Right, Anne?”
Reid let his eyes move to his wife and jealousy crawled up from his groin, a visceral, primitive jealousy that he beat back with the inbred discipline honed through centuries of civilization. His hands clenched at his sides. Before they went to bed. After he’d called from the airport and asked her to meet him. This is a bad time, she’d said. Let’s meet tomorrow, she’d said.
Anne nodded, her gaze fixed on her hands now rigidly fisted in front of her.
“Did either one of you check on her during the night?” Reid was amazed at how calm his voice sounded. Men still killed other men over betraying wives, he knew, but not him. Luckily for the two of them, he was civilized. And he’d brought it on himself.
Grainger shook his head. “I thought I’d hear her if anything was wrong.”
Reid slid his eyes to Anne. “How about you?” He tried not to infuse the word “you” with any feeling at all, tried to pretend he didn’t know her, tried to forget he’d put his ring on her finger, his body inside of hers, his heart in her hands. Strangers. They were strangers.
She shook her head. “I left at about three o’clock this morning.”
“Go on.” He kept his eyes on her, making sure she’d see nothing in them but indifference. Anne looked stricken, ashamed, cornered, and in a small, petty corner of his wounded and wretched soul, he was glad.
Her voice was quiet when she finally answered. “I didn’t hear anything from Lenore’s room.”
“You didn’t check on her on your way out?” This time he didn’t even bother to try to tone down his disapproval.
“No.” She looked as if she were about to dissolve into tears.
Reid steeled himself not to care and directed his next question to Grainger. “Did you hear Anne leave?”
“No, I never do.”
Reid looked at his wife, his heart half frozen. “You usually leave in the middle of the night?” Like a whore, he thought. His wife sneaking out of another man’s room in the middle of the night.
She met his gaze briefly, then nodded. “Because of Lenore. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
“The wrong idea?” A slight edge of sarcasm slipped around his words. Grainger didn’t seem to hear it, but Anne caught it.
“Don’t say it, Terrence. Don’t you dare.” Anne’s voice was low and dark, as threatening as an ocean storm.
Grainger stepped in, his voice protective. “Lenore is attached to Anne, and Anne’s been concerned about her getting her hopes up until the annulment goes through.”
Reid felt the rest of his heart solidify into ice. “Of course. I’ve been negligent getting that seen to, my fault entirely.” He held up his still full coffee mug. “Anne, could you possibly get us some more coffee? I think what we had has gone cold.” He didn’t look, but heard her go over to the counter and fool with the coffee maker. “Andrew, tell me happened this morning.”
“I woke up early and since I hadn’t heard anything from Lenore’s room, I thought she was sleeping. I worked for a while, then at about eight-thirty, I went to check on her. She wasn’t there, so I searched all over, then went back and went through her room more carefully. That’s when I found the note and called Anne.”
“Any indication how the kidnapper got in?”
Grainger thought for a while before he spoke. “I’m not sure, but the master key set is missing from the hook it usually hangs on.” He indicated a large key rack on the kitchen wall.
“When’s the last time you saw the keys?”
“I honestly don’t know. I have my own keys so I don’t think I would have noticed.”
/> Reid looked over at the antique wall clock and tried to will it to make the time pass more quickly. Surely the FBI would get here soon and he could leave. If he got a flight to London tonight, connecting to Glasgow, he’d be home by tomorrow night. His work had piled up at the office. The money laundering investigation was heating up, and with the terrorism connection they’d uncovered…yes, he definitely needed to get back.
Anne brought over a carafe of fresh coffee, refilled Andrew’s cup, then took Reid a fresh cup.
Reid took a mouthful of the hot coffee, holding it against where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, letting it soothe and burn the raw wound before he swallowed. He would tell Anne that he had to leave after all. There was no way he was going to stay here.
Chapter 9
“CHIEF MCLENDON’S HERE.” Anne moved away from the window that faced the side driveway, expelling the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She glanced over to the table where Andrew and Terrence sat talking. This situation was awful enough, with Lenore being kidnapped, but having your lover talking with your husband was bizarre, not to mention excruciatingly embarrassing, even if your husband had been the one who’d dumped you. Anne knew Terrence had agreed to stay for Lenore, not for her. But whatever his motivation, she was glad. Andrew needed help.
And the two of them seemed to be getting along fine. They actually had a lot in common. They were both about the same age, both successful, both from prominent families and sophisticated, monied worlds. Worlds that Anne only visited. She knew she could blend in with their worlds, courtesy of her looks, but she lived from paycheck to paycheck, like most Americans her age. She’d supported herself since she’d graduated from high school, paid for college and graduate school with scholarships and loans, and had never taken a penny from her husband or any other man.
Terrence pushed back his chair and came over to the window where she stood, his hand moving the curtain aside. She felt her heart quicken at his closeness, but he was businesslike, impersonal, remote. Not for the first time she thought how much he resembled the falcons he raised. His hair, a dark, almost black brown when they’d married, was now shot through with random silver strands. His eyes, always on the alert, were framed by bushy black eyebrows, and above his upper lip was a faint shadow that was always there whether he had just shaved or not, the curse of a dark-pigmented Scotsman.