Private Justice

by Marie Ferrarella

  “He didn’t bring me,” Cindy said, stepping forward. She looked at him, at his apparently less-than-controlled state and told him, “I brought me. I thought you might need my support.”

  Hank’s mouth quirked in what might have passed as a self-deprecating smile. “What I need at this point,” he informed her, doing his best to sound philosophical, “is a miracle.” His face softened just a little. “Got one of those in your pocket, Cindy?”

  Her smile went beyond that of an employee for her boss. It was that of a loving daughter, grieving for her father’s fall from grace. “Must have left it in my other skirt.”

  “Maybe next time,” he replied.

  Taking another swig, Hank sighed deeply, as if there was just no way for him ever really to catch his breath again. Never to find a way out of the quagmire he’d found himself in. Certainly never a way to make things right again. The gravity of the situation—and the slow awareness that he wasn’t going to be able to talk or charm his way out of it—was beginning to really sink in. And it was taking its toll on him.

  He was too old to start over again, he thought. And right now, too damn tired as well. He’d never thought that any of his matrimonial missteps would come back to haunt him. And certainly not in spades, the way they had these last few days.

  Floundering, needing help to find his way, Hank looked at his son. His successful son, he couldn’t help adding. “So, what do we do, Dylan?” he asked. “Do you see a way out of this for me?”

  “Have you thought of falling on your sword?” Dylan asked, his voice devoid of any telltale emotion.

  “Dylan!” Cindy cried, stunned and angry.

  “Actually,” the senator admitted, looking into the bottom of his glass as if the answers might be there, “yes, I have. But I’m afraid I’m not that heroic. I need a solution that’s a little less drastic. A little less bloody.”

  “The first step,” Dylan said evenly, as if laying out the strategy to win the next football game, “is to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not the victim here,” he reminded his father.

  The smile on his face was fashioned out of irony. “Funny, I thought I was.”

  Dylan moved his head from side to side, negating what his father had just said. “The victim is Mother,” Dylan pointed out. “And everyone who ever made the mistake of believing in you.”

  Cindy swung around to look at the senator’s son. What was he doing—tearing his father down and then stomping on the pieces? He was supposed to be helping the senator, not destroying what little confidence and hope he might have left. Her temper flared.

  “Dylan—”

  But Hank waved her into silence. “No, he’s right.” Still holding the glass in his hands, Hank sank down on the sofa, feeling defeat in every tissue in his body. “He’s right,” he repeated.

  The problem was, Hank thought, draining what was left in his glass, his son didn’t realize just how right he actually was.

  Chapter 6

  “Still,” Hank went on to admit in what was a completely unguarded moment, allowing a deep sigh to escape and showing—at least to Cindy, whose heart went out to him—the depths of his vulnerability, “when I came home just now, I was hoping that I’d find your mother waiting for me. But Martha told me that she’d packed up and left the day the story broke.”

  Dylan stared at his father, stunned. Was the man seriously deluded? Or was his father far too self-centered to understand what he’d done to his wife? To his family? Until this moment, he’d thought of his father as an intelligent man.

  Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  “Really? Dylan asked incredulously. “You really expected her to be here, waiting for you?”

  “Really,” his father replied with more than a little conviction. Granted, Dylan thought, his mother had certainly never flagged in her support of his father. Of course, there hadn’t been any reporters hounding her because there hadn’t been any scandal to contend with at the time. “According to the vows,” the senator was saying, “your mother was supposed to stand by me no matter what transpired.”

  No doubt about it, the man really was deluded, Dylan decided. “Forgive me,” he said coolly, “but the quote is ‘in sickness and in health. For richer or poorer.’ I don’t recall ever hearing anything about hanging around while a spouse commits serial adultery.”

  A self-deprecating smile played on Hank’s lips. He hadn’t had a hand in it, but at least Sarah had raised a son they could both be proud of. One whose head was on straight and who wasn’t intimidated or given to pandering because he hoped to get something out of it. The people he’d worked with—with the lone exception of the young woman standing beside his son—all “yessed” him to death to his face and, he had no doubt, plotted against him behind his back. They’d all run like mice from a sinking ship the moment this story broke.

  “I suppose I deserve that,” Hank allowed with a resigned nod of his head.

  That and so much more, Dylan thought. But all he said in response was, “You have any doubts that you do?”

  Hank laughed shortly. Isn’t going to give an inch, this one, is he? “No, I guess not.”

  All right, she’d held her tongue long enough, Cindy thought angrily. Yes, the senator had behaved badly, very badly. But they were here to figure out how to move forward, not how to flog a man who was clearly down.

  “Rehashing this,” Cindy informed Dylan crisply, “isn’t going to help anything. Now if you’re here to help mount a defense for the senator, let’s start mounting it. If not, maybe you should leave.”

  There was fire in her eyes, Dylan noted, fascinated despite himself. How had his father merited such loyalty from her? Again, he couldn’t help wondering the extent of their relationship. Did it go beyond the office? And how deeply? She didn’t strike him as someone who would be willing to take second place to a squadron of mistresses, or as a woman who would be a home wrecker, but then, he hadn’t known her even for the length of a day, so maybe his gut was wrong.

  “I can’t leave,” he reminded her, trying to play it light. “At least, not without you. I’m your ride, remember?”

  He watched as those same fiery eyes narrowed now, their laser beams focused solely on him.

  She was not about to allow this man to spend even a split second thinking he could manipulate her in any manner, shape or form. Those days, thanks to the senator, were behind her.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Kelley, I’m not without resources. I assure you that I can get back to the office without you.” Turning toward Senator Kelley, she said, “If you point me in the right direction, I’ll see about making you a cup of coffee.” She glanced down at his empty glass on the coffee table and tactfully amended, “A strong cup of coffee.”

  “I can show you where it is,” Dylan offered. Without waiting for her to turn him down, he began to cross toward the threshold. “Coming?” he asked, looked at Cindy over his shoulder.

  Cindy looked somewhat reluctant, then fell into place beside him. “Coming,” she echoed.

  Dylan led the way through the opulent maze he and his siblings had once played explorer in. It was hard to think that he had once been innocent enough to do that. It made him almost nostalgic.

  He looked at the woman at his side, curiosity stirring despite his efforts to put a lid on it. “I thought assistants didn’t do things like get coffee or tea anymore.”

  “Because it’s demeaning?” she guessed.

  Dylan inclined his head as he guided her through what his mother had called the family dining room, as opposed to the formal one where important people gathered and were entertained—people who had gotten his father elected as a senator in the first place.

  “Something like that,” he told his father’s feisty assistant.

  Cindy shook her head, as if amused that he subscribed to something so stereotypical. “Assistants do what they need to do in order to assist,” she told him pointedly, adding, “Besides, I’m finally comfortable enough in my own skin not to
be threatened by something so insignificant as bringing the senator a cup of coffee when he clearly needs one.”

  Dylan had caught one important word and had barely heard the rest of her statement. “Finally?” he repeated, intrigued that she should use this particular word. She already struck him as someone who didn’t bandy words about haphazardly. She used them more like precise tools. So why finally?

  “Finally,” Cindy affirmed, leaving the word standing on its own.

  Okay, that had to mean something, didn’t it? His curiosity grew, multiplying drastically. He studied her face. No secrets were being given away there. It was shut down, tight as a fortress.

  “You’re not going to elaborate, are you?” It wasn’t a guess.

  Only then did the hint of a satisfied smile—at his expense, no doubt, he thought—surface.

  “No, I’m not,” she told him. Senator’s son or not, he had no business poking into her life. It had no bearing on the senator’s present problem and that was all Dylan Kelley needed to know.

  Ultimately he and the senator’s Chief Staff Assistant remained at the estate for a little more than an hour. During that time, he plied his father with questions about his dealings with other women as well as what, if anything, he’d been doing with any left-over campaign funds.

  When it came to the mistresses, Dylan felt he needed to know exactly how many there were, their names and whatever his father could remember about each, whether or not he thought the information was important.

  “Why?” his father had asked. He was unaccustomed to being grilled so closely and this true-confessions session was clearly taking a toll on him. Even a passing stranger could see that he desperately wanted to leave the whole mess far behind him. Buried if possible. The why should have been apparent to him, Dylan thought. “So I can ascertain how much of a liability each is to us, both on the stand and in the general scheme of things.”

  His father seemed to take heart in the pronoun his son had used and grudgingly conceded that he had a point, at which time he proceeded to give as much information as he could. In some cases, because the women were apparently such casual acquaintances, there wasn’t much.

  The word mistress, he assured his son, was far too liberally bandied about. Most of the time, it wasn’t even applicable. One or two liaisons in a motel did not instantly transform a woman into a mistress.

  Finally, because he had several loose ends to take care of before he could officially begin the leave of absence he’d gotten from his firm, Dylan called an end to this first meeting.

  Cindy observed that it was hard to say which of the two men looked more relieved to see it end—the senator or his son.

  Gathering his things together, Dylan promised to be in touch very soon and with that he walked out of the room. He hadn’t bothered to shake his father’s hand. The senator, Cindy noted, looked a little upset, but said nothing. Instead, he looked in her direction. A weak smile creased his lips. “Thanks for coming,” he said to her.

  Her heart ached for the man, even if he had brought this all on himself. “It’s going to be all right,” she promised him, giving him a quick hug before hurrying after the departing Dylan.

  Kelley’s legs were far too long, she thought, annoyed as she lengthened her own stride to catch up. “Just because I don’t mind serving the senator coffee doesn’t mean I automatically walk five paces behind you,” she called after Dylan, raising her voice so he could hear her.

  Dylan immediately slowed down just as they reached the beginning of the passageway. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

  “About bailing?” she guessed, glancing at his expression.

  He wouldn’t bail, though he might want to. His principles wouldn’t allow him to do that. Maybe it was time to set this little guard dog straight, he decided. “One, I don’t bail—”

  “Ever?” Cindy pressed, her eyes never leaving his face.

  “Ever,” Dylan told her, his voice firm.

  Her own pace increased. She couldn’t wait to get out of this claustrophobic passageway. “And two?” she asked him. “You said one, there’s got to be at least a second point.”

  “And two,” he continued, “what I was doing when you accused me of making you walk five paces behind me was plotting strategy.”

  Cindy looked at him for a long moment, debating whether he was being serious or was just saying what he thought she’d want to hear. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “And how far did you get plotting this strategy?”

  Right now, everything in his head was in turmoil. He was searching for the right angle—and also trying to determine why this had blown up on his father at this particular time. Was it just a coincidence? Or was it orchestrated? And, if so, by whom?

  But all of these thoughts were still in their infancy and not something he felt up to sharing with anyone. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to.”

  She knew what that meant. “You don’t have anything yet, do you?”

  He stopped walking for a second to give her a penetrating look, then resumed retracing his steps back to Dr. McCallum’s basement. “You know, for a woman who likes to keep her own counsel, you certainly feel free to delve into mine.”

  They both knew she couldn’t get anything out of him that he wasn’t willing to share. They had that in common. “I can only go as far as you’ll let me,” she pointed out.

  Trouble was, Dylan thought as they worked their way through the last part of the tunnel, he had this sudden, strong desire to share more than just information and strategy with this woman.

  Where the hell had that come from, fully dressed and all done up with a bow? A few hours ago, he hadn’t even known Cindy Jensen existed and now he was finding himself attracted to the little dictator as well as intrigued by her.

  It was probably because she wasn’t an open book the way most of the women he encountered were, Dylan reasoned, trying to understand his motivation. A little while spent in his company and most women he met were willing to disclose anything and everything. Conquests had never been all that challenging for him. And, he assumed, this was the reason these women, attractive though they were, had never held his attention for long.

  Just as well. Ultimately, he was a hunter, not a nester.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said as they finally surfaced inside the doctor’s basement.

  “You want to get something to eat?” Dylan asked Cindy as he was driving her back to the senator’s office. It had occurred to him that they’d left the office just before lunch and it was several hours past that now. He knew he could at least stand to grab something to go if not actually sit down to enjoy his meal.

  Cindy made no answer.

  Was her lack of response supposed to be taken as a no? Glancing in the young woman’s direction when her silence continued, he saw that she’d turned possibly the lightest shade of pale he could recall ever having seen on anyone who was still alive and breathing.

  It wasn’t his imagination. She looked seriously ill. “Are you all right?” he asked, ready either to pull over or to drive straight to the closest available hospital emergency room.

  Cindy held up her hand, as if to tell him to hold on because she couldn’t answer him immediately.

  Damn it, I thought I’d gotten past this part. Obviously not.

  It felt as if her entire stomach was threatening to come up. In one continuous wave.

  With great effort, Cindy managed to talk herself into keeping the very minor content of her stomach—dry toast and tea, eaten some hours ago—down where it belonged. It was not easy. Feeling really ill, she forced herself to swallow. She wasn’t about to throw up in this man’s car, or even next to it. She’d die first.

  Cindy clenched her hands in her lap.

  Getting uncomfortably nervous, Dylan cast about for a clue. “Are you carsick?” he asked her.

  He remembered that, when they were kids, his sister used to get really carsick unless she sat up front, as close to the driver�
�s side as possible. And even that didn’t always help. Trips were prolonged as they pulled over to the side of the road to allow Lana to throw up when her nausea became particularly intense.

  He glanced at Cindy again. He’d have thought she was a little old for that. In his experience, most people got over being carsick by the time they were in their late teens or early twenties, but there were always exceptions to everything.

  And she definitely looked a little green about the gills. “You want me to pull over?” he offered.

  Cindy shook her head, staring straight ahead. Perspiration was gathering along her forehead, blending into her bangs.

  “Keep driving,” she told him hoarsely. “It’ll pass. It was supposed to have passed already.”

  Given that line of conversation as a clue, Dylan came to the only other conclusion he could. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  A wave of anger, red and hot, swept over him out of nowhere, surprising the hell out of him as it materialized. She was carrying his little half brother or sister, wasn’t she?

  “Whose baby is it?” he asked for form’s sake, even though he figured he already knew the answer to that.

  The turmoil in Cindy’s stomach settled down to a lesser degree of nausea, one that, while not wonderful, she could at least put up with.

  Taking a deep breath, Cindy replayed his question in her head. She thought of flatly denying his overall assumption, but what was the point? She wasn’t showing now, but she would be, probably soon, and most likely, if he was pleading his father’s case, he’d be around to see her expanding waistline.

  “Mine, unfortunately,” she answered.

  God help her, she wasn’t the maternal type. Hadn’t even played with dolls as a little girl. What was she going to do with a living, breathing baby?

  This was so unfair, but it was the price she paid for not having had the courage to stand up for herself sooner. Who even knew when she would have found her backbone if she hadn’t been working for the senator? It was Dean leaving that last mark of his “high regard” for her visible where the senator could see it and express his concern that had infused her with the courage to finally stand up for herself.