“Thank you, Mother. That’s very . . .” He started to say sweet.
She shot him a glare.
“. . . open-minded of you.” He laughed a little and rubbed his head. When he’d gotten out of bed and gone after Meadow, he’d been irked as hell that she hadn’t confided in him, yet prepared to make the grandiose gesture of paying for her mother’s cancer treatment.
What a great guy he was.
Yet Meadow seemed to think he was wonderful, and, even more amazing, so did his mother.
“Meadow told you she’s an artist,” he said. “I believe you know her. She made that glass bowl you placed on the mantelpiece in the dining room.”
“No, she didn’t. That bowl was created by River Szar—” Grace stopped in midsentence. She looked at him. She walked to the dining room. She looked toward the fireplace. She turned back. “Meadow is Natalie Szarvas?”
“Natalie Meadow Szarvas.”
“She told me she was an artist, but I thought . . . Well! That explains everything. No wonder she’s so eccentric. This will be so much easier to explain to my friends.” Grace’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“And we all know how important that is.” His mockery hid his real pleasure in her approval.
“I am friends with important people!”
“They’re only important because they’re your friends.”
“As Meadow is important because she’s your wife.” In her peculiarly inept way of comfort, Grace came to him and hugged him. “It’s late. You’re tired. You’ve had a shock. Go to bed.”
“Yeah.” He was well aware that his confession of love to Meadow had been unheard—and unanswered.
Worse, he was relieved. He was a stinking coward—he didn’t want to be the one who took the chance and offered his love, only to have the new, fresh, never-before-experienced emotion rejected.
He wasn’t the kind of man who imagined Meadow had never danced naked in the moonlight, or that her open affection for him might just be . . . Meadow’s affection for all of mankind. He was certainly one of her only lovers, but when it came to love . . . he might be one of the crowd.
Grace walked with him toward the stairs. “What does Meadow say happened tonight?”
“She says she doesn’t remember.” He grimaced. Yeah, right. More amnesia. But this time . . . he believed her.
After he’d gotten Meadow settled in a room, Dr. Apps had called him aside. “I see this kind of injury far more than I like to. A blunt object inflicted the wound on Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s head.”
He had stared at the doctor, his worst fears confirmed. “You’re saying someone hit Meadow and pushed her down the stairs?”
“Actually, Mr. Fitzwilliam, in cases like this, that someone is almost always the husband.” Maybe Dr. Apps didn’t flirt with other women’s husbands. Maybe she didn’t flirt with wife beaters. But at that moment, she sure as hell hadn’t been flirting with him. She had stared at him, arms crossed, eyes hostile.
“In this case, it isn’t. But I will find out who it was.” He had walked away, knowing full well that Dr. Apps believed in his innocence about as much as she believed O. J. Simpson’s.
But the fact remained that someone had struck Meadow and pushed her down the stairs, and he intended to discover who—and make that person suffer.
It was because of that person that Devlin had had to face a horrible fact: He loved Meadow, and that love had the power to make him suffer.
He didn’t want to suffer.
He didn’t want someone else to hold power over him.
He had, in the space of only a few hours, been proven a coward and a weakling.
How had he come to such a pass?
But his mother stared at him as she always had, as if she didn’t know what to do with him, so he knew his vulnerabilities remained hidden. At the foot of the stairs, he patted her on the back. “It’s late. You need to get some sleep.”
“I’m fine. I’m putting off the first day of filming for the new season. I must see Meadow with my own eyes, and really know she’s well.” Grace stood there, waiting for . . . what?
Oh. “That’s great, Mother. I appreciate it, especially since I know how important the show is to your fans.”
“Anything for my son and his wife.” She presented her cheek.
He kissed it and watched her make her way upstairs.
Then he headed for his office.
There he found Sam and Gabriel reviewing the security tapes.
He seated himself behind his desk. He placed his hands flat on the cool surface, and coolly considered them both. “Well?”
Gabriel began. “The security system was off five minutes before my personal alarm sounded.”
“Why so long?” Devlin asked.
“Because it was shut off by someone who knew what he was doing, and it was done remotely. The only reason he didn’t circumvent my alarm was because I installed it right before the party. New technology. And I wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t had the break-in three weeks ago. Stuff like that makes me twitchy.” Actually, Gabriel didn’t look twitchy. He looked furious.
Devlin switched his attention to Sam.
“I reviewed the tapes at the time the cameras went off, and again right after they came on. The only people in the corridors or on the perimeter were security personnel, Mia from the kitchen, who had finished cleaning up and was heading home, Miss Weezy Woodward, who was leaving Judge Gregory Madison’s room, and near the top of the staircase . . . Mr. Bradley Benjamin the fourth.”
Devlin found himself on his feet, and in a voice hoarse with rage he said, “Four? Four did this?”
“Sir, Four does not have the technical skill to shut off the security system,” Sam said.
“Who else could it be? Do you have another suspect?” Devlin demanded.
“Perhaps one of my security people.” Gabriel made his suggestion steadily. “They all have good references. Some have worked for me for years. I pay them well. But security guards are always a prime target for corruption.”
Devlin paced out from behind his desk. “Have any of them been sneaking around my hotel after a painting?”
Sam shook his head. “But sir, Four isn’t violent. I can’t imagine he would strike Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”
“Let’s find out.” At a deliberate pace, with Sam and Gabriel on his heels, Devlin walked up the stairs and down the corridor to Four’s room. Just as deliberately, he slid his master key card into the lock. And even more deliberately, with all his force, he slammed the door open against the wall.
“Shit,” Gabriel muttered.
Devlin flipped on the overhead light.
Four catapulted out of the bed.
“Four, you son of a bitch, is there something you want to tell me?” Devlin used to be a football player. He knew how to make himself look bulky and menacing.
He did it now.
His technique worked, because Four gave a sob and cringed back against the bed. “Please, Devlin, don’t kill me.”
Guilty. Devlin could scarcely stand it. That feeble little asshole was guilty.
He took a step inside. One step only. If he took any more, he’d go and wring Four’s skinny little neck. “Give me one reason why not.”
“It’s not my fault! He’s making me do it. It’s Mr. Hopkins.”
“Mr. . . . Hopkins?” Gabriel asked.
Four’s attention switched to Gabriel. “He’s this silver-haired devil with a smooth voice. So smooth. He calls me and he says . . . he says . . .” The pansy-ass wore a pair of silk pajama bottoms, and the knocking of his knees made the fine material shiver. “He says he’s going to geld me! Or worse.”
“Have you seen him?” Sam asked.
“Yes. I didn’t see him well—he sat there in shadow—but he did this.” Four pinched his ear.
Gabe turned to Devlin. “Remember, I told you about Mr. Hopkins. If he’s got his finger in this pie, we’re in deep trouble.”
“We are. We are!” Fo
ur said.
“I’ve hired a couple of his people. My security’s been compromised.” Gabriel looked at Sam. “Can you handle this?”
Sam nodded.
Gabriel walked back down the corridor.
Four watched the interplay with feverish eyes. “He knows everything that’s going on here. He’s watching me. He’s watching the house. You do understand, Devlin?”
“I understand. You’re working for him.” Devlin waited for Four to deny it.
But he didn’t. All he did was confirm his own cowardice. “I had to! He’s going to hurt me if I don’t get that painting. He’s going to kill me!”
So Four had pushed Meadow down the stairs. He’d tried to break her neck to save his own. The lying little weasel. “You should stop worrying about Mr. Hopkins killing you.”
“Man. Please. You’re going to help me, aren’t you?” Four had the guts to look hopeful.
“You hurt my wife.” Remembering how Meadow had appeared, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, made Devlin want to sob, too. Instead, he promised, “Now I’m going to kill you myself.” He started after Four.
Four tried to back up. Fell on the bed. Scrambled backward.
Sam grabbed Devlin and planted his feet.
“Kill your wife? Kill Meadow? When? What are you talking about? I never hurt her. I never hurt anybody!” Four’s blond, gelled hair stood up like an exclamation point.
Devlin strained against the restraint. “What a pile of crap. You charmed her. You made her like you. Then when you figured out she was looking for the same painting as you, you cut that steering fluid line.”
“I didn’t do that. He did. He did!”
“And when you saw her on the stairs, you smacked her on the head.”
“I never touched her. Devlin, I swear to God”—like a goddamn Boy Scout, Four held up one trembling hand—“I would rather go up against Mr. Hopkins by myself than hurt Meadow.”
“Get out.” Devlin could scarcely speak for rage. “Get . . . out . . . now.”
Four listened. He listened well, because he raced to the closet, pulled out his clothes, and flung them on the bed.
But he kept talking. He babbled as fast as he could. “Listen to me. I didn’t hurt Meadow. If someone smacked her on the head, you’d better take good care of her, because if Mr. Hopkins knows she’s after that painting, he’ll take her out. No kidding, Devlin. Mr. Hopkins is going to kill me for failing.” Four paused in the process of unzipping his suitcase.
He looked right at Devlin, and if Devlin didn’t know better, he would have sworn Four was telling the truth.
“Devlin, honest. Mr. Hopkins will kill Meadow . . . just for trying.”
32
The next morning, as Devlin stepped inside his office, the clouds had closed in and the gray day echoed his mood. He hated that Gabriel had spent the night firing some of his security staff and trying to track down one who’d gone missing. He hated that Four had betrayed him. He hated more that his tolerance for an old friend had led to Meadow’s injury.
Worse, now he saw traitors everywhere. When Sam looked up from his desk, all Devlin could remember was his unusual interest in that painting. There was something damned odd about his attention to that detail.
“I hope Mrs. Fitzwilliam is doing well today, sir.” Sam looked the same as he always did—a mix of Asian and Hispanic, calm, unflappable, efficient.
But when Devlin got back from the hospital and settled Meadow into her bed, he was going to do some research on good old Sam. “I spoke with the hospital this morning. They tell me she’s resting comfortably and, other than bruises, has no residual trauma. I pick her up at eleven.”
“Good news, sir.” Sam rose to his feet. He squared his shoulders. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, I refused to wake you, but you have a visitor. He didn’t want to be seen by your departing guests, so I put him in the dining room.”
Devlin was in no mood to play games. “Who is he?”
“His name is Carrick Manly.”
“Carrick Manly. Well. Daddy’s legitimate son.” No wonder Sam had made such a big deal of this announcement. He didn’t know how Devlin would react.
Hell, Devlin didn’t know how Devlin should react.
Nathan Manly had had one wife, and among his other breeding activities, he’d managed to father one son with her, making Carrick the anointed heir to his father’s industrial kingdom. Only Nathan had ruined his business, taken the money, and run out on everyone, including Melinda and Carrick Manly.
In all the years since his father had disappeared, Devlin had never heard from any paternal relative.
Well . . . he hadn’t gone looking for them, either. With a parent like Nathan, who knew what his offspring would be? Devlin had enough problems with friends like Four.
Four. Devlin had thrown him out, then almost sent someone after him. Because . . . what if Four was telling the truth?
But Sam had talked him out of it. “Sir, if this Mr. Hopkins really is searching for the painting, then Four is better off away from the action.” Then he’d tried to pry more information about the painting out of Devlin.
Sam was definitely due for an investigation.
“Did Carrick say what he wanted?”
“He refused to speak to me,” Sam said, “but I thought you’d wish to see him regardless.”
“You thought right.”
“I also thought you’d like information before you spoke with him, so I took the liberty of researching him and making up a file.” Sam handed Devlin a manila folder full of information he’d gathered off the Internet: press clippings describing Carrick’s privileged childhood in Maine among American aristocrats, many more news stories from the time of Nathan’s disappearance, and a mention of Carrick’s graduation from college with a brief recap of the disgrace. The newest pictures were not clear; Carrick had clearly developed a talent for avoiding the photographers.
And finally, from January, the news that the U.S. government had filed charges against Melinda Manly, accusing her of collusion in the defrauding of the Manly Corporation’s stockholders.
Devlin had heard about that, of course. He simply hadn’t given a rat’s ass. “Why did the government wait so many years?” he asked rhetorically.
Sam answered just as vaguely. “It’s the government.”
Devlin handed the file back. “You put him in the dining room, you say? Good choice. He can entertain himself in there.” With the computers. With the books. With stealing the antiques, if he took after their father.
Devlin strode toward the dining room.
He opened the double doors, half hoping to catch Carrick pilfering the silver.
Instead he was sitting by the window, reading a well-worn paperback—one of his own, by the looks of it. He put down the book, rose, and extended his hand. “My name’s Carrick Manly. I’m your half brother—and that’s a phrase I’ve been using a little more often than I am used to.”
Those recent, blurred photos didn’t do him justice. He was approximately twenty-four, tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was dark, like Devlin’s, and his brown eyes were intelligent.
Devlin thought they probably looked alike, and as he shook Carrick’s hand, he said, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“So I see.” Carrick checked him out as carefully as Devlin had him. “You look completely different from the last half brother I met.” Clearly Carrick had been raised among the finest old families on the East Coast; his voice had a patrician accent, and although the clothes he wore weren’t expensive, he wore them well.
“Who would that be?”
“His name is Roberto Bartolini. He’s Italian.”
“No more than half Italian, surely.” Devlin gestured Carrick back into his seat.
Carrick corrected himself. “Italian-American.”
“I believe I’ve heard of him. Saw his photo in the paper. ” Devlin remembered the USA Today story he’d read at the airport last month. “Didn’t he marry that fa
mous crime-fighting lawyer in Chicago?”
“I was at the wedding.” While Devlin seated himself, Carrick sank back and waited.
He showed an unusual amount of self-possession for a young man, and Devlin had to admire his handling of the situation. The other man didn’t know if he would face overt hostility, amusement, or evasion, so he lingered in silence.
“Did you find him?” Devlin could think of no other reason Carrick would have appeared out of the blue.
“Our father? No. He’s gone; the money’s gone. Nobody knows anything. But perhaps you’ve heard—the government has accused my mother of collusion in Nathan’s destruction of his industry and the disappearance of the money. I’m looking for any information he might have told you or your mother.”
Devlin’s ire rose. “After all this time, you come and ask a question like that?”
“Mr. . . . Fitzwilliam. After my father left, times were difficult for my mother and me. Nathan absconded not only with the money from the company, but also with most of my mother’s family fortune. The part of her fortune she managed to preserve she’s used to maintain the estate, but other than that, we lost everything.” Carrick held up his hand. “We had a lot, more than most people, certainly more than the rest of my half brothers. Nevertheless, my mother is ill suited for economizing, and times were difficult. Tracking down my brothers—a difficult business because, like so many things, my father took care to obscure his indiscretions—took a backseat to simply dealing with our circumstances.”
“Yes. I see.” Devlin did—reluctantly.
“After so many years, this indictment has caught us by surprise. My mother is not well, and she . . . considers this another disgrace visited on us by my father. She refuses to defend herself, and it’s up to me to clear her. The only legacy my father left me was my brothers. Through them I hope to discover what a family truly is.”
He was very good, this brother of Devlin’s. Carrick sketched his circumstances, he stated his case clearly, and his appeal was both un-sentimental and brief. In the past, Devlin had heard enough to know that Melinda and Carrick Manly had been abandoned as surely as Devlin had been; his only thought, if he had one, had been a brief, Good. But that had been years ago, immediately after his father walked out; he’d been very young then, and hurt by the knowledge that he’d been nothing more than another notch on a very scarred bedpost.
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