The McKenna Legacy Trilogy

by Patricia Rosemoor

  "It'll be all right," she whispered, only hoping she was uttering the truth.

  "Keelin, I have to get her back."

  "I know. I know."

  "Whatever I have to do." His mouth pressed into her hair. "Anything." Whispered against her temple. "I'll do anything to get my daughter back." Trailed across her cheek. "Give them anything they want!"

  Eyes stinging, heart churning with things she didn't understand, Keelin turned her face up to Tyler's, felt his breath brush her skin. "I believe you."

  Threading her fingers through the thickness of his dark hair, she was startled by her own boldness. For a moment, their gazes caught and she responded to the torment she read in his eyes. Torment that came at least partly from guilt, she thought, even as her body quickened to his.

  How could this be? How could her blood rush with such longing now? At such a desperate time when personal want should be as nothing?

  "I knew Cheryl didn't really mean to run away from me," he whispered, sounding as if he were trying to deny the guilt she sensed in him. Smoothing her hair so that she pressed a cheek into his hand. "Not seriously. She would have come home by now if she weren't being held prisoner."

  Keelin shook her head. "Cheryl did run, Tyler. And she trusted whoever is now holding her prisoner to protect her. From you. Don't waste time fooling yourself, please." Though his expression darkened and he put her from him, gripping her shoulders hard, she didn't stop. "You need to concentrate on whoever might have pretended they wanted to help Cheryl. Maybe if you can figure out who has a motive–"

  "A motive? The bastards want money, plain and simple." His gaze changed, as if he remembered suspecting that's what she wanted of him. He suddenly let her go altogether and took a step back. "The greedy people in this world are willing to do anything to get money."

  Realizing he included her in the sweeping condemnation, Keelin took a deep breath and tried to will away the yearning to feel his arms around her again. To harden herself against Tyler so that he couldn't hurt her more. She couldn't do it. God help her, she felt something for the man.

  And him a near-stranger.

  Trying to derail her emotions, she choked out, "Greed is only a part of it. There's more." She concentrated, tried to remember exactly what she'd heard. "One of them said something about wanting you to sweat, to know what it's like for someone else to be on top."

  He pulled a face. "You're saying someone is using my daughter – a child – to punish me?"

  Keelin swallowed hard. "I believe so."

  "Dear God, what have I done that's so terrible that He would let my child suffer for it?"

  Making an uneasy Keelin wonder the same thing.

  HALFWAY THROUGH THE MORNING, Brock Olander was pacing Tyler's office. This waiting put his nerves on edge and twisted his gut into a fancy knot. Pam had told him the moment Ty called in. Supposedly he was on his way and would arrive any minute. Brock checked his Rolex. Eighteen minutes ago now. It was out of character, Ty's being so late.

  But the past few days had been a crap shoot in general, with nothing going like it was supposed to.

  Brock stared out the window at Lincoln Park. So many people with no worries. Going about their pleasure like it was any other day. Well, it wasn't any day. In Brock's mind, today was D-Day.

  Ty had better agree to his proposal.

  "Any mail?" came the deep voice from the outer office.

  Brock whipped around and stared at the half-open door. He'd thought he was psyched, but Ty had somehow sneaked up on him, made him feel as if he was at the disadvantage. Sweat gathered on his forehead, along his neck, under his suit. He wasn't good at confrontation, especially not with someone as tough as his business partner. Brock knew that very quality had spelled their success...but had also caused his own discontent.

  "I think the mailman was here a few minutes ago," Alma was saying. "Sara is probably still sorting. Should be up any time now."

  "Let me know as soon as you get it, then." Ty's voice drew closer.

  "Waiting for something in particular, Mr. Leighton?" the motherly receptionist Ty had hired after her husband left her called after him.

  "Just let me know."

  In command, as usual, Ty took ownership of the office the moment he walked in the door. He didn't look like a man who was suffering, Brock mused from his position at the window. Not at all like a father who feared he might have lost his only child for good.

  Then Ty noticed him and frowned. "Brock. What are you doing in here?" He set his briefcase on his desk.

  "Waiting to continue the discussion that got interrupted yesterday."

  "I asked you to give me time."

  "Time isn't going to fix things." Though guilt sneaked along his nerves, Brock wasn't going to back down now.

  Ty sat, stared at him pensively. "I thought we were friends."

  "We were. Hell, we are. I feel for you. You know I do. But this is business."

  Brock wanted more than a partnership in which he faded into the woodwork. An opportunity had come up, one too good to let slip through his fingers or he wouldn't be so fixed on leaving now. If Ty got a whiff of his plans...

  "Right at this moment, I'm having trouble believing you consider us friends."

  "Let's say both the friendship and the partnership are strained. Maybe the first can be recovered if the second is dissolved amicably."

  "A friend would put this on the back burner until we get Cheryl home."

  "Which could be never."

  A thick silence followed, and Brock would swear that Ty paled. He went stiff as a corpse. Cold. His light blue eyes reminded Brock of shards of ice. He shifted uncomfortably under their glare. He'd seen that particular look before, but never aimed at him. He didn't relish being the recipient of the other man's ill-will.

  "Don't ever intimate such a thing again," Ty warned him in a low, menacing voice. "I'll bring my daughter home, and in one piece. You can bet your half of the business on that."

  "I'm not betting my half of the business on anything. I just want to pack it up and leave." Despite his growing discomfort, Brock pushed forward. "I want half of everything. Split right down the middle. Clients, contacts, assets. Everything."

  "I promise you, we'll talk about it. When I'm ready."

  When he was ready. Wasn't that just like Ty. Decisions were always his call, Brock fumed, frustration getting the best of him. Without another word, he stormed out of the office.

  Coming up the stairs, mail in hand, Pam gave him an intense, inquiring look. Not wanting her to guess what had gone on in there – how, once more, Ty had taken the upper hand – he turned his face away and escaped into his own office.

  The one with the view of congested Clark Street rather than the tranquil park.

  Brock's insides felt as knotted as the traffic tie-up at the intersection, but he was determined for once to get what he wanted. Cheryl really was Tyler Leighton's weak spot and Brock knew it. He loved the kid, he really did, and he didn't want to have to use her disappearance as leverage.

  But if it came to that...

  For once in his life, he wasn't going to back off because something was too tough.

  "MAIL CALL." PAMELA BROUGHT IN half an armload and set it on Tyler's desk. "Alma said you were anxious for something or other this morning."

  Tyler was already flipping through the letter-sized envelopes when he grunted, "Thanks."

  He hadn't thought to disbelieve Keelin about the ransom note when she'd seemed as shaken as he. At first, he'd clung to her with trust and something more, something that cut deeper despite his worry over his daughter...and then...suspicion had reared its ugly head.

  Now he didn't know what to think.

  How could he be certain his feeling closer to Keelin hadn't been part of her master scheme to take him?

  She'd made moves on him, throwing her arms around his neck, touching his face in that gentle way that made his heart thunder in his chest. He'd wanted to touch her and kiss her and do m
ore than just hold her. And this while his only thought should have been of his daughter, Tyler remembered, disgusted with himself. Keelin making him think he was to blame, that some enemy he'd made was using Cheryl to get even, could have been no more than a stroke of genius on her part. A smoke screen so that he would forget he didn't trust her. That he'd vowed never to be fooled again.

  He automatically discarded any envelopes with a familiar return address. Two were from people he didn't know. A third had no return address at all. His fingers tightened on the ordinary white paper that could have been purchased at any drug store.

  "Are you okay?"

  Tyler glanced up at his assistant, her gaze sympathetic, but he couldn't answer. No, he wasn't okay. He wouldn't be okay until he held Cheryl in his arms. He tore open the envelope and pulled out the missive.

  This was it.

  No originality here. Block letters cut from magazines and newspapers glared out at him.

  Don't involve the police further if you value your daughter's life. I'll be in touch.

  For a moment, Tyler forgot to breathe. Pressure built inside him until he was ready to explode.

  "Tyler?"

  He glanced up at Pamela, at the dark eyes reflecting his own anguish. He handed her the warning missive. She blanched when she read it.

  "Oh, God. What are you going to do?"

  "Whatever the bastard who sent that says."

  Inspecting the envelope as if he could read the sender's true intentions from it, Tyler suddenly realized that while it had been stamped, there was no postmark. "This never went through the U.S. mail." He showed Pamela.

  "You think someone slipped it into the pile when it was first delivered?"

  "How else?"

  "We had at least a dozen strangers wandering around downstairs this morning," his assistant admitted. "I suppose any one of them could have done it."

  Or someone who was not a stranger at all, Tyler mused. Keelin? Definitely someone who knew him. He still couldn't get over the idea of Cheryl's going off with someone she trusted more than him...

  "What about George Smialek?" Pamela suggested. "Maybe he's crazy enough to do something like this."

  "He's suing me."

  "But a suit isn't personal."

  "You have a point." Though Cheryl didn't know the man.

  "So, aren't you going to call the police?"

  "No. The sender threatened to kill Cheryl if I did."

  "You could give them what they want and they could kill her anyway."

  As if he hadn't thought of that.

  "Pamela, I don't want you telling anyone about this."

  He had to find his daughter before it came to a life or death situation, Tyler thought. Keelin McKenna was the key. Though he prayed Keelin was on the up-and-up, she could be part of the scam.

  One way or the other, he feared he would be forced to put his daughter's fate in Keelin McKenna's hands.

  SKELLY LIVED IN A POSH NEW BRICK AND STONE rowhouse on Lincoln Avenue, one of the diagonal streets cutting across Chicago's north side. The triangular development with entrances at each of the three corners had been designed to emulate a London neighborhood. All the rowhouses looked over inner streets and small snatches of green. Living quarters stacked up two stories over the street-level garages.

  "Quite a place you have here," Keelin said, wandering around the generously apportioned living and dining areas. She wondered if Skelly was in love with black lacquered furniture, or if the same designer who'd planned his office had had a free hand in his home, as well.

  As she stood over him, Skelly frowned. "You look tired."

  "Sleep seems a bit elusive these days."

  "Another dream?"

  Keelin nodded. "Cheryl Leighton's in trouble." She tried not to dwell on the complex emotions she had for the girl's father, all of which troubled her. "She trusted the wrong people. They're going to want money to give her back."

  "I'm sorry." He took a folder from his briefcase and indicated she should sit on the couch opposite him. "Especially sorry that you feel responsible for this girl. Tyler Leighton is the type of man a woman should avoid."

  Skelly spread the contents across the coffee table. Keelin sat and looked over copies of newspaper articles. Actually, they were society columns, most of which were accompanied by photographs of Tyler with some woman on his arm. Rather all different women.

  And one she recognized.

  "Over the years, Leighton's been seen with a number of socialites, each for a limited period of time," Skelly told her. "He's never been seriously involved with any of them as far as I can tell. Never lets them get too close. The latest of his conquests was Vivian Claiborne."

  "We've met, so to speak." Pushing away the memory of being held in Tyler's arms, Keelin said, "Skelly, if you're afraid Tyler will turn my head–"

  "I'm afraid for your safety. He moved from Indiana when his daughter was about a year old after his wife died, supposedly in a car accident. Only I couldn't get a bead on the particulars. No tragic story in any Indianapolis newspaper. No obituary. If you ask me, Helen Leighton must have died under some mysterious circumstances..."

  "You're not saying you think he killed her and buried her in the backyard, are you?"

  "I'm saying that it's possible."

  Remembering her caution around Tyler, having recognized his dark side, Keelin shifted uncomfortably. Tyler a murderer? Surely not. Surely she would sense it if he were truly dangerous.

  But why should she?

  Though she might be able to see through another's eyes, that's as far as her so-called psychic gift went. She couldn't see into another person's soul. Couldn't read anyone's mind. She had to rely on her natural instincts, the same instincts that everyone possessed, to judge character.

  Besides, Keelin reminded herself, Skelly sensationalized stories for a living. Maybe he was digging for a story where there was none.

  Keelin shook her head. "No, it's too bizarre."

  "The strange disappearance of the first Mrs. Leighton is bizarre," Skelly agreed, "and that's why I want you to be careful. I don't want to chance losing my new cousin before I even get to know what makes her tick."

  "You mean afterward would be all right?" she asked with a straight face.

  Skelly seemed startled for a moment. Then, when he realized she was joking, he grinned. "Aileen's going to love your sense of humor. And speaking of my sister, we ought to get a move on or she might be unavailable. I don't have a clue to her bookings for today."

  Keelin already knew his half-sister was a massage therapist and that she'd been enthusiastic at the prospect of meeting her cousin from Ireland.

  "Then we had best hurry," Keelin agreed. She indicated the copies. "Can I keep these?"

  "Consider them yours."

  Keelin stuffed the papers back into the folder and took it along. She'd have the time to look them over more carefully later in her hotel.

  Taking Skelly's car, they drove north up Lincoln Avenue to Aileen's place of work.

  "Natural Is...is an alternate lifestyle business owned by a local health food guru," Skelly said. "It promotes a more natural way of life, from organic foods to homeopathic medicines to healing hands. There's a combination shop/cafe and a health clinic. Aileen is the massage therapist."

  "How peculiar and grand that I share a similar interest with a cousin who was born thousands of miles from me," Keelin said with wonder.

  Natural Is...was located in a double storefront in an area that Skelly told her was still recovering from an economic fallout. Two major department stores had gone out of business with most of the smaller shops following. But eventually new businesses had moved in, loft condominiums had been created, and the neighborhood had received a face-lift in general.

  Keelin especially appreciated the old building facades that had been cleaned up and restored. And she felt comfortable entering Natural Is...The reception area of the clinic was anything but sterile. Purple walls. Oriental carpets underfoot.
An eclectic mix of second-hand furniture, some of it painted bright colors, scattered about. A mobile of the universe glittering in one corner. And plants peeking out from every nook and cranny. Lots and lots of plants.

  And her cousin Aileen was equally colorful, wreathed in a brilliant fuchsia, turquoise and jade print cocoon jacket that shimmered as she threw her arms around Keelin for a hug.

  "My schedule is clear for the rest of the hour," Aileen said before Skelly could make more formal introductions. "Let's go next door into the cafe."

  Half-brother and -sister had the same blue eyes and Keelin could see a resemblance in the cheekbones and jawline. But where Skelly had black hair, Aileen was blond, her extraordinary fairness no doubt inherited from her mother LaVerne.

  Keelin knew that Skelly's mother Faye – her own father's first love and the reason for the division between James and Raymond – had died shortly after his birth. Raymond had quickly remarried, but his union with LaVerne Gordon had ended in divorce. Gran once mentioned Raymond also had a child by a woman he'd never married, but Keelin hadn't found any letters or cards from Skelly and Aileen's natural half-brother in Moira's box of cherished memories.

  The cafe took up the front third of the other half of Natural Is... Keelin barely got a glimpse of the displays of books and supplements and more eyecatching treasures sold in the store before they settled at a table overlooking the busy street. Keelin and Aileen ordered herbal teas, while Skelly stuck to a hearty coffee.

  They exchanged details about their lives while waiting for their order. Once they were served, Skelly got down to business.

  "It's up to you to convince Dad to make this trip back to Ireland, Aileen."

  "I can try."

  "She can wind him around her little finger," he assured Keelin.

  Aileen shrugged modestly. "Plus we have the advantage because Dad never did get over not seeing his mother again before she passed on last year. I can probably use a little guilt...uh, not that I think your father is going to die or anything," she hurriedly added.

  "Use whatever ammunition you have to. Right, Keelin?"