For Another Day (One Strike Away Book 2)

by Mary J. Williams

  "Allison? What does she have to do with any of this?"

  "You used my house to screw around. Patrice's husband may turn a blind eye to what she gets up to. Allison—for whatever reason—cares about you."

  "Stay out of my business, little sister."

  Rowan hated when Geoff called her that. Emphasis on the little. When they were kids, he could knock her down. And did whenever nobody was looking. She hoped he tried again. Because little sister was no longer a pushover.

  "My home. My business. Give me back my key. And by the way, you owe me a new bed. The old one smells like a whore," Rowan paused for effect, "house."

  "Fuck you. Fuck your bed. And fuck your motherfucking boyfriend."

  "Watch your mouth."

  "That's all you have to say?" When angry, Geoff's face turned red. At the moment, he resembled a mottled, overripe tomato. "You expect me to believe you spent the last four days with Nick Sanders innocently frolicking in the woods?"

  "I couldn't care less what you believe."

  "Do you know who he is? Of course, you do." Geoff threw his hands up in the air. "Unbelievable. You're screwing Leo's son. Where's your loyalty?"

  "Stop right there." Of all the people she knew, Geoff was the last person to throw a lack of loyalty in her face. "Whatever you know—or think you know—none of it has anything to do with you."

  "I know plenty. Probably more than you. The file I found in Leo's home office was very thorough."

  "Leo would pop a gasket if he knew you went through his personal papers."

  "He shouldn't have left the thing laying around," Geoff said with a careless shrug.

  Rowan knew better. Leo terrified her brother. Not physically. For all his faults, their stepfather never raised a hand to them. But Geoff's future as heir apparent could flip on a whim.

  Or—Rowan suddenly saw the light—Geoff could lose everything if Leo finally had the biological son he always craved.

  "Nick isn't a threat to you." A little of Rowan's anger waned as she felt a flash of sympathy for her brother. "He has a very good life in Seattle. And he certainly doesn't need Leo's money. Nick has plenty of his own."

  "Jesus." Geoff slapped a hand to his forehead. "Are you really that naïve? Hear my words. Nobody. Ever. Has. Enough. Money."

  Rowan knew she couldn't reason with Geoff. Like their mother and stepfather, he believed in the all mighty dollar. First, last, and always. Certainly, Nick didn't need her to defend him.

  However, as Geoff's face veered from red toward eggplant, she racked her brain for something to say to bring him down from his upward-spiraling anger high.

  "All Nick wants from Leo are answers. Tomorrow, he'll be gone. End of story."

  Rowan kept her voice at one level. Calm. Soothing. But as she tried to ease her brother's fears, she felt a shaft of pain, picturing her life without Nick. Reasonable or not, he had become important. Maybe even vital.

  When Nick left Jasper, he'd take part of Rowan with him. Whether he wanted to or not.

  Geoff—as usual—didn't want to listen to logic. He stalked to the kitchen, opening the cupboard where Rowan kept her alcohol. Her supply wasn't extensive. But the few bottles she had were top shelf.

  Wincing, Rowan watched as Geoff downed a shot of twenty-year-old scotch, taking another hit before she could protest.

  "The kind of money Sanders makes as a baseball player is a drop in the bucket compared to the Cartwright fortune," Geoff said, sipping his third drink a little more judiciously. "Who in his right mind would be satisfied with millions when billions are just a heartbeat away?"

  Rowan reached for the bottle, but Geoff spun away, waving his finger at her.

  "Mine."

  As she took a deep breath, Rowan slowly counted to ten. She felt as if she were dealing with a disturbingly booze-drenched toddler instead of her older brother.

  "Let me drive you home."

  "So, you can tattle to Allison about my minor indiscretion? I don't think so."

  Rowan realized she had no business interfering. If her sister-in-law were to ask, point blank, she wouldn't lie. However, Allison was a smart woman. Chances were she suspected what Geoff was up to. Perhaps she already knew. Either way, they were on their own.

  "I won't say a word."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Honestly, I—"

  "Honesty?" Derision dripped from the word. "Nobody tells the truth. For years, Leo lied to me. He promised me everything. I kissed his ass, played his yes man to perfection. And for what? To have some… some baseball player swoop in and take my place."

  Taking a seat, Rowan's head dropped back on the cushion. Geoff had wound himself up, all she could do was wait until he ran out of steam.

  "I suppose on some level I should be grateful. Leo's known about his precious son for years. What if he'd decided to orchestrate a touching family reunion? I'd have been out on my ass long before now."

  Rowan's eyes popped open, her body tensing.

  "What did you say?"

  Geoff could always hold his liquor. Now was no exception. On steady legs, he crossed to Rowan, leaning down until their faces were inches apart.

  "Out. On. My. Ass." His expression grew angry. "I blame you."

  What else was new? When in doubt, blame Rowan. She wasn't interested in rehashing a familiar them.

  "Did you say Leo already knew about Nick?"

  "For years." Straightening, Leo took another swig. "Years, and years, and years."

  "And he did nothing to help." Rowan felt her stomach clench. "How do you know?"

  "In the file. Everything is in that goddamned file. Thick. Little league. High school. The minor leagues. All the way to the World Series." Geoff sneered as he recited Nick's accomplishments.

  Tuning out her brother, Rowan grabbed her phone. Impatient, she waited as Nick's phone rang. When she was sent to voicemail, she grabbed her purse. She didn't know what she would do, but she couldn't sit here and do nothing.

  "I could have been an athlete, you know. I could have been a contender. I could have been somebody." Geoff frowned. "Is that from a movie? Wrong sport, I think. But you get the idea."

  "Come on, Brando," Rowan took Geoff's arm. "We're leaving."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you. Judas. Fucking the enemy. What kind of sister are you?"

  "The exceedingly patient kind."

  "Piss off."

  Geoff shoved Rowan. Hard. She didn't budge. He shoved again. She knew his moves. When he tried to kick her legs out from under her, she easily sidestepped him.

  "Knock it off, Geoff."

  "Knock it off? Good idea."

  In all the years Rowan had known her brother. All the crap she'd dealt with. The verbal tirades. The pouting silences when he didn't get his way. In all that time, he had never hit her in the face. So, when the backhanded slap came, she wasn't prepared.

  "Take that, bitch."

  Rowan cupped her cheek, ears ringing. Geoff had crossed the line. And she didn't think they could ever go back.

  Taking him by the shoulders, Rowan looked at her brother's smirking face, and without the least bit of regret, calmly kneed him in the balls.

  "Back at you, bitch."

  As Geoff writhed on the floor, crying in pain, Rowan took the keys from his jacket. Walking out the door, she lifted her phone.

  "Hello?"

  "Allison? This is Rowan. I don't have time to explain. Geoff is at my house. He's been drinking."

  "What? In the middle of the day?"

  Rowan could hear the concern in Allison's voice. Good for Geoff, she thought, slamming her car door. For the time being at least, he had somebody who cared.

  "You should come and get him."

  "I will. Of course. But, Rowan—"

  "Bye, Allison."

  And good luck.

  Starting the car, Rowan headed toward downtown. But as she came to the stop sign at the end of her street, she tu
rned left instead of right. The proof she needed was in Leo's home office.

  Nick deserved the truth—every ugly bit. Leo would only divulge the information that suited him. Whatever put him in the best light.

  The file was the key. Rowan would find it if she had to tear the place apart.

  Though her sympathies had always been with Nick, Rowan hoped to get through this mess without having to publicly take sides. However, if what Geoff said was true, Leo didn't deserve an ounce of her consideration.

  Damn the consequences. Rowan had picked her side. Team Nick. All the way.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  FINDING LEONARD CARTWRIGHT'S residence was easy. Nick already had the address from his mother's letter. He imagined if his GPS had failed, anybody he saw on the street could have given him directions.

  The Cartwright mansion was a Jasper landmark. Sprawling over several acres—not counting the grounds—a blind man couldn't miss the monstrosity. Basically, head west and boom.

  The building screamed wealth. Loudly, with a side of the obnoxious.

  After parking his car on the circular driveway, Nick jogged up the brick steps. How would he have turned out if he had grown up here, the pampered son of a billionaire instead of having to scrape, scrounge, and lie simply to survive?

  Nick knew the chances were excellent baseball wouldn't be his chosen profession. But what about the rest? His outlook. His personality? Would he, like Geoff Cartwright, feel a sense of entitlement? That the world owed him deference simply because of his last name. Would he believe a man's worth should be measured by the power his father wielded?

  Or, would Nick have been more like Rowan? Independent. Self-sufficient. Fiercely determined that, fail or succeed, she would do so on her own terms. On her own two feet.

  As much as Nick liked to believe he would have taken Rowan's path, he couldn't say for certain. Thank all that was holy he never had to find out.

  Nick barely pressed the bell when the door swung open.

  "Mr. Sanders."

  Not a question, a statement. The middle-aged man wearing a neat-as-a-pin dark suit had been expecting Nick. Hardly surprising. But why assume he was actually Nick Sanders? Unless Cartwright provided his staff with a picture.

  Nick would give Cartwright props. He had his staff prepared. Smart on one level. Unsettling on another.

  "I have an appointment with Leonard Cartwright."

  "This way."

  In Nick's younger days, before he had a taste of what money could buy, he might have been intimidated by the gleaming marble floors, grand staircase, and the sparkling chandelier that dripped with hundreds of hand-faceted crystals.

  Not that he would have let the butler see him sweat. He would have bluffed his way through with the finesse of the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  If Cartwright had invited him here as a show of intimidation, he hadn't done his homework properly. Nick felt at home anywhere. From a sunflower seed-strewn dugout, to an audience with the Queen of England.

  The polish Nick wore like a second skin was no illusion. But that didn't mean he had forgotten where he came from. At his core, he was a street rat. A tough survivor.

  Whatever Cartwright had planned, Nick was ready. Bring it on.

  Down a narrow hall with green walls, Nick followed the butler. He didn't have the time—or interest—to study the photos as he passed. They were Cartwrights. He was one hundred percent Sanders.

  "This is Mr. Cartwright's office. As you can see, the elevator door is open. Please enter and push the blue button."

  The door clicked quietly, leaving Nick alone to contemplate his next move.

  First thought? Who knew he was here? Answer. Not a damn soul.

  Paranoia didn't follow Nick around, plaguing his thoughts every time the lights went out, or he answered the phone to find nobody there. He considered himself to be a fairly level-headed guy.

  But come on. Only a fool would get into a private elevator armed with only—push the blue button.

  Better safe than sorry. There was a credo he could get behind.

  Nick sent three quick texts. The ones to Travis and Spencer were identical. The address telling them where he was, Rowan's phone number, and instructions to raise holy hell if they didn't hear from him in an hour.

  To Rowan—since she was close by and could act fast—he sent a question and statement.

  What does Cartwright keep in his basement? And: You know where to find me.

  Short of hightailing his ass out of here, Nick was satisfied with his chosen safety nets. Most people were lucky if they had one person they could trust implicitly. He had three.

  Nick stepped into the elevator, hit the blue button, and waited.

  The trip was a short one. Brightly lit, the room into which Nick exited didn't feel like a dungeon. Then again, until now, he had spent his life blissfully ignorant of such things. And would just as soon stay that way.

  Frowning, Nick looked around. What the hell? The area looked like a locker room? Was he in the right place?

  "I see you found your way without any trouble."

  Leonard Cartwright. Nick easily recognized him from his pictures. Except for what he wore. Stern faced, in photographs Cartwright's outfit of choice was a suit. Dark. Mostly black. Expensively tailored. Clothing that told the world this was someone to be reckoned with.

  The man standing in front of Nick was in casual garb. A polo shirt. Shorts. Tennis shoes. Very different. Though his expression never changed, his face frozen in a perpetual half frown.

  Nick didn't get the memo. Dressed in a light gray suit and red tie, he felt overdressed.

  "You'll stay for dinner. After. Right now, everything you need is in the changing room."

  "You can keep your dinner, and everything else. All I need is for you to answer a few questions."

  "Change your clothes. There should be something that fits you behind the black door. When you're done, meet me on the court."

  Cartwright turned to leave, expecting Nick to do as he said. Nick stayed where he was.

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Tennis. While we play, you can ask me anything you want."

  Nick stared at the empty room, alone once more. At any second, he expected to hear the strains of familiar, creepy music followed by a disembodied voice.

  You have just crossed over into… the Twilight Zone.

  Curious in spite of himself, Nick walked across the room. Black door. Blue button. Was the entire house color coded? One thing was for damn sure. If Cartwright offered to show off his red room, Nick wasn't going anywhere near it.

  Whatever Nick expected, a room filled with row after row of white wasn't even close. White shirts. White shorts. Socks. Shoes. All men's. Either Cartwright had a different room for the ladies, or his private club wasn't open to the fairer sex.

  Stacked neatly on a long counter were rows of towels—white, naturally. And in a drawer, individually sealed in plastic, were dozens of athletic supporters in varying sizes.

  How much tennis did this guy play? Did he conduct all his potentially awkward meetings below ground? Was the act of hitting balls at each other some kind of twisted metaphor?

  Or—as Nick began to suspect—Cartwright was twisted. Period.

  Go or stay? Nick didn't take long to decide. With a resigned sigh, he loosened his tie. Selecting a pair of shoes, Nick let out a whistle when he saw the brand. Cartwright didn't skimp, he'd give him that.

  Nick had come this far, why not see the farce to the end. He wanted answers to his questions. Besides, if he left now, he would spend the rest of his life wondering what kind of weirdness Cartwright had waiting for him out on that tennis court.

  ROWAN QUIETLY LET herself into the house. She wasn't worried about getting caught. The staff was well trained. They didn't ask questions of family members. However, they knew who paid their salaries. When Leo was home,
nothing went on without him finding out. She didn't want him to know she was there. Not yet.

  Years of sneaking in and out as a teenager made her path from the foyer, across the living room, and down the hall to Leo's office an easy one. She knew from experience which floorboards squeaked and how to avoid them.

  Knowing Leo never locked his door—more ego than blind trust—Rowan slipped in, nobody the wiser.

  Breathing deeply, she took a moment to calm her racing heart. Nick was here. And though Rowan didn't believe he was in any physical danger, she hated that she couldn't get a message to him. Part of Leo's remodeling project had included blocking cell phone reception. When ensconced in his lair, he didn't want any interruptions.

  She'd tried reaching Nick as soon as she received his text, but she was too late.

  What does Cartwright keep in his basement?

  Rowan had groaned when she read the words. Why hadn't she thought to warn Nick about Leo and his tennis? Annihilating business associates on the court was one of his greatest pleasures. Why not do the same to his son?

  Not that Rowan didn't think Nick could hold his own. He was a trained athlete. In perfect physical condition. However, tennis and baseball required very different skill sets.

  Unlike Leo who couldn't stand to lose, Rowan was certain Nick and his ego could handle a defeat. She was the one with the problem. She hated the thought of Nick flailing around the clay court for Leo's warped amusement.

  First things first. While Rowan had the office to herself, she was determined to find Nick's file.

  Starting in the most obvious place, she looked through Leo's desk. Bless his megalomaniac's heart. Rowan found what she wanted in the first drawer she opened. Guessing his thinking wasn't difficult. His property. His domain.

  Which meant every paperclip, every staple, every item was safe because who would dare pry into his private things?

  Geoff, for one, that's who. Rowan, for another.

  Sorry, Leo. You need to rethink your security.

  After today, Leo could electrify the door, surround his desk with barbed wire, and post vicious guard dogs around every corner. Rowan wouldn't care. Today, she had what she needed.