by Adrianne Lee
“Don’t open it, Mac. We don’t know who sent it. Or what’s in it.”
He snapped his gaze from the box to her. “A mail bomb?”
“Maybe.”
“I doubt it, but if it’ll make you feel better.” He lurched off the sofa.
She followed him to the kitchen.
“No,” he said, warning her back. “Just in case you’re right and I’m wrong, you should go into the foyer.”
Stubbornly, every nerve tingling with fear, she retreated as far as the entrance to the kitchen and watched as he filled the sink with water, then dowsed the package. Her heart boomed in her chest, roared in her ears. It was the loudest noise in the condo.
Mac let out a huge sigh, pulled something from the water and turned to face her, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It dripped water onto the floor at his bare feet. He pursed his lips. “We’ve defused a piece of paper.”
Her breath heaved from her chest, burning her throat. “It looks like a ransom note, with all those crazy letters pasted on it. What does it say?”
Mac spread it on the counter. The letters, cut from various printed materials, had been glued to a piece of stationery with Coy Toys letterhead. The message was simple: Mac Coy’s death was no accident.
He and Tia glanced at each other. Her pulse continued wobbling. “Who sent it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Could be from any one of my employees. Maybe even the killer.”
“Why would the killer send this to Grant?”
“Oh, man, I don’t know. I guess that doesn’t make much sense. He or she sure wouldn’t want Grant looking into ‘my’ death.” Grief etched his every word, and she understood how he was struggling to stave it off. How close he was to a total meltdown. He blew out a loud breath. “God, I’m some kind of a lousy investigator. How will I ever figure out who killed Grant?”
The anguish on his face tore at her heart. “With luck you won’t have to figure out who killed him.”
She gathered the box and the soggy note and carried them to the living room, where she retrieved the wrapping paper and tag. “We’ll turn these over to the police next week. Meanwhile, just don’t voice any theories while we’re at the plant. That way, no one will think we’re there to do anything except get the toy out on time.”
“Yes, yes.” He gave her a grateful nod. “That’s going to take all my concentration.”
She felt ready to collapse, but the whole long day faced them. They needed a plan. “What are you going to do first this morning?”
Mac shook himself, forcing his grief back into whatever dark recess it kept springing loose from. He swallowed hard. “First thing is to call a meeting of all the staff heads and advise them that I, Grant Lee Coy, Mac Arthur Coy’s twin brother and heir, am taking over the reins of the company. My first act as CEO is to move up the launch date of Holly Beary to have the bear shipped by the weekend. We can’t afford to lose any of our presales, and I expect there will be a flood of calls this morning from concerned customers.”
He spoke with authority and modulation, his voice sounding more like Grant’s than his own. Inexplicably, a shiver crept down her spine.
“You and I will need to be there early.” He glanced at the mantel clock centered among lengths of pine swags that were anchored by red and gold candles in the shapes of the three wise men. Mac shifted his attention to her. “Do you have something to wear besides your uniform?”
“That depends on what one wears to a toy company.”
“We’re casual at Coy Toys. Jeans. Sweatshirt. Sweater.” He pointed to his own outfit. “Anything like this.”
“I have those here,” she said, reminding them both of her relationship with his brother. Her cheeks warmed and she chided herself for feeling self-conscious. So what if she kept some clothes here? It wasn’t as though she lived here. Besides, she didn’t suppose Mac was a monk.
But he couldn’t seem to look her in the eyes now. He said, “Why don’t you hit the shower first?”
A shower sounded wonderful. Maybe that would warm the chill inside her. “Great.”
She started for the bathroom, but pulled up short when a thought slammed into her. She pivoted, gaping at him. “Oh, my God, Mac. What were we thinking? The dress code at Coy Toys may be garage-sale chic, but Grant’s idea of casual wear was chinos and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. You’re wearing one of the two pair of jeans he owns…and his only T-shirt.”
“Damn, that’s right.” Mac rolled his eyes and his shoulders slumped as though that huge weight had settled there again. “You should have heard him grumble about how uncomfortable he felt in my work clothes. Said the cords felt as baggy as oversize sweatpants and my favorite sweatshirt should be tossed.”
She watched a scowl overtake him. Pain rippled through his eyes. His jaw tensed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He pressed his lips together like a man fighting tears, hating the weakness of them, yet feeling such heartache that it controlled his nervous system, his motor responses. She realized that losing the sweatshirt was like losing an old friend, and losing his brother was like losing a vital internal organ. He could get another friend, but no amount of surgery would ever replace his missing twin.
Again the depth of his feelings for Grant awed her. Had either of them realized how lucky they were to have had each other? To know unconditional love?
Unexpectedly Mac chuckled, a sad little sound, bursting with affection. “Grant said the only way he’d be able to tolerate the discomfort was by thinking of the outfit as a costume.”
Tia offered him a melancholy smile. She could hardly imagine Grant in baggy cords and a ratty old sweatshirt. But she’d bet Mac would feel just as ill-outfitted in Grant’s favorite Armani suit. Which was what he’d be wearing in an hour or so.
“I SWEAR THIS NECKTIE is strangling me.” Mac tugged at the collar of his dress shirt. “I don’t know how Grant could breathe in this getup everyday.”
The street light turned green, a color as brilliant as Tia’s eyes. He lifted his foot off the clutch, jammed his other onto the gas pedal. The Porsche lurched forward in a jerking motion like a remote-control car being operated by a child. Tia bounced in the seat beside him, but said nothing.
Mac swore under his breath. Grant’s shoes—some Italian designer’s version of suede loafers—were new, the soles slick, the fit too loose. Too uncomfortable. Too much of a reminder that he could never fill his brother’s shoes.
Tia stared out the window, but he suspected her attention was turned inward. Her silence punctuated his loneliness. He swallowed hard, grappling for control of his grief with every ounce of will he could muster. Think of something else. Anything else.
He slowed for another light, downshifting. The sky was still dark, heavy commuter traffic still a good ten minutes away from hitting the roads, his employees still at home, grabbing that last-minute cup of coffee before starting for work. He considered the deception Tia and he would perpetrate this morning, and all week, on those people, people he had once trusted implicitly, most of whom deserved his trust and respect—who didn’t deserve to be used as he must use them now.
What consequences would his actions earn?
This mental path led him straight back to Grant and his own trepidation about entering the place where his brother had died, a place that he, Mac, had built with love and expectation, a place he’d wanted to stand for all that was good in the world of business. He’d been a fool to think such a thing was possible. Once again the betrayal twisted his gut, coming at him like a drunk driver suddenly in his lane, crashing headlong into him, smashing his trust and faith like so much buckled metal and broken glass.
He’d hired the Judas, invited the snake into his Garden of Eden. That mistake, that lapse in judgment, had cost him his brother.
Anger climbed his neck and made the damnable collar seem two sizes smaller. Fury was alien to him. Mac Coy didn’t get mad. He was known for his slow fuse. Hell, he didn’t even raise his voice or spe
ak in anger. But he was angry now. And he couldn’t seem to shake it. He jammed his foot to the floor, sending the car rushing ahead as he steered around a slowmoving van.
“Well.” Tia broke the silence. “Whatever else you haven’t gotten down pat, you can rest assured you’re driving like Grant.”
He glanced toward her, her dark hair shiny in the glow of the headlights behind them. “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m so furious I could hit something. I can’t remember ever feeling this way. I can’t talk myself down. Can’t shake it off.”
She faced him, her expression resigned. “Maybe you shouldn’t try.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t going to go away, so you may as well put it to use.”
She sounded as though she was talking from experience, and he realized he knew very little about this woman who owned his disloyal heart. And with his lack of social skills, he wasn’t likely to find out much. What did it matter, really? He could never claim Tia as his own. His ire spiked a notch higher. “How exactly do I put this anger to good use?”
“By not letting it go. It will give you an edginess that will make you appear more like Grant and less like yourself to those you’ve worked with for years.”
Again he had the impression she spoke from experience. He wondered what in her life had made her as angry as this. He didn’t ask. Her past was none of his business, nor would it affect him in any way. Besides, time had run out. “The plant is just down this road.”
He pulled into a private lane. They had reached the area above Renton called May Valley, a ten-minute drive from Grant’s condo in Kennydale.
Tia asked, “Don’t you live around here somewhere?”
He pointed along the road they’d just left. “Half a mile or so east.”
He pulled up to the gate and glanced at the three-story building behind the eight-foot chain-link fence. It was as oblong as a child’s toy box, but more resembled a giant igloo without the domed top. This time of year it always reminded him of a Christmas cake. The purple and gold stripes across the top section of the structure were like narrow ribbons of candy, the purple window frames like sugar plums stuck in white frosting.
How could anyone have died here? Committed murder here? Mac swiped his card key through the electronic guard. The gates moved open with a soft whir. He drove through, circled to the back of the building and parked before a solid-looking purple door in a spot marked Reserved.
Only one other car stood nearby. He told Tia, “The night watchman is here somewhere, but otherwise, we’re the first to arrive. Come on. We’re using my entrance.”
He ushered her into his private elevator and they ascended to the third-floor landing. The hall was well-lit, but eerily silent in the absence of his staff. He’d often worked late and never before noticed or minded the quiet. It seemed alive, dangerous, this morning.
“Over here.” He directed her toward the end of the hallway. Once they were inside, he turned on the lights and shut the door.
The blinds were drawn. The large room had the appearance of a combination conference and storage room. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined two walls to their left, each crammed with enough toys to fill Santa’s bag three times over. He’d personally decorated the tree near the windows. Christmas had always been his favorite time of year. Would it ever be again?
A computer, scanner and printer claimed a massive mahogany desk to their right, and in the center of the room stood an oblong table surrounded by half a dozen chairs. All disks and important data were locked in the safe in the closet beyond.
Mac strode to the desk. His emotions boiled again, roiling into a mass of anger and grief, weighing heavy on his spirit. “Well, this is it—my office.”
“Hello, Mac.” The voice that came from behind him was not Tia’s.
Mac froze, shock charging through him like a jolt of electricity. The Porsche keys slipped from his hand and clattered to the hardwood floor. Dear God, no! He’d worried about making it through the day as Grant. He hadn’t made it through ten minutes. Whoever had killed his twin was about to murder again.
With his heart climbing his throat, he turned to face his adversary.
Chapter Four
The look of horror on Mac’s face echoed the fear swelling in Tia. She lurched around. Her pulse rang in her ears. Every nerve in her body twitched. But Mac and she were alone in the room. She gaped at him, frowning. “What was it? An intercom…or something?”
Mac shook his head, his eyes wide. “I don’t kn—”
“Don’t be afraid, Mac.” The voice said again. “You aren’t alone.”
Tia jolted. She glanced at the shelves of toys from where the voice emanated, then questioningly at Mac. A sheepish grin was spreading across his face.
Relief shifted through her with such force her knees wobbled. “A toy?”
“Not just any toy.” He crossed the room and reached for a fluffy, snow white teddy bear no larger than a newborn baby, perched on a middle shelf, its arms outstretched as though waiting for him. He held it up for her to see. It had huge, gold-flecked onyx eyes that seemed to follow her as she moved closer. The inside of the ears were red velvet, as were the bear’s nose and mittens. A sprig of holly berries hugged its neck.
“Meet Holly Beary,” he said with affection and pride. “This is the prototype.”
“I love you, Mac,” the bear replied.
Tia was impressed. She feathered her fingers across the teddy’s head. “It has such a sweet face, and is so soft. Is it voice-activated?”
“Yes, but there’s more to Holly than that. Her ‘heart’ is the real magic of the toy.” He plunged his fingers into the bear’s chest and a second later withdrew them, holding what appeared to be a small, heart-shaped bit of red plastic, no larger than two inches long or wide, between his forefinger and thumb. “The technology on this microchip is what makes her so extraordinarily special.”
“How so?”
“As you’ve observed, she isn’t just voice-activated, she’s voice-sensitive. She speaks only when I speak. She’s been programmed to answer my voice alone.”
Tia began to understand.
“And it can be programmed to anyone’s voice?”
“Yes. That’s the wonderful thing. With this, kids the world over can now own a teddy bear who responds to them like a real friend, addressing them by name and speaking only when they speak to her. There are eighteen preprogrammed responses. The microchip decides which one to use by the tone of the voice it’s programmed to answer.”
“A sad child, a sad response?” she asked.
He shook his head. “A sad child, a loving response.”
She beamed at him. “Even better.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s the perfect toy for an only child.”
“For any lonely child.” I could have used one of these. She could have used anything that would have eased the sadness she’d lived with, the sense of being unloved, unwanted. “Better than an invisible friend.”
“Much.” He pushed the microchip heart partially back into the bear and set the toy on the worktable. “But that’s just one of the many features—like movement sensitivity. See her eyes follow as I move my hand?”
“That’s amazing. And wonderful. How…?”
Mac blinked at her, wonder slipping into his expression as he realized she was really interested in what he’d done to make this toy a reality. His eyebrows flickered and he cocked his head. “Do you understand computer science or technology?”
Tia shook her head. “Not a lick.”
He grinned, a small, self-deprecating lift of the corners of his mouth. “It’s a subject I could talk about for hours, but since you’d likely begin staring at me with glazed eyes after five minutes…”
“Okay.” She tilted her head and lifted a strand of hair from her cheek. “Then, where did the idea come from?”
He blew out a quiet breath. “From a dream. I was about eight the first time I had that dream. I had to wait twenty year
s for present-day technology to catch up to my vision.”
“It’s a gem.” She fingered the bear again. What must it feel like to do something so well that it could change another person’s world for the better? She couldn’t even guess. “I can only imagine how much work has gone into it.”
“Three long years. Incalculable number of twelvehour days. Umpteen all-nighters. Not to mention every penny I could lay hold of just to develop this prototype. But I’d do it all again.” Gratification shone in his eyes. “The result exceeded even my expectations.”
“I can see now why Grant wanted this toy launched on schedule as much as you do.”
The sorrow hovering like an aura around him settled in his expression again, and Tia ached to help ease his pain, to ease her own misery over their shared loss. But how? Nothing she could say or do would resurrect Grant.
“What I want—” his voice broke “—is for this toy to be affordable, so that every kid can have one. If it was up to me, I’d give the bears away.”
Recalling his generosity with the children at the shelter, Tia knew he spoke the truth. Mac would rather wear ratty old sweatshirts than Armani suits, scuffed tennis shoes than Italian loafers—if it meant a child would not have to go without a toy. He’d spent his income on the children of strangers. His generosity humbled her, and she wondered if it extended to all aspects of his personality. Was he also a generous lover?
Heat shivered through her, delicious, unbidden and inappropriate. She swallowed against her appraisal, berated herself for such wayward thoughts, but she couldn’t help envying any woman lucky enough to earn his affection.
He ran his hand across the top of his hair. “My accountant keeps reminding me, however, that Coy Toys, Inc. is on the verge of bankruptcy. Holly Beary is our only hope for a future.”
As he spoke she watched his eyes darken, saw the lines around his mouth pinch, heard the dull ache of sorrow in his voice. It was bad enough he had a thieving employee who might cost him his lifework—she understood that hell only too well. But Mac’s thief had taken something even more precious: Grant.