by Cheryl Holt
Dustin was out for blood, eager to have her arrested, to have her bank accounts frozen until Harold's estate could be adjudicated.
If he succeeded, she'd be sucked into a legal black hole that would take years to resolve. Who would care for Peanut and Bryce? What about Grace? Lucas figured she was retired. How would she support herself? How would she support the children?
"A press conference, Lucas?" she sneered. "You had to hold a press conference? I had to learn about it from a reporter."
"It was my brother Dustin."
"Oh that certainly makes me feel better."
She walked to a table in the corner, grabbed some papers off it, and threw them at him. As they drifted to the floor, he could see they were copies of the photos from Dustin's private detective.
"I downloaded those," she charged. "You posted them on the internet!"
"It wasn't me."
"Isn't it interesting how there was a photographer hiding in the bushes during our date? How he captured my every move and glance?"
"I didn't know he was there. I swear it."
"I don't believe you. How much did you pay him?"
"Dustin hired him and paid him." He was blaming the whole situation on Dustin. Even to his own ears, he sounded weak and ridiculous.
"Silly me," she raged. "I assumed our date was completely innocent. I should have guessed you had spies following me."
Her fists were clenched, her body trembling. She oozed disdain, and on observing it, he was incensed.
He was the one who'd been wronged. Not her.
"I don't need all this attitude from you," he said.
She gasped. "Attitude? Let me tell you something, mister: This isn't attitude. This is pure, animalistic, unadulterated hatred. Get out of my house."
"Not until you explain yourself to me."
"Explain myself! For the past five years, I was here, taking care of your grandfather."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. I cleaned up after him, I helped him, I nursed him when he was ill. I was his friend." She scoffed with disgust. "Where were you, Mr. High-and-Mighty?"
"Don't change the subject."
"This is the subject." She slapped a palm over her heart. "I was the one he trusted. I was the one he could count on."
"Then what am I supposed to think about this?"
He reached into his jacket and brought out the tape recorder. With a furious click, he jammed his thumb on the play button. Her voice filled the room.
Who wants a couple of tiny diamonds? You know I only like men who shower me with millions.
Like Harold?
Yes. What are a few paltry diamonds when I can have the whole bank account?
Her eyes were wide with dismay, and he scrutinized her, trying to figure out what he was witnessing. Was she surprised at being taped? Guilty at being caught? Angry at being tricked? All of those things?
"That's me," she muttered, frowning, "talking to Angela."
"It certainly is."
"Where did you…how did you…"
She stammered to a halt and looked around the living room, struggling to remember where and when the conversation had occurred.
Realization settled in, and she accused, "It was recorded right here in my house. In my kitchen—while I was cooking supper."
"So you don't deny it."
"Of course I don't deny it."
She stared at him, her derision clear. "You wired Angela. You deliberately sent her to tape me."
"It was her idea."
"You're blaming her for this?"
"Not blaming, just saying that I have evidence of you bragging about how badly you treated my grandfather. I'm willing to give you a chance to explain yourself, but it has to be now."
She shook her head, appearing to be in shock. "You entered into a devil's bargain with my sister and bribed her to betray me."
"Not me. My brother."
"Your brother again." She snorted. "It's so convenient how you keep dragging his name into it."
"It doesn't matter who's responsible. What matters are your words." He pointed to the recorder. "Are they true?"
"You want to know if I abused your grandfather?"
"I thought I knew you—"
"I thought I knew you too," she shot back.
"—but now, I'm not sure what to think."
"What to think?"
She grew very quiet, and she seemed to deflate, as if his allegations had caused some of her life force to leak out. There had always been a hint of mischief in her gaze, a spark of merriment, but he watched it extinguish. Something cold and hard replaced it.
"Go away, Lucas. Go away and don't come back."
"Tell me the truth!"
"I won't debate this with you."
"We're not debating. I asked you a question, and I expect an answer."
He stepped nearer, feeling the energy spark between them, feeling their potent physical attraction ignite. The depth of his fury fueled his passion. How could he be so livid, but desire her more than ever?
"I admit it," she fumed. "I admit it all, you son of a bitch."
"I don't believe you."
"Then why are you here? You don't believe me if I deny it, and you don't believe me if I admit it. What do you want from me?"
He grabbed her forearms and gave her a light shake.
"I want you to be the person I was hoping you were."
"And who is that?"
"Someone who is kind and generous and funny and loyal."
"Didn't you hear? That woman doesn't exist. Isn't that your opinion? You won't find her in this house, so there's no reason for you to stay and keep wishing."
He pulled her to him so she was raised off the floor, her toes brushing the carpet.
"Last chance Faith," he advised her. "Last chance to confess what went on with Harold."
"Screw you."
"You're drowning and I'm throwing you a rope. Why won't you take it?"
"I don't want you to rescue me, you idiot. I never wanted that."
"Do you have any idea"—he was raging, shouting—"of how relentless my brother can be?"
"I'm not afraid of him," she shouted in return.
"You should be! Give me something to fight him with. Give me something to prove that his suspicions are wrong."
"Why would I care what he suspects? Tell him whatever you like about me."
She wiggled out of his grasp, but she was off balance, and she stumbled into a nearby shelf. A vase of flowers tipped off it and shattered with a resounding crash.
Footsteps thundered overhead, and Bryce barreled down the stairs.
"Faith! Faith!" he called. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm all right," she replied, but she was breathing hard, her color high.
Lucas stood across from her, in no better condition. As Bryce studied them, Lucas grew worried, then ashamed.
It was obvious he and Faith had been quarreling, so his son was seeing him at his very worst.
"I'm sorry Bryce." Mortification flooded through him. "Faith and I were having a disagreement."
Bryce rushed over to Faith and put his arm around her waist. The move was affectionate and protective. They were a unit, they belonged together, and he—Lucas—was an outsider who could never be joined with them in any meaningful way.
The realization was disturbing on so many levels. He'd had so many plans for a future that included them. He'd built whole new worlds in his head where they were front and center. He'd never been part of their small family, but he felt the separation like a blow.
Bryce gazed at Faith, killing Lucas when he asked, "Did he hurt you?"
"No, no," Faith insisted. "We were upset, but it's no big deal. I'm fine."
Bryce stared at Lucas and, seeming much more mature than his ten years, he said, "I think you should go."
Lucas wanted to plead his case, to defend himself, but they were glaring at him as if he had the plague and they might catch it.
"He was j
ust leaving," Faith said.
Lucas paused, yearning for a more gracious exit. "We're not finished discussing this."
"Yes, we are. We absolutely are."
She walked over to the door, Bryce dogging her heels. She opened it and pointed outside to where the members of the press were craning their necks, trying to see what was happening.
He didn't know what to do. He couldn't continue to fight with her while Bryce was watching. Bryce's expression was already one of scorn and distrust. Lucas couldn't make it become even more contemptuous.
He spun on his heel and stormed out.
* * *
Angela punched the numbers into her cell phone, listening as the robotic operator's voice intoned, "The number you dialed is not in service."
Dustin had given it to her during the brief, glorious week they'd spent together. After she'd provided him with the recording of her conversation with Faith, he'd promised to call, but he hadn't, and she'd waited and waited and waited. Finally, she'd swallowed her pride, and she had called him.
He'd claimed it was his private line, the special one he only shared with special friends. She'd believed him. She still believed him. He couldn't have tricked her. He couldn't have been lying.
She was on the sidewalk in downtown Denver, outside the skyscraper where the headquarters for Merriweather Industries was located. She peered to the top floors.
He had to be up there. He was rich and important and busy. He probably hadn't had time to contact her, and she was convinced that—if she could talk to him—everything would be fine.
A big window ran across the front of the building, and she peeked at her reflection. She had to admit that she looked great.
Her credit card wasn't quite maxed out, and she'd charged lots of stuff for their trip to Los Angeles. She'd had her hair lightened and had bought several outfits, shorts and sandals and some billowy tops that she hoped would be appropriate for California.
She'd even purchased a yellow sundress, which she was currently wearing. She appeared more shapely, prettier, not so gaunt and tired.
Mustering her courage, she entered the lobby. There was a security desk, and she had to sign in and show her ID. Since she didn't have an appointment, she was afraid the guard would turn her away, but he didn't try to stop her.
She went to the elevator and pushed the button for the twentieth floor. Her stomach tickled as the doors shut and the carriage swooped upward. In a matter of seconds, she was in the reception area.
The place was very elegant, very stylish, like a design you might see in a magazine. And it was very quiet. There was a receptionist at a large, fancy glass desk, but no one else was around.
The woman was using a headphone for her telephone, her fingers typing on her computer as she talked to someone. She disconnected as Angela approached.
"May I help you?" she asked.
"Yes, I was…ah…I'd like to speak with Mr. Merriweather." She paused, then clarified, "Dustin Merriweather. I'm a friend of his?"
"Mr. Merriweather doesn't work here."
"Would you know how I could get hold of him?"
"I'm not allowed to give out personal information."
"I understand."
Angela bit her lip and fiddled with her skirt, wondering what to do. She felt stupid and awfully close to crying.
"He gave me his phone number"—she pulled out the slip of paper and laid it on the desk—"but I must have written it down wrong. Could you check it for me?"
The woman flashed a sympathetic smile, but didn't glance at it. "Even if I was permitted to tell you—which I'm not—I don't know his private number. I wouldn't have any idea if this number was correct or not."
"Is there someone you could ask? Is there some way I could—"
The phone rang and the woman answered it, her eyes on her computer screen. She was pretending Angela was invisible, clearly wishing she'd go away. Angela watched her, attempting—through sheer force of will—to make the woman cough up the assistance Angela needed.
"I'm sorry Mr. Dalton," she murmured in her headpiece in her soft, receptionist's voice, "but Mr. Merriweather left for Los Angeles yesterday afternoon." She listened for a moment, then said, "Yes, you could try him there. Thank you."
She punched a button to hang up, then she gazed at Angela, her expression bored and cool. Angela was shaking and could barely keep from falling to the floor in a stunned heap.
"He left for Los Angeles?" Angela mumbled. "Without me?"
"I'm not allowed to give out personal information," the woman repeated.
"But…but…I betrayed my sister for him," she pathetically confessed. "I taped her. To surprise him. To make him happy."
"Would you like some help with the elevator?" the woman calmly inquired. "You seem distraught. I could have someone escort you downstairs."
Angela stared, her heart breaking. She wanted to tell her how much she'd liked Dustin, how sure she'd been that he was The One, how eagerly she'd anticipated their trip.
She'd deceived Faith, had provided Dustin with the false evidence he needed to go after her in the courts. Faith might end up losing all the money—because of Angela. She might even be arrested and sent to jail.
When Angela had devised her scheme, she hadn't thought she'd cause any real damage. She'd simply meant to impress Dustin, then after they were together, she would have told him the truth. No action would ever have been taken against Faith.
What was she to do now? How could she fix what she'd done?
Dustin was a liar who'd used her, then sneaked off without a goodbye. Angela didn't have him in her life, and because of him, she didn't have Faith and Gracie either. What would become of her? Maybe she was invisible—as the receptionist was intimating.
Behind her, the elevator dinged.
The woman smiled her fake smile and gestured to it.
"Would you like some assistance?" she asked.
"No," Angela said. "I've always had to do everything on my own. I can do this too."
Feeling as if she'd died inside, she spun and lurched away.
CHAPTER TEN
Three months later…
"Penny for your thoughts."
"They're not worth a penny."
Lucas stared at his sister.
She'd been diving in Hawaii, and while summer was over, and autumn flying by, her skin was a golden tan. She looked beautiful, but in a stark way, as if she occasionally starved herself. If she wasn't careful, she'd begin to resemble their mother much too closely.
"I haven't seen you since June," she said.
"No, you haven't."
"How have you been?"
"The same."
He should have exhibited a bit of courtesy, should have asked how she was doing in return, but he wasn't in the mood to chat. He wasn't interested in her newest boyfriend or her most recent social foible. Each time they were together, it became more obvious they had nothing in common.
At their last meeting, they'd congregated in Denver to deal with Faith. Now they were back, assembled in the old mansion and entertaining some of Denver's elite. Lucas wasn't acquainted with any of the people Jacquelyn had invited, and he didn't understand why they maintained the pretense that they still had a connection to the city.
His mother liked to flaunt their status, but it had been earned a century earlier, as the frontier days were waning. The prior generations of Merriweathers had amassed the wealth. Lucas and his siblings simply spent what remained. It seemed silly that they possessed a patina of exalted position in the community.
The four of them were acting as if they were amiable and on good terms, but Lucas couldn't forget the bitter words exchanged over the summer, the bitter truths that had been revealed.
Brittney had been complicit with Dustin in sneaking around and taking pictures of Lucas. What else might she do at Dustin's behest? He didn't want to know and was weary of the charade that they were friends.
But she was determined to engage in a conversation.
"I called you a few times," she mentioned.
"Did you?"
"Yes, but you never called me back. I heard you were in Rio."
He didn't reply. He'd been in Rio as well as London, Brisbane, Rome, and Johannesburg. While previously he'd loved to travel, had loved his itinerant life and the freedom that came with it, his old haunts had brought him no satisfaction. Too many ghosts had accompanied him.
He kept thinking about Faith, about Grace and Bryce and Peanut and how they weren't related by blood, but had built a strong family anyway. He kept thinking about his mother and siblings, about their nonexistent bond. He kept thinking about his deceased grandfather, his deceased father.
He no longer believed the stories his parents had spun about Harold's retirement, that he'd given his company to Lucas's father, then sailed quietly into the sunset.
Lucas had conducted his own research, and whenever he lifted a rock, cockroaches crawled out. His father had pushed Harold out, had stolen what he could, then had left the elderly man broke and alone.
What kind of son did that to his father?
Somehow Harold had accumulated a second fortune, a small one compared to the huge Merriweather legacy, but a fortune nonetheless. He'd entrusted it to Faith, had asked her to use it for Bryce's and Peanut's benefit. And she was carrying out his wishes.
Dustin wasn't the only one who could hire detectives. Lucas knew, almost to the dollar, what Faith spent every month. She was no greedy gold digger, but exactly the sort of person she'd appeared to be: trustworthy, loyal, and dependable.
He'd had months to reflect, and he was ashamed of how he'd doubted her, of how he'd shouted and accused.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but pride was a ridiculous thing. He was afraid she hadn't forgiven him, that he'd show up on her stoop and she'd slam the door in his face.
So he'd remained in limbo, fussing over what might have been, and kicking himself for wrecking the chance to be around his son.
"Were you in Rio?" Brittney tried again.
"Briefly."
"Where are you going next? I thought I might go with you. I thought maybe we could hang out."
Doing what? he nearly snapped but didn't.
Behind her, he saw that his mother had escorted the final guests out the door. She was back in the grand front parlor, a wine glass in hand. She'd been drinking all evening and was struggling to hide the fact that she was tipsy. But he didn't blame her for her attempts at intoxication.