by Anne Stuart
“Sean is ill, you know,” she said carefully, changing the subject.
“I know. That’s one reason why I insisted on coming. If it weren’t for that, I might have wanted to stay in Milan just to interfere with Mother and Carlo. She has a difficult time fawning on young men if I’m around watching.”
“You’re a monster, Francesca.”
“So Mother informs me. Is he going to die, Cass?” The question was abrupt, allowing for no answer but the truth.
Not for a moment did Cass think of Richard. “I think so,” Cass said gently.
“Soon?”
“Probably.”
There was silence in the room, and when Francesca looked up again her dark eyes glittered with tears. “But he looks so well.”
“I know he does, darling. We can be grateful for that. And maybe the doctors are wrong. Lord knows, they make mistakes all the time. But Mabry doesn’t think so.”
“Uncle Amberson says that Richard Tiernan is driving Daddy into an early grave. That Sean’s death will be another murder caused by him.”
“No!” Cass said sharply. “If anything, Richard is keeping him alive. Giving him a will to live. He’s obsessed with the book, Francesca. If he didn’t have that, I’m not sure what kind of shape he’d be in. You know Sean—his work and his fame always come first.”
“With his children trailing a respectful ten paces behind,” Francesca added, with the wisdom of her youth. “That doesn’t mean we don’t love him, does it?”
“It doesn’t mean we don’t love him,” Cass agreed. “And it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us, to the best of his ability.”
Francesca sighed. “I wish I could have had a father like Uncle Amberson. Someone who looks out for you, puts your welfare first, is willing to hound someone to the ends of the earth to avenge you.”
“First of all, I don’t think you’d want to be in a position where you needed to be avenged,” Cass said dryly, trying to inject a note of common sense into the conversation.
“Oh, I don’t know. I am thirteen, after all, and full of romantic daydreams. Not to mention the fact that I’m half-Italian, half-Irish.”
“Half-American,” Cass corrected.
“I mean, I don’t want to be murdered or molested or anything. But I rather fancy the idea of being greatly wronged,” she said cheerfully.
“I think you might find the general’s kind of love rather smothering. You’ve always been remarkably self-sufficient.”
“So have we all,” Francesca said. “I only hope when I grow up that I take after you and not my mother.”
“I make the same stupid mistakes your mother makes.”
“Not really. My mother chooses men to assuage her vanity, to make her feel younger, prettier. She’d never put herself at risk, even for me.”
Cassie managed a smile. “Whereas I try to avoid choosing men in the first place.”
“You don’t make the right choices. They’re always safe choices.” She grinned. “I can’t wait to meet Richard Tiernan.”
The sudden pounding on the door was shocking, disruptive. Francesca moved swiftly, but the door was flung open before she could reach it, and Mabry stood there, white-faced, tears streaming down her face.
“Your father’s collapsed,” she said. “They’re calling an ambulance. But I think . . . I think it might be too late.”
RICHARD LEANED back in his seat, closing his eyes as the jet hurtled itself through the skies. He’d done an excellent job of shutting everything off. He’d held the children, played with them, not for one moment letting them see that his heart was breaking.
They’d asked about Cassie, and he’d lied, damning himself and her. She’d already touched them, she would have saved them, and instead she’d run.
He couldn’t, shouldn’t blame her, but he did. There was no room in his life for compassion, for mercy. He would sacrifice anyone for his children, but in the end Cassidy had made her choice.
He wondered idly what he’d face when he returned to the States. Had she alerted the police? Would he be met with an armed escort?
Somehow he didn’t think so. Any more than he thought she would have told Sean what she thought was the truth. She would have run to him, of course. But in the end he owned her, more than Sean did. She might be able to fight it, enough to run, enough to protect herself. But not enough to betray him.
It was a close thing. He had kept himself wrapped in darkness, safe, invulnerable, for so very long. She’d begun to seep through the cracks, getting to him in ways he couldn’t afford to let happen.
She had gotten to him. But he was busy fighting it, concentrating on what needed to be done. By the time he saw her again, if he saw her again, he’d be invulnerable once more.
Damn her. And damn him. Damn them all, the great, sorry, stupid bunch of them, with their twisted lives and their obsessions. Somehow, out of all of this mess, he needed to salvage a safe haven for his children.
That was what he had to concentrate on, that was what he needed to remember. The hell with Cassidy Roarke and her wary eyes and soft mouth.
He’d find a woman he could trust with his children, one he didn’t want to fuck. Someone he could pay enough, trust enough, to keep his children safe. And then he’d finish it all, quickly, neatly.
Maybe he’d take Cassidy Roarke with him.
He didn’t know whether he’d gone that far. Sunk that deep into conscienceless madness, that he could contemplate murder and suicide. All his humanity, his faint veneer of civilization had vanished, leaving him with nothing, not even the will to survive.
What mattered was the children. Always had, always would. Cassidy Roarke had been a momentary distraction. He could forget about her, leave her to the likes of Mark Bellingham.
And maybe, just maybe, after they killed him, he’d haunt her dreams. So that whatever bed she shared, there would always be three of them there. And she could never lie beneath any man without thinking of him.
It would be enough.
Chapter 17
THERE’S NOTHING we can do.” Mabry’s voice was cool, emotionless, colorless. As if she were the one who was dying.
“What do you mean?” Cassie demanded.
“Dr. Ryman says he’s stabilized. For now. All they can do is watch him and see what happens. The next twenty-four hours should make the difference. He’s not strong enough to undergo any more tests at the moment, but if he continues to gain strength . . .”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’ll be dead,” Mabry said flatly.
“No!” Francesca shrieked, and Cassie immediately turned and wrapped her arms around her, holding her tightly.
“Hush, darling,” she murmured, stroking her midnight tangle of hair. “It won’t do any good to weep and wail. We just have to hope for the best.” Francesca suddenly looked very young, indeed, less than her thirteen years. Tears were streaming down her pale face, and she shook her head. “I didn’t know. He wasn’t supposed to be that sick. He told me he’d just had a cold.”
“Sean’s a liar,” Cassie said flatly. “He didn’t want us to worry about him.”
“Oh, Cassie, he can’t die,” Francesca wailed. “Don’t let him.”
It struck her with the force of a blow. She had always been the strong one among her motley assortment of half siblings, trying to protect them from the vicissitudes of life. If it were up to her she’d change the world, but this, like so many other things, was beyond her.
“It’s not in my hands, love,” she said gently. “Do you want to see him?” Mabry asked. “They’ll let us in for ten minutes, every hour. Francesca can take the first visit if she wants.”
“No!” Francesca sobbed. “If he’s going to die on me, I’ll never forgive him.”
“Dear girl
.” General Scott moved up behind her, his voice gentle and soothing. Cassie hadn’t even realized he’d come to the hospital with them. “Let me take you back home. This is too much for a sensitive child.”
Francesca pulled herself out of Cassie’s arms and flung herself at the general, sobbing her heart out, all the while the general stroked her, whispering soothing, avuncular phrases.
“That’s the best thing for her,” Mabry agreed wearily. “Take her back to East Hampton. We’ll probably be here all night, and it would remove a great deal of worry from me to know she was well looked after.”
“I’ll treat her as if she were my own daughter,” Scott said solemnly.
Cassie didn’t move, didn’t say a word. A sudden feeling of dizziness and dread washed over her, and she swayed, disoriented, confused. Too little sleep, too much emotion, monumental jet lag had thrown her instincts into an uproar. She looked at her little sister, wrapped in the general’s strong, paternal arms, and tried to shake herself.
The general turned to glance at her. “Trust me, Cassie,” he murmured. “I’ll take good care of your little girl. Tell Richard if you see him.”
“Why should Richard care?” she summoned up the energy to ask.
The general’s smile was bland, but the expression in his eyes was suddenly, shockingly intense. “Richard, in his own way, is as protective of children as I am.”
Cass could feel the color flood her face, deep, revealing, and there was nothing she could do but stare at him, hoping he wouldn’t read the knowledge in her eyes.
He moved closer, and he smelled like peppermints and wool and safety. “Where are they, Cassie?”
He was far too observant, and guilt and denial swamped her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where are they?”
He knows. Cassie stood in the middle of the hospital hallway, watching as the general led her little sister away, and tried to digest that information. He suspected his grandchildren were still alive, and it had been her own stupid reaction that had convinced him.
Maybe he’d always guessed. If so, why hadn’t he done something about it? What bizarre, complex game were the two men playing, fighting over Diana’s children? What did those two innocents have that both father and grandfather were willing to go to such lengths?
“You can see him first, if you want,” Mabry offered.
Cassie roused herself to look at her stepmother. “You don’t want to see him?”
“Not yet. I saw him for a moment, and he . . .” she shuddered. “He has all sorts of tubes and wires sticking out of him. He looks like he’s already dead. He wouldn’t know whether I was there or not.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“Go back to the apartment. Essie and Amberson will look after Francesca. For now I just want to go home and hide.”
Back to the apartment. She didn’t say the words out loud, didn’t warn Mabry that the apartment would be empty. Richard Tiernan was gone.
Mabry probably wouldn’t even notice. “We’ll go home,” Cass said, tucking a comforting arm beneath Mabry’s. “We’ll come back first thing in the morning and see how Sean is doing. He’s not going to give up without a fight, you know. He’s not going to die without one hell of an exit line.”
Mabry managed a rusty-sounding laugh. “You’re right. Sean never could resist a scene. He’ll rally. By tomorrow he’ll probably be sitting up, signing autographs and working on a new book deal.”
“He needs to complete the current one first, doesn’t he?”
Mabry looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you know? He finished it more than a week ago, just before we left for East Hampton. It’s ready to go to his editor.”
“No,” Cassie said slowly. “He didn’t tell me.”
“I think he was afraid to let you see it. Knowing how conflicted you are about Richard.”
“Conflicted?” she echoed. “Hardly. My feelings for Richard Tiernan are completely straightforward.”
“And what are they?” Mabry asked curiously.
“None of your damned business,” she said lightly. “Let’s find us a taxi.”
“Don’t you want to see Sean before you go?”
“Not likely. If I see him, I’ll kill him. It would save a lot in medical costs, but then we’d have to deal with legal fees. I think it’s better to let him be.”
Mary looked at her. “Why are you so mad at him, Cass? You’ve always known the way he is, manipulating people to do what he wants. You must have known he’d have a hidden agenda for you and Richard.”
“I’ve known,” Cass said flatly. “I just don’t like it when I get incontrovertible proof.”
“He’s always loved you very much, you know.”
Cass looked at her. “Not the way I define a father’s love,” she said.
“Perhaps your definition is a bit too strict.”
Cassie just shook her head. “He wouldn’t dare die before I get a chance to tell him off,” she said. “Let’s go.”
IT WAS STILL IN the predawn hours when they arrived back at Seventy-second Street. Cassie slid from the taxi, remembering the last time she’d arrived here, in the same early hours, expecting to confront Richard, only to find the place deserted. At least this time she didn’t have to worry about coming face-to-face with her nemesis.
She’d never thought the heart of New York City to be particularly silent, even in the middle of the night, but the old prewar apartment building felt like a tomb, as the walnut-lined elevator carried them upward.
The apartment smelled freshly aired. Bridget must have come in to clean during the last few days, something Cass could only view with relief. She had no idea how she’d left the place when she’d taken off for England, chasing after Richard. She’d never had any secrets from Bridget, and she wouldn’t now.
It was easy enough to get Mabry settled into the huge king-size bed she usually shared with Sean, tucked up under a duvet, a glass of straight whiskey, without ice, in her hand. “I could sleep for days,” she murmured, leaning back and closing her eyes.
“Lucky you,” Cass said. “I think I’ve gone beyond exhaustion. I only wish there was a simple cure for jet lag.”
The silence deepened. Mabry opened her eyes, when Cass had been hoping she’d drifted off to sleep. “Why do you have jet lag, Cass?”
It was a simple inquiry, calmly asked. Cass stared at her, unable to come up with any kind of sensible answer.
And then she didn’t have to. Mabry set the glass of whiskey on the nightstand, closed her eyes, and went instantly to sleep.
She didn’t dare get up from the end of the bed for a few minutes, afraid that the slightest movement might jar Mabry from her sleep, might bring back the unanswerable questions. By the time she moved, her muscles were stiff and aching, and she tiptoed from the room, so tired she wanted to weep.
She stared down to the end of the long hallway. The door to Richard’s room stood open, darkness beyond. Sometime, tomorrow perhaps, she’d steel herself to go down there and check, to see whether he’d left anything incriminating behind. Whether she liked it or not, she was now an accessory to his escape. She wasn’t about to tell anyone where he’d gone, or let him leave anything that might yield a clue. She wanted him healthy, safe, and continents away from her.
She needed sleeping tablets, or whiskey, or warm milk. She had moved beyond exhaustion into some dark, anxious place, and sleep seemed no more than a pipe dream. In the end she decided to go for warm milk, the safest choice, as always.
Until she walked into the kitchen.
He was sitting at the table. The mug of warm milk sat in front of him, a bottle of Irish whiskey stood open beside it. “I think you’d do better if I spiked this,” he said, his voice calm, reasonable, as if there was nothing more than wary polit
eness between them. As if she’d never lay beneath his body and cried out with the wonder of it.
Without waiting for her answer, he tipped a goodly portion into the mug, then poured some into his own glass of ice. For a moment Cass was gripped with a strangling, powerful rage. She wanted to scream, to throw herself at him and shake him, to smash the whiskey and ice and hot milk across the room.
And he knew it. He watched her, remote, observing, reading all her emotions far too well. It took every ounce of strength she had left to pull herself together, to wrap a false calm around her.
“I don’t like whiskey,” she said, and she was shocked to hear her voice, smooth, unemotional.
“I know you don’t. Drink it anyway.” He kicked a chair away from the table for her, and she knew she should walk away.
She moved carefully, taking the chair and sitting down, away from him. The milk sat in front of her, the faint amber of the whiskey leaving a shadow on its creamy surface.
“Is Sean going to make it?”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Do you care?”
Richard shrugged. “It depends whether he’s finished the book or not.”
“He’s finished. He was done before he left for the Hamptons.”
“Did you know that?”
“No. What does the book matter to you? It doesn’t have the truth in it, does it? You didn’t tell Sean what happened that night. You didn’t tell him your children were still alive.”
“You know Sean writes fiction. I gave him enough to weave elaborate tales. I imagine it will be a very powerful book.” He leaned back in the kitchen chair, watching her. “However, he’s paying my estate a very considerable sum of money for my cooperation.”
“What about the Son of Sam law? I thought a criminal couldn’t profit from books about his crime?”
Richard’s smile was faint and chilling. “Mark Bellingham is a better lawyer than you might think. The money doesn’t go to me, it gets put in a blind trust to be administered by Mark, Sally Norton, and a third party to be named by Mark.”