The Billionaire

by J. R. Ward

  Lizzie had to rub her eyes. “I don’t know, I’m pretty self-sufficient. I do well on my own.”

  Like a cheerful bird call, a dinging sound rang out in the background. “Oh, Lizzie…I must go. I have some mugs ready to come out of the kiln now. They’re so pretty. Bright blue like a summer sky on the outside, white as clouds on the inside. The rims are sunshine-yellow. I’m calling it my July series.”

  Lizzie thought back to the morning she and Sean had walked out into the sunlight and both seen the same beauty in the day.

  In a raw voice she said, “That sounds lovely, Mom. Just…lovely.”

  When Lizzie hung up the phone, she replayed the conversation in her head to try and keep herself from thinking of Sean.

  She’d only ever heard that serious tone of voice from her mom a couple of times before. The subject had been her love for Lizzie’s father—the one constant in the woman’s life. So chances were good this interest in pottery was going to stick.

  Lizzie put the phone back in the charger and went into her spare bedroom. She’d put the majority of boxes in here to keep them out of her way, and as she looked at her things, she counted the times she’d moved in her life. Out of home to college. Dorm changes. Nursing school. First apartment. Then this one.

  She would like a home, she thought. A place to be permanent in…where the front door and the interior rooms were a constant through the seasons of the years.

  But she was probably going to be a vagabond for a while yet.

  As she glanced at the boxes, she thought, yeah, she and U-Haul were going to be dating for a couple more years. Vagabonds needed to take their stuff with them. And that meant boxes and bubble wrap.

  With a long exhale, she went over to the closet and figured she might as well pack up the winter clothes that were stored there.

  As she opened the door, she saw something on the floor inside that brought her to a halt.

  It was a tool box. A beaten-up tool box that was painted red, but so scuffed and old it was more like a dull brown. On the side, the telephone company’s name was stamped in yellow block letters.

  Bending down, she picked it up by the worn black handle and put it on a waist-high stack of cartons.

  Mr. O’Banyon’s tool box.

  He’d given it to her about a month before he’d died, had insisted that she take it with her downstairs after one of their Sunday dinners. When she’d asked him why, he’d told her that he wanted it in safekeeping, that he could only trust her with what was inside. At the time, she hadn’t understood why a bunch of tools were in such danger in his apartment, but he’d been agitated from a switch in his meds and a little paranoid, so she’d taken the thing.

  Out of curiosity and because the sight of it made her miss her friend, Lizzie flipped free the silver clips in front and opened the lid.

  Only to frown.

  It was full of papers, not tools. Papers and…photographs.

  Which kind of made sense because it wasn’t the dead weight it should have been.

  Lizzie reached in and took out the picture that was on top of the pile. It was a black-and-white photo of a young, dark-haired woman who was standing in front of what could only be described as a palatial mansion. She was wearing a sundress and staring out at the camera with a lovely, flirtatious smile.

  Sean’s mother?

  Lizzie delved farther into the box and found birth certificates for Mark David, Sean Thomas and William John O’Banyon. As well as a death certificate for Anne Whitney O’Banyon. There were also faded report cards bearing Sean’s name. Clippings from the Globe featuring Billy on the football field. A commendation from the army for Captain Mark D. O’Banyon.

  Way at the bottom, there was a bunch of papers that were folded up and secured with a thin rubber band.

  She had no intention of reading them. She truly didn’t. In fact, she was feeling bad enough for intruding on things that were Sean’s and his brothers’.

  But then the old rubber band broke and the documents unfurled.

  At the top of the first page she saw three words: Child Protective Services.

  God help her, she kept reading.

  When she was finished, her knees were so weak, she had to sit on the bare floor.

  * * *

  In his office in Manhattan, Sean swiveled his chair around so that he faced the bank of windows behind his desk. Outside, a gorgeous September day was spilling sunshine all over the skyscrapers of Wall Street.

  Exhausted, tense, in a nasty-bastard mood, he decided as a public service that he would leave a little early tonight and go for a run in Central Park.

  Unfortunately, the plan made him think back to the last time he’d run around outside.

  That glorious afternoon with Lizzie at the Esplanade.

  Putting his hand under his tie, he felt for his cross through his shirt. As he traced the outline of the crucifix, he pictured her after she’d found it in the grass, a smile on her face, the gold necklace swinging from her fingertips, the holy pendant catching the sunlight.

  God, he missed her. Even though he shouldn’t.

  On some level, he still found it hard to believe she’d done what she had. But as a practical matter, it was difficult to repudiate what he’d seen with his own eyes.

  As a finance guy, he knew that cashed checks didn’t lie.

  “Mr. O’Banyon?”

  He swung the chair back around and looked over his paper-riddled desk. Andrew Frick and Freddie Wilcox were standing in the door to his office, the two young guys looking tired, but very pleased with themselves.

  “Hey, boys, what’s doing?” Sean said.

  Andrew came forward and put a four-inch-thick file on the desk, all the while glowing like a kid who was turning an apple in to the teacher. “We’re finished with the analysis.”

  Sean leafed through the documents a little. “Nice. Very nice. Must have kept you two up all night.”

  “It did, but it’s like what you say, you can sleep when you’re dead.”

  Sean closed the file. “Yeah. Right.”

  Damn…All of a sudden, he wanted to give them a pep talk about the evils of sinking too much into your work. He wanted to warn them that long hours hardened you and relentless competition drained you and meanwhile life slipped by and you didn’t even notice how alone you were.

  He wished he could give them a Frisbee and tell them to hit the park and run around barefoot and get dirty and then go home and have a few beers and call up a woman they liked and hang out.

  Unfortunately, he had no credibility when it came to R & R. And besides, both of the guys had the glow of the converted in their eyes. They were clearly committed to fighting their way to the top and the over-caffeinated, messianic zeal with which they looked at him suggested he was their poster boy for success.

  Man, he remembered having that burn, that drive, that need to win. And he knew what it meant. Nothing was going to derail them.

  “Listen, boys, get some shut-eye tonight, if you can,” he said because it was the best he could do.

  “As long as you don’t need anything else from us?”

  “No, Andrew, this is what I wanted. I’ll check through it tonight, but I have a feeling it’s going to be a spotless numbers crunch. Glad you guys are on my team.”

  The two positively walked on air as they left.

  In their wake, Sean felt as old as a stone and just about as lively.

  When his BlackBerry went off, he took it out and answered before checking caller ID. He knew who it was going to be. Had been waiting for the call all afternoon.

  “What happened at the lawyer’s, Billy? Did you see her?”

  Except the caller on the other end wasn’t his younger brother. “Sean?”

  “Mac? Is that you?”

  “Yeah.” His older brother’s voice was thin and raspy, no doubt because he was calling from the other side of the flipping planet. “It’s me.”

  God…What to say? “You heard about Dad? You got my
message?”

  “You bury him yet?”

  “Ashes have been interred.”

  “Next to Mom?”

  “Yeah.” There was a pause and the silence made Sean twitchy. Mac was not a big talker under the best of circumstances and it had been a long time since they’d had any contact. But Sean felt as if he had to milk the precious seconds for all they were worth. “So, you sound really far away.”

  “You okay with him being gone?”

  Sean swiveled his chair around so he could see the sky again. He wondered what part of the heavens his brother was under. “Yeah. Fine. Relieved, maybe.”

  “What about Billy?”

  “Same.” Sean cleared his throat. Knew he wasn’t going to get anything, but asked anyway, “And you?”

  “I’m coming home.”

  Sean sat forward in a rush. “You are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Month or so.”

  “Are you out?”

  “Think I could stay with Billy? In Boston?”

  Nicely dodged, that discharge question. “Of course. You want me to tell him?”

  “Yeah. When I get closer to my release date, I’ll let him know.”

  “Release date? So you’re really getting out?”

  “Take care, Sean. Same to Billy. I’ll be in touch.”

  The call ended. And Mac was gone like a ghost.

  But at least he was coming home. God, how long had it been since Mac had been to the States for any period of time? Years.

  Idly, Sean wondered what his brother looked like now. He’d be forty.

  The BlackBerry went off again and this time Sean checked who it was before answering. Billy. Finally.

  “Mac just called,” he said instead of hello.

  There was a sharp inhale. “He did?”

  “Yeah, he’s coming stateside and wants to stay with you in Boston for a little while.”

  “Whoa. I mean, of course he can bunk at my house here. Thing’s big enough for an army.” Billy paused, then asked, “What did he sound like?”

  “The same. Distant. No idea where he was. Call lasted all of about half a minute.”

  “At least he’s coming home.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” After a brief pause, Sean switched the subject. “So did you see her?”

  “No.”

  “What?” Sean frowned. “Lizzie didn’t show?”

  “Didn’t have to because she’s not the one taking over the house. She gave it to the Roxbury Community Health Initiative. The director came with a power of attorney. Said they’re going to use the sale of it to start the center’s endowment. And get this, Lizzie asked that the fund be named after Dad.”

  Sean felt all the blood drain out of his head. A horrible, surreal feeling of doom cloaked him until he was mostly blind and mostly deaf and almost dead in his chair.

  Gold diggers most certainly did not give away assets like that.

  “I gotta go, Billy. Call you later.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As night eased over South Boston, a blanket of black heat came in and settled down for the evening.

  Lizzie sat in the armchair, right next to the air conditioner, holding her phone in her hands. She tried to dial Sean’s number again. And failed.

  She just couldn’t complete the call to him. One reason was the obvious issue of the way things had been left between them. The other was far more complex.

  The tool box had to be returned and it wasn’t the kind of thing she felt comfortable just leaving outside the apartment upstairs. As she’d long forgotten how to reach Billy, that left Sean. But what to say?

  She collapsed back into the chair and her eyes slid over to the tool box. For the millionth time, she thought about the papers she’d read.

  Mr. O’Banyon, her old friend, was not who she’d thought he was.

  Or maybe he’d transformed himself through the years into someone else completely. She couldn’t imagine the man she’d known doing what those papers had stated, except it was clear he had.

  Things to atone for indeed.

  And Sean…Poor Sean. Her heart ached for the little boy he’d been. Ached also for Billy. And for the brother she hadn’t met.

  The papers had been a report of a domestic abuse complaint and its follow-up. Evidently, the oldest boy, Mac, had missed several days of school. When he’d finally shown up again, he’d gone to gym class, taken off his shirt and one of the teachers had seen the faded marks on his body. Which had triggered the complaint and investigation.

  The boys had been taken from the home for two months then returned. All three of them had maintained Mac’s contusions had come from street fighting, not their father. Which was, of course, not unusual. Often children protected their parents out of love or fear of retribution or any one of a number of rationales.

  Lizzie was willing to bet things hadn’t improved when they’d come home. The two months of anger-management counseling Mr. O’Banyon had received back in 1979 likely hadn’t turned things around. Especially if he’d continued to drink. Which she was willing to bet he had.

  Goddamn it, she would never get answers out of him, would she? She would never be able to confront him. She would never know how long or why or whether what he’d done had eaten him alive as she hoped it had.

  Mr. O’Banyon was gone. Dead.

  Though the past lived on, didn’t it?

  As a nurse, she’d seen the tragedies of domestic abuse and she’d talked to some social workers about the wide-ranging effects it had on its victims. One corollary for survivors, which tended to persist through adulthood, was trust issues in relationships. Particularly intimate ones.

  So she found it difficult to stay angry with Sean for the conclusions he’d drawn about her character. She didn’t appreciate his misconceptions, but at least now she could understand how he’d be predisposed to making them. Especially given the fact that someone had likely once used him for money.

  Okay, enough with the thinking. Time to call him.

  She started to dial just as she heard a car pull up in front of the house.

  On some sixth sense, she leaned forward and looked out the window. Through the blinds, she saw Sean get out of a rental car.

  Their eyes met. In the glow of a streetlight, she saw he was wearing another one of his suits and that this time his tie was a brilliant blue. He looked just as she remembered him: handsome, powerful, strong.

  A car passed between them. Then with his typical masculine grace, he lifted a hand.

  When she raised her palm in response, he started for the house. With long strides, he crossed the street and she heard his footsteps on the front porch.

  She opened her door just as he came into the duplex. The cologne she remembered so clearly wafted in, going deep into her nose.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” All she could think about as she stared at him was what she’d read in that report. She wanted to put her arms around him, hold him tight, ease him. “I was just about to call you.”

  His brows shot up. “Really?”

  “I, ah, found something that belonged to your father.” She motioned him in. When he walked into the living room, she shut the door. “It’s right here.”

  She lifted up the tool box and his eyes latched onto the thing.

  “God, I can remember him taking that to work all the time.” Sean reached out and took it from her. “Guess it’s one more donation to the church.”

  “You need to look inside before you give it away.”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. Then he put the thing on her couch and opened the lid. As he peered in, his breath left his lips on a long exhale. He picked up the photograph of his mother with reverence.

  “So he kept one picture after all,” Sean said softly. “I’d wondered. I didn’t find any while I was cleaning up.”

  Lizzie crossed her arms over her chest and covered her mouth with her hand. She hated the strain in his voice,
despised its cause.

  He rifled through the contents, looking at the birth certificates and then…the Child Protective Services report.

  After he scanned the document, he folded the papers back up. “You read this, didn’t you?”

  “It was wrong of me, but yes, I did.” She sighed. “I’m so sorry, Sean. I had no idea. None. And from what I knew of your father, I wouldn’t have guessed him capable of it.” When he stayed silent, she said, “I’m very sorry I intruded on your privacy. I’ll say nothing, of course. To anyone.”

  Sean went over to the windows. Against the backdrop of the blinds, his profile was rigid and so were his shoulders.

  Lizzie wanted to jump out of her skin as he stood there for the longest time. Was he mad at her? Was he back in the past? What should she do?

  His voice drifted over to her. “You know, in retrospect, I’m surprised they let us go back.” He tapped the papers against his palm. “Although I guess they really bought the ‘we’re just rough-and-tumble boys and that’s why we have bruises’ routine. I wish now that we hadn’t been so persuasive.”

  “Was it the drinking?” she asked quietly. “Your father mentioned to me once he’d struggled with it.”

  “Yeah, he did what he did only when he was drunk. And hell, even though he got into the sauce every night, it wasn’t all the time that he came after us. It was just…you didn’t know when it was going to happen so it felt like every day even if there were months of relative quiet.” His hazel eyes shifted over to her. “It’s okay, though. We’re fine now. Everything is fine.”

  “It’s okay if you’re not.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Feeling as if she were intruding, but unable to stop because of her concern for him, she said, “Sean, have you ever talked to someone about what happened?”

  He frowned. “Talked?”

  “Like to a therapist.”

  “God, no. No need to. Like I said, we’re fine.” He stared at her. “I wish you didn’t know.”

  “Sean…there’s no shame in it. It wasn’t your fault.”

  He looked away. And started to blink a lot.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sean.”