We exit to the front of the hotel, and a doorman holds the door to the Bentley for Emily, while Tai waves to her and stops in front of me, lowering his voice. “Your father was here last night and when he left, he was coughing. One of my men said he saw blood on a napkin.”
This news grinds through me and I reach into my pocket to offer him a tip. He holds up a hand. “No. Not this time.”
I give him a nod, his actions offering me one more reason to respect him. I round the car and settle inside with Emily, shutting the door and resting my wrist on the steering wheel. “He was here last night with that woman.”
“The night before chemo?” she asks, nailing exactly what is bothering me.
“Yes. The night before chemo.” I place the car in drive.
“Oh my God. He’s such a bastard.”
“That’s my old man.” I cut the car onto the road, and I don’t ask Emily’s address and she doesn’t offer, assuming I know it, and I do.
It’s about three minutes later when I pull into the driveway of her apartment, an old warehouse converted to lofts, and park, turning to face her. “If you have any trouble today—”
“I’ll call you,” she supplies. “You’ve told me that many times. You take care of you and the business. I’ll take care of me.”
Take care of me. When was the last time anyone gave a shit about me? “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. I have meetings off site. I’m not sure when I’ll be in, but call or text if you need me.”
“I will.”
“And I’ll either meet you in the garage to pick you up or send a car for you.”
“Okay.” She hesitates as if she wants to say something, but seems to change her mind. “I should go, so you can get to the hospital.”
I give a nod and she turns to the door but I grab her arm. She faces me and I don’t have to pull her to me. Suddenly she’s in my arms, and I’m not sure if it’s me kissing her or her kissing me. My hands tangle in her hair, hers tunnel into mine, and the taste of desperation and fear in her kiss has me tearing my mouth from hers. Before I can speak, she says, “You call me if you need me.” And then she turns and gets out of the car, shutting the door and leaving me alone.
I watch her walk to her door and disappear, and only then do I look away, her words replaying in my head. You call me if you need me. I haven’t needed anyone, not for a long damn time, and yet … I put the Bentley in gear, and murmur, “What the hell are you doing to me, woman?”
* * *
Reaching the hospital, I’m unsurprised to find my father is in the private section that costs a hefty fee and ensures his room will be more of a luxury suite than the cold discomfort of a standard hospital room. I pass through security and head toward the corner of the west wing where I’m told he’s registered. I’m almost to the door when my mother steps out of the room, dressed to kill in a tan pantsuit that screams fashion show, not cancer treatment. “I wondered if you were going to show up,” she says, motioning behind me. “He wants coffee. Walk with me.”
My brow furrows. “Coffee? They let him have coffee?”
“He’s dying, Shane. We’re prolonging it, not curing him, and do you really think they could stop him if he has his mind set on something?”
“‘Prolonging,’” I repeat. “You say that like you’re reciting the weather.”
“What am I supposed to do? Sit here and weep?”
“Yes. You are. He’s your husband.”
“And how do you think he’d react to me weeping? He’d crush me.”
“Then why are you still with him?” I grind out, my voice low, taut.
She glances at the ceiling, as if she’s grappling with emotions, which at least shows that she cares about something, though I question what that might be at this point. “Do you think I haven’t asked myself that same question, over and over?” she hisses softly, fixing me with a bloodshot stare that suggests she’s fighting tears.
“And how do you answer, Mom?”
“I can’t leave him. Especially not now.”
“Because you care?” I ask in disbelief. “Because he was with that woman at the Four Seasons this morning and you put him with her. That doesn’t sound like caring to me.”
“Do you really think me putting her with him means I want him to choose her?”
I arch a brow. “Doesn’t it?”
She folds her arms in front of her. “Pretending he won’t choose someone else doesn’t make it true.”
Frustration rolls through me and I step closer to her. “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“Don’t you get on your high horse with me, Shane Brandon.” She shoves a shaking hand through her long, dark hair. “You don’t know what it’s been like, and at least I know something about what is going on with him for you and for me. I’m surviving here the only way I can.”
It’s not the only way she can, but I force myself to remember that my father is a hard man who plays with people’s heads. Years of getting the brunt of that had to have had an effect. “What’s the prognosis, aside from terminal?”
“He had some extra testing today, and we won’t have the results for a few days, but surprisingly good.”
“He’s coughing up blood. How can the words ‘surprisingly good’ even be in this conversation?”
“They gave me some long explanation about inflammation to describe why that’s happening. The cancer’s contained in his lungs and only stage one. His chemo will be aggressive but fairly moderate in intensity, which will limit side effects.”
“What about the cancer in his brain?”
“Contained, but you know the story there. That could change any day.”
I run my hand over my jaw. “I’m going in to talk to him.”
She nods and starts to turn. “Mom,” I say.
“Yes?” she asks, facing me.
“We’ll get through this. I promise.”
“I know,” she says, and any remnants of tears or fears are gone, leaving me wondering if I’d imagined them.
She starts walking and I cross the small expanse to my father’s room, pausing at the open door to hear him say, “Damn it to hell, Mike. I told you. I’m handling it.”
I enter the room to find him wearing a hospital gown, and sitting in a fancy leather chair, in the corner by a window, a cell phone in his hand. My gaze flicks to the IV, and I swear, no matter how aware I am of his flaws, the scent of medicine and death is in the air, twisting my gut into knots. He glances up, seeming to sense my presence, and quickly tells Mike, “I need to call you back.” There’s a short silence and my father glowers. “I said, I’ll call you back.” He ends the call, and I pass the kitchen and bedroom area to join him in the mock living area, standing over him.
“Have what handled?” I ask, referencing what I’d overheard.
He scowls and snaps, “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“If it’s about the hedge fund you’re hiding from me, you’re wrong. I do.”
“Hiding something infers I care what you think. I don’t.”
“You sure cared when I bailed you out of hot water.”
His lips thin. “Until I make the damn thing come together, it might as well not exist. Why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “I thought it was because my father’s dying of cancer.”
“Take care of business. I’ll take care of me.”
“In other words,” I say, ignoring the brown leather couch and perching on the arm of a chair matching his. “Fuck you, Shane. Got it.” I change the subject. “You’re willing me the apartment. I’m drawing up the contract for you to sign.”
“And because you draw them up, I should sign them why?”
“Because I’m your son and you love me. And because you want me to sign off on that hedge fund that I couldn’t give a shit about.”
“It’s worth fifty million.”
“Like I said, I couldn’t give a shit. I’ll leave the contract with your n
ew secretary. Unless you’ve already run her off.”
“Emily doesn’t intimidate easily,” he says, his index finger thrumming on the arm of the chair. It’s his “tell” he doesn’t know he possesses, and I have one of the answers I came for. Derek or my mother told him about Emily, and considering he was coordinating the Nina Thompson payoff, it seems safe to assume he’s well aware of the Martina cartel’s involvement in the company. “It’s rather refreshing,” he adds.
“You’ll have to step up your game then,” I say dryly. “We wouldn’t want people thinking you went soft. Speaking of the impression you’re making. Unless you want me to know things like you were coughing up blood as you left the Four Seasons this morning, I’d change hotels. Though I do enjoy the flow of information.” I stand. “I assume I won’t see you at the office today since you don’t like to appear weak, and you never know how the chemo cocktail they chose this time will affect you.” I head for the door.
“That’s it?” he calls out as I’m about to exit, and I know he’s looking for a reaction to anything or everything, but that’s not the way I win, thus it won’t happen.
I pause at the door and look at him, and damn it to hell, my gut clenches at the sight of the IV running through his arm.
“What did you expect, Father?” I ask.
His gray eyes, hollowed though they seem, narrow on me for several beats before he snaps, “Not a fucking thing.”
That’s all the good-bye I need and I exit the room, striding toward the elevators to find Derek and my mother with their heads together. Derek’s chin lifts, his gaze catching on me, hate he doesn’t even try to hide anymore darkening his stare. He steps toward me, puffing up his chest in his expensive suit, while arrogance puffs up his head. “Is this where you tell me we should come together because he’s dying?” he asks.
“I’m done pretending that’s possible. I’m done with you.” I step around him.
He calls out, “You’ll never win.”
I don’t turn, and my lips curve with satisfaction at the words everyone I ever beat had said when they started to feel fear. I start walking and I don’t look back. Not now and not ever again.
* * *
My next stop is at the bank to wrap up the purchase of the apartment Emily and I had looked at yesterday. I’m just finishing up the meeting when Seth calls to let me know he’s arrived at Denver ground zero and is headed my way with company and the need for discretion. Seth arranges a showing at another downtown high-rise apartment as a cover for the meeting. By the time I step off the elevator on the twenty-fifth floor it’s nearly lunchtime.
Once I’m inside the unit that is filled with modern, artsy furnishings, I find myself at the head of a glass table. To my left is Seth and to my right is Nick Snyder, a man casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his blondish hair starting to gray.
“As you know,” Seth says, “Snyder X Security is the company I’ve contracted to work with us. Nick is the founder and the reason why I chose them.”
“We met on an FBI-CIA combined task force,” Nick offers. “And I was undercover in a biker gang for seven years. A gang that has some dealings with the Santos cartel, Martina’s biggest rival.”
“He took a bullet for me and saved my life,” Seth adds.
I flick Nick a look. “Your credentials are good but I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. I trust Seth, and since he trusts you, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Good thing,” Nick says, his glacier-green eyes glinting hard. “Because you need me.” He drops a small sealed baggie on the table. “That’s what your trucking company is transporting for Martina.”
“Coke,” Seth says, confirming what I’d assumed, and sending a rush of anger through me that I quickly tap down.
“How long has this being going on?”
“Two weeks,” Seth replies. “And we know this not from Riker, who won’t talk to us, but from his right-hand man, who did. He’s in this and wants out.”
I have a small bit of relief with the news this is only two weeks old. “At least they don’t have their teeth sunk in yet.”
“But it won’t take them long to,” Nick warns. “They’re testing the waters. If they like how this goes, this is just the beginning. They’ll expand into all of your operations.”
“How do we know they haven’t already?” I ask.
“We don’t,” Seth says, “which is why we need to expedite your plan to control the rest of the stockholders.”
“If we know your exposure is limited to the trucking division,” Nick adds, “I have a friend at the Feds who can help.”
“No Feds,” I say. “The last thing I want is my family in jail and our company name all over the news.”
“Understood,” Nick says, “but my friend does side work for me. He can go in and nose around, flash his badge and then show up at Martina’s restaurant and connect the dots. You’ve then successfully shut down your brother’s attempt to go from dating to marriage with the cartel.”
“Step one,” Seth says, setting a folder in front of me. “That’s the ammunition I have on the stockholders you wanted. Nick and I can split them up and have this done in the next few days.”
I open the folder and the first thing I see is the only female stockholder’s name, and next to it the word “miscarriage.” My gaze shoots to Seth. “You have to be kidding me. You want to use a miscarriage against this woman?”
“Her husband is infertile,” Seth says. “So yes. I do.”
My temples begin to throb. “Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting I become my family to fight my family.”
“Better this than a cartel running drugs and killing people in your name,” Nick states.
“Killing people in my name,” I say. “That’s the way to cut to the chase.” I shut the folder and slide it to Seth. “Do what you have to do.”
I stand and they follow, and I look at Seth. “I need an update by this time tomorrow.” I don’t wait for a reply, eager to get out of here and try to actually breathe again.
By the time I’m in the parking garage and sitting in my car, there is only one person on my mind. Emily. I remove my cell phone from my jacket to call her and it beeps with a text, from her of all people.
It appears that I’m going to lunch with your mother.
I like to be myself. Misery loves company.
—Anthony Corallo
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EMILY
It’s no coincidence that lunch with Mrs. Brandon, or “Maggie,” as I am now to call her, is at Jeffrey’s Restaurant, the same place I’d gone with Shane the first night we met. It’s her way of telling me she knows about Shane and me. Thankfully when we arrive, Susie isn’t working or I’d be utterly cornered. Not that I think I’m going to escape some sort of full-frontal attack before this is over anyway, and of course, the elephant in the room is Mrs. Brandon’s offer to pay me for information.
We settle at a table near the front of the restaurant, and Maggie doesn’t bother to look at the menu. “The brown butter ravioli is to die for,” she says. “I highly recommend it.”
She might just love the ravioli, but I suspect she’s baiting me, and I don’t let her. “I’ve had it before,” I say. “And I agree. It’s fabulous.”
“You’ve been here before. I had no idea. You didn’t mention it when I made the suggestion.”
Again with the baiting. “It was one of the first places recommended to me when I moved into town six weeks ago.”
“That’s right. You just moved here.”
“I did, and not only do I love living close to my job, the food and shopping in this area are amazing.”
She opens her mouth to ask a question I’m sure I won’t want to answer, when our waitress, a pretty and young brunette, appears in front of us, and saves me, at least for the moment. “Welcome, Mrs. Brandon,” she says, giving me a smile as well. “So nice to have you both in today.”
My phone buzzes in my purse wit
h yet another text I am certain is from Shane. I have yet to answer at least three others for fear of being obvious.
“Hello Lori,” Maggie greets the waitress, then indicates me. “This is Emily.” I wave and Maggie immediately says, “We’re going to have the ravioli.” She glances at me. “Wine?”
I hold up a hand. “Oh no. Thanks, but I’ll fall asleep at my desk if I do that.” I look at Lori. “Water, please.” I grab my purse. “And on that note, I had better run to the ladies’ room.” I stand, running my hand down my simple navy blue dress, which is thankfully wrinkle free, since nothing else is right now.
Maggie’s eyes hone in on me, amusement in their depths. “I guess you know where it is.”
“I know where every bathroom in a place I’ve visited is, I promise you,” I confirm, managing to sound amused despite my fear she’s just made a masked reference to Shane and me kissing in the back hallway. “Everything I drink goes right through me.”
“I’m the same way,” she assures me. “Hurry back. My turn is coming.”
More like hurry away, I think, rushing through the restaurant and down the hallway where Shane and I had first kissed, telling myself there is no way anyone, most especially Maggie, knows about that. We were alone. I enter the one-person bathroom and lock the door, opening my purse to grab my one remaining phone, having trashed the other one, as Rick demanded, on the walk to work this morning.
Leaning on the wall, I punch in Shane’s number. “Why haven’t you been answering me?” he demands after one ring, foregoing “hello.”
“I’m with your mother and didn’t want to seem rude. I came to the bathroom to call you.”
“Where are you?” It’s not a question but a demand. “I’m coming to you.”
“What? No. You can’t do that.”
“I can and I am,” he replies. “Where are you, Emily?”