The Way They Were Read online

  “What’s this?” He slid the folder forward.

  “Nothing!” She made a quick lunge for it, but Rourke snatched it away.

  “Nothing?” He eased the folder open. “Hmmm.” He stared back at magazine and newspaper clippings of himself in various locations, with various women, all beautiful, all supposedly in love with him. Rourke scanned the printed dates and captions, then closed the folder and slid it back to her.

  “Angie—”

  “Would never make it as a private eye. That wasn’t just a Swedish beauty queen, that was the Queen’s niece.” He smiled and shrugged at her distress. “And the Alps,” he leaned forward to whisper, “heir to a makeup dynasty.”

  “I see.”

  But none of them touched my heart the way you did. “Kate.”

  “Yes?”

  “What happened to Clay?”

  She looked away. “He fell fifty feet from a lift. He was always so careful.” Her voice cracked, “I just don’t understand.”

  Rourke cleared his throat and fiddled with a piece of lattice. How much could a person make painting dollhouses? Enough to support two people? “Have the investigators finished their reports yet?” When she shook her head he said, “You should start receiving money once the investigations are complete.”

  She coughed as though embarrassed to be discussing such an indelicate subject as money with him when she so obviously had little and he so obviously had plenty. He thought of the night they planned their future together, the Victorian house they’d build, the lake, the workshop for her artwork, the four children they’d have . . .

  “I’ve been talking to a few people. They say I have options.”

  That brought him around—fast. People meant lawyers, preyers of the weak and grief-stricken. Wasn’t it his humanitarian duty to inquire before she got herself mixed up in a scam? “What kind of people?”

  She shrugged. “What kind of people surface at a tragedy? Lawyers, of course.”

  “The cream of the crop, I’m sure.” Who? Give me their names.

  “They’re not all bad.” She looked down at her hands and picked at the red paint on her finger.

  “You need to be careful. There are too many ambulance chasers out there trying to make a case where there is none.” He laid a hand on the table, inches from hers. “If you want me to speak with them, I will.”

  Her head shot up. “Why would you do that?”

  “To help you.” It was such a smooth delivery, Miles would be proud. Was it true? The next words spilled out before he could yank them back. “I’m going to be here a few weeks, maybe several.” At least until I shut down these damn lawyers. He flashed a smile which warped into a straight line when she merely continued to stare.

  “Why are you really here, Rourke?”

  He remembered the way she’d cried out his name the first and only night they made love. Another truth snuck past the subterfuge in his soul and aimed a steady path straight at her. “Who are we kidding, Kate? We’ve got fourteen years of questions between us and I’m not leaving until every one of them is answered.”

  Chapter 4

  “Somebody said he has a daughter or a niece or something.”—Julia Maden

  “So tell me about this new guy everybody’s talking about. Rourke something or other.”

  Kate ignored her daughter and concentrated on slicing the red onion in front of her, glad she had an excuse if her eyes started tearing. Rourke Flannigan could do that to a woman. When she knew her voice wouldn’t wobble, she said, “Flannigan. Rourke Flannigan.”

  Julia snatched a slice of cucumber. “That’s the name. I knew it was something Irish.”

  “Yes, he’s Irish.”

  “And didn’t he use to live here?”

  Julia was much too perceptive. “For a little while. Then he moved back to Chicago.”

  “Did Dad know him?”

  Kate threw the onion in the salad bowl. Clay said a salad wasn’t a salad without red onion and he was right. He’d been right about a lot of things. “Yes, we all knew him.”

  “Hmm.” And then, “Mom, the onions. On the side, remember?”

  “Oh, sorry.” She concentrated on picking slices of red onion from the mound of lettuce and tomato in the salad bowl.

  “So what’s the big deal about this guy?”

  Everything. Kate shrugged. “People talk, Julia. Don’t listen to them.” She flattened her hands on the countertop to keep them from shaking. How long would it take for someone to slip and string Kate’s name with Rourke’s? The nightmare they’d all tried to forget would resurface and leak into the present like poison. People would get hurt, lives would be ruined, and Kate would be right in the middle of it.

  Julia plucked another cucumber from the salad bowl. “It’s not like I’ve heard anything other than the guy’s name and that he’s staying at the Manor.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why would anybody stay there?”

  “Should he stay at the Bates Motel?” Kate asked, referring to the lone motel in Montpelier which had years ago been dubbed Bates because of its resemblance to the one in Psycho.

  “Nobody stays there, but the Manor is so,” she shrugged, “boring.”

  “It’s actually very historical. And it’s all we have here. When people visit, they usually stay with family.”

  “So, he has no family here.”

  He did. Kate forced a tight smile and said, “No.” She picked up a red pepper and sliced a thin strip.

  “Somebody said he has a daughter or a niece or something.”

  The knife slipped and nicked the side of Kate’s forefinger. “Damn!” She grabbed a napkin as blood gurgled from the cut.

  “Sharp object in hand. Pay attention.”

  Kate dabbed at the cut, wrapped the napkin around her finger and pressed tightly. “I’m just distracted, I guess.”

  Julia’s voice dipped and shook around the edges. “It’s Dad, isn’t it?”

  Oh God. Kate nodded.

  “I know. I miss him, too. People are saying that company’s responsible for his death. Liability or something like that.”

  That’s what people had been telling Kate for months.

  “We have to make those people pay. Dad shouldn’t have died and that company has to pay.”

  Kate nodded again, not trusting herself to speak.

  “It’s the least we can do for him,” Julia said.

  “I know.”

  ***

  Georgeanne Redmond let the curtain fall into place and limped to the nearest chair. Rourke Flannigan was back in town. Good Lord what a mess. She unscrewed the cap and poured vodka to the line she’d marked with a blue Sharpie. One third cup, not a drop more. And one refill every three hours. Not a second before.

  She sipped the drink, savoring the pop it sent to her lungs, her mouth, her brain. Vodka put her on the alert and helped her reason. In moderation, of course. She’d never go back to the way she was before, draining bottle after bottle of whatever she could get her hands on. In those days, she’d swallowed Scope when she couldn’t get her fix.

  This drinking was different but Katie wouldn’t see it that way. She’d fuss and scold and frankly, Georgeanne had enough to deal with right now. Like Rourke Flannigan. She polished off the rest of the drink, perhaps a little more quickly than usual but still no sooner than eight minutes. Setting parameters would keep the drinking under control. One third undiluted every three hours, not to exceed five times a day and the drink must last at least eight minutes. Just like a doctor’s order.

  Georgeanne rubbed the outside of her right thigh, a slow massage which turned into a gradual kneading of the flesh beneath her cotton pants. It provided some relief to the damaged leg, but no amount of manipulation would ever make it normal again. The car accident that forced her into AA fourteen years ago also put a metal plate and screws in her hip. The pain served as a constant reminder of what she’d done to Rourke Flannigan.

  Why was the man here, dammit? Surely not to prey on poor Ka
tie who he’d dallied with and dumped in the span of a summer. Georgeanne knew all about summer love—or lust as it were. She’d succumbed just like her daughter but Katie had been lucky because Clay had adored her and looked beyond her mistakes to what could be.

  It had all turned out just fine, better than Georgeanne could have imagined. All she’d had to do was steer her daughter in Clay Maden’s direction and convince Katie that Rourke Flannigan was gone for good, which proved true.

  But now Clay was dead and that damn man was back. Georgeanne lifted her glass and caught a few drops of vodka. The only question was why?

  ***

  Rourke sipped his scotch and tried the internet connection for the fifth time. This place was a technological disaster. Most visitors stayed with relatives or close friends. Since Rourke could claim neither, he’d opted for the historic elegance of Montpelier Manor. What he hadn’t counted on was the antiquated ambiance that quickly shifted to annoyance. At eighteen, he’d admired the rustic setting which proved very different than anything he’d seen in Chicago. There was a lot Montpelier offered that he’d never experienced before—hospitality, fresh air, Kate.

  “Rourke, this is ridiculous. How am I going to watch Real World?”

  Abigail perched on the floor, pressing channels with her index finger. Two seconds after they moved in, she realized there was no remote to the television. Fifteen minutes of complaining netted her nothing from Rourke in the way of sympathy or understanding. She then resorted to manual channel surfing, but apparently three channels and no cable for longer than twenty-four hours was too much.

  He supposed he’d have to do something about it.

  “Rourke!”

  “Admittedly, this does not hold the same character and charm it once did.”

  “Like in the pre-historic ages?”

  “Keep it up and you won’t have any channels, Abigail.”

  She made a face at him. “Abbie. My name’s Abbie. Abbie, Abbie, Abbie.”

  “Keep it up and you won’t have any channels, Abbie.”

  “We can’t stay here, Rourke.”

  He stared at her and waited. In a matter of seconds, she’d barrage him with an entire list of reasons they couldn’t stay.

  She didn’t disappoint him when four seconds later, she lifted her fingers and began counting. “One, we have to share a community toilet. Two, a community shower, and that is just gross. Three, there’s no fridge, so no Pepsi, no yogurt, no ice cream. Four, there’s no remote. Five, no cable. Six, no internet connection in my room. You have the only one and that sucks. Seven—”

  “Enough.”

  “I’m going to run out of fingers before I finish.”

  He’d rather haggle construction costs with his toughest opponent than sit here listening to this babble.

  “Rourke, you are not listening.”

  “I heard you, Abbie.” Damn his nomad sister for getting herself killed.

  “I am so bored.”

  Rourke massaged his right temple. Why in the hell had he ever allowed Maxine to talk him into bringing Abigail—Abbie—here? What did Maxine know? She was a spinster who’d never raised anything but a miniature terrier. “Where are all those DVD’s you ordered?”

  “How am I going to watch them? Maxine said the DVD player I picked is on backorder.”

  “Books then. Read something.” She could read, couldn’t she?

  She snorted. “Right.”

  Rourke studied his niece and wondered again why anyone would torture themselves with a child. They were messy, demanding creatures and he could see how they sucked the life out of a person.

  Well he was having none of it. She wasn’t even his child, for Chrissake. If she had been, he’d never have let her get so out of hand and dead parent or not, the kid was a bigger pain than the multi-unit luxury condos in Denver he’d just negotiated. He dug around in his briefcase and pulled out a handful of magazines. “Here.” They skidded across the floor and landed a foot from her. “Learn something.”

  She snatched them up and rifled through them. “Forbes? Money? Time? I’m thirteen years old!”

  He loosened his tie and smiled at her. “It’s never too soon to learn about dollar cost averaging and leveraged buy-outs.”

  “Are you for real?” She flung the magazines across the room and jerked to her feet. “I need to use your cell phone.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  She looked away and shrugged.

  “Abiga—Abbie, where is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” At least she had the good grace to sound mildly apologetic. “It’s either at home in my other purse…”

  He raised a brow and waited.

  “Or I lost it,” she mumbled.

  “I see.”

  “Yeah,” she looked up and threw him a timid smile. “So I need your phone.”He shook his head. “Why not? It’s not like you can’t spare the minutes.” And then she zinged him with, “Or the money.”

  “That’s not the point, is it?”

  She ignored him. “Can you just let me use your phone?”

  “No.” She was a persistent creature, he’d give her that.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not my problem. It’s yours.” He pointed to the Money magazine sprawled face down on the hardwood floor. “There’s a very interesting article in there on asset allocation.”

  “Arrghhh!”

  He waited until her little outburst subsided. “Now go find something to do. Be back by five.”

  She glared at him. “This is so not fair.”

  He glared back. “Life isn’t fair. Deal with it.”

  She mumbled under her breath but he ignored her and turned back to his computer. Apparently the tactic worked because seconds later the door slammed shut.

  The next hour proved equally frustrating with no computer access. If he were going to stay at the manor for a few weeks, he had to have internet. He’d speak with the owner, Mrs. Gibson, and have her set up a service call with the cable company to upgrade this room, no later than tomorrow afternoon. Rourke closed his laptop and scooped up the magazines from the floor. When he opened his briefcase to dump them inside, he caught sight of the folder with Kate’s name along the side tab.

  Meeting her again certainly hadn’t gone as planned. Not that there’d been any great plan, but he hadn’t expected her to be so untouchable. And why had he opened his big mouth and said they had fourteen years of questions between them? He had no business getting anywhere near a woman who’d burned him so bad the scars still itched. Rourke picked up the folder and opened it. Kate’s face stared back at him, lips slightly parted, eyes soft and alluring. He cursed and slammed the folder shut.

  Chapter 5

  “All I know is when I called her ten weeks later, she was married.”—Rourke Flannigan

  By ten o’clock the next morning, Rourke had leased an office next to the post office. The idea struck him yesterday two seconds after Abbie stalked back in the door. He was not a man to be pinned in a room, especially one without a working computer and it was impossible to conduct business with a thirteen year old manually flipping through channels and making snide comments under her breath.

  Even if he only stayed in Montpelier a week, the office would provide a refuge for him. He was most comfortable in an office setting, among business associates who understood the protocol and didn’t step outside those boundaries.

  Thanks to Office Max, Fed Ex and American Express, he’d assembled all the conveniences of a regular working environment. The place was a bit cramped and he’d had to settle for pressed wood rather than solid cherry, but it would suffice. He had his privacy and could begin his own investigation of Clay’s accident. He already regretted offering Kate his services yesterday but she’d seemed so dejected he’d blurted out the first thing that came into his head. Again, proof she could still get to him.

  How was he supposed to help her with a lawyer and remain objective? It couldn’t be done. On the other ha
nd, could he ignore potential information that might put the company at risk? What could it hurt to pry around the edges a little and get the names of the law firms that wanted to speak with her? Most of them were ambulance chasers anyway, slick talkers who preyed on the injured and grieving. Kate needed someone to look out for her interests. Didn’t she?

  By the time he finished his second cup of coffee, he’d convinced himself she needed his help. He refused to think of the way his pulse tripped when he thought of her blue eyes, her soft curves, her— The front door jangled and seconds later, Angie Sorrento bee-lined toward him with a pissed off look on her face.

  “Out with it,” she said, gripping the edges of his new desk.

  “Hey, easy on the furniture, it’s only painted particle board.” She’d probably like to rip the place to shreds, him included.

  She threw him a cold stare and jammed both hands in her back pockets. “Why are you here?”

  Same old pain in the ass. He leaned back in the leather chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “I see your disposition hasn’t changed.”

  “Out with it.”

  He considered another sarcasm but settled on a different ploy. “My niece needs fresh air and this place has plenty of it.”