A Family Affair: The Secret (25 page)

Chapter 2

“Money is all those kinds of people want anyway.”—Diana Flannigan

“Mr. Flannigan? Excuse me, sir, but your niece just called again.”

Rourke Flannigan glanced up from the financial reports spread out on his desk. Niece? Oh yes, Abigail. “What did she want this time, Maxine?”

Maxine Simmons cleared her throat. “It seems she’s having a bit of a problem working your remote control.”

“What?” The girl had been living with him for three weeks and was already driving him crazy.

“Your remote control, sir. To your television.”

Rourke shook his head and forced the curse back down his throat. Maxine didn’t appreciate “cuss” words, as she called them, and since she was the only secretary he’d ever hired who didn’t want to marry him, he tried to honor her request and saved the swear words for when she was out of earshot. And right now, he’d saved up quite a few under the name of Abigail.

“Remind me again, Maxine, why I have not turned this child over to Child Services?”

“She’s your niece, sir.”

“She’s also a tyrant, an abominable tyrant. Abigail the Abominable.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rourke leaned back in his chair and considered his current situation. “What am I supposed to do with her? I haven’t been around a thirteen-year-old in,” he paused and thought, “damn, oh, sorry, Maxine, in almost twenty years since
I
was thirteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do I know about thirteen-year-olds? They’re rude, slovenly, and self-centered. Why would anyone want one, can you tell me that, Maxine?”

“I suppose they grow on a person, Mr. Flannigan.”

Spoken as the spinster Maxine was, as though she were referring to moss or barnacles. “I suppose, but good Lord, why would a person actually choose to be stuck with a child?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

Rourke laughed. “Which is why we suit so very well.” His laughter shrank to a half sigh. “But here I am, saddled with a niece I haven’t seen in seven years and am now solely responsible for because my free-spirited sister and her idiotic friends decided to fly a prop plane across the Indian Ocean.” Damn them. “How ridiculously irresponsible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s not like I can farm her out to Diana,” he said, thinking of his aunt. “Can you picture her face if Abigail dropped the F-bomb?”

“No sir, I cannot picture it.”

“You know, I’d pay Child Services a monthly fee for Abigail’s food and clothing, and I’d rent a nice little apartment over on Crestwood—”

“They don’t do that sort of work, sir.” Maxine adjusted her cat-eye glasses and peered at him. “They handle children who are in danger. Abuse, abandonment, and the like, I believe.”

“Well, if my niece continues to call me every five minutes, she will be in danger.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed again as the beginnings of a headache pinched his right temple. “Tell her I can’t talk right now. She should go online and pick out her own television with her own remote, so she doesn’t need to play with mine.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Do you think that will satisfy her?” He had no idea. If she were fifteen years older and not his niece, he’d send her flowers or jewelry—whatever a Centurion Black card could buy, which was anything. He stayed away from those who wanted non-monetary offerings. They were the ones who—

“It will help, sir.”

“What? Oh, right. Tell her to order whatever she wants, make a list, and give it to you. DVDs, an iPod, whatever kids are into these days.” Who knew what that was? “Something to keep her occupied.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“And make sure she practices the house code. I do not want the police department calling my office again today. Three times in three days is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“It would appear a bit excessive.”

“Do you think the child is slow?” He hadn’t thought of that before. Perhaps she needed a psychological evaluation, IQ, and a battery of tests similar to the ones the company gave new employees to test their ability to mesh with the organization and calculate future success. Perhaps Abigail needed a test to measure her ability to mesh with
him
. Or perhaps she’d inherited her idiot father’s genes, whoever that was. That was one thing about his sister; Gwendolyn had liked to keep the family guessing.

“I could contact the company psychologist, if you like.”

Rourke waved the idea away. “No, we’ll wait on that. Give it another week or so, though God knows how I’m going to last.” He snatched his cell phone and checked his latest text message. Janice. Again. “I’ll be taking a forced vow of celibacy if this continues much longer.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Nothing. On second thought, take a poll of the women in the office who have teenage children. Be very discreet about it. See how they’d handle the situation. Whoever comes up with the winning solution will receive a ten-day trip to Hawaii—children not included.”

Rourke spent the rest of his morning fielding requests for interviews with
Forbes
and
Money
magazines. The completion of his latest project brought both financial and entertainment icons swirling around him, anxious for a photo op and a cover story.
People, GQ, Newsweek
. The headlines read “Mr. Renovator of the Millennium.” It was all so overdone, but if an occasional, well-placed smile and a penguin suit permitted him to forge his legacy, he’d tolerate the absurdities. His aunt said he had a face the public liked to look at, so he’d let them look if it helped the company. After all, it was all he had.

“Mr. Flannigan,” Maxine buzzed him, “it’s Mr. Gregory, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

“Send him in. And Maxine, check on my niece. She hasn’t called in two hours and I want to make sure she hasn’t blown up the house.”

“Very good, sir.”

Miles Gregory entered Rourke’s office carrying a black portfolio and looking every bit the head legal counsel of RF Renovations, Ltd.—mid-fifties, trim, polished, and one of the few people Rourke didn’t second-guess.

“We have a bit of a problem.” Miles adjusted his bow tie and stroked his chin. The man had a habit of throwing out his concerns and if the issue were noteworthy, he offered a second, more forceful delivery.

Rourke waited to determine the level of concern.

“A potentially big problem.”

Aha, it was indeed an issue.

“Rather huge, actually.”

Three exponents. This
was
a problem. “What’s the matter, Miles?”

His lawyer cleared his throat and eased open the portfolio. “It’s regarding the property in New York. There’s been an accident.”

“An accident? How bad?” When Miles hesitated, Rourke’s concern escalated. “How bad, Miles?”

“The man died.”

“Died?” The word tumbled from Rourke’s mouth in an unintelligible heap. People on his job sites suffered back strains or an occasional fracture.
They did not die.
He demanded safety precautions and instructions far past OSHA requirements, so much so that Miles dubbed him “man of a million precautions.”

“Rourke?”

Dead.
“What happened?”

Miles slid the portfolio across the desk. “He was a demolition subcontractor. Fell fifty feet onto concrete.”

“Did his fall harness malfunction?” Rourke imagined the harness strap breaking and the unknown man’s horror in the millisecond before he hit concrete.

Miles shook his head. “Not that the inspectors can tell.”

“Christ.” Rourke grabbed the portfolio and scanned the report. When he noticed the date of the incident, he cursed again. “Why am I just hearing about this if it happened almost five months ago?”

“We tried to insulate you. It’s not good for the head of the company to get dragged down by something like this.”

“Dragged down? The man died, for Christ’s sake. I should have been told.”

“I apologize. You were in the middle of the Chemstrol acquisition.” Miles fiddled with his bow tie and added, “That’s why we brought this to Diana.”

“She knew about this?”

Miles nodded.

He’d deal with his aunt and her subterfuge once he handled this situation. “What problem could be larger than this man’s life?”

“A lawsuit.”

Of course.
“I see.”

“We’ve already begun preliminary work on our end and hired our own investigators.”

“To prove what?” That, despite all the precautions, people still died?

“We’re trying to determine if we might have some level of responsibility here.” Miles cleared his throat—not a good sign—and added, “The man also had a wife and daughter.”

Rourke stared at the file in front of him. Now there was a widow and a fatherless child involved. “I want to meet the widow. Express my sympathies. It’s the least I can do.” And then, “How old is the child?”

“I have no idea.”

Nothing could replace a father, but he had to do something. “I’ll set up a college fund.”

“If you do that, you might as well wear a banner that says
Guilty
.”

“Do you know what it’s like to lose a father?” Rourke knew. He knew what it was like to lose a mother, too. And inherit an aunt who—

“Thankfully, my father is alive, well, and the Dapper Dan of the senior center.”

That provided an interesting picture and a welcome interruption. Dwelling on the past served no purpose. “Give me the woman’s address and I’ll have Maxine make flight reservations.”

Miles hesitated. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very well.” Miles turned the folder around and searched for an address. “Here it is. Montpelier, New York.”

“Montpelier?” Dread wrapped itself around Rourke’s gut and squeezed as a kernel of possibility exploded. How many demolition contractors were there in a town like Montpelier? He guessed no more than three.

“Yes, Montpelier,” Miles repeated. “It’s a small town west of Syracuse. Quaint. Backward. Less than a half dot on a map.” He rose from his seat and picked up the portfolio Rourke had tossed aside. “Just a minute and I’ll get you the woman’s name.” He rifled through the papers as Rourke’s gut churned with disbelief and panic. “Ah, here it is. Name’s Kathryn. Kathryn Redmond Maden.”

Kate.
Rourke pushed back his chair and moved to the set of windows overlooking Chicago. She was out there, hundreds of miles away, just as she’d always been. But one freak accident was about to erase that distance and demolish the walls between them. He could change his mind and send someone else to visit her. He wouldn’t have to see her, wouldn’t have to remember the taste of her…

“Would you like me to see what I can find out about this Mrs. Maden?” Miles asked. “I could do a bit of poking. Perhaps it would make your visit easier if you knew more about her.”

Fourteen years ago I knew everything about her.
“Thank you, Miles, but that won’t be necessary. Let me look over the file and I’ll get back to you.” Such a calm delivery—as though they weren’t speaking about
her
. Rourke waited for Miles to leave before phoning Diana. “Can you spare a few minutes? There’s something we need to discuss.”

“I’m on my way,” she said with the casual self-assuredness that had become her trademark in the business world.

He’d thought about dealing with this over the phone so his aunt couldn’t read his body language or the tiny nuances that might slip through when he referred to his old girlfriend. But if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to study
her
body language. Had she kept this from him for business reasons or had she connected the family ties and discovered who the widow was?

***

“Rourke?” Diana Flannigan moved toward him, a dynamo of power and authority covered in a designer suit and pearls. The woman had demolished her share of businessmen who’d been fooled by her tiny stature and casual elegance. She’d never married, never expressed maternal desire or interest in anyone not connected to RF Renovations. “Do you have word from Gamitrond?” Diana asked as she slid into one of the wingback chairs opposite his desk.

Always the businesswoman. “Actually, Gamitrond’s on hold right now.” He ignored the raised brow and plowed on. “Why didn’t you tell me we lost a man at the New York site?”

“You were in the middle of a major negotiation. Involving you would have proven too distracting.”

“Since when is a man’s death distracting?”

Her blue eyes flashed. “When you’re in charge of a multimillion-dollar corporation, you can’t concern yourself with every unfortunate incident that occurs. That’s why you have people to take care of those things for you.”

“Damn it, Diana, the man died.”

“Yes, he did.”

“He was from Montpelier.” There. He’d said it.

She met his gaze head on. Even smiled. “Ah, yes. Montpelier. I’m surprised you remember that place.”