At the Midnight Hour (21 page)

He could see Andy looking at him with trust as he thrust his marshmallow into the bonfire. He could see Andy eyeing him with worship as they talked of dielectrics. And he could see Andy turning to him when Liz didn’t get up from the ground, clearly expecting him to make things all right.

The boy looked up to him.

So maybe...

Fiercely, Richard rejected the idea. Alycia had taught him too well the price of weakness. He wouldn’t become soft now and believe in things that could only lead to bitterness and pain. He had survived for years with his iron control, keeping himself untouched by everything. He would survive many more.

He turned back to the fire, clearly dismissing Liz. She however, refused to let the matter drop. If anything, his coldness only made her more determined.

“I’m not leaving this room,” she warned clearly. “I’ve already overstepped my bounds, so I might as well take it all the way. Damn it, Richard,” she tried again, placing her hand on his arm to command his attention. “I care for Andy. He’s come a long way in the past three weeks. I’ve gotten him to play some games, I’ve gotten him to go outside. I’m trying very hard to teach him that there’s more to life than statistics and books. But there’s only so much I can do. When push comes to shove, I’m only his nanny. He needs
family.
How can you deny him that? Not even you can be that cruel.”

She must have struck a nerve, for his head pivoted sharply. His eyes had turned an icy blue, his jaw clenched so tight she felt a minute of deep fear. His chilling gaze fell to the hand on his arm, and, despite her best intentions, she pulled her hand away. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft.

“You know nothing of what I’m capable of,” he said slowly. “And it’s none of your business.”

His words sent a tremor through her, and with soul-wrenching clarity her mind replayed what she’d read in Alycia’s diary. When Richard looked this cold, this grim, he truly scared her, as he must have frightened his wife. For a long moment, she couldn’t say anything at all. Then she forced herself to remember this afternoon, the way he’d held her in his arms. He could be harsh, but there was tenderness in there somewhere.

“You’re not omnipotent, Richard,” she said fiercely, her eyes never leaving his face. “I know a thing or two about people, and I saw what you were like when we couldn’t find Andy yesterday. You were worried, genuinely worried. And you hated it.”

His face darkened fully, his mind reeling away from just how close to home her words struck. The unbridled emotions welled up once more. He didn’t want to feel this guilt and regret. He didn’t want to wonder, to hope, when he’d sworn off such petty emotions long ago. Damn it, he’d learned his lessons five years ago. He’d learned them well.

“I don’t wish Andrew any harm,” he said coldly. “The boarding school will be an excellent opportunity for him.” Once again, however, doubt nagged at the back of his mind. Andy really wasn’t like other boys, and he’d already improved so much with Liz’s presence. Maybe he could spend more time with the little genius.... He forced the thought back down harshly. He couldn’t weaken. Not now.

Liz’s eyes narrowed, her face becoming set as she peered at him intently. “No, you won’t,” she said clearly, crossing her arms in front of her with a stubborn expression.

He laughed mirthlessly, but her level gaze was beginning to unnerve him. She couldn’t know what he was thinking, she couldn’t know just how dangerously close Andrew was getting to all the walls Richard had built around himself. And he had no intention of telling her.

He drew himself up to his full height until he towered above her. Almost negligently, he swirled the brandy in his glass. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said softly, his tone as unrelenting as the expression on his face.

Another shiver rippled along Liz’s spine, and the tension made her want to run. But she knew she was right, knew it deep in her heart. She would not back down. Damn it, she’d built up backbone living with four older brothers, she was going to stand up to this man, come hell or high water.

“I don’t believe you,” she said shortly, her chin lifting another notch with her defiance. “You mentioned sending Andy to a boarding school well over a week ago, but you’ve never mentioned it since. Not even yesterday, after he disappeared. And you’re not one of those people who lets things hang. Unless, of course, you’re not convinced it’s the best solution.”

“Of course it’s the best solution,” he said tautly, frowning at her persistence. In his eyes, the shadows around them grew and shifted as unnamed emotions floated by. How had she ever gotten so close? How had she come to see things he hadn’t even wanted to face? When had he started giving so much away?

“I want you to leave,” he said harshly. “Right now.”

“I can’t,” she whispered, her body trembling as his eyes turned dangerous. Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and placed it delicately on his arm. His eyes shot warning daggers, but this time, she didn’t pull back. “Tell me,” she said softly, her voice giving away the smallest tremor. “Tell me why you turn away from Andy.”

“I don’t turn away,” Richard said flatly, his fists clenching by his side from raw anger and scathing bitterness. “I provide the boy with shelter, food and clothes. I will see to his education, and I will give him all the financial support he ever needs. I think that’s more than generous.”

Liz’s eyes widened with shock, her face paling. She’d never heard anyone talk about their child so callously.

“You can’t really believe that,” she managed to say, her eyes stark and pleading. She leaned forward slightly, needing him to take the words back, begging him to give her some sign of the man she wanted to believe lived within him. “Surely you understand a son needs more from his father than financial support. Surely you believe he needs love and comfort, as well.”

“As you said,” Richard stated coldly, his gaze raking over her dispassionately, even as her pleading eyes cut him to the quick, “that’s what a son needs from his father. But Andrew isn’t my son.”

He stated the last words emotionlessly, throwing them out into the silence of the room, his eyes daring her to react.

“You can’t be serious,” Liz said at last, leaning back as her forehead creased over this unexpected statement. Anyone could see how alike Andrew and Richard were. “What makes you think that?”

“My dear departed wife told me, of course. Alycia never was bashful about her life-style. I don’t even think I can count the number of liaisons she had. She used to tell me, once she produced an heir—Andrew—that what she did with her life was her business. But then just a week before she died, she confessed that not even Andrew was mine. She’d been fooling around long before then.”

He could still remember the scene. How Alycia had looked when she’d told him, her porcelain face all twisted into mockery. How she’d laughed at the shocked look on his face, how she’d called him a fool.
“Of course Andrew isn’t yours, darling. Did you ever think such a pitiful brute as yourself could create something so beautiful?”

He’d hated her at that instant, felt the last of his misguided affection die a bitter death deep inside. And so help him God, at that moment he’d wanted to wrap his hands around her lovely pale neck, and silence her taunting laughter forever. In the course of two years, she’d broken every illusion he’d ever had about women and relationships. Then she’d stolen his son.

Unconsciously, one hand reached up to clench the mantel, the grip so tight his knuckles turned white. His jaw muscle jumped, his body trembling with the dark fury sweeping through him. Five years, and he could still almost taste the hatred.

Watching him, Liz swallowed thickly as his face contorted. She felt a moment of breathlessness, too frightened to even move. Suddenly she knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was true. This man, Andrew’s father and her employer, the one man who attracted her as no other ever had before—
This man was indeed capable of murder.

Abruptly, his grip on the mantel eased and his eyes focused upon her with grim control. Her hand slowly slid off his arm, her muscles nerveless and limp.

“So, as you can see,” he finished emotionlessly, “the child really would be better off at a boarding school.”

Slowly, she shook her head. “I think,” she said levelly, as his words turned around in her mind, “that you’ve been had.”

His eyes flashed dangerously, but she held up a quick hand before his anger could explode.

“Andrew must be your son,” she said, leaning toward him with a clear, earnest face. “He may not look like you, but in everything he does, every way he acts, he
is
you all over again. You can see it in his brilliance and in his mannerisms. He even
blinks
like you do.”

Richard raised a dark, mocking eyebrow. “Blinking, Liz?”

“Look,” she persisted, feeling as if she were taking her life in her hands, but knowing she had to try to get through to him for Andy’s sake, “in the course of your marriage, didn’t Alycia lie to you? Didn’t she do things to deliberately hurt you?” Liz didn’t need to see his faint nod, she’d read and heard enough about his marriage to know the answers for herself. “And what better way to hurt you than to tell you that your own son was somebody else’s? Can’t you see how well it’s worked? Here is this perfect child, a six-year-old version of you, and you’re denying yourself any relationship with him. You’ve let her win, Richard. You’ve let her take your son from you.”

Her words were sincere. But rather than show him the light, they only brought him more confusion. All these years, in his heart of all hearts, he had wanted to believe that perhaps Alycia had lied. In the beginning, he had refused to fully accept her accusation. But he’d looked at Andy time and time again, searching for some trace of himself. And all he’d ever seen was Alycia staring back at him.

Liz could see the doubt growing on Richard’s face. Deep inside, she felt a burst of intense anger at the blond bitch who’d been his first wife. What kind of woman destroyed her husband and child? What kind of woman could torture a man even five years after her death?

“Let’s think about this,” Liz said, determined to conquer the ghost once and for all. “Did Alycia tell you who the father was?”

Silently, his eyes still grim, Richard shook his head.

“Do you have an idea?” she prodded.

Richard’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. In that instant, Liz knew exactly what he was thinking. Blaine. He thought it was Blaine, and God knows Andy’s blond looks hardly contradicted the suspicion. No wonder there was such animosity between the two. Seven years ago, they had pursued the same woman. And even now, it was hard to know who had won.

“You should simply have Andy tested,” Liz said quietly. She didn’t tell him she knew what he was thinking, because then she would have to explain how she knew of Blaine’s interest in Alycia. And she wasn’t ready to surrender the diary yet. Instinct still told her to keep it a secret at least until she’d read all of it. Maybe by its end, she would have a better idea of who to trust.

Richard turned away, looking into the flames. Absently, his hand began to once more swirl the last of his brandy. Liz could almost feel the heaviness of his thoughts. She wanted to reach out to him so badly, to tell him she understood, but she was too afraid he would look at her with that ice in his eyes again.

“You’re afraid,” she said softly, her eyes steady on his face although he didn’t look up. “You’re afraid the test might prove once and for all that he’s not your son, and then you won’t be able to torture yourself with the faint hope that he is.”

Slowly, his gaze came up to find hers, keen blue eyes shadowed by the weight of past demons. Her chest contracted until she could barely stand the pain.

“It’s better to know,” she said finally. “It would be better for you and Andrew.”

His eyes went back to the flames and she didn’t push it. It was hardly the kind of decision to be made overnight. Instead, she moved slightly closer, wanting to offer what comfort she could. Then another thought struck her.

“Is that why you cut up her picture?” she asked. “Because you were angry about what she’d done to you and Andrew?”

Richard’s head jerked up, finding her eyes just inches from his own. Suddenly his face was no longer grim, but sharp with an alertness that was almost as intimidating.

“What picture?” he demanded at once.

Liz faltered, unnerved by his blue eyes boring into her own. “When I was looking for Andy,” she began, “yesterday. I went down the hallway leading to the ballrooms. Alycia’s picture had been torn from the wall. It had been cut to shreds.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “And you thought I did it?”

Slowly, pinned by his gaze, she nodded. The next thought, though never spoken, welled up between them as sure as a steel barrier.

And do you think I killed her, Liz? Do you think that, too?

But he never voiced it. Instead, as surely and physically as if he’d stepped away, he pulled away from her. She could see it in the sudden closure of his face, the way all the lines became smooth, his eyes that wintry blue, betraying nothing.

He was the dark, grim-faced man again. Something within Liz seemed to wilt. Despite her earlier thought, she had told Andrew that Richard would never do such a thing as murder—and she had believed it. But once again, when she saw him like this, she realized, she wasn’t so sure.

He could get so angry, and Alycia had given him so much to be angry about. What if, one afternoon, the anger and hatred had simply become too much?

She took a small step back, and his eyes grew colder.

“Go to bed, Liz,” he said harshly. “You’ve been a good little nanny and argued Andrew’s case. Now, just go to bed and leave me the hell alone.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then abruptly realized she didn’t know what to say. The diary, she thought suddenly. She needed to get back to the diary. Maybe it, at long last, would bring them the truth.

She nearly fled from the room.

S
he didn’t find what she was looking for until she reached the last section of the diary.

August 8

Somebody knows. I don’t know how, and I don’t know who, but an unsigned note was delivered to the house. I have to put five thousand dollars in small bills in a suitcase and leave it out in the stables. If I try to watch, they’ll tell Richard immediately.

Damn, damn, damn. Why is this happening now? I swore never to remember that day. I swore it!

If I ever find out who’s doing this to me, I’ll make the person wish they were never born. They will never know such pain as what I can create for them. Damn them to hell!

I have no choice, at least not yet. Richard is reaching the end of his rope. This may be all the excuse he needs to demand a divorce, and knowing how cold Richard can be, he’d leave me without a penny by the time he was through. I can’t risk it.

I’ll use my allowance. No one ever has to know.

September 9

Another note, this one left on my bed, and this time wanting ten thousand. I have to figure out who is doing this to me. It must be someone close, someone with access to the house. Who can I trust? Who could have possibly found out the truth?

I don’t have that kind of cash on hand. I already had to forgo a trip to Monte Carlo with the gang because of the last time. Who can I get that kind of cash from? Who won’t ask questions? Who can I trust?

I can’t believe this is happening. I mustn’t lose control. There has to be a way out of this. I told no one of that day, no one at all. If I think back, if I’m very clever, I will solve this riddle.

And so help me God, I’ll kill the bastard!

November 15

I’m close now, so very close. Better yet, I’ve found a way out of everything—the blackmail, my marriage, everything. Just as well. I don’t think I could take one more year with Richard. The dark, brooding bastard. And those eyes. I swear he watches me like a hawk.

It’s almost as if he knows something is wrong....

It doesn’t matter anymore. Parris will play the dupe. This time, I’ll be free...and rich.

Four more entries followed, none of them any more enlightening. Liz closed the book with an overflowing mind and exhausted eyes. Obviously, someone had been blackmailing Alycia, but who? And with what information?

Had the blackmailer killed her when she’d try to execute her master plan? Or had Parris tired of playing the dupe? What about Richard? What if he’d found out the truth—whatever it was—and in a fit of rage had killed her?

The thoughts swirled in her mind, until she could barely stand the confusion. She tucked the diary under the bed, and with her forehead creased, finally fell asleep.

In the morning, however, nothing was clearer. She wanted to know what was going on, but only felt further from the truth. Halfway through getting dressed, a small inspiration hit her and she dug out the lavender-edged note from beneath her socks in the dresser drawer. Comparing its scrawled handwriting to that of the diary’s, she determined it was a poor imitation.

It at least proved there were no such things as ghosts. But someone still wanted her to leave. She remembered the shots fired at the picnic, and shivered. Hastily, she pulled on a sweater. Was someone really trying to kill her? Or were they after Richard and Andrew?

She sat down once more on the bed, and realized her thoughts were only leading her in circles. Finally, she called downstairs to Mrs. Pram, and pleaded a headache for the day. Mrs. Pram would watch over Andy, Liz was going out on a ride to clear her head. Perhaps on horseback, in the crisp fall air, the pieces would click into place.

No one was out at the stables as she led Honeysuckle from her stall and quickly brushed and saddled the horse. In less than twenty minutes, she was following the winding paths on the property, lost in her own thoughts.

Alycia had been an unhappy woman. It appeared she’d been married to Richard, yet had had affairs with Blaine and probably Parris, as well. In a jealous rage, either of the three men could have killed her. But what about now, five years later? Richard had looked honestly shocked when she’d mentioned the oil portrait—and he had been present when the rifle was fired at the picnic.

She frowned, and urged Honeysuckle into a trot, sitting deep in the saddle as the hill bounced by. Maybe, with all his money, Richard had paid someone to fire at them? She shook her head. She couldn’t believe that. She could possibly accept Richard pushing Alycia in a moment of rage, but she couldn’t see him cold-bloodedly plotting to hurt her or Andy. Especially Andy. She believed what she’d said last night—Richard honestly cared for the child.

Which meant, she thought after a minute, that she could probably eliminate Richard as a suspect as he couldn’t have been responsible for what had happened since.

Her head cleared a fraction, and she felt the beginnings of relief. She could trust Richard. She would give him the diary, she decided resolutely, and show him the note. Maybe he could make more sense of it, knowing Alycia better than herself. Together, they would get to the bottom of this thing.

Nodding to herself, she leaned forward and urged Honeysuckle into a canter. The grass rushed by as the horse slid into the smoother gait, the last of Liz’s nerves easing with the steady rhythm. She could trust Richard. She could tell him everything.

She smiled, and clicked Honeysuckle into a full gallop.

The horse had just leaned forward, when the saddle began to slide. Startled, Liz threw her weight to the right, but it wasn’t enough to halt the progress. Honeysuckle kicked up wildly, unsettled by the unbalanced weight on her back. The motion jolted Liz out of the gallop’s rhythm, and she lost control completely. Panicked, she kicked free of the stirrups and threw herself forward onto the horse’s neck, exchanging the loose reins for thick handfuls of mane. It was too little too late. The leather saddle fell to bang against the horse’s hooves, and Honeysuckle gave another startled kick. Already off balance, Liz hurtled over the horse’s neck and through the air.

Her last thought was to duck and roll. Then she only saw blackness.

* * *

“Liz! Liz, sweetheart, can you hear me? Damn it, open your eyes, Liz! Open your eyes!”

Slowly, with a low groan, she complied with the insistent voice. Her heavy lids fluttered open, making out the blurry image of Richard’s face. His eyes were intent, his face stark with worry. She tried to move, and instantly winced.

“Lie still!” he ordered immediately, an order she was only too happy to obey. This time, more carefully, she tested out each limb. Fingers wiggled, toes wiggled. She seemed to be all here.

“What the hell happened?” Richard demanded curtly, his hands still running along her neck and shoulders for signs of serious injury.

“I’m fine,” she managed to get out, sitting up slowly. Her vision swam, then cleared. Wincing, she rolled her neck. She hadn’t taken a tumble that good for a long time, and she’d bounced more as a child. “What are you doing here?”

“Running after you. And it looks like I came just in time,” he finished curtly. Damn it, he’d lost twenty years off his life when he’d come out to the stables looking for her, only to find Honeysuckle trotting back in half-unsaddled. Mrs. Pram had said that Liz had headed out toward the stables, allowing him to put two and two together. When he’d first seen her crumpled form on the ground, his blood had run cold.

He searched her face for signs of further injury. Then carefully, his hands came up and brushed through her long hair, probing the back of her head. His fingers were strong but gentle as they searched for a lump. He found one tender area, earning another wince from her. Frowning, his fingers eased more carefully, finally coming down to knead the tension out of her neck.

God, he’d hated seeing her on the ground like that, knowing once more that something bad had happened and it was probably all his fault. His hands rested on her shoulders as he fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and just hold her, hold her until all the darkness went away once and for all.

Her midnight eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze made her breathless.

She could see the harsh remnants of guilt in his eyes and it tore at her. She wanted to tell him fiercely that she knew it wasn’t his fault. He could be cold, he could be harsh, but he wasn’t a killer. He was the man who wanted to believe in his son once more. The man who scorned all things soft, then held her with amazing tenderness.

She understood that. She understood everything about him from all those midnight conversations.

She loved him.

She caught her breath, and very slowly, her hand came up to cup his cheek. She could feel the faint roughness of his morning beard, feel the scouring intensity of his unreadable gaze. He’d come out looking for her because he cared, and even now, he searched for signs of her well-being because he cared.

How could she have been so blind to it all? The nervousness when she was around him, the need to see him, the need to touch him. She had never met anyone like the dark beguiling Richard Keaton. He was the antithesis to her whole upbringing, her approach to life. And yet, he’d chased the last of the tragedy from her life. He’d filled her thoughts, and allowed her to finally leave Nick behind. He’d challenged her to stand up and be strong, and he’d held her when the pain had been too much.

And he needed her, in a way she wasn’t sure she’d ever been needed by anyone.

“I’m really all right now,” she said at last. She smiled at him, a small luminous smile, and wondered if her heart shone in her eyes. Her gaze fell languorously to his lips.

Richard’s stomach clenched at the movement, his eyes darkening with desire at the unconscious invitation. He should help her to her feet now, and get her back to the house so she could relax fully. But he couldn’t seem to move. Instead, his eyes remained on her face while images of her crumpled body washed through his mind.

What if she’d been seriously harmed? What if he hadn’t come looking for her? His insides churned, his jaw tightening with the raging intensity of the emotions warring inside of him. He should move, but he didn’t want to let her go. Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know what he needed.

Or maybe he did, and that was what scared him so much.

He stopped thinking, leaning forward instead. He didn’t give her a chance to say yes or no. He simply pulled her to him, and with his lips began to show her all the things his heart could never say.

He kissed her, slowly and sweetly, yearning. She didn’t fight him. No, she melted against him like the sweet molasses of her voice, until he could feel her body meld with his own. He pulled her closer, even as her arms entwined themselves around his neck. She smelled like horses and fresh fall air, the scent tantalizing and seductive in its own way.

Slowly, he eased them down fully onto the ground, until she lay half across him, her breasts firm against his chest. He stroked her hair, kissing her deeper as he pressed closer. His hands slid under her sweater and found the smooth curve of her naked skin. She was so soft to the touch, soft and warm and vital.

He kissed her harder, deeper, demanding more and reveling in each heady response. He could feel her gasp against his lips, feel the rapid beating of her heart against his own chest, feel her breasts swell with desire. One hand came up, and he cupped her cotton-covered breast with his warm palm.

She shivered, arching against him, and he felt the fire in his groin. He wanted to make her cry against him, wanted to hear the whispered plea of his name upon her lips. He wanted to consume her as she had consumed him. Until she could taste only him, feel only him, want only him.

Until she would never leave.

The kiss became more urgent, his lips demanding her total surrender. And she gave it to him. With a murmured sigh of submission, she turned herself over to the raging fires he was building in her blood. She gave herself up to the magic of his touch, the brand of his lips. She knew this man, his temper, his control and his pain.

And she loved him. God help her, she loved him.

He rolled over abruptly, cushioning her head with one arm as he plundered her mouth fiercely with his tongue. Her hands raked down his back in response, urging him on. He found the edge of her sweater, and together they tugged it off. The fall air chilled her skin, but she only pressed closer to him for warmth. Her bra floated down, to be followed by his coat, then his shirt. Each item was practically ripped off and then thrown carelessly on the ground to form a wanton testimony to their desire. And then at last was the electric feel of his callused hands on her soft skin, of her breasts against the rippling heat of his muscular chest. Her hands splayed across the naked expanse of his pectorals, exploring and discovering. She could feel the powerful thundering of his heart against her palm. She ran her hands through the crisp black curls of a light smattering of chest hair, then she traced the hairs down as they formed a thinner line, running into his slacks. Her hands lingered there, and she was rewarded by his low groan.

Then suddenly, he had her hands above her head, capturing her mouth in a raging kiss, blazing a burning trail down the graceful curve of her neck to the soft promise of her breasts. His mouth found her right nipple, rolling it luxuriantly in his mouth while she arched against him. Helplessly, her hips shifted against his, seeking the relief that would put out the flames. In response, he ground his hips against hers, pressing his burning hardness into her welcoming curves.

“I want you now,” he said thickly. “I have to have you.”

She nodded, her eyes closed against the quivering sensations flooding her body. Every nerve felt on fire, every fiber of her being screaming for his touch. She wanted him, too, needed him, too. She wanted to feel him, hot and slick, sliding into her. She wanted to hear her name torn raggedly from his lips. She wanted the furious pounding, the building heat, the crashing release.