Deceived (31 page)

“I do question him,” she hesitated, “but I’ve learned
how
to do it. He’s my father.”

“He may be that, but he’s also rude, arrogant, and pompous,” he forced himself not to yell, “and I’m not crazy.”

Joe interrupted, “Taylor. We’ve got Tilly, who saw the murder, and gave us a description of the murderer that fits Victor. With Tilly’s description, I can’t ignore Brandon’s theory.” Taylor went pale. Joe added, “If your father had given us the time, instead of throwing insults, we’d have given him that fact.”

Taylor glanced at the security guard. “I need a minute.”

The guard hesitated, still at the open door. “Your father would like you at his side when he gives the speech, which will be any minute now. ”

Taylor stood her ground. “Please. Step out.”

The guard acquiesced. Brandon and Taylor stood maybe five feet apart, staring at each other. Her hand shook as she lifted it to her forehead and smoothed back her hair. Her glance fell on Joe, then Brandon, and her gaze stayed there, with him. As seconds ticked by, some of his anger dissipated. A minute fell away and he felt a little less like exploding. She looked so damn miserable that he tried to find the right words, something, that would make him feel better about leaving her there. Something that would make him feel like she would be safe, that precautions would be taken. He couldn’t find the words, though.

Joe cleared his throat. “Brandon, I’ll wait for you outside.”

They were alone and still he didn’t know what to tell her, because his every thought was balled up with the miserable
oh-shit-why-have-I-messed-with-her
feeling that had flooded through him the second he stepped into the mansion and saw that damn oil painting. George alone had cemented the
oh-shit
feeling, and the interaction between George and Taylor made him physically ill. He should have never touched her.

Taylor said, “So it doesn’t really matter whether there is any truth to the Hutchenson letter or whether there really was a conspiracy to hide it. What you’re saying is your brother is capable of killing, and you believe he has Andi and me in his sights?”

“Yes,” he said, “and I don’t for a second doubt that he’d go after you. Especially now that I’ve gotten a glimpse of your father, because I can’t think of an easier way to extract revenge on him than to go after you. Does your father care for anything or anyone else?”

She frowned. “Money. Power. Status.”

He nodded. “It would be easier to kill you than to rob him of those things.” She flinched. He continued, “Also, because of the timing of Collette’s death, and that damn magazine cover that I can’t get out of my head, with you, Andi, and Collette, I think he’ll go after Andi, because she’s Andrew Hutchenson’s daughter.”

Brandon placed a hand on Taylor’s shoulder. She stepped closer, as though seeking comfort, but instead of giving it to her, rational thought returned. Touching Bartholomew royalty was a thing of the past for him. He let his hand fall away and stepped away from her.

Her eyes widened. From the pained expression she shot at him, she understood the meaning. Now that he understood her reality, he couldn’t go down that delusional road of wanting her and needing her. There would be no more touching, but there was one more thing that he needed to do while in the mansion. He wanted to see the Bartholomew library’s version of the architectural drawings of the landing craft. He said, “The library. Where is it?”

Tom opened the study door and said, “Your father will be giving the speech in two minutes. He directed me to find you.”

As Taylor moved past Brandon, towards the door, she bent towards him and whispered. “Third floor. Locked and alarmed. Give me twenty minutes. Service stairway is third door on the left in the main hall. I’ll meet you in the far bedroom on the left on the third floor.”

It took her twenty-five minutes. He spent the time on the phone with Pete, making sure that things were all right at home. He called Kate and Rose individually, not telling them that anything was going on, but checking to see whether they’d say if Victor had contacted them. They didn’t mention Victor. Finally, he called Sebastian, who told him that there was nothing new to report on Victor’s whereabouts. When Taylor stepped into the bedroom, he broke the connection with Sebastian. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. His arms ached to hold her, but he repressed the urge. No more of that, he reminded himself. He couldn’t do that to himself.

Chapter Eighteen

Brandon’s green eyes were serious as she entered the bedroom. She’d run up the narrow, steep stairway. She tried to catch her breath.

“Before the library, I need to check on Andi.”

He nodded. She called Andi, who answered on the third ring. “Hey. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Dad called,” Andi said. “He hired an extra security detail and the alarm’s on. I’m fine, but what the hell is going on over there?”

“Too much to tell now. I’ll talk to you when I get home. Around midnight. Stay safe.”

To Brandon, she said, “Follow me.”

On the far end of the third floor, down a long hallway, was the entrance to her father’s library. It would be locked, she knew, but the same code that allowed her to enter the house would allow her to access any interior rooms. She reached the door, used her access code, and slipped into the dimly lit room with Brandon, shutting the door behind them. It took her a while to get her bearings. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been in her father’s private library. She walked past neat bookshelves. Table-height display cases caught her attention.

The cases held original drawings of various HBW vessels, organized by year. In a case with drawings from the years 1938 through 1940 she saw drawings of the Hutchenson Landing Craft, the same drawings that were in the World War II museum. Multiple, movable shelves were in the case. A button on the outside of the case shifted the shelves. She pressed the button, looking at drawing after drawing. A ball of anxious dread in her throat made breathing difficult. The drawings in the case were the same as the drawings in the museum that she had looked at with Brandon the previous day, except there was one glaring difference. Each and every sheet was signed by Benjamin Morrissey. The same drawings that were in the museum had been signed by Andrew Hutchenson. Good God. She’d seen these drawings before, but there were so many drawings of naval architecture. She had never focused on her father’s private collection of HBW designs, had never focused on the drawings of the landing craft, and had never noticed the discrepancy that was now obvious. Brandon was correct. Brandon’s father had been correct. Benjamin Morrissey was the designer of the landing craft and, she drew a deep breath, not two hours earlier, her father had lied to her.

Brandon said, “Holy shit.”

At the same time, she said, “There’s got to be an explanation.”

He turned to her. His jade-green eyes were wide. His cheeks were flushed. “Are you fucking serious?”

Dread flooded her veins. She lifted her chin and stood her ground, but she felt like running and hiding. “Yes.”

His upper lip lifted in a sneer. “I’m sure your father has one.”

She shut her eyes. “Please don’t do that.”

“Do what? State the obvious?” Brandon whacked his palm on the display case. It rattled in protest. He was so close to her that she could smell his musky cologne and a faint hint of soap. If she stepped one inch closer they’d be touching. Yet they weren’t touching. She knew that he was doing that on purpose, as he had backed away from her in the study. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off of her all day. That he was keeping his distance from her signaled to her that what had previously been about history and about others was now between the two of them.

“This is one more indication that the Hutchenson letter is the truth, that it isn’t some crap that was made up by my father, and that Rorsch’s theory is correct. Yet if your father gives you an explanation, no matter how implausible or unfounded, you’re going to believe him. Aren’t you?”

“I need time,” she said. “To digest this.”

“Fine,” he shrugged. “Take it. I don’t have time to wait for you to face facts.”

He stepped closer to the display case and lifted the lid.

“What are you doing?”

He reached into the case and gently stacked five of the drawings together, then rolled them. “That should be obvious.”

“You can’t take them.”

“Don’t tell me what I can do with
my grandfather’s
drawings.”

He rolled the documents into the shape of a neat cylinder. As he stepped away from the case with the drawings, her heart twisted. “Wait. Please wait.”

“You can tell your father these will be in the museum, as soon as I figure out how the hell to get them displayed there.”

“Wait,” she said. “Please, and I’m not going to argue about you taking the drawings. I just need to talk to you.”

He paused before turning to her, long enough that her heart stuttered, because she didn’t think that he would stop. When he did finally turn to her, the look in his eyes was hard and cold. He shook his head. “Whatever it is that you want from me, I don’t have it to give. I see the obvious. You don’t.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can get past a lot, Taylor. I can get past your names, and what they mean in terms of social hierarchy. I can pretend that we come from the same worlds, though we don’t. Hell, I’d probably even suffer through dinners at the country club if that’s what would make you happy. But this,” he lifted his chin and held up the hand that held the drawings, “I can’t do this. I can’t watch you live in denial. You’re smarter than that. I’ll never be able to be in the same room with your father and be civil. He’s lying. Not only that, he’s so goddamn fucking arrogant that he’s kept these drawings, with
my
grandfather’s signature on them. He’s kept evidence of his lies for years and years and years, as what? Proof to himself that he can get away with manipulating the truth?” He shook his head. “I can’t stick around and watch you interact with him. Your questions,” he hesitated, “God. I love that about you. You question everything, Taylor. Your questions are astute and relevant and they reveal a witty, sharp mind and a beautiful desire for knowledge. Yet you don’t question him.”

Taylor walked to him. Her heart had skipped as he said
love
, because she knew that was a word that he didn’t use lightly. As she got closer, she saw pain in his beautiful green eyes and a furrow at his brow. She understood then that a pendulum had swung. This afternoon, as he had kissed her, held her, and made love to her, he had been on one end of the emotional spectrum. Now he was on the other. “You said casual,” she whispered.

“Well,” he shrugged as he looked away from her, then back, “I was fooling myself, and now we both know the truth.”

She reached for his hand, but he stepped back.

“Don’t touch me.”

She bit the inside of her lip and held back a sob. No tears, she told herself. Do not let him see you cry. She could tell by the hard set of his jaw that he was determined to take the only way out, and her tears were only going to make his departure uglier.

“I fell for you,” he said, with a beautiful half-smile and sadness in his eyes, “so fast that I didn’t realize it was happening. This has only happened one other time in my life. I can’t,” he paused, “I can’t handle more heartache. I’m all tapped out on misery and disappointment. Tonight, seeing you with your father, watching you believe him without question,” he shook his head, “tells me that the barriers between us are insurmountable. One day, you’d have to choose, and I can’t be the one left out. At best, you’re drowning in uncertainty. I don’t have the mettle to stick around until you figure it out, because if these designs, signed by my grandfather, don’t seem significant to you,” he shrugged, “nothing I can ever say or do will persuade you otherwise. I’ve warned you and your father about Victor. I’m done here.”

She couldn’t breathe. Taylor squared her shoulders and stared into his hard green eyes. He was right. She might never figure it out, at least not in a manner that was acceptable to Brandon, and it wasn’t fair of her to ask him to stick it out until she did.

Brandon didn’t say anything else. He left her there, alone, in the library, where she let miserable tears fall.
Think
, she told herself.
Think.
Her only rational thought was that the drawings proved that her father had lied to her when he’d said that Benjamin Morrissey did not design the landing craft. With that thought, Taylor dried her tears, reapplied her make-up, and went downstairs. She slipped into her father’s study, where she opened the top desk drawer and retrieved the copy of the Hutchenson letter that Brandon had delivered. She read the entire letter, then slipped it into her purse. After, she mingled throughout the party. When it was time for the guests to leave, she stood at her father’s side as they told the guests goodbye, even though a hard ball of dread had formed in her throat. Her dread grew as the guests left. If their guests only knew what she now suspected.

If only they knew.

When the last guest left, her father said, “You should stay here tonight.”

She turned to him, arms folded, and said, “Your library has original design drawings of the landing craft. They were signed by Benjamin Morrissey.”

He gave her a hard glance. “Not now, Taylor.”

“If not now, when?”

“This is an important weekend. It has to go smoothly. The issues regarding the landing craft are complex. One day you’ll be better schooled in the nuances of our business. There’s so much for you to learn.”

“Like how to lie?”

His face flushed red. Anxiety made her heart race and stole her breath, but she fought past it.

“If I kept looking in your library, would I find an original of the Hutchenson letter there as well? One that you would admit that Andrew Hutchenson wrote?”

A pulse formed in his right temple. “I should have let you go to the beach with Andi.”

“You lied to Brandon, didn’t you?”

He didn’t respond. She thought about telling her father that Brandon had taken the drawings. She knew she should. George didn’t give her time to say anything more. He dismissed her by turning and walking away from her. As he stepped away, she said, louder, “And me. You lied to me.”

She needed air. She could no longer breathe in her father’s home.

***

He approached the Hutchenson beach house at ten thirty. A Water’s Edge security car was parked in the driveway.
Hell.
He called his contact. “Has something happened?”

His contact explained what had transpired with Brandon Morrissey and Joe Thompson’s visit to George Bartholomew. As he listened, he tried to stay calm, but he knew that he was losing control. When his contact relayed George Bartholomew’s explanation of the Hutchenson letter, he forgot about being calm.

His blood boiled.

“A hoax? A conspiracy theory? The product of a deranged mind?”

“Yes.”

He broke the connection. Spiraling bands of anger coiled from his gut, burned through his heart, and pulsed through his body. Out of control. This was fucking out of control. He thought through a new plan, one that had nothing to do with finesse or discretion. The plan didn’t require any special talent. It only required a bit of strength and, lucky for him, with fury he was always strong, even now. The HBW board members needed to understand that he would hunt them, one by one, until they paid his demand. He drove to a twenty four hour Wal Mart, where he purchased sturdy line, electrical tape, cigarettes, and black permanent markers.

Andi Hutchenson was soon to be his burnt-flesh billboard.

He went through the back of the house. The security guard was in the front, unaware of what was happening. Andi was awake when he opened the door to her bedroom. She lunged for her cell phone, as he lunged for her. He was faster, grabbing her by the neck and pressing his gun to her head. He wanted her to remember most of what was happening, so that she could tell the others. He wanted her to feel fear, so he subdued her with an injection of only a small dose of GHB. The drug made her easy to carry. It was going to be messy, so he took her from there, though the back, using a path that he had planned earlier, on a wooden walkway and around a sand dune, then another. The security guard who sat in the front of the house, in the driveway, saved his life by not seeing them and not messing with their quick exit.

Andi struggled when he placed her in his trunk. He closed it and returned to Louisiana, to his camp, anticipating what would happen when burning cigarettes singed Andi’s pampered, soft skin.

Her cell phone sat on the passenger seat next to him. At a quarter past midnight, Taylor sent a text.
“Hey. Call me. I’m home.”

He typed.
“Exhausted. Sleeping. Let’s talk in the morning.”

Taylor’s next text came a few seconds later.
“Seriously?”

He replied.
“Really. Can’t keep my eyes open.”

Taylor didn’t respond.

He smiled.

***

At midnight, Brandon stepped into Sebastian’s condo. Three Black Raven agents were in the living room, wearing running shoes, black cargo pants, and white shirts that were emblazoned on the front pocket with an embroidered Black Raven logo. They were sitting on the couch, their legs were stretched out on the coffee table, and their eyes were focused alternatively on a large screen television and laptop computers. Two pizza boxes were on the coffee table. They stood when Brandon entered and introduced themselves. Sebastian was sitting on a stool at a concrete island, the centerpiece for his modern kitchen, working on two computer monitors, while eating his way through a bag of Oreos. Brandon went to the bar, poured several fingers of rum into a tumbler, added some ice, then sat down with Sebastian.