No One Lives Forever (6 page)

"Why Brazil?" Christian asked. "Genetics research is conducted in the United States too."

"Maybe Charboneau doesn't like all the pesky laws we have in the good old U.S. of A.," Raven speculated.

Jasmine ignored her insinuation, but not without a steely glare. "The rain forests and marshlands of the nearby Pantanal serve as a virtually untapped resource for new medicines . . . which is an offshoot of the research of Nicky's facility. I have heard him speak of this often."

"Yeah. He sounds like a real humanitarian," Raven interjected. "Maybe the local natives got restless. They found out what he was doing and are asking for a million dollars in retribution. And who's to say, once the ransom is paid, Charboneau won't be killed anyway, to stop his plundering of their natural resources?"

Christian had to admit Raven's points made sense.

"My only concern is for Nicky," Jasmine said. "I cannot sit back and do nothing. I need to know your answer, Christian." Before he responded, she added, "But know this, if you turn me down, I will find a way to fly back there on my own. I will not leave him to those jackals."

"Very commendable sentiments, but I need time to think. I won't be pressured." He had a lot to consider. And how much would he trust Jasmine's version of the truth? He didn't have many ways to verify it, especially without jeopardizing a rescue attempt.

"Time?" Pulling back, she gripped the armrest of the chair. "If only I had it to give."

"From where I'm sitting, you've got no choice. I have to contact the American consulate and call the State Department."

Jasmine narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw, knowing he intended to check out her story. She had to know he wouldn't take it at face value. He had a million reasons to make sure this wasn't a scam concocted by her and Daddy dearest. To her credit, Jasmine kept her mouth shut.

"Plus, I have to speak to Fiona about the money . . . and other things," he continued. "Meet me here at seven tomorrow morning. If I decide to help you, I'll be packed and ready to go. If not, you're on your own."

He raised himself off the sofa, letting her know the meeting had ended.

"As you say, I have run out of options. Until tomorrow, then." Jasmine stood and reached for his hand, taking his fingers in hers. "If you decide to join me in this fight, do not take a weapon. With customs and airport security such as it is these days, I've had to make special arrangements." A faint smile quickly faded. "I know you are a man willing to risk a great deal out of loyalty. You have proven this before. Please, I beg of you, don't turn your back on Nicholas."

Christian returned her gesture with a reassuring squeeze of her hand. He watched Jasmine walk toward the elevator and listened as it rumbled to the ground floor. Raven stood silently by his side.

In many ways, he wanted to believe Jasmine. To believe her meant he had all the pieces to the puzzle of his past. His biological father had a name, such as it was. But staring into Jasmine's dark eyes, he'd felt the pull of a dark chasm, filled to the brim with corruption and lies. The woman had grown accustomed to living in such a realm, accepted it. Yet he could not. He felt completely unprepared to enter the world of his so-called father, Nicholas Char-boneau.

It was one thing to free a man needing his help, but was it his fight? Even if Fiona confirmed Charboneau to be his father, how much would he risk to uncover the truth about his past?

"It's hard enough to talk to Fiona these days . . . in that place. Now this." He shook his head and pulled Raven to his chest, filling his senses with her warmth.

"Nicholas Charboneau. Just when I thought I'd seen the worst."

Christian's gaze fogged with the image of a face he knew well. Next stop, a long-awaited confrontation with his mother, Fiona. And this time she'd have to tell him the truth.

Day four

Fiona had no need to fear the never-ending damnation of hell. She lived it, each and every day, cut off from the wealth and privilege—and freedom—she left behind.

Christian could only imagine what it must be like for her to live in a minimum security prison located in downtown Chicago. Beyond the metal bars, the world spun along without her—the charity events, gala openings, and life in general. But her world had stopped dead still, marred forever. For her, nothing would ever be the same again.

As he walked through the door marked for visitors and took a seat, bland gray walls closed in on him. The room smelled of sweat and an indefinable musty odor, masked by industrial pine cleaner. Walls had been stripped bare, functional in their simplicity. Rules of conduct were posted and screwed into painted cinder block, printed in blue, the only real color in the room. Dull mediocrity and guilt weighed oppressive in this place.

God, you deserve better, Fie! If I could switch places
—

He knew Fiona hated it, her home for the next five years with good behavior. The judge had been lenient in exchange for her voluntary confession to the arranged murder of her husband, Charles Dunhill, over twenty-five years ago. No evidence would have convicted her. She came forward, unwilling to deny her guilt any longer. Perhaps the judge aligned his sympathies on the side of Fiona, given the fact she killed her husband to save her illegitimate ten-year-old son from the man's murderous wrath.

All things considered, his life had been built on a foundation of murder and lies. He had grown weary of the burden. But he couldn't fathom the depths of her regret.

He sat in a metal chair, staring through Plexiglas at the empty seat that would soon hold his mother. A myriad of fingerprints dotted the dingy surface, a quiet reminder of the desperation and longing within these walls. His thoughts turned to Fiona.

He yearned to see her . . . and dreaded it at the same time.

An annoying buzzer, followed by a slamming door, preceded footsteps echoing down the hall within the bowels of the prison. He stood in anticipation, almost unaware he had moved at all. His gaze shifted to the door beyond the barrier. Swallowing hard, he had to remind himself to breathe. Through the small plate glass in the door, covered with wire mesh, he saw the grim face of a security guard. The door swung open with a creak and Fiona walked into the room.

His heart lurched in his chest.

Dressed in an oversized orange jumpsuit, she looked so frail in her misery, so consumed by it. Gray walls drained her skin of color, blanching it to a doughy sheen. Her normally piercing gaze had lost its defiance. Eyes the color of deep jade had faded and now brimmed with tears glistening under fluorescent lighting.

Profound defeat robbed her of dignity. Fiona would never be the same again. This image of his mother would forever stick in his memory. She stared, a tear draining down her cheek. Christian fought the lump building in his throat. He gestured for her to sit, unable to take his eyes off her.

Keep it together, Delacorte
—
for her sake.

"How are you? You've lost weight." His words sounded trite.

She nodded and wiped fingers across her cheek. "I'm fine. You look . . . Are you getting enough sleep?" Her voice muffled through the speaker in the Plexiglas.

No doubt, the dark circles under his eyes gave him away. Of all people, Fiona knew how he slept, understood his relentless demons. As a child, she comforted him on many nights after one of his recurring nightmares, holding him until he fell asleep again. As a man, the dreams came less frequently, but remained a constant reminder of his past.

So the rift between them left a gaping hole in his heart, stealing the one person he'd known his entire life .. . his confessor. And worse, he could do nothing to ease her suffering.

"Yes. I'm fine," he lied, hating the strain between them. "I miss you. I wish—"

Before he finished, she raised a hand to stop him, pain etched deeply on her face. "Not a day goes by that I don't wish things were different between us . . . that I had made different decisions. But I can't change what happened. I only hope one day you can forgive me."

"I'm trying ..." He lowered his eyes and took a breath. "So much has happened. I just need . . . time."

Awkward silence. No matter how much he longed to reconnect with her, a part of him knew the link had been severed for good. He would have to get beyond her betrayal, and she would have to survive the guilt. None of it would be easy.

Furrowing her brow, Fiona nodded her head in acknowledgment, yet kept her eyes on him. "You look like you have something on your mind. Please . . . say it."

He could never hide anything from her. Today would be no different.

"On more than one occasion, I've asked you about my father . . . my biological one." He took a deep breath, giving her time to prepare. "This time, I need an answer."

"Please . . . don't ask me again. Believe me, it's for your own good." Her words were engulfed by an underlying fear. He read it in her eyes.

"Why?"

"I made a mistake when I was a very young woman. If I tell you now, then you might convince yourself he is a man worth knowing. I can't let you do that." She diverted her gaze, wringing her thin hands. When she looked up, tears filled her eyes, her lips quivered. "Even if you don't think of me as your mother, I love you more than my own life. Keeping this secret is the last thing I can do for you . . . from in here. Don't make me answer that question. Please."

An uncomfortable stillness filled the space between them. Locked in her gaze, he felt the stalemate, unsure how to proceed. Only one way remained. Her way.
Just say it. . .

"Nicholas Charboneau has been kidnapped in Brazil." Christian raised his chin, his jaw rigid.

He witnessed her pain, unable to console her. Fiona's eyes widened in shock and the defeat returned, forcing her to stare at her trembling fingers. Without the ability to touch her, he ached with her emptiness.

"His bodyguard, Jasmine Lee, has asked for help to free him. She needs a million dollars wired in seven days and use of the Dunhill jet."

Christian reached into his windbreaker to pull out an envelope containing the wire instructions. He held the unfolded paper against the barrier for her to see, then slid it back into the envelope. A guard would have to approve the exchange before he gave it to her.

"Don't wire the funds until you hear from . . ." Christian hesitated, catching himself. ". . . until you hear from Jasmine Lee. She'll have your contact information."

"You trust this woman?"

"Yes, I do," he lied.

Of course, he'd be the one to make the call on the payout, but he didn't have the heart to tell her he'd be in Brazil to do it. And if the funds got paid early, Charboneau's life would have no more value to the kidnappers. Timing would be everything.

"You still love him, don't you?" Christian knew the answer even before she looked up.

"I would sooner command my heart to stop beating than to deny my love for him."

"Is he my father, Fie?" The question had been unnecessary, but he wanted to hear her say it. Needed to hear it. "He's the one you built that shrine to, the one in the attic at the estate. All those memories locked away."

She chewed her lower lip, no doubt contemplating her options. Time stopped as he waited for her answer. Then resignation stooped her shoulders and she finally replied, "Yes. Nicky is your father."

Finally, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Christian lowered his head and shut his eyes for an instant, letting everything sink in. When he looked up, he spoke softly. "If it means anything, Jasmine is convinced he still loves you."

Haunted laughter echoed in the small room, Fiona's amusement tainted by the agony of her expression. "Yes, I know . . . but he has a most peculiar way of expressing his feelings, my love. I suppose he always did."

With a renewed urgency, she placed her hand on the glass, leaving her print smudges, mingling her desperation with the many coming before. Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion.

"Please, Christian, I beg of you. I'll arrange for the money and the aircraft for his bodyguard's use, but please don't get involved with him. He's a dangerous man."

"So I hear."

Slowly, he raised his hand to meet hers, pressing it to the barrier. There was nothing more to say. Christian stood, giving the metal chair a shove across the floor. He should have told her the truth. His lie by omission shamed him. But if Fiona knew he planned to accompany Jasmine to Brazil, she might pull her support in order to protect him. He couldn't allow that.

"Thank you, Fie. I'll let you know how things turn out."

He headed for the door, avoiding her scrutiny.
Just walk out . . . only four steps.
Before he made his escape, she stopped him with her words.

"You're going with her... to free him. Aren't you?" Her voice choked with insight. She knew him well.

Christian couldn't turn around. If he looked in her eyes, he might never do what must be done. Clinching his fists, he stood still for a moment, the muscles in his back rigid with regret. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms. But that was not possible. And he knew no words would console her. So he chose silence as his only reply. He walked out the door, leaving his mother in a prison far worse than the law would ever impose. He had no choice.

"Strength . . . and quiet endurance, Mother," he whispered, his prayer for her as he walked down the hallway. "One day at a time . . ."

Now, time to face Raven.

Their meal was over ... maybe even before it had begun. In denial, Raven's eyes focused on a stain smack dab in the middle of her good lace tablecloth, a faded spot of red wine. She'd been so preoccupied, she hadn't noticed it when she set the table earlier. Staring at it now, she couldn't remember when or how it had happened. Her thoughts turned to spot removal, anything but the trouble at hand.

Across from her, Christian sat in stone cold silence—a million miles away. Brazil, to be exact. She looked up and caught her own reflection in an antique mirror on the wall of her formal dining room. And she didn't like what she saw. Avoidance. Totally not like her. Only a damned ostrich would stick its head in the sand this deep.