Obsession Falls (30 page)
“My enemy. Jimmy.” Kennedy paced across to the window and looked out at the ocean. “Mortimer would be a better name.”
“What?”
Summer’s voice rose.
“Too many Jimmys.”
Summer came to her feet, and faced him, chin up, arms straight by her side, fists clenched. “I know the name Jimmy is using now.”
Kennedy swung to face her. “What is it?”
“Michael Gracie. Do you know him?”
Kennedy opened his mouth, then shut it. Was this a lie? If so, it was so tremendously huge it bordered on the ludicrous. “I met him a couple of years ago at a stockholders’ meeting for a company I was considering as an investment.” He watched her face to see if she had second thoughts about her accusation.
“The research I’ve done on Michael Gracie has been cautious. I didn’t dare probe too deeply for fear he had a watch set for his name. But he seems to be what he says he is—a billionaire of wide-ranging government and industry interests.” She relished her delivery of the knockout punch. “But his real name is Jimmy and he hates your guts.”
“He has no reason to hate my guts.”
“Maybe he does. Maybe you just don’t remember.” Leaning down, she picked up her jacket and pulled it on. “There. That’s all the information you need. You don’t need me anymore, so you can go back to California to get your team started on the search.”
Wait. He might have his doubts about Summer. But he wasn’t prepared to leave her. Glibly, he said, “I can’t use my people. The person who kidnapped my nephew—Jimmy or Michael Gracie or whoever he is—has already proved a remarkable ability to corrupt good people.” God. He now realized he needed to be aware of further treachery, deliberate or inadvertent, in the company. “Such a move could put him on alert. I’ll have to do this by myself.”
She struggled between the answer she wanted—
go away
—and the fair answer. At last she grudgingly said, “Won’t it take you a lot longer?”
“It will take longer,” he admitted. “But I am still the best at what I do. I can discover the truth, no matter what the circumstances.”
The fact she had hoped he would find a way to take Michael Gracie down, and do it quickly, reassured Kennedy that she truly believed Michael Gracie was their villain. “Cool.” She turned to go. “Let me know when you’ve got this whole business figured out and I’m once more free to go on with my life.”
“No!” He moved to intercept her.
She lifted her fists.
He supposed he should be glad she didn’t reach for her gun. “I need your help, and I’m not convinced you don’t need mine.”
He read skepticism in her face. And how was such an insight possible? He was a powerful man, used to having others read his thoughts and anticipate his needs. He did not bother to read theirs. But some kind of compromise was needed, and he guessed it had to be him. “Go to work, but come back. Please. Come back.”
Her chest heaved. She stared at Kennedy as if she wanted to shove him, or slap him, or kiss him. “All right. I’ll do my inspection, and I’ll return here. But remember this—I’ve lived this long without you. If I die today, you can smugly tell yourself you tried to help me, but I was too stubborn to listen.”
“Yet you’ll still be dead.” Even before he met her, he had cared about her. Now, with his hands hovering inches above her arms, he leaned in. “I need you,” he whispered, and kissed her, a lingering kiss that wordlessly begged her to stay.
When he lifted his head, she swallowed. Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at him.
For the most part, his relationships with women were defined by sensible distance, carefully preserved.
No matter what doubts he might have about Summer’s character, still he wanted no distance between the two of them.
“We have nothing in common,” she said.
“Except bad parents who damned us both to a never-ending relationship hell of trusting and not trusting, wild emotions and rigid control.”
She looked stunned.
He felt a little stunned himself. Perhaps insight was a matter of caring enough to bother.
She stepped away, straightened her jacket as if it had been mussed. “You—stay here and work. But be careful. Michael Gracie is a genius when it comes to espionage.”
“Just because I don’t use my gifts for espionage doesn’t mean I don’t know how to play that game.” He told himself he wanted to reassure her. But actually he wanted to impress her. “I have a way to work the Internet … while I hide in plain sight.”
“Right.” She wet her lips. “Don’t go into town.”
He did not appreciate the warning. “You’ll need my phone number. Let me give you my card.”
She plunged her hand into the pocket of her jacket.
They exchanged business cards, like two cautious strangers rather than what they really were—unwillingly passionate and daring partners.
“How long will you be?” He thought he had the right to ask.
She must have thought so, too, for she answered, “Three hours. Four. The construction is only a couple of miles down the road. I’ll get some more clothes from my apartment, and bring back a pizza or something.”
“I can cook.”
She stopped and stared.
“Simple stuff,” he admitted.
For the first time, she smiled at him. Really smiled.
He almost staggered with pleasure. “Be careful.”
“I always am.” She fluttered her fingers and she was gone, driving like a bat out of hell around the circle drive and onto Eagle Road.
He might as well go to work. Not only did he need to discover who Michael Gracie really was, he also needed to distract himself from the worry of knowing that like a naiad, Summer might disappear again and he would spend his life searching for her … again.
Summer looked around at the rebar cage that would set the concrete in the walls of the wine cave. “This is going to be cool.”
The construction superintendent, Berk Moore, shuddered. “After it’s finished, I wouldn’t be caught dead in the damned thing. I hate caves. Not enough wine in the world to make me like one.”
Summer grinned and kept her own counsel. No use announcing to every person she met that she hated caves, too.
He continued, “I prefer a beer any old day. In fact, if you like, after work I’ll buy you dinner and a beer at O’Hara’s Pub.”
The invitation was so unexpected Summer answered before she thought: “I don’t drink.” Then she realized—she’d just been asked on a date. Which threw her into a welter of emotions: surprise that she hadn’t noticed he was interested, horror because she most definitely wasn’t interested, embarrassment at the memory of this morning’s scorching kiss with Kennedy, and a swift need to smooth over the relationship with Berk. “But thank you,” she added hastily. “I’ve heard O’Hara’s makes a great fish and chips.”
“They serve their crab cakes with a cabbage cilantro salad on the side. I never get enough of that stuff.” He rubbed the belly that bulged over his belt and went back to business as if nothing personal had ever happened. “So we’re cleared for the pour, and I need to get on the framers.”
“About every third stud needs more nails.”
“It’s that lazy bastard Peter Paxton. I don’t know why I keep him. I always have to send him back to fix his screw-ups.”
“How many kids has he got?” Summer asked shrewdly.
“Too many.” Berk led the way out of the hole into the basement, and up the stairs to the first level.
They stepped out of what would be the back door and surveyed the site.
It was, as Summer had told Kennedy, going to be a great estate. The three-storied skeleton of a house perched on a precipice overlooking the Pacific Ocean. On the north end, a fanciful round tower rose a story above the rest. Everywhere on the lot, Summer heard the boom of the waves and knew, if she looked down from the cliff, she would see giant rocks sticking up like granite teeth, with birds, and seals, and sea lions. “Have you heard from Tony Parnham? He’s going to be in town, and I figured he’d want to see the progress.”
“He’s going to be in town? Shit! I haven’t heard a word. I’ll bet he’s going to drop in just like that.” Berk shook his head in disgust. “Hey, listen, thanks for the heads-up. It helps.”
“No problem. I’m surprised he didn’t call. He seems like a nice guy.”
“Some homeowners are weird like that. They think they’re going to show up and catch me sitting in my Barcalounger, drinking a beer.”
Five acres of woods surrounded the house, and as Summer watched, a huge excavator puttered across the lot, its tracks moving ponderously toward the fringe of cedars on the east side of the lot. “What’s he doing?” she asked.
Berk gave the John Deere a cursory glance. “I don’t know. Taking out those trees, I guess.”
Summer frowned. “Tony Parnham wanted the cedars.”
“Cedars,” Berk said scornfully. “Talk about allergy makers.”
She looked at him.
“But you’re right,” he said hastily. “Parnham is paying for them, and if he wants them left in place, they’ll stay in place. Still, that’s Jack Aarestad in the cab. He’s good. We’re lucky to get him. He just got out of prison.”
“Lucky?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Berk assured her. “Unless you were married to him. His ex wanted everything. Jack got belligerent. She got a restraining order. He got drunk, took a baseball bat and smashed the windows in their house.”
Summer was horrified. “Was he trying to hurt her?”
“He said he was trying to destroy the value of their home so she wouldn’t get much when they sold it. Didn’t work out too good for him. He spent a few months in the can. Now he owes
much
money to the ex, damages and settlement, so he’ll work any hours I ask.” Berk watched the excavator bucket bite into the ground in front of the cedars. “You got the landscaping plans?”
“Here.” She waved her iPad.
“Good. Let’s check them out and … wait. Hear that?” He cocked his head and turned it toward the road. “We got done with the inspection barely in time.”
The first concrete truck rumbled up the drive and headed toward the wine cave.
Berk smacked Summer on the arm. “They’re early! Let me know what you find out about the trees. I’ll talk to Jack when I get done with this.” He took off at a jog toward the truck and the wine cave.
“But…” But when Berk got done with the pour, it would be far too late for the cedars.
Summer shivered. The day was not getting warmer; it had started out at fifty-two degrees and stuck there, with a raw breeze and a gray overcast sky. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get away from Kennedy, she would have borrowed a coat from the Hartmans’ stash. She really ought to text him to see if he’d made any progress … But no. She’d see him soon enough, and it rankled that he lectured her about how she could have survived more efficiently. He’d never looked death in the face, or he wouldn’t have the guts to be so judgmental.
Of course, she was pretty damned sure Kennedy McManus would be judgmental no matter what the circumstances.
She shouldn’t care.
But she did.
She adjusted her hard hat and headed for the GTO, parked on the edge of the driveway with two pickups, the roofer’s new Ford 350, and a Dodge Ram 1500. She unlocked her door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. The heater blew cold air across her feet. “Warm up,” she muttered. “Come on, warm up.”
But if Kennedy was such a genius, he might have this Michael Gracie mystery wrapped up by the time she got back, and they could go their separate ways and never see each other again and good riddance to … well, Kennedy
and
what probably would have been some great sex.
She glanced at the excavator.
In the cab, Jack was staring at a piece of paper he held in his hand. His hand looked like it was shaking. Was the excavator vibrating?
She found the landscape plans on her iPad, but the screen was too small to see the details, and when she expanded the view, she lost the landmarks around the edge of the property. She got out, popped the trunk, and dragged out the roll of blueprints.
Jack wasn’t digging at the roots of the cedars anymore. He was moving the excavator toward the edge of the clearing, toward a massive bigleaf maple. Bigleaf maples were tall, with thick, spreading branches; they crowded out the evergreens and made a mess when they shed their leaves, so the tree probably
was
scheduled to come out. Or not. Tony Parnham lived in the desert around L.A., and was fanatically fond of the greenery that covered the Washington coast.
She could see the marks where Jack had already been excavating the roots of the maple. All it needed was a good solid push with the bucket and it would fall backward into the forest.
She hopped back into the driver’s seat. The heater was warming up, yay, and her poor frozen feet began to thaw. She flexed her hands, then unrolled the landscape plans against the steering wheel. Yeah, the bigleaf maple was supposed to go. But the line of cedars was most definitely not.
She looked up and made eye contact with the guy in the excavator. Maybe she could talk directly to Jack. She raised her hand and waved.
He stared at her forbiddingly.
She broke eye contact. She looked back at the blueprints and pretended to study them. The scars from that divorce must have turned him into one of those men who held a grudge against all women. She’d better leave the discussion about the landscaping to Berk.
From the house, she heard the crew shouting. She looked up and saw the framers on the third floor waving their arms, pointing at her, then beyond, yelling as loud as they could.
She looked to see what they were having a fit about.
Jack had moved the excavator into position behind the maple, stuck the bucket into the back of the trunk, and was pushing the tree—right at her.
The tree descended slowly, the roots ripping out of the ground. Then gravity took over and it fell faster. And faster.