A Moment in Time (7 page)

Her mother, however, didn't see it that way
at all. The de la Rochelle family could be nothing less than
perfection at all times—in looks, behavior, and manners. They were
also to be perceived as having healthy,
happy—perfect!—relationships with one another and the coterie of
rich, old-money families that made up their social circle.

In this and nearly every other respect,
Valerie had been a miserable disappointment to her mother—and her
father, for that matter. While he'd been alive, he'd been in league
with Marguerite just as Teddy was now. Armand de la Rochelle had
always dressed well, behaved well, and played the role of the
wealthy gentleman heir to the fortune he'd inherited—and had
managed to increase by his marriage to the equally rich Marguerite
de Coligny.

Like Marguerite, Armand had been obsessed by
appearances, and until the end, people had been fooled into
believing that the world of the de la Rochelle's was perfect in
every way. Beautiful, tasteful, elegant, to the manor born.

She had loved her father dearly and missed
him still, but she couldn't fool herself into believing that it had
been reciprocated. He'd been as disappointed in her as her mother,
with many of the very same complaints.

"Why must you keep your nose buried in that
book, Valerie, dear?"

"Why don't you play with the other young
people, Valerie, dear?"

"Why must you devote yourself to those filthy
animals, Valerie, dear?"

"Why must you be all elbows and knees? So
unattractive, so
ugly
, Valerie, dear?"

She could hear their voices as if it were
yesterday. Both of them, Mother and Father, denigrating her from
the time she was old enough to understand what they were saying to
her. Perhaps they hadn't meant to be cruel; perhaps they had been
challenging her to be her best. Whatever the case, the result had
been to make her retreat into herself, to shy away from a world
that also thought she was a gangly, awkward, four-eyed
bookworm.

Virtually friendless and scorned by her
beautiful parents, she had eventually found solace in animals. From
an early age she had made friends of her pets, confiding in them,
playing with them, telling them her joys and sorrows, her deepest
secrets, caring for them in a way that others found eccentric. As
she'd grown older, she'd begun to nurse her pets and any other sick
or injured animal she came upon. Birds, dogs, cats, even a racoon
and a chicken.

She had discovered that she could communicate
with her pets on a level that most people would consider
amazing—or, more likely, frightening. She'd kept this knowledge to
herself, knowing that her family would disapprove anyway. She had
decided early on that she wanted to be a veterinarian, a profession
that would draw an equally unenthusiastic response from the powers
that be.

She was expected to go to the "right"
schools, blossom into a beautiful debutante, and eventually marry
the "right" man. If she must work, she must do something genteel.
Charity committee work, board directorships, perhaps something in
the art or publishing worlds, if not too commercial, might fill the
bill.

Valerie had gone to the "right" schools. Just
before Armand died, she had even been presented to society in a New
York City debutante ball. All to please her parents.

It was about this time that Valerie began to
blossom. The gangly, awkward girl who'd been all knees and elbows
with no breasts to speak of was gradually turning into a swan.
Suddenly young men began to pay attention to her, but Valerie,
who'd spent her childhood and youth alone, didn't really know how
to cope with the attention. She had no use for small talk, was
terrible at the social niceties, and really preferred the company
of her menagerie, who understood her as she understood them.

When the question of college came up,
Marguerite, newly bereaved, insisted that Valerie attend one of the
Seven Sisters or, preferably, go to an exclusive finishing school
in Switzerland. Valerie, however, had defied her mother for the
first time in her life, choosing instead to go to Cornell and
prepare for veterinarian school.

"Then you'll pay for it yourself," Marguerite
had said. "You could be in Switzerland learning the proper way to
be a wife and mother and a social figure of importance. Besides
which, you would inevitably meet young ladies of your class and an
appropriate young man to marry. But Cornell! I won't give you a
penny for such nonsense."

"I'll find a way," Valerie had responded.

And she had, working part-time and taking out
student loans, year after year. She never once asked her mother for
anything, and her mother never volunteered it. Nor had Marguerite
deigned to come to her graduation ceremonies.

Now, sitting in her office, Valerie imagined
that her mother would be very pleased if she knew how miserable she
was this morning. She caught herself laughing suddenly, amused by
the situation.
Well
, she thought,
I'm not going to give
her a reason to gloat. No way! I've succeeded in doing what I set
out to do. And if I stick it out, I know I can do the rest.

An image of Storm Warning abruptly came into
her mind. She could see the stallion, panicked at first, rolling in
his stall, covered with sweat, scared for his life. And later,
after her gentle care, she could see the trusting look in his eyes.
She could still sense the bond that had been formed between them,
and it made her feel good.

Then she remembered the shadowy figure she'd
seen while she'd been working on Storm Warning. Was it Conrad? she
wondered. And, if so, why the secrecy? For that matter, why hadn't
a single person hereabouts laid eyes on the mystery man since he'd
bought and renovated Stonelair?

She felt a sudden twinge in her stomach, an
uncomfortable feeling that she couldn't quite describe. All
thoughts of tonight's dinner and unpleasant office politics were
swept away, and she felt a new sense of uneasiness that she
couldn't explain. It was something about Stonelair, of that she was
certain, but what was it that had her so spooked?

Chapter Four

Wyndhym Ashley Conrad III slowly paced back
and forth across the library's faded Portuguese needlepoint rug, a
mug of coffee in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. A
black baseball cap partially hid his long, slightly curly
raven-black hair and all but obscured the thoughtful expression in
his velvety dark brown eyes. The sleeves on his long-sleeved black
T-shirt were rolled up above his elbows, revealing strong, muscular
forearms and powerful-looking hands. Matching sweatpants, cinched
tightly against the flat plane of his stomach, hung loosely on his
muscular legs.

As he paced, four enormous Irish wolfhounds
watched his every move. Two of them, both gray, were ensconced on
tufted antique leather sofas that faced one another in front of the
French limestone fireplace mantel. The other two, one brindle and
the other brown, had arrayed themselves on the rug near the hearth.
On their alert faces were looks of equal parts devotion and
curiosity.

Wyn, finally weary of his aimless strides,
sprawled on the cracked leather of an ancient Georgian wing chair
and looked over at Santo Ducci, who was talking on the telephone
behind Wyn's desk, a Louis XV
bureau plat
. He took a sip of
his coffee and grimaced. It was already cold.

He tossed his unlit cigarette into a crystal
ashtray and got back up, walking over to an ornate gilded console
and draining the coffee mug in an orchid plant on the marble top.
Then he walked to the minibar that was concealed behind a jib door
near the fireplace and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from
the coffeemaker there. He retraced his steps, sipping the hot black
coffee as he went, but before he could sit back down, Santo quietly
hung up the telephone and looked over at him.

"That was the vet, right?" Wyn asked.

Santo shook his head. "No," he replied. The
sun, which streamed through the French doors behind him, shone off
the top of his shaved head.

"No?" Wyn said irritably. He glared at Santo,
but the giant couldn't read the look in Wyn's eyes because of the
long shadow cast by his baseball cap. "Didn't I tell you to call
her first thing this morning?"

"And I did," Santo said mildly. He gazed at
his boss dispassionately, his hugely muscled arms folded across his
chest, his feathers completely unruffled by Wyn's irritation. "That
was somebody else," he added.

"Oh," Wyn said, frowning. "Well then, tell
me, Santo. What the hell did the vet say?"

"They share and share alike," Santo said.
"She said it was usually against clinic policy."

"Against clinic policy?" Wyn stormed. "That's
a crock of shit."

Santo held his hands out, gesturing at Wyn to
hold on a minute. "Chill out," he said calmly. "She said she'll
discuss it with the other vets and get back to me. It's a
possibility."

"I never heard of anything so stupid," Wyn
groused.

"I told you, she said they have a
share-and-share- alike policy," Santo countered.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It's simple. You don't normally get to
choose a particular vet," Santo said. "You get whoever's on
duty."

"That's ridiculous," Wyn spat. "This isn't a
third- world country."

"Maybe not," Santo said, "but that's the
usual policy."

"Damn!" Wyn sat down in the big wing chair
and slammed his mug of coffee on the table next to it. Coffee
sloshed out onto the table's highly polished walnut surface, but he
ignored it. "Find out who owns the fucking clinic," he demanded,
casting a scowl in Santo's direction.

"That's what I just did."

"And?" Wyn asked impatiently.

Santo looked down at some notes he'd
scratched out on a pad. "A guy named Charles Bradford—he's one of
the other vets," he said. "Owns it lock, stock, and barrel.
Rochelle is just a salaried employee."

Wyn looked disgruntled. "Aw, shit," he
said.

"Look," Santo said, trying to placate his
unhappy boss, "don't get yourself so worked up. I bet it'll work
out. She said she'd discuss it with the other docs, so she must be
interested, Wyn. Right? She wouldn't bother talking to them if she
wasn't. She'd have just said no." He looked at Wyn for some
indication that he was satisfied.
Jeez
, he thought,
the
guy's acting like a spoiled rich kid that has to have it his way,
or else. What's worse, lately he's been carrying on like a genuine
nutcase
. Santo was patient, however, because he figured that
with all of Wyn's worries, he'd be pretty much a basket case
himself.

Wyn finally nodded. "I guess you're right,"
he agreed. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added: "Call her
back and tell her that, if she does it, there'll be a bonus in it
for her. A bonus that the others don't need to know about."

"If you say so."

"I say so," Wyn said emphatically.

But before Santo could pick up the telephone,
it rang, and he answered it. "Stonelair," he said.

He listened for a minute, then said: "I'll
have to put you on hold for a moment."

He punched the hold button and looked over at
Wyn. "It's Arielle."

Wyn shook his head. "I'm not available," he
said. "But put her on the speaker so I can listen."

Santo punched the hold button again, then the
speaker button, after which he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
"I'm sorry, Arielle," he said. "He can't come to the phone right
now."

"You're lying to me, Santo." Her disembodied
voice filled the room, its smokiness tinged with anger. The Irish
wolfhounds pricked up their ears at the sound of their former
mistress's voice.

"No, Arielle," he replied, "I'm not
lying."

"You bastard!" she cried nastily. "You sound
like you're in a garbage can. You put me on the fucking speaker so
that shit can listen."

Santo looked over at Wyn, whose lips formed a
smile.

"Let me speak to him," Arielle shouted.

"I told you, Arielle," Santo said in his most
patient voice, "he can't come to the telephone now."

There was an audible sigh of resignation from
the speaker. Then in calm and measured tones, Arielle said, "Tell
him that his monthly support check hasn't arrived yet, and it's
overdue. As you well know. I called Goldman's office, and his
secretary said they haven't received it yet."

"I'll pass the word along," Santo said.

"You do that," Arielle replied, a bit more
vinegar in her voice. "And while you're at it, tell him that they
told me he hasn't sent back the signed divorce papers yet."

"I don't know about that," Santo said.

"I just bet you don't," she snapped. Then she
sighed loudly again, as if suddenly realizing that she must take a
different tack. Being demanding and unpleasant was getting her
nowhere with Santo, and certainly wouldn't with Wyn, that she well
knew. Thus, the hint of the helpless, little-girl plea that crept
into her voice.

"Oh, Santo, please," she said rather sweetly.
"You've got to help me. You're the
only
person who can. I
don't know what I'm going to do. First the monthly support check's
late, and now I find out he hasn't signed the divorce papers
yet."

"I'll see what I can do," Santo said.

"Yes, please, Santo," she begged. "You know
they won't release the final settlement check until he's signed
everything, and I really need it. I mean, Christ, until the measly
support check comes"—a sob that might arguably have been genuine
caught in her throat— "it's all I can do to eat!"

Wyn almost laughed aloud when he heard this,
but restrained himself. He knew that she was fairly certain he was
listening, but he wanted to keep her guessing. If nothing else, it
compounded her misery, and that gave him no end of pleasure.