Chances Are (22 page)

"Okay, I knew about it. But as I said a moment ago,
after
the fact. Five years had passed when Blake came to me, concerned that Goldstein would show up and demand his share. When we discovered he'd been killed in an accident—"

Veronique felt as if he'd kicked her. Any fantasies she'd harbored of finding her father had just been destroyed. She held her breath to keep from making a sound of pain.

"—Believe me, Ms. Delacroix, had I been Blake Rhodes's attorney at the time, I would have advised him against his actions. And if he'd insisted, I would have resigned as counsel. But coming in after the fact, my legal responsibilities were limited."

Time for another stab, she thought, noting his returning confidence. "What about Jerome Delacroix's part in it?" she demanded.

When his face slackened with surprise, Veronique thought she'd missed her mark and would have to backpedal, and quickly, or the man would begin to suspect how much she really knew.

"That was a family matter. Again, I would have advised Blake against getting involved—especially in a matter as serious as framing someone for a crime they didn't commit. As for your grandfather, I had no part in that, nor was the store involved."

Veronique felt sick. She tried to keep the revulsion and pain from showing on her face. Poor Maman, she thought. She'd been right, David wouldn't have left her; it was her own father and Blake Rhodes's machinations that had taken her love. Veronique wondered how was she going to tell her. And what of Brandon? How would he handle the news that his father was a crook? When the lawyer cleared his throat, she glanced back at him.

"As I'm sure Brandon told you," he said, his tone as smooth as silk, "we are prepared to make you a substantial offer."

Veronique blanched, suddenly feeling as if all her supports had been yanked away. It couldn't be true, she thought frantically. Brandon couldn't have known and not told her.

"Or did Brandon already present you with a settlement? If so..." His voice trailed off. "Are you all right?"

She wasn't. Pain was swift, debilitating. Her knees began to buckle, and she looked around for a chair. Finding one, she sank into it. Brandon had lied to her, tricked her.

"My dear, can I do anything?"

"Yes," Veronique said stiffly. "Call me a cab."

* * *

The light was on above Brandon's door; his Porsche was parked in the driveway. Veronique stared at the elegant old house for long moments before paying the cabbie and heading up the walk. She was breathless with anger. The blood drummed in her head, and tension tightened across her temple. Sucking in a sharp breath, she rang the bell.

Within moments Brandon answered the door. He was dressed casually; he looked relaxed, even sleepy. Veronique swore under her breath as he smiled at her. The curving of his lips was slow, sexy and full of promise. The promise of tenderness and passion. Memories flooded her senses: the way those lips had tasted against hers, the way he'd aroused her with the simplest touch, the gentlest caress... the way he'd felt inside her.

Cursing again, she pushed away the memories. Her grandfather was right. To a man like Brandon, power and position came first. She'd been a fool.

"May I come in?"

He seemed surprised at her icy tone, but he moved aside. She brushed past him, stepping into a large, open foyer. From what she could see of the house, it was appointed with fine antiques, contemporary art and priceless rugs. Of course, she thought bitterly, nothing but the best for Brandon Rhodes.

"When you and your mother do lunch, you really do lunch. I didn't think you were coming."

She swung back toward Brandon. As she stared at him, rage and disillusionment welled in her chest until she thought she might burst with it.

Brandon tilted his head. "Are you all right?"

She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. "I had an interesting afternoon."

"Oh?" He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Mmm, I'd even call it enlightening." She crossed to a delicately painted abstract. "O'Keeffe?"

The question wasn't meant to be answered, but he did anyway. "Yeah."

She swung back around, pinning him with her furious gaze. The game of cat and mouse was over. "I know who my father was... I know
what
your father was."

Brandon paled. "How?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Pain ripped through her. Even though she'd known the truth, she'd prayed it wasn't true, and prayed it was a mistake. And he hadn't even tried to deny it. "Does it matter?" She hated the disillusionment in her voice.

"No one knew but—"

"But you and Sebastian," Veronique finished, her hands curling into fists. "You made one mistake: you didn't take into account what my mother knew. And she knew enough to raise my suspicions."

"So, you went to see Sebastian."

His voice was even, his gaze steady. She wanted to hit him. The need to do violence was so strong it took her breath away. Her fingers flexed as she glared at him. "For a man in his position, he was easily duped."

"I was going to tell you."

That he would try to backtrack, make excuses, hurt more than the truth. "When?" she cried, "In a year? In ten?"

"It's not like that, Veronique," he said softly, soothingly. "I was going to tell you tonight."

"Oh, right." She laughed without humor. "How convenient for you. And how stupid do you think I am?"

He crossed to her and grabbed her hands. His voice suddenly hummed with sincerity. "What can I say to convince you?"

"Words mean nothing." She jerked her hands from his. "How long have you known?"

"Not long. Since right after my father's funeral."

She lifted a trembling hand to her lips as she remembered all the times she'd shared her fears, her vulnerabilities with him, and all those times he'd known about her father.

"I discovered a safety deposit box," he continued. "In it were some documents that clearly indicated what had happened. Then I went to see Sebastian. I have the documents here if you'd like to see them. There's a newspaper clipping... your father's picture."

A picture of her father. Twenty-eight years of wondering, fantasizing was about to come to an end. And she was scared witless. "Yes," she whispered, her palms wet, her chest tight.

He lead her to his study, then went around the massive desk and took a large envelope from one of the drawers. "You might want to sit down," he said softly.

She did, then held out her hand. Her fingers shook as she opened the flap and pulled out the bundle of documents. Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

Ten minutes later Veronique looked up at him with anguished eyes. "What else do you know?"

"Everything."

"Tell me," she murmured, her eyes lowering once again to the picture of her father.

When he'd finished, Veronique carefully refolded the photograph and tucked it into her bag. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away. Her throat ached with the force of holding the rest of the tears back, but she refused to let them loose in front of Brandon. Mustering all her strength of will, she said, "I still can't believe you kept this from me."

"I didn't tell you right away because I was trying to decide what to do. Believe me, when I found out what my father had done, I was appalled, disillusioned."

"But instead of telling me—"

"At first, my only thought was of protecting myself and the business. I didn't know how you'd react, what you might do. I thought I needed time to get to know you... to gauge your reaction to the news. But, as time passed I became afraid that you'd misinterpret my silence. More than anything in the world, Veronique, I didn't want to hurt you." His voice lowered. "I didn't want to lose you."

"Pretty words, Brandon." Her eyes raked accusingly over him. "You should have been a writer... or an actor."

"What can I do to convince you?" He held a hand out to her in supplication. "Tonight, I'd planned to offer you a settlement—"

She was out of her seat in a flash. "God, you make me sick! You and your kind think money is the answer for everything. Keep your dirty money! I wouldn't want to become what you are or what your father was." She stood, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Feeling as if she were being split in two, she said, "Goodbye, Brandon."

Chapter 11

"Go to hell, Rhodes," Veronique muttered, crumpling the interoffice memo and stuffing it in her pocket. Except for a few brief encounters, she'd managed to avoid Brandon for the last two weeks, and she wasn't about to let his scrawled "see me today" change that. She wandered to the coffeepot and poured a cup, then looked around the room. Where was Chip this morning?

Shrugging, Veronique crossed to the table and plopped down onto a chair. With a sigh, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She could honestly say the last two weeks had been the worst of her life. Telling her mother what she'd learned had been wrenching. Her beautiful mother had crumpled before her eyes, and all she'd been able to do was hold her and try to comfort her.

"Oh, Maman," Veronique had murmured, stroking her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"N-no." Maire lifted her tear-streaked face. "I finally know the truth. David loved me. You can't imagine what it feels like to know he didn't—" Her voice caught on a sob.

Veronique reached around them for the box of tissues. She handed her mother one.

After she'd blown her nose, Marie continued. "For years I've felt like a failure—to my family, as a woman. And so guilty—" She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Your grandfather... all these years he made me feel like I wasn't a good daughter. He encouraged my guilt... and now I learn
he's
the one who should be ashamed."

Two days after that conversation her mother had stopped by. Veronique smiled as she remembered. Marie had looked happier, more at peace, than she'd ever seen her. She'd breathlessly confided that she'd just paid a visit to her father and told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would no longer allow him to interfere in her life.

Veronique's smile faded. What about her own feelings? she wondered, rubbing her aching temples. Dealing with her mother, Brandon and her own turmoil over what she'd learned had left her emotionally drained. And Brandon hadn't made it any easier. He wouldn't take no for an answer. He'd called every day; she'd hung up on him each time. He'd sent her flowers; she'd sent them back. He'd tried to corner her at the store; she'd outmaneuvered him.

But every time he pressed, it was harder to act cool and unaffected. Veronique balled her hands into fists. She would never let him see how he'd destroyed her.
Never.

She sighed. All the resolutions in the world weren't going to change the fact that she still loved him, that she ached for him. Veronique laughed without humor. Her only crime had been forgetting the lessons of her past and falling for him. For such a little crime, she was paying an exacting price.

Whenever she thought of it, she felt like a fool. How could she have hoped for a future with Brandon? How could she have allowed herself to be swept away by passion? By romance? She'd let stories of lovers like Courtland and Alfonsi cloud her judgment. She shook her head as unwanted tears filled her eyes. Brandon wasn't Courtland; giving everything away for love was as farfetched as the possibility that he would ever have married her. If only she could—

"Veronique!" Chip burst through the metal double doors at the back of the display department. "You're not going to believe this!"

Veronique's head snapped up, and she quickly swiped at her damp cheeks with the heels of her hands. When she was certain he wouldn't suspect she'd been crying, she turned toward him. Her eyebrows rose at his animated expression. Chip was the most unemotional person she knew. "What's going on?"

"This—" He gestured grandly. "Come on, guys."

Veronique's mouth dropped as three delivery men started wheeling in crates. There were at least a dozen of them; they ranged in size from three to six feet.

"I got a call from receiving this morning and... take a look." Chip held out the packing slip.

She stood, crossed to him and took the piece of paper from his hand. She scanned the list in amazement. The shipment was from The Display Warehouse, and these crates represented only the tip of the iceberg. "There must be some mistake, I didn't order these." All three delivery men stopped working and stared at her. They didn't look happy.