Haunting Rachel (8 page)

Graham reached to open the top drawer of his desk and drew out a sheaf of papers. “I got this just a couple of hours ago. Since you’d already called to say you were dropping by, I decided to wait until you got here to discuss it.”

“Discuss what?”

“This is the mechanic’s report on the Mercedes. The brake line didn’t fail, Rachel. It was cut.”

She didn’t even blink for a moment, but then drew a deep breath. “Cut. You mean—deliberately?”

“That’s what it looks like. The mechanic says it would be difficult to prove in court, that it’s
possible
the line could have been cut accidentally, but he knows his job and he believes it was no accident.”

“You’re saying someone wanted to—to hurt me? To cause an accident?”

“I’m saying we should both cultivate a little healthy
distrust, especially where strangers are concerned.” Graham’s voice was deliberate.

Rachel leaned back in her chair and stared at him. “You think it was Adam?”

“I think it’s a damned suspicious coincidence that he turns up mysteriously in your life with a convenient resemblance to your dead fiancé, and a few days later your car smashes into a tree.”

She felt a chill, but even so had to object. “What would he have to gain? Graham, he
told me
about the money he owes Dad. Why would he have done that if he wanted to renege on the debt?”

“Rachel, you have only this man’s word for it that a debt exists.”

“But why would he—”

“Think about it. What better way to ingratiate himself into your life than by claiming that your father helped him when he was down on his luck. That he’s so grateful your father’s
investment
let him turn his life around.
And
by telling you he’s going to pay you three million dollars by the end of the year.”

“What could he hope to gain by lying about those things?”

“You’re an heiress,” Graham reminded her bluntly. “Worth a hell of a lot more than three million dollars.”

“So he cut the brake line on my car? That is what you’re implying?”

“What I’m
saying
is that his story is damned suspicious, especially following what looks very much like a manufactured accident. Rachel, given where the accident happened—had to happen—the chances were good you wouldn’t be driving very fast. It wasn’t likely to be a serious crash. He could have planned it that way.”

“But why?”

“As a distraction, a diversion of your attention. Or mine.”

After a moment, Rachel shook her head. “That’s too Machiavellian for me, Graham. A possibility only a lawyer could consider.”

He didn’t smile. If anything, Graham’s grimness increased as he slowly realized something. The crash might have put “things” into perspective for Rachel, but something else had happened since then. She was … waking up. Coming out of the deep freeze where Thomas’s death had left her. Her features were more animated than he could remember seeing them, her smile quicker, and even her voice held more life.

It was a subtle change—but it was a definite change. A hint of more changes to come. And there was only one reason for it that he could think of.

Adam Delafield.

If Graham had been a man given to shouting and throwing things, he would have done so then. All his patience. All his undemanding, understanding friendship, his help and concern for Rachel all these months, and none of it had so much as chipped her frozen serenity. Then came Adam Delafield, looking, apparently, like Thomas Sheridan’s twin—and Rachel was thawing.

Keeping his voice level, Graham said, “There have been more involved plans to gain a fortune, Rachel. Plenty of them.”

She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t believe that he’s—what? Trying to sweep me off my feet? Marry me before I discover he’s a con artist?”

“It’s been done before.”

Rachel couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s absurd! Graham, I’m not an idiot. Nor am I so trusting that I’d give
anyone power over me unless I was absolutely certain that power wouldn’t be misused.”

“How’s he supposed to know that? Until he gets to know you, I mean.”

“And I thought
my
imagination was working overtime when I was so sure I’d seen Thomas.” She shook her head again, this time bemusedly. “Yours is really overactive, you know that?”

Graham’s mouth firmed stubbornly. “Maybe so, but humor me. I’m going to have him checked out, Rachel. His background. Find out if there’s really a company out in California.”

Her first impulse was to tell him not to, but Rachel knew it would be the sensible thing to do. And since she had just claimed she wasn’t foolish, she could hardly object to a sensible and responsible precaution.
Because he’s not Thomas, after all.

“Fine,” she said. “And you might want to check first with Nicholas, since they’re old friends.”

If Graham had expected an argument, it didn’t show; he merely nodded. “I’ll get right on it. But in the meantime, do me a favor? Park your car in secure places and stay away from Adam Delafield?”

“I’ll be careful,” Rachel promised. Which was not, of course, quite what Graham had asked for, but he didn’t realize that until she was gone.

Swearing softly, he reached for his phone.

It was almost midnight on Tuesday night when Mercy’s pillow moved under her, and she murmured a sleepy complaint.

“Sorry, love, but I can’t stay tonight.” Nicholas eased away from her and slid from the bed.

“Why not?” She winced when he turned on the lamp on her nightstand, then rolled on her side and blinked owlishly.

“Just some things I need to take care of at my place.”

“At this hour?” Mercy raised her head and propped it on one hand, watching as he got dressed. She enjoyed watching him dress. Or undress, for that matter. He had an incredible body, so powerfully muscled there was almost no give to his flesh at all. At the same time, he didn’t look like those weight lifters with their exaggerated physiques. He was strong in ways they couldn’t begin to match, and his muscles were not for show, but for use. Hard use.

Or so Mercy guessed. She guessed he had needed to be strong more than once in his past, probably for his very survival. The several long scars marking his back, chest, and rib cage told that story.

When she had asked, he had said only that he’d been in “a fight or two” in his past, offering no further details. Wary of asking for more than he wanted to give, she had not brought up the subject again. But his silence only encouraged the sometimes incredible tales she made up to account for his various marks and traits and abilities. It was not an unpleasant occupation.

But wearing a bit thin after five years of knowing him and a year of physical intimacy.

Replying to her plaintive question, Nicholas said, “I’m a night owl, you know that. I work best this time of night.” He sat on the edge of the bed and began to put on his socks and shoes.

“You could have warned me earlier. I put out a steak to thaw.”

Mercy did not cook for Nicholas since he was perfectly able to cook for himself; in fact, he tended to fix breakfast
for them both whenever he stayed over at her apartment or she stayed over at his. And, being a very large man with a correspondingly large appetite, he favored substantial breakfasts such as steak and eggs.

“Mmm. Leave it in the refrigerator and we can have it next time. Okay?”

“Sure.” It was, strictly speaking, his steak, anyway— bought and paid for. At least once a week he arrived bearing a bag of groceries, always replacing what he had eaten at Mercy’s place, and she had never objected. It was just one more way he had of keeping their relationship on a carefully balanced footing, with neither of them beholden to the other.

Dressed now except for the jacket he had left in her living room, he half turned to look down at her consideringly. “Or … I could come back in a couple of hours.”

Mercy didn’t know quite what she was supposed to say to that; it wasn’t a suggestion he had ever made before. So she shrugged and murmured, “Suit yourself. You have a key.”

He looked at her a moment longer, his ugly face unreadable, then nodded and got to his feet. “Go back to sleep, Mercy.” He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Like a cat, he could see easily in the dark.

Mercy lay back on her pillow, listening to the very faint sounds of him leaving the bedroom and then, moments later, the apartment. She didn’t go back to sleep for a long time.

In its heyday, it had been known as The Tavern, a nice restaurant and bar that had served good food and good booze to most of the upper class of Richmond. Its Old
English-style sign hanging out front had been a landmark, and it had been the place to be on Saturday nights.

That was then.

Neither the neighborhood nor The Tavern had aged gracefully. Most of the surrounding stores were either vacant or else provided shelter for Richmond’s population of homeless and aimless. The rest had thick steel doors and iron bars on the windows, and inside went on the quiet, desperate kinds of business that destroyed lives and souls.

The police seldom bothered to patrol the area, and the denizens had learned to take care of trouble on their own.

As for The Tavern itself, the sign out front had long ago vanished, and nobody had bothered to replace it. The interior had been trashed so many times that the current owner had finally stripped the floors down to the stained concrete and the furnishings to little more than scarred pool tables.

The place was incredibly dark and smoky, to say nothing of being three deep at the bar with most of the worst citizens of Richmond, but no one gave Nicholas any trouble. In fact, men gave way for him instantly and without a murmur of complaint or abuse, even the drunkest ones.

He found Adam Delafield in the back corner, occupying one of only three booths not torn out long ago to provide more room for the pool tables and the clientele—a standing man taking up less space and much less furniture than a sitting man.

“Nice place.” Nicholas slid into the booth across from Adam, automatically shifting the unsteady table a bit more toward Adam to make room for himself.

Adam rescued two wobbling glasses as the table rocked, then handed one across to Nicholas. “Have a beer. You sound disgruntled.”

“I am disgruntled. You dragged me out of a warm bed.”

“The beer’s not bad. Honest.”

Nicholas sipped, then grimaced slightly. “Okay, it’s not bad. But that was a very warm and comfortable bed I had to leave, Adam. Couldn’t this have waited until morning?”

“You tell me. Did you get the call?”

“From Graham Becket? Yeah. Asked me if you were on the level with Rachel. If Duncan really had loaned you three million dollars.”

“And you told him?”

“That you were, and Duncan had. Wasn’t that what I was supposed to say?”

“I hope you managed to sound a bit more convincing, Nick.”

Nicholas smiled. “Naturally. Fair warning though— Becket’s a suspicious bastard at the best of times, and where Rachel’s concerned, he’s even more so.”

Adam frowned. “Is he that protective of her?”

“He’s that in love with her.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Nicholas shrugged. “As sure as one man can be of another man’s feelings. He’d just love to slay dragons for her. Protecting her and her money from an ex-con with a fishy story would suit him right down to the ground.”

Adam scowled. “Great.”

“I did try to warn you this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I know. But I’m an optimist.” Adam took a drink of his beer, still frowning.

“You’d also better know that Becket will turn up the conviction and jail time in pretty short order. I don’t like the son of a bitch, but he’s efficient as hell and definitely
motivated. So you’d better start planning to look at Rachel with big, sad eyes while you tell her your long, sad story.”

Adam grunted.

Nicholas looked at him with cynical amusement. “Pretty long limb you’re crawling out on.”

“It’s no place I haven’t been before.”

“True.” Nicholas studied him across the table. “And this time you’ve dressed for the part. That’s a new look for you, isn’t it?”

Adam shrugged.

Refusing to be warned off, Nicholas went on coolly. “Longer hair, more casual clothing. I seem to recall that was Thomas Sheridan’s style.”

“You don’t say.”

“You’re taking a big chance, Adam.”

Once again Adam shrugged, but a frown drew his brows low. “Maybe. But I don’t have much choice, do I? She wouldn’t have let me in the door otherwise.”

“Which door are we talking about?” Nick asked gently.

Adam ignored that question. Instead, he fixed his attention on using his sweating glass to connect water rings on the scarred table, and changed the subject. “How much time do you figure I’ve got?”

“Before Becket rides to the rescue? A few days, maybe a week. He’ll start with the dope on the company, I imagine, and think about a possible criminal record afterward.”

“Shit. That isn’t much time.”

“No. But all you’ve got, so make it count.”

Adam gave him a look. “Cheap advice.”

“If you want the more expensive kind, you have to pay for it.” Nicholas smiled.

“Yeah, yeah.” Adam leaned back and continued to stare across the table at his companion. “What about you,
Nick? Just what do you mean to do if Rachel decides not to sell out?”

Wide shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug as Nicholas said indifferently, “I’ll land on my feet. I always do.”

The conversation broke off for a few moments as a noisy fight erupted at the center pool table and threatened to spill over into the entire room. Adam and Nicholas watched with wary interest, returning their attention to each other only when the tattooed bouncer tossed both combatants out into the street.

“You don’t have much time either,” Adam noted.

“No, damned little.”

“Want me to encourage Rachel to sell to you?” Nicholas laughed. “Do you plan on having so much influence over her decisions?” “You never know.”

“Take some more cheap advice. Do what you came here to do and don’t fuck around along the way.”