In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy (48 page)

“Tell me, Papa,” she began, her eyes steady on him. “What are you going to do about Andrew?” She lifted the snifter to her lips and took a sip as her father’s eyes swung to hers.

“In regard to what, Bridget?”

She lowered the snifter to her silk-clad thigh. “We both know he’s botched this whole thing with James, Papa. With the manpower he has at his disposal, he’s no closer to finding James than he was the night the little bastard disappeared.” She cocked one brow. “Is that the way you want your business run when you’re gone?”

Liam’s eyes narrowed. “And you think you could do better?”

She took a slow sip, lowered the snifter, then smiled, her lips wet and slick with the fiery brew. “I know I could.”

“Tell me,” Liam said, pushing himself painfully from his chair. “Has your Cajun contact been able to find Annie James, Bridie?”

Bridget’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “How did you...?”

Liam waved an annoyed hand. “I know everything you do.” He picked up the crystal pitcher of mineral water on his console and poured himself a generous amount. Walking back to his chair, he gently lowered himself to the winged comfort of his seat. He fished in his Japanese silk robe for the pain pills he kept in the pocket.

“Don’t think for one moment you do anything that isn’t reported directly to me, Bridget.” He flipped open the pill container and shook out two demerol tablets, popped them into his mouth and tipped up his glass.

“I didn’t think you’d care about what happened to that slut in Iowa, Papa,” Bridget defended, although she licked at her suddenly-dry lips.

“I don’t, but I’ve given orders to my men that, when they find her, they’re to bring her to me. That’s the best way I know to get James to come to us.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at his daughter. “If you were as smart as you think you are, you’d have realized that. That little bitch is our ace in the hole.”

Bridget swallowed, mentally kicking herself for not having thought of such a ploy, but her naturally aggressive nature and rampant ambition, made her lift her chin and look back at her father with what she hoped was nonchalance.

“What if he’s decided to cut his losses?” she asked, not daring to bring the snifter to her lips. She was aware that her hand was shaking. “Maybe he won’t care what happens to her.”

An ugly snort burst from Liam’s lips. “And maybe one day, there’ll be a woman on the board of the Tremayne Group, but it won’t be you.”

Bridget’s face paled and her eyebrows drew together in concern. “But why not?” she whined. “I could run the business far better than Andrew, Papa! He’s proven just how incompetent he can be. He doesn’t have the balls to—”

“And physically, neither do you,” her father snapped. His face twisted into a sneer of disdain. “This is a
man’s
business, Bridget. A
man’s
business. Women have no place here. The Giafagliones and Swartzes and McGregors of this business would eat you alive and grab up everything it’s taken me a lifetime to build. Do you really think I’d let you—a woman—ruin the family?”

She could see the anger in her father’s eyes, but she could also see the glazing being caused by whatever drug he’d taken. She knew he was in great pain and could see the effort it was taking for him not to pull open the drawer and take out the morphine numbness. Arguing with him would avail her nothing and only serve to irritate him more. She knew when to back down.

“All right, Papa,” she said in a gentle voice. She unfolded herself from the sofa and stood, smoothing the wrinkles on the skirt of her dress. “I can see your point.”

“See it, but don’t give a damn about it,” her father grumbled. He fused his eyes with hers. “You’ll not be given a chance to run the Tremayne Group, girl. You’d best get that through your head right now.”

Bridget forced a smile. “Whatever you say, Papa.” She went over to him, bent down and kissed his wrinkled cheek. “I’ll do whatever you think best.”

“I know you will.”

It wasn’t until she was in her private jet that the anger fully overtook Bridget Casey. Her words were deadly.

“I’ll see Andrew in his grave before I let him win.”

Janice looked up
as Jamie came in to say goodnight to her and Bryant. “Are you feeling better?” At his nod, she cocked her head to one side. “No more upset tummy?”

“No, Mommy,” he answered. His eyes blazed with the first humor she’d seen since he’d been there.

“You want me to tuck you in?” she played along, grinning.

Jamie laughed, the first laugh in a long, long time. “I think I’m big enough to get in my jammies without any help.”

“Got a fresh mouth on him, don’t he?” Bryant Cean commented as he looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working on. “Might need to ground him or take away his TV privileges for a few weeks.”

“Aw, come on, Dad,” Jamie whined. “Not my TV privileges!”

“Get your ass to bed,” Bryant grumbled, but his eyes shone.

“Can I have a drink of water?”

“Get,” Bryant growled.

“See you in the morning,” Janice said.

Jamie smiled at her. “Yeah.”

Bryant watched him until the door to the guest room closed quietly. He looked at his wife. “He’s better, isn’t he?”

Janice let out a long breath. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

Doc was out
of breath by the time he snatched up the phone. He’d been out shoveling the accumulated snow of several days from his walkways when he’d heard it ringing. Carol had gone down to the supermarket to restock their nearly empty larder so wasn’t available to rush to the phone.

“Hello?” he gasped, fumbling with the receiver in his thickly-gloved hands.

“Doc, it’s Janice.”

Something in his old friend’s tone sent immediate alarm through Doc Remington. “What’s wrong?”

There was a slight pause and then Janice sighed heavily across the miles. “He’s gone, Doc. He left sometime during the night.”

He’d only
had to stand along the roadside for less than fifteen minutes before he caught the first ride. The trucker—gregarious, cheerful, full of stories to tell—was glad for the company. By the time they reached Elmira, N.Y., Jamie knew most all there was to know about Clark Higgins. He knew the name of Clark’s children, his wife, even his favorite hunting dog down in Fayetteville, N.C. He knew how much the trucker had paid for the rig he drove and how much of a bargain the trailer had been. He even knew how much the mud flaps on the rear tires had set Clark back.

Jamie found he didn’t need to do much more than nod and smile at his companion and grunt in agreement now and then to keep Higgins happy. There were no questions asked he had to lie to answer. There were no sidelong glances when Jamie grew restless during the long, tireless explanations Clark seemed to thrive on giving. Only once during the late-night trip had Clark asked anything personal of Jamie and that was to ask his preference of soft drinks at the gas station.

“Not much of a talker are you, son?” Clark asked early the next morning as the semi lurched onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

“Not much to say,” Jamie answered and Clark started in on one of his hunting stories. He fell asleep listening to the recounting of how good old Belle had treed the biggest possum ever bagged in Cumberland County. When he woke, they were just crossing the tip of West Virginia.

“Did you have a good nap there, son?” Clark inquired as he downshifted the big rig.

“I guess so,” Jamie answered, rubbing his eyes. He sat up and looked about, saw a sign that he was a hundred miles from Richmond. Clark was going all the way to Fayetteville, another three hundred miles. He glanced at the driver. “How soon before you’ll be stopping, Clark?”

Clark’s laugh was a belly-bellow of mirth. “Hell, son. You slept through my last stop. You gotta take a pee?”

Jamie smiled. “I’m more hungry than anything else.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Clark jerked his thumb behind him. “There’s some sandwiches in the cooler back there. Help yourself.”

The bread was going hard, the meat a bit slick, but Jamie’s stomach didn’t protest. He ate two of the greasy bologna sandwiches, a small bag of chips, and drank a root beer, but when he offered to pay Clark for the food, the trucker only shook his head.

“I don’t reckon you got all that much on you, do you, son?”

Jamie’s face turned warm. None of the thirty some-odd dollars in his pocket belonged to him. It was money he’d taken from Janice Cean’s purse. He’d left a note promising to pay her back, but the theft bothered his conscience more than he would have thought possible.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clark said in a soft voice, mistaking Jamie’s silence for embarrassment. “We all need a helping hand now and again.”

He didn’t know how to answer the trucker. What was there to say? So he turned his face to the window and stared blindly out at the passing West Virginia countryside.

In Richmond, he helped Clark offload some of the crates of apples the man was bringing down from New York.

The odor of the Rome Beauties that permeated the trailer was clean and homey smelling and it vividly reminded Jamie of the hot apple cider Annie always brewed when it was cold.

“You wanna grab some lunch before we head back out?” Clark asked. “I’m buying.”

“There’s no need to...” he tried to protest, but the older man only shook his head.

“Humor me, all right, son?” Clark threw a companionable arm around Jamie’s shoulder. “I’m thinking you got a long way to go and a short shrift to pay your way there.” He squeezed Jamie to him. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth unless he’s choking up hundred dollar bills.”

By seven that evening, the big rig pulled up in front of Clark’s house just outside Fayetteville. The trucker invited Jamie to stay for supper, but the younger man declined.

“I’ve got to get moving, Clark,” he said, stretching out his hand. “But I really appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

For a long moment, Clark Higgins stared intently at Jamie. “Whatever it is, son, you can deal with it with the Lord’s help.” He covered Jamie’s hand with his own. “All you really gotta do is ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jamie hunched down
behind the white sports car. There were only three vehicles left in the parking garage and he knew the one closest to the sports car belonged to the man he was waiting for. The garage was cold; the wind howling through the concrete buttresses. The floor smelled of spent gasoline and oil slicks, and the pungent odor of carbon monoxide.

He had a headache; he was tired and hungry and slightly chilled. Bryant Cean’s parka was warm, but it had been lightly snowing in Atlanta when Jamie arrived and his walk down Peachtree to the high rise where Andrew kept his office had made the parka damp. There was a knot of fear in his gut and every time he heard a sound he could not identify, his groin tightened almost sexually in the tight confines of his jeans.

“Come on, Drew,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his watch. He’d been hiding in the garage most of the afternoon, waiting and watching for his brother to come out. Hoping the bastard would be alone.

The elevator doors across from him pinged and he jumped. His heart slammed in his chest once, twice, and then he managed to make himself move to peer around the bumper of the car. As the doors opened, he held his breath, but the wrong two people came out—a sexy young woman and a slightly overweight, middle-aged man. The man headed toward the sports car.

“Drive safe, Leanne,” he said as his shoe heels echoed on the concrete flooring. He carried an expensive-looking briefcase in his left hand, his keys in the other.

“You, too, Mr. Carstairs,” the young woman called. “See you on Monday.”

Jamie fell back behind a concrete stanchion, blending in with the darker shadows into which the overhead halogen lights could not reach. He watched as the car door closed, then winced as the starter grinding in the engine sent a piercing shock through his head, making the headache worse. To make it even more agonizing, the driver of the car revved the engine a few times before backing out of the parking slot. With every burst of sound, Jamie flinched, finally covering his ears with his hands. As the car finally rolled slowly behind the young woman’s vehicle, Jamie eased down his hands.

“Where the hell are you, Andrew?” he growled. He had a clear view of the vehicle sitting in front of the red-lettered name plaque belonging to Andrew R. Tremayne, Esq. He was about to stand up to stretch when the elevator doors shut and began their upward climb.

Andrew glanced at
his watch and frowned. He was going to be late, unfashionably late, for his wife’s dinner party. He hadn’t wanted to attend, had argued with her all week over the necessity of them having to entertain whatever new artist had signed in at her sister’s gallery that week.

“It’s good publicity for you, darling,” his wife had finally cooed at him. “Just in case.”

Andrew hadn’t been the one to tell his wife about James escaping the clinic in Louisiana. His sister had let that cat out of the bag. The betrayal didn’t set well with Andrew and he intended to see Bridget pay dearly for getting his shrewish wife involved.