Keepsake (6 page)

“No, thanks.”

“The car’s parked right across the street. You’ll never find a cab around here. California’s not like New York or even Boston.
You’re staying at one of the convention center hotels, right?”

“Yes, but I really don’t want—”

“I insist.” He took her arm in a firm grip.

“Hey, buddy, who’re you? Her husband or what?” one of the reporters demanded.

“No comment,” he said. To April he whispered, “C’ mon.

Her will seemed to melt under the force of his. This was unusual, she thought, not like her at all. But the idea of being
able to escape the reporters and sink into the seat of an available car and be driven back to her refuge was irresistible.

What the hell, she thought as she allowed him to urge her in the direction of his car. He was strong and she felt protected.
Even this guy was better than the police.
Anybody
was better than the police.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said.

“It’s Blackthorn. Rob Blackthorn.”

Blackthorn. An ominous sort of name, she thought.

“Why did you tackle me? Did you think I was the one with the gun? I didn’t shoot her, Mr. Blackthorn.”

“I know.”

She felt absurdly grateful to hear him say so.

He unlocked the door on the passenger’s side, and she climbed in. The reporters had followed them to the car, but he ignored
them and she did the same. By the time he had come around and seated himself in the driver’s seat, she was leaning back with
her head against the headrest.

“The police gave you a rough time?” he asked as he started the engine.

“Rough enough,” she said. It could have been worse, she knew. The cops weren’t very friendly when they suspected you of a
crime.

The memory was like a knife in her gut. How long would it take them to find out what she’d done all those years ago in Washington?
And when they did… what impact would it have on the current investigation?

“When a prominent person like Rina de Sevigny is
murdered, the police take their job somewhat more seriously than when some poor bastard from the projects gets offed,” Blackthorn
said.

She didn’t comment. Through half-closed eyes she watched the palm trees slide by out the top of the passenger’s side window.

“I take my job more seriously, too, when I lose a client.”

“Too bad you didn’t take it a little more seriously beforehand.”

He did not reply, and April regretted the comment. She sneaked a glance at him from under her lowered lashes. His face in
profile was rigid, but she noticed a slight twitch of emotion around his jaw. She glanced down at his hands—one on the wheel
and the other on the gearshift. They were big hands, powerful. They moved with authority as he drove through the busy traffic.

“I made a mistake,” he said after a few moments. “I intend to rectify it as best I can. I intend to find Rina’s killer and
bring him—” he cast a glance in her direction “—or her to justice.” He paused, then added, “You didn’t shoot her, but you
could have hired it done.”

Her eyes popped all the way open. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it was a professional job. An assassination. Rina was hit by a hired gun who picked his moment then disappeared into
the crowd. It was skillfully handled.”

“Well, the police didn’t mention that theory to me.”

“The scene was confusing for the first few seconds.” April thought she saw a trace of color wash his cheekbones. “I imagine
that even Anaheim’s finest have sorted out what really happened by now, though. At this point their investigation will be
centered on establishing a motive. If they know why, it will lead them to who.”

“Not necessarily,” April said. “There might be several people who had a reason to want her dead.”

“In fiction, perhaps,” he said with a sidelong smile. “In real life, all it takes is one.”

“I see. You’re saying that there’s a world of difference between art and life.”

“Art and death,” he corrected gently.

“Look, Mr. Blackthorn—”

“So you’re really Rina’s daughter?”

“Stop this car, please, and let me out. I’ll find my own way back to the convention center.”

“Relax. We’re almost there.” The wheels of the rental car squealed as he took a sharp corner. But he retained complete control
of the car. Probably trained to do all sorts of maneuvers to avoid terrorist attacks, April thought.

“I’m personally acquainted with the family,” he said. “But until today, I’ve never heard of you before.”

“My mother abandoned me when I was twelve years old. Today was the first time I’d been in the same room with her in twenty-eight
years.”

“She abandoned you? Why?”

“Why?” April gave a short laugh. “For the usual reason that women neglect or abandon their children. There was a man. She
wanted him. He was going to change her life. And I was in the way.”

“You sound bitter. Twenty-eight years is a long time. You’re an adult now, a successful woman.”

“Some emotions are untouched by time.”

Something altered in his face, as if a cloud had passed over his features. He dropped eye contact. After a moment he cleared
his throat. “You’ll be investigated, you know. Both by the local authorities and by the FBI.”

“The FBI?”

“When somebody conspires to hire a killer in one state to kill somebody in another, the feds get interested. Given the fact
that the de Sevignys are based in New York,
there’s every indication that that is indeed what happened. It’ll be an FBI matter, all right.” His voice was clipped and
there was a distant expression in his eyes. “We’ll see whether or not your story checks out.”

April clenched her fists. “I have nothing to hide.”
Liar, liar,
her conscience screamed at her.

With a jerk he pulled to a stop in front of the Hyatt. “It’s a pretty basic understanding in my business that everybody has
something to hide.” He leaned across her and popped the handle on her door before the liveried doorman could attend to it.
For an instant, his arm was warm and hard across her middle. “Whatever your secrets are, I will unearth them,” he said softly.
“I’m making it both my personal and my professional business to know everything there is to know about Ms. April Harrington.”

She believed him. He would dig into her past, and God only knew what he would do when he found out.

She was shaking as she stepped from his car.

He watched her as she walked away from him, toward the entrance to her hotel. She was beautiful—an isolated figure, quiet,
pale. Her long reddish hair was pulled cruelly back from her face and restrained in a chignon which might have looked sophisticated
if a few strands had not persisted in escaping and forming a lazy curve against the side of her cheeks and throat. Every now
and then during the drive she had pushed the errant lock behind her ear, but within minutes, it would fall forward again.

Was she capable of rage, hatred, revenge? It seemed hard to believe. But his years in law enforcement had made him cynical.
A woman was no less deadly for being beautiful.

In the hours since the shooting, he’d been dissecting every move he’d made in Anaheim—the packed conferenee
room, the angry confrontation between Rina and the strange woman, the confusion, the surge of the crowd, the flash of metal,
the shot, the screams.

He replayed it like a videotape, stopping the action, lingering over this detail or that. All too frequently his mind lingered
on what had happened after the shot rather than before it. His move on the red-haired woman. Seizing her. Holding her hard
against his body. Inhaling her scent.

Dammit, it shouldn’t have gone so wrong. He had been in control. At least, he should have been.

Amazingly, he felt no desire for a drink. And yet, he thirsted. He stared at April Harrington. She was the key, he was sure.
Whoever she was.

“I don’t believe her claim,” Christian de Sevigny had said when they’d spoken on the phone. “She’s clearly an imposter. With
your background in intelligence and other forms of skull-duggery, you must be good for something, Blackthorn.” He spoke with
his usual contempt. “Investigate her. Expose her for the fraud she is.”

“But who is she?” Isobelle had asked him on their way to the police station. “I can’t bear to see her. If she hadn’t caused
that confusion in the conference room, the killer would never have dared… and Rina would still be alive.”

“I’m afraid she may be telling the truth,” Armand had told him. “Sabrina did have an illegitimate child. In fact, I met the
girl, many years ago. My memory of her is not very clear, but this could be the same woman. We were told she had died. Perhaps
I was too quick to believe it.”

Of course, one of
them
could have done it.

It wouldn’t take long to find out who benefited from Rina’s death.

Not me, that’s for sure.

Shit, he needed a drink.

Help me, Jessie, he thought.

April sat in a high-back chair, her eyes fixed on the face of the Manhattan attorney who was preparing to read Rina de Sevigny’s
last will and testament. She was trying to resist the temptation to study the faces of the others in the room. A few years
ago she would have done it, staring insolently at each one and pretending not to care that they hated her and resented her
presence here. As a child, she remembered, she had been indefatigably insolent and brave.

Spirited, one of the more tolerant of her teachers had said.

She wished she could dredge up some of that cocky old spirit now.

But the police and a rabid group of print and television journalists had given her no peace. All week long she had been stalked,
followed, interviewed, harassed. But at least she hadn’t been arrested, and no one had questioned her
about those awful days when she’d been a teenage runaway…

She had come to New York on her way home from California because she’d felt the need to attend her mother’s funeral. She’d
told herself that her desire to do so made no sense at all, but she couldn’t seem to help wanting one last chance to resolve
her feelings toward Rina, and to say good-bye.

Besides, she couldn’t help feeling curious about the murder. After all, murder was her business. Fictional murders might be
neater and tidier than real ones, but her desire to find the answers and solve the mysteries was very strong.

An associate from the law firm of Stanley, Rorschach and McGregor had notified her yesterday that her presence was required
at the reading of the will. Incredibly, she was one of the beneficiaries. To what extent, she had no idea. From the way they’d
been looking at her, she concluded that this was a matter of much speculation among the rest of the family.

It was evident that the family took no joy in seeing her here. Armand de Sevigny had been the only one of them to greet her.
His wife’s death, although clearly upsetting to him, had not interfered with his impeccable manners. Nor with his undeniable
charm.

“I am so sorry we must meet under such unhappy circumstances,” he’d said to her at the funeral. “My wife spoke often of you.”

“She did?” April had been unable to hide her surprise.

Armand had embraced her warmly. “She had come to regret her actions toward you. As do I. If there’s a way to make it up to
you, I intend to try.”

Admirable sentiments, she had thought. But a little late.

Rina’s stepchildren, Christian and Isobelle, had both
avoided her, remaining distant and silent. Charles Ripley, Rina’s handsome assistant at Power Perspectives, had approached
her and shaken her hand. “Thank you for coming,” he had said, and April had noticed that he had tears in his eyes.

She wondered what they were all thinking this morning as they took note of her presence among them. She glanced at Isobelle,
who seemed distinctly hostile. Her color was high and as she waited, she aggressively chewed on her bottom lip. One of her
high-heeled pumps tapped persistently against the floor as she fidgeted, her scarlet-tipped fingers clenched into fists.

Her gaze moved to Christian, Isobelle’s brother, who was leaning impassively against the far wall, his elegant body loose
and languid, his eyes closed in evident boredom.

He was an attractive man with classical features that must have been almost too pretty when he was young. Maturity had chiseled
a few lines and creases into his visage, giving him an air of sophistication that April had no doubt he deserved.

She’d done enough research on the family before going to the ABA to know something about the people whom she might reasonably
consider her stepbrother and stepsister. Christian was said to treasure the finer things in life, from the finest wines to
the most expensive women. He worked for his father, whose many commercial interests included De Sevigny Ltd., an international
shipping company that made both oil tankers and cruise ships. It was based in New York, still one of the premier ports in
the world.

Isobelle did not work directly for her father, and rumor had it that there was some kind of tension between them. Instead,
she had worked with her stepmother at Power
Perspectives, helping her to run an enterprise that had grown far more rapidly than anybody had expected.

She had never been married. April knew nothing else about her personal life.

Also present were Charles and several other people who April could not identify, although they looked familiar from the funeral.
But she did know Rob Blackthorn, who stood in one corner of the room and settled himself, leaning his powerful shoulders against
the richly paneled wall and folding his arms across his chest.

For a bodyguard, April was thinking, this guy was pretty damn persistent. Whom was he protecting now?

He caught her eye and smiled. He didn’t appear to be actively hostile. Implacable, yes. Relentless, undoubtedly. She remembered
his vow to learn everything there was to know about her. By now he must know that she was truly Rina’s daughter.

What else had he found out?

Arthur Stanley, Esq., loudly cleared his throat. “I hope to get on with this as quickly as possible, but I’ve been asked to
wait until the authorities arrive.”