Roan (33 page)

He ended the call, slapped the mike onto its hook, then plowed his fingers through his hair as he stared at the road unwinding in front of him. Why hadn't he believed her when she'd told him she'd been kidnapped and that the men who had done it had orders to kill her? He'd thought himself that she didn't seem the type to consort with the lowlifes captured by the security cams. If he'd only followed his instincts.

Still she'd been so evasive, so vague and changeable. Yes, and he'd been knocked off balance by a visceral and
hormonal attraction of the kind he hadn't felt since high school. She'd got under his guard when he'd held her in his arms and felt her warm blood seeping into his shirt, and he hadn't liked it. He hadn't wanted her to be real and innocent because then he'd have to deal with what he felt. And that had scared him so much he'd preferred not to think of it at all. It had scared him because he'd known that he had to lose, that she'd either be found guilty and sent to prison, or else return to whatever fine and easy life she'd left. Either way, he'd be alone again.

Look where it had got him, that refusal to face facts. Tory had left because she couldn't trust him to protect her any more. He'd left her alone, and now she was gone. He had to find her, had to make her safe again, even if it meant losing her. It was better to know that she was alive somewhere in the world than to think that she might have left it for good. He could not stand to think of her gone, dying in pain and horror while he was off about his duty. His eternal duty that meant nothing if she wasn't there. His duty that he was leaving behind, now, without a qualm or second thought or an instant's consideration for what anyone might think of his using an official vehicle for a semiprivate matter. So much for how important it was, to him or anyone else.

He had to believe that she'd taken his car. It was the only acceptable explanation. Everything else was too damned hard to face. Impossible, in fact.

So where did that leave him?

If Melanka was flying, he didn't have her, couldn't touch her for the next—what, sixteen or seventeen hours that it would take for the drive to Florida? Or longer than that, if she stopped for the night. Maybe her ex-fiancé knew where she was headed and meant to get there ahead of her so he could be waiting when she showed up?

Tory was no match for Melanka. She wasn't wary enough, or as vicious as she'd need to be to best him. For all her attempts to be hard and cynical, she was too soft inside, too weak from her injury. No, she was no match for a killer.

Or was she? She'd fooled him, hadn't she?

She must have known where the release tool was for the monitor all along; she couldn't have got away so quickly tonight, otherwise. He could pinpoint when she must have found it, at the same time she found the car keys. The question that bugged him was why she hadn't taken it off as soon as she'd found the means. Unless it was the certain knowledge that he'd track her down, with or without the damn thing. She'd left now because he'd learned who she was and she'd known from looking at him how much difference it made. Because she didn't trust him, now, to keep her secrets or keep her safe.

Did it matter that she was an heiress and a bona fide princess? Did it really?

Of course it did. It changed everything. Everything.

Roan was, by his best estimate, two hours or less behind her. The Bird was fast but he had the advantage of an official vehicle with emergency lights and a siren if he needed to use them. He should be able to run her down. The greatest danger might be that he'd miss her in the dark or overshoot her while she was stopped for gas or a break.

He had no real authority in Florida or any of the states in between; his jurisdiction extended only to Tunica Parish. Once he passed that parish limit sign, he'd be just a man, like any other. No better, no worse. No special privileges.

It would have to be enough.

The drive passed in a blur of traffic, road signs and communities with the sidewalks rolled up for the night. He took back roads from Natchez to Hattisburg, then turned south
and east on Highway 49 to I-10. The wide open interstate unrolled ahead of him with the broken strips of the white center line flashing past like blinking lights as he made time through the night. He stopped for gas and a package of salted peanuts that he poured into the neck of a cold drink bottle as an energy snack, then he hit the road again.

The sun was rising by the time he reached Mobile. He squinted into it as the click of his tires over the joints of the causeway kept pace with his thoughts and fears. He'd seen no sign of the Super Bird.

On through the stunted pine barrens of the Florida panhandle he flew, making time. On the other side of Tallahassee, he found I-75 South and the constant parade of billboards advertising suntan lotion, tropical gardens and retirement havens. With the increasing stream of cars and fifth wheels and motor homes, he entered tourist land and began to see the first bougainvillea, the first palms, the first Bermuda coral-colored villas, and the vast trailer parks like cities made of aluminum and fiberglass. He drove in what had become a semidaze, so it was almost a shock to see exits signs for Fort Myers suddenly appear and realize he had almost made it.

Sanibel, an orderly island with its precious trees and rampant vegetation sheltering private bungalows and beach mansions so large it wasn't always easy to tell them from the hotels. Most of them were shuttered and silent, however, deserted for the summer as their owners retreated from the humid heat of the rainy season, preferring cooler watering places like Bar Harbor and the Hamptons. Roan was briefly puzzled by the fact that Vandergraff had not left, but thought he might have reached an age where the semiannual move was too much trouble, or that he had overriding financial interests in the place.

Roan had asked his office to find and radio to him the
address of the Vandergraff house. It was midafternoon when he finally located the entrance gates of the fenced enclosure. Since they were standing open, he turned in and took the snaking, shell-paved drive though arching jacaranda trees and under towering royal palms to the wide front doors constructed of beveled glass. He pulled up and slowly unfolded his stiff muscles from behind the wheel. Standing with his arms braced on the car door, he took a good look at the Vandergraff winter home.

It was an architect's dream of angles and wings, balconies and cool, shady lanai, a spreading paradise of marble and stucco wrapped around a Moorish style garden with a spouting lion fountain and a shifting, glittering Olympicsize pool. Blindingly white in the tropical sun, it whispered of comfort and seclusion and money. It was a place that would have every innovative convenience known to science and imagination, every luxury of which the mind could conceive. It was Tory's home, or one of them.

With a quick shake of his head, he shut the car door and walked to the entrance. A maid or housekeeper in a black-and-white uniform appeared, though she only opened the door a crack, staring wide-eyed through it at him and the star on his chest.

Sí,
this was the Vandergraff residence, but Señorita Victoria, she was not at home. She had returned,
Sí, Sí.
But she had showered and changed, fast, fast, and gone out again, driving the purple monster of an automobile across the causeway to Fort Myers. No, she had not said where she was going or when she would return; perhaps it would be late. Señor Vandergraff had gone to the golf and might be back in one hour, maybe two, perhaps three, if the
Señor Policia
wished to wait.

Roan wished, but decided against it. He'd find a hotel
instead, take a quick shower and get a bite to eat. Then he'd be back.

Before he started his car again, he looked back at the house. The place was like a palace. In it, Tory was a real princess, wrapped around with silk and diamonds and all the traditional snobbery of those who had never known want or imagined it. It was her rightful place. The only one she needed, ever.

And abruptly Roan knew that he had dreamed. He knew that somewhere in his mind he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, Tory would want to leave Sanibel and her rich life for the down-home comfort of Dog Trot. That she might do it for him and Jake, Pop and Beau, and all the other Benedicts who would welcome and surround her and make her one of them.

Stupid. So stupid and egotistical a dream. Yes, and proof of his incredible ignorance of the high pinnacle she'd been standing on when she'd first dared to look down on his town and his people.

Dumb backcountry sheriff that he might be, undoubtedly was, he could see, now, that it was impossible she would ever leave it.

T
ory heard voices coming from the living room as she let herself into the house on her return from Fort Myers. She glanced back at the parking apron half hidden among the trees for some clue as to her stepfather's guest. No vehicle was visible. Frowning a little, she closed the door. The voices stopped. After a second, Paul Vandergraff appeared in the doorway with a glass of malt scotch in his hand.

“Tory, my dear, here you are at last,” he said as if she were merely late to dinner instead of returning after being kidnapped. “Come in and join us for a drink.”

She hesitated, surveying him from what felt like a new perspective. Slender, tanned to a perfect toast brown that set off his close-cropped silver hair, he had a dapper appearance that he cultivated with white Polo shirts in summer and cashmere sweaters and ascots in the winter. Where once she'd considered him the epitome of East Coast sophistication and polish, he now seemed merely superficial. He hadn't changed, which meant that she had, drastically. As he swung back into the room, she put her keys and handbag on the foyer table and followed him with the heels of her Italian leather shoes clicking on the marble floor.

Her ex-fiancé got to his feet as she entered. “Darling, what a surprise. I thought you were settled in Louisiana.”

“Harrell. How lovely,” she said with a twist of her lips for the obviousness of the charade. Moving to the drink table, she poured cold mineral water into a glass. Over her shoulder, she said, “But you thought wrong. Naturally, I returned to Florida. It's where my business interests are located, after all. But I can't say I'm surprised to see you here with Paul, thick as thieves, after our last meeting.”

“Please, darling, let's don't start that again.” Harrell glanced at Paul Vandergraff as if to say,
What did I tell you?

“Why not? Your threats aren't something I'm likely to forget. Believe me.” She turned to face them armored in her gray designer suit worn with a silk blouse, her mother's gray-pink pearls, and with her hair in a smooth French twist. She could do the lady of wealth and breeding as well as any debutante when it was required. This was one of those times.

“Personally, I'd prefer not to be reminded that you ran away with a couple of beach bums. However, your little crime spree in Louisiana with them may be more difficult to wipe from the record than previous escapades.”

“There was no crime spree,” she declared, including Paul in the cold glance she leveled at Harrell. “Rather, I escaped being murdered by the grace of God and the quick action of Sheriff Roan Benedict.”

“A man you quickly fell in love with—or at least you fell into his bed.”

“I did not—” She stopped, took a deep breath. “Were you ever attracted to me at all, Harrell, or was it always about the money? Does it bother you, being a fortune hunter, or do you think it makes you look smart to dance
circles around a woman because a lucky accident made her rich?”

He shook his head. “Please don't say such things. I love you, of course, as I've always loved you. I know I said terrible things the other night, but I was hurt and angry.”

“Speaking of which,” she drawled, “how is your arm? No sign of rabies, I hope?”

“It's all right,” he said, his face darkening. “No thanks to you and your Casanova with a badge.”

She smiled at the description before she said gently, “I'm also healing well, thank you both for asking.”

Paul had the grace to look embarrassed as he said, “That's good news indeed.”

Harrell gave her a pained look. “You think I haven't been worried? Your welfare has never been out of my mind.”

“I'm sure.”

“We really need to talk, darling. Let's go somewhere quiet, where we can sit down and—”

“Quiet and deserted? You must think I'm an idiot.”

“Really, Victoria, you need to cut Harrell some slack,” Paul said before lifting his drink to take a swallow.

“Why?” she asked as she swung her head to stare at him. “I'm not interested in making it easier for him to kill me.”

“There's no question of that.” Irritation was strong in his voice.

“You weren't there, so how can you know? I don't understand why you're taking Harrell's side. Unless it's because you'd as soon I disappeared so you could mismanage my estate in peace?”

He stood still, staring at her with his glass forgotten in his hand. “Mismanage? That would be funny if it weren't so unbelievable.”

“It's neither one, according to my lawyers. You've seriously depleted my assets while increasing your own. You have, apparently, mishandled investments, manipulated stock portfolios, and transferred cash holdings in ways that look extremely suspicious. The only good thing I can say for you is that you haven't, at least so far as I know, taken a leaf from Harrell's book and forged my signature to fraudulent documents.”

The color drained away from Paul's face, leaving it gray and skull-like. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He transferred his gaze to the glass in his hand, staring into the melting ice of his drink.

Tory knew then, though the possibility had lurked somewhere in her mind for days, even weeks. She took a deep breath before she went on. “But you did, didn't you? Someone had to authorize access to my accounts after I came of age. You must have become quite good at copying my signature. You're the one who signed the documents that guaranteed Harrell's participation in the gaming scheme. How convenient, especially when I wasn't around to complain.”

“I never meant for you to be hurt.”

No doubt he'd closed his mind to the probability, she thought, just as he'd managed not to think of her mother's distress at being shut away all those years ago. But at least his cooperation in the deal accounted for why there had been no report, no furor, over her disappearance, even after all this time.

“Why?” she asked because she couldn't help herself. “You couldn't need the money.”

“You think not?” His smile was grim. “But it's always been there for you, hasn't it? Accumulating more holds no attraction. With me, it's otherwise.”

“You get a kick out of increasing your wealth? Even
when it's by stealing millions from my mother? And from me?”

“It was just lying there, tons of it for which you'd done nothing. Why shouldn't I?”

The affront in his tone was almost plausible. It was as if he saw no contradiction in what he'd just said, had no understanding that the fraudulent use of someone else's wealth to increase his own net worth was unacceptable, as if he were exempt from the laws that applied to lesser thieves. It made her wonder just how much of his industrial empire was a sham, perhaps a cover for less savory forms of making money.

“You fool!” Harrell glared at Paul Vandergraff with contempt curling his lips. “Now we'll have to get rid of her, and it won't be easy after this other mess.”

“This other mess was your brilliant solution, if you'll remember,” her stepfather snapped back. “Anyway, we can still put her away. Find the right doctor and pay him enough, and nobody will listen to a word she says.”

“We can't take that chance. The people we're dealing with don't like loose ends.”

Tory laughed, she couldn't help it, though the noise had a winded sound. The threat Paul had just made had hovered for years, unspoken, over their relationship. Fear of it was what had left her so unsettled, she thought, so unable to concentrate on where she was going with her life. It was almost a relief to have it out in the open.

At the same time, she knew she'd made a mistake in revealing all her suspicions. The lawyers she'd been closeted with for the past several hours had warned her to leave the house at once, then discuss the situation only in the presence of legal representatives. She'd have been glad to comply, given the chance. Confronted by the two men, she'd more or less depended on her stepfather to behave in
a civilized manner about her discoveries and Harrell to control his more vicious impulses in Paul's presence. Now that she'd begun, however, she could see no way to stop. And it was good to find out the truth, at last.

Fear thrummed along her veins, but not in the same way that it might once have. Her stepfather had always seemed such a powerful man. Now he appeared effete and almost pathetic. She'd grown used to seeing the Benedict men around her, she thought, so her frame of reference had stretched to a larger scale. She had learned to measure men like Harrell and Paul against it and discovered that they came up lacking.

“Is that what Zits and Big Ears were, ‘loose ends?”' she inquired in pensive curiosity.

Harrell gave a dismissive shrug. “They bungled everything, then had the nerve to put the bite on me to keep quiet about it.”

“So you killed them.”

“It's what they deserved.”

The lack of emotion in his voice was chilling. She would not let it affect her more than she could help. “You'll excuse me, I hope, but I may be something more than a loose end. I did mention that I'd had a conference with my lawyers this afternoon?”

She had their abrupt and total attention. Paul recovered first. A frown gathered between his brows as he asked, “What have you done?”

“Something I should have seen to a long time ago. I'm now in charge of my affairs, financial and otherwise. The first order of business will be a complete audit. When the extent of the damage done under your stewardship has been established, I will abolish the elaborate structure of family trusts you put in place and assume control. Naturally, you
will be expected to cooperate fully with the transfer of authority.”

Paul laughed. “Your lawyers? If you mean the family firm, I've been playing golf with those men for decades. They're friends of mine. Hell, half of them have bought Aspen condos and fleets of Mercedes off my business. All I have to do is explain how things stand and the problem will disappear.”

“I don't think so. The present head of the firm was a friend of my mother's, a good friend. His father went to Yale with my grandfather. They understand perfectly that I am ready to see after my own interests.”

“I'm sure your mental instability will be a factor in just who—”

“We also discussed the viability of a suit for libel. They expressed themselves as happy to pursue the matter on my behalf should you attempt to bring up such an issue. In the meantime, an independent accounting firm has been retained for the audit. You will deliver all books, records and documents pertaining to my inheritance from my mother to their office within forty-eight hours.”

“That's impossible and you know it!” Paul sputtered. “It will take the accountants at least a week to prepare the documents.”

“Preparation isn't necessary,” she responded. “Nor are adjustments. You will turn everything over as is, both for our sake and yours.”

His hand shook so the ice in his glass tinkled as he raised the scotch to his lips. It was, she thought, a positive sign that he needed time to doctor the books to cover up the misuse of trust accounts. Remembering her mother's last days, it didn't exactly hurt Tory to see it.

When it seemed he would make no reply, she went on again. “In the meantime, there will be no transfer of assets
unless I sign off on them with my legal representative as a witness. A sworn statement is now on record of my refusal to participate in any way in Harrell's—excuse me, yours and Harrell's—gambling venture or any other to which either of you are a party.” She looked at Harrell. “As for you, the gaming commission for the state of Louisiana has been contacted concerning your fraudulent application. You will be receiving a demand for the immediate return of all copies of documents that contain signatures forged with my name.”

“You bitch,” Harrell said, though the words were blank with shock.

“I did warn you, if you'll remember,” Tory said, her gaze direct. “You have twenty-four hours.”

“You're very big on time constraints, aren't you?” Paul sneered.

She gave him a brief glance. “Some things are better done quickly. I should also tell you, I think, that I made a will. If anything happens to me, bequests will be made to various charities, but the bulk of my estate will go to a young man in Louisiana named Jake Benedict.”

Harrell swore again, though the words were little more than a whisper.

“You can't do that,” Paul protested.

“I believe I can. In fact, it's done. If you don't intend to comply with the requests, you are free to retain your own lawyer to draft a response.”

“That damn hick sheriff,” Harrell said. “This is his doing.”

“Not at all.”

He snorted. “You'd never have had the nerve if not for him.”

That much was true, she knew, though not in the way Harrell meant. She didn't expect Roan to back her up on
this play, but his steadfast example of doing what he thought was right, regardless of the consequences, had given her the courage to stand up to her fears and fight back. No matter what happened, she would always be grateful for that.

“This is incredible,” Paul said. “I can't believe you'd do this to me.”

“What's incredible is that you think I wouldn't after what you did to my mother,” she said.

“I've been a father to you, given you everything…”

“You tolerated me for the sake of the money. Barely.”

“I managed your fortune, yes. It was natural that I take charge.”

“And unnatural to leave it in trust, then allow me to handle it myself when I came of age? You would think that way, wouldn't you? It's so convenient.”

Paul's face mirrored his disgust. “It's more than unnatural, it's obscene for people like you and your mother to have so much. What were you going to do with it? Give it away, as you're handing it over to this young yokel?”