Slow Burn (29 page)

Now his night was disturbed again. As he lit a thin cigarillo, one of his men came by and whispered in his ear, “Hernando is in Dade County Jail.”

His match flared. Died. “Hernando is a fool,” he said. “Fools are better off dead.” He flicked a minute particle of lint from the sleeve of his gray silk shirt. “Hernando was worse than a fool, I think. He was not right up here.” He pointed to his head. “Not where it counts for a man.”

The man bowed his head and backed away, everything completely understood.

It was time to take matters into his own hands, Ricky decided. Soon. But for the moment…

He saw a girl, generous curves contained within black velvet stretch pants. She had wavy, jet black hair, smooth bronze skin. She giggled a little annoyingly. It didn't matter. He would not be with her long.

She walked down the street. He lifted a hand. His man would go after the girl. Invite her to the penthouse. Entice her with promises and money. And she would come.

Ricky had never been wrong about a woman.

He hadn't been wrong about Spencer Huntington, either. Something would have to be done. Now.

And he was going to have to do it himself.

 

Cecily stepped out of the shower. She'd gotten too much sun today. Oh, God, when was she going to learn? Her looks just weren't going to last forever.

She reached for her lotion, then stepped out of the bathroom to glance at the bedroom television. Jared was there, stretched out on the bed, flicking the channels on the remote control.

“You're home!” she said, surprised.

“I am.”

She perched on the edge of the bed, staring at him. “Did you fix things?”

“No.”

“Damn it, Jared. She was out of the office most of the day!”

He rolled over and stared at her. He looked tired. Worn. Still handsome, though. “Cecily, she came back after lunch, rushing around like a tornado of energy. She swept through the place at a thousand miles an hour. She was into files, into the computer, into everything. If I had been fixing anything, I would have been in big-time trouble today.”

“It has to be fixed!” Cecily said. “Jared, our lives depend on it!”

“But Spencer's life—”

“The hell with precious little Spencer and her life! You've got to think about us now, Jared. Think about the children. Look, I think I caused some trouble for Spence today. Enough to keep her a little off kilter for a while, anyway. Jared, you must—
you must!
—take care of things!”

He groaned and turned his face into the pillow. “I will, Cecily,” he said hollowly. “I will.”

He sounded exhausted. Like a man who had absolutely reached his limit.

“Jared, things will be all right afterward. I swear, we'll make everything all right…after.”

She moved closer to him, and he laid his head on her lap. She rubbed his temples soothingly.

“It's funny, isn't it?” Jared said. “So damned funny. But I do love you, Cecily.”

She frowned. “It's not all that funny.”

“Maybe it's habit.”

“You want to hear something really funny?” she queried.

“What?”

“I guess I love you, too.”

He started to smile, then he reached up and pulled her face down for a kiss.

He was going to be all right. Yes, he was going to be all right, and it—life—would be all right, as well. Just as soon as this business with Spencer was finished.

 

When Spencer opened her eyes, she discovered that she was lying on her own bed. She still felt light-headed.

David was sitting on the side of the bed. Not touching her, just watching her.

“You okay?” he asked her.

She nodded. “Just not prepared…”

“Yeah, well, I can see that. I'm really batting a thousand here, huh? Let's see, sex with me and you cry your eyes out. A pregnancy and you pass out cold. Spencer, if you're not careful, you'll be letting all this go straight to my head.”

“David…”

He stood up. “I know. I said I'd leave you alone. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I'm leaving now.”

She struggled to sit up. “You don't understand.”

“No, Spencer, my problem is that I
do
understand. I'm not Danny. I can't be Danny. And this isn't Danny's child. It's yours, and it's mine, and that's enough. I can't help but be glad. I want children, Spencer.”

“But under the circumstances—”

“I don't give a damn about the circumstances, Spencer,” he said softly then started out of the room.

“David!” He paused in the doorway, but he didn't look at her. “You don't understand. I—I want this baby.”

His body seemed to quicken. He was afraid to go close to her again. Afraid to push.

He stayed in the doorway. “If it helps any, Spencer, I want you to know this,” he said. He had to pause. Had to regain his breath and force himself to speak steadily. “I love you. I loved you all those years ago, I never stopped loving you, and I love you now. Keep that in mind, will you, when you're thinking?”

He left the room, closing the door behind him. He was shaking.

He started down the stairs. Carefully. Walked into the kitchen, picked up Spencer's wine and downed it in a single gulp.

Spencer was going to have a child. His child. He was going to be a father. She could still change her mind, he reminded himself. But she wouldn't. Spencer adored children, and they adored her. She and Danny had been trying…

He winced and walked to the family room to stare at the pool. He could almost hear Danny's voice again, Danny's laughter.

For a moment he felt a shaft of the misery Spencer must be feeling at the irony of it all. She was pregnant at last—but with
his
child.

He closed his eyes, torn.

Then he was suddenly at peace. He had told her the truth that afternoon. He loved her. He always had. And he had loved Danny, too. No one had been a better friend. And no one had known Danny better.

Danny Huntington would never begrudge them a moment's happiness.

“Come to terms with it!” he told himself softly out loud.

All right. He loved Spencer. It didn't matter what he had ever tried to tell himself. She was going to have his baby and, come hell or high water, he was going to make her his at last.

All he had to do was keep her alive….

L
eave it to David, Spencer thought. First he'd dragged her out on that boat, then forced her into taking a pregnancy test, finally ground out something about having loved her all his life—and then walked out on her again.

But not completely. David still owed Sly, and he wasn't going to quit protecting her.

When she went downstairs that night, David didn't even mention the test, or anything remotely personal. He just wanted to see all of Danny's remaining papers. She took him into the office, where she had done a quick job of stuffing Danny's personal papers, notes and clippings into file cabinets. Despite appearances, Danny had been organized. He had always told her that there was a method to his madness, and it was true; he'd always been able to find what he was looking for right away.

“There's really nothing here,” she told David.

“There must be. Someone is trying to break in here for a reason.”

“The guy downstairs was just watching the house—”

“But Harris stopped an intruder.”

“Breaking and entering in any big city.” She hesitated. “Besides, I thought someone was supposedly trying to kill me?”

“Yeah, someone
is
out to hurt you, Spencer. But I think that someone wants into the house, too.”

“The house sat empty for months while I was away after Danny died. Why didn't they break in then?”

“Because until you started stirring things up again, scaring someone, they didn't see any need.” He took several of the files and tucked them under his arm. “I think I'll start with these.”

He walked out of the room and started toward the door. She followed him. “You're leaving?”

“Spencer, my clothes are crusted with salt, and I'm tired. And I told you that I'd leave you alone. Besides, to be truthful, at the moment I need to get away from you, too.”

And that was it. He left. Juan was outside, on watch. The next morning, Tuesday, Jimmy followed her to work.

She wanted time; she had told him that, and she'd meant it. One minute she still felt an almost hysterical sense of irony, as if she had betrayed Danny a thousand times over in her heart and in reality. The next minute she would manage to get a grip on sanity. There was something she was reaching for, something she had to know, something she had to understand. And if she could just touch it, she would be all right….

Each time her careening thoughts and emotions followed that swing of the pendulum, she wanted David. She wanted to shake him, to ask him if he'd meant what he'd said about loving her. There
was
something there between them. There always had been, a link that neither time nor distance had erased, and which had exploded anew when circumstances brought them together again.

She couldn't do any work to speak of on Tuesday morning. But later she was forced into thinking when she got a call from Sandy about a problem with the purchase of her new home. She had used a check from her personal account for the down payment, and, for some reason she couldn't even begin to guess, that check had bounced.

“I can't understand it,” she told Sandy, frowning. She switched on her computer and drew up the account records. According to the screen, the money was there.

“The seller is getting antsy on this one,” Sandy said unhappily. “Maybe someone transferred those funds somewhere else? Or perhaps you could write a check on another account?”

“Yes, I'll do that. Swing by. I'll have another check for you in a matter of minutes.”

She hung up. There would be no problem borrowing money from one of Sly's accounts, but she certainly wouldn't do it without asking him. She hurried from her office to his, unaware that Audrey was staring at her as she hurried by.

“Sly, there's something wrong with one of the money market accounts. My records don't coincide with the bank's, and I have to straighten it out. Until I do, I need a loan. A big loan.”

Sly arched a brow and sat back at his desk. “You can take anything you want, you know that, Spencer.” He frowned. “You don't mean that money is missing from the trust fund Danny set up, do you?”

“No, I've never touched that.”

“Why not? He left it for you.”

“But I didn't need it, Sly. And somehow, I feel that it's blood money. I guess I never intended to keep it. I haven't decided exactly what to do with it, but I'm leaning toward splitting it between a children's hospital and the fund for the children of slain officers.”

Sly nodded. “It's a lot of money, Spencer.”

“I've never needed as much money as people seemed to think,” she remarked lightly.

Sly smiled. “What was David's big beef yesterday?” he asked her, catching her off guard.

“I…” she began, then stopped. She wasn't ready to get into this with anyone. Not even Sly.

Maybe especially Sly. Although she almost smiled, imagining her mother's expression if she were to call with the truth. “I know how you felt about my marrying David way back when, Mom, but don't worry. I'm not going to marry him—in fact, he hasn't even suggested it. I'm just going to have his illegitimate child.”

Ah, yes, that would go over very well….

She would tell a lie at the moment. A very white lie. “I ran into Gene Vichy at the club.”

“Ran into him?”

“All right, he'd called and asked to see me.”

“I see,” Sly told her.

“That's all? You're not going to say anything about me being an idiot?”

“Do I need to?” he asked.

“All right, no, but it wasn't dangerous. Really. He just told me that he was innocent.”

“Spencer, are you expecting someone to call you and confess?” he asked.

“You never know,” she said stubbornly. “Something just might slip out somewhere.”

“I hear David caught a peeping Tom in your yard, a man who worked for Ricky Garcia.”

“So David thinks.”

“I imagine he's right.” He hesitated for a minute. “I just talked to him a few minutes ago. The man was found hanged in his cell this morning. The other three guys in there didn't see a thing.”

She felt sick. Absolutely sick. “I have to go,” she whispered to Sly.

Moments later she passed Audrey again, slipping inside her office, and closed the door, then leaned against it, resting her cheek against the cool wood.

A peculiar sensation crept along her spine. She spun.

Jared was there.

“Jared!”

“I have to—I have to talk to you, Spencer.”

She sat down uneasily, indicating one of the chairs in front of her desk.

He sat. He looked gray.

“I took the money, Spencer.”

“What?”

“I ran up some gambling debts. You were away. I couldn't tell Sly—I'm not his precious granddaughter.” For a moment, he sounded very bitter. “God, Spencer, I'm sorry. I've spent the time since trying to replace every last cent I took, but I was bleeding it back in through the company account and I ran out of time.”

She felt cold, numb. As if huge waves of ice water were washing through her. She tried to form words, but she couldn't, so she just sat there.

Finally her voice began to work. “Did you plan to push me off the balcony of the house when we went to see it?”

“What?” he demanded.

“You heard me. Did you try to kill me, Jared?”

“God, no, Spence!” He leaned forward, pressing his temples with his palms. “God, no! I swear it! Is that what you thought? Sweet Jesus, for a moment there I did think about jumping, but I wouldn't hurt
you,
Spencer, not for the world.”

She sat back, desperate to believe him. “Why didn't you just come to me when you were in trouble?” she asked hoarsely.

He lifted his hands, shook his head. “Spencer, you were practically bleeding yourself when it happened. Danny had just died. You didn't really hear anything anyone said to you. Then you were gone. And I couldn't just take the money from one of Sly's accounts. He may be old, but he's got an eagle eye.” He stood up, looking worn-out and old.

And Sly thought I looked like hell! Spencer thought.

“I didn't tell Cecily at first, and we nearly split up—she thought I was having an affair.”

“Were you doing that as well?”

“Briefly,” he admitted uncomfortably. “It was how I got started gambling. I confessed to Cecily—about the gambling—because I didn't want my marriage to fall apart.” He sat down again. “You know, the years go by, some of the excitement goes…sometimes you're looking for other things, or trying to get the excitement back. But I do love my wife. You know Cecily, though. If I'd fallen into disgrace, she wouldn't have been too willing to come along with me. At first I went to my father, but he's retired. He couldn't cover what I owed. I really thought I could get it all back into your account before you found out, but then you decided to buy that damned house…. If you'd waited even a few more days, everything would have been okay.”

She sat there, staring numbly at him. He got up and went around to her side of the desk, then went down on one knee next to her, taking both her hands. “Spencer, I'm sorry. I swear to you, I'm sorry. And I still can't believe you thought I would hurt you.”

She believed him. She didn't know if it was only because she wanted to, but she believed him. She exhaled slowly.

“How did you make the money back?”

“It took a while, but I sold my investment acreage up in Jupiter. I got lucky. I more than tripled my investment.” He sighed, looking down. “And I went into the kids' college funds, but I'll make that up, too.” He stood. “Are you going to tell Sly?”

She shook her head.

He smiled a little bitterly. “Are you going to wait until the company's yours and then fire my ass?”

She had to smile at that. “I could wait a long time. Sly may be in his nineties, but his grandfather lived to be a hundred and thirteen, so he tells me. By the time Sly is gone, we could both be old and senile. I'd probably have forgotten what you did.”

“Thanks, Spence,” he said softly. He headed for the door, then looked at her.

“Spencer, I swear I've worked hard for this business. I've done well with our investments, I know the architectural history almost as well as you do, and I've always put my heart and soul into the operation of Montgomery Enterprises. For all my sins, I never wanted to be the cousin hanging on to your shirttails.”

“I know that, Jared.”

He nodded and started to speak again, but he couldn't seem to find words.

“Two things, Jared. If you're ever in trouble again, be honest with me, damn it.”

“Yeah,” he said huskily. “What's number two?”

“Go away and don't talk to me about this anymore. And don't go looking over any more railings, scaring me half to death.”

He grinned. “I think you hit three and four, as well.” He swallowed painfully. “Thanks, Spence.”

“Number five, Jared. Quit saying that.”

He nodded and left. After the door closed behind him, Spencer looked down. Her fingers were trembling. Had he been telling her the truth? The
complete
truth?

It had to be the truth. It would be too painful if it was anything else.

 

David sat at his desk, yawning. He sipped his coffee, blinked hard and looked at the papers spread before him.

Danny's personal files were a mess.

He'd kept dozens of newspaper clippings, some of them bits about mysterious deaths, some of them articles on the grave robberies attributed to Trey Delia and his followers. At least Trey Delia was still in prison.

Perhaps he was still ruling his empire from behind bars? Not perhaps—certainly. But that didn't mean he had killed Danny, or that he wanted to kill Spencer.

David started sorting through the papers again. He came across a magazine article on a witchcraft case during Louis XIV's reign. Even the Sun King's mistress had been involved, playing with different potions. Some of her “aphrodisiacs” had turned out to be poisonous. The woman had gotten away with her crimes, though she had lost the king's affections. Dozens of others had burned.

David set it aside, then picked it up again and read it more closely, looking to see if the witches had raided cemeteries and used human body parts. Nothing on it. He set the article down again.

More clippings, these on Ricky Garcia's alleged crimes.

Then still more clippings, this time on the death of Gene Vichy's very rich socialite wife. She'd been found slumped against the coral rock fireplace in her elegant bedroom. Despite all the masterpieces in the exquisite house on Bayshore Drive, only her diamonds had been taken. And not a fingerprint—other than those that should have been there—had been found. She'd been bludgeoned with a statuette from the mantel, but the killer had apparently worn gloves. Only the maid's prints and Mrs. Vichy's prints had been on the statuette. Gene Vichy's had been absent. And no one had ever suggested that the maid had killed her mistress, or that Vickie Vichy had conked herself on the head.