Vengeance Is Mine (21 page)

PROLOGUE

Alan Stanford's smile disappeared with his last bite of turkey. It had been a pleasant Thanksgiving meal with his parents and his younger sister, but Alan's time was about up. He'd promised his girlfriend, Connie Wilson, he'd make the big announcement when dinner was over, and the traditional dessert was about to be served.

Alan's hands started to shake as the maid carried in the pumpkin pie. It was lightly browned on top and still warm from the oven, the way his father, the senior Mr. Stanford, preferred. When the maid presented it to his mother to slice, just as if she'd baked it herself, a wry smile flickered across Alan's face. It was doubtful that Mrs. Stanford had ever ventured as far as the kitchen, and the thought that his impeccably groomed, silver-haired mother might put on an apron and roll out a pie crust was patently ridiculous.

Rather than think about the words he'd soon have to utter, Alan considered the hypocrisy of etiquette. One praised the hostess for a delicious dinner, even if it had been catered. And one always called the daughter of a colleague a lady, whether she was one or not. The term “gentleman” referred to any man with enough money to make him socially desirable, and an estate was simply a home with enough land to house a condo complex. All the same, etiquette might save him some embarrassment tonight. There would be no scenes, no tears, no recriminations. After Alan had informed the family of his decision, his father would suggest he and Alan retire to the library where they'd discuss the matter in private.

“This is lovely, Mother.” Beth, Alan's younger sister, was dutifully complimentary. “And I really do think it's much better warm, with chilled crème fraîche.”

Alan's mother smiled. “Yes, dear. Your father prefers it this way. Another piece, Ralph?”

“Just a small one.” Alan's father held out his plate. “You know I'm watching my cholesterol.”

Alan waited while his mother cut another piece of pie. Nothing ever changed at the Stanford mansion. His father always said he was watching his cholesterol, and he always had a second serving of pie. Every Thanksgiving was exactly the same, but Alan was about to change the order of their lives. By this time next Thanksgiving, there would be two more guests at the oval table. The rules of etiquette were clear. They'd be obligated to invite his wife and son.

There were three bites remaining on his father's plate, perhaps four if he ate all the crust. Alan knew how a condemned man felt as his father's fork cut and carried each bite, one by one, to his mouth. The white linen napkin came up, to dab at the corners of his father's lips, and Alan took a deep breath. He'd promised Connie. He couldn't delay any longer.

“I have an announcement to make.” Alan's voice was a little too loud because of his effort not to sound tentative. “Connie and I are getting married.”

There was complete silence around the table. It lasted for several seconds, and then Beth gave a hesitant smile. “That's wonderful, Alan. Isn't that wonderful, Mother?”

“Oh . . . yes.” His mother's voice was strained, and Alan noticed that all the color had left her face. He could see the lines of her makeup, the exact spot where the edge of the blush met the foundation. “Yes, indeed. That's wonderful, dear.”

Was it really going to be this easy? Alan turned to look at his father. The older man was frowning as he pushed back his chair. “Superb dinner, Marilyn. Alan, why don't you join me in the library for cognac?”

It wasn't an invitation; it was an order. Alan slid his chair back and stood up. Then he walked to the end of the table to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother. Dinner was excellent.”

“Coming, Alan?”

His father looked impatient, so Alan followed him to the second-floor library. He accepted a snifter of cognac, even though he wasn't fond of its taste, then waited for all hell to break loose.

“Sit down.” Alan's father motioned toward the two wing chairs in front of the fireplace. A fire had been laid. As it burned cheerfully, it gave off the scent of cherry wood. Naturally, the fire was real. The fireplace was made of solid river rock; no expense had been spared when his grandfather had built the Stanford mansion.

Alan's father took a sip of his cognac and set it down on the table. He then turned to Alan, frowning. “Now that we're away from the ladies, suppose you tell me what
that
was all about.”

“Connie and I are getting married.” It was difficult, but Alan met his father's eyes. “Don't worry, Father. I don't expect you to approve, or even understand, but I love Connie and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Ralph Stanford sighed and then shook his head. “Now, son . . . I'm sure she's a fine girl, but you can't be serious about actually bringing her into our family.”

“I'm very serious.” Alan managed not to drop his eyes. “We're getting married next week, Father. It's all arranged. Of course we'd be delighted if you'd come to the wedding, but Connie doesn't expect it and neither do I.”

Alan's father sighed again. “All right, son. I'd hoped I wouldn't have to resort to this, but I see that I have no other choice.”

Alan watched as his father walked to the antique desk and opened the center drawer. Ralph Stanford's mouth was set in a grim line as he handed Alan a typed report in a blue binding.

“Read this. There may be some facts about your intended that you don't know.”

Alan's hands were steady as he opened the binder and started to read. Everything was here, from Connie's illegitimate birth to her mother's years on welfare. The investigator hadn't mentioned the name of Connie's father. That was too bad. Connie would have liked to know. But the report went into detail about the man Connie's mother had married, how he'd abused her and forced her into prostitution to support his drug habit, how she'd been an alcoholic.

It was a wonder that Connie was so kind and loving, coming from a background like hers. Alan sighed as he read about how her stepfather had repeatedly molested her, had even offered her to his friends.

Alan knew all about Connie's past, how she'd run away the night of her fifteenth birthday, lived with a series of men, worked in a topless club as a dancer, and finally saved enough money to finish a secretarial course. Alan had met Connie at work, when she'd come in as a temporary replacement for one of the secretaries. She'd agreed to move in with him only after she'd told him the story of her life.

When he'd finished the last page and closed the report, Alan handed it back to his father. Then he waited. The ball was in his father's court.

Ralph Stanford cleared his throat. “Well, son?”

“Don't pay him, Father.” Alan managed not to grin.

“What?”

“Don't pay this detective. He left out the part about Pete Jones, the truck driver Connie lived with for almost a year. And he didn't find out about the job Connie took in a massage parlor on lower Hennepin.”

“You knew about all this? Still you want to marry this woman?”

Alan smiled. His father looked utterly deflated, the first time Alan had seen him like this. “It's not a question of
wanting
to marry Connie. I'm
going
to marry her. And nothing you can say will stop me!”

“But . . . why?”

“Because we love each other.” His father seemed to have aged in the past few minutes, and that made Alan feel bad. But he'd promised Connie he'd tell him everything, so he had another blow to deliver. “Connie's pregnant. We didn't plan it, and she suggested abortion, but I wouldn't agree. She only did it to please me. She wants this baby just as much as I do.”

Alan's father swallowed hard. A vein in his forehead was throbbing as he leaned forward to put a hand on Alan's arm. “Listen to me, son. You're falling into the oldest trap in the world!”

Alan shook his head. “It's not a trap. I'm the one who insisted that Connie marry me. She knew you wouldn't approve, and she didn't want to cause trouble in the family. She was willing to leave and raise the baby herself.”

As Ralph Stanford remained silent, Alan's hopes rose. Was it possible he'd convinced his father? Would the family accept Connie and the baby?

The library was so quiet Alan could hear the individual flakes of snow as they blew against the windows. It was turning icy as the night approached; the temperature had fallen to single digits. Each gust of wind was followed by sounds like those of a snare drum as snow turned to sleet that hit the glass panes.

At last Alan's father nodded. “All right. The two of you will continue to live in the condo, where she'll have every advantage. The family will support her, pay her medical bills, and provide any help she needs. When she gives birth, we'll do a paternity test; then you'll have our permission to marry.”

“What!” Alan was so shocked, he stood up. “A paternity test would be an insult to Connie—and to me! I'm telling you, Father, this baby is mine!”

“Perhaps. But we can't take the chance that you're wrong. Just remember, son, it's a wise man who knows the father of his own child.”

“You're crazy!” Alan was so upset, he found he was fumbling for words. “Listen to me, Connie would never . . . I can't believe that you'd actually . . .”

Alan's father rose and took his arm. “Calm down. I'm not accusing her of anything. I'm just saying that before you commit yourself, it's best to make certain. If it'll make you feel better, we won't even tell her about the paternity test. Our own doctor will do it in the hospital and will keep it strictly confidential.”

“There won't be any paternity test.” Alan's eyes were hard as he pulled away. “I'll give you until this time tomorrow to make a decision. You'll accept my wife and my child—welcome them into the family—or you'll never see me again!”

 

 

Alan's hands were shaking as he pulled out of the driveway. For the first time in his life, he'd taken a stand. He should feel proud that he hadn't let his father browbeat him into submission, but he didn't, not yet. He was too furious about his father's accusation to experience any emotion but rage.

How dare his father suspect Connie of tricking him into marriage! What gall to say that the baby might not be his! Alan was so upset he took the curve a little too fast and his Porsche started to skid on the slippery pavement.

He knew better than to stomp on the brakes. He'd grown up in Minnesota and was accustomed to winter driving. He steered in the direction of the skid, gained control of the powerful car, and touched the brakes lightly to slow. The Stanford mansion was up in the hills, overlooking Lake Minnetonka. The downhill road was steep and curving, and the snow had turned to sleet. If he didn't pay attention to his driving, he could skid through the guard rail on his way home.

Connie would be waiting for him at the condo. Thinking about her made Alan's anger begin to subside. He wouldn't tell her about his father's reaction. He'd just say he'd given the family until tomorrow to work things out. And he certainly wouldn't mention the accusations his father had made; Connie would be crushed. It was up to him to protect her from his family.

Alan switched on the car's stereo. Connie's favorite CD started to play, and he smiled. That was when he noticed the lights in his rearview mirror.

A truck was bearing down on him, following much too closely. The driver honked his air horn, several rapid blasts to signify that he wanted to pass, but there was no place to pull over on the narrow, two-lane road.

The truck driver hit his air horn again, one long blast that shattered the stillness of the night. His emergency lights were blinking on and off, and Alan knew what that meant. The driver had lost his brakes and was heading for the escape lane about a mile ahead.

Alan pressed down on the gas pedal. He had no other choice. If the driver had lost control of the truck, he'd be rear-ended.

The next few moments were tense. Alan screeched around the curves, hoping he could outdistance the runaway truck. He came out of the curves much too fast for a road partially covered with icy snow, but the exit for the escape lane was just ahead.

Alan watched in his rearview mirror as the truck barreled onto the escape lane. This stretch of roadway climbed gradually uphill, with sand traps to slow the truck. At the end was an absorbent barrier, especially designed to stop a runaway truck with minimal damage.

“Thank God!” Alan reached up to wipe his forehead. Sweat was streaming into his eyes, and he was almost weak with relief. If the truck had rear-ended him, they'd both be dead. But he'd made it through the curves. Now everything was just fine.

There was a sound like a gunshot, and Alan's Porsche swerved sharply, almost wrenching the wheel from his hands. His right front tire had blown. He was heading straight for the ditch!

He fought the wheel with all his strength, struggling to control the skid. It worked, and he was just thanking his lucky stars, when the unexpected happened again. There was another explosion, and his left front tire blew out.

Alan wore an expression of shocked disbelief as his Porsche swerved in the opposite direction. Then he was crashing through the guard rail, hurtling out into space, rolling end over end to the bottom of the hill.

When the Porsche hit the rocks at the bottom of the ravine, it flipped over several times, coming to rest on its back, its racing tires spinning uselessly in the air. Alan was trapped in the expensive shell of his luxury car. He didn't hear a passing motorist call out to him, didn't smell the stench of gasoline, or experience the salty, slightly metallic taste of his own blood. He didn't see the paramedics flip open his wallet to discover his organ donor card, didn't feel careful hands pull him from the wreck. The quick action of the well-trained emergency team kept his heart pumping blood and his lungs taking in oxygen, but the brain of the man who had been Alan Stanford showed, when checked at the hospital, a flat, unending line on the graph—death.