Working Stiff (20 page)

They’d gone about a mile from her house, taking apparently random twists and turns, when McCallister finally said, “I don’t see a tail.”

“That’s good.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I’m switching cars.”

“You’re
what
?”

“I could have missed something. This isn’t a game, Bryn. It’s not television. I can’t afford to take a chance with our lives.”

“I thought I was hard to kill.”

His voice, when it came, sounded grim. “You’re not hard to
hurt
.”

McCallister got on the car phone and ordered up a second car from one of his Pharmadene henchpersons. Within half an hour, they’d pulled into a parking lot and switched vehicles with another man driving a similar car.

“Where’s he going?” Bryn asked.

“Anywhere but where we’re going. If anyone’s tracking him, it’ll be a wasted and lengthy trip.”

“Well, where are
we
going?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“In case we’re being monitored.”

He didn’t answer, but then, she really had stopped expecting him to make the effort to give her any actual information.

They left the downtown lights behind and drifted into suburbia, sleepy streets and darkened houses. He kept driving, and now that the adrenaline had worn off she found herself dozing, her head at an uncomfortable angle against the window. She must have faded out for a while, because when she jerked upright again McCallister was pulling to a stop in front of a massive stone wall pierced by an enormous, forbidding wrought-iron gate.

It slowly opened, revealing a moonlit blue-tinged gravel drive that was probably blindingly white in full day. The hedges were manicured and shaped as if they’d been taken to a high-end salon, not one leaf fluttering out of place. Bryn blinked as he drove up a long, winding path, past stately old trees and perfect rose gardens and a white gazebo large enough to host the New York Philharmonic for an afternoon concert.

A massive square block of a house appeared at the top of the next curving hill, illuminated with tasteful outdoor spotlights. The place was the size of a mall, Bryn thought, not to mention being so elaborate it could have been used in a movie with women in corsets and men behaving badly.

McCallister pulled up in front of the front steps, and the massive wooden door opened to reveal an actual
butler
. Well, she assumed he was, although he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo. More of a dinner jacket, which was remarkable enough at this late hour.

“Where
are
we?” Bryn asked.

“Home,” McCallister said. “Come on.”

This could not
possibly
be someone’s home. Not anyone who actually worked for a living. But McCallister walked around, opened her door, and she looked at Mr. French, who huffed something in dogspeak and jumped out to toddle along after him.

“Traitor,” she said, and grabbed her bag.

The butler was an older man, well into gray hair, but with a kind face that put Bryn at ease immediately. He took the suitcase from her without hearing any kind of protests, and said, “Miss Davis, I’ll take this to your room.”

“Give her the Auburn Room, Liam. I want her in a defensible position,” McCallister said. The butler nodded briskly and went up the stairs with her bag, leaving her and Mr. French to gawk at the huge, vaulted entry hall. It was some odd shape—octagonal, maybe—with three doors angled out of it, plus the staircase sweeping grandly into the shadows. She had an overwhelming impression of age, solidity, and above all,
wealth
. The paintings. The tapestries. The richly colored rugs on the floor.

“Welcome,” McCallister said, “to the ancestral millstone around my neck. Before you ask, yes, it’s mine. Or, more properly, it belongs to my family’s trust, and I’m allowed to rent it for a nominal fee.”

What did you say to that? Bryn finally settled for a subdued “Wow,” and studied a painting close to her. She’d seen that image before. They sold posters of it at Wal-Mart. “So you’re … rich.” Evidently, that was an understatement.

“Not really. As I said, most of this belongs to the trust; I just act as the administrator. I’m …” He thought for a second, and smiled. “A caretaker, I suppose. I avoid the place as often as possible, anyway. Liam is more than capable of running the enterprise without my interference.”

“But it belongs to your family.”

“No, to the trust. It belonged to my father. And my father didn’t leave it to me.” McCallister looked around for Mr. French, who was sniffing a low-hanging tapestry quite carefully, flat nose buried in the probably priceless fabric. “Ah, would you mind …?”

“Come here, dogface,” she said, and scooped him up. He squirmed, but she held him. God forbid the mutt should pee on anything in here; she’d be in debt for the rest of her life. “Who did your dad leave it to?”

“My brother,” McCallister said. “He died.” That was short, unemotional, and didn’t invite any more questions. “Let me take you to your room.”

“The Auburn Room,” she said. “Is everything named that pretentiously around here?”

“Be nice. I could have put you in the Aubergine Suite.”

“My God.”

“I’m two doors down,” he said. “If you need anything, you can press the button for Liam, or come get me. Don’t go wandering by yourself.”

“Ghosts?”

“None that would bother you.” Again, there was that slammed conversational door. McCallister jogged up a few steps, then turned and looked back at her. “Something else?”

She paused, hand on the railing. “What is your room called?”

“Patrick’s room,” he said. “But it used to be called the Black Room.”

Somehow, she wasn’t at all surprised.

The Auburn Room was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Bryn paused in the doorway, staring at the graceful lines of the canopied bed, the massive gilt-framed mirror that stretched half the length of the room, the silks in muted orange, rich browns, harvest golds.
If the Queen of England has a favorite room, this is probably it
, she thought. Her cheap little suitcase looked particularly pathetic where Liam had put it on a folding luggage rack. The luggage rack was probably worth more than the entire contents,
and
the suitcase.

She’d been starting to like McCallister, but now … now she couldn’t honestly believe that they had anything at all in common. He came from a whole different reality than she—or anybody she knew—lived in. Why in the
hell
was he working as some corporate drone?

“I hope this is suitable, ma‘am,” Liam said, and gave her a warm smile. “Shall I bring a bed for your dog?”

“Um … can I let him sleep with me?”

“Of course.”

Yeah, what was a little dog hair on that national treasure of a bedspread, or the rug that the
Antiques Roadshow
appraisers would have orgasmed over? She let Mr. French hop down to run around the room sniffing excitedly, and tried not to think about the disaster that might happen next.

Liam was watching her, and clearly knew what she was thinking, because he smiled and said, “No worries about the dog, ma’am. We have seven here, including two rottwei-lers, three greyhounds, a poodle, and a pug. Your friend is quite welcome. I’ll bring some food and water for him. Anything for you?”

“I’m all kibbled out,” she said. “I think I just need to sleep, but thank you. And thanks for not making me feel … second-class.”

“You’re assuredly not,” he said, and nodded to her before closing the door behind him.

That lasted about two full seconds before there was another rap on the wood, and when she looked out, McCallister was there. He cleared his throat. “So you’ll be all right.” It wasn’t a question, really. “As I said, I’m two rooms down. The panic button is next to your bed. Press it if you’re in any way alarmed, and Liam will come running. So will I.”

“Why do you work for Pharmadene?” she asked, as he reached for the doorknob. “You must have a reason. It’s not like you need the job. If I lived here, I’d never clip on some corporate badge and wear a monkey suit.”

He considered giving her an honest answer—she could see that in the way he looked at her—but then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss all that some other time; it’s a long story. For now, please get some sleep. Liam will make sure you’re ready for breakfast. We’ll be leaving right after that.”

“Going where?”

“Hopefully,” he said, “to someone who can help you more than I can.”

“Patrick?” She saw him glance back over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door. “Back at my apartment, we—”

He shook his head, and left without a word.

“—didn’t do anything,” she finished softly, as the door shut. “Right. Professional relationship it is. No problem.”

Despite the amazing down mattress and soft sheets and feathery duvet, neither she nor Mr. French slept much at all.

The morning dawned soft and bright, with those kind of cheerful chirping country bird sounds that Bryn thought existed only in the movies. She felt tired, but oddly at peace, and swung open the window to look out at the unbelievable view of the manicured, jewel-perfect gardens. That lasted about a minute, until Mr. French marched to the closed (and locked) bedroom door, whined, and she remembered that mansions probably didn’t come with convenient doggy doors. She was pulling on her robe and slippers and wondering what the rules were about wandering around this place looking ratty when a soft knock came at the door.

She unlocked it and peeked out. Liam smiled politely and said, “May I take the young lad for a walk outside?”

Oh. “Well … if you don’t mind …”

“Absolutely no trouble, Miss Davis. Will you want coffee or tea with your breakfast?”

Right on cue, she remembered her caffeine deficit, and her stomach rumbled. “Coffee,” she said. “And just a bagel, please. Oh—Liam?”

“Yes, miss.”

“What’s the story about this house?”

Liam regarded her for a few seconds without replying, then leaned against the door and said, “I’m not sure that Mr. McCallister shouldn’t tell you himself.”

“Mr. McCallister has a policy of telling me absolutely nothing, and it’s getting pretty old.”

“He does tend to be very private,” Liam agreed. “Very well. His great-grandfather was a hardscrabble railroad man who made a fortune, which his grandson set about squandering. Luckily, his granddaughter was more astute, and by the time Mr. McCallister’s father was born, the fortune had been successfully defended.”

“He said he had a brother.”

“He did.”

She waited, but he didn’t expand on it. “
And
?”

“I believe Patrick told you that Jamie died.”

“It sounds like neither one of you wants to tell me the truth about it.”

“So it does,” Liam said. “I should walk the dog, miss. Go down to breakfast when you’re ready.”

He left before she could think of any better way to pry information out of him. Not that she’d have succeeded. Liam and Patrick both seemed to have taken vows of silence on the subject.

Freshly scrubbed and dressed, she came downstairs to find Mr. French comfortably snuggled into a doggy bed near the door, looking deliriously happy. Liam showed her to the Small Room, which apparently was where the breakfast buffet was laid out; the room wasn’t
small
, and it held enough food to take care of a fairly major armed camp. “I just wanted a bagel,” she said weakly, surveying the ranks of gleaming serving trays. Liam pulled out a chair at the table, and she saw a steaming china cup and a bagel ready for her, just the way she’d asked. “Oh.” She sank down, and was taking her first sip as Patrick McCallister walked in.

I made this man sleep on my ratty old Sears couch
, she thought.
Covered with a Wal-Mart blanket. In my six-hundred-a-month apartment. I made him eat peanut butter and crackers off of paper plates.

She wasn’t sure which emotion that boiled up in her was the most apt: a vague sense of shame for being … not part of this world; anger, for making her feel inadequate; or surprise, because once again, Patrick McCallister looked like a real person when he smiled.

Or a secret, unsettling sense of delight that there was warmth in the smile, despite everything.

Bryn shook it off and forced herself to look at him analytically. He looked like he was wearing an identical suit, shirt, and tie to what he’d had on yesterday, only these were spotless and wrinkle-free. Maybe Liam had some kind of overnight cleaning service, too. Even his shoes were shiny. He filled up a breakfast plate, moving fast but gracefully, and took a seat across from Bryn.

“Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” she said. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I? Fast Freddy rose from the dead and someone is apparently climbing sheer walls like a lizard to get at me. Nothing to keep me awake there.”

“He won’t be climbing them here,” Liam said, sounding absolutely convinced of it. “Motion sensors on the walls, security at every possible entrance. Constant monitoring. You’re quite safe here, miss.”

Before she had a chance to feel better about that, McCallister said, “She’s not staying. We’ll be leaving right after breakfast.”

“I see.” Liam’s eyebrows went up just a little. “Will you be needing anything in the way of supplies?”

McCallister flat-out grinned at that. “I’m starting to wonder if you think being a butler means that you’re Alfred and I’m Bruce Wayne. Do we have a Batcave?”

“Once again, I’m not a butler, sir. I’m an estate administrator. And we do not have a Batcave that I’m aware of, but I can certainly check the basements just in case. I was speaking more of providing you with a packed lunch. Perhaps some coffee in a thermos.”

“Ah,” McCallister said, and took a bite of bacon, which Bryn was starting to regret not having. “Lunch and coffee would be fine. Thanks.”