Golden Lies (5 page)

"You shouldn't have come. I asked you not to," she said in a somewhat hoarse voice. He wondered how often she spoke to anyone. Had her voice grown raspy from disuse? A twinge of guilt stabbed his soul. Had he done this to her? If they had never met, would she have ended up here?

"I had to come," he said slowly, forcing himself to focus on the subject at hand.

"It is always this way in the week before Elizabeth's birthday. That is when you seek me out. But I can no longer comfort you. It isn't fair of you to ask."

Her words put a knife through his already bleeding heart. "This isn't about Elizabeth."

"It has always been about her. You must leave now."

He ignored the anger in her eyes. "I have a dragon that looks very much like the one in your painting, Jasmine."

Her eyes widened. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"It doesn't exist. You know that. It was something I saw in a dream."

"I think it does exist. Let me come in. Let me show you."

Jasmine hesitated. "If this is an excuse—"

"It's not." He glanced over his shoulder, not seeing anyone but feeling as if they were being watched. There were many eyes behind the thick curtains that covered the nearby windows. "Let me in before someone sees me."

"Just for a moment," she said, allowing him to step inside. "Then you must go before Alyssa comes."

"I will go," he promised, "after you look at this." He pulled the dragon out of the canvas bag and watched her reaction.

Her gasp of disbelief told him everything he needed to know.

* * *

Riley McAllister pedaled harder, the street in front of him rising at an impossibly steep angle. Even the cars were parked horizontally to protect from accidental runaways. Most people were content to ride their bikes along the bay or through Golden Gate Park, but Riley loved the challenge of the hills that made up San Francisco.

He could feel the muscles in his legs burning as he pumped harder, the incline working against him. He switched speeds on his mountain bike, but it didn't help. This wasn't about the bike; it was about him, what he was capable of doing. It didn't matter that he'd conquered this hill a week ago. He had to do it again. He had to prove it wasn't a fluke.

His chest tightened as his breath came faster. He was halfway up the hill. He raised his body on the bike, practically standing as he forced the pedals down one after the other, over and over again. It was slow going. He felt as if he was barely moving. A car passed him, and a teenage boy stuck his head out the window and yelled, "Hey, dude, get a car."

Riley would have yelled back, but he couldn't afford to waste a precious breath. Nor could he afford to stop pedaling. Otherwise, he'd go flying backward down the hill a lot faster than he'd come up. He pressed on, telling himself this was what it was all about, pushing the limits, forcing the issue, achieving the impossible. He was only a few feet away from the top of the hill now.

Damn, he was tired. He felt light-headed, almost dizzy. But he wouldn't quit. He'd faced bigger challenges than this. He couldn't give in. Quitting was what his mother would have wanted him to do, what she'd told him to do many times.
If you can't do it, just quit, Riley. You're just not that good at things. You're not smart. You're not artistic. You're not very musical, but you can't help it. You take after your father.
Whoever the hell he was. Aside from his name, Paul McAllister, Riley knew absolutely nothing about his father.

The funny thing was the more his mother told him he couldn't do something, the more he wanted to prove her wrong. That feeling had driven him through boot camp and a stint in the marines, and it was still driving him today. Maybe he was as big a fool as his grandmother, believing that his mother might actually care that he'd ridden up the steepest hill in San Francisco today.

Forget about her
. He heard his grandfather's stern, booming voice in his head now.
This isn't about your mother; it's about you. No one else can fight your battles for you. In the end we all stand alone. So when it comes your time to stand front and center, raise your chin high, look everyone straight in the eye, and know in your heart that you're up to the challenge.

The words sent him over the top of the hill.

Pumping a fist in the air, he coasted across the intersection. In front of him was one of the best views in the world, the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. He could see sailboats bouncing along the bumpy water. Alcatraz was in the distance, a ferry boat pulling up to the famous old island prison. Angel Island lay beyond, Marin County, the rest of Northern California. The world was literally at his feet. At least his small part of the world. And it felt good. Damn good.

He flew down the next hill, loving the wind in his face. His cheeks began to cool, his heart slowed to a more comfortable beat, and his breathing came much easier. This was supposed to be the best part. But in truth, the best part had been those last few seconds before he hit the top, the moments when he wasn't sure he could do it. Now he knew. But he also knew that the good feeling would only last until tomorrow. Then he'd have to find some other hill to climb.

He let out a sigh and began to pedal as he reached a flat area. A quick glance at his watch told him he needed to get back to the office, wrap up a few loose ends, then pick up his grandmother and meet the Hathaways. He had to admit he was curious about the value of his grandmother's dragon. Finding a treasure in a pile of junk seemed too good to be true. But if it wasn't valuable, he doubted the Hathaways and all the other dealers in the country would be so hot to get their hands on it. In this case, his grandmother's dragon might just put a dent in his comfortably cynical approach to life.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Riley strode through the front door of his office and greeted the lobby receptionist with a warm smile, then headed down the hall. His secretary, Carey Miller, sat at a desk in a cubicle next to his office. The distinct smell of nail polish wiped the smile off his face, which was followed by a frown when he saw her bare feet propped up on her desk, little foam pads stuck between her toes.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you," he said sarcastically.

She shrugged. "You're not. How was the bike ride? You must have stopped off at home and taken a shower. You don't smell as bad as you normally do."

"Speaking of smells, do you have to put the paint on here?"

"If you paid me more, I could afford to get a pedicure."

"If you worked harder, you might actually earn more money."

He strode into his office, knowing she'd follow. It took her a few extra minutes, as she walked through the door on her heels, carefully keeping her toes from hitting the carpet. "So, did you accomplish anything besides the perfect shade of red?" he asked her.

"Did you accomplish anything besides a near heart attack?"

"Exercise is good for you. You should try it sometime."

"Please. If I'm going to work out, I prefer to do it in the bedroom." She gave him a mischievous grin. "Don't you remember?"

"I remember throwing out my back."

"That's because you did it wrong. You were on position seven when I was on six. The book said you needed to do it in order."

"Why I ever agreed to try anything in that book, I'll never know." He sat down in the leather chair behind his desk that had served his grandfather so well for so many years.

Carey flopped down in the armchair in front of his desk. "I've got another book now. You'd be surprised at some of the things in there. You should read it."

"I'll wait for the movie." With a pleased smile he surveyed the stack of papers on his desk, the half-filled coffee cup, the afternoon's sports page. His grandfather's office was beginning to feel more like his own, a place where everything was under his control. He picked up a small plastic basketball on his desk and sent it swishing through the hoop mounted on the opposite wall. "Any messages?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." Carey popped a chunk of gum in her mouth.

"Do you have to do that?"

"It beats smoking. You know I'm trying to quit." Carey hooked her jean-clad leg over one arm of the chair. An ex-stripper, ex-smoker, ex-drinker, and ex-girlfriend, she was now his right-hand man, make that
woman
. While she hadn't been a particularly good stripper, smoker, drinker, or girlfriend, she was a good assistant, even with the painted toenails.

"What else has been going on around here?" he asked.

"As you requested, I got the goods on Paige Hathaway." She tapped the file folder in her hand.

His heart skipped a beat. "What did you learn?"

"Well, it's all incredibly ..." She tilted her head to one side. "What's the word I'm looking for? Oh, I know. Boring. It's incredibly boring."

"Excuse me?"

"Boring, dull, put-you-to-sleep kind of reading. I can give it to you in a nutshell. Paige Hathaway grew up in a fancy mansion in Pacific Heights with her parents, Victoria and David Hathaway, and her grandfather Wallace Hathaway. Apparently, the grandmother died before she was born. There was a whole slew of housekeepers, maids, gardeners, and chauffeurs over the years, but apparently they were paid well, because no one has had anything negative to say." Carey popped her gum. "Paige moved out a few years ago. She lives in an apartment in one of those high-rise buildings with a view of the bay. David Hathaway spends most of his time in China. And Victoria Hathaway and the old man, Wallace Hathaway, spend most of their time at the store."

Riley opened the folder she handed him and read through the facts Carey had just recited. "What else?" he asked, looking back at her.

"The family is a pillar of society. They support many nonprofit organizations, especially those connected to the arts, the ballet, the symphony, the opera. They're hosting an exhibit on Chinese art at the Asian Art Museum in a few weeks. They're on the A-list for parties. Oh, and get this -- Paige Hathaway was actually a debutante. Can you believe they still have debutantes? Not that she isn't pretty. There's a photo in the file." Carey sent him a knowing look. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"She's not my type."

"She sure isn't," Carey agreed.

He felt annoyed by her assessment. "Why? Am I too blue-collar?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Because Paige Hathaway is not blue-collar. She is blue blood. If San Francisco had a royal family, Paige would be the princess."

"What did you learn about the rest of the family?"

"Victoria Hathaway is the queen. She's the CFO of the company. Wallace Hathaway, the old man, retains the CEO title despite the fact that he's eighty-something. He apparently still comes into the store every morning to review the profit and loss reports or perform surprise inspections in unsuspecting departments. David Hathaway is the main buyer for the store, and quite the jet-setter. He spends more time in China than he does here. Paige seems to be drifting through the company right now. She plans a lot of parties. I'm not sure what else she does. Those are the main family players. Although ..." She paused. "I'm not sure if you want to know this or not, but there was a small tidbit in one of the gossip columns that Paige is engaged to Martin Bennett. He's a vice president at Hathaway's and another blue blood. A match made in Tiffany's no doubt."

"No doubt."

So Paige was engaged, huh? As he recalled, she didn't have a ring on her finger. He wondered why not. Probably couldn't find a stone big enough. He tossed the folder onto the desk. He'd read the rest of it later—if he bothered to read it at all. If the Hathaways made his grandmother a respectable offer, he'd encourage her to take it and be done with the whole thing. "Did you call my grandmother and tell her I'll pick her up?"

"She said she couldn't leave. You should go on your own, and she trusts you to make the best deal for her."

"What?" he asked in surprise. "Why doesn't she want to go? Is she sick?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Just tell me."

"She said the phone rang and there was no one there, just the sound of breathing, but then she heard someone clear their throat, and she thought it might be a woman." Carey paused. "She thought it might be your mother."

"Goddammit. She can't keep doing this every time someone calls the wrong number. It's been fifteen years since my mother walked out the door. She's probably dead." He jumped out of his chair, pacing restlessly in front of the window.

Carey stood up. "What do you want me to do?"

"Call my grandmother and tell her that she's coming with me. She's the legal owner of the dragon, and she's the one who needs to sell it."

"What about –"

"Tell her I'll be there in twenty minutes, and she better be ready." He was relieved to hear the door shut as Carey left. His chest was tight again, but this time it had nothing to do with exercise but with the past.

It had not been his mother on the phone -- he knew that. There was no reason to think otherwise. None at all. But despite the ruthless affirmations, deep down inside there was a part of himself that still wondered where she was, and if she was ever coming back.