Here Comes Trouble (9 page)

“Try disgustingly wealthy with no suitable heirs. I told you the new company was doing well.” What else was he going to do with the money? Buy a yacht? The thought made him seasick. “I have to be honest, this wasn’t the reaction I expected.”

“I was right earlier. You’ve lied to me since you walked back into this town.”

“No. I didn’t tell you everything. There’s a difference. And it’s only been a few days.”

“Semantics?” Sheila stalked back and forth between the two love seats as if she couldn’t quite believe they were having this conversation. Well, neither could he. “You said you’re here to even things with your father, to take over his company,” she blasted. “Putting the foundation between the two of you like some kind of shield is un—”

“Stop right there.” Malcolm shoved himself onto to his feet, anger pulling him up, offense keeping him there. “My plans for dear old Dad have nothing to do with my donation to the foundation or the center. I can’t believe you think I’d be so callous as to use you and your family that way.”

“Yeah, well.” Sheila hugged her arms around herself, scrunched up her mouth. “Okay, maybe that was out of line—”

“Maybe?” The hell with being tired. He pushed past her and headed into the kitchenette for that water, which he downed in thirty seconds. Christ. He needed a handful of Advil and about ten more hours of sleep. “Five years ago my father set me up, manipulated me into taking the blame for something I didn’t do. He destroyed everything I’d built, everything I had planned for myself as well as any relationship I had with my brother. So how about you get off that high horse you’re riding and while you’re at it, pull the scepter out of your ass. You made your point earlier today. I fucked up. I should have told you what happened five years ago when it happened. That I was leaving to protect Ty, but at the time, I made the only decision I could. And I rebuilt it all from scratch. Only this time it was my way. It was my business, my reputation, my bank accounts. And, honey, believe me when I tell you none of that was easy. But I won’t let you demean what I decide to do with what I’ve made of myself because you think I’m out to win you back. Trust me on this if nothing else. Even you aren’t worth the aggravation.”

“Now hold on—” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“No. Not anymore. I’m done apologizing. I’ve done a damn lot of good in the last five years and I’m going to enjoy reaping the benefits, beginning with getting that entertainment facility of yours up and running in record time.”

“Malcolm, I—”

“If you’re waiting for me to tell you I don’t give a damn what you think anymore, don’t hold your breath. You caught me. I’m guilty. I do care what you think. I always have, but you don’t want to hear that, do you? Because then you might just have to deal with your feelings about me. You want me to put my mouth where my money is? Fine. Challenge accepted. In the meantime, when you are ready to talk about this—” He moved in and crushed his mouth against hers, anger and frustration surging off him in waves as he felt her soften against him, her fingers curling into his shirt as she sagged and sighed. His head spun, but he stayed on his feet, set her away from him. “You know where to find me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” The question was so quiet he nearly missed it.

“What?” He blinked and saw her expression had shifted to one of concern. Oh, no. They weren’t going down that road. The last thing he wanted was to be anyone’s—especially Sheila Tremayne’s—object of pity. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Oh, so you just went on a tirade that would make a reality star an Oscar winner for no reason other than you wanted to lash out at me?” She pressed her lips together, brushed a finger over them, making him burn in an entirely different way.

He could feel the weakness coming over him again, sliding through his arms and legs like a poisonous viper. “Maybe I’m just tired of everyone assuming the worst of me.”

“I don’t think that,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. He needed her out of here. Before he collapsed. Before his doctor called again. Before he couldn’t hide the truth any longer.

“Look.” He leaned his hands on the sink and bowed his head forward. “It’s been a long couple of days, we’re both upset, and we’ve said things we shouldn’t have. Maybe tomorrow we can salvage some civility between us.”

“I’m not leaving.”

The hurt in her voice cut him to the bone, but he couldn’t let himself think about it. He needed to be alone. He didn’t want her pity. Not when he couldn’t give her everything she might want—or need. “Yes, you are. Good night, Sheila.”

He strode past her, not looking up, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t bear to see he’d caused her any pain. She was right about one thing. He had lied to her since he’d been back.

He still loved her.

Which made everything worse.

The workday officially came to an end once Sheila started biting her nails. She’d avoided her sister, Veronica, and the twins on their way out to girls’ night, but only just. The last thing she wanted to do was rehash her meeting with Malcolm. They’d only ask questions—questions she didn’t have the answers to.

Maybe, given her attitude and the way she’d stormed into his hotel room, she’d deserved the verbal lashing, but he’d dismissed her. And walked out on her. Again.

Only during the drive back to her office did she realize she’d carried five years of anger into that room with her. A handful of conversations with him, a few touches and kisses here and there and the lost possibilities surged again; the abandoned although unspoken promises. Those pesky what–ifs that taunted her in the guise of work pressures, pushed-aside memories, and ghostly dreams. But today was different. Today he’d pushed that don’t-keep-things-from-me button, and it was as if he’d offered to free her from a cage she didn’t know she was locked in—only to slam the door in her face the second she stepped out.

So here she was again. Alone in her office, flipping through the pile of mail Liza had left on her desk. She picked up a FedEx envelope with an obscured return address and stuck it in her bag before returning to her car, her anger cooling as she headed home.

The eclectic section of downtown Lantano Valley, where her fourth-story loft apartment was located, overflowed with art galleries, coffeehouses, and a smattering of farmers’ markets. Irritation lingered as she parked in her underground lot and stomped up the stairs, forgoing the miniscule elevator and welcoming the muscle burn that accompanied her inside.

Barely a trace of the day remained to peek through her cathedral-sized arched window overlooking the city. The sheer cream-colored curtains gave an illusion of privacy that wasn’t needed. The unobstructed view from this side of the building was the main reason she’d fallen in love with the space.

She pushed off her shoes, relishing the sensation of her bare feet on the cool hardwood floors. She’d softened the look of the space with woven throw rugs chosen for their neutral colors and artistic flair. The interspersing brick and dry wall spoke of modern convenience intermingling with the history of the one-time tenement remodeled by a frustrated wannabe Manhattanite. The entire first floor lay open with no walls to confine her, yet in recent weeks the empty space was an echoing reminder that she was alone. It wasn’t the case tonight, however.

Tonight thoughts of Malcolm, of his frustration, of the exhausted look on his face kept her company.

She glanced at the phone, considered calling, to reach out, tell him she knew how inadequacy and irrelevance could overwhelm. Money was a blessing and it could, when applied properly, make living easier. But it could also act as a magnifier when it came to what was missing in someone’s life.

Sheila shivered. Malcolm was right. Diving deeper into their conversation would have resulted in her being forced to open the door to her own confusing feelings about him—and while he might be ready to confront them, she wasn’t.

So she’d do what she always did when she didn’t want to dwell. She pushed everything down, her worries, her fears, doubts into the pit of her soul, where they’d stay as she went about her predictable nightly solitude.

Except. . . .

She closed her eyes and inhaled the faint hint of thinner and oil paints. Her fingers twitched, as if she could feel the handle of the brush in her grasp, hear the gentle rasp of bristles over canvas. She missed that rush of exhilaration that came from hours in front of her easel, the welcome stiffness and aches she built up perched on a stool, lost in the seductive interplay between emptiness and light, of meandering colors and waves of creativity.

She missed it. As if she hadn’t breathed since the last time she walked into her studio, and yet . . .

The door under the stairs remained closed, blocking out the memory of the last time she’d put brush to paint all in the name of a little boy who hadn’t lived to enjoy her gift to him.

Brandon
. Just like her brother. Just like her mother. He was gone, and this time the loss had taken the deepest part of her.

“Stop it.” She pressed fingers into her eyes until she saw stars. Somehow, some way, she had to find a way to move on.

Despite her growling stomach, she scooped up her shoes and headed to her bedroom to change before returning to the kitchen, where she grabbed her last bottle of Chardonnay and a plastic container of grapes and cheese. Curled up on the camel-colored suede sofa, she clicked on the sounds of Bach interspersed with smatterings of Tchaikovsky. Wine poured, grapes consumed, cheese nibbled, she ripped open the FedEx envelope and withdrew a thin glossy catalogue along with a brief handwritten note from Chadwick Oliver.

“Catalogue approved. Have notified delivery company you are the contact from here on. Please notify me of any changes to our agreed-upon agenda.”

How, after a lifetime spent collecting, could there not be an iota of emotion when it came to parting with these pieces? Chadwick didn’t see these paintings as anything other than possessions. His interest didn’t go beyond bragging rights, in the ability to show off in the hopes of incurring envy from his peers.

What did he see when he looked at them? Did he feel the wind rushing across the wheat fields in the Wyman landscape? Did he hear the chiming of the cathedral bells or feel the mist within the foggy streets of London, or smell the summer rain as it hit the Paris sidewalk?

Did he see anything other than the monetary value of what the artist had created?

She’d bet not. And that made Sheila’s—and Nemesis’—job all the easier.

Levia’s painting aside, Sheila would have taken the job of organizing the auction if only to ensure these beautiful pieces found their way into appreciative homes or galleries. And now, Chadwick’s attention to detail and desire for control had given her what she needed to finish mapping out their plan. All she had to do was choose which paintings she’d copy.

Which brought her full circle to her studio. Her heart thudded in her ears. Up until now, excitement had defeated logic. Until now, the promise of exposing Chadwick for morally questionable actions outweighed her fear of stepping foot in the room that may as well have contained her soul.

Sheila took a trembling breath. There was no more running, no more avoiding what had to be done.

Not if Levia was going to get her painting.

Except Levia’s painting wasn’t included in the catalogue. Not that Sheila had expected it to be. But she did find one page in the notations indicating a selection of items that would be made available for bidding to a select group of guests.

Sheila squeezed her eyes shut, drank another swallow of wine. The very idea of picking up a brush terrified her. Putting herself—any part of herself—on canvas was akin to cutting open a vein and letting her blood run free.

Everything about this plan depended on her, but that was a responsibility she couldn’t complain about; not when she hadn’t confided in her brother or her father about her inability to put brush to canvas. This was a situation of her own making, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the notion that every time she focused on her art, disaster and tragedy followed.

She uncurled her legs and stood, wobbling her way to the studio door. She pressed cautious fingertips against the scarred wood, inhaled that comforting and terrifying combination of promise and failure. The doorknob was cool against her skin as she gripped it, turned it.

“Not tonight,” she told herself. It was late. There wasn’t enough light. She was tired. Needed to sleep. Needed to think . . . or maybe forget.

Tomorrow
, she promised herself as she retrieved her wine and scooted up the stairs to the bath and the starry-filled sky that awaited. Maybe.

***

Malcolm pushed off from where he’d been lounging against his car as Veronica pulled her rented BMW convertible into the gravel lot outside the Pediatric Cancer Treatment Center’s construction site.

“Tell me again why we had to be here at oh-god-thirty?” Veronica shoved open the door and grabbed for the double-shot espresso Malcolm held out. Looking as far removed from the office as possible in snug jeans, oversized T-shirt, and high ponytail, she blinked sleepy, irritated eyes at him. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

“Good night’s sleep.” Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good. This normal. And he wasn’t going to waste a minute of it. Whatever minutes he didn’t spend remembering how Sheila had felt in his arms yesterday. “The team’s on their way?”

“The plane landed thirty minutes ago.” Veronica pulled her bag out of the back seat and held her coffee cup between both hands as if it were a religious relic. “They’re unloading and should be on site within the hour. Everyone you requested came, even at the last minute.” She angled a curious look in his direction. “I’m guessing things last night . . .”

“What things?” Malcolm asked.

“Tornado Sheila was headed your way last I saw. Did she land or was she diverted?”

“She landed.” With all the force of Dorothy’s farmhouse in Oz. “We talked. She left. I called you, you worked your magic. End of story.”

“End, beginning, whatever. I suppose I should have suggested bringing in our own people to do the installation in the first place, but it’s a good way to accelerate the process.” She came to an abrupt halt just inside the fence, eyes wide as she took in the same scene he had a little over an hour before. “This is just remarkable, isn’t it?”

“You’d never know this was a medical facility.” And that above everything was what impressed Malcolm the most. He knew firsthand how sterile and cold medical centers could be, but everywhere he looked he felt a connection to nature and attention to calmness and serenity. The three-story medical facility was a mix of glass, stone, and wood, and those elements carried out into the surrounding area, most of which still needed extensive landscaping. The way the water features, including miniature waterfalls and ponds, were intermingled with small seating areas amidst the soon-to-be-installed fauna, reminded him of the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. Harmonious, relaxing, and the perfect environment for healing.

Sheila had been right. He’d thought writing a check would be enough. Being part of the process, helping to bring this place to life, it meant something.

“You made the right decision.” Veronica squeezed his arm as she turned and scanned the rest of the area. “They’ll do good work here. And down there is the entertainment facility you’ll be working on?” She gestured to the single-story structure peeking out around from behind the main building. “That’s a lot of glass.”

“I was just heading down to check it out and start making notes. Want to join me?”

Car doors slammed and voices rang out and Veronica shook her head. “No. I’ll play organizer until you get your head around what you want to do.”

“You know me so well.” There was nothing he liked better than spending significant alone time in a project’s space. “Give me an hour?”

“Or more. In the meantime, I shall amuse myself with this handsome bunch of construction workers.” She grinned, the flirtatious twinkle in her eye making Malcolm laugh. And weep for whatever male might be on the receiving end of such an expression.

The morning clouds split open under the initial rays of sunlight, turning the chill in the air warm. Yes, indeed. He took a deep breath and reveled in the moment. This could very well be a perfect day.

***

Sheila was having the kind of day that would have turned Pollyanna into a grouch.

She parked her white Mercedes coupe on the street about a block from the still-fenced-in construction project and stared down at her spilled coffee. All she’d need to get a caffeine buzz for the rest of the day was to sit in her car for five minutes. What was worse? She was late. She hated being late.

As exhausted as she’d been when she’d dropped into bed, a night full of images featuring voracious vampiric paintbrushes biting at her had been less than refreshing. But she’d take that over the ache that had settled low in her belly at the thought of that kiss Malcolm had planted on her in his hotel room.

She climbed out of the car, heaving a sigh as she leaned her arms on the roof and looked out at the project that had been her sister’s sole focus for the better part of two years. She was so tired of the chicken wire fencing and gravel pit parking lot. She just wanted everything done, so the real work—the healing work—could begin.

She shivered at the blast of cool morning air and mourned the fact she’d forgotten her sweater. Sans sustenance, she gathered her belongings and hoofed it to the site. Dark tailored slacks and loose button-down tank was the uniform of the day, topped off with a solid pair of wedges. As a woman who lived in heels, she knew her limitations when it came to wandering about a rocky and uneven construction site. She’d get grief for her attire, but this was as casual as she got outside her apartment. Part tradition, part expectation, fashionwise she was always expected to be “on.” Some expectations she was happy to ignore. Others? Well, a girl had to have a few vices.

At least she’d made some progress last night and chosen the first painting she’d be copying. That said, she was still pacing herself, as if moving too quickly into her studio would chase the desire to paint away.

The conclave of vans and trucks scattered about the parking area. A collection of men ranging from
The Big Bang Theory
rejects to buffed-up potential bodyguards milled about, retooling everything from laptops to three-foot spools of wires and cording.

She caught sight of Morgan’s bright strawberry-blond ponytail at the workbench outside the construction office, and the telltale brilliance of Veronica’s auburn hair against a navy cotton T-shirt and jeans.

“Sorry I’m late.” Sheila slung an arm over her sister’s sweatshirt-covered shoulders, wondering if there was a way to steal it from her. “Who are the new arrivals?” She gestured to the work crew.