Season of Strangers (39 page)

Julie swayed toward him. “I'm frightened, Patrick. Those men are determined. They might do something—”

The lobby buzzer sounded, interrupting whatever else she might have said. Patrick stood up and hauled Julie to her feet. “I'll go find out who it is.” Padding silently across the thick white wool carpet, he pushed the button on the intercom next to the door.

“Yes?”

“Patrick…son, it's your father. Nathan and I would like to come up for a moment, if you don't mind.”

“Of course, I don't mind.” He pressed the admittance button, then waited for the elevator to arrive. The door slid open and Nathan wheeled Alex into the living room.

“I know it's a little late for unexpected house calls, but something's been bothering me and I needed to see you about it. I hope we haven't interrupted anything important.” He glanced around at the half-filled cartons and boxes.

“Getting Patrick moved, is all.” Julie smiled as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “It's always good to see you.” He had come to the hospital, of course, but kept his visits brief. His health remained good, his complexion robust, but tonight he seemed edgy, somehow disturbed.

“If the two of you don't mind,” he said to Julie and Nathan, “I'd like a moment with Patrick alone.”

Julie gave Patrick a sideways glance, then smiled. “I'll go fix us a pot of tea—assuming I can still find the teapot. Nathan, you can help me.”

“You got it.”

They walked into the kitchen, Nathan towering over Julie, so wide he filled the doorway. As soon as the door swung closed, the wheelchair spun in Patrick's direction and Alex Donovan turned the full force of his still intimidating gaze on his son.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” Alex said, his shrewd old eyes fixed firmly on his face.

“Much better, thank you.”

Alex glanced around at the heavy items Patrick had obviously been lifting with ease, and those perceptive old eyes assessed him even more closely. “The doctors are amazed you aren't dead. They say it's a medical miracle the way your heart started beating on its own. And there was the matter of the length of time you were dead. There should have been brain damage…something. Instead, they say you're the picture of health. In fact, considering the trauma your body's experienced, they say it's astonishing how healthy you are.”

Patrick shifted uneasily. “No one is happier about it than I am.”

“Except perhaps Julie.”

Patrick said nothing. He didn't like the way Alex Donovan was staring at him, as if he could see beneath the surface to the man he was inside.

Alex's eyes remained on his face. “Amazing, isn't it? Two miracles in one family in just a few months.”

“Yes, it is.”

“And let us not forget the miracle of my recovery.”

Patrick said nothing.

Alex sighed. “I'm an old man, Patrick. When you live to be as old as I am, you stop seeing everything in black and white. You stop knowing what can and cannot happen, what's possible and what is not. You start to realize there are things that happen we'll never understand. Things that sometimes can't be explained. That doesn't make them any less real.”

Patrick worked to make his voice come out even. “What is it you're trying to say?”

Alex picked up a silver framed photo of Patrick and his mother when Patrick was a boy. “I know about the Brookhaven deal,” he said, still concentrating on the photo. “At least I know part of it. I know my son was involved in some sort of fraudulent real estate scam. I know his involvement might have ended up sending him to jail. At best it would have destroyed the company and ruined the Donovan name.”

“I'm sorry. I never meant for any of that to happen.”

“I know you didn't. I also know you have done the right thing and advised the Teachers' Pension Fund not to buy those worthless notes. I also know the Westwind Corporation has packed its proverbial bags and headed out of town.”

Interesting
. Even he hadn't heard that bit of news. “I did what I had to. It was the right thing to do.”

“Yes, it was. In the months since your first heart attack, you seem to have made a habit of doing the right thing. You've saved Donovan Real Estate from going bankrupt. You've won the respect and admiration of the people in your office, the love and respect of a woman I love like a daughter.”

Alex looked him straight in the face. “If you were my son, I'd be proud of you. I'd go to my grave a happy man. Unfortunately, I know it isn't true.”

The words sank in like a blow to the stomach. And yet he didn't deny it. He respected Alex Donovan too much to do that.

“My son was greedy and selfish,” Alex went on, “but he was still my son and I loved him. What happened to him? Is he dead?”

His stomach felt tied in knots. He had prayed this day would never come. He wasn't quite sure how to answer at first, then decided simply to tell the man the truth.

“He would have died the day of his heart attack. Because of who I am, part of him still lives—his hopes and dreams, his memories of you and his mother when he was a boy, the happy times the three of you shared. If Julie and I have children, Patrick's blood will run through their veins. They'll be your grandchildren, children who will carry on your heritage.”

“I thought perhaps it was merely a physical coincidence…that the two of you simply looked the same. It didn't take long to realize that wasn't the truth…that in most ways you
are
him.” He fumbled with the photo. “I don't suppose you'd be willing to explain how all of this has happened.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

Alex just nodded. He looked older, more frail than he had when he came in, yet as always there remained an underlying strength. “Does Julie know?”

“Yes.”

His face showed a moment of relief. “I've watched you these past few months. I saw Patrick in you and for a while I was fooled. I appreciate your honesty. And now that I know the truth—or at least a portion of it—I believe you are the best of Patrick. And I also believe that in some strange way, I am a very fortunate man.”

His throat went tight. He had never had a father yet he felt tied to this weathered, aging man as if he were truly his son. “Thank you.”

The old man nodded. He lifted a hand and waved it toward the kitchen. “I imagine our tea is ready.”

Patrick smiled slightly. “I could use a good strong cup…though I only drink decaf.”

Alex chuckled softly. “My son drinking tea. I never thought to see the day.”

His smile grew warmer. “I imagine both of us have a number of surprises yet in store.”

The old man chuckled again. “Thanks to you and your ‘miracles,' perhaps I'll be around long enough to see them.”

 

The study was sumptuous, masculine, and expensively done in gold and dark forest green. Heavy Oriental carpets warmed the polished wooden floors, and behind his massive rosewood desk, a row of mullioned windows overlooked the pounding sea. Owen Mallory leaned back against his expensive leather chair and adjusted the telephone receiver to a more comfortable position against his ear, the panoramic vistas behind him the farthest thing from his mind.

“You listen to me, Witherspoon. I don't give a damn what you promised Patrick Donovan—you loan that bastard enough for a cup of coffee and I'll withdraw every dollar I've got on deposit with Beverly First, and use my influence to see that my associates do the same.”

A long silence followed. When the banker didn't answer fast enough, Owen started speaking again. “If you can't handle my request, Dan, I'll have to speak to Adrian. I'm sure your boss won't have any trouble at all seeing that my request is complied with.”

Witherspoon sighed into the phone. “All right, you win. I'll take care of it myself. You've left me no choice but to do what you want.”

Owen inwardly smiled, pleased with the results of the conversation though he had never really doubted the outcome. The bank simply had too much to lose. “Thanks, Dan. I knew I could count on you. We'll have lunch at the club the next time I'm in Beverly Hills.”

Witherspoon made no reply, his disdain more than clear. Owen didn't care. He hung up with a shot of satisfaction. Less than an hour ago, Julie Ferris had left his office, asking him on Donovan's behalf for a loan against Donovan Real Estate and other of Patrick's assets; the rest, she had told him, was coming from a loan with Beverly First National Bank.

Owen smiled. He had agreed, of course.
For a price
.

“We're friends, Julie—you know you can count on me. I'll be happy to loan Patrick the money—on one condition.”

She turned a little wary. “What's that?”

“That you stop seeing him. That you never go near him again.”

“What!” Julie jumped up from her chair. “That's insane, Owen. You know Patrick and I are going to be married.”

“Marrying Donovan would be the biggest mistake of your life. Tell me you'll stop behaving like a lovesick fool and I'll see he gets the money. Otherwise he can forget it.”

Julie clenched her fists. “I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're supposed to be my friend.”

“I am your friend, Julie. I'm trying to help you.”

She looked at him hard. “No—you don't want to help me. You just want something else you can't have.” She braced her palms flat on his desk and leaned forward. “You know something, Owen, I never believed what people said about you, stories about how ruthless you are, what a complete and total prick you can be. I thought you were kind and generous. I felt lucky to count you among my friends. The truth is, if I ever behaved like a fool it was believing in you—in being so stupidly naive.”

She whirled away from him, grabbed her purse, and started walking toward the door.

“Donovan will only end up hurting you,” Owen called after her. “When you've had enough, come back and see me.”

“Don't hold your breath,” she tossed back over her shoulder, jerked open the door, and slammed it closed behind her.

Owen thought about their unfortunate confrontation as he leaned back in his chair. She had always been a challenge. Perhaps she was right and he only desired her because he couldn't have her. It really didn't matter. Whatever the reason, he wanted her.

And if he couldn't have her he intended to make damn sure Patrick Donovan wouldn't have her either.

J
ulie paced the floor of her living room in front of the big plate glass windows overlooking the sea. She was waiting for Patrick, nervously anticipating his return from the bank, hopefully with the money he so desperately needed.

She glanced at the clock, which ticked ominiously yet seemed to move almost painfully slow. She had watched it since the moment she'd gotten home, thinking Patrick would surely be arriving right behind her. But so far he had not appeared and the bank had been closed for nearly two hours.

The sound of a racing engine as his Porsche pulled into the driveway announced his impending arrival, and Julie hurried toward the door. Yanking it open, she rushed out to greet him before he'd had time to reach the porch.

“Patrick, I've been worried sick.” She slid her arms around his neck and he hugged her tightly against him. “What happened? Did the bank give you the money?”

The muscles in his shoulders went tense. His face told her the answer, his expression taut and grim. “Something came up with the bank at the last minute…some sort of glitch with the credit. At least that's what Dan Witherspoon said.”

Her chest squeezed. “The money's due tomorrow. What are we going to do?”

He only shook his head. “I was worried about the bank, so I've also been working with Federal Savings. I've got half of what we need. In time I'll be able to raise the rest.”

“Time is something we haven't got.”

“I know. I'm hoping the nice fat cashier's check I'm going to give them tomorrow will be enough to buy us a little more time.” But his face said he wasn't sure it would, and neither was she.

“You look exhausted.” Julie forced herself to smile. “Why don't you go sit down and I'll fix us something to eat?” She had started supper earlier, parmesan noodles and skinless breast of chicken, something for both of their palates, but when Patrick didn't come home, her concentration had evaporated and she still wasn't finished.

He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Why don't I help? There must be something I can do.”

Julie smiled in earnest this time. “My darling, Patrick, I'm sure I can think of something—though it might not have to do with food.”

The meal turned out to be good but neither of them ate very much. They cleared the table together but as soon as they were finished, he dragged her into his arms.

“I thought there was something you wanted me to do,” he teased, capturing her mouth in a kiss. They made passionate love on the sofa in the living room, then went into the bedroom and made love again. There was a fierceness to their mating, a shadow of the same impending doom that they had experienced before.

Lying beside him in her light-pine, four-poster bed, Julie snuggled deeper in his arms. “Patrick, I'm frightened. We've come so far. I can't bear the thought of losing you now, not after all that we've been through.”

“You're not going to lose me.”

But she might and he knew it. Anger trickled through her. She slammed her fist down on the covers. “It isn't fair. You didn't even make that stupid deal.”

Patrick arched a sleek black brow. “Didn't I?”

“Well, only part of you did.”

“True. A fairly small part at that, but still it's my responsibility. And tomorrow I'll convince my
associates
I intend to make good on my obligation.”

Julie said nothing. Perhaps half the money would be enough. But thinking of Woody Nicholson and the scene at the hospital, she didn't think Sandini and McPherson were going to be that easy to convince.

 

As they usually did, in the morning they took separate cars to the office. They each had a job to do. Patrick had appointments and Julie had property to show that afternoon. A brief kiss through the open car window, and Patrick pulled out of the driveway. Waving, he headed toward the office.

Julie watched him only a moment, then hurried into the garage and opened the door to her big Lincoln Town Car, the car she drove whenever she was working with clients. Today she was taking Dr. Frank Sullivan and his wife to see the old Flynn mansion—Fred Thompkins's prize listing in the Hollywood Hills.

Thinking of the wealthy older couple, she pulled onto Pacific Coast Highway not far behind Patrick, her thoughts quickly returning to him, her mind overshadowed by fear of what might happen to him today.

She could just make out his shiny black Porsche as he weaved perilously in and out of traffic. His newly acquired passion for speed combined with the racing skills of his youth helped keep him from disaster, thank God.

Watching him roar off from a stoplight, Julie smiled, then she frowned at the sight of a long white limousine appearing out of nowhere, speeding equally fast alongside him. The cars were running close together when the limousine began inching into Patrick's lane. He swerved onto the shoulder to avoid the bigger car, but the limousine followed, nearly slamming into the side of his car before both vehicles returned at a slower pace back onto the road.

The stoplight changed in front of her and she was too far away to try to make it through the intersection on yellow. She watched Patrick's car fade into the distance, the limousine right along with it, and said a quick prayer the light would hurry and change.

It didn't. It seemed like the longest red light in Malibu history. She finally rolled through the intersection, pressing hard on the accelerator, but her timing was off now and she hit another stoplight down the road.

That was when she saw it, Patrick's car, parked at an odd angle on the shoulder of the road. The driver's seat was empty.

“Oh, no.” Julie changed lanes, then swerved the Lincoln hard to the right, pulling to a halt just in front of Patrick's Porsche. Shoving the Lincoln into park, she jumped out onto the busy road, running toward the low-slung black Porsche. Cars whizzed past, blowing sand and grit into her face, the wind ripping open the navy bolero jacket that matched her skirt. Julie rounded the Porsche to the side away from the oncoming traffic and opened the passenger door.

Nothing was there that said where Patrick might have been taken—nor was the briefcase with the cashier's check he was carrying.

Jerking her gaze toward the sea of cars disappearing down the busy highway, she thought she caught a glimpse of the long white limo but she couldn't be sure.

The Lincoln was still running. Julie raced back to the car and climbed in, then sat there shaking, trying to decide what to do. Her instinct was to tear onto the highway, try to catch up with the limo, flag them down and do whatever it took to help Patrick convince the men he would find a way to repay them.

But reason said there were a dozen cars that color and a dozen roads the limo could have turned onto and simply disappeared. She might drive for hours and never find them. If Sandini and McPherson weren't satisfied with being paid only half of the money—and she was convinced they wouldn't be—then time was of the essence. There had to be something else she could do.

Julie pulled the Lincoln onto the highway, her mind running through every desperate possibility she could think of, none of which seemed to have the least amount of merit. There was Owen Mallory, of course, but now that she knew the kind of man he really was, and after their last ill-fated meeting, she no longer believed he would help her. It even occurred to her that Owen might be behind the Beverly First's refusal to make the loan, since she had told him the name of the bank.

She didn't want to believe it, but it might just be the truth.

Which left her with only one possible alternative. Alexander Donovan.

It was risky. God knew Alex was living on the edge, a frail old man growing older by the day. Yet Alex had always maintained a certain quiet strength. He was a successful businessman, a man who knew more about finance than anyone Julie had ever known.

And he had come to love this new Patrick, Julie believed, as if he were truly his son.

Her fingers shook as she dug her cell phone out of her purse and frantically punched the auto dial for Alex's home number. He was their last hope and she couldn't help wishing that she had called him sooner.

If anyone could help Patrick now it was his father.

The butler, Mario, answered the phone on the second ring and quickly put her through to Alex, alerted perhaps by the urgency in her voice.

“Alex? It's Julie.”

“Good morning, my dear. I've been hoping you would call.”

She tried to control her voice. “How…how are you feeling?”

“Fairly chipper lately. My arthritis is acting up, but it isn't too bad, and at any rate there's not much I can do about that.”

“I—I've been meaning to drop by, but with Patrick moving in and getting ready for the wedding, I've just been so busy.” Her throat began to close up. She prayed that he wouldn't hear the distress she was trying to hide, but Alex was a difficult man to fool.

“Julie, my dear girl. I can tell there is something wrong. Please don't be afraid to tell me what it is.”

“Alex…it's Patrick.” Her voice broke. “He's in trouble over the Brookhaven deal. He owes some money to a couple of men—”

“Sandini and McPherson?”

She straightened, pressed on the brakes at yet another stoplight. “Yes, how did you know?”

“I've known for some time. I heard rumors before his heart attack and hired a private investigator. I spoke to Patrick about it that night at his apartment, but he never mentioned the money. I suppose I should have guessed.”

“He didn't want to worry you.”

“Those men, Julie…they aren't the sort to be trifled with. Patrick should have come to me.”

“I tried to convince him. You know how stubborn he can be.”

“Where is he? I'll speak to him and together we'll work this thing out.”

Her throat went tighter. “That's the problem. They've taken him, Alex. He only has half the money, but they expect him to pay it all. I'm terrified of what they might do.”

Silence descended over the phone. “Listen to me carefully, Julie. Are you at the office?”

“I was headed there. I'm in my car on the way.”

“All right. Once you get there, stay close to the phone. I'll be there as quickly as I can.”

“But w-what about Patrick?”

His voice roughened. “I lost my son once. I don't intend to lose him again.” With that Alex hung up the phone.

 

Tony Sandini leaned his corpulent frame against the red leather seat in the white Lexus stretch limo. The window was closed between the driver's compartment up in front and the rear of the limo, where he and Woody Nicholson sat on either side of Patrick Donovan. Jake Naworski and Ralph Ceccarelli sat across from them on a seat facing the opposite way.

Tony bent forward, waving the cashier's check Patrick had handed him into the guy's too-handsome face.

“So what have you got to say, pretty boy? I know you can add, and we both know this don't add up to what you owe.”

Patrick sat up a little straighter. “It's almost half,” he said, surprisingly calm for a man in his situation. Then again, maybe the bastard didn't understand the situation as clearly as Tony did. “Give me a little more time and I'll see you get the rest.”

Tony chuckled, jiggling the fat at his girth. “You've had time, Donovan. More than you shoulda' had in the first place.” The car turned sharply just then, pulling onto a narrow dirt road, rutted and overgrown with weeds. They were somewhere deep in the Malibu hills, on a chunk of private land away from the traffic where no one could see them, hear the bastard scream, or the thud of their silenced weapons. The kind of spot Tony preferred for this kind of work.

The car slid to a halt and he waited a moment for the dust to clear.

“Get out of the car.” Grinding down on the door handle, he hefted his big bulk out of the limo. Woody Nicholson prodded Patrick in the ribs and they got out and stood in front of him, bone-thin Nicholson shoving his Glock nine-mil into Donovan's side, a smile of anticipation splitting Woody's sallow face.

“I don't like you, Donovan,” Tony said, shifting his attention back to the man in front of him. “I never did. You promised to make us some money or we never woulda' made you that loan. Instead all you've done is cause us trouble.”

“I told you I would pay you and I will. I just need—”

Nicholson buried his fist in Patrick's stomach, turning the last word into a grunt and doubling him over. Donovan dragged in several deep breaths and started to lift his head, but Nicholson hit him again, splitting his lip and flinging blood all over his expensive white shirt.

“You beginnin' to get the picture, pretty boy?” Tony's own hand unconsciously fisted. “You don't mess with Tony Sandini—nobody does. We gave you time to get the money you owed and you haven't done it. You ain't paid.” He grinned. “But you will.”

He turned to Woody and motioned toward the trees off to the left, a thick copse of sycamores near the edge of a steep ravine. Nicholson grabbed his arm, but Patrick twisted away.