Stephen Frey (14 page)

She hadn't fallen in love with the immense Hancock wealth either. It amused him to watch her scour the Sunday
New York
Times
for sales as she sat sipping her morning coffee on the sun porch of their huge mansion. She hadn't gravitated to Fifth Avenue's designer clothes the way Paul's wife had, or insisted on redecorating their home every couple of years. The only endeavors to which she had committed a substantial piece of the Hancock fortune, and much of her own time, were several children's charities she had established in New York City. Unable to conceive children of her own, Meg seemed to channel all her maternal instincts into these worthy institutions.

Bo had known about her infertility prior to their marriage, but it hadn't lessened his desire to spend the rest of his life with her. They had discussed adoption several times, but had not yet followed through on their plans. Bo had never given her a direct answer as to why he hadn't embraced her desire to take children in because he was ashamed of his answer. He had doubted that his family would accept children who were not blood relatives.

Bo looked up at Meg's smiling face. She would make a wonderful mother, and he cursed whatever greater power might exist for not giving her the chance to bear children. Though she rarely complained about her infertility, he knew it was the greatest disappointment of her life.

“Let me down,” she begged, squeezing his shoulders. “People are staring.”

“Something as beautiful as you should be stared at.”

“You're just saying that.”

He let her down gently and their lips came together. “I missed you.”

She nuzzled his neck. “I missed you too. So much, Bo.”

He felt her tears on his face and shut his eyes tightly, embarrassed that he had even made conversation with the woman in the bar. He had never cheated on Meg and never would.

“I'm sorry about your father.”

Bo nodded. “I know you two were never close, but it means a lot for me to hear you say that.” Jimmy Lee hadn't objected to their wedding, but he had never gone out of his way to develop a relationship with Meg. Teddy, Paul, and Catherine hadn't either. Bo hadn't been able to figure out his family's indifference to her until Michael Mendoza explained, just before the wedding, that Jimmy Lee had expected him to marry a woman of equal wealth. His father's attitude had only strengthened Bo's love for Meg.

They embraced a few moments longer, then Bo took her by the hand and led her toward the main terminal.

“Where did you go after the hospital this morning?” she asked.

“The Yale Club. I called you from there to tell you about Jimmy Lee.”

“I meant after that.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked innocently.

“I called back a few minutes later, but the man who answered the phone at the club said you were gone. That was more than five hours ago.”

“I met with our personal banker at J. P. Morgan.” He hated misleading Meg, but the news that he was going back to Warfield would upset her terribly. He wanted time to ease her into that idea.

She had heard all of the rumors about his late-night exploits from insensitive family members, mainly Teddy, and from acquaintances who detested her unwavering faith in Bo. Only once had Meg ever confronted him about the rumors, after an anonymous caller claimed to have seen Bo going into a room at the Waldorf with another woman. In fact, Bo had been working late at Warfield that night with Dale Stephenson, who'd made a point of calling Meg to confirm the fact. The next morning Bo and Meg had talked for hours, and he had finally come to realize that what Meg really hated was Warfield. As she had said, a woman would be a temporary dalliance, but Warfield was an obsession, and she strongly believed that the pressure of running such a massive fund was what had made him turn so constantly to alcohol.

“You know how you hate to have to deal with all of that money stuff,” he said, hoping she wouldn't press the issue.

“Who did you really meet with?” Meg persisted as they moved through the main terminal. She knew he wasn't telling her everything. “Bo, talk to me,” she pleaded.

Bo said nothing.

As they stepped out onto Thirty-fourth Street, Meg stopped and pulled on Bo's arm. “Tell me who you were seeing,” she demanded.

He looked away into the afternoon mist. The street was crowded with the early shift of homeward-bound commuters.

“Oh, God.” Meg brought her hands to her mouth, suddenly understanding his silence. “You're going back to Warfield.”

He had wanted to have her alone when he broke the news so he could deal with her reaction privately, not here in the street with hundreds of people rushing past. “It'll be fine. We'll be fine.”

She shook her head. “I know this is such a difficult day, with your father's death, and I'm sorry to be this way, but you know how I feel.”

“I'm needed at Warfield now that Dad is gone.”

“Your father didn't want you to go back. He knew what it could do to you.”

“He changed his mind, Meg. He told me just before he died that I had to go back to Warfield.” Bo hesitated. “He said some very nice things about you too.”

“What?” she asked, surprised.

“He told me to never let you go, but then I already knew that.”

Meg put a hand over her heart. “That's nice,” she said softly.

“I've got to go back to Warfield, Meg. I have to.”

She looked away. She knew how much he had missed the wheeling and dealing over the last year. She knew how it had killed him to sit in Montana, so far from the action. “I worry about you, Bo. As much as Montana was the middle of nowhere, I had you mostly to myself.”

“It's going to be different this time,” he vowed, taking her in his arms. “I promise.”

“You can't promise. There's so much pressure, billions of dollars, people screaming at you to make decisions every second. It will drive you to an early grave.”

“You have to understand that things have changed at Warfield,” he said quietly. “It's imperative that I return to the firm.”

“For whose sake?”

“What do you mean?”

“Imperative for Warfield, or for you? You've missed Warfield this past year more than you've ever missed me.” She pressed against him, instantly ruing the remark. “I'm sorry. That was an awful thing to say and I didn't mean it. I know that isn't really true. I'm just scared.” She caressed his cheek. “I love you so much.”

“Meg, I love—”

“Please don't go back to Warfield,” she interrupted, pulling back and looking up at him. “I have a terrible feeling about this, I really do.”

“Meg, I've never seen you—”

“I know,” she said, pressing two fingers to his lips.

Bo pulled her to him, bringing her face to his chest. “I have a wonderful evening planned for us,” he said. “An early dinner at the River Club and a sail around Manhattan on the yacht. It'll be romantic. I've got it all set up. I've been looking forward to it so much. It will help take my mind off of Dad.”

“Have you spoken to Michael Mendoza about going back to Warfield?” She knew Bo consulted Mendoza on almost every major decision.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He was against me returning too.”

“You see.”

“That was before he knew about Dad's death.”

“I'm not sure Michael always has your best interests at heart, but in this case he's right.”

Bo slipped his hands onto Meg's cheeks and tilted her head back, but she looked away. “How in the world can you say that Michael doesn't have my best interests at heart?”

“Please don't go back,” she pleaded, avoiding his question.

“Bo!”

For an instant Bo wasn't certain that he had really heard his name called out over the noise of vehicles streaming in both directions on Thirty-fourth Street.

“Bo!”

He wheeled around and searched the street, scanning the pedestrians, cabs, and cars flashing past. Then he saw the blond woman standing on the other side of the wide street, beckoning, wearing jeans and a yellow top. The same yellow top he'd seen this morning when he'd passed through the revolving doors at the Warfield Capital building. It was Tiffany.

“I've got to talk to you!” she yelled above the roar of the street, waving frantically.

“Who is that?” Meg asked. She hadn't heard Tiffany yell Bo's name. “Who is she calling to?”

“I don't know.” Bo had convinced himself that the woman he'd spotted outside the Warfield Capital building this morning hadn't been Tiffany, just his mind playing tricks on him. But there she was, just across the street, motioning to him. She could answer so many questions. Like what had happened after the men had drugged him, and, more important, who was behind the attack. He moved across the sidewalk and stepped off the curb into traffic as if in a trance, his eyes fixed on her.

“Bo!” Meg called, terrified that he would be hit by a bus that was barreling toward him. “Look out!” she yelled frantically, following him across the sidewalk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bo noticed a man sprinting down the other side of the street toward Tiffany. The figure disappeared behind a truck, then reappeared quickly, only a hundred feet away from her.

Tiffany spotted the man too, took one last look at Bo, clutched the bag hanging from her shoulder, and ran.

Bo lunged forward as the bus bore down on him, horn blaring.

“Bo!” Meg stepped off the curb into the street, vaguely aware of someone coming up behind her, then felt a rough push. She tumbled forward, landing on her hands and knees in the path of an oncoming taxi. As Meg tried to make it to her feet she caught a glimpse of a man slipping back into the crowd.

Halted on the double yellow line in the middle of the street, Bo turned back for an instant and saw that Meg was down, and saw the cab bearing down on her. He dashed in front of a pickup truck, grabbed Meg by the arm, and dragged her back toward the curb. They tumbled onto the sidewalk together as the cab flashed by, grazing Bo's knee. Not noticing the pain, he scrambled to his feet and for a fleeting second glimpsed Tiffany and the man who had been racing toward her standing side by side, looking back at him from the corner half a block away. Then a truck rolled in front of the pair. When it had passed, they were gone.

I
t was after ten o'clock when Paul, guided by the faint beam of a flashlight he had taken from his study, slipped into a darkened tack room of the estate's large stable. He disliked horses, as he did most animals, but he loved the sweet smells of grain and hay that surrounded them. Paul played the flashlight beam about the room and found what he was looking for. “Hello, Scully,” he said. Joseph Scully was leaning against a cobwebbed wall, exactly where he'd said he would be.

“Hello, Mr. Hancock.”

“I trust no one saw you come in,” Paul said in a low voice.

“No one.”

“Good.” Until now, Paul had allowed Teddy to handle this end of the arrangement. Allowed Teddy to believe he was the only link to the people behind the scenes. As of this afternoon, that was no longer possible. Still, he had to be very careful and keep these meetings to a minimum.

“I assume you called me because of your brother's accident,” Scully spoke up.

Paul nodded. “You and I will have to communicate directly from now on,” he said, hanging the flashlight on a nail protruding from one wall. It cast a dull glow on the room. “But no one is ever to see us together,” he warned, moving to where Scully stood.

“I understand.”

“What do you have?”

Scully searched Paul's face for any hint of sadness at the loss of a father and brother, but found nothing. “Ron Baker is about to launch an all-out assault on you,” he answered.

“What do you mean?”

“He has possession of certain compromising information about you.”

“What kind of information?”

“Information regarding a three-month affair you had with a young prostitute last year.”

“What exactly does he have?” Paul asked impassively.

“The girl.”

“I see,” Paul said calmly. “Then it's time to use what we have uncovered about Mr. Baker through our northern Virginia operation.”

“That's why I came all the way out here. To make certain that you wanted me to follow through on that.”

“Absolutely.”

“I'll take care of it then.”

Paul took a step toward the flashlight hanging on the wall, then turned back. “I want to ask you a question.”

“What?”

“Do you think it was really an accident this afternoon?”

“You mean what happened to Teddy?”

“Of course that's what I mean.”

Scully was certain that the episode had been no accident, but he wanted to figure out why Paul was asking. “I don't know.”