Aftershocks (16 page)

Cecil Thomson had wanted the mayor’s job.

Cecil Thomson didn’t get a majority vote because of an unsavory incident from his past, and the people of Courage Bay had had it with sexual misconduct from their civic leaders.

Sexual misconduct had caused one mayor to be booted out of office and a contender to lose his chance. If Mayor Patrick O’Shea, whose victory was based on his ethics and morality, could be caught in sexual misconduct, then he’d be history, and the chances were good that the people of Courage Bay would look at Cecil Thomson with a kinder eye.

It was such a perfect setup, Patrick almost admired the wiles that had caused Thomson to insinuate his beautiful niece into Patrick’s office and let nature take
its course. If she could entrap him into sexual harassment, and provide the kind of proof the media loved, then Patrick’s career would be destroyed. Cecil Thomson would have another shot at running for mayor.

Resisting the impulse to throw back his head and howl like a wounded wolf, Patrick forced himself to consider his situation with cold reason. And what he saw didn’t impress him.

The biggest irony was that if Patrick had held on to the high standards he’d believed himself to possess, the plot would have failed. But he hadn’t counted on falling in love with the woman who was his assistant.

Briana.
He moaned her name inside his head. What possible reason could she have for such betrayal?

He was going to find out. Knowing he would be incapable of acting rationally tonight, he called and canceled his evening meeting.

Then he returned, with the tape recorder, to Briana’s desk, feeling about a hundred years older than he had an hour ago, and with a bitter taste in his mouth and bleak anger in his heart.

He sat down in her chair and tried to imagine how it had felt to be her, to make love with a man for the sole purpose of destroying his life, and he found he couldn’t. It seemed as though he was going to have a chance to ask her, though, because he heard her voice talking to someone in the hall.

She hadn’t gone home, after all. Soon she was going to wish she had.

“D
ON’T WORK TOO LATE
,”
Briana said as she turned toward the mayor’s office and the land titles clerk continued down the corridor.

“You either,” the clerk called back to her.

In truth, Briana wasn’t here for work. She’d decided to wait until Patrick returned so she could tell him what she’d done; she wanted to do it in the office setting and not in his home. Somehow that seemed important. It was only as his admin assistant that she’d been a fraud. Never, from the first moment they’d kissed, she realized now, had it been an option for her to go through with what Uncle Cecil had planned.

It was in the office that she’d been untruthful, and it was in the office that she would explain why. She wouldn’t pollute Patrick’s home, the home he shared with Dylan and Fiona, with the unsavory tale.

She walked into the office and stopped on the threshold, her heart jumping in her throat—first with gladness, when she saw Patrick sitting in her chair with his feet up on her desk, then with a sick foreboding when she recognized the object he held in his hand.

The tape recorder. And in it the tape, she’d made of them in the elevator. That wretched, stupid tape that had gone missing after their night together.

Any possibility that he didn’t know what was recorded in that small box was put to rest when she saw the expression on his face. His lips were clenched so tight it was amazing they didn’t crack. More than anger blazed coldly out of those searing blue eyes. There was contempt, too.

Her face flamed and she couldn’t hold his gaze.

“Patrick, I—” She what? Could she possibly make him believe there was an explanation that was innocent? Even as she considered trying to dredge one up, she knew she wouldn’t. She was done with lies and dishonesty. This man deserved the truth.

Instead of saying a single world, instead of yelling at her, berating her, all of which she deserved, he picked up the recorder and pushed Play.

“No,” she pleaded softly. “Please, don’t.”

But already the room was filled with the sounds of panting, the rustle of clothing, the sigh of flesh against flesh and a soft guttural cry that she knew must be hers, since it was distinctly female. Oh, and that female was having the time of her life.

“Oh, Briana, you feel so good,” Patrick said on tape, his voice hoarse with passion.

“Yes,” she cried. “Oh, oh, yes…” Her cheeks flamed, and Briana could take no more. Stepping swiftly forward, she grabbed the recorder out of his hand and pushed Stop.

She’d wanted the mechanical replay of that wonderful night to end, but now the dead silence seemed almost as bad. She put the recorder onto the desk with a soft click and stepped back. She’d wanted to tell him everything, but of course, she’d never in all her life intended to tell him about the tape. There’d have been no need if she could have destroyed it the following day, as she’d intended to.

Now, here it was, damning her before she’d had a chance to explain.

Her throat felt dry, so dry, and all the explanations she knew Patrick deserved and that she wanted to give him wouldn’t come to her.

When she didn’t speak, he did.

“So you wanted to set me up for a sexual harassment suit.” He put his hand on the recorder and pushed it toward her. “Go ahead. Call your lawyer.”

She glanced up, startled. “No.”

“You’ll need a lawyer anyway. You’re fired.” He laughed without mirth. “It’s pretty ironic, isn’t it? I wanted so desperately for you not to work for me anymore. I begged you to transfer, I had my eye open for challenging positions so you could get a well-deserved promotion. And when you, with all your talent and experience, wouldn’t take a transfer, I put it down to your loyalty.”

“Patrick, please.”

“I finally have a good reason to fire you. Sue me, do whatever the hell you want. Maybe you’ll even get
your uncle Cecil
my job after all. He sure wants it badly enough.” He stopped, and she saw the depth of his pain in the hard pewter of his eyes. “The only thing I can’t figure out is what was in it for you?”

“Nothing,” she said. She raised a hand toward him and he stared at her as though she were vermin.

“Nothing? Oh, honey, there has to be something you wanted bad. Is it tabloid fame? Maybe the three of us—you, me and Uncle Cecil—can go on one of those afternoon talk shows where everybody betrays everybody else and they yell and beat up on each other on national television. Is that what you’re after?”

“No. Look, I told you I wanted to talk to you tonight. I was going to tell you everything.”

“I’ll just bet you were.”

“I wish you’d listen to me.”

Patrick looked at her, and the lines of anger couldn’t hide the pain and loss in his eyes. “I really don’t think I want to. You and your uncle proved your point. I was corruptible.”

“No!” she cried, desperate to make him listen to her. “That’s not true.”

“I thought because I loved you that it changed the rules somehow.” He shook his head so stiffly it looked like his neck hurt. “The rules don’t work that way. What I did was wrong, and against my principles.” He snorted. “Some white knight I turned out to be.” He rose. “Take the tape and have your fun. Do your best to bring me down and see how much you enjoy it.”

He picked up the tape recorder and pushed it toward her.

She shoved her hands behind her back. “No. I don’t want it.”

“Take it. It’s your property. If there’s anything else here that belongs to you personally, you can take that, too, then I’ll need your keys back. I’ll be escorting you off the premises.”

“I tried to find the tape the next morning so I could destroy it. I never, ever would have used it. You must know that. I believed—” She bit her lip. “My uncle and aunt were so good to me. I owe them so much. I—well, I can’t talk about that part. I got my loyalties mixed up.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me what was going on? You had plenty of opportunity Saturday night,” he reminded her.

“I showed you the newspaper article, remember?”

He nodded curtly.

“I believed someone had fabricated that story about my uncle. Yesterday, I went to see the officer who originally made the arrest.” She shook her head. “You weren’t the only one who was betrayed,” she said sadly.

“I’m all out of pity. Let’s go.”

Briana couldn’t believe this was happening. It was a nightmare. She was being fired from the job she loved by the man she’d come to love. Oh, she’d made a big mistake, too. She’d been loyal, as loyal as she knew how to be. But to the wrong man.

There was no possible way she could explain her error to this angry, implacable man. She saw now that she didn’t deserve him, anyway. Not after what she’d done. Talk about going against your own principles.

Sadly, she took the tape recorder and placed it in her bag. The only personal items she wanted to take home were the pictures Dylan had drawn for her, but knowing how Patrick must feel about her right now, she doubted he’d want her even to touch his son’s artwork. She had her dragon hanging at home on her fridge. At least she could take that one with her as a bittersweet reminder of all she’d lost. Correction—all she’d thrown away.

“There’s nothing,” she said sadly, and turned for the door. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m just so sorry.” She wouldn’t cry. Not here and not now. Later. When she was home, she was going on the crying jag to end all crying jags. Until then, she’d hold it together.

A hand grabbed her shoulder before she made it to the door.

“Why?” he demanded, as though he couldn’t help himself. “I need to know why.”

“I can’t explain,” she said, and it was true. Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to expose her uncle. She still felt the heavy burden of gratitude for what he and her aunt had done for her. And maybe a little pity for the pain Uncle Cecil must have been suffering when he strayed. And what Patrick had said earlier was true for her, as well. If she were the woman of high character she’d believed herself to be, she never would have agreed to take on such an unsavory task. She’d been a fool, but she’d been a dishonest fool, and for that she’d pay a heavy price. “I’m sorry.”

And she left. She had no idea whether he followed her or not, because she walked so fast she verged on a trot, down the wide stairs, across the marble foyer, out the double doors and to the parking area. And she never looked back.

Not until she was home.

Then she kicked off her shoes, and before so much as taking off her jacket, she went and got her toolbox. It was pretty much an apartment-dwelling single woman toolbox, with one of those screwdrivers that had about a hundred changeable heads, a pair of pliers and a hammer.

It was the hammer she wanted.

Panting with anger, despair and chagrin, she grabbed the tape recorder out of her bag and marched back outside to the asphalt drive. She flicked the tape out of the recorder and placed it on the ground, then she hammered it, again and again, until the plastic covering was shattered and the shiny brown tape that spilled in messy coils was twisted and mashed and had dirt embedded in it.

Tears were running down her face, and she was
sobbing so hard she was having trouble breathing, but she wasn’t finished yet. She took the hammer to the metal recorder next and bashed away at that until it looked as though it had been melted in a fire. Not content, she pounded at it until it broke into little pieces.

She swept everything up and put the whole mess in the garbage. She wasn’t finished with the tape, though. She went back inside for a pair of shears and cut the tape into little pieces. She then found an old metal pail and went back out with her barbecue lighter and burned as much as she could, not worrying about the toxic smoke. Only then did she drop the whole mess, pail and all, into the garbage.

Then she went back inside, locked the doors, stomped into her bedroom, threw herself fully clothed onto the bed, and sobbed.

The phone rang at some point while she was immersed in grief and self-loathing, but she ignored it. Later, she padded out to the kitchen for a glass of water and played back her voice mail. The call had been from her Uncle Cecil. He’d sounded old and sad and he’d apologized.

She erased the message and then pulled the plug on her phone. She turned away, and as she did, her gaze alighted on the picture Dylan had drawn of the dragon.

Tears leaked out of her all over again as she stared at the drawing that had made her so happy, and now made her so sad.

She managed to brush her teeth and get into her nightclothes and that was it. The rest of the night was spent torturing herself with the knowledge of how much she’d hurt Patrick and his children.

Although she didn’t sleep at all, the next morning she felt calmer and able to make a decision.

She was leaving Courage Bay as soon as possible.

She brewed herself some coffee, padding around in her bare feet and cataloguing everything she had to do. It wasn’t much. Her rent was paid until the end of the month. She’d call the landlord and pay an extra month’s rent in lieu of notice. Since she hadn’t even brought a lot of stuff with her, she could pack, clean the place, have her utilities cut off and be on the road before nightfall.

She didn’t even know where she was going, and she didn’t much care.

Somewhere she’d find another job, and another home, and she’d start all over again. Yes, she thought with a sniff, she’d leave Courage Bay—and her heart—behind her.

P
ATRICK MADE IT HOME
in time to tuck his kids into bed and read Fiona a story. When he recalled his earlier foolish hope that Briana would be here to read Fiona her new storybook, he felt his heart break all over again. This time not for himself, but for Fiona and Dylan, who’d latched on to Briana with the same naive hopes he’d so blithely held.

He wanted to break something, to rail and rant and throw things.

How could any woman be so calculating? So damned uncaring that she’d hurt not only the man who loved her but two innocent children who were also starting to care for her? And how could he have been such a fool?

After the kids were asleep, he helped himself to a rare Scotch and sat in the dark living room staring out the
window. If the children weren’t in the house, he’d probably drink the entire bottle of Glenfiddich. He smiled wryly. At least his kids were preventing him from a nasty hangover in the morning.

They’d do something else for him, too. They’d pull him through this. They’d got through Janie’s death, the three of them, and they could sure as hell get over the defection of a calculating manipulative woman who’d set out to destroy his career.

He thought about that, too, while he sipped the fiery liquid and stared out into the night. His precious career. He’d probably lose it, once Briana and her uncle went public with that tape. There’d be some tough times ahead. He was furious again, with Briana and with himself, that his children would suffer for his indiscretion. Not Fiona so much. She and her friends were too young to understand. But Dylan would have a hard time at school.

He rubbed his face in his hands. He’d never been a quitter, but for the sake of his children, maybe he should make a new start, move somewhere different. He’d paid off the house with Janie’s life insurance money and he had some savings. They’d be fine. He could make a new start for his family, find a new job, a new home with no memories.

And yet, good things had happened in this house, as well as bad. His family was here. O’Sheas had lived in Courage Bay for over a hundred years. He’d been a fool and he’d face up to that. But was he going to run away?

Hell, no.

On that determined note, he went to bed, though he really wondered why he bothered. His hurt was too
fresh, his anger too raw, so he tossed and turned and finally got up and wrote a speech. Yet another passionate Mayor Patrick O’Shea goes to the people appeal, only this one was more in the line of crisis management.

Damage control, Archie would call it.

When the first few streaks of dawn lit the sky, he decided to call it morning and got into the shower. By the time Mrs. Simpson arrived at seven-thirty, he’d gone through the better part of two pots of coffee, had read the paper cover to cover, and written Briana a letter. Two, in fact. He’d torn up both of them, but he felt better for expressing some of the hurt and anger and disbelief that raged within him.