Children of Dynasty (15 page)

But it wasn’t about games, or their mutual love for building. After Catharine died, it had been the two of them against the universe.

If he died, how could she go on?

Once more, she regretted her defiant impulse in flaunting her renewed relationship with Rory. Dad had only her best interests in mind when he warned against Davis Campbell’s son.

Yet, closing her eyes, she saw Rory at his boat’s helm, smiling while spray wet his cheeks and curled his dark hair. His voice echoed in her head.

When I heard about the accident, I ran through the streets like a wild man … I never bought you flowers when you deserved a garden. I never gave you a ring.

Her hands made fists on the sheets.

Across her bedroom, the glow of a streetlight illuminated the empty jeweler’s box the ruby ring had come in. She got out of bed and found her purse, rescued the ring from rubbing against dimes and quarters, and placed it on the velvet cushion. Even as she closed the lid, she wanted to slide the gold band on her finger where Rory had placed it.

Yesterday, he had said it wasn’t over.

Getting back in bed, she envisioned them together, lying close with his bare chest pressed to her back. He would come to her if he knew what happened; hold her so she wouldn’t feel alone.

But she must not think of breaking her bargain with fate. Her father must wake, and when he did, how could she tell him she’d laughed when Rory threw his cell phone in the creek?

O
n the Monday morning after her father’s surgery, Mariah entered the Grant conference room for the weekly meeting. She wore a black pants suit for the appearance of authority and had pulled her hair back as severely as she could manage.

Word about John’s illness had traveled through the senior staff over the weekend. Public relations director April Perry had toned down her usually bright clothing, appearing in gray wool gabardine. Her helmet of reddish hair remained motionless when she moved. Corpulent chief counsel Ed Snowden wore a weary expression. Arnold Benton looked shell-shocked, making him seem more beige than usual.

What had her father seen in him, to put him in charge of the company finances?

Tom Barrett came in with beads of perspiration on his forehead as though he’d rushed to arrive on time. Expecting his effort meant he would chair the meeting, Mariah was surprised to see him sink into a chair and defer to her.

When she moved to the head of the table, Arnold sat straighter and bristled.

Keeping things simple, she made sure all projects were moving forward, but accepted and encouraged a slower pace this week. “Let everyone in your departments know we’ll keep them up to the minute on John’s condition. And thank them for how well they’ve avoided the press since the accident.”

The team murmured assent.

Looking around at them, Mariah said, “What can anyone here tell me about a missing workman from the Grant Plaza site? I’ve heard a guy went AWOL after the accident.”

Arnold Benton glared at her. “Conspiracy theories?”

Mariah’s heartbeat accelerated. How quick he was to attack as soon as he believed her father wasn’t able to protect her.

April Perry broke in. “Manuel Zaragoza. Male. Age 28. Five feet eleven, brown eyes, at last report wears his hair in a ponytail.”

Mariah frowned.

April went on. “Employed as a welder by a subcontractor on the Grant Plaza project. Rents a room in a private home, answered an ad for it. His things are still there, but he hasn’t been seen for a week.”

“Missing for a week?” Mariah stared at April. “What are you saying? That the accident was sabotage?”

“Just stating the facts.” April’s tone was expressionless. “Though the police and everyone else think it was an accident, of course they’re looking to question Zaragoza. I’ve got a PI trying to find the guy.” She tapped a CD case beside her on the table. “I’ll give you a copy of his first report.”

“A private investigator?” Arnold asked. “Isn’t that carrying things a bit far?”

April ignored him. “Zaragoza holds a California driver’s license under a defunct address in Oakland, leases a Ford Taurus.”

Mariah tried to keep alarm off her face. The description matched that of the man she thought had followed her in traffic. “If he did something to cause the cable to part …”

She looked at company engineer Ramsey Rhodes, a studious sandy-haired man who kept his own counsel except when pressed. The fact that he was excellent at what he did more than made up for his taciturn nature.

This morning Ramsey deliberated long enough for Mariah’s alarm to escalate. At last, he reported, “The hoist company is studying the point of failure on the cable; we’ve got an independent lab as well. Anything fishy, which I doubt, it’ll turn up.”

With a confidence she didn’t feel, Mariah said, “It sounds as though you have it covered.”

After asking if anyone had other business, she adjourned the meeting. Tom, who had not said a word, came to her. “I’m going to the hospital at lunch. Want to ride along?”

Arnold materialized at Tom’s side. “I wouldn’t mind joining you.” To his credit, he sounded worried.

Tom glanced at her. Apparently reading her expression, he told Arnold, “John’s in no condition to have a lot of visitors … he wouldn’t even know you’re there.”

“I see.” Arnold gave her a dark look that said he blamed her for shutting him off from John.

Her father’s words came back to her, how he hoped the two of them would get along. Was there an agenda she didn’t understand, some twisted matchmaking or, God forbid, Arnold was being groomed to be her right hand man when John and Tom retired?

The room emptied, but April stayed behind and handed over the CD with the investigator’s report.

“Thanks.” When April did not turn to leave, Mariah gave her a curious look.

“Did you forget?” she asked. “The
Chronicle
reporter is waiting to interview you.”

“I did forget.” Mariah had allowed April to make the appointment last Thursday before “On The Spot” broke into Charley’s viewing, and before the press staked them out on Friday. “Do you still think I should do it?”

April leaned a hip against the conference table, her slim arms crossed over her simple yet elegant jacket. “It’s up to you. The
Chronicle
has run a reasonably fair story every day, all by the reporter waiting for you.”

Mariah sighed. “All right, then.”

“I think you should do this in John’s office, rather than the conference room,” the public relations director suggested.

Having already taken over her father’s role in the meeting, Mariah accepted this next step.

In John’s corner office one wall of windows faced Market Street, and the other had a filtered view of the Bay Bridge. “Take his chair,” April suggested. “Get out some papers and look busy while I fetch the reporter.”

Mariah walked into the room, made emptier by the knowledge Dad wasn’t down the hall or visiting a site. One of the ficus plants he insisted on caring for himself had dropped leaves since the cleaning crew had been in. On the windowsill, his collection of African violets sported a bottom row of wilting foliage he would have pinched off first thing this morning.

She stopped by the chessboard and noted her last move had not been countered.

With a sigh, she moved on reluctant feet and took John’s empty chair. Tall windows framed the building where DCI officed, centered in the view. Mariah had never given it a thought before, but when her father came back — she would not consider an alternative — she’d try and talk him into trading space with Tom on the other side of the floor. It couldn’t be good for him to be constantly reminded of his enemy.

The office door opened, catching her without the guise of working.

The thirty-something reporter who entered with April was pretty in a foreign sort of way. Her dark curly hair and skin reminded Mariah of the reddish gold of horehound candy. Her eyes were apple green. “Dee Carpentier.” With a butter-soft smile, she put out her hand.

Mariah stayed on guard. This woman might have her claws sheathed, but she suspected they were made of steel. Though Dee’s stories about Grant Plaza had been fair to date, under her by-line a lot of reputations had been ruined.

April indicated a wing chair and offered refreshments.

Dee declined. She flipped open a note pad, rummaged in her portfolio, and placed a small tape recorder on the desk. “With your permission.”

April reached into her jacket pocket and positioned a higher tech machine alongside. “With yours.”

The next minutes were a blur. Mariah tried to keep her thoughts together and answer professionally.

Yes, John Grant was in the hospital.

Dee wished for a speedy recovery.

Certainly, the Grant Plaza accident had been a terrible tragedy.

Dee expressed sympathy.

Of course, the company regretted and mourned the loss of Charley Barrett and Andrew Green. They had no idea what had happened, pending inspections.

Dee crossed her slim and elegant legs, her taupe skirt riding higher as she leaned forward. “What can you tell me about your evading the press last week?”

“I can tell you about that,” April fielded. Mariah felt she should be fighting her own battles, but as PR was April’s specialty, she let her go on. “It was on my advice as well as our chief counsel that the principals avoid giving indiscriminate statements. Once the facts are in, cooler heads can prevail.”

Dee’s focus on Mariah was unbroken. “I was referring to you personally. I understand Grant Development and DCI have a bitter rivalry, yet you and Davis Campbell’s son drove off Friday afternoon in his Porsche.”

April’s porcelain brow furrowed.

Mariah swallowed, then wished she hadn’t. A good reporter would note that telltale dip of her Adam’s apple.

“Where did you get that?” April asked sharply. She did not look at Mariah.

“I sometimes exchange information with Julio Castillo at ‘On The Spot.’ It works since we’re not in direct competition.” Dee’s smile was no longer soft.

“They haven’t run anything,” Mariah argued. “They must not be confident of their information.”

“They’re sure.” Dee poised her notepad and pen. “So, where did you and Rory spend the night?”

Their secret hideaway in the Ventana wilderness now seemed like a dream.

Mariah rose and pushed back John’s chair. “My private life is not the subject here.”

The reporter stared at her a moment longer. “I think your private life will be public very soon.” She stowed her pad in her purse, retrieved her tape recorder, and said politely, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Grant.”

“I’ll see you out,” April said coldly. Mariah felt certain that on her way through the doorway the public relations director threw her a look of condemnation.

Late Monday morning, Rory studied computer plots he’d drawn for an assisted living center. His father hoped to use it in a development overlooking the ocean in Daly City, but the tract there was too small without buying an adjoining piece of state land.

This was where Rory’s calculated courtship of Sylvia Chatsworth was supposed to come in. The Senator could get the land green-lighted for development, and myriad other future favors, especially if the relationship between Davis Campbell and Lawrence Chatsworth was cemented by their children’s marriage.

Rory found he clutched a pencil so hard he was in danger of snapping it. Against his will he found himself comparing the Senator’s daughter to John Grant’s.

Flamboyant and bold, beneath Sylvia’s occasional bursts of temperament was the closely guarded secret of a little girl’s heart. He did like her, even if she failed to move him.

But Mariah …

A laughing girl feeding the gulls off the stern of
Privateer,
a woman grieving the loss of her friend Charley, an enchantress, sleek and naked in the hot bath at Ventana. His need for her had an edge to it, far different from when their younger selves simply took what they desired.

Friday night at Ventana he’d been transported back to that state, and in the taking he’d wanted as never before to give. It drove him crazy that she’d insisted on coming home.

Even more so, since she’d not returned the calls he made to her apartment. On the other hand, he’d failed to get her cell number and hadn’t wanted to leave a message at her father’s. She had wanted to handle John alone, and Rory needed to give her that chance. Perhaps she’d stayed over in Stonestown, or the press had forced them to move to a different hotel.

With regret for their missed Saturday and Sunday, he decided to call her at Grant Development. They’d meet for lunch at a steakhouse on Market, where there’d be lots of opportunity to be seen together during the busy noon hour.

He reached for the phone to call her. It rang, making him jump, but he picked up and tried to sound even. “Rory Campbell.”

“Get in here,” his father said.

Irritated, Rory replaced the receiver. He’d been pleased back in March and April that things seemed to be going well, but since Davis’s abrupt personality change, his patience was wearing thin. He was almost tempted to ignore the imperial summons.