Children of Dynasty (16 page)

Yet, professionalism demanded that if he was on the company payroll, he must answer to the company chairman.

Taking his time, he went down four doors and paused on the threshold, enjoying the view. The fortieth floor corner offered a panorama spanning the northwest, the Golden Gate Bridge like a child’s model. Across the Bay, clouds wreathed the forested shoulders of Mt. Tamalpais.

Ignoring the vista that until recently seemed to please him, Davis glared from behind a gleaming black lacquer desk the size of a queen-sized bed. His decorator had selected shining black wood again in the coffee table and for the frames of silkscreen prints.

Rising with a brisk motion, Davis demanded, “Where were you this weekend? I called your cell a dozen times.”

“I went down to Big Sur.”

“With Sylvia?”

“No.”

Davis’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re not imagining yourself with Mariah Grant again.”

It wasn’t imagination. Every minute, from when Mariah had come to his townhouse to go sailing, through the incredible heights they had scaled in the king bed at Ventana, had been real.

He straightened his back. “Where my imagination begins, your business ends.”

His father came toward him, invading his space. “Don’t be flip. That woman is dangerous.”

Though shocked, Rory did not retreat. “Dangerous? You think she’ll steal my wallet when I’m sleeping?”

A pained expression came over his father’s haughty face. “Tell me it hasn’t gone that far.”

“You’re the last person I’d tell.”

Davis closed his eyes. “You have no idea,” he said in a low and passionate voice, “what a woman like that can do to a man.”

“Maybe I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” he declared.

His father took several steps to a black leather couch and leaned against its back. Coatless in a starched shirt with one of his two-hundred dollar Italian silk ties, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I should know it’s no use telling a child what a father learned the hard way.”

Before Rory could protest at being talked down to, Davis spread his hands. “I know, I know. You’re a man now. Older than I was when I learned my lesson.” His gaze wandered out to where the business district’s spires rose to the sky.

“Once, I wanted to marry for love.” He spoke in a low tone, reverently. “She was beautiful … in body and soul. Even after nearly thirty years, I still believe she could have saved me.”

Rory’s thoughts whirled. If his mother had been second choice, then perhaps that explained what had always been lacking in his parents’ marriage.

“What happened?” he asked softly.

Davis’s fist clenched on his thigh, his face contorted. “She died.”

“Father, I …”

“Mr. Campbell,” Davis’s secretary announced from the speakerphone, “Thaddeus Walker of First California, line one.”

With a swiftness that astonished Rory, his father re-donned his cloak of invincibility and took the call. “Thaddeus!” he enthused.

Rory went to the window. Though it was Monday, a few dedicated windsurfers and sailors had their crafts skimming over the white-capped Bay. He longed to be out there with them.

“The hell you say?” Davis said. Then he listened to the person on the other end of the call for a moment. “Friday night,” he mused, then, “All right, thank you for telling me.”

Hanging up slowly, he made his way to his black leather throne and sat. “Our fortunes have taken an unexpected turn,” he said in a tight voice.

“How’s that?”

“John Grant had a bypass operation. It’ll be a wonder if he lives.”

Rory’s heart set up a hard thudding. Mariah’s nightmare of her father’s body … “You call that fortune?” he gasped. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I was speaking of our business fortune.” Davis’s black eyes were opaque. “Do you really think I’d wish someone dead?”

Only moments ago, Rory had been taken in by a tale of ancient woe. But he must have imagined the vulnerability and pain. “Yes.” He put a match to the tenuous bridge between him and his father. “I believe you might be glad your old enemy lies at the edge of the world.”

He turned on his heel and left Davis Campbell’s domain. And though he phoned Grant Development and identified himself to the receptionist, he was told Mariah was not there. In answer to his query about which hospital John was in, he was told, “I’m afraid that after all the recent negative publicity, Mr. Grant’s location is confidential.”

Mariah kissed her father goodnight as though he were aware of her presence. The doctors said she should assume he heard every word and felt each touch, a not-so-subtle warning against negative commentary on his prognosis. With a last survey of the onscreen display of his vital signs, she tucked the sheets more snugly around him and left his CCU cubicle.

When she entered her apartment, her answering machine message light once more blinked. This morning she’d erased the ones from the weekend without listening.

Please, she thought, let it be a solicitation from the county Republican Party, a charity with a truck conveniently on her street, anybody except the hospital with bad news about her father.

Or Rory.

She crossed to the phone and pushed the button.

“I heard about your dad,” his deep voice enunciated. “Call me, no matter what time you get in.”

She stared at the phone as though he might materialize through it. Just the thought of being with Rory made the heavy something inside her chest struggle to lift the weight away.

But what of her father? When he was finally coherent, to him it would be only an hour since she’d told him she was with his enemy’s son.

A stab of her finger erased the message.

At ten-thirty, the phone rang. She almost dropped her hairbrush. In the bathroom mirror, her eyes looked enormous, ringed with dark smudges. The cut over her left eye still looked raw and angry.

The phone shrilled again. She padded to the kitchen to listen.

“Mariah?” Rory sounded as close as the next room. “If you’re there, pick up.”

It was all she could do to stand still, her feet bare on the chill ceramic tile.

“I guess you’re at the hospital.” He hesitated. “I hope he’s okay.”

Everything in her wanted to rush across the room and pick up the phone. But, for Dad’s sake, she forced herself to walk back to her bath and finish getting ready for bed.

Once there, sleep was impossible.

She found a tapestry of Charley’s funeral fluttering on the backs of her eyelids. The incongruous perfection of the blue day, the marble angel dragged to earth by grief. The ache of loss swelled in her throat. How was she going to manage without her sounding board, her class clown, the one who shared her childhood memories of kick the can, hide and seek, and Halloween pranks?

Remembering Charley’s love for playing cards, she knew it was all a game of chance. It no longer mattered whether he had won or not; he’d lost the most important lottery when he stepped onto the Grant Plaza hoist. And if fate frowned on her father, by the end of the week she might see him in a real coffin rather than a nightmare one. The doctors had said he reacted badly to the cocktail of anesthesia and drugs and the outcome was still uncertain.

It didn’t assuage Mariah’s guilt to know that the accident, if it had been an accident, had put him under huge stress. Not an issue that he was taking responsibility for the death of his best friend’s son. Useless the words of Dr. Patel, who said family members always worried about triggering a heart attack. Deep inside, she believed she and Rory had pushed him over the edge.

The phone’s shrill alarm nearly catapulted her out of bed. Red letters on the clock radio said eleven-fifteen.

Her pulse raced. Terrified that an impersonal hospital voice waited to shatter her, she threw back the covers and went once more into the kitchen.

The answering machine clicked as it took the call.

“Mariah,” Rory said fervently. His rough breathing reminded her of being in his arms. “I’ve called some of the hospitals, but I haven’t located where he is.”

Her nails drilled crescents into her palms. His ragged uncertainty, the implication that John might no longer be in a hospital but a mortuary …

Slowly, she crossed the room and picked up the receiver. “He’s in Cal State.”

“I tried there.”

Twisting her free hand in the phone cord, she felt the ache in her chest start to ease at the sound of his voice. “I asked that the switchboard not list him. Because of the press.”

“It wasn’t in any news I saw … yet.” He paused. “I’m coming over.”

“No!” she gasped.

“What?” He sounded incredulous. “Don’t tell me you don’t need me. Christ, I need to see you, hold you …”

She couldn’t. If he came, her promise to a God or the fates that might be merciful would be broken. “Please,” she begged. “Not tonight.”

A beat of silence.

“All right, Mariah,” Rory said quietly. “Not tonight.”

Rounding a hospital hallway corner near the CCU the next day, Mariah found Dee Carpentier of the
Chronicle
standing in the hall. The reporter was jotting notes on her little pad.

Mariah strode forward. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to check out a rumor your father was in there.” Dee directed her pale eyes toward the wide swinging doors. “Since you’re here, may I assume it’s true?”

“Where do you get your rumors? Julio Castillo?”

Dee pressed her generous lips together. “You know we reporters like to protect our sources, but in this case I’ll tell you. Davis Campbell phoned to tell me what happened. He thought it would make a good addition to my series on your company’s trouble. So … is it true?”

“Davis Campbell wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him in the head,” Mariah blurted. God, Rory must have told him where John was.

“Your father’s not listed as a patient,” Dee supplied. “Are you saying it’s not true?”

Mariah hesitated. If she lied, Dee would find out, making the story even more exciting.

With a sigh, she relented. “He’s here.”

Another of Dee’s deceptive smiles spread over her tawny features. Mariah looked toward the doors about to open for a limited thirty-minute visitation period.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t go in there.” She could imagine the graphic description of John lying helpless with tubes and the respirator, equipment lights blinking. Or, God forbid, the reporter might even take a photo with one of those mini digitals. “What about the healthcare privacy laws?”

“When the unit doors open, anyone can walk in. If I’m challenged, I’m looking for someone who turns out not to be here.” Dee gave her a bargaining look.

“If you promise to stay out,” Mariah said. “I’ll give you some information.”

The reporter inclined her head and gestured toward a quiet corner not far from the doors.

A few minutes later, having been told the rudiments of John’s condition and about his surgery, true to her word Dee was gone. Mariah turned toward the CCU.

Expecting to see her father lying still as death, she approached his bedside warily. This time, weary gray eyes watched her.

“Dad!” She took his bruised and fragile-looking hand, noting fewer wires and catheters and not as much data on the monitor over his bed.

Pale and drawn, he struggled to speak. “Feel … like someone took an axe … to my chest.” He showed her a button he could push for more pain meds in his IV mix. “Damn thing. On a timer.”

“Don’t talk,” she said.

“Campbell …”

Shame heated her cheeks. “Dad, I’m sorry.” There was so much more she wanted to say, but she feared upsetting him. “It didn’t work out with Rory,” she assured.

“Not … surprised.”

“It was something I had to find out.” Now was when she should confirm her promise not to see Rory, but it stuck in her throat.

“Don’t want you hurt … again,” he got out.

It was too late for that, but she managed, “No. It won’t happen again.”

Trying to regain her composure, she opened her purse and brought out the picture of Catharine she’d brought from the kitchen counter in Stonestown. Knowing John must have willed his wife to stay with him the way Mariah now prayed for him struck fear in her heart.