Dangerous Ladies (68 page)

“Get out.” Devlin could scarcely speak for rage. “Get . . . out . . . now.”

Four listened. He listened well, because he raced to the closet, pulled out his clothes, and flung them on the bed.

But he kept talking. He babbled as fast as he could. “Listen to me. I didn’t hurt Meadow. If someone smacked her on the head, you’d better take good care of her, because if Mr. Hopkins knows she’s after that painting, he’ll take her out. No kidding, Devlin. Mr. Hopkins is going to kill me for failing.” Four paused in the process of unzipping his suitcase.

He looked right at Devlin, and if Devlin didn’t know better, he would have sworn Four was telling the truth.

“Devlin, honest. Mr. Hopkins will kill Meadow . . . just for trying.”

T
he next morning, as Devlin stepped inside his office, the clouds had closed in and the gray day echoed his mood. He hated that Gabriel had spent the night firing some of his security staff and trying to track down one who’d gone missing. He hated that Four had betrayed him. He hated more that his tolerance for an old friend had led to Meadow’s injury.

Worse, now he saw traitors everywhere. When Sam looked up from his desk, all Devlin could remember was his unusual interest in that painting. There was something damned odd about his attention to
that
detail.

“I hope Mrs. Fitzwilliam is doing well today, sir.” Sam looked the same as he always did—a mix of Asian and Hispanic, calm, unflappable, efficient.

But when Devlin got back from the hospital and settled Meadow into her bed, he was going to do some research on good old Sam. “I spoke with the hospital this morning. They tell me she’s resting comfortably and, other than bruises, has no residual trauma. I pick her up at eleven.”

“Good news, sir.” Sam rose to his feet. He squared his shoulders. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, I refused to wake you, but you have a visitor. He
didn’t want to be seen by your departing guests, so I put him in the dining room.”

Devlin was in no mood to play games. “Who is he?”

“His name is Carrick Manly.”

“Carrick Manly. Well. Daddy’s
legitimate
son.” No wonder Sam had made such a big deal of this announcement. He didn’t know how Devlin would react.

Hell, Devlin didn’t know how Devlin should react.

Nathan Manly had had one wife, and among his other breeding activities, he’d managed to father one son with her, making Carrick the anointed heir to his father’s industrial kingdom. Only Nathan had ruined his business, taken the money, and run out on everyone, including Melinda and Carrick Manly.

In all the years since his father had disappeared, Devlin had never heard from any paternal relative.

Well . . . he hadn’t gone looking for them, either. With a parent like Nathan, who knew what his offspring would be? Devlin had enough problems with friends like Four.

Four. Devlin had thrown him out, then almost sent someone after him. Because . . . what if Four was telling the truth?

But Sam had talked him out of it. “Sir, if this Mr. Hopkins really is searching for the painting, then Four is better off away from the action.” Then he’d tried to pry more information about the painting out of Devlin.

Sam was definitely due for an investigation.

“Did Carrick say what he wanted?”

“He refused to speak to me,” Sam said, “but I thought you’d wish to see him regardless.”

“You thought right.”

“I also thought you’d like information before you spoke with him, so I took the liberty of researching him and making up a file.” Sam handed Devlin a manila folder full of information he’d gathered off the Internet: press clippings describing Carrick’s privileged childhood in Maine among American aristocrats, many more news stories
from the time of Nathan’s disappearance, and a mention of Carrick’s graduation from college with a brief recap of the disgrace. The newest pictures were not clear; Carrick had clearly developed a talent for avoiding the photographers.

And finally, from January, the news that the U.S. government had filed charges against Melinda Manly, accusing her of collusion in the defrauding of the Manly Corporation’s stockholders.

Devlin had heard about that, of course. He simply hadn’t given a rat’s ass. “Why did the government wait so many years?” he asked rhetorically.

Sam answered just as vaguely. “It’s the government.”

Devlin handed the file back. “You put him in the dining room, you say? Good choice. He can entertain himself in there.” With the computers. With the books. With stealing the antiques, if he took after their father.

Devlin strode toward the dining room.

He opened the double doors, half hoping to catch Carrick pilfering the silver.

Instead he was sitting by the window, reading a well-worn paperback—one of his own, by the looks of it. He put down the book, rose, and extended his hand. “My name’s Carrick Manly. I’m your half brother—and that’s a phrase I’ve been using a little more often than I am used to.”

Those recent, blurred photos didn’t do him justice. He was approximately twenty-four, tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was dark, like Devlin’s, and his brown eyes were intelligent.

Devlin thought they probably looked alike, and as he shook Carrick’s hand, he said, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“So I see.” Carrick checked him out as carefully as Devlin had him. “You look completely different from the last half brother I met.” Clearly Carrick had been raised among the finest old families on the East Coast; his voice had a patrician accent, and although the clothes he wore weren’t expensive, he wore them well.

“Who would that be?”

“His name is Roberto Bartolini. He’s Italian.”

“No more than half Italian, surely.” Devlin gestured Carrick back into his seat.

Carrick corrected himself. “Italian-American.”

“I believe I’ve heard of him. Saw his photo in the paper. ” Devlin remembered the
USA Today
story he’d read at the airport last month. “Didn’t he marry that famous crime-fighting lawyer in Chicago?”

“I was at the wedding.” While Devlin seated himself, Carrick sank back and waited.

He showed an unusual amount of self-possession for a young man, and Devlin had to admire his handling of the situation. The other man didn’t know if he would face overt hostility, amusement, or evasion, so he lingered in silence.

“Did you find him?” Devlin could think of no other reason Carrick would have appeared out of the blue.

“Our father? No. He’s gone; the money’s gone. Nobody knows anything. But perhaps you’ve heard—the government has accused my mother of collusion in Nathan’s destruction of his industry and the disappearance of the money. I’m looking for any information he might have told you or your mother.”

Devlin’s ire rose. “After all this time, you come and ask a question like that?”

“Mr. . . . Fitzwilliam. After my father left, times were difficult for my mother and me. Nathan absconded not only with the money from the company, but also with most of my mother’s family fortune. The part of her fortune she managed to preserve she’s used to maintain the estate, but other than that, we lost everything.” Carrick held up his hand. “We had a lot, more than most people, certainly more than the rest of my half brothers. Nevertheless, my mother is ill suited for economizing, and times were difficult. Tracking down my brothers—a difficult business because, like so many things, my father took care to obscure his indiscretions—took a backseat to simply dealing with our circumstances.”

“Yes. I see.” Devlin did—reluctantly.

“After so many years, this indictment has caught us by surprise. My mother is not well, and she . . . considers this another disgrace visited on us by my father. She refuses to defend herself, and it’s up to me to clear her. The only legacy my father left me was my brothers. Through them I hope to discover what a family truly is.”

He was very good, this brother of Devlin’s. Carrick sketched his circumstances, he stated his case clearly, and his appeal was both un-sentimental and brief. In the past, Devlin had heard enough to know that Melinda and Carrick Manly had been abandoned as surely as Devlin had been; his only thought, if he had one, had been a brief,
Good
. But that had been years ago, immediately after his father walked out; he’d been very young then, and hurt by the knowledge that he’d been nothing more than another notch on a very scarred bedpost.

Now Devlin had other interests, and none of them concerned Nathan Manly.

Instead, they concerned Meadow. Meadow and her quest for a painting that would pay enough for her mother to have all the treatments she needed to be cured of her cancer. Meadow, who would do anything for family.

Devlin had worked so hard to avoid having anything to do with his half brothers; maybe he should take a lesson from Meadow. Maybe it was time to forgive.

So he would give Carrick what information he sought, move on with his life, and perhaps someday he would host a reunion of the Manly sons at one of his hotels. “On his last visit,” Devlin said, “a few weeks before he pulled his disappearing act, Nathan gave me a ledger and asked me to keep it until he returned.”

Carrick sat forward. “A ledger? That’s more than I would have ever hoped.”

“I looked at it then—believe me, I wanted to think it was a treasure map or a secret message telling me where to find him.”

Carrick laughed, a brief, harsh laugh. “Oh, yeah. I did that, too. I kept thinking that he would . . . walk back through the door. . . .”

The two brothers looked at each other, united by the bitter memories left by a father’s cruel abandonment.

They had more in common than Devlin realized, and perhaps Carrick’s life as a disgraced son had been as difficult as Devlin’s as a bastard—certainly Carrick had suffered a shock when his social standing and income suddenly dropped, and Devlin had not. Maybe being tough right from the start was an advantage he hadn’t imagined.

“Have you thought that he may have left no trail that would lead to the fortune?” A likely state of affairs, in Devlin’s view.

“My father—our father—did everything in his power to make himself and his fortune disappear, and he’s been a rousing success. But I have to try,” Carrick said simply.

With that, Carrick convinced Devlin. “The ledger is yours.”

D
r. Apps finished the exam and put her stethoscope in her jacket. “You’re going to be stiff for a few days, and you can’t wash your hair until the sutures come out, but all in all you came through a tumble down the stairs very well.”

Meadow sat up in her hospital bed and grinned at Devlin standing guard by the door. “Plus I managed to get out of the party cleanup today.”

“We’ll put you on the riding vacuum cleaner,” he said dryly.

“Really?” Her eyes sparkled.

“No.” He crossed his arms over his chest, stood with his feet apart, and exerted his authority. He was good at exerting his authority.

“But that would be fun!”

Either he’d lost his touch, or his authority didn’t exert in her direction. “We do
not
have a riding vacuum cleaner.”

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen—and so much better than she had last night.

He hated that he wanted to kiss her, to hug her, to hold her until he was assured of her health, of her happiness, of her safety.

“Do you remember any more about what preceded the fall?” Dr.
Apps didn’t look at him as she asked. Obviously, in her eyes, he was still a wife beater.

“I got up to . . .” Meadow glanced at him, then said, “. . . to look for a painting I want to locate—”

He took a long, deep breath. She had at least begun to trust him.

“And when I got to the top of the stairs, someone was there. I started to turn and . . .” She shook her head. “That’s all. I don’t really remember much until this morning.” She put her head down and shivered.