Every Breath You Take (44 page)

“We barely knew each other,” Mitchell said in a cold, sharp tone that warned Calli
not
to question him further on that subject. “She’s just someone I met when I was down in the islands. We had a meaningless fling for a day or two, and then my brother’s body was discovered. I flew back to Chicago and forgot about the whole encounter.”

That last sentence wasn’t entirely accurate, Mitchell knew. The embarrassing truth was that he’d missed her terribly, from the time she’d left him standing on the dock in St. Maarten until the night he ran into her at a fund-raiser and discovered what a shallow, manipulative
fraud she was. In the brief interval between, he endured all the humbling doubts and the regrets, the painful longing and bewilderment, of a man who has lost something he desperately wanted and had arrogantly believed was already his.

Intellectually, he accepted that when Kate chose to leave St. Maarten with her boyfriend, instead of meeting Mitchell at the dock, she had simply been making what she believed was the right choice for her. He understood that, and yet his besotted brain couldn’t understand why she hadn’t realized that
he
was the right choice.

He knew the only sensible way to deal with the situation was to put it behind him, and that the only way to put it behind him was to stop thinking about her. Forgetting her was the only solution, and yet he persistently subjected himself to the sweet torture of remembering. He, who was extremely adept at compartmentalizing troublesome emotions and barricading truly painful ones, could not—no, would not—put Kate Donovan out of his conscious awareness, where he knew she needed to be.

Kate had chosen to be with her boyfriend instead of Mitchell. He’d lost her to another man, and it hurt like hell. He laid awake at night, trying to figure out why he’d lost her, thinking of ways he might have prevented it. He did that, even after he realized he was acting like a heartbroken, jilted lover—a cliché he’d never imagined could apply to him.

All that came to an abrupt end the night he discovered that she was Evan Bartlett’s fiancée and he watched her saunter up to him with that coy smile on her face. She was a total fake, and he had fallen for her. At the villa in Anguilla, he’d wanted her so badly after less than three hours that he’d let her wheedle information about William out of him, and then he’d gallantly
offered to wait until the next day because of “delicate” sensibilities about sleeping with him in her boyfriend’s suite.

But worse than that—much, much worse—was the fact that the next day at the hotel in St. Maarten, he’d actually let her con him into admitting that he felt “magic” with her. And worst of all—he’d believed it when he said it.

In two short days, Kate Donovan had managed to discover a weakness in him that he’d never suspected existed—an eager, naïve, sentimental gullibility that filled him with self-disgust whenever he thought of his time with her. Shame and self-disgust were the only emotions he still felt in connection with her, and so he chose to avoid any thought of her or mention of her name. Once he realized what she really was, she became easy to get over and eminently forgettable—but what he couldn’t forget or get over was the fact that he had been a malleable dupe in her hands.

In the almost three years since that night, he’d been to Chicago several times, but he’d heard her name mentioned only twice: the day after the fund-raiser, Matt had casually inquired about the confrontation between Kate and Mitchell, and Mitchell had told him brusquely that the subject of Kate Donovan was closed. Forever.

A couple of months after that, Mitchell had flown back to Chicago to see his ailing grandfather, and during that trip, his aunt Olivia insisted he accompany her to dinner at Glenmoor Country Club, where the Wyatts were founding members—and where she could hold court in the dining room while simultaneously showing Mitchell off. As Mitchell had already discovered, Olivia Hebert was much more than a font of social gossip; she was universally regarded as the undisputed authority on all things pertaining to the ancestry, connections, and activities of five generations of Chicago’s true
“aristocracy.” In truth, she was a human encyclopedia of minutiae that encompassed five generations of her social peers, from long-dead ancestors to modern-day teenagers. As a widow without a husband or children of her own to fill her life or occupy her active mind, she’d obviously invested herself in the lives of everyone she knew, but what amazed Mitchell was how apparently accurately she was able to chronicle everything she knew. No matter how long ago something had occurred, she could remember the dates, people, and conversations involved—and with so much accuracy and detail that when Mitchell was with her, people who knew her frequently stopped to ask her a question or verify a fact. Others stopped by to impart or receive tidbits of gossip, and she was happy to participate in either transaction, but woe to anyone who attempted to tell her anything she knew to be slightly inaccurate. Among Chicago’s socialites, Olivia was the equivalent of a Hedda Hopper or Liz Smith, but unlike those women, who specialized in “insider” gossip, Olivia Hebert disdained rumor or exaggeration. As much as she loved gossip, she prided herself on accuracy.

Often, she attempted to share her knowledge with Mitchell, who always concealed his detached boredom behind an amused grin, but when she brought up Kate Donovan during their dinner at Glenmoor—and also attempted to extract information
from
him—his reaction was anything but amused and bored. She broached that particular topic after dinner, while finishing her dessert of crème brûlée, but she did it with such feigned nonchalance that Mitchell instantly realized she somehow suspected she was treading on dangerous territory with him. Looking at her lap, she reached for her napkin and daintily dabbed at her lips as she said with false innocence, “The last time you were here, I introduced you to Kate Donovan—Evan Bartlett’s fiancée—during
the Children’s Hospital benefit. Do you remember her, dear?”

Instead of nodding, Mitchell leaned back in his chair and stared silently at her.

“Well, they aren’t engaged anymore,” she said, meeting his narrowed gaze, then hastily dabbing with her napkin again. “The engagement was called off a few weeks later. According to gossip, Evan and Henry both decided she wasn’t really fit to be a Bartlett, and Evan tossed her over. He’s been going out with several other women, but he’s also said some very ungentlemanly things about Kate. I couldn’t help noticing a bit of a strained atmosphere the night of the Children’s Hospital benefit when I introduced you to Kate—rather as if you and she already knew each other, and had some sort of falling out. Is that right?”

Instead of replying, Mitchell signaled to the waiter for their check.

Her face fell. “I was hoping to enjoy a glass of sherry with you the way we always do when we dine together. Is dinner over?”

“Is this conversation permanently over?” Mitchell countered as the waiter promptly arrived at their table.

She gazed at him in wary understanding, nodded meekly, folded her hands on the table, and looked down at them; then she drew a shaky breath and blinked rapidly. Aware that she was crushed, Mitchell asked the waiter for two glasses of sherry instead of the check, but that wasn’t enough to assuage the guilt he now felt for having hammered his point home about Kate Donovan with absurd—and needless—force on an elderly aunt who normally beamed with pleasure whenever she was with him.

As he contemplated his aunt’s bent head and the wide, black velvet ribbon that held her thick white hair in a neat bun, he considered the best way to neutralize
the situation. Despite her advanced years, his aunt was astute, curious, and a hopeless romantic. Because she was those things, Mitchell realized that his extremely negative reaction a few minutes ago might cause her to imagine that he harbored some sort of secret, unrequited feelings for Kate Donovan. Since he couldn’t and wouldn’t go into that subject with his aunt, Mitchell covered her hand with his own and asked her to dance.

She had never mentioned Kate to him again, nor had anyone else, and in the ensuing months, he forgave himself for his blind infatuation with Kate because he realized it was probably the timing of his encounter with her that had caused his total lapse in reason and judgment, rather than a streak of idiocy and sloppy sentimentality that he’d originally blamed. After all, a few short months before his trip to Anguilla, William had traced him to England and turned all of Mitchell’s concepts about himself and his life inside out. William had begun by presenting Mitchell with the facts about his birth, and then he’d presented Mitchell with a ready-made family, including an elderly great-aunt who tugged at Mitchell’s heartstrings and an aging, autocratic grandfather who awakened all sorts of conflicting reactions in Mitchell. Within a matter of weeks—and somewhat against his will—Mitchell found himself thinking of William’s beautiful, gentle wife, Caroline, as “my sister-in-law” and young Billy as “my nephew.” And then there was William … if Mitchell had ever been asked to describe his vision of an ideal brother, and a magnificent man, he would have described William without knowing him. Long before Mitchell allowed himself to regard any of the others as his relatives, William was already “my brother” in his thoughts. And then William disappeared. As quickly
and suddenly as he’d strolled into Mitchell’s life, he was wrenched from it.

In view of all the upheaval Mitchell had experienced in his life shortly before meeting Kate, it was logical—and excusable—that his guard had been down and his judgment severely diminished when they met. The truth was, he never thought of her except on those extremely rare occasions when someone, or something, reminded him of her. When that happened, she flickered briefly across his mind like a pale light from a feeble candle, and then she simply … went out.

That situation had been the comfortable norm for almost three years, but Matt Farrell’s phone call had changed all that. It had changed everything except one thing: Just as in the long-ago past with Kate, Mitchell now found himself, once again, in the position of being her uninformed dupe. Only this time his son was an innocent pawn in her heartless game.

K
ATE PACED SLOWLY BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE LIVING
room, watching the clock on the wall tick off the seconds of each tormenting minute that passed without a return call from Mitchell. Nearly three hours had elapsed since she’d spoken to Matt Farrell, and there hadn’t been a word from the heartless man she had once thought she loved.

Her uncle James had rushed over right after Marjorie had called him, and now, seated on one of the sofas, the priest waited helplessly for the phone to ring. His head was bent, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He was praying Mitchell would call.

Gray Elliott was sitting on a stool at the island counter that divided the kitchen area from the living room. He was Danny’s new best friend, intent on doing everything to ensure his safe return. If the darkening scowl on Gray’s face was any indication, he was fantasizing about yanking Mitchell from wherever he was, charging him with a gross lack of humanity, and throwing him in jail for life.

MacNeil was standing at the window overlooking the street in front of the restaurant, where police cars with flashing lights were jammed together at crazy angles. The sidewalk was packed with reporters, concerned citizens, and curiosity seekers, who were hoping for firsthand information. Kate wasn’t sure what MacNeil was thinking, but he kept glancing at his cell phone as if
willing it to ring. He was probably hoping for a tip, Kate thought, a lead that would send all those police cars racing away with sirens wailing to rescue Danny.

Holly had left Maui in the middle of a veterinarians’ conference and was on her way back to Chicago. A task force had been set up in the main dining room downstairs, and calls resulting from the amber alert were starting to come in on the newly installed phone lines. Kate had ordered the restaurant closed within minutes of learning Danny was gone, but most of the staff were still down there, keeping a silent vigil for the little blue-eyed boy with the bright grin who had long ago captured their hearts.

Childress was somewhere on the premises, Kate knew, and she supposed he was downstairs working with the task force.

MacNeil’s cell phone gave out a sharp chirp, and he snapped it to his ear so swiftly that the motion was blurred. A moment later, he turned around and looked from Kate to Gray. “Two lawyers are downstairs—David Levinson and William Pearson. They represent Mitchell Wyatt.”

Gray Elliott had straightened sharply at the sound of the lawyers’ names. “Tell the officers at the front door to let them in and bring them up here,” he replied. “Hopefully they aren’t here to threaten Kate with a lawsuit for claiming Wyatt is Danny’s father.”

David Levinson announced the actual reason for their appearance as he strode swiftly into the living room, carrying a black suitcase identical to the one in Pearson’s hand.

“Mr. Wyatt has instructed us to deliver ten million dollars in cash and to remain here awaiting further developments.”

Kate’s arms dropped to her sides and she stared at them, overwhelmed with shock and relief, her eyes
flooding with tears. If Mitchell had been there, she would have fallen to her knees in front of him and wept with inexpressible gratitude. Instead, she turned away and covered her face with her hands, weeping helplessly, alternately thanking Mitchell and God over and over again.

“I’ll have you at Donovan’s restaurant in a few more minutes,” Joe O’Hara promised as he hammered on the limousine’s horn, ran a red light, and turned down a side street packed with rush-hour traffic.

Too tense to reply, Mitchell glanced at his watch. It was already five
P.M.
As soon as his flight landed at O’Hare, he’d phoned Levinson, who was waiting at the restaurant with pearson, the ransom money with them. Levinson had no new information to report about the kidnapping. All he could add was that he’d seen the actual DNA report confirming that Mitchell was the father of Kate’s little boy, and that Mitchell’s son’s name was Daniel—Daniel
Donovan
, not Daniel Wyatt, a fact that further antagonized Mitchell.