The Black Sheep and the Princess (2 page)

“Did you see that part about the developers sniffing around? What do you want to bet this is all some kind of scam to pull one over on some investment group or something? I wouldn't put it past either one of them.”

Mac's attention caught on the last line.
Despite several episodes of vandalism and rumors of an attempted buyout by resort developers, Ms. Sutherland hopes to open her camp as scheduled next spring
.

“Maybe Shelby,” Mac said. Kate's stepbrother had always been a creepy little weasel. Mac doubted any amount of time would have ground that out of him. “Kate might have been a little stuck up, but I doubt—”

“A little?” Rafe let out a harsh laugh, then stopped abruptly and tilted his head.

Sirens were closing in.

“Your colleagues are about to show up and we're standing here in broad daylight with our thumbs up our collective asses. Let's get the hell out of here.”

Rafe tried to take the paper away from him again, but Mac stuffed it in his pocket and took off along the edge of the decaying pier, Rafe right beside him, both of them moving swiftly toward the abandoned sugar refinery where they'd stashed their car from sight.

Mac knew he should let the whole thing go, but his mind was already working, analyzing. It was the cop in him, or so he told himself. But something about that story didn't add up. As much as he hated to admit it, Rafe might be right; it might all be some scam, a way to get out of paying estate taxes or something. He wouldn't put it past Shelby. And yet, his detective instincts said otherwise. And what was that part about the vandalism? Where did that come into play?

Rafe reached the car first and jumped in behind the wheel. Mac was still shutting the passenger door as they swung around the back side of the lot and edged out into traffic, two blocks away from the scene of what was now a crime.

“Wonder what Finn will think of this latest twist.”

Mac realized Rafe was talking about the Fortenberry case, not the sudden reappearance of Kate Sutherland. “Finn will think we should figure out where the hell Frank is hiding, pin the bomb-happy asshole to the nearest wall, get Mr. Fortenberry's ashes back, then get the hell out of here and back to Virginia.”

Rafe maneuvered through traffic heading toward the interstate. As the silence stretched out, he finally said, “It's that last part that's bugging you, isn't it?”

Mac pretended not to understand. “Going back to Virginia? Or getting our hands on an urn full of dead guy? Because I've grown to like Virginia. And dead guys don't bug me much. It's the ones who are still alive and shooting at me I have a problem with.”

Another few minutes passed; then Rafe sighed and said, “You know, I can handle the rest of this cluster. Finn should be done with the Thomason deal, so he'll find someone to help me or come up himself. He'd be the first one to tell you to go check this out. Why don't you just—”

“Why don't you just mind your own goddamn business, okay?” Mac kept his gaze firmly forward. Rafe knew him far too well. Which, most of the time, was a good thing, since it had saved his ass on more than one occasion. At the moment, however, he'd be more than happy to toss his best friend right into the Hudson if it meant shutting him up about Winnimocca, Kate Sutherland, and anything having to do with their collective past.

Rafe drove on in silence, letting Mac stew.

“No one asked for our help,” he finally bit out. “And I doubt it would be welcome.”

“Probably not,” Rafe said, far too agreeably. “But you and I both know you won't be worth a damn until you at least dig some on this. No one says you have to see her.”

Mac cast a quick glance at his partner and caught the slight lift at the corner of his mouth. Son of a bitch. He'd probably known all along what effect Kate really had on him. Of course, Rafe had been the first one to explain what they were looking at when Mac had discovered his father's stash of
Penthouse
magazines, too. They couldn't have been much older than nine at the time.

After another long, tension-building silence, Mac swore under his breath. “It would have to be as part of Trinity. Totally professional. A case just like any other we decide to take on. Or not at all.”

Rafe said nothing, just stared ahead as they rolled along with the traffic on Grand Central Parkway. “Whatever works.” He cut across two lanes and took the expressway heading toward JFK.

“Where do you think—?” Mac snapped his mouth shut and shifted his gaze out the side window. “Turn around,” he said flatly, in a tone that used to make even the most desperate, hopped-up scumbag take note. “I need time to prepare for this. Let's go round up Frank first, finish this job.”

“No,” Rafe said, just as flatly. “Every minute you take right now will be time spent talking yourself out of doing what you know you have to do.”

“I don't have to do shit. This is not my problem.”

Rafe swung into the airport entrance. “I know it's not. Trust me, if it were up to me, I'd steer far clear of the whole Sutherland clan.”

“Peachy. Then we're on the same page.”

“Except it's not up to me. This one is yours. I'll square everything with Finn. We'll get you whatever you need.” He pulled to a stop at the entrance to the car rental counters. “Check in with me later and I'll bring you up to speed on this mess.”

Mac looked at his partner, fully intending to tell him where he could take his
Father Knows Best
attitude and stick it, but was caught off guard by the real regret he saw in his partner's eyes.

“I really am sorry—” Rafe began, but was immediately shut down.

Mac raised a hand. “Don't. Being an asshole worked better.”

Rafe grinned. “Suits me. Tell Katherine hello from the remaining two-thirds of the Unholy Trinity.” He popped the locks on the doors. “And get some new clothes, man. You smell bad.”

Mac said nothing, just got out of the car and trudged into the rental agency without so much as a toothbrush to his name. The irony didn't escape him.

You ain't never gonna escape your roots, boy, no matter how far you run from 'em. Can't escape your genes, neither. You'll see.

His father's wheezing cackle rang in Mac's ears.

“Looks like you were right about some things after all, Pops.”

G
oing into the city had been a complete waste of two of Kate's most precious commodities: money and time. She'd suspected Shelby wasn't going to make probating the will easy for either of them, and he hadn't. Why should he change spots now? He'd spent a lifetime making things as difficult as humanly possible for her. But even she hadn't seen this latest stunt coming. Everything had been finally decided upon, and well in Shelby's favor, to boot. All he had to do was sign the damn papers.

She took the last couple of mountain curves a little more tightly than might have been perfectly safe. The wheels of her secondhand Toyota pickup squealed in protest, but she didn't ease up on the pedal. She'd been here as a permanent resident for only a little over a month now, but she already knew the roads through this range of the Catskills so well she could drive them blindfolded.

Which was a good thing considering she was blinded with fury at the moment. She'd left Manhattan behind two hours ago, and she still wished she could strangle Shelby with her bare hands.

If such things were possible in the afterlife, she had no doubt her mother was off somewhere enjoying the havoc she'd wrought when she'd changed her will for what had turned out to be the final time. Louisa Slavine Hamilton Pepperdine Sutherland Graham had loved nothing more than wielding the collective assets of her deceased or departed husbands over the heads of her only daughter and stepson. Most especially her last husband, given how their divorce had provided Louisa the most to work with. And by then she'd had plenty of practice and knew exactly what to do with it, too.

She'd tortured Shelby the most, probably because he cared the most. Hell, Kate wasn't even a real Sutherland. She was a Pepperdine. But she'd only been four when her mother had remarried and had her daughter's name legally changed in order to let the world assume George Sutherland had adopted her, which he most definitely had not. Though, to be fair, he'd been more of a father to her than her own, whom she didn't even remember, seeing as how he'd died when she was two.

George had lasted until just after her eleventh birthday when his heart had quite literally given out. After marrying and divorcing quite young her first go around, her mother had developed a penchant for older men. Much older. As with Kate's natural father, Louisa hadn't spent long in mourning for the dear departed George. The only real surprise had been that it had taken her seven years to land husband number four. Although Trenton Graham had been her biggest fish by far, so perhaps worth the wait. Even though the union had been short-lived, a tumultuous four years that she often said felt like fourteen, her divorce settlement alone had ensured her continued residence amongst the highest of high society. Her transformation finally complete.

And although Kate had never gotten along with her sole stepsibling, by rights, the pile of assets her mother had accrued upon her death should have gone to Shelby. No matter whether the slimy little toad had actually deserved any of it or not, he was the one who had stuck by Louisa's side, year in, year out, husband in, husband out. He was the one who'd endured working for her all those years, helping to grow her fortune, doing whatever was asked of him, taking her abuse with a smile and a nod, waiting for the day it would all pay off.

Kate, her only natural child, hadn't done any of those things. So no one had been more shocked than Kate when Louisa's lawyer had calmly recited the contents of the will stating Shelby was to inherit Winnimocca—which had belonged to his father and was, at the time, the single greatest asset he'd brought to his union with Louisa—and only Winnimocca. Leaving Kate to inherit everything else.

Although, to be fair, perhaps Shelby had been even more shocked. If the instantaneous blanching of every bit of color from his already florid complexion and the white-knuckled grip he'd had on his Hermes briefcase were any indication. She'd been half afraid he'd go into full coronary occlusion right then and there.

The final irony was, she'd wanted the only thing Shelby had gotten. She'd wanted Winnimocca. Kate turned onto the long drive that led into the camp grounds. Well, maybe it wasn't so ironic. Just before her death, Kate had ended her long estrangement with her family to ask about leasing Winnimocca. So, with that bit of information at hand, Louisa could use her last will and testament to deprive both of her children their hearts' desire in one fell swoop.

A small smile curved Kate's lips.
Well, Mother
, she thought,
you can't control things now
. Before they'd even left the probate lawyers' office, Kate had proposed a deal to essentially swap her inheritance with Shelby's, giving them both what they wanted. Perhaps it had been an emotional and not entirely rational decision on her part, but, of course, Shelby had jumped at her offer.

Her expression grew more determined as she passed the cheerfully painted sign announcing the new Winnimocca Youth Camp. She'd officially moved in thirty-seven days ago. Shelby hadn't said a word about it, which she'd taken as a good sign, as their arbitration had headed into the final stages. The sign had been the first thing she'd changed. More as a statement to herself, one of hope and optimism, than to the world at large, but it was only a matter of time. If everything went as planned, next year at this time, the whole world would know. And Winnimocca Youth Camp would be open for business.

She tightened her grip on the wheel as she thought about her endless wait that morning, and the formality that had never happened. She didn't know what stupid game Shelby was playing, but he was going to find out, and find out quite swiftly, that she wasn't going to be jerked around. She and her mother might not have had a loving relationship by any definition, but he was going to learn that there was, in fact, a bit of Louisa Slavine, secretary from the Bronx, in the daughter. Kate had already put a call in to her attorney to see what leverage she had in bartering her inheritance back from Shelby. He wasn't the only one who could jerk the marionette strings.

Her determined smile slipped a little when she saw the neon orange spray paint streaking across the trunks of several red spruce and old-growth hemlocks that crowded the steep camp terrain down to the lake. Not again. Hadn't she suffered enough setbacks for one foul day?

Apparently not.

GO HOME, RICH BITCH!

Same as before. If she hadn't been so emotionally drained, she would have laughed. Rich bitch. If only. On a heavy sigh, she continued past the fresh graffiti, driving through the entrance, past the defunct guard building and equally defunct electric gate, on past the central lodge that housed the kitchens, dining rooms, and staging areas. Or would once the roof and the flooring were replaced. And the porch. She looked away, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead. So much work to do. None of which she could officially start until the paperwork was signed.

Normally she was a determined optimist, but her spirit had suffered a bit too much of a beating today. She'd go home, call Sheriff Gilby about the graffiti—again—and try to figure out what Shelby's latest ploy was all about. But first she was going to indulge in a long, steamy bath. The truck's heater left a lot to be desired, and though April had finally arrived, spring was taking a bit longer to officially show up this year. The breezy days still carried a bite in the higher elevations, and the evenings were downright chilly. Her toes were already numb. She made a mental note to check her firewood before going to bed. She'd have to stack the stove carefully tonight. It felt like it might get close to freezing. Praying for an early summer, she swung into her spot in front of the camp director's cabin. Or what she'd decided was going to be the camp director's cabin.

Her cabin.

A little of the smile returned as she climbed out of the cab and rubbed at the ache that had settled in her lower back. There would be no opening of the champagne she'd reserved for her own private celebration, but that didn't mean she couldn't have a glass of wine. Yes, a glass of chilled White Zinfandel and a long bath were in her immediate future. She deserved that much.

Tomorrow she'd tackle Shelby, the as yet unresponsive sheriff, and…whatever else she could handle.

She climbed the five steps up to the screened-in side porch, balancing her purse and briefcase as she bumped the door open with her hip and simultaneously kicked off her low-heeled pumps. To think she used to collect shoes like some people collected earrings.
To think you actually enjoyed wearing them
, she thought, letting out a heartfelt groan of relief as she flexed the soles of her feet and wriggled her toes into the stiff pile of the doormat just inside the porch door. She couldn't wait until it was warm enough for flip-flops.

“Bagel?” she called out, summoning the one male in her life she could always count on. “Where are you, buddy? Mommy's home and she could use a slobbery hug.” She was surprised he hadn't been waiting for her at the door, tail thumping, whining with excitement at the sight of her. You couldn't beat a dog for giving a great welcome home. “Did you get into something? Listen, whatever you chewed up, threw up, or peed on, today you get a pass. Come on out.”

She let everything slide from her hands onto the small wooden bench that was currently doubling as a side table by the front door. She'd worry about all that later. Right now, the only decision she had to make was red wine or the chilled white. She'd found a stash of both along with a few bottles of champagne in the wine cellar of the main lodge while doing her initial walk-through assessment and brought a couple of each to her cabin. She'd put the champagne in the fridge before leaving, thinking she'd celebrate closing the deal with a little private toast. Now the white would have to do. “Might just drink the whole damn bottle, too. So there.”

“I have some spare beer, if you're interested.”

She let out a little scream of shock and spun around, heart lodged in her throat as she searched the far shadows at the opposite end of the wraparound porch. The light had dimmed quickly in the falling twilight. “Who's there?” she demanded, wishing like hell she had her truck keys in her hand. Not much of a weapon, but they'd have been better than nothing. They were still in the ignition, where she always left them. Though she'd been debating changing that policy with the recent vandalism. But they'd never locked things up around camp, and old habits died hard.

She tried not to think about that dying part.

She was debating just making a run for the truck and driving straight down to Gilby's office, when the disembodied voice stepped from the shadows…and she froze to the spot, unable to move or breathe. No. Her mind spun wildly, trying to make some sense of it all. It couldn't be.

“Hello, Kate.”

But it was. Eighteen years melted away in a blink of an eye. Though he'd been only seventeen the last time she'd laid eyes on him, she'd know those eyes anywhere. That chin.

And that voice. That slow, lazy, sexy-as-hell voice.

“Donovan?”

There was a pause; then he said, “It's been a long time. My condolences on your mother's passing.”

She accepted the platitude with a jerky nod of her chin, but her mind went immediately to the graffiti that had started popping up shortly after her arrival. But that made no sense. As far as she knew, Donovan had left the day he'd turned eighteen and hadn't even returned for his father's funeral. Did he think with Louisa gone he had some right to the place? She knew there had been some talk in the papers about her wild deal with Shelby, but certainly he didn't think—“Is—is that why you're here? Because she died this past December. The funeral was a long—”

He shook his head. “I didn't come to pay my respects, though you have them.”

“Then…why?”

He took a scant step forward, and she was suddenly painfully aware of her appearance, which was ridiculous, but true nevertheless. He'd always had that effect on her. And it had always been ridiculous. Growing up, he'd been Donovan MacLeod, son of drunken Donny Mac, the camp handyman. Hardly a member of her peer group. Most times when their paths had crossed, he'd been in little more than ragged cutoffs, with callused hands and hair in desperate need of a cut. While she'd been clad to the nines in the latest styles, her hair and makeup nothing less than perfect, as she'd intended when she'd made certain he'd see her.

Her cheeks heated now as they always had when he looked at her with those silver-gray eyes of his, somehow always managing to make her feel like the discombobulated one. This time he probably could make a case for it. She resisted the urge to push her hair behind her ears, smooth the rumpled suit jacket she'd forgotten to take off when she'd stormed out of Shelby's attorney's office.

“I read about you—your camp, I mean—in the paper.”

It was the slight hesitation in his voice that snagged her attention, dragging it from past to present. He'd always been laconic, with a bit of a cocky edge. Or maybe the challenging edge to his tone had been exclusively for her. Regardless, she didn't think she'd ever heard him sound anything less than certain. Of course, though it shamed her to say that she could probably still recall every single second of every encounter they'd ever had, they hadn't exactly shared long conversations together. Most of what she knew about him had come from obsessive observation and listening to the other girls' comments.