With Good Behavior (30 page)

“Don’t say it, Grant.” Logan stopped breathing.

His frosty eyes were as cold as ice. “I wish you were dead.”

A stunned silence settled between them, and Logan swallowed hard. So, there would be no chance to redeem himself to his brother. He should have known as much.

“Please leave,” Grant whimpered, refusing to look at his brother.

Logan had no choice. He quietly rose and shuffled down the hallway, hearing the door shut behind him. As he stole away into the night, he realized he had forgotten to warn Grant about Carlo. Ah well, maybe another time. It wasn’t like Grant was in the mood to listen to anything he had to say. All he seemed to care about was losing Sophie. Logan felt a stabbing sensation in his chest, thinking of her. They had both lost Sophie.

* * *

Sophie walked numbly through the streets of Chicago, having no idea where she was and not caring in the least.

How could she have been so incredibly, undeniably stupid? She was devastatingly dense, naive, obtuse, foolish—the biggest idiot in the entire city of nine million people. The skyscrapers hovered over her, closing in on her, mocking her imprudent attempt to start over, her ill-advised endeavor to find love.

She had allowed herself to be duped yet again, and the intensity of the rage and humiliation stirring in her gut made her want to throw up. They were brothers! How the hell had she not seen that? It was right in front of her face! Grant and Logan standing next to each other in that damn apartment—looking alike, sounding alike, acting alike—it was the most obvious thing in the world! She had been fucking blind.

Anita’s worried voice floated in her mind: 
He doesn’t have anything to do with the man who put you in prison, does he?

Sophie screamed. She was walking in the middle of downtown Chicago, the streets teeming with nightlife, yet she screamed out loud. Sophie emitted a wail of utter despair and regret. A few passersby gave her strange looks, but Sophie forged ahead, aware of nothing but the pain pressing on her heart.

How had she let this happen? How had she failed to realize that Grant was part of a Mafia family? His name was Grant Madsen, not Grant Barberi, wasn’t it? Or had he lied about that too? Then she remembered their conversation about his mother dying and his uncle adopting him. Uncle Joe must be Joe Madsen. Smart man to try to separate his nephew from the destruction of the Barberi bunch—too bad he didn’t succeed, given that Logan walked into Grant’s apartment like he owned the place, like they saw each other all the time.

There had been hints all along. 
She
 had started the whole dishonest ruse, almost begging him to deceive her on the courthouse steps outside Jerry’s office:

Let’s not talk about our families. Let’s talk about something else.

And then later:

Um, why did you go to prison?

Well, if we’re not talking about families, then I can’t really answer that.

A momentary curiosity about how his family was involved in his imprisonment flashed through her mind, quickly replaced by her anger toward herself and Grant. No wonder he had encouraged them to make a pact not to discuss their pasts. No wonder he had wanted to hide his past from her. He was damaged goods.

Addictions run in my family,
 he’d told her. Like gambling, she mused. And alcoholism. And lying. Logan had lied to her so he could use her office as an illegal dumping ground. Why had Grant lied to her? What was he hoping to gain? How was he planning to use her? Perhaps she would never know.

She kept walking, her mind as numb as her feet. A scowl settled over her features. With uneasiness, she realized she had slept with both brothers. Once he found out, Grant would probably think she was a whore. Who was she kidding—she was as damaged as he was.

Suddenly Sophie stopped dead in her tracks, remembering the awful story Logan had told her in therapy—the horrible trauma that made her try to comfort him, leading to their first kiss, the heart-wrenching family tale that appeared to undo Logan and left Sophie furious with parents who abused their children.

She cried silently on the street. That little four-year-old boy locked in the closet all night—that was Grant! Grant, who was scarred from the undoubtedly plentiful beatings delivered by his father. No wonder he had nightmares, growing up with a bastard father like that, a father now serving a life sentence in Gurnee, according to the newspapers.

Sophie gasped again. Grant had been imprisoned with his father! He’d been thrown into the same penitentiary as his abuser, and her heart ached for him.

Aware of her surroundings for the first time in hours, Sophie looked around, trying to discern her location through a veil of tears. She noticed large homes with ornate facades, lush landscaping, and gated entryways. She’d stumbled into the richest section of Chicago: the Gold Coast.

It was probably time to return to Kirsten’s and attempt to pick up the pieces of her shattered life. Reaching for her handbag to find cab fare, she inhaled sharply. She did not have her purse. She’d left it at Grant’s in her haste to get the hell out of there. Now what was she going to do? She had no money, no phone, and no energy to walk all the way home.

Sighing wearily, a new batch of tears cascaded down her cheeks. She fought the urge to collapse on the sidewalk and never move again. But then another idea entered her mind.

Tonight had been a complete disaster. Did she really want to risk adding to the pain and rejection she’d already endured? But Hunter’s pesky encouragements nagged at her, and she found her feet moving, as if they had a mind of their own.

The streets looked more and more familiar. She attempted to quell the butterflies flitting about in her stomach by telling herself no matter what happened, things could not get any worse for her tonight. She’d already lost one man she loved, why not go for two? She might as well get it over with.

Entering the code on the keypad, Sophie sighed with relief when the heavy metal gate clicked open. He had not changed the pass code in the past year. Was that a sign?

She trudged forward, her feet throbbing from walking miles in high-heeled shoes, and paused in front of the opulent cherry door. Taking a deep breath and shaking her hair out a bit, Sophie pressed the doorbell. She closed her eyes and waited, detecting dead silence from within.

She was not wearing a watch but figured it had to be after midnight. Was this really the way she wanted to see him again after all this time? Would he be angry with her for waking him? Biting her lip, she pressed the doorbell again and fidgeted as she waited.

Finally a light flipped on inside. She swallowed hard as the deadbolt unlocked and the door slowly opened, revealing a man in his early sixties with graying brown hair and intense blue eyes. His expression became shock and concern once he saw her tearstained cheeks.

“Daddy?” she choked out.

“Oh, Sophie,” he said, swiftly gathering her into his arms. As she clutched her father, Sophie bawled with utter relief. At least one man she loved would not hurt her tonight.

F
or the first time since his mother’s death, Jerry Stone did not feel immensely sad. He had actually fallen asleep quickly the previous evening, and even more miraculously, he had awoken before his alarm this morning. There was a slight bounce to his step, and a strange optimism that maybe he could help at least one of today’s parolees stay out of prison. He didn’t know how to explain this break in the dark cloud hovering over him for the past five days, but he welcomed the reprieve.

Turning the corner inside the courthouse, he noticed a con already waiting for him, though it was a full twenty minutes before his day began. Parolees were 
never
 this early for their dreaded appointments. As he got closer, he recognized Grant’s lanky physique and midnight-black hair.

“Did you get your days mixed up, Madsen?” he called. “Today’s Thursday—”

He stopped short once he got a good look at the purple bruise blooming on Grant’s left cheek. “Where’d you get that shiner?”

Grant ducked his head. “May I talk to you, sir? Do you have a couple of minutes?”

Apparently, yesterday’s almost-arrest hadn’t scared the parolee away for long. Intrigued, Jerry unlocked his door and held it open, gesturing into his office, “After you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Grant stepped inside.

After they were both seated, Jerry asked again, “What happened to your face?”

Grant took a deep breath. “You remember how you told me to stay away from my family?” His full lips formed a sad smile. “I didn’t listen very well. Logan Barberi visited me last night.”

Jerry scrunched his bushy eyebrows. “Madsen, are you telling me you’ve been associating with criminals again, violating your parole?”

Sighing, he replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Why are you telling me this when you know it can land you back inside?”

“I was up half the night worrying about what happened, and I already ran along the lake and did pushups this morning, but I couldn’t get my head straight. I had to get out of that apartment. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go. So I asked myself, what would a member of my family do in this situation? What would Logan do if he had broken the law? And I tried to do the exact opposite.” Grant shrugged. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Because your brother, Logan, would never report himself to a police officer like you’re doing now.”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Logan gave you that shiner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope you gave him something in return.”

Grant’s only reply was a slight smirk.

“Do you know the whereabouts of your brother, Madsen?”

“No, sir.”

Jerry had no choice but to believe him. They sat in silence as Jerry tried in vain to understand the parolee sitting across from him. Grant finally spoke up.

“Aren’t you going to arrest me, sir?”

“What about Sophie? Won’t you miss her if you return to prison?”

Hearing her name made Grant flinch, and he struggled to compose himself. “That was another reason I wanted to see you, to let you know I followed your advice to tell Sophie who I really am. Well, Logan showed up before I had the chance to tell her myself, but she knows now all the same. She knows the truth.”

“Taylor knows Logan Barberi is your brother?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said. “And I, um, now I know why you wanted me to tell Sophie who I was. Now I understand Logan’s involvement in Sophie’s arrest.” Grant looked sickened. “I finally get why you seemed so freaked out when you discovered my real identity.”

Jerry studied the young man sitting ramrod straight, fighting to maintain self-control. Grant radiated such melancholy and resignation that the parole officer felt strangely protective of him. Every fiber of Jerry’s being strained against the idea of throwing him back in prison.

“Your real identity?” Jerry gently inquired. The parole officer reached his right hand across the desk and held it out expectantly.

Confused, Grant stared at the outstretched hand for a moment before grasping it in a firm handshake. “I know your real identity,” Jerry said, looking Grant in the eye while continuing to clasp his hand. “You’re not Grant Barberi. You’re Grant Madsen.”

Grant felt a lump form in his throat. He had to pull his hand back from the older man’s grasp lest he start crying, and he clenched his teeth to keep the tears at bay.

“I’ve lost her,” he said in a heartbroken voice.

Jerry leaned forward on the desk. “You don’t know that for sure. What did Sophie say when she found out?”

Grant bit his lip. “She didn’t say anything. She just looked at Logan, and then at me. She seemed so shocked, so devastated. But the worst part was how completely afraid she looked. 
Afraid—
of 
me
.” He exhaled an anguished breath.

“Maybe you still have a chance, if you talk to her, explain things,” Jerry said.

“You didn’t see the look on her face!” Grant argued. “She wants nothing to do with me!”

Jerry had no idea what to say, and he nervously fidgeted in his chair, playing with a paperweight on his desk. How the hell had he become embroiled in this mess? He didn’t care about romances between fucking parolees! He glanced at the clock.

“Madsen, it’s almost nine o’clock, and I need to start seeing parolees on today’s docket. Maybe you came here to turn yourself in, maybe you came here seeking advice, I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care. The truth is I don’t have time to arrest you—too much goddamn paperwork—and besides that it isn’t even your day to see me. Just get the hell out of my office, and let’s both get started with another thrilling day.”

Grant panicked. He hadn’t thought through any plans beyond reporting to his parole officer. “What should I do now?”

“Well, your instinct to do the opposite of what your brother would do sounds pretty damn good to me.”

“But I don’t know what that is! I don’t … really know my brother.” He looked down. “I don’t know what to do.”

Jerry grew frustrated as the clock ticked forward and this miserable parolee still had not departed. It was obvious Grant needed some fatherly guidance, but Jerry simply didn’t have the time, and his typical grumpiness was quickly returning. “Here’s what you do, Madsen. You get your head out of your ass, and you go to work just like everybody else on this planet. And you stay out of trouble.”

Grant sat up a little straighter upon receiving the admonishment. He was familiar with being chewed out by superiors—this he could understand. “Yes, sir,” he sharply replied and rose from the chair. “Thank you, sir.” Then he was gone.

* * *

“That smells so good.” Sophie smiled tentatively, smelling freshly brewed coffee as she entered the kitchen.

Will Taylor looked up from the newspaper and felt a stabbing pain in his heart as he watched his daughter lean on the marble countertop. Her hair was mussed from sleeping, as if she was still a little girl, but what hit him most poignantly was the emerald-green silk nightgown she wore. Laura’s nightgown. He’d almost started crying when he extracted the gown from the untouched chest of drawers last night, wordlessly handing it to Sophie.

He cleared his throat. “It’s actually the second pot of the morning, sleepyhead. Justine put it on before she left for the grocery store.”

“How 
is
 Justine?” Sophie thought fondly of the Jamaican woman who had been her parents’ housekeeper for fifteen years.

“She’s, well, she’s Justine. Already complaining about the upcoming winter even though it’s only July.”

Sophie smiled as she poured herself a steaming cup of coffee. After adding creamer, she stirred the hot liquid nervously, sensing her father’s eyes on her. She had some explaining to do. She’d fended off his questions about her tears the night before, begging him to allow her to sleep and promising they’d talk in the morning. Now that morning had arrived, she had no idea where to begin.

She shut her eyes momentarily, feeling overwhelmed by the previous evening. 
You know my brother? 
Grant’s stunned question still pierced her.

Sitting across from her father at the kitchen table, she asked, “Aren’t you due at work by now?”

“I cancelled my meetings this morning,” he replied. Will Taylor also felt a pressing need to explain himself, to make her understand why he’d avoided her for the past year. He had no idea how their reunion would proceed, and he swallowed anxiously. “Construction can wait.”

Sophie stared down at the swirling steam rising from her coffee. Her father couldn’t see the skeptical arch of her eyebrows. Construction could 
not
 wait. At least it never had before. Work had 
always
 come before family. Feeling her shoulders tighten, Sophie took a deep breath and tried to remember Hunter’s encouragement about reconnecting with her father. He was all she had now.

“I’m sorry for barging in on you last night,” she began. “I didn’t have my purse, and I had, um, no place else to go.”

“You left your purse somewhere?”

His accusatory tone made her sit up a little straighter in her chair. Worried questions tumbled out of his mouth.

“You lost your phone? Your wallet? Do you need to cancel your credit cards?”

“Dad—”

“Here, let me get the phone—”

“Dad!” Sophie practically yelled, causing him to sit back down in his chair. She took another deep breath. “I don’t own a cell phone. I don’t have any credit cards, okay? I just got out of prison!”

His face fell at the cold reality of his daughter’s situation. He lived in a luxurious home, and she didn’t own a credit card? His cheeks flushed as he looked down at the cherry table and quietly inquired, “When did you get out?”

“A little over a month ago.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At Kirsten’s.”

“Kirsten’s?”

“Kirsten Holland. She was my roommate at DePaul, remember?”

After a few tense moments, he asked, “Why didn’t you come 
here
?”

Sophie dared to look into his eyes, framed by lines of worry. Her father appeared to have aged ten years since she last saw him, and noticing his emerging fragility she wondered why she’d been so intimidated by him all her life. “Because I didn’t think you wanted me here,” she said.

“What? Why on earth did you think that?”

Her brown eyes flared with year-old fury. “Oh, gee, Dad. I don’t know, maybe because you didn’t visit me 
once
 in prison?” Will averted his gaze, but Sophie wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. “Or maybe it was the fact that you didn’t say 
one word
 to me at her funeral.” She felt her chest tighten and added, “Anyway, I got the message loud and clear.”

Sophie felt the hole inside her grow larger with each second of continued silence. She would never earn her father’s approval, and it was stupid to come to his house when she needed comforting. Will Taylor: construction magnate, coldhearted businessman—he would never be able to comfort her. “I should go,” she muttered, scraping her chair across the expensive tile.

“No,” Will said, standing with his daughter. “Please don’t go, Sophie.”

She glanced angrily at his face and was stunned to see tears.

“I—I—I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “That was inexcusable, what I did. Please, sit back down. I—I want to talk. I need to talk to you. Please, Sophie?”

Swallowing hard, she paused, then slowly felt herself buckling back into her chair, never taking her eyes off him. After Will resumed his sitting position as well, he folded his hands on the table, taking a deep breath.

“I thought it would be easier,” he began, talking to the table. “Easier … not to see you. You look just like her,” he choked out, gazing lovingly at her thick strawberry-blond hair and intelligent brown eyes. “You remind me so much of your mother.”

Sophie took in his words, listening and evaluating, unsure how to react.

He went on. “But when you came here last night, looking so heartbroken, so troubled … I realized how wrong I’ve been. I need you here, Sophie. I shouldn’t be pushing you away. I should be reaching out to you. I’m sorry, so sorry I haven’t been there for you.”

She was dumbfounded. “When you avoided me at the funeral—that’s because I reminded you of Mom?”

“Yes.”

“I thought …” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t know if she should finish her sentence, though her father looked at her expectantly. “I thought you blamed me for Mom’s heart attack.”

His eyes widened with horror. “God, no! How could you think such a thing?” He ran his hands through his hair, anguished. “No wonder you didn’t come here. No wonder you didn’t call.” He exhaled forcefully. “I’m a horrible father.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “I’m the one who got arrested and sent to prison. I’m the horrible one.”

“You’re not horrible,” Will corrected. “You just got involved in the wrong profession.”

“Oh, God, not this again.”