He wanted to hurt him. He intended to kill him.
Carrick must have seen the murder in his face, for at last he fought back.
He was good. Thank God, someone had given this boy lessons in self-defense.
Because Gabriel didn’t want him to go easy. He wanted Carrick to believe he had a hope of surviving, and he wanted to know that Carrick would see that hope dwindle.
Carrick slammed the edge of his hand against Gabriel’s throat, making him gag and fall back.
Gabriel kicked Carrick in the kneecap, and felt the fibula crack.
Carrick fell, and the scream of his agony didn’t mend Gabriel’s heart, but it felt good, like revenge . . . for Hannah.
That moment of anguish for his lost love was Gabriel’s downfall.
With his good leg, Carrick kicked out, catching Gabriel’s thigh right over the healing gunshot wound.
For a few vital seconds, Gabriel’s vision went black.
When he woke, Carrick was gone.
Carrick dragged himself through the basement corridors. He needed to get out. He needed to hide. He’d never faced death before, but he’d seen it now, in Gabriel’s eyes.
The fortune was gone. His mother was dead. Nelson was dead. . . . Oh, my God, the blood! His brother Gabriel intended to kill him.
Osgood waited in the city for his cut of the fortune. He waited, and when he discovered Carrick had failed to secure the money, he would take Carrick apart, piece by piece, and smile while Carrick screamed.
Carrick couldn’t run fast or far. That bastard Gabriel had kicked him hard enough to break his leg.
So he had to hide.
Hide where?
When he was little, he used to play down in the basement, but after his father left, his mother had gotten weird about where he could go in the house. The basement had been off-limits for him and the servants. Only Torres had had an office down here.
Mother had even sealed off the kitchen and built a new kitchen on the main floor . . . but Carrick remembered where the old room was. If he could find a way in, he could hide until Gabriel left, until the cops stopped searching, until Osgood . . . God. Osgood would never stop searching.
Carrick had to call a halt to his trek. He was whimpering in little gasps, and he felt his consciousness slipping away.
Then the distant sounds of running feet, of men shouting, brought him to attention.
They were coming to get him.
He started down the corridor toward the old kitchen. There in the corner in the wall . . . it looked like the outline of a door. And there was a handle inset in the Sheetrock. Hurriedly he inserted his fingers and twisted the knob. The door swung open on creaking hinges. He scuttled inside, shut himself in, and groped for a light switch.
He couldn’t find it. It was dark. So dark. Not a spark of light, and the only sound was the hum of an old refrigerator.
He eased himself along the wall, groping, groping. . . . He found another door, a metal door, and another handle, a lever handle. He opened it, and a gust of freezing air blasted out.
He’d found the freezer unit, a massive meat locker from the nineteen fifties. There the hunters in the family had brought their wild game—their venison, their caribou—after it was butchered. As a child, he’d been in this thing with the old cook, and he remembered . . . there was a light in there, a chain dangling from a bare bulb fixture in the middle of the eight-by-ten space.
He stepped in. The door slammed behind him.
In the freezer. He was stuck in the freezer.
In a panic, in the freezing air and pitch-black darkness, he grabbed the lever and turned it.
Nothing happened. The door didn’t open.
He was breathing in gasps, the cold air burning his lungs.
But he had to calm himself. There had to be a way out. A safety latch of some kind. Right?
Okay. Okay. He had to find the light. It was here. He knew it was.
Once he got the light on, he’d figure out how to open the door. In the meantime, there was no reason for the hair on the back of his neck to prickle, and the only reason he had goose bumps was because of the bitter cold.
He stretched out his arm toward the center of the locker. He swung from side to side, trying to find the chain.
Something icy brushed his fingers, like a frozen spiderweb.
He gasped in horror, then realized—he’d found it. That was the chain. He groped again, found it, got a good hold, and tugged.
Light flooded the empty locker. Empty except for . . . his father.
Nathan Manly sat huddled in a corner, dressed in a business suit, covered in frost and frozen solid, his eyes wide-open and staring right at Carrick.
So Carrick did the only thing he could.
He screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
THIRTY-SIX
Broken in body and in spirit, Gabriel eased himself up against the wall and texted Daniel with his location.
He couldn’t believe Carrick had managed to crawl away. Gabriel must have really put the fear of God into that kid. He only hoped he’d sent him right to hell . . . because Carrick had already returned the favor.
Hannah was dead.
He looked over at Hannah’s still body huddled against the far wall.
He had spent his life never imagining that a woman like her would come his way, and when she did . . . he had scorned her. He had doubted her. Then, finally, when he should have been saving her, she had saved him. She’d stepped in front of a bullet meant for him. She’d done it not once, but twice.
A world without Hannah Grey . . . that was hell.
The gunshot that had killed Nelson had sprayed Gabriel with blood, but the mess didn’t concern him. Rather, it was the blood that seeped from his gunshot wound at a steady pace, soaking his jeans and leaving a scarlet puddle on the floor beneath him. If Daniel didn’t get here soon, if an ambulance didn’t arrive right away, Gabriel was finally going to die.
So let him die holding Hannah in his arms.
Painfully, he dragged himself over to her. Tenderly, he lifted her off the floor.
She groaned.
He jumped so hard he bumped his head against the wall.
“Hannah.” He pressed his hand to her carotid artery. “Hannah!”
Her heart pulsed against his fingertips. She was alive. Alive!
Of course. When Carrick shot her, there wasn’t any blood. She should have been covered with blood, gallons of it. Where was it?
Gabriel groped for his phone with one hand. As soon as Daniel answered, he said, “Send an ambulance.”
Daniel must have already consulted his own handheld monitor, for he said, “Already did. I’m on my way.”
Gabriel snapped his phone closed. He clutched either side of Hannah’s shirt and ripped. Buttons flew, and when all was revealed . . . he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Hannah wore a bulletproof vest.
“Clever, clever girl.” She was the brightest, bravest, most honorable woman in the world, and she was alive. Wild with joy, he wrapped her in his arms and hugged her. Hugged her tight.
At once, she came to life in his arms. She struggled wildly, gasping, slapping at him. “Stop. That hurts!”
“Right.” Quickly, gently, he placed her on the floor.
She rolled to her side, hugging herself, breathing harshly.
He replayed the fatal scene in his mind—she had leaped at Carrick, Carrick had shot, and she’d flown backward, propelled by the force of the bullet. The bullet had hit with enough impact to do damage. He caressed her forehead and asked urgently, “Where did the bullet hit you? Did it break any ribs?”
“It hit me right on the breastbone.” She took a long breath. “And it hurts likes hell. So yes, something is probably broken.” She opened her eyes, saw Nelson’s blood-soaked body, and averted her gaze. “What happened to him?”
“He got in the way.” With careful hands, Gabriel helped her to turn over, away from the gruesome sight. He wanted to
hug her again, to comfort her, to help her forget. But he was stuck with stroking the hair off her forehead and being happy, so happy, that she was alive. “What made you . . . ? Thank God you wore the vest.”
“What made me wear the vest?” She asked the question he’d been wary of voicing. “I was dumb enough to return to Maine to keep my promise to Mrs. Manly, but I wasn’t careless. I was afraid Carrick would be waiting for me.” She tried to work herself into a sitting position.
Gabriel sprang to help, holding her arm, her shoulders.
She took a long, slow breath, testing the limits of her pain. “If you hadn’t come, he would have killed me, vest or no vest. So . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Gabriel tried to put his arm around her.
She shoved him away.
So she was angry. She had every right to be. Still, he could smooth this over. All he had to do was let her know what she’d done for him, how much he appreciated her . . . that he loved her. “I did no more than return the favor. In Houston, you saved me, in more ways than one. You saved my life, and you saved my soul.”
“Yeah. Sure.” She considered him with calculation. “So we’re even?”
“We’ll never be even.” Didn’t she understand? “You taught me what love is.”
She snorted. “Pull the other leg and see what you get.”
“What?” Gabriel’s exaltation began to fade.
“Just because you came and rescued me, do you think I’ve forgotten who you are and what you did?”
It seemed this wasn’t going as well as he had hoped.
“You lied to me. You lied to me in every way possible. You lied to me here at Balfour House. You lied to me in Houston. You thought I was every sin out of the Old Testament wrapped into one wicked package.” She spoke quickly, then clutched her chest and grimaced. In a softer tone, she said, “So let’s call it even, and go our separate ways.”
“We can’t do that. I might have doubted you once, but I realized you weren’t as awful as I thought.” Bad choice of words, but he was getting rattled. “What I mean is, I realized in the shower that I love you.”
“I don’t love you.” She clearly articulated each short word.
How could she be so willfully blind, so exasperating? “You do love me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She scrambled to her feet without a sign of the pain she must be experiencing.
“Of course you love me. You threw yourself in front of a bullet for me.” He tried to stand, too, but his leg wouldn’t support him, and his head buzzed from lack of blood.
“What did you do?” He thought it impossible, but her voice was sharper than it had been when she was flaying him alive. “Gabriel, you fool, you’ve killed yourself this time.”
And, as his consciousness faded, he heard Daniel’s voice say, “Don’t fret, Miss Hannah. I’ve got the first-aid kit, and the ambulance is on the way.”
But when Gabriel came to in the hospital, Hannah was nowhere in sight.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The December sunshine was cold and bright as Hannah entered the federal building in Bude, Maine, for the hearing to decide whether she would be charged with obstruction of justice and aiding and abetting a criminal in pursuit of larceny. She had refused to hire a lawyer. She had only a little more than twenty thousand dollars of Mr. Dresser’s bequest left, she had plans for that money, and she wasn’t going to spend it paying someone to defend her for something she didn’t do and of which she had wanted no part.
Besides, the hearing to clear her of murder charges had been swift and uneventful, given Carrick’s babbling confession and the new evidence offered in the video. She figured this would be more of the same.
She entered the courtroom, filled with elegant polished wood lovingly created by early-twentieth-century craftsmen. The courtroom was full—she was big news—but she walked through without looking right or left, gave her name to the bailiff, and seated herself at the front. She was alone, but she preferred it that way.
A man in a business suit came to stand before her, and offered his hand.
She took it and looked up, startled, into the handsomest face she’d ever seen.
In a voice tinted with the faintest trace of an Italian accent, he said, “My name is Roberto Bartolini. I am a lawyer, and with your permission, I will serve as your defense.”
She felt a little punch-drunk from looking at the face and the shoulders and, wow, the face. “Thank you, but I intend to defend myself.”
“If you will permit me to explain?” He glanced over at the lawyer for the federal government. “I must tell you Mr. Moore is young, hungry to take his law degree into a political office, and this is his first high-profile case. He has declared his intention to make a mark for himself, and he cannot do that if you walk away a free woman.”
She looked at Bert Moore, then back at Roberto Bartolini. “How do you know that?”
“He was talking in the local pub. Lawyers.” Roberto shrugged expressively. “Someone buys us a few drinks. We get drunk, and we say things we shouldn’t.” He smiled with an excess of charm. “Just like real people.”
She wanted to smile back, but she’d learned to be wary of men who offered to do her a favor. In the past, she had paid dearly for those favors. “While I appreciate your offer, I don’t think I can afford you.” Because the suit he was wearing fit him like a glove, and his French cuffs were held together by gold cuff links with chunks of stone that looked like real diamonds. Big diamonds.
He still clutched her hand, and now he bent and kissed her fingers. “I seek no payment. My brothers and I—we have taken an interest in your case.” He waved a hand toward the benches.
She turned to see what he meant, and there they were, two more tall, broad-shouldered men sitting behind her. The family resemblance was slight. She probably would never have guessed they were brothers. Except for the . . . “Oh.” She yanked her hand out of Roberto’s grip. “You’re Nathan Manly’s sons.”
Roberto seated himself in the chair beside her. “How did you guess?”
She looked at him, then looked back at the other two men.
They smiled at her.
“The eyes.” Those damn green eyes.
“Yes.” Roberto’s lips curled with scorn. “Our father, he gave us nothing except the distinctive green eyes.”
“Look, I don’t want—”
“Shh.” Roberto put his finger to his lips. “The judge enters.”
The hearing took an hour, and it seemed Roberto was right. Bert Moore intended to use the case to bring himself into the public eye.
Thanks to Roberto, he did just that, but not in a good way. Instead, he made a fool of himself in front of a large contingent of news reporters.
And while she should have been paying attention to the proceedings, concerned about the possibility of prison, she was instead wondering what Gabriel had told his brothers about her, why they had really come . . . whether Gabriel himself lurked somewhere close. She wanted to examine the spectators, look for the face that haunted her nights. She wanted to interrogate Roberto about Gabriel: his health, his whereabouts, and his full family history.
Most of all, she wanted not to care.
She was acquitted of all charges, and the press clamored to interview her. They never stood a chance, for she left the courtroom in the center of the triangle formed by the three brothers.
Out on the sidewalk, Roberto shoved Hannah into the front seat of a big black Cadillac Escalade.
A quick look around proved that Gabriel was nowhere inside.
The biggest brother got in the driver’s seat; the other two guys hopped into the back. As they skidded away from the curb, Roberto spoke from right behind her. “Miss Grey, allow me to introduce you. Mac MacNaught is driving. He’s a banker.”
“Good to meet you, Hannah.” Mac never took his eyes off the road.
“Good to meet you.” She groped for her seat belt and buckled it.
Roberto
continued. “Beside me, Dev Fitzwilliam. He’s a hotelier.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Dev grinned, obviously relishing the speed.
“A pleasure.” These guys were insane, not at all like their brother, who was coldly, intensely sane. In fact, when she remembered the way he had fooled her, she would have to say he was cold. Except when he . . . Well. No. He was cold and hard and she hated him.
Roberto finished, “You know me, I’m a lawyer.”
“A good one.” She held on as they careened around a corner.
“We were hoping you’d like to go to lunch.” Mac glanced in his rearview mirror, and goosed it. “There’s a tearoom across town with, you know, scones and flowered wallpaper and stuff.”
“Once he loses the press, we’ll drop you off,” Dev said.
“Drop me off?” They had better lose the press soon, because she was getting carsick.
“The wives wanted to meet you.” Roberto leaned forward and said, “Mac, you shouldn’t drive on the sidewalk.”
Hannah turned her head to stare at the men. “The wives?”
“Our wives. And Gabriel’s sisters. It’s all one big”—Dev waved his arms—“extended family.”
“What if I don’t want to meet them?” Hannah asked.
Except for the squealing tires, the car got very quiet.
“I suppose we can drop you off at your hotel, but . . .” Mac took a long breath. “Man, I do hate to upset Nessa. She’s pregnant, you know.”
Looking like a pack of big, sweet St. Bernard puppies, the guys all looked pleadingly at Hannah.
“I didn’t know.” She didn’t even know who Nessa was. Mac’s pregnant wife, apparently.
“The thing about the Prescott girls is that they’re all so fiercely protective of Gabriel.” Dev pointed. “Mac, turn here.”
They went around the corner on two wheels.
“Now turn here.” Dev pointed again.
Mac took that turn just as quickly.