He leaned closer, a frown on his face. Even though he knew she spoke of her boss, it irritated him to hear her speak of another man with so much affection in her voice. And if she didn’t go, he’d have to rethink some plans. But he was versatile. Thought well on his feet.
His gaze traveled around the room. Frowning, he saw she had thrown the flowers he’d left on her stoop in the trash. He narrowed his eyes. Naughty Taite, throwing away his token of affection. She’d learn, in time, to appreciate the things he gave her, the things only he could do for her.
She raised one hand to her face. Realizing she brushed away a tear, he stiffened. He didn’t like to see her unhappy. It was such a rare thing. Even after a less-than-ideal childhood and the stress of a sometimes dangerous job, she still managed to find joy in life, which made her sadness even more difficult to observe. He wanted to see her with a smile on her face again. That was his ultimate goal, after all—to make sure she was happy and cared for.
No one would be able to do it better than him. And if he had to cause her pain in the interim, well, so be it. He was a firm believer in the ends justifying the means. Plus it would make her appreciate him all the more once he revealed himself to her.
“Okay, okay, Declan. You win.” Taite gave a watery laugh. “Just…” She took a deep breath and straightened, shoulders back, spine rigid.
There was the woman he loved. Stiff-backed, determined, and so lovely he was hard-pressed to keep his distance.
He grinned and glanced down at the erection straining against his zipper. Hard-pressed, indeed.
“Just pick me up in the morning and we can go to the airport together.” She rang off and tossed the phone into her purse at the end of the bed. Then she resumed her packing. She still looked sad and a little spooked, but was relaxing by the minute. Probably was starting to feel safe, thinking about going away.
Did she think leaving town would take her away from him?
Not likely.
Or, at least, not for long.
Chapter 3
Alexander Merrick’s Journal
21 November 1988
Catherine is my life, my reason for being, the only bright thing in this dark world. I love my wife. I love her dearly. Yet I do not see an alternative. If I am to end my wretched existence, how can I in all good conscience ask her to continue on, knowing she will go through this vile misery again with our son?
No, it is better by far to take her with me. Ryder is strong—he’ll survive this. And if he’s listened to my advice over the years, he’ll discover a way to coexist with the demons that ride us. If not…
My main concern is for young Miles. He so wants to be part of the Merrick legacy, yet he doesn’t carry the bloodline and so it is impossible. He continues to berate me for my lack of cooperation in making it so. Yet I cannot.
One day I hope he will come to realize what a dreadful existence I have saved him from and thank me for it. As for my son…One day I hope he, too, comes to comprehend my reasons for doing what I’m about to do. And I hope he will never find himself in the same dark despair as I.
Ryder Merrick tossed his father’s journal on top of his grandfather’s diary. Dammit. It had been twenty years since his parents’ deaths, and he still didn’t understand it. How had no one seen how desperate and delusional his father had become?
Ryder had been away at Queen’s College when news of the murder-suicide had reached him. He’d cut short his education and come back to Phelan’s Keep immediately—only to be greeted by the horrendous reality and his cousin Miles’s near hysterics. The police had quickly ruled Miles out as a suspect. Forensic evidence substantiated the report that Alexander Merrick had first shot and killed his wife and then turned the gun on himself, lodging a bullet—one he’d made from melted silver—in his brain.
Everyone was in consensus that Miles had been lucky there wasn’t a bullet fired his way. And while Ryder had never really believed his cousin had anything to do with his parents’ deaths, there was that nagging little voice that whispered maybe….
And for two decades Ryder had never understood it. Sure, there were things the males of his family had to deal with that affected very few other people in the world, relatively speaking. But it could be dealt with in ways other than death.
Isolation was Ryder’s solution.
He pushed his chair away from the desk and stood, turning to gaze out the open veranda doors. Huffing a sigh, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and looked out over the ocean.
Sea birds flew across the surface, their raucous cries floating upward. They reminded him it would only be a few more months before the puffins returned to their nesting grounds on the south of Phelan’s Keep, which was much rockier than this side of the island. He’d always enjoyed the little black-and-white birds’ return each season—somehow they made his life a bit more bearable, a little lighter.
The morning sun capped the waves with orange and gold topped with reflective silver. A light breeze brought the smell of salty air to him. He inhaled, wishing the air could somehow make him feel renewed. But, as always, he just felt…old.
He glanced over the immaculate lawn that led to the short stone wall at the edge of the bluff. His only live-in employee, Will Cobb, refused to have someone from one of the main islands come over to keep the grounds, insisting that he was more than capable of performing landscaping work. And he was. The house and grounds looked as good as they did when his parents were alive and had half-a-dozen employees caring for things.
Ryder scanned the horizon. As far as he could see there was only blue sky and white clouds, though he knew they were due for rain soon. And this time of year storms could be gale-strength.
Tilting his head to one side, he tried to work out the kinks in his neck. He was on deadline—if he didn’t get these last few changes in to his editor on time, she’d have his balls for breakfast. And while the big house operated off an industrial-sized generator, he’d prefer to get as much done as possible before they were hit by the next storm.
He grimaced and turned back to his desk. Flexing his fingers, he settled them on the keyboard and got to work. It wasn’t until he heard a knock on the study door that he became aware of the passage of time. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. “Come,” he called out.
His hardworking Guy Friday pushed open the door and walked in carrying a silver tray. His thinning hair brushed just so and dressed in his normal attire—crisp dark suit, starched white shirt, black tie, and shiny shoes—Cobb took his job quite seriously. He set the tray on the desk and proceeded to pour strong black coffee into one of the two large mugs that sat on one side of the tray.
The aroma wafted to Ryder and his nostrils flared with his deep inhalation. He enjoyed the smell of coffee as much as the flavor. He pushed his laptop to one side and peered at the tray. Next to the mugs were two plates, each holding a meat sandwich. Reaching out, Ryder lifted up one corner of the homemade sourdough bread of the nearest one to inspect the contents.
“It’s rare roast beef with lettuce, tomato, sweet onion, and brown mustard,” Cobb offered. He lifted a small plate that held homemade chips and placed it in front of Ryder, then did the same with the plate holding the sandwich. “I thought I might be pushing my luck to serve salad for your midday meal two days in a row. You tend to get…overly irritable