“Hey, girl,” she said, bending down to stroke the dog’s wide head. The Lab instantly dropped to the ground and rolled over, eager for a belly rub. “Ah, boy,” she amended. “Your master busy?”
Stephen’s car was in the circular drive just ahead of hers. She straightened and started for the rounded steps of the front porch, noticing for the first time that that the door was wide open.
“Stephen?”
She got no answer, so she stepped inside. His suit coat lay crumpled on an oriental rug and it appeared his briefcase had been tossed onto the long-legged table in the foyer, knocking off a vase. Shards of glass littered the marble floor, and she stepped carefully around them.
Something was wrong, seriously wrong, but almost immediately she dismissed concern over a burglary or violent struggle. Surely the dog wouldn’t have been running around outside if his master were in a fight for his life? From somewhere in the house she could hear Stephen’s raised voice. He was shouting curses, some in English, some in what sounded like Spanish—all were vicious.
Catherine called out his name a second time. She got no answer, but followed his voice down a hallway and found him in a room she assumed was his home office. He was quiet now, too quiet, as he sat in a high-backed leather chair behind an ornately carved wooden desk, elbows propped on the edge of it, face buried in his hands.
“Stephen?”
He started at the sound of her voice and straightened in his seat. The naked pain in his eyes when he glanced up so surprised her that before she could ponder if he would appreciate her interference or not she was crossing the threshold and walking to him.
“My God, Stephen, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“They did it.”
“Did what? Who?”
He looked at her, seemed to look through her.
“I don’t know how they did it, but they did it.” His words clarified nothing. Nor did it help when he motioned to the papers scattered over his desktop and added, “Even my copy of the will, the codicil’s there. They must have made the switch last month, when Derek volunteered to pick up some documents for me. I gave him the damn combination to my safe.” He swore again. “I all but handed him my birthright.”
She didn’t know what he was talking about, but that didn’t seem as important at that moment as offering comfort. She walked around the desk, laid a hand on his shoulder.
“How can I help? What can I do?”
“There’s nothing you can do.” He laughed harshly.
“There must be something.”
He shook his head, as if realizing for the first time who she was. “Why are you here, Catherine?”
She decided against mentioning the shelter’s roof. He obviously had more pressing concerns right now. So she pointed to the shopping bag she’d left just inside the door. “Your robe. I’m returning it.”
“Leave it, then.”
It was a dismissal, but she decided to ignore it.
“What can I do?” she asked again.
He didn’t answer. Instead he stood, and with a violent sweep of his arm cleared the desk. A lamp crashed to the ground, followed by a telephone, and papers fluttered like snowflakes before finally settling on the hardwood floor.
Catherine jumped back a step, shocked by Stephen’s uncharacteristic show of temper. In an instant he seemed to have gone from distraught to enraged. And in those dark eyes of his she saw fury, burning hot and lethal. And his gaze was now focused on her.
“It seems we have something in common, Catherine.”
He rolled the R in her name, making it sound almost exotic. She backed up another step as he advanced, not sure what he meant to do. When he stood directly in front of her he raised a hand, and she held her breath. But his touch was gentle when he pushed the hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear, his fingers sliding slowly down to the end of the strand before releasing it.
“What do we have in common?” she asked softly.
“Betrayal. Derek has betrayed us both.”
He cursed again, before turning away from her and stalking to the window.
“I don’t understand.”
“Derek and his mother managed to either doctor our grandfather’s will or conceal a key provision of it from me until today.” He turned and pointed to the papers scattered over the floor. “There’s a codicil that essentially gives them the controlling interest in Danbury’s if certain conditions aren’t met by my thirty-fifth birthday, which is Sunday.”
“Any chance you can meet the conditions?”
He expelled a breath, ran one hand through his hair. Fury ebbed. He seemed resigned when he replied. “It’s not likely.”
“Okay, but surely you could go to court and challenge the will?”
“Perhaps. I’d need a new lawyer, since they seem to have bought off the one who’s been doing our family’s business for decades. It would get ugly,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “And there’s no guarantee I’d win, since I have no proof that they concealed the codicil. It’s their word against mine. In the months or even years before the matter is finally settled the press would have a field day with the story, as would our competitors. I wonder what such a bitter battle would do to Danbury’s already battered bottom line in the end?”
“I’d say your best option, then, is to try to meet the will’s conditions.”
He snorted. “Easier said than done.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what are the conditions?”
“I have to be married,” he announced. Glancing at his watch, he added, “And I have less than twenty-eight hours to do so.”
“That’s archaic—barbaric.”
“That’s my grandfather. Which is why I tend to think the codicil is authentic. Derek must have discovered it before Grandfather died and decided to make sure I didn’t know about it until it was too late. I still can’t figure out how he and his mother bought off Lyle. He’s always seemed so by the book.”
Something occurred to her then, a thought too hideous to even consider, and yet she had to know. “This condition, did it apply to Derek?”
He seemed to understand what she was asking. “I’m sorry, Catherine.”
She acknowledged his apology with a brisk nod, as hurt and fury battled for dominance. Derek’s words at the church came back to her. I don’t really need her anyway. Had everything been a lie?
She recalled her first encounter with Derek, nearly two years earlier—just a month after his grandfather’s death, she now realized. He’d bid an outrageous sum for a mediocre painting at a silent auction she’d organized to raise money for the shelter. She’d thanked him personally afterward, accepting his invitation to dinner the next day. She’d thought at last she’d found someone who shared her interests, respected her intellect and understood the importance of her work at the shelter and with other local charities that helped serve the city’s neediest residents. Had his romantic pursuit really just been a means to an end?
“What would have happened if Derek had married me?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“That’s not important.”
“Don’t try to spare my feelings, Stephen. I think I have a right to know. What would have happened?”
“He would have had it all.”
“All