I took one of his hands and held it. “Just think before you act.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“One little incident and you’ve got me all figured out, eh?”
Bran swooped in for a kiss, soft and sweet. “Not a chance. And I hope to spend many more years trying to figure you out.” The loving tone was tempered with sadness. He’d lost something today and I had no idea how he’d cope or recover.
This love thing was tough.
Chapter Nine
The streetcar ride was fast enough—we’d caught a straggling rush hour car and it surged along the tracks, dropping us near the house within the half hour.
“How fast can your father drive?” I wheezed as I trotted along, trying to keep up with Bran’s long strides.
“He has a driver. Probably sitting on the Gardiner in traffic.” He turned into the small yard. The rosebushes struggling to survive at the front jabbed out at us with fresh thorns as we brushed by and headed for the front door.
I worked on the deadbolt. Not that it stopped certain people from gaining access but I had to put up at least a façade of home security.
“What do you want me to do?” Bran asked.
I gave him a blank look. “What?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to do whatever you feel is right for you and for Liam.” I pushed the door open. “We’ll make do with the rest.”
Jazz strolled by us and hopped up on the couch, oblivious to the drama happening around her.
Bran let his breath out slowly. “Sometimes I envy that cat.”
I chuckled. “You’d like to be coughing up hairballs?”
“Not so much.”
“Do you want me to try and tape this?” I had an ancient cassette recorder in the bottom of my desk. I wasn’t even sure if it still worked.
Bran shook his head. “Not admissible in court unless both parties know they’re being taped. And I can promise you my father won’t give permission.” He smiled and held up his cell phone. “If I wanted to I could do it with this. But it’d still be inadmissible.”
I resisted the urge to slap my forehead. I hadn’t figured out all the bits and pieces of this new phone.
“I’ll make some tea.” I headed for the kitchen, grateful to keep my hands busy. There was no way this meeting was going to end well.
All I could hope for was that the damage wasn’t permanent.
I heard the limo before Bran did, the low hum of the finely tuned engine a distinct sound in this area.
I listened. One set of footsteps coming toward the house.
Inside I breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have put it past Michael to bring a whole troop of security thugs to make his point. I wasn’t prepared for a fight but I’d make them all bleed for it.
“He’s here.” I headed for the door. “Alone.”
“Good,” Bran answered. He rubbed his palms on his jeans.
I put on my neutral face and opened the door.
Michael Hanover stood there, his attention everywhere but on me. His eyes kept darting around the front yard as if zombies were about to rise up and eat him.
He should be so lucky.
Behind him the elderly white-haired driver leaned on the hood of the black stretch limousine reading a magazine.
“Rebecca. Brandon.” Michael wore another power suit, gray with a white shirt and salmon-colored tie. His hair was perfect, the gray spots at his temples carefully brushed into the short red strands. “May I come in?”
For a second I thought about slamming the door in his face with a laugh. That, or punching him in the face, laughing and then slamming the door.
“Rebecca,” Bran said behind me.
I put away the fantasies and stepped back to let him enter.
Michael Hanover moved to the center of the living room. His body language told me he didn’t want to be here.
I left the door unlocked. If we needed police or an ambulance I didn’t need the extra trouble of having to release the deadbolts again.
As far as I was concerned the danger was inside right now, not outside.
Michael looked around the living room with a nervous glance.
“Just us,” Bran said, guessing at the reason.
“Good.”
I headed for the couch and sat down.
The two men stayed silent. This wasn’t going to be easy or quick.
Jazz trilled, then nudged my hand and lay down beside me, letting out a demanding merp. I patted her head and reached for the ever-present packet of cat treats on the unbroken side table.
Bran didn’t look over.
It was like watching a young lion and an old lion jousting for leadership. Bran rubbed his chin, unwilling or unable to sit down while Michael took up a position in the center of the living room, arms crossed, waiting for something.
Michael loosened his tie and cleared his throat with something close to a cough.
Jazz, sensing the tension, scooted up the stairs with a last nudge of her cold clammy nose on my hand.
“I’m not sure where to start,” the elder Hanover mumbled.
Bran stayed silent.
I got up and perched myself on the edge of the sofa and spun an imaginary wheel with my fingers. “Let’s begin with you blackmailing me last night.”
Michael glared at me. “I don’t like that word.”
“I don’t like being threatened. So now we’re equal.”
The elder Hanover eyeballed me, searching for a weakness. I knew he was looking for a way to break through my armor and make me bend to his will.
“Don’t even try. You don’t have enough mojo to get out of this.” I let a snarl creep into my voice. I was tired of parents and family. “At the start you pulled me into this because you wanted to have no paper trail leading back to you and your associates. The sad thing is I might have done it for nothing if you’d asked nicely. Instead you threaten to fuck me over by digging up my family tree,” I rumbled. “And trust me—you wouldn’t be happy with the results of your excavation. Some roots are better left unearthed.”
Michael crossed his arms. “Maybe I should send in the diggers regardless of what happens here.”
I wagged my finger in the air. “I wouldn’t. Not unless you want to be responsible for more deaths.”
That earned me a frown and a cautious look before the stoic mask returned.
I didn’t flinch. I already felt partially responsible for Callendar’s death—I couldn’t allow myself to get wrapped up in emotional bondage again.
“Who is Molly Callendar?” Bran growled. I heard the anger and sadness in his voice battling for control.
Michael looked over. “A woman.” The dismissive tone sent my pulse skyrocketing. “A temp who worked in my office, doing paperwork and the like.” He waved his hand to the side. “No one special.”
Bran slapped his hand down on the remaining side table, making me jump. It sounded like a rifle going off. “She’s the fucking mother of your son.”
Michael’s response didn’t change. He didn’t break into tears or start raging. I could almost see the computer inside his mind weighing what to say and how to look while saying it.
He was a pro at keeping secrets.
“Says who? You? The police?” His tone shifted to dismissive. “Rebecca here, of the mysterious past and less than reputable employment?” He scowled at Bran. “Who says the baby’s mine?”
“Is he?” Bran stopped pacing and faced his father. “Is Liam your son?”
“Where did you get such a crazy idea?” Michael nodded in my direction. “Did she put you up to this?” He gave Bran a predatory look. “What’s your game here?”