"Did you tell the kidnapper that it would take a few days?"
"Yes."
"And what was his response?" No doubt a recitation of all the painful things he'd do to her son if she didn't produce it sooner. The kidnapper's desire would be to keep her properly alarmed—that was standard operating procedure for these jokers. Zach could swear sometimes that there must be a Kidnapping 101 textbook out there advising thugs to always keep the families of their victims off balance—even if nine times out of ten they fully intended to allow them the time necessary to raise the money.
"He told me we have five days to get it together."
"He told you—" Cutting himself off to keep his incredulity from showing, he said smoothly, "That's good news. Excellent, really."
So why did it give him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach?
Probably because you're a suspicious sonuvabitch by nature, pal. But still… five days? He squared his shoulders and tried to tell himself that just because this differed from the way these scenarios generally played out, it didn't make this one dubious.
But when his gut told him something was wrong, he went with it. And he sure as hell didn't screw around trying to convince himself it was because he couldn't do much until the kidnapper called again.
He paced a few steps away, then turned back to look at her. "Are Richard and Christopher still around?"
"Yes, I'm sure they are."
"I need them down here."
She looked almost pathetically grateful to have something to do and promptly walked over to the telephone. Picking up the receiver, she ran a fingertip down a row of buttons and pressed one.
Watching her, Zach realized for the first time that it was the type of system one usually saw in offices. Very efficient for a mansion this size. Speaking urgently into the phone for a second, she informed the person on the other end that the kidnapper had called, then disconnected, punched another button, and spoke urgently once again. A moment later, she replaced the receiver and nodded to him.
"They'll be down in a minute."
Lily brought him a cup of coffee while they waited, and he carried it over to the French doors, staring out into the yard as he sipped it. He wasn't sure when it had begun to rain, but a fine, steady drizzle turned the world outside the windows a misty gray. It soaked the terrace furniture and formed a murky curtain that obscured the bluff and the straits beyond.
Richard arrived breathless a minute later, and a moment after that Christopher barreled through the door with Jessica in tow. Since Maureen had only told them the bare bones on the phone, Zach filled them in on the details of what had transpired. Richard immediately left to gather the ledgers from the office, and Christopher ran back upstairs for his laptop computer. As soon as both men returned, they sat down to figure out which aspects of the family business could be liquidated and how long it would take to do so.
Zach watched them for a while, then paced the perimeters of the room, covertly studying the dynamics of the Beaumont family.
Both men were obviously well trained and business-minded, but Christopher seemed to have a more concrete idea of which assets were expendable, and without discussion he assumed the dominant role. Richard didn't appear to have any problem with the pecking order, but Zach noted it all the same.
Down by the fireplace at the other end of the room, Cassidy sat in an overstuffed chair and flipped through the pages of a magazine, her legs crossed and one foot tapping the air impatiently. Jessica fussed over her aunt on an adjacent couch, keeping the older woman anchored with whatever she was saying to her in her soft voice.
And then there was Lily. She wasn't a part of the family dynamics, of course, but of them all, she was the one his eyes were drawn to most often.
She bustled around the room, jewelry jingling as she saw to it that everyone had coffee. Now that he no longer viewed her through the narrow end of his own misconceptions, he was beginning to notice things he'd missed before. He saw, for instance, that for all that she looked like some rich man's trophy squeeze, she had a down-to-earth basic kindness about her.
When she topped off Mrs. Beaumont's cup, she reached out and patted the older woman's shoulder. She squeezed Jessica's hand as she spoke quietly to both women. Yet the men, he noted as he watched her go over to refill Christopher's and Richard's cups, she didn't touch at all. She talked to them easily, but kept her hands strictly to herself.
As early as this morning he would have expected it to be just the opposite. Then again, earlier this morning he also probably would have expected her to sit around like Cassidy, exhibiting an air of entitlement as she waited for someone else to attend to her needs. Instead, Lily was the one waiting on everyone, and it obviously didn't make her feel the least bit diminished to do so.
Discovering yet more evidence of just how far off base he'd been with her was about as welcome as a case of the clap. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, then dropped his hands to his sides and watched as she brushed a spill of sugar off a table into her cupped palm and walked over to toss it into the fireplace. He wasn't a man who ordinarily jumped to hasty, ill-thought-out conclusions. Nor was he accustomed to being in the wrong.
He hated that lately he'd been both.
"Okay, that seems to be it," Christopher said, and Zach turned to him in relief. He'd think of a way to apologize later. Hell, maybe he should just kiss her again; that had worked pretty slick the last time he'd felt the need to admit he was wrong.
Are you out of your mind? He managed not to pound his head against the nearest wall, but just barely. Jesus, Taylor. You keep your damn distance from that dame before she completely screws up your head . Besides, wouldn't this apology simply be more of the same old, same old anyway? He was getting confused. Was he in the wrong again or in the wrong still.
His headache was starting to come back—he couldn't think about this any more. Right here, right now— thank you, Jesus —he had a situation that needed his attention, and it was something with which he actually had some experience. Walking over to where the two men were tossing their pencils onto the table and pushing their chairs back, he demanded, "You've projected a timetable for getting the money together?"
"Yes." Christopher plowed his hands through his expensively barbered hair and stretched his elbows toward the ceiling as he dug all ten fingers into the muscles at the base of his skull. "If I get started right away, we ought to be able to liquidate everything we need in four days. Five at the outside."
Zach froze. Well, well. What an amazing coincidence. That was the exact amount of time the kidnapper had generously allowed them to raise the ransom money.
Funny thing, though. Zach had never been the type of man who believed in coincidences.
And suddenly this reeked to him of an inside job.
Miguel dashed back to his car through the rain. He let himself in and turned on the engine, immediately cranking the heater to high. Then, shivering, he shook out his hands like a wet cat, flicking drops of water all over the dash. Dios , it was cold! More than anything—more than the mellifluous language of his country, more than its foods so full of flavor and spice—he missed the bone-melting heat of Colombia. He was ready to go home.
He didn't intend to go back, though, with his tail tucked between his legs. When he returned to his village, he'd do so walking tall—the people of Bisinlejo would not see a man who allowed great wrongs to go unpunished. No indeed, what they would see was a man who avenged his honor.
But first the blonde puta had to come out of the big house.
Leaning over the steering wheel, he wiped a circle in the windshield with his sleeve to clear the fogged glass, and peered out. But the haze wasn't all on the inside of the car. The weather was socked in.