Fortune (24 page)

“Or a TV movie of the week.” Chance held up his hands, grinning. “But every word is true. I swear.”

Griffen laughed, feeling almost giddy. His P.I. wouldn't have a problem locating her now, he was certain of it. Name and last known address, current as of a few years ago. “You, my friend, have had an amazing life.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction.”

“In your case, for sure.” Griffen longed to ask more, he longed to grill Chance with questions about Skye—what she looked like, her likes and dislikes, what made her laugh, what made her cry, if Chance had any pictures.

Of course, he asked none of those things, because to do so would reveal him. So he changed the subject to the Cubs' chances at making the series, then the
Vanity Fair
cover. But the minutes ticked agonizingly past. Sitting there pretending interest in anything Chance had to say was torture. He wanted to laugh, shout, howl at the sky.

Grace was coming home at last.

T
he egg was priceless. Made of tricolored gold and studded with diamonds, it opened to reveal a brilliant blue enameled interior and trompe l'oeil painting of a monarch butterfly. It was Grace's egg, fashioned by Dorothy and her team of artisans to celebrate her birth.

Every Monarch had an egg, though none was so beautiful, so perfect, as Grace's. Griffen smiled to himself. Appropriate, as no Monarch was or had been as beautiful, as perfect, as she.

He took the egg from its pedestal and cupped it lovingly in his hands, stroking the gem-encrusted surface with his thumbs, imagining cupping her, stroking her. He brought the egg to his nose and breathed deeply, imagining her scent.

Soon, he would have to imagine no longer. Soon, she would be home. He had found her. He had seen pictures of her.

Almost home. Almost his.

Hands trembling, Griffen set the egg carefully back in the display case, back on its delicate gold pedestal. Hers sat next to his in the cabinet. Appropriate again.

They would remain side by side forever.

Once Chance had given him her last address and the names of the people she had been living with, it had been simple. Now he knew everything about her—her likes and dislikes, her favorite foods, music, color; he knew her beliefs, her aspirations, her dreams.

Yes, he knew everything about her, he thought again, smiling. Down to the kind of panties she wore.

Griffen trailed his fingers along the display cabinet's smooth, cool glass front, thinking of his Grace, of the things he had learned. She had graduated from Dekalb High with honors. She had studied art at Northern Illinois University, again graduating with honors, and earned a scholarship to the Rhode Island School of Design.

She had few friends, no lover and kept to herself. She was a good student and a gifted artist. Indeed, she had racked up an impressive list of exhibitions already, including one at the Museum of Modern Art.

Griffen had sought out her designs; he had even called to inquire about her work. Her qualifications.

Her faculty adviser had practically salivated all over himself in his praise of her and her work. Just talking to the man about her had aroused Griffen. And not in a small way. No, this had been the boner to end all boners. After he had hung up, he'd gone into the executive bathroom and jacked off, his orgasm incredibly intense.

Grace was everything he had fantasized her being, more, even. Beautiful, brilliant, a shining talent, one equal to Dorothy at her creative zenith.

“Mr. Monarch, can I help you find something?”

He looked over his shoulder. The housekeeper stood in the dining-room doorway. He smiled. “No, thank you, Beatrice. I already found what I was looking for.”

She hesitated a moment, clearly not understanding his amusement, then nodded and moved on. Griffen turned back to the cabinet, to the row of jeweled eggs.

Griffen hadn't been surprised to learn the depth of Grace's talent, or that she had channeled that talent into jewelry design. After all, destiny—like truth—could not be denied.

Poor delusional Madeline. She had thought she could take Grace away from her destiny; she had thought she could alter the future. His. Grace's.

She had been wrong. Some things could not be altered; they could not be denied.

Grace was
his
destiny. She belonged to him, she always had. Madeline nor anyone else had been able to change that.

Almost time. Almost his.

Now, what to do with Chance McCord? That was the question. Griffen drew his eyebrows together in thought. Had he outlived his usefulness? Or did he still need him?

Perhaps he did. After all, he knew Grace—Skye, he corrected himself—better than anyone. From what the investigator had learned, and her faculty adviser had confirmed, she kept to herself. She didn't have many friends, didn't date or socialize. She was totally committed to her work, the adviser had said.

Maybe he would need Chance's assistance controlling Grace. For a time. Before long, he was certain, he would have no trouble controlling Grace without assistance.

Griffen laughed softly. Besides, the higher he allowed Chance to climb, the farther, and harder, he would fall when the time came.

Little man was so full of himself. It had been fun to watch how Chance had puffed up a bit more with each new account, how cocky he had become. How self-satisfied.

As if any of it had been his doing.

Griffen chuckled. He had given Chance success, he could take it away, too. A few calls, a few carefully placed stories and down Chance McCord would tumble.

And all the king's horses and all the king's men wouldn't be able to put little ole Chance together again.

“Griffen. Could I see you for a moment?”

Griffen dragged his eyes from the row of Monarch eggs and looked over his shoulder at his father. He swept his gaze over him, disgusted. His father was stooped and gray and weak. It seemed impossible to him that this man was his father. It seemed more impossible still that once upon a time he had been frightened of him.

Griffen smiled thinly. “I'm not in the mood right now. Thanks anyway, Dad.”

His father's face mottled. “It wasn't a request, son. Now. The study.”

Pierce turned and walked away, expecting his son to follow like an obedient little puppy. Griffen took his time, knowing how angry it would make the old man. He relocked the display cabinet, then carefully, meticulously, wiped his fingerprints from the glass.

Griffen smiled at his reflection, holding his plans close, wondering what his pathetic father would think of them.

Not that he cared, of course. He could deal with his father.

Turning, he went to join him in the study.

His father was waiting, pacing. Furious. He swung toward the door as Griffen stepped through. “You little shit,” he said. “How dare you.”

“What's that, Father?” Griffen closed the study door behind him. “Don't you like being kept waiting?”

“That's not it, and you know it.”

“Really? I do?” Griffen slipped his hands into his front trouser pockets. “Then you'd better refresh my memory.”

“I don't know how, or where, you got a key to my personal files, but I want it back. You're not to go in them again.”

“So, your pitbull finally tattled. Or has it just taken you so long to work up the courage to confront me?” Griffen laughed and clucked his tongue. “Her loyalty astounds me. Really. What could you have done to earn it?” He cocked his head. “Does she know you the way I do, I wonder? Does she know all your dirty little secrets?”

Pierce ignored him. “And furthermore, I'm still president of Monarch's. I make policy, not you. I approve all changes. You're not to make any without consulting with me first.” Pierce threw back his shoulders and puffed out his chest, though Griffen found his father's attempt at strength laughable. “Do you understand?”

“What changes could you be referring to, Father? It must have been something big to get your panties in such a wad.”

His father looked as if he was going to explode, he was so mad. He crossed to stand nose-to-nose with Griffen. “You may not fire our PR firm, the same firm who's been doing our work for twenty years without consulting me. You may not hire some nobody nothing without first—”

“But, that's exactly what I've done.”

“Listen to me, you little bastard—”

“No, you listen to me. I'll do as I please with company policy. I'll make the changes I deem necessary.” He bent his face close to his father's. “As for your precious, fucking files, the reason you don't want me in them is because you kept records of things you shouldn't have. Things that were illegal. Immoral. Things that were really fucked up. You're one sick bastard, Dad.”

Griffen picked up a curio, an elephant carved out of ivory, then set it back down, aware of how his words were affecting his father. He could all but feel his father's heart beginning to thunder, his blood beginning to careen through his veins. “But I bet what you're most worried about are the things that might tarnish your sterling reputation in the industry.”

His father paled. “That's ludicrous. I don't want you in the files because they're mine. They're none of your concern. Period.” His father held out his hand. Griffen noticed it shook like an old man's. “I want the key. Now.”

“What's curious to me,” Griffen murmured, moving past his father, “is why you've kept the things you did. Didn't you think someone would eventually go through them? Really, Father. Very sloppy. Stupid, even.”

“The key.”

“And talk about ludicrous.” Griffen swept his gaze over his father again, making a sound of derision. “Look at you. You're out of breath. Standing still and breathing like a horse who's just run the derby. Oh, I forgot. You've been put out to pasture. No good to anyone anymore.”

“That's not true.
I'm
still president of Monarch's—”

“Look at the way you're sweating,” he continued, chuckling as his father brought a hand self-consciously to his forehead. “It's disgusting. You make me sick.”

“You can't talk to me this way. You can't—”

“Oh, but I can, Father. And I will.” Griffen circled his father, laughing, enjoying the man's helpless fury. “What are you going to do about it? Fire me? Or do you want to hit me? The way you did when I was a kid? Think you can still take me?”

Pierce's face went nearly purple with rage. “You…You…”

“What, Father? What am I? The son you never wanted? Your whipping boy?

“Funny thing about daughters,” Griffen continued, “the way they come and go, that is. Terrible how your little bitch daughter drowned. I never liked her, you know.” He leaned toward his father. “Who needed her, anyway? She didn't have the gift, Grace got it all. Every fucking bit of it. And you just…let her go.”

Griffen crossed to the window and glanced out at the bright day beyond, then back at his shaking father. “But then, accidents happen. Isn't that right? Just as wives run off with daughters and money. And gems.”

His father's face went ashen and Griffen laughed. “What was it that made you keep records of those nice little transactions? Your bloated ego or your tiny brain? Buying gems that had been smuggled into the country.” He wagged his finger at his father. “Not a bad deal for Monarch's. We don't pay customs, we get more than our allotted share, we undercut our competitors. Very slick. Though you didn't plan on Madeline making off with a stash of them. You couldn't collect on insurance because they didn't exist. You couldn't file a criminal charge because, again, the gems didn't exist. Boy, that must have been tough to swallow.”

“I could kill you now,” Pierce managed to say, his voice thick. He flexed his fingers and took a faltering step toward Griffen.

“Could you? Try, Dad. Give it your best shot. I won't even hit you back.” Griffen strode across the study, stopping a couple feet from his father. “Scout's honor.”

Pierce took another step; he drew his arm back as if preparing to hit him, then stopped dead. A look of utter surprise crossed his face, then of complete pain. He clutched his chest. His eyes bulged; his face drained of color.

“Oh, dear.” Griffen cocked his head. “Are we having a coronary event?”

Pierce's hand went to his shirt pocket. Gasping for air, he fumbled for his nitroglycerin tablets. The tiny box slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

He looked at Griffen, begging. Griffen smiled and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Sorry. No can do.”

“Dear…God. You're my…you're my…son.”

“God has nothing to do with this. This is between you and me. Payback time, old man.”

Pierce lurched toward the phone, hitting the side of the stand, knocking it over. The phone and lamp crashed to the floor, Pierce with them.

Face twisted with agony, Pierce clawed his way toward the box of pills.

As his fingers brushed against the box, Griffen nudged it with the toe of his Bally loafer, putting it just out of his father's reach. “Sorry, Pop, but you see, everything is going so well for me. It really would be better if you died.”

Pierce inched across the floor; again Griffen tapped the box out of reach. “I'm proud of the old college try you're giving it, though. Good for you, Dad.”

Griffen squatted beside his father, watching his contortions, studying him. He had never seen a man die before. “You see,” he said, his tone conversational, “I've found her. Grace. My Grace.”

His father stopped writhing and looked at him.

“She's everything we knew she would be. An incredible artist. Every bit as good as Dorothy was at the same age. Maybe better. And she's beautiful. Brilliant. She's perfect. Absolutely perfect.