Fortune (44 page)

N
ow, what did she have to go and do that for?

Griffen gazed blankly at Claire, crumpled in a rag doll–like heap on the floor at his feet. The blood beat frantically in his head, muddying his thoughts. He wiped a hand across his forehead, realizing that he was trembling, that he was sweating.

He'd had to kill her, he'd had to. She'd been about to ruin everything. She'd meant to take his Grace away from him, the way she had before. He'd had to stop her, of course. He glanced around the room, his gaze darting from one thing to the next. But why here?

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The stupid bitch. If only she had stayed away. She, more than anyone, should have understood the lengths he would go to keep Grace by his side.

But she had decided to come back and fuck everything up anyway. She had decided to stick her big nose where it didn't belong. He looked at her, annoyed. And where had it gotten them?

Her dead and him in a whole shitload of trouble.

Griffen sucked in a shuddering breath, wishing he could think clearly, wishing the rushing sound in his ears would stop. He had to clean away the evidence. He had to think, to plan. He couldn't be caught; that wouldn't do, not at all.

He would find a way out of this, he decided, looking the room over. He was in control. He could fix anything. He always had.

He narrowed his eyes. What had he touched? The doorknob. The back of the chair. The doorjamb. Nothing else. He stepped over Claire and went to the door. He took out his handkerchief and carefully wiped the doorknob, then the jamb.

He moved to the chair and wiped it. Smiling, he went to tuck his handkerchief back into his jacket pocket. As he did, his sleeve pulled up slightly, revealing scratches on his hand. He pushed the sleeve up farther and saw more scratches. Bloody ones. He lowered his gaze in dawning horror. Drops of blood, his blood, stood out in bold relief on the white carpeting, on her pale blue blouse.

The police would scrape her fingernails and find his skin and blood under her nails. His DNA. Griffen's mind raced. He had ridden in the elevator with a man and woman who would be able to identify him. He had seen an old business associate in the lobby. The man had nodded at him from across the room.

Griffen shifted his gaze to the phone. Claire had called the store; the hotel and telephone company would have records of that call. When he had heard the receptionist say Claire's name, he had taken the phone from the woman's hands. She had been startled by his actions; she was not likely to forget it.

Claire would be traced to the Monarch family. The police would learn that she was Madeline Monarch. That Skye was really Grace Monarch.

He would be caught. He would go to jail.

No. That wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Griffen pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, working to focus his runaway thoughts. But no matter how he tried to think of a way out of this, his thoughts kept coming back to the same thing—Grace. When he was caught, she would turn to Chance. McCord, that
nothing,
would have her then. As would Monarch's. And his grandfather.

No. Never. He wouldn't allow it. Grace was his. His prize. His possession.

She was his destiny.

Of course. Griffen dropped his hands, calm now, his direction, his path, clear.

If he couldn't have Grace, nobody would.

S
kye made a sound of distress. It slipped past her lips, chill bumps racing up her arms.

The woman standing beside her in the elevator, probably a customer, looked at her in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Skye rubbed her arms, cold. “I just had the strangest sense that…”
That someone needed her. That someone she loved was hurting.
She wasn't about to say that, and let the thought trail off, smiling weakly at the woman. “I'm fine, thank you.”

The woman returned her smile. “Do you know what time it is? My watch stopped.”

“Sure.” Skye looked at hers, then back at the woman. “It's four. A couple minutes after, actually.”

The elevator shuddered to a halt; the doors slid open. Thanking her, the woman stepped off.

Skye rubbed her arms again, thinking of her mother. She had been all afternoon, ever since Chance had left her office, though she couldn't say why.

Perhaps it had been his words.

Grow up, Skye. Get over it.

Those words had rung in Skye's head all afternoon. As had the way she'd responded to his touch, the way she longed for him. The way she thought about him all the time.

She couldn't marry Griffen. She didn't love him.

She loved Chance.

She had known that for a while now, since the awful night she and Griffen had made love. But she had been too afraid to admit it, too afraid of being hurt to let go of her dream of perfect love.

No such thing existed. Chance had been right about that. The only forever that life guaranteed was the forever of death.

She had to break it off with Griffen. As soon as possible. Tonight. She hated to hurt him. She hated to hurt Adam. She had no choice. She had let this go on too long already.

Her decision scared the hell out of her. Griffen offered her everything she had ever wished for; Chance offered her nothing but a promise to try. He had hurt her once; he might hurt her again. She didn't care. The thought of living without him was more frightening than anything she could contemplate.

The time had come to grow up. Chance might hurt her, but being hurt was a part of life.

With the realization came a giddy sense of freedom. Kowtowing to the past, to fear, was a ridiculous way to live. She was done with it. Now, this moment, she began anew.

It brought, too, thoughts of her mother. Not bitter or angry ones for once, but sweet thoughts, happy memories. Skye smiled, thinking of the way her mother had loved her, recalling the way she had shown that love day in and day out.

Her mother had loved her, Skye realized, suddenly feeling as if her mother's arms were around her now, holding her, filling her with the most incredible sense of peace and well-being. Skye closed her eyes, holding on to the moment, the feeling. Holding on to her mother.

The elevator reached the first floor and Skye stepped off. She called goodbye to the downstairs receptionist, wished her a good weekend and left the store.

It was clear and bitterly cold, and she stuffed her bare hands into her pockets, wishing the gloves she'd ordered from Marshall Field's would arrive. She started up Michigan Avenue, heading for the parking garage where she had a monthly contract, the wind, thankfully, at her back.

Twenty-five minutes later, she was home, slipping into a parking spot less than a block from her building. This time the wind was against her, and she bent into it, trudging the rest of the way home, imagining snuggling up in front of a fire with a cup of hot chocolate and Moo.

She reached her front steps at the same time a deliveryman did. She glanced at the package and saw her name.
Her new gloves. Finally.

“Excuse me?” She touched the young man's sleeve. “I'm Skye Dearborn. Is that for me?”

“Yup.” He grinned. “You sure you're her?”

“Yeah, I am.” She smiled. “You want ID or something?”

“Nah. You'll have to sign, though.” He held out the clipboard. “You got lucky. I had to circle the block a couple of times. Can you believe that jerk parked by the fire hydrant? That was my spot.”

Skye followed the kid's gaze to the hydrant directly across the street. A black Porsche 911 was parked in front of it. She lifted her gaze to her apartment. That looked like Griffen's car. What was he doing here?

“Lucky break for you, though. I would have missed you.” He handed her the box. “Have a good one.”

She thanked him, let herself into the building and climbed the flight of stairs to her apartment. She stopped at the top landing, her heart beginning to thrum. Her door was partially open. She heard the sound of someone moving around inside.

She swallowed hard and crossed to her door. With just the tips of her fingers, she pushed it open. Griffen's back was to her, he was squatted down by her coffee table, leafing through a pile of mail.
Her mail.

Fury took her breath. “What do you think you're doing?”

He launched to his feet, whirling to face her. “Grace!”

“What did you call me?”

“I mean, Skye. You startled me.”

“I startled you?” She shifted the box from her right arm to her left. “What are you doing in my apartment? How did you get in?”

“I came to get you.” He looked strange, hardly like himself at all. He was pale, out of breath and sweating. And he was acting strange, too. Wired and jumpy. Usually immaculately groomed, his suit was rumpled, his hair untidy.

She shifted her gaze to his hand. He had cut himself, blood marred the cuff of his white dress shirt.

“I thought we should go away,” he said. “Up to the family retreat at Horizon's End. I packed you a bag.”

“Away?” she repeated, noticing her overnight bag at his feet. He had entered her apartment without her permission, he had gone through her things. Unease crawled up her spine. She didn't like this, not at all.

“How did you get in here, Griffen?”

“We need to go.” He wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand, his gaze jumping from one thing to another. “It's getting late.”

“Griffen?” She took a step backward, toward the door. “Are you all right? You don't look well.”

“I'm fine. Anxious to go, that's all.” He dragged a hand through his hair; she saw then where the blood on his shirt had come from—the back of his hand was marked by a row of vivid gouges, as if he had been clawed. “This thing with Dorothy,” he continued. “We're all feeling the stress. We need to get away, relax a little. Be together.”

She shook her head. “I don't think so, Griffen. In fact, I've been doing a lot of thinking about us, and I—” She bit off the words, suddenly realizing that Moo was missing.

“Where's my dog?”

“Moo?” He swiped at his lip again. “He's with Granddad.”

“Adam?” She struggled not to panic. “What do you mean?”

“I forgot to tell you. Adam's meeting us there. He's already left.” Griffen picked up her bag. “I knew how much Moo would enjoy running in the woods, but there wasn't room in the Porsche.”

She frowned, rubbing her temple.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

“Moo and Adam are on their way?” she asked. “You're sure?”

“Of course.” He smiled, suddenly looking like the Griffen she knew and trusted. “How could I not be sure about that?”

Her every instinct warned her not to go. But how could she not? Adam had Mr. Moo. Once they were all together, as painful as it would be, she would break the news about the engagement to them both.

“All right. Did you get my headache medicine?”

“And your toothbrush and a bottle of wine.” He smiled winningly. “I'm taking care of everything, sweetheart. I always take care of everything. Trust me.”

C
hance listened to the message on his recorder for the third time, heart thundering. Claire? Could it really be her? The message was garbled, half-hysterical. Some of it he couldn't quite make out, even after listening to it three times. She was staying at the Knickerbocker. Room two-twelve. Skye, she said, was in danger. Then she mentioned Griffen's name. She begged Chance to come quickly.

Griffen, Chance thought, frowning. How did Claire know Griffen?

Chance hit Stop, then Replay. He listened to the message yet again, unable to understand what she was saying about Griffen, but growing convinced the voice he was listening to was Claire's.

He reached for the phone to call Skye, then changed his mind. Before he put Claire in touch with Skye, he wanted to find out just where the hell she had been for the last fourteen years. He wouldn't allow Claire to hurt Skye that way again.

Chance grabbed his coat and keys and headed out the door.

Twenty minutes later he pulled up in front of the Knickerbocker hotel. The valet leaped forward, his expression almost panicked. Chance glanced around and frowned. Something big was going down. He counted six police vehicles outside the hotel and spotted a couple of uniforms just inside the hotel lobby.

The valet opened his door. Chance stepped out of the car and handed the kid his keys. “What's with all the cops? Somebody snuff out one of the guests?”

The kid paled. “No, sir. Nothing like that.” He handed Chance a claim ticket, his hands shaking.

The hairs on the back of Chance's neck stood straight up. “Hey, I was only kidding. Don't get rattled.”

The boy laughed self-consciously. “No, sir. I'm not rattled.”

Chance headed into the hotel. He caught the elevator, sharing it with a couple of Chicago's finest. The two said nothing; their silence spoke volumes.

Somebody had been murdered.

The detectives alighted on the second floor, and Chance followed them off, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Claire's words ringing in his head.

Something terrible has…Skye's in danger. Come as quickly as you can.

As he followed the two men, Chance prayed. That they were going to another room. That his imagination was working overtime. That they were investigating a drug deal or a robbery.

His prayers went unanswered. The detectives stopped in front of room two-twelve. They tapped on the door.

Chance slowed. The door opened and the officers slipped inside, just as Chance passed it. He looked. The room was filled with uniforms and guys in cheap suits. A couple of them were squatted down, examining something on the floor. Not something, Chance realized. Someone. A body.

Chance stopped where he was, light-headed. He bent at the waist, hands on his thighs for support. He breathed deeply through his nose, counting to ten, then twenty, reasoning with himself as he did. Maybe it was all a mistake. He could have gotten the room number wrong, or the hotel. Maybe that hadn't even been Claire who'd called.

Not believing his own assurances, Chance headed back down to the lobby, then out to the valet. Sometime between when he had parked and just now, the coroner had arrived. His wagon was parked just up from the valet's station.

“Hey, kid!”

The valet looked his way. Chance held up his claim ticket. The kid jogged over. “Short stay.”

“My friend's already checked out.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Your car's right over there.” He pointed. “I haven't even had time to park it yet.”

“Great.” Chance took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet. He met the kid's eyes. “Who got killed?”

The boy shook his head. “Nobody.”

“The coroner's here. The place is teeming with cops. And I've got twenty dollars for the person who makes my curiosity go away. And somebody
will
make my curiosity go away. It might as well be you.”

The valet glanced behind him, then back at Chance. “You didn't hear it from me.”

“Of course not.”

“I don't know her name, but I heard some of the cops talking. She was some sort of a psychic, here to help the police with a case.”

“A psychic?” he repeated, his words choked. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Dear Jesus, no. A psychic? That couldn't be a coincidence. It had to be Claire.

“The G.M.'s about to shit bricks. We've got a Mary Kay Cosmetics convention checking in tomorrow. You with the press?”

“Yeah, I'm with the press.” Chance handed the kid the twenty, hurting for Claire, hurting for Skye.

Skye would be devastated.

He had to get to her before she heard it on the news, or saw it in the paper.

From the car, he called Monarch's and learned that Skye had left for the day, almost an hour ago. He made his way to Skye's place, his mind whirling. Claire had called. She had left a frantic message, a message in which she had said Skye was in danger and had mentioned Griffen's name. Now Claire was dead.

What was the connection? He didn't know, but he kept picturing the brick wall rushing up to meet him, kept hearing Griffen's high-pitched laugh and his words:
If I can't have her, nobody will.

What lengths would Griffen go to hold on to Skye?

Chance floored the car, going as fast as he could without risking his life, taking every shortcut he could think of. He reached Skye's building and double-parked in front of it. He climbed out and raced up her front steps. He buzzed her and waited. Nothing. He buzzed again.

He went back to the car, got the cell phone and called her apartment. He got the recorder. “Dammit, Skye, if you're there, pick up. It's an emergency. Pick up.”

He hung on a moment, praying she would answer. She didn't. He ended the call and tossed the phone on the front seat. Dammit, where was she?

Swearing again, he went around the side of the building to the courtyard gate. He eyed the top of the wall and its row of jagged glass, then the sheer expanse of gate. Scaling it would be damn near impossible.

What now, McCord?
With a sound of frustration, he tried the gate. It swung open. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he slipped inside and up the steps to Skye's back porch. He peered in her window. Her kitchen was empty, her place looked deserted. He didn't even see Moo.

Something wasn't right. Chance looked around him, fighting a growing panic, a strange sensation crawling up his spine. She was out to an early dinner, he told himself. She had gone to a show, or to a neighbor's.

Then where was Moo?

He knocked, softly at first, expecting Moo to barrel into the kitchen from another part of the house, barking his Kong-dog bark. Nothing. He knocked harder, calling out, the knot of fear in his belly tightening. Still nothing.

Just as he was considering breaking a window, he realized where she must be—walking Moo, of course. His knees went weak with relief. She always walked him right after arriving home.

Chance started down the stairs, prepared to go sit on her stoop to wait, when he thought he heard the faint sound of barking. He heard it again, though it didn't sound as if it was coming from Skye's unit—or any of the others, for that matter.

It sounded as if it was coming from the courtyard.

Chance descended the last steps and, frowning, moved his gaze over the small, immaculate yard. It was empty, yet he was sure he had heard a dog.

The sound came again. Along with another, a snuffling, clawing sound.

“Moo,” Chance called. “Moo, buddy, is that you?”

The sound came again, this time louder, more insistent. Chance followed the sound around the far corner of the building. There, tucked into a corner where nobody could see it was an equipment shed. And the sounds were coming from inside.

Heart pounding, Chance grasped the padlock, looped over the hasp, but not fastened. If it was Moo in there, Chance would know Skye was in trouble. He would know Griffen had her; that he meant her harm.

Chance removed the padlock and lifted the hasp. He swung open the door and a giant ball of black-and-white fur lunged at him, nearly knocking him down in gratitude.

Now Chance knew. Skye was in danger. He had to find her.