Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (8 page)

Five minutes later, he sat back with the taste of defeat bitter in his mouth. There was no letter. It didn’t make sense. Why would Guy have gone to so much trouble to teach him everything, then leave without providing the proxies? As Alex had said, Guy was too smart not to have thought of it. If he intended to stay in charge himself, why
had he bothered to give Gray such intense instruction? Maybe he had intended to turn over the reins to Gray, then changed his mind. That was the only other explanation there could be. In that case, they would be hearing from him again, within a few days at the most, because his financial dealings were too complicated to leave for longer than that.

But, as he’d told Alex, he couldn’t afford to assume things would be taken care of. He couldn’t imagine Guy
not
taking care of business, but until this morning he hadn’t been able to imagine Guy leaving them for Renee Devlin, either. The impossible had happened, so how could he blindly trust in anything else he had always assumed to be true of his father? Responsibility for his mother and sister weighed heavily on his shoulders. He couldn’t risk their welfare.

He reached for the telephone, but it wasn’t there. Dimly he remembered throwing it earlier, and glanced at the window that was now boarded over, awaiting new panes. He got up and walked out into the hallway, to the phone on the table at the foot of the stairs. Monica trailed after him, still silent but plainly resenting the restriction.

He called Alex first. Alex answered the phone on the first ring. “No letter,” Gray said briefly. “See what you can do about getting power of attorney for me, or anything else that will shore up my position.” Power of attorney was a long shot, but maybe a few strings could be pulled.

“I’ve already started,” Alex said quietly.

Next Gray called his broker. His instructions were brief, and explicit. If worst came to worst, he would need every bit of ready cash he could scrape together.

Now for the hardest part. Monica was staring at him, her big, dark eyes filled with alarm. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she asked.

He mentally braced himself, then took Monica’s hand in his. “Let’s go talk to Mother,” he said.

She started to ask something else, but he shook his head. “I can only say it once,” he said, his voice rough.

Noelle was enjoying her last cup of tea as she read the society section of the New Orleans newspaper. Prescott had its own small weekly paper, in which she was regularly mentioned, but being in the New Orleans paper was what
really counted. Her name was listed there often enough to make her the envy of the rest of the parish society. She was dressed in her favorite white, with her sleek dark hair pulled back into a French twist. Her makeup was minimal but perfect, her jewelry expensive but understated. There was nothing gaudy or frivolous about Noelle, not one bow or ruffle or jarring bit of color, just clean, classic lines. Even her nails never wore anything but clear polish.

She looked up as Gray and Monica entered the breakfast parlor, and her gaze flicked briefly to their clasped hands. She didn’t comment on it, though, for that would express personal interest, and perhaps invite the same. “Good morning, Gray,” she greeted him, her voice perfectly composed as always. Noelle could violently hate someone, but the person would never be able to tell by her voice; it never revealed warmth, affection, anger, or any other emotion. Such a display would be common, and Noelle allowed nothing about herself to sink to that low standard. “Shall I call for another pot of tea?”

“No, thank you, Mother. I need to talk to you and Monica; something serious has happened.” He felt Monica’s hand tremble in his, and squeezed it reassuringly.

Noelle put aside the newspaper. “Should we be more private?” she asked, concerned that one of the servants would overhear them discussing a personal matter.

“There’s no need.” Gray pulled out a chair for Monica, then stood behind her with one hand on her shoulder. Noelle would be upset because of the social nuances, the embarrassment of it, but Monica’s pain would be worse. “I don’t know of any way to make this easier. He didn’t leave a note or anything like that, but Dad seems to have left town with Renee Devlin. They’re both gone.”

Noelle’s slender hand fluttered toward her throat. Monica was motionless, not even breathing.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t take a woman like that on a business trip,” Noelle said with calm certainty. “Think how it would look.”

“Mother—” Gray cut himself off, stifling his impatience. “He isn’t on a business trip. Dad and Renee Devlin have run away together. He won’t be coming back.”

Monica gave a thin cry, and pressed both hands to her mouth to cut off the sound. Noelle’s face lost its color, but her movements were precise as she placed her teacup in the center of the saucer. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, dear. Your father wouldn’t risk his social position for—”

“For God’s sake, Mother!” Gray snapped, his tenuous control on his patience snapping like a thread. “Dad doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his social position. You’re the one it’s important to, not him!”

“Grayson, it isn’t necessary to be vulgar.”

He ground his teeth together. It was typical of her to ignore something she found unpleasant and focus on the trivial. “Dad’s gone,” he said, deliberately emphasizing the words. “He’s left you for Renee. They’ve run away together, and he won’t be coming back. No one else knows it yet, but it’ll probably be all over the parish by tomorrow morning.”

Her eyes widened at that last sentence, and horror filled them as she realized the humiliation of her position. “No,” she whispered. “He couldn’t do that to me.”

“He did. It’s done.”

Blindly she got to her feet, shaking her head. “He—he’s really gone?” she asked in a faint murmur. “He left
me
for that . . . that—” Unable to finish, she walked quickly from the room, almost as if she were fleeing.

As soon as Noelle was gone, as soon as she was no longer there to frown at unseemly displays, Monica wilted onto the table, falling forward to bury her face against her arm. Harsh sobs tore up from her throat and shook her slim body. Almost as angry at Noelle as he was at Guy, Gray knelt beside his sister and put his arms around her.

“It’s going to be tough,” he said, “but we’ll get through this. I’m going to be really busy the next few days, getting our finances under control, but I’ll be here if you need me.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that financial disaster was looming. “I know it hurts now, but we’ll make it all right.”

“I hate him,” Monica sobbed, her voice muffled. “He left us for that . . . that
whore!
I hope he doesn’t come back. I
hate
him, I never want to see him again!” Abruptly she tore away from him, overturning her chair as she shoved it back
from the table. She was still sobbing as she ran from the parlor, and he heard the harsh, gulping sounds continue all the way up the stairs. A moment later the slam of her bedroom door echoed through the house.

Gray wanted to bury his own face in his hands. He wanted to punch something, preferably his father’s nose. He wanted to roar his rage to the heavens. The situation was bad enough as it was; why did Noelle have to make it worse by being concerned only with what her friends would say? For once, why couldn’t she give some support to her daughter? Couldn’t she see how much Monica needed her now? But she had never been there for them, so why should that change now? Unlike Guy, Noelle was at least constant.

He needed a drink, a stiff one. He left the breakfast parlor and went back to the study, to the bottle of Scotch that Guy always kept in the liquor cabinet behind his desk. Oriane, their longtime housekeeper, was going up the stairs with an armload of towels, and she gave him a curious look. Not being deaf, of course, she had heard some of the uproar. The speculation between Oriane, her husband, Garron, who took care of the grounds, and Delfina, the cook, would be rampant. They would have to be told, of course, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it right then. Maybe after he had that drink of Scotch.

He opened the cabinet and took out the bottle, and splashed a couple of inches of the amber liquid into a glass. The smoky, biting flavor was sharp on his tongue as he took the first sip, then threw the rest of it back with a neat, stiff motion of his wrist. He needed the sedative effect, not the taste. He had just poured himself a second drink when a shrill scream from upstairs pierced the air, followed by Oriane shrieking his name, over and over.

Monica.
As soon as he heard Oriane scream, Gray knew. Dread congealed in his chest as he bolted from the study and took the stairs three at a time, his long, powerful legs propelling him upward. Oriane rushed down the hall toward him, her eyes wide with panic. “She’s cut herself, bad! Ohmigod, ohmigod, there’s blood all over the place—”

Gray pushed past her and ran into Monica’s bedroom. She wasn’t there, but the door to her bathroom was open,
and he threw himself toward it, only to stop, frozen, in the doorway.

Monica had decorated her bedroom and bath herself, in delicate pinks and pearly whites that looked absurdly little-girlish. Normally Gray was reminded of cotton candy, but now the pink ceramic tile on the bathroom floor was covered with dark red splotches. Monica sat calmly on the fuzzy pink toilet lid, her big, dark eyes empty as she stared out the window. Her hands were neatly folded on her lap. Blood pulsed from the deep gashes she had made in both wrists, soaking her lap, running down her legs to pool on the floor.

“I’m sorry for the commotion,” she said in an eerily remote little voice. “I didn’t expect Oriane to bring up clean towels.”

“Jesus,” he groaned, and snatched up the towels Oriane had dropped. He went down on one knee beside Monica and grabbed her left wrist. “Damn it, Monica, I ought to tan your ass!” He wrapped one towel around her wrist, then tied another one around it as tightly as he could.

“Just leave me alone,” she whispered, trying to tug her arm away from him, but she was already frighteningly weak.

“Shut up!” he barked, taking her right wrist and repeating the procedure. “Goddamn it, how could you do something this stupid?” This, on top of everything else he had gone through that day, was almost more than he could bear. Fear and rage mingled in his chest and swelled until he thought he would choke. “Did you stop to think about anyone but yourself? Did you think that maybe I could use your help, that this is as hard on everyone else as it is on you?” He ground the words out between clenched teeth as he snatched her up against his chest and ran, past Noelle, who was simply standing in the hallway with a dazed expression on her bloodless face, down the stairs, and past Oriane and Delfina clutching each other in the foyer.

“Call the clinic and let Dr. Bogarde know we’re on the way,” he ordered as he carried Monica out the front door and down the steps, to the Corvette parked there.

“I’ll get blood in your car,” Monica protested feebly.

“I told you to shut up,” he snapped. “Don’t talk unless
you have something sensible to say.” Probably he was supposed to be more sensitive with someone who had just attempted suicide, but this was his sister, and he was damned if he would let her take her own life. He was in a towering rage, the fury just barely controlled. It seemed as if his life had gone to hell in just the past few hours, and he was fed up with the people he loved doing stupid things.

He didn’t bother opening the door of the Corvette, but simply leaned over and deposited her in the seat, then vaulted over her into the driver’s seat. He started the engine, let out the clutch, and left rubber on the driveway as he pushed the powerful motor to the limit. Monica slumped weakly against the passenger door, her eyes closed. He shot her a panicked glance, but didn’t risk taking the time to stop. She was deathly white, and there was a faint bluish tinge forming around her mouth. Blood was already seeping through the towels, the bright red garish against the white fabric. He had seen the cuts; they hadn’t been shallow slices, gestures made more to frighten and gain attention than seriously threaten a life. No, Monica had been very serious about the attempt. His sister might die because his father couldn’t resist chasing after that redheaded Devlin whore.

He made the fifteen-mile trip to the clinic in just under ten minutes. The parking lot was full, but he pulled around to the back door of the one-story brick building and blew the horn, then leaped out to lift Monica into his arms again. She was totally limp, her head lolling against his shoulder, and hot tears seared his eyelids.

The back door opened and Dr. Bogarde rushed out, followed by both his nurses. “Put her in the first room on the right,” he said, and Gray turned sideways to get her through the doorway. Sadie Lee Fanchier, the senior nurse, held the door to the examining room open and he carried Monica inside, then gently deposited her on the narrow table, the sheet-covered vinyl creaking as it took her weight.

Sadie Lee was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Monica’s arm even as Dr. Bogarde was untying Gray’s first-aid efforts. Quickly she pumped it up, then listened through the stethoscope pressed to the inside of Monica’s elbow. “Seventy-five over forty.”

“Start an IV,” Dr. Bogarde ordered. “Glucose.” The other nurse, Kitty, moved to follow his instructions.

Dr. Bogarde kept his eyes on Monica’s wrists as he worked. “She needs blood,” he said. “Fast. We have to get her to the hospital in Baton Rouge, because I can’t do it here. She’ll need a vascular specialist to repair her veins, too. I can stabilize her, Gray, but I can’t do any more than that.”

Kitty hung the clear bag of glucose on the metal rack and deftly inserted the IV needle in Monica’s arm. “We don’t have time to get an ambulance here,” the doctor continued. “We’ll take her ourselves, in my car. You okay to drive?” he asked Gray, shooting him a sharp glance.

“Yes.” The answer was flat, unequivocal.

Dr. Bogarde tightly taped Monica’s wrists. “Okay, that’s got the bleeding stopped. Kitty, I need a couple of blankets. Put one over the backseat of my car, and tuck the other one over Monica. Gray, pick her up again, and be careful of that IV line. Sadie Lee, call the hospital and let ’em know we’re on the way, and then give a call to the sheriff’s department so they can clear the roads a mite.”