Once Upon a Marriage (2 page)

“It's only a little past midnight. You don't necessarily have to be down for the night.” She was being petty. She knew it. Hated it. And took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. And sorry for calling so late.”

“Don't you ever apologize for calling me, baby. You know I'm here for you anytime you need me. Anytime.”

Hard part of it was that she did know that. Her father was a great dad. Had always been a great dad. Even when he'd been sleeping with his assistant while Marie and her mother thought him hard at work on whatever architectural plans his firm had been implementing. Or getting a little afternoon delight from a less reputable source before arriving right on time to coach Marie's softball team to victory.

“I need to understand, Daddy. I need to know why. And how.”

“Sure. Of course. What are we talking about?”

“The women. All the women.”

Silence fell on the line. In all the years since her parents' divorce, she'd never asked that particular question.

Because she'd been too afraid of the answer? Because she didn't want to see her mother in a new and less favorable light?

“I don't know that I can answer that.”

“Can't or won't?” Now that she'd asked, she couldn't let it go. “It's making me crazy, Daddy. I... Did you love her?”

“No!”

Okay, then. Though she was actually shocked by his vehemence. Frowning, she slid down to a seat in a shadowed corner of the deserted shop. The one thing she'd thought a given through her rocky years growing up had been her father's love for her and her mother. Both of them.

She'd bet her life that her mother believed he'd loved her. Still did. Though he knew better than to ask for a third chance. For Barbara's sake.

“Does Mom know that now? Maybe if she knew you've never really loved her you'd set her free.”

Because one thing was for sure. Barbara Bustamante was still helplessly in love with her cheating ex-husband.

“Wait. What? You were asking if I love your mom?” It sounded as though there was a bit of her shock running over into his voice.

“Yes. Of course.” If she'd been referring to anyone else, she'd have had to use the plural. And then some.

“Then, yes! Unequivocally. I thought you knew that. All my life I have only ever loved one woman. Your mother.”

Her heart sank. Liam loved Gabrielle that way, too.

“So why?”

Gabi said Liam and his editor had just had dinner once, to go over strategy for the series of articles he was writing on his father's life and the ongoing investigation. They'd needed to speak out of the office, and Liam was careful not to bring any aspect of his father's life to the historic Arapahoe—their apartment building—not only for Marie's shop and their home, but also to preserve the homes of the elderly residents who'd been there most of their lives and who had been soon to be put out on the street.

But Marie's father's first affair had started out with just one working dinner with his assistant. And then another had been necessary. After which he'd taken her home because her car was in the shop.

Or at least that was the story she'd been told.

“Why, Daddy? If you loved Mom, why were you unfaithful to her?”

“I wish I could tell you that.”

She could feel her father's sigh all the way from Arizona.

“I wish I had the answer for myself.”

“Try. This is important.”

“You in love, baby?” Was that a note of hope in his voice.

“No, Daddy, absolutely not. I'm just...” She was not going to tell her father about her fears where Gabi was concerned. Still couldn't believe she'd actually told Elliott.

She knew they were unfounded. Knew that she had severe trust issues. Unfortunately that knowledge didn't erase a lifetime of example. Or the worry that stemmed from having been hurt by that example.

And not just from her father.

He was just the only unfaithful male she had access to at the moment.

The thought did occur to her that she was obsessing over Liam's ability to be faithful as way of avoiding an even harder truth.

Gabrielle was married, and Marie was alone. All alone. And didn't see any hope for a remedy to the situation.

She was going to end up like Grace—able to change the insides of a toilet when she was eighty because she'd been alone for so long.

Worse than Grace. At least the older woman had known true love. He'd just died too young.

“Hurting your mother was the last thing I ever wanted to do...” Her father sounded old. Tired. And sadder than she was.

“Then why did you?” She'd been there. Still felt the pain. She knew who'd wronged them.

“I...guess I thought I could get away with it. I never thought she'd find out.”

The answer made her angry. And frightened her at the same time.

“What were you thinking when you were with them, Daddy? Did you ever even think about Mom and me waiting for you at home?”

“What I thought was that I was desperate to save my marriage.”

She scoffed. And then choked. Such a ludicrous remark didn't deserve comment.

“Your mom and I had reached a state of comfortable, secure, forever love. I wanted that kind of love. Had always wanted it. But something inside me was missing. I was getting irritable with you. With your mom. Starting to feel trapped. While at the same time craving every minute I spent with you both and missing you every minute I was away.”

She listened. Needing something from him. Just not sure what he could give her that could help.

“I guess I thought that I could fill the hole inside with the excitement of meaningless afternoon liaisons, and then come home to the perfect life.”

“How'd that work out for you?”

“You want the truth?”

“Yes.” She'd asked. And she braced herself.

“For the first several years, it worked out just fine. Better than I'd imagined.”

She'd asked. Struggled to breathe. “Y... Y...” Her throat was dry. “Years?” Marie glanced at her newly cleaned pots, wishing for a sip of water. Standing, she steadied herself with a hand on the small brown wood pedestal table and then pushed off toward the counter.

“You asked.”

All those years, when he was swearing his fidelity, begging to be let back into the family, he'd been...

“What made it not work anymore?” She was an observer of a tragic accident now. Watching with horror, but needing to see.

“I got caught.”

Thank goodness she was close enough to the counter. It caught her as she swayed backward. She leaned there. Letting it take her weight. “You mean you were unfaithful for years
before
Mom knew?”

“From before you were born.”

She wanted to die. To cry. To pull the covers over her head and stay unaware forever.

But she couldn't.

If Liam Connelly turned out to be anything like what she feared he was... He'd once told her and Gabi that he'd never been in a relationship for more than a few months before he started to feel attraction to other women...

Other women like his editor? Was it too late already? Her parents had only been married a year before she came along.

But Liam adored Gabi. And...

Some men were just seemingly born to cheat.

Or her perceptions were too skewed to see reality.

Whatever. One thing was for sure. She was going to stand up. Be strong.

She was going to be ready if Gabi needed her.

 

CHAPTER TWO

A
T
1:22 
A
.
M
.,
Miss Sailor Harcourt, twenty-five-year-old heiress to a $2.3 billion fortune, texted him.

Sorry I'm keeping you so late.

His job didn't entail a response to Sailor's comment. He was being paid to keep her safe. Not happy.

When he heard his phone buzz again, every nerve in his body went on alert.

Something was going on. Sailor, who obviously found him a nuisance, usually ignored him.

The man I'm with doesn't know I have a bodyguard. He doesn't know I'm related to Rod Harcourt or that I'm rich enough to need protection.

He didn't need a blow-by-blow of her evening. He'd prefer if she'd get her butt outside, into his car and let him take her home. He had to be back to get her in a matter of hours to take her to the airport.

He's asked me out to breakfast. I've agreed to go.

The third text had him out of his car, gaze glued to the door of the club. And then, ready to move, he texted her back.

You ride with me.

No.

This isn't my deal. You made the deal with your father. You go out only if I drive you. I'm just doing my job.

His fingers might be overly large, but they could text as fast as any kid's. Came from a lot of hours on surveillance, sitting in his car with only his phone for company.

His phone buzzed again.

I know. I'm an adult. My father can't make me get in a car with anyone. Or prevent me from doing so, either.

He can take away your allowance.

This wasn't Elliott's first time chaperoning the spoiled heiress.

I'm twenty-five. I have access to my trust. And I'm a working girl now.

Daddy had hired her to manage the production of a fashion magazine he'd inherited in a buyout the previous fall. According to him she'd found her niche, but Elliott figured there were probably highly experienced professionals doing a lot of the work.

How many drinks have you had?

He didn't expect an accurate account. But he needed to know how bad the situation was going to be.

None.

It was going to be bad.

I'm a working stiff who needs to get paid for this job. Please come out and get in the car.

Even drunk she'd know he meant business.

He felt for the revolver he was wearing under his black sweater. And another text came through.

I understand what you think you're dealing with here. I admit on other occasions I've given you reason to treat me like a recalcitrant child. But I'm different now, Elliott. I've found my own purpose in life, separate and apart from my father. I've also, just tonight, met a man who has somehow enticed me to spend the entire night sitting in a corner talking. We didn't drink. Didn't dance. Just talked. And now he's invited me out for breakfast. I intend to go with him.

Even someone who texted as a primary means of communication shouldn't be able to string that many letters together, that quickly, on a QWERTY keyboard, without a single mistake. Most particularly if they'd been drinking.

Could she be telling the truth? She'd met someone without trying to impress him with Daddy's money? And hadn't had a thing to drink?

Before he formulated a response, she'd sent him another text.

You can follow if you'd like. I'm an adult. Legally, you can't force me into that car with you.

She was right. He had several certifications and licenses, but not one of them allowed him to get away with kidnapping.

So he'd follow. Glue himself to them. And make certain that he didn't let the two of them get out of his sight.

But first...

I'll make a deal with you.
He typed fast. Not wanting her to think he'd given in.
You sit tight long enough for me to check his credentials and then I'll concede to following you on your breakfast date.

He expected argument. Was prepared to enter the club, show his identification and get his charge out of there.

Deal. His name is Terrence Metcalf. He says he's a yacht designer, 
Sailor replied.

And Elliott didn't like it one bit.

* * *

F
IVE
 
MINUTES
 
LATER
, after Elliott had sent the okay, Ms. Sailor Harcourt burst out the front door of the well-known, upscale club she'd been in since 10:00 p.m., her bare arm entwined with the suited arm of a man Elliott had never heard of before that night. Not in the dossier he'd been handed by the woman's wealthy father—a respected client who'd been on Elliott's roster for four years—nor in any research he'd done on his own in preparation for Miss Harcourt's impending visit to Denver.

But he'd run the man on his member-only people-finder database. And had seen plenty. From charity contributor, to the Better Business Bureau. The man was clean. And who he said he was.

His vehicle was running and he was standing outside it, just in case Ms. Harcourt sent him any kind of signal that she'd changed her mind. His eye was on the man still attached to Sailor's arm. He was of average height. Slender. Clean-cut. The spitting image of the man Elliott had just pulled up on his tablet. Elliott could take him with two fingers. Not that he wanted to hurt anyone. Ever.

When Ms. Harcourt didn't even so much as glance his way, Elliott slid quietly behind the wheel of his car. His clothes were dark. His hair was dark. As long as he stayed behind the wheel, he'd blend in. Remain anonymous. And see Ms. Harcourt safely to her plane a few hours hence.

But he wouldn't hesitate to put someone's lights out if he had to do so to keep his charge safe.

* * *

M
ARIE
 
WATCHED
 
FOR
 
Elliott all day Sunday. Though things had calmed down a lot since George Costas, Liam's father's attorney, had been formally indicted for fraud, Liam was still paying Elliott to keep an eye on things around the apartment building. He'd also permanently hired the security team Elliott had brought in to man the private residence entrance in the back of the building.

“You can leave that. I'll get it,” she said to Sam, a twenty-four-year-old single father who was in his third year of a business degree program and also one of her full-time employees. He worked weekends to make up for the two days of classes he took during the week, and did the rest of his studies online or in the evening, while his mother watched his two-year-old son. “You said your mom had to leave for the funeral at three.”

“I'm off at two,” he said, continuing to restock under the cupboard supplies from the back room. A chore he did every afternoon that he worked. “I'll make it in time.”

Sam lived with his mother in an apartment a few streets over. “Go now,” she said, motioning him toward the door. “I've got this.”

They'd had their Sunday morning rush. It was past noon and the only people in the shop—three tables' worth—were sitting with computers. She'd finished the weekly orders. Grace had handled the baking. The walk-in was filled with the veggies she'd need to make sandwiches in the morning.

“If you're sure,” Sam said, untying his Arapahoe apron with a frown. “I just don't want to leave you in the lurch.”

Sam was a nice guy. The woman who'd left him and their newborn to go to New York to be a dancer was a fool. Smiling, she shooed him out.

She wanted him gone in case Elliott came in. She had to set the bodyguard straight. To apologize for unloading on him the day before. What had she been hoping? That he'd betray his client and give her a rundown on everything he knew about Liam? Like she didn't already know far more than Elliott would ever know about the man who'd been one of her two best friends for more than a decade—since she and Gabi had lived next door to him their freshman year in college.

Liam wouldn't purposely or knowingly hurt Gabi. Or her, either.

The door rattled and she looked up to see...not Elliott. A young woman, dressed in leggings and a spandex top with expensive-looking running shoes, wanted a cappuccino with peppermint spice. Drink made and money collected, Marie watched the woman out the door and couldn't help glancing up and down the sidewalk. No Elliott.

She didn't see him every day. Or ever know what time he'd show up if he did. He had other clients and was a private investigator as well as a bodyguard—a private security expert, he'd once told her. And it wasn't as if he was working for her. Liam was the one getting threats.

Liam's dad, Walter Connelly, had had a bodyguard on staff for years. When you worked in high finance, you made a few enemies.

And when your company stole millions of dollars from investors, even if you didn't know it was happening, people still blamed you. Still, there hadn't really been much danger around the Arapahoe. Early on, Liam's car had been vandalized—but not when he was home. He and Gabi had been in-line skating late one night and Liam's car had been the only one left in the park's lot.

After that they'd received a total of three anonymous notes: one left at the coffee shop shortly after the car incident and two others slid under the door since the first of March—when Liam's first installment of a series he was writing about his father's life was published. Both of those notes had arrived during the night when the shop was closed, proclaiming that Liam would get what was coming to him. All three notes had been addressed to Liam. Not Gabi or Marie.

When Liam's car had been painted with graffiti just after news of the Ponzi scheme at Connelly had hit, Elliott came to them as a recommendation from Walter's bodyguard. Elliott had been to school for both guarding bodies and investigating. Was certified and licensed in both fields.

From the beginning Marie had felt safe with him.

A mild feat considering her ready propensity for mistrusting the male species.

But she didn't really know that much about him. He couldn't talk about his work—clients' business was private, and there was a code of ethics he was sworn to follow or risk losing not only his good reputation but his license to practice. He had an aunt and cousin in California somewhere. His parents had been killed in a small plane crash when he was a toddler.

She knew nothing more.

Except that she'd told him about her paranoia, how fearful she was that Liam was ready to cheat on Gabi.

Made herself sound like a crazy woman. When, in fact, she knew her fears were completely groundless. She was just obsessing because she had too much time to think. Too much time alone. But she'd adjust.

She'd known she and Gabi weren't going to live together forever. She'd just never seen herself living alone. But it wasn't as if she didn't have enough to do. Or enough friends.

And she still saw Gabi and Liam all the time. Pretty much every day...

Another customer came in. And then two more. A group of law students were studying in the corner, making use of the free Wi-Fi Liam had just had installed for the entire building. Elliott was nowhere to be seen.

At three, Eva, her new evening part-timer came in, and the two of them spent the next two hours serving a steady flow of sandwich eaters and coffee drinkers. Elliott Tanner wasn't among them.

At six the back door of the shop opened—someone coming in from upstairs. Expecting to see Liam or Gabi—or both, as was the case more often than not these days—she was surprised when Dale Gruber, an eighty-two-year-old retired railroad worker, came toward her with a worried look on his face.

“What's wrong, Dale?” she asked, moving from behind the counter down the hall before Dale made it halfway into the shop. “Is it Susan?” she asked after the man's wife of more than sixty years.

“Yep,” Dale said, heading into the shop, still frowning. The man didn't move as quickly as he once did, but he kept a pretty good clip. “It's Susan, all right,” he said, standing in front of the nearly empty bakery case.

“Did she fall? Did you call 911?” Marie wasn't sure the man, who was normally sharp as could be, was all there—perhaps demented with panic? She grabbed her cell phone out of her apron pocket. “Can she talk?”

“What's that? Call who?” Dale's false teeth, a little too big for his mouth, hissed a bit as he talked. But she had his full attention.

“Is Susan hurt?”

“What? No! But you can bet your dinner that I'm going to be if I don't find something pretty quick that can pass as a cake and a present and not look like I just come down here and got it last minute,” he said, staring at the case again. “I darn forgot her birthday,” he said, looking perplexed as he glanced at Marie again. “Sixty years of knowing when my wife was born, and I forgot today was the day. Eighty-one she is today. And a fine-looking woman still.”

With a little adrenaline remaining, Marie went into high gear. She pulled a chocolate cake out of the walk-in, making a mental note to replace it before morning so Grace wouldn't have to, sent Eva down the block to the drugstore for candles and one of the puzzle books that Susan and Dale liked to work on together and then, with a brain flash, hurried back to her office, opened the safe and pulled out the two theater tickets for next month's Broadway performance. Grabbing an envelope and a piece of paper, she hurried back in to Dale, who was pulling money out of his pocket so it was ready to give to Eva when she returned.

“Here,” she said, pulling a chair out from one of the small round tables toward the back as she set down paper, pen, envelope and tickets. “Write something. And wrap the tickets in this,” she said. Dropping the envelope beside the pile.

“Tickets?” His teeth clacked as he spoke.

“To the theater. Susan would love to go to the theater, wouldn't she?”