It's a Wonderful Wife (12 page)

“What I remember is he died nine years ago. Now come on, let's get you upstairs and cleaned up enough to see if I need to take you to the hospital.”

At the sound of the chair squeaking loudly again, accompanied by more hissing and groaning and heavy cursing, Jesse stepped into the doorway to see Stanley cradling his brother against his side as he slowly started out of the office.

Stanley spotted him and jerked to a halt. “Shit.”

“Which,” Jesse said tightly, “you appear to be standing in clear up to your eyeballs.”

“This isn't any of your business, Sinclair.”

“I made it my business the moment I heard Cadi was involved. Give me her number.”

“Then you heard enough to know that's not going to happen.”

“You're in over your head, Kerr.”

“I wasn't always an architect. I can handle Stapleton.”

“You do that. But while you are, I'll be the one making sure the bastard doesn't get within a hundred miles of Cadi. Think, Stanley,” he said when the man remained silent. “I have the resources to keep her safe, which will free you up to deal with Stapleton.”

“Contrary to popular belief, Cadi is a fully grown, intelligent woman who is right now proving she's capable of keeping herself safe.”

“I have a two-year-old niece who's more world-wise than she is. Just give me Cadi's number and I'll make sure she
stays
safe.”

Sarah stepped into the doorway when Jesse's demand was met with silence. “I'm an EMT, and even though I have no idea what's going on, I'm willing to go upstairs and help with your brother before I
also
disappear.”

Jesse was back to wanting to roar, not caring if Aaron Kerr bled to death. He stifled the urge to physically take Stanley's phone from him, and instead walked over and opened the door to the stairs, then helped him carry his brother upstairs.

Sarah pushed past them the moment they settled Aaron onto a bed in a back room. “I need warm water, a couple of washcloths and towels, and a knife or large shears to cut off his shirt. Preferably,” she said, glaring through her neon red glasses at Stanley when he didn't move, “before the goons who did this decide to bring their boss your
new partner
as a stand-in for Ms. Glace.”

A snort came from the bed. “Stapleton's interested in a lot more than Cadi's little gift for matching the perfect house to people.”

“Will you shut up,” Stanley snapped, stepping toward the bed. “Your big mouth is what dragged her into this mess with us.”

Upon hearing the full extent of the danger Cadi was in, Jesse was about to drag Stanley into his
fist
when the man suddenly strode out of the room. “Let me look after her,” Jesse said over the sound of running water as he followed Stanley into the kitchen, “while you work on cleaning up your brother's mess. If need be, I can fly her out of the country.”

“She doesn't even have a passport,” Stanley said, grabbing a bowl from a cupboard.

“I'll take her to Rosebriar, then. One phone call and I can have it more secure than the Pentagon.”

Stanley set the bowl under the stream of water with a snort. “That's practically in Stapleton's backyard,” he said, opening drawers until he found some shears.

“Then I'll take her out to sea on one of our freighters.”

Stanley grabbed towels from another drawer, shut off the water and picked up the bowl, and headed for the door—having to halt when Jesse didn't move. They eyed each other for several seconds before Stanley suddenly sighed. “All I'm willing to do is give Cadi your cell number when she calls. The choice to contact you has to be hers, not mine,” he said, stepping around him and disappearing into the bedroom.

Jesse stood in the hall trying to decide if he'd built enough of a rapport with Cadi in their short time together for her to trust him with her life.

“Jesus, Sinclair,
go away
,” Stanley said as he came back out of the bedroom. “There's a good chance Stapleton's thugs are still in town, and your face regularly appears in the social and business sections of newspapers up and down the East Coast. The last thing we need is for them to recognize you as being associated with me, especially if Cadi does take you up on your offer.”

“I'll leave just as soon as you explain your brother's remark about her gift of matching houses to people, and why Stapleton won't need you if he has her.” Jesse stiffened when several things suddenly fell into place. “The house on my island model wasn't your design, it was hers,” he said before Stanley could answer. “Cadi told me she sees things three-dimensionally and can actually walk through a structure in her mind as though it already exists. She sits in on your initial meeting with a client, then goes off by herself and builds their house one wall and window at a time, and you work up the plans from her model.”

Stanley eyed him in silence again, then let out another sigh—this one sounding almost relieved. “She got so involved in designing your home she gained ten pounds living on junk food. I had to keep driving out to check that she was even alive, and I'd find her still in her pajamas despite looking like she hadn't slept in days.” He shook his head. “I hired someone to go out and clean and cook her decent meals, but Cadi wouldn't even let the woman through the door.”

“So that's why your brother was sent here looking like a punching bag,” Jesse stated, rather than asked. “He let it slip that Cadi was the creative genius of Glace and Kerr Architecture, and Stapleton suspected she hadn't designed the house you gave him.”

“Cadi decided the man was a jerk not five minutes into our meeting and warned me he'd be a demanding client if I took him on. Not knowing the whole story, she got angry when I told her I was going to anyway, and because she'd heard me tell him I wouldn't have anything to show him until the end of the summer, she went home and buried his sketchbook at the bottom of the pile. But when Stapleton called saying he was flying up to check on my progress, Cadi worked with me on some concept drawings before I sent her away.”

“So if she helped with the design, why didn't Stapleton like it?”

“Because she can only create in three dimensions and often spends weeks on a house.” He snorted. “And I'm fairly certain she has to
like
whoever's going to be living in it.”

Jesse remembered her admitting—right after calling him Pooh Bear—that as a young teen she'd developed the habit of likening her father's clients to fictional characters. He also remembered seeing a drawing of the Mad Hatter choking a bug-eyed rabbit when he'd been thumbing through Cadi's notebook, and he was pretty sure
Stapleton
had been the name at the top of the page. “And the dirt Stapleton is threatening to take to your clients,” Jesse clarified, “is that Cadi is really the one who designs the houses—her father's as well as yours?”

Stanley nodded. “Owen was a hell of an architect in his own right, but his reputation for fitting the perfect home to clients didn't take root until he started letting Cadi sit in on his initial meetings. He told me he'd taught her to fabricate his rough study models when she was only twelve, but that she kept rearranging the rooms and adding her own embellishments, insisting the flow wasn't right or that he needed to add a bathroom or move a door. Owen said by the time she was fifteen, he simply gave up and let Cadi build the models
before
he drew up the plans.”

“And when you came on board, she did the same for you?”

Stanley winced and seemed to slightly relax. “She made the rough model of my very first project exactly to my plan specifications, and then she apparently built a second one to
hers
. That night Owen invited me over for a campfire, and when I got there I found two models and a bottle of brandy sitting on the picnic table. After he told me Cadi was visiting friends, we spent the evening discussing architecture in general and homes in particular, until he suddenly asked me which model I thought we should show my clients and which one we should throw on the fire. Seeing them side-by-side, all I could do was stare in awe at the one Cadi had designed. So as we sat back and watched my house go up in flames, Owen tried to explain his daughter's gift even though he admitted he didn't understand it himself. And then he asked if I wanted to languish in mediocrity or join them in what he called his and Cadi's ‘little secret.'”

“So my house—the steel trusses, all that concrete, the curving wall of glass, and cresting roofline—was entirely Cadi's vision? Was it also her idea to set it against the lower bluff?”

“Despite being absolutely certain the material and design fit you perfectly, she nearly made herself sick worrying you wouldn't like it,” Stanley said with a curt nod. “And even though I argued it should go on top of the high ridge, she insisted it had to be
part
of the island rather than sitting up there dominating it.”

Jesse took a deep breath, equally baffled as to how she . . . knew.

“If any of Owen's clients ever found out,” Stanley continued softly, “that the houses they paid him well over six figures for were designed by . . .” He shook his head. “From the time she let her father talk her into ‘their little secret,' Cadi's lived in fear not only of seeing his reputation shredded, but of his being wiped out financially if any of his clients decided to sue for damages.”

“What damages, if they got the houses they wanted?”

Stanley glanced toward the bedroom when they heard a hissed curse quickly followed by an apology, then canted his head. “So you don't mind that the architect you've given nearly ninety thousand dollars to at this point, or worse, that you may have already bragged about to friends, is nothing but a glorified draftsman who probably couldn't design an award-winning doghouse?”

“What I mind,” Jesse said quietly, “is that the house I'm paying for—the one I
want
—is still locked in the mind of a woman who's sleeping in a tent with her cat somewhere in New England, trying to stay one step ahead of a loan shark with the goddamned hots for her. So give me her cell phone number or I
will
sue you for misrepresentation.”

“Right now being sued is the least of my worries,” Stanley countered as he headed toward the bedroom. “And
Cadi
will be the one to decide if she wants your help.”

Jesse balled his hands into fists to keep from going after the bastard and silently turned and walked down the stairs. He continued through the lobby and stepped outside, then simply stood on the sidewalk in the obscenely refreshing sunshine and weighed his options.

Cadi was safe—relatively and for the moment—and there was no question she was intelligent enough to be making her own decisions, but that didn't mean he had to stand around with his hands in his pockets waiting for her to call.

It would help if he knew her better—such as where she'd gone to college before her mother had died, what trips she may have taken as a kid, and whether she felt more comfortable in touristy beach towns or the less crowded mountain and lake regions. Hell, considering the age of her parents, she'd probably never even slept in a tent before.

Was she scared? Disillusioned? Angry?

She'd been gone two weeks with only a cat for company; was she lonely?

But more importantly, would she call a man she'd spent three months getting to know intimately by simply creating his home? She hadn't hesitated to take refuge in his camper, but would she trust him when more was at stake than just embarrassment?

Dammit, he needed to talk to someone who knew her—besides her ex-fake-fiancé.

Jesse looked toward the hardware/feed store. Beatrice must be a close friend, seeing how she was the one Cadi had texted the night of Stanley's party. He crossed the road, the freighter sitting on his chest shifting at least enough for him to breathe now that he might have what should be a more cooperative source of information. He stepped out of the way to let an elderly couple exit the store, then walked inside just as Beatrice turned from the counter.

The woman's smile froze half-formed when she saw him. “Mr. Sinclair,” she said flatly. “What brings you back to Whistler's Landing? Because if you're here expecting to whisk Cadi away on your fancy corporate jet, I'm afraid your over-the-top bouquet of flowers didn't do the trick.” Her half-smile thawed to smugness. “Apparently Cadi wasn't all that impressed by your fast plane and fancy house, seeing how she's off shopping for a motorhome by herself.”

Jesse stifled a sigh for apparently not leaving much of an impression on Cadi's
friend
, either. “Actually, since I was here checking on how my house plans are coming along,” he said, making sure his smile at least appeared sincere, “I thought I'd see how Miss Glace has been faring. She was still quite upset the night I found her hiding in my camper when I reached Castle Cove, and I've often caught myself wondering about her these last three weeks. In fact, that's why I sent the flowers the next day; I thought that if a man she barely knew gave her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, she might not feel so . . . rejected.”

“What do you mean you found her in your camper?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Cadi told me you came upon her walking down the road and offered her a ride.”

Damn. How was he supposed to know what story Cadi had concocted? He stifled a snort—pretty sure she hadn't mentioned
spending the night
in his camper. “Considering all that had transpired,” he offered, deciding to stay vague, “I can only assume Miss Glace didn't want to add to her embarrassment by admitting she'd hidden in a closet like a child.”

The store owner appeared momentarily startled, then made a
tsk
ing sound and shook her head. “Oh, that silly girl; she put on such a brave front the next morning, telling me she and Stanley had both agreed they loved each other, but like siblings. She even asked me to drive her to the car dealership, and then spent the whole day assuring me she wasn't devastated.”