“You’re beautiful, Delaney.” That had been Stanford’s reply to everything, and he’d considered the answer sufficient. “You make me feel young. That’s plenty. How could I want more? You’ve already given me more than I’d ever dreamed.”
She took a brush from the edge of the sink to scrub the baking tin she’d used for the muffins, and her gaze strayed to the gloves that protected her hands. They were yellow and clumsily ugly, but they were necessary. The current round of skin grafts was healing well. The doctors had assured her the lines would be practically invisible when they were done, and the Frankenstein patchiness over her knuckles would fade with time, but that didn’t concern her. All she’d cared about was regaining the full use of her fingers. The burns to her body had been superficial compared to the damage done to her hands.
There was no way Stanford would have found her beautiful now. No one would. How could she ever have resented the way he’d admired her appearance?
Her stomach tightened at the thought, so she automatically pushed it away. Stanford had been a good man. He’d loved her, and he’d been kind to her. And it could very well be her fault that he was dead.
The dining room door squeaked open.
Delaney bent over to fit the muffin tin into the dishwasher. “I’m almost done here, Grandma. Do you want some help making up the rooms?”
Someone cleared their throat. The sound was distinctly male.
Delaney closed the dishwasher door and straightened.
A short, middle-aged man stood in the doorway. He had a symmetrical, unremarkable face that would be difficult to describe and would fade into a crowd. His round-shouldered posture and toed-in feet seemed to reinforce his apology. He kept his attention on the brochure he was holding. Helen displayed an assortment of them on the table by the front entrance. Some advertised local businesses and tourist attractions. This was one she’d had printed to promote her business.
“May I help you?” Delaney asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry, miss. I’m looking for Mrs. Wainright.”
“I believe Mrs. Wainright is busy upstairs. Were you interested in booking a room?”
He nodded and stepped forward hesitantly. “Yes, I was driving by and saw the sign for the Wainright House on the gatepost. This is lovely. When was it built?”
Odd that she hadn’t heard the front doorbell. Perhaps she’d been running the water. “Sometime in the early nineteenth century. The history is in the brochure you’re holding, if you’d like more details.”
“Of course, of course.” He fumbled to open it. “Yes, I see. And it was built by a Wainright. How fascinating. Then Mrs. Wainright must have been married to a descendant of the builder. Mother would be thrilled to meet her. She’s a history buff, but she gets out so seldom. Arthritis, you know.”
Delaney pulled off her gloves and set them on the counter. “If you’d like to wait in the dining room, my grandmother should be down directly.”
“Your grandmother? Oh, this is fabulous. Then you’re a Wainright, too. Another generation still living in the same house. It says here this was triple brick construction. They built them to last back then, didn’t they?”
“Please, help yourself to some coffee while you’re waiting. We keep a fresh pot on the sideboard in the dining room. It’s through that door behind you.”
Instead of taking the hint, the man clutched his brochure and moved farther into the kitchen. “Will you look at these ceilings. They must be fourteen-footers. Or is it fifteen?”
“Fifteen, I believe.”
“Marvelous.” Tipping back his head, he turned in a circle to admire the ceiling. When he stopped, he was only a few steps away and was looking directly at her. “Oh, I know who you must be. You’re Delaney Wainright Graye, aren’t you?”
She was too surprised to deny it. “Yes. How would you . . .”
“Here,” he said, placing the brochure in her hand. “This is for you.”
“Excuse me?”
He smiled and continued across the kitchen to the back door, his gait no longer hesitant or apologetic in the least. “You’ve been served, Mrs. Graye.” He gave her a jaunty wave and stepped outside.
Delaney regarded what she held. Wedged between the glossy pages of the brochure there was a stiffly folded piece of heavy, legal-sized paper.
“Delaney?” Helen swept into the kitchen. “I thought I heard voices. Did someone come back here?”
“Yes. He left.”
“That’s strange.” She went to the window that overlooked the yard. “My guests know they shouldn’t come into the old section, but sometimes they make themselves too much at home.”
“It wasn’t a guest, Grandma.” She opened the paper. “It was a process server.”
“A process . . . Here in my house? The nerve!”
Delaney wondered if the man had been watching the place from the garden shed, waiting for the best time to slip inside. It was a disconcerting thought. She was thankful he had missed seeing her in the yard. She’d had enough people materializing out of thin air for one morning.
“I’ll bet it was that man who came here yesterday,” Helen continued. “He seemed wrong somehow so I lied and said we didn’t have a vacancy. What did he look like? Pale? Big and jowly?”
“No, he was short and very ordinary.”
“He must have been looking for the Schicks. I’d heard they were having trouble with their former business partner.”
“He was here for me.”
“You?”
Helen turned. Her gaze went to the paper Delaney held. “Why ever in the world would someone sue you?”
She steadied her hands so that she could read the print on the summons. Having it served this way had taken her by surprise, but she realized she felt no shock at what it said. In fact, she should have expected it. Now that the police had closed their investigation, there would be no criminal charges laid. A civil suit was the next logical step for a woman who was bent on revenge. “It seems as if I was right,” she said. “Elizabeth’s not letting this rest.”
“Oh, no. She’s not contesting the will again, is she?”
She’s not allowing me bury my husband. She’s forcing me to keep ripping open the wound that won’t heal . . .
Delaney swallowed hard as she refolded the paper and placed it next to the rubber gloves on the counter. They seemed to belong together. Both were ugly reminders of the new reality of her life.
Messes that she’d made and needed to clean up herself.
“Delaney? Honey, what is it?”
“My stepdaughter is suing me for the wrongful death of her father.”
ALL OF THIS SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERS. FROM HER FATHER’S collection of first editions and the burled walnut bookcase that enclosed it, to the trio of Picasso sketches that hung over the leather couch, it rightfully should have gone to her. Even the desk she was lying on ought to have been hers.
“Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth Graye summoned a reassuring smile. It wouldn’t do to let Alan Rashotte know her mind had wandered. He used to be arrogantly proud of his lovemaking skills.
In that regard, Alan hadn’t changed. He knew how to ensure a woman’s physical pleasure. He was as tireless as a machine and just as reliable. His only flaw was his naked ambition. No, that wasn’t his only flaw. He also considered himself to be smarter than her. He probably believed this interlude had been his idea. He might even have assumed that she’d been overcome by passion.
She’d been taught better than that. Emotions were good tools as long as you knew how to use them. Relationships should be maintained only as long as they were advantageous.
Alan pushed aside her pearls to nuzzle her neck. “That was great.”
She murmured what he took for agreement as she flattened her palms on the desktop. Even without seeing it, she could appreciate the patina that gave the wood its depth. Her mother had been particularly proud of this acquisition. She’d outbid several dealers in order to bring it home. Elizabeth had slipped away from her governess to watch from the second-floor gallery as the chauffeur had maneuvered it up the stairs to her sitting room. One of the gardeners had been pressed into service to help. That had been a sight. Constance had made him remove his boots before he set foot on the marble floor of the foyer with no more than a lift of her eyebrow.
But the desk hadn’t remained at the house. The moment her father had seen it, he’d decided to have it for himself and had it moved to his office.
Stanford Graye had had a weakness for pretty things. Like the desk and the Picassos. And his new wife.
Elizabeth curled her nails against the wood and moved her gaze to the window. The Manhattan skyline twinkled like jewels in a giant crown. It was a clichéd comparison, but she’d always thought it fitting since her father had ruled his kingdom from this place. The power he’d wielded had intoxicated her. He’d seemed invincible. His greatest strengths had been his exceptional memory and his knack for recognizing an individual’s weakness. He was a master at manipulation. People lined up for the privilege of letting him have his way and believed it was their idea. He’d been a modern-day Tom Sawyer, reaping profits while others painted his fence. All her life, she’d watched and learned and dreamed of being just like him.
How many times had he sat behind this desk at the end of the day, his sleeves rolled up, the ice cubes tinkling as he sipped his drink? He used to ask her opinion. He’d pretended to listen to her, because he’d known that’s what she wanted. Then had come the day when he actually
did
listen to her. She’d never been prouder. She’d never felt more loved. What shall we do, Bethie? What do you think?
Alan rubbed his cheek against hers. “Come home with me. Let’s finish this on a bed.”
Elizabeth tipped her head away. Alan’s skin was like sandpaper. He should be shaving twice a day, but he rarely did. She should have remembered that. She put her hands on his shoulders, using the movement to ease back the cuff of her jacket so she could check her watch. “I can’t. I have some things I need to take care of here.”
“They can wait.”
The self-satisfied tone drove away any lingering pleasure. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear his touch on her flesh. She gave Alan a firm push and twisted her hips to dislodge him. She stood, turning her back while she straightened her clothes. “No, I’m afraid I need to deal with them now. You might as well go home.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
The sound of his zipper set her teeth on edge. “Yes, Alan. It is.”
He brushed aside a lock of hair that had come loose from her twist. “I thought what we did here meant you’d changed your mind about us, Elizabeth.”
She didn’t like his tone now, either. It implied an obligation she’d never agreed to. She and Alan had indulged in a casual affair a year ago. For a while, perhaps, she had deluded herself into thinking it could be more, but he hadn’t really cared for her. He’d believed he could advance his career by romancing the boss’s daughter. She’d realized that even before her father had pointed it out.
“Come on. We used to be good together.”
“This isn’t the right time for me. I can’t afford any more complications.”
“Then what was this about?”
She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, pressing her palms hard against her thighs so he wouldn’t see that her hands were shaking. “Does it matter?”
Alan stroked her cheek. He laughed. “Not a damn. I love you anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nodded and locked the door behind him.
There was a difference between making love and getting love. One didn’t necessarily lead to the other. Alan was too arrogant to love anyone. It would be stupid to believe him, so it was good that she hadn’t. The cologne he wore was too cloying. His laugh grated. His fingers were too bony and his lips were too stiff when he kissed. She didn’t even like him that much.
Elizabeth returned to the desk and sat in Stanford’s old chair. She curled her hands over the ends of the arms, exactly the way her father used to. Technically, this furniture belonged to Delaney, like all the other personal items in his office, although she hadn’t yet bothered to claim any of it. Elizabeth had done it instead. Alan wouldn’t have understood the subtlety of using the desk as they had. He’d thought he was simply screwing
her
.
She’d moved into the office gradually, bringing some files one day, holding a few meetings another. Her actions had produced rumblings of discontent among some members of the board, but no one had dared oppose her openly yet. That had been her primary reason for getting Alan on her side. She needed an ally. Sex had only been the opening gambit, though. The best way to ensure his cooperation was to promise him what he really valued, which certainly wasn’t
her
.
The tears came without warning. She blotted them on her jacket sleeve, then used her cuff to rub off the palm prints Alan had left on the desktop.
What the hell
had
this been about?
Revenge. Power.