Читать книгу All He Ever Wanted - Emily McKay - Страница 9

Dalton shoved his foot between the door and the jamb seconds before it closed and locked him out.

Laney had her hand on the inside brass handle, and he felt her give it a tug before she glanced down to see his black leather shoe wedged there.

“Just hear me out.”

Time seemed to stretch as he waited for her response. She wasn’t going to listen to him. She’d slam the door in his face, he was sure of it. After all, they both knew she was right to be wary of him. Despite the difference in their ages, they’d been friends when she’d first moved into the Cain household when she was eleven. For two years, she’d shadowed him like an eager puppy. Then, abruptly and without explanation, he’d cut her out of his life the summer before her freshman year. He’d given her plenty of reasons to hate him now.

Her gaze darted all around the empty school hall before returning reluctantly to his. He saw her jaw clench and her mouth pinch in annoyance before he felt the pressure on his foot let up.

“Fine.”

“Thank you.” He opened the door the rest of the way and stepped out of the mid-afternoon sun into dimly lit air-conditioning. This was obviously a side entrance, leading into a broad hall with classroom doors branching out on either side. The walls were covered in murals painted by clumsy childish hands. The few blank stretches of wall were plastered with the kids’ art “framed” by construction paper. Despite the obvious attempts to brighten the atmosphere, the building showed its age.

Laney all but trotted down the hall, passed the occasional open doorway. “My classroom is over here.”

She moved with a speed and efficiency that belied her frilly dress and perky ruffled socks. All traces of the warmth she’d shown to the little girl in the car line had vanished.

Dalton considered himself something of an expert on reading business opponents. He was a master at the subtle art of analyzing someone’s mood and temperament based on their body language and facial expressions. It was a skill that came from many years of studying people.

He needed none of those skills to read Laney today. His presence here had her freaked out. Something he’d said or done had spooked her. But what?

By the time he caught up with her, she was pushing open the door to one of the classrooms. Like the rest of the building, the room was neat and well maintained but obviously showing its age. It had been years since Dalton had been in an elementary school—twenty-one years, to be exact, since his own stint as an elementary student. He’d forgotten how undersized that world felt. The tables barely reached his knees. The chairs looked sized for dolls rather than people. There were bookcases in one corner with a cluster of beanbag chairs. Caddies of art supplies sat at each trio of desks. One adult-sized desk sat in the corner.

Laney turned when she reached that desk. An owl stuffed animal sat beside the computer monitor. She ran her fingers across the toy’s white fluff, then blew out a breath before turning back to him.

“The afterschool class I teach has an assistant that oversees snack time. But I’ll need to be there when the class starts in fifteen minutes, so you’d better tell me why you’re really here.”

Her tone was terse, and she looked as though she could barely squeeze the words out through her clenched jaw. Again, he wondered what had her so freaked out. He didn’t remember Laney being a naturally nervous person: feisty, yes, jittery, no.

“My father is ill,” he began.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, but he could tell the condolences were by rote.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Pretend to be sorry that his health is declining.” His words came out stiffer than he meant them to be. He was trying to let her off the hook, to create a common ground between them. She may not have as many reasons to hate his father as he did, but she surely had plenty.

Instead, his words ended up sounding slightly accusatory—and cold… something his father would have said. Why was it that he could talk to almost anyone except Laney?

“I…” Her frown deepened as her mouth pressed into a line of confusion. “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

Shoot. He was making this even worse than it was. “I know.” Why did it feel like there were many things he wanted to say to her and none of them were the right ones?

Instead of fumbling through any more explanations, he pulled out a copy of the letter and handed it to her. “A week ago my father received this.”

Laney looked from him to the paper he held out. “What does it have to do with my grandmother?”

Was it his imagination, or did her voice tremble slightly? “Please read the letter. Then I’ll explain.”

She nodded. Her frown only deepened as she read. She glanced up after a few seconds. She must have been disconcerted at how closely he was watching her, because she turned away to finish the letter, her hand fluttering nervously by her hair as she read.

She was a quick reader, and soon she looked back at him and said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t see what this has to do with Gran.”

“Hollister Cain wants this girl found.”

Laney extended the letter back to him with a sigh that sounded almost relieved. “And the girl’s mother seems rather determined to keep her hidden,” she pointed out with an arched little smile.

Dalton found himself smiling back, despite the bizarre circumstances. “Yes, but this is Hollister we’re talking about. Little things like other people’s wishes don’t bother him much.”

“Hold on a second,” Laney said abruptly. “You don’t think…” She physically recoiled. “You don’t think my mother wrote the letter? You don’t think I’m the missing heiress?”

The expression of disgust on her face was so strong he nearly laughed. “No, of course not. Anyone who’s seen a picture of your father couldn’t mistake you for anyone’s daughter but his.”

She chuckled—and again he wondered at the relief he heard in the sound. Then she gestured to her nose. “Right. The Fortino nose. It is hard to miss.”

Her nose was distinctive—a little larger than most women probably preferred and with a patrician bump—but it fit her face, blending seamlessly with the rest of her features. He’d grown up in a world where a woman’s facial imperfections were stamped out like cockroaches. He loved that she’d never had her nose done, which wasn’t exactly the smooth segue that would lead them back to the questions he needed answers to. So he went for direct instead.

“No, it never occurred to me that your mother might have written the letter. But your grandmother was the Cain housekeeper for nearly thirty years. I thought she might know something.”

“About your father’s romantic indiscretions? I can’t imagine why she would. That hardly fell under her purview.”

“No. She wouldn’t have time to manage the house if it had.” He quickly explained his reasoning. “She worked for my father longer than most Cain Enterprises employees. If my father had any secrets, she knew them. If my parents fought, she overheard it. If there’s anyone with dirt on my family, it’s your grandmother.”

As he spoke, Laney looked down at the owl again. She ran her hand over the pretend feathers and gave the wing a little tug.

When she didn’t meet his gaze, he continued, “I visited the assisted-living center she’s at. They wouldn’t even let me in without your approval. I need to talk to her. You have to let me see her.”

Laney’s shoulders stiffened. “I no longer have any connection to your family. I don’t have to do anything.”

It was his turn to clench his jaw. He wasn’t Hollister’s son for nothing. He knew when to grovel. “Will you please grant me access to your grandmother?”

“No.” She held up a hand, warding off the arguments she could see percolating. “She doesn’t know anything. She can’t give you any information.”

Finally, she turned and met his gaze. Her own was clear and determined, but he didn’t let that bother him.

“I can make it worth your while,” he said.

“Of course you can. You’re a Cain. You Cains are experts at making lavish promises.”

“I may be a Cain, but I’m not my father. I plan on keeping any promises I make.”

“Kudos to you for knowing the difference between a promise made and a promise kept.”

“We’re not all heartless bastards,” he reminded her.

“That remains to be seen.” She gave the owl another pat on the head and turned to face him fully. “However, it’s immaterial. I’m not keeping you from Gran on a whim. She can’t help you.”

“Let me talk to her. Let her decide that.”

“It’s not that simple. Gran has Alzheimer’s. Even if she did know something, she’d be unable to tell you. If she ever knew the answers to your questions, the information is locked away in her head.”

Laney’s words sank slowly into his brain. Their meaning was almost incomprehensible. “Alzheimer’s?” he repeated stupidly.

Laney didn’t meet his gaze, and he thought there might have been a sheen of tears in her eyes.

His mind flitted through his memories of Laney’s grandmother, Mrs. Fortino as he’d always called her, because his own mother had always insisted on maintaining that level of formality with the staff. Matilda Fortino had been a battleship of a woman. Serious and stern, she’d been a rock in his childhood. Where his own mother had been mercurial and temperamental, Mrs. Fortino had been stalwart and consistent—a steady force in a tumultuous household.

Suddenly he felt Laney’s hand on his arm. He looked up to realize she’d crossed to stand beside him. Shock had rocked him back so he leaned against the corner of one of the bookcases.

“Didn’t you know?” Her words cut through the fog her news had cast over his brain.

“No.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed the assisted-living center told you why she’s not allowed visitors.”

“They didn’t. Only that you’d have to come with me if I wanted to see her.”

Laney ran a hand up and down his arm. It was a gentle gesture, meant to soothe and calm. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “If I’d known that you didn’t know, I wouldn’t have been so harsh.”

He looked from her hand to her face and found her studying his expression. Her unusual amber eyes were wide, concern crinkled her brow. She stood close enough that the front of her dress brushed against his legs and her breasts were mere inches from his arm. He sucked in a deep breath.

This wasn’t why he was here—no matter how tempting Laney Fortino was.

But all the deep-breathing exercises in the world wouldn’t help—not when the scent of her filled his lungs with every inhalation. She smelled like crayons and Elmer’s Glue. The unique combination should have been unappealing but wasn’t. And underneath that was the smell of her soap or maybe her shampoo—something fruity and simple, clean and uncomplicated.

He nearly laughed at the thought. Laney may smell uncomplicated, but there was nothing uncomplicated about the way she made him feel.

He straightened away from the bookcase, which only brought her closer. She snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned and skittered away from him, retreating to the desk.

“Strangers upset her. Gran, I mean. Of course, you’re not a stranger. But that’s why the assisted-living center doesn’t let people visit her. Her doctor thinks it’s for the best.”

He felt himself crumbling under the weight of her words. When he forced his gaze back to hers, it was to see her watching him with an emotion he rarely saw directed at him—an emotion he never thought he’d see in her eyes… certainly not after he’d spent so much of their teenage years treating her with disdain and scorn.

He’d known from the time he was thirteen that Laney Fortino could be his downfall. He’d known she alone had the power to bring him to his knees. He’d fought against it with every tool in his juvenile arsenal. He’d been rude, condescending and—occasionally—downright mean.

Laney had looked at him with the sting of pain, feisty rebellion and with downright anger. But until now, she’d never looked at him with sympathy.