Читать книгу The Rich Boy - Leah Vale - Страница 8

I, Marcus Malcom McCoy, being of sound mind, yadda, yadda, yadda, do hereby acknowledge as my biological progeny the first born to Helen Metzger, Ann Branigan, Bonnie Larson and Nadine Anders et al, who have been paid a million dollars each for their silence. Upon my death and subsequent reading of this addendum to my last will and testament, they shall inherit equal portions of my estate and, excepting Helen’s child, Alexander, who already has the privilege, immediately take their rightful places in the family and family business, whatever it may be at that time. Marcus M. McCoy

Tuning out the chatter from the party in full swing on the other side of the study’s locked doors, Alexander McCoy slumped back in the big desk chair. He stared at the scrawled signature at the bottom of the handwritten page, tugging loose his black tuxedo’s traditional bow tie. If only he could tune out the burn of betrayal as easily.

For what seemed to be the hundredth time, he had to admit to himself that he was definitely looking at the signature of the man he’d spent his life believing to be his brother. The brother he’d initially admired, then set out to be as different from as possible. And only Marcus would have had the nerve to belittle legalities by actually writing yadda, yadda, yadda, especially on something as important as an addendum to his last will and testament.

Even if Alex could harbor any doubts, he would have a hard time dismissing the word of David Weidman. The McCoys’ longtime family lawyer had witnessed Marcus write the addendum—though David claimed not to have read the document before sealing it into the heavy cream envelope that bore his signature and noting the existence of the unorthodox addendum in the actual will.

The will had been read nearly a month ago, four days after Marcus was killed on June 8, while fly-fishing in Alaska, by a grizzly bear that hadn’t appreciated the competition. Before the reading, Alex had grieved for the relationship he’d hoped to one day develop with his much older brother. Now…

Of all the ways Alex’s jet-setting, “client-relations” guru brother—father—could have met an untimely end, this suddenly seemed the most apropos. Maybe it was the price Marcus had had to pay for being so cavalier with the truth. A truth that had changed everything.

Alexander’s whole life had been a lie.

The well-respected McCoy family, one of the richest in the nation, had a dirty little secret. And Alex’s actual parentage was the worst part of it.

The truth beat in his head in cadence with the music coming from the small parlor off the foyer of his family’s mansion. His brother was his father, and the man he’d believed to be his father was his grandfather.

My God.

Alex swiped a hand over his eyes. He’d tried his damnedest to push the reality from his mind these past weeks, focusing on the challenge of keeping the revelations in Marcus’s will from blowing up into a monster PR disaster. But for whatever reason, tonight he’d snapped. While hundreds of people, including his three new half brothers, celebrated his grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday in true Joseph McCoy style, all Alex could do was stare at the document that had turned his life upside down.

Try as he may, he could not deny that the shattering words had been penned by Marcus’s own hand. The same hand that had so often waved off a younger brother’s pleas for a scrap of attention. A younger brother who in reality was a son.

With nearly a twenty-year difference in their ages, it had made sense at the time that Marcus wouldn’t have much interest in Alex. Knowing what he did now, he damn near doubled over from the ache in his chest.

And Helen! She’d doted on him more like a mother than the family’s longtime housekeeper. Because she was his mother.

Alex shoved out of the chair, swallowing bile. He paced to the wall of books on one side of the room, the heels of his gleaming black dress shoes sharp on the hardwood. He then crossed to the wall of windows on the opposite side, the heavy, burgundy velvet curtains still closed after being drawn this afternoon to protect the books and mahogany furnishings from the early-July sun.

Helen had tried to explain right after the reading of the will why she had agreed to Joseph and Elise’s plan. He’d been in no mood to hear any excuses. So she had wisely given him his space when it became clear he needed time to process what was happening to him. Now he wasn’t so sure he was capable of processing it, regardless of time.

At least Elise didn’t have to face the turmoil of being outed as his grandmother instead of being known as a woman who’d been blessed with the late gift of another child, as she’d always claimed. This was the only good thing to come out of her passing from cancer ten years earlier.

Alex couldn’t help wondering how much of her love had actually been guilt.

Finally, there was Joseph McCoy, the man who had built a billion-dollar retail empire off the motto Don’t Trust It If It’s Not From The Real McCoy. Joseph had beamed with pride when Alex had set out from an early age to give his “father” a son he could be proud of. A son who lived his life with the sort of integrity and drive that would take the family and corporation to even greater heights. A true teammate to Joseph.

So far Alex had succeeded.

Something Marcus had never managed to do.

Was that why Marcus had decided to reach from the grave and destroy Alex’s world? There had never been any sign of “sibling” rivalry from Marcus. Still, who could say what had been going on inside his head.

Alex moved to the fireplace and the painted portrait of Joseph, Elise and Marcus that hung above it, focusing on the ten-year-old boy with the same black hair and dark blue eyes that Alex possessed. Sure, Marcus had done the right thing in acknowledging his other children. But why claim his first child? Alex fisted his hands and slammed them down on the mantel. He was already a McCoy!

A knock on the door to the study jerked Alex from the downward spiral he seemed doomed to succumb to. He turned to stare at the oversize door. He had no intention of answering; he realized the last place he should be right now in such a dark mood was at a party.

Particularly one for Joseph.

The man Alex had thought was his father.

Alex couldn’t decide if he was angrier at Marcus for turning his world on end or at Joseph for not telling him the truth of his paternity long ago.

He needed out of here. Out of this house.

Since there was no way he could get his car from the garage with all the catering trucks and limos and town cars clogging the circular drive, he’d have to settle for escaping to the stable.

He waited long enough for whoever had knocked to give up and go away, before he unlocked the door. Then he slipped out of the study. It was like stepping into a noisy, glittering sauna saturated with the cloying scents of gardenias and roses from the huge floral arrangements covering tables that lined nearly every wall, scents that competed with perfumes and aftershaves.

The wide hall between the domed foyer and the rear of the house was oppressively packed with people wearing everything from formal wear to Sunday best because Joseph was known for inviting a wide range of guests. Barons of industry were elbow to elbow with mail clerks who had caught Joseph’s notice by going above and beyond the call of duty.

The crowd appeared to be making its way toward the expansive stone veranda that ran the length of the house out back, undoubtedly intent on staking out spots to watch the pre-Fourth of July, McCoys-love-America fireworks.

“Alexander!” Peter Carver, McCoy Enterprises’ chief financial officer, hailed Alex as he approached.

Peter raised his punch glass. “Your dad really went all out this time.”

Smoke and mirrors. Alex forced a smile and murmured in agreement. He continued to inch his way through the hall. If he could make it to the door to the kitchen, he could break through and—

No. Helen would be there, coordinating the caterer’s efforts, even though Joseph had specifically asked her to consider herself a guest for the night, not an employee. She wouldn’t listen—she never did—because everyone knew she’d stopped considering herself an employee a long time ago.

Now Alex understood why.

The healthy breakfast waiting for him every morning regardless of his schedule.

The special late-night tonics when the stresses of running a billion-dollar corporation started to show.

He contracted his abs against the sick feeling in his stomach. He’d just as soon not bump into her tonight.

Peter worked his way to Alex’s side and leaned toward him. “Marcus would have been pleased.”

By the huge, gaudy birthday party with everybody who was anybody in attendance, yes. By the fact that Joseph was using his seventy-fifth birthday to publicly welcome three of Marcus’s previously secret illegitimate sons into the family, probably not.

Alex simply nodded in response.

Despite the risk of being jostled, Peter took a drink of his punch. Alex could tell Peter wasn’t sure what to say or do for him when it came to the subject of Marcus’s death.

Those within the upper ranks of the company were aware that Alex and Marcus hadn’t been particularly close as brothers, age difference aside. Alex enjoyed focusing on business; Marcus had focused on the business of enjoyment.

But because of their age difference, Alex couldn’t believe there wasn’t some speculation going on, now that the existence of Marcus’s other sons had quietly been made public.

To counter the speculation and hopefully put an end to it, Alex had been trying to act normally for the past month. Maybe he should have appeared to be grieving more.

He was grieving. For a lot of things.

When they reached the wall of French doors, which had been thrown wide, Alex said to Peter, “The north end of the veranda is the best place to view the fireworks.” He pointed in the direction he meant.

Peter smiled. “Thanks.” Certainly he already knew as much. Peter had worked for them for years, hired by Sara Barnes’s father back when he was VP of operations before his deadly heart attack.

Alex waved lamely and headed in the opposite direction, sticking to the shadows near the house to avoid the crowd and notice. God, he really needed to be alone.

Because the one thing he was grieving most for was the death of his ability to trust.

DESPITE THE FACT that she was conducting an interview, Madeline Monroe thought she’d caught a glimpse of a midnight-black McCoy head above the crowd in the hall, emerging from the door she just happened to know led to the study.

Keeping her microphone steady in front of the mouth of Dependable’s mayor as he yammered on as though he’d actually had a hand in the prosperity of the town’s ten thousand or so inhabitants, Madeline faked a flip of her shoulder-length blond hair. She leaned slightly toward the carved balustrade of the staircase to confirm what she’d seen—a risky move, considering the mayor wasn’t tall and she’d had him stand on the stair above her so she didn’t tower over him in the strappy heels that matched her long red dress.

For professional purposes, which McCoy she might have seen didn’t matter—her producers wanted any of them on camera as much as possible. But the little burp her pulse gave forced her to admit that she hoped it was Alexander McCoy. She steadied herself on her spot a few steps up on one of the grand, sweeping staircases that framed the cavernous foyer of the mansion named the Big House. The McCoys seriously needed to get over themselves.

Just as she needed to get over Alex. They’d barely dated, for cripes’ sake, and seven years ago at that. Pestering him daily for an interview since the news first broke of “The Lost Millionaires” had apparently reawakened whatever she might have felt for him earlier.

Which was stupid, because she didn’t intend to be some rich guy’s eye candy any more now than she had then.

Dan, her cameraman, made a noise from behind his camera and jerked her attention back to the mayor. Not that her producers would choose to include any of this interview with His Honor in her segment. They wouldn’t think the viewers of Entertainment This Evening cared about the civic leaders of a quaint northwest Missouri town. All the viewers cared about was the town’s most famous and powerful residents, the billionaire McCoys.

Especially now that their previously spotless reputation as bastions of morality sported three very big stains. Illegitimate heirs to millions popping out of the mahogany were journalistic platinum to shows such as ETE. And if she could dig beyond the official family press release and find some real dirt, she might finally be taken seriously by the hard-news shows she’d been trying to break into for years.

The journalistic sixth sense she was beginning to trust screamed that a fourth stain on their spotless reputation lurked beneath the surface here at the Big House.

A cryptic phone call yesterday before dawn to her voice mail from the first illegitimate heir brought into the fold, Cooper Anders, had raised the hairs on her arm. When she’d met with him, though, he’d claimed only to want to inform her of yet another good deed his new grandfather had done. But his call had got her thinking.

And doing some math.

Worried that Alexander might slip away from her yet again, Madeline praised the mayor for being a shining example of local government, thanked him for his insightful comments and sent him on his way back down the stairs.

Dan lowered his camera and stepped toward her, stopping her from following the mayor. “Maddy, you do realize, don’t you, that he talked almost exclusively about the giant flowerpots hanging all over town, which Joseph McCoy provided? Not exactly insightful stuff.”

Madeline cringed. “Really?”

He gave an exaggerated nod.

“Oops.”

He put a foot on the step above them, his all-terrain boots undoubtedly leaving something on the chenille-like carpet, and balanced the heavy camera on his black jean-clad thigh. Black jeans and a black T-shirt were the closest Dan Gurtings would ever get to a tuxedo. He left the dress-up stuff to the talent assigned to him. Which for the past four years had been her.

His look was speculative. “Not like you at all, Monroe. You’re normally spot-on. What gives?”

“A black-haired, blue-eyed, uptight god by the name of Alexander McCoy, that’s what. Make that who.” Then, realizing what else Dan had said, she drew her chin back. “Spot-on? You really need to stop hanging around with those BBC cameramen, Danny boy.”

Madeline eased down a step. With the crush of people in the hall, she doubted that Alex had managed to get far. If she had indeed seen Alex.

The black head could have belonged to Cooper Anders, who was tall, dark and gorgeous, as well. At some point she had to get a decent interview out of him, also.

Dan dismissed her recommendation with a wave. “I watched the latest Harry Potter movie with my kid last night because he wasn’t feeling all that great. Residual Brit influence.”

“How did you manage that, considering little Dan is in L.A. and you were at the Super 8 in flowerpot-festooned Dependable?”

“Pay-per-view and a cell phone. He mostly just wanted to hear me laugh and gasp in all the right places.”

“I hope you have unlimited minutes. Those are long movies.”

He grinned in the way that softened his rugged, not-quite-handsome face and made him utterly appealing. “No kidding. But at least it made Danny feel better.”

“You’re a good man, Big Dan. Was Connie there?”

The grin faded and he shrugged. “Somewhere.”

Dan’s long absences while on assignment—this time a month already—strained his marriage. He claimed Connie understood, but Madeline wasn’t so sure.

Yet another reason not to become seriously involved with a man of her own while she chased her dream. She wanted to be able to up and leave at a moment’s notice, without suffering from guilt because of whom she was leaving behind.

Her parents made her feel bad enough. But then, she was always falling short of their approval.

To distract herself and Dan, she grabbed his sleeve. “Come on. Let’s see if we can catch up with whichever McCoy just came out of the study and joined the party.”

Dan balked. “Maddy, you know the deal. We have to stay in one place. And that place is right here on the stairs.” He eyed the not-so-casual lineup of politicians, celebrities and corporate executives hoping to be called up for an on-camera interview.

The flashy bunch tried to look as though they just happened to stop to chat at the base of this particular staircase, but years of experience gained at award shows and charity functions had taught Madeline otherwise. In a culture where people could be famous simply by being famous, their tenacity made perfect sense.

She leaned close to Dan and kept her voice low. “Normally I’d be psyched to have this kind of who’s-who hanging around me, hoping to snag a little free publicity and the cachet from being in any way associated with the mighty McCoys.”

“What’s different?”

“I’m sure in my gut that a real story’s to be had here, Dan. If only we can get to it.”

He made a face. “All you’ll end up getting is us thrown out on our rears.”

“Hey, that smacks of doubt in my abilities, bub,” she warned with zero seriousness. Dan was the only person who came close to acknowledging her potential as a reporter, and they had a good working relationship.

She aimed a freshly manicured finger at him. “Just as the exclusive coverage arrangement Joseph McCoy offered us smacks of manipulation. He agreed to let us in so he could control us, and he’s doing it by making us camp out on the stairs.”

Dan rolled his dark brown eyes. “Well, duh.”

“If he didn’t have something to hide, then he wouldn’t be restricting us, would he?”

Dan blew out a breath and glanced around as if checking for hidden cameras.

Madeline said, “Look. I’ll go. You stay here. As long as the lights and camera are where they’re supposed to be, we’ll still technically be keeping our end of the bargain.” She waved a hand at the foyer. “Tape some crowd and endorsement shots. Preston will love it if you can get a senator to say ‘Stay tuned to Entertainment This Evening.’”

Their producers lived and breathed famous names and faces and the ratings boosts they gave the show. Preston Estcomb in particular didn’t care about real news.

But unearthing a decent story would be the only way she’d prove to the world she had more to her than the hand-me-down Miss Central USA crown. Which, after seven years, was more than a little dusty.

Dan sighed again. “They’re more likely to agree to do a promo if you ask them. You’re better at it than I am.”

“Though not as good as some.”

Dan snorted a laugh, fortunately appreciative of her self-deprecating humor. Yet she wasn’t sure he realized how much always being second best bothered her.

Madeline’s claim to fame was hers only because the pageant’s winner that year had been caught in a sex scandal with a congressman and been forced to step down. As first runner-up, Madeline had been called upon to take her place.

Madeline hadn’t earned the title any more than she’d earned her current fluff reporter job. The knowledge chewed on her self-esteem like a sharp-toothed rodent intent on destruction.

Understanding warming his dark eyes, Dan jerked his head toward the teeming hall. “Go. I’ll tell anyone who asks that you’re in the powder room. You’re a woman. They’ll understand if it takes you a while to get back.”

She grinned her thanks. “Especially in this dress.” She tugged at the form-fitting, beaded red sheath. “Is your cell on?”

He put a hand to the small phone clipped to his belt. “On Vibrate, but yeah.”

“Good.” She bent and retrieved her clutch, which contained her phone, from Dan’s equipment bag. “I’ll call you if the planets align and a certain someone decides to spill his guts to me on camera. That would be worth abandoning our assigned spot here.”

“That it would. Normally I wouldn’t bother wishing you luck, because the Maddy Monroe magic keeps you from needing luck, but this time I don’t think it’d hurt. Good luck.”

“Sheesh. Thanks for the vote of confidence, chief.”

“Just calling it like I see it. The McCoy boys are too pretty themselves to be swayed by pretty faces.”

Suddenly thankful she hadn’t confided in Dan after all about the short time she’d dated Alexander McCoy, Madeline turned and hurried down the remaining stairs. If she had, then he’d know just how true that statement really was.

And maybe even guess how much the fact had hurt her.

Her high heels clicked as she stepped a little too abruptly off the stairs onto the heavily polished cherrywood floor and eased her way into the crowd. She was instantly engulfed by the headily perfumed heat and excited energy generated by the ultraprivileged.

She wove her way through the guests toward the back of the huge house, a slow process because of the sheer number of people and how many of them wanted to chat with her along the way. She might have grown up on the other side of the state in St. Louis and had lived in Los Angeles since then, but to most of these folks she’d become a hometown girl the second Joseph McCoy had put his stamp of approval on her.

A designation that would certainly evaporate if she accomplished her goal here tonight.

When she finally made it through the French doors that opened out onto the large patio, the cooler air helped resharpen her focus. But even out here the scent of flowers, honeysuckle in particular, tempted her to linger, to breathe in the magic of the evening.

Until Joseph McCoy’s booming voice caught her attention. He was standing among a group of people collected away from the guests. Madeline didn’t need long to realize it was a family affair. The men were all tall and broad shouldered, the women beautiful and lucky.

Keeping to the shadows hugging the house, she inched as close as she dared.

Cooper Anders and his new fiancée, pretty brunette Sara Barnes, were there. For a former small construction company owner, he looked surprisingly at home in a classic black tuxedo. Sara, her petite figure shown off to its best in a beautiful, body-conscious cream gown Madeline recognized as a Dior, had the ease of a woman raised amid the McCoys.

Cooper owed Madeline an interview about how it felt to go from the big house—meaning the county jail—to the Big House, where he’d found love with McCoy Enterprises’ vice president of operations. But that could wait.

The other newest McCoy, Mitch Smith, she’d met earlier. He was the only one at the party dressed relatively casually, in jeans, cowboy boots and a brown suede blazer. He also stood out as the only blond man in the bunch. The private investigator who’d found him, Alison Sullivan, was next to him, and the possessive hand Mitch had on the black satin-clad waist of the feisty redhead suggested a human-interest story to be had there, also.

The only people in the group she didn’t know were the very striking marine officer in full-dress uniform and the tall, attractive woman in a short black sheath, whose long hair was as dark as the marine’s. The guy’s looks and stature made it logical to jump to the conclusion that he was another long-lost McCoy. The way he smiled down at the Catherine Zeta-Jones lookalike spoke of newfound love.

Yep. Beautiful and lucky.

The freshly resurrected ghost of that old hurt poked at Madeline, but she refused to acknowledge its existence.

Based on all the handshaking going on, it seemed that introductions were being conducted around the group. Apparently they’d barely all arrived in time for the party.

For cripes’ sake, she could make her career on doing nothing but the straight-up, feel-good fluff stories about these men being brought into this family by its patriarch, Joseph McCoy.

Only, it wasn’t the career she wanted.

And with Joseph himself spoon-feeding it to her, she’d never have the chance to prove anything other than how gracefully she could jump through other people’s hoops. Her parents would be so proud.

She moved to slip past the group, because the one notable family member missing was Alexander McCoy. By all rights he should be there to meet his newest, spit-polished nephew. A nephew who looked to be about the same age as his thirty-four-year-old uncle.

Sure, Marcus McCoy revealing a bunch of illegitimate sons after becoming grizzly chow was a story, one that every Tom, Dick and Harry had already reported. But if the man presented to the world as Marcus’s younger brother really wasn’t…then that would mean Joseph McCoy had been involved and that was something else entirely.

Something big.

Behind her, Madeline heard Joseph stop mid-exposition and ask the group, “Where’s Alexander?”

She froze, then dared to take a couple steps backward to hear better. There was some whispering, and it was all she could do not to turn around and shout, Speak up!

She’d just started to gnash her teeth, when she distinctly heard Cooper inquire, “Do you think he bailed to the stable?” He’d kept his voice low, but his distinct, deep resonance carried to Madeline.

“That’s were he usually goes when he’s stressed or upset.” Madeline was pretty sure Sara Barnes had had the answer.

An answer good enough for Madeline, who was determined to get to Alex first.

Shrugging off the prickle of concern at the thought of Alex upset because she would not let her former feelings for the man get in the way, she picked up the hem of her dress and hurried for the stairs off the veranda.

When she and Dan had checked for good backdrops for their interviews, she’d snooped enough to know a flower-lined brick path led from the veranda right down to the elegant stable built to match the red-brick and white-columned Monticello-ish Big House.

The path was lit with torches until she reached the source of the honeysuckle smell—an arbor loaded with buff-yellow flowers that looked pale white in the darkness. The sweet scent was heady within the arbor, and she emerged on the other side more than a little light-headed. Fortunately, the bright, perfect full moon took up the job of lighting her way.

The long, low stable wasn’t far from the arbor, and was probably beat-out in the stink department. Besides, she doubted the quality horses Alex owned would ever dream of fouling the air.

Her clicking high heels seemed abnormally loud on the brick path as she neared the white, sliding double doors, so she started tiptoeing as best she could. The interior of the stable was dark, but the moonlight shining through the small windows in the miniature dome topping the stable, which mimicked the large dome in the Big House’s foyer, was strong enough that faint light slipped out from beneath the doors.

She was about ready to test her Pilates core strength and shove one of the large doors open, when she realized a small, regular door had been built into one of them. She quietly lifted the latch on it, eased the door open and stepped through. She quickly closed the door behind her as silently as she could. She didn’t want to alert Alex to her presence and give him the chance to slip out another way before she could find him.

Thanks to the moonlight streaming down from above, Madeline could see that the stable had a wide, center aisle, high open beams and stalls lining both sides. A tack room, its lights off, lay to the right of this set of doors. Another set of doors stood at the opposite end and had been left open a couple of feet.

Everything was white and pristine and had the most wonderful earthy smell. Whether from the hay or the horses, she didn’t know, having zero experience with either.

A deep murmuring came from the first stall on her left, and Madeline tiptoed toward the enclosure, which would look like a prison cell if they’d built it with more iron bars than wood paneling instead of the other way around. She peeked through the bars and froze.

Bathed in moonlight fractured by similar bars on a high window opposite her stood Alexander McCoy, resting his forehead between the eyes of a dark-colored horse as powerfully beautiful as he was.

His black bow tie hanging loose around his neck and his tuxedo jacket open, Alex stroked the horse’s broad cheek. “I’d give anything if someone could tell me how to handle this.” The torment in his whispered plea was plain and piercing.

Alex was hurting. Madeline’s shift in focus was as absolute as it was unexpected. She herself hadn’t seen much sign of him mourning for Marcus, so she’d thought he was fine—as fine as he could be considering his loss. Had he simply been hiding his pain?

He said, “You got any ideas, big guy?”

The horse actually made a soft rumbling sound that reminded Madeline of a giant cat’s purr.

“I know, I know.” Alex soothed the magnificent animal. “You’d help if you could. I just wish I didn’t feel so much like running away.”

What? Alex run away? More than capable of solving problems, he was the kind of guy to run to them, not away.

He sighed, tracing a path down the horse’s long face with the tip of his forefinger. “I simply don’t know who I am anymore.”

Madeline’s heart lodged firmly in her throat and her eyes filled with tears. Suddenly the last thing on her mind was digging up dirt on this most privileged of the privileged.

All she wanted to do was comfort Alexander McCoy.