Читать книгу Daughter of the Spellcaster - Maggie Shayne - Страница 8

Twenty years later

Magdalena Dunkirk waddled to the front door of her blissful, peaceful home outside Ithaca, New York, with one hand atop her watermelon-sized belly. “I’m coming!” she called. It took her longer to get around these days, and her mother was out running a few errands.

They didn’t get a lot of company. They’d only been living at the abandoned vineyard known as Havenwood, on the southern tip of Cayuga Lake, for a little over six months, and aside from their nearest neighbor, Patrick Cartwright, a kind curmudgeon who was also a retired doctor, and the two middle-aged, strictly in-the-broom-closet witches her mom hung out with, they barely knew anyone. Then again, she and her mother tended to keep to themselves. Lena liked it that way.

She got to the big oak door and opened it to see the last person she would have expected. Okay, the second-to-last person. Waist-length dreadlocks—both hair and beard—a red-and-white sari, and sad brown eyes staring into hers. She met them for only a moment, then looked past the guru for his ever-present companion. But Bahru was alone. Only a black car stood beyond him in the curving, snow-covered drive. “Where’s Ernst?” she asked.

“Your baby’s grandfather has gone beyond the veil, Magdalena.”

Ernst? Dead? It didn’t seem possible. Lena closed her eyes, lowered her head. “How?”

“He died in his sleep last night. I wanted to tell you before you heard it on the news.”

Blinking back tears, she opened the door wider. A wintry breeze blew in, causing the conch shell chimes to clatter and clack. “Come in, Bahru.”

He shook his head slowly. “No time. It’s a long drive back.”

She blinked at him. He was eccentric, yes. Obviously. But… “You drove all the way out here just to tell me Ryan’s father is dead, and now you’re going to turn around and drive all the way back? You could have told me with a phone call, Bahru.”

“Yes. But…” He shrugged a bag from his shoulder. It was olive drab, made of canvas, with a buckle and a flap, which he unfastened and opened. “He wanted you to have this,” he said.

Lena watched, wishing he would come inside and let her shut the door but not wanting to be rude and tell him so. So she stood there, holding it open and letting the heat out into the late January cold, and watching as he pulled an elaborately carved wooden box from the bag.

It caught her eye, because it looked old. And sort of… mystical. It was smaller than a shoe box, heavy and hinged, with a small latch on the front. As she took it from him, he went on. “Of course there will be more. I came to tell you that, too. You must come back to New York City, Lena. You and the child are named in his will.”

She looked up from the box sharply and shook her head. “That’s sweet of him, but I don’t want his money. I never did. I won’t—I can’t take it, you know that, Bahru. It would just convince Ryan that everything he ever thought about me was true.” She clutched the box in her hands, her heart tripping over itself. Maybe because she’d said Ryan’s name twice in the past two minutes after not uttering it once in more than six months. “How is he taking his dad’s death?”

“As if he doesn’t care.”

“He cares. I know he does. He’s angry with his father, has been since his mother died, but he loves him.” God, it was a crying shame he’d never gotten around to telling his father so. She wondered what would happen to the businesses, the empire Ernst had built, since his only son wanted no part of any of it.

Bahru said nothing for a long moment. He just stood there, fingering a crystal prism that hung from a chain around his neck. Lena noticed it because she was into crystals—so was her mom—and because Bahru always wore exactly the same things. Same robes, just with an extra white wrap over top in colder months. Same shoes, the faux leather moccasin-style slippers in winter and the sandals Mom called “Jesus shoes” in the summer. Same green canvas bag over his shoulder everywhere he went. The crystal pendant was new. Different. She’d never seen him wear jewelry before.

“Will you come?” he asked at length.

Lena pushed a long auburn spiral behind her ear. “Ryan still doesn’t know about… about the baby, does he?” she asked, looking down at her belly, which made the tie-dyed hemp maternity dress Mom had made for her look like a dome tent lying on its side. She wore a fringed shawl over it, because the dress was sleeveless and the old house was drafty. And haunted, but you know, being witches, they considered that a plus.

Bahru smiled very slightly. “He does not know. He still has no idea why you left. But he will guess when he sees you. You knew you would have to face that eventually, though.”

She nodded. She didn’t believe in lying and had no intention of keeping Ryan out of their child’s life. She just kept putting off telling him, feeling unready to face him with the truth when she knew what he would think. And now… Well, now it looked as if she had no choice.

“I really wish I’d told him sooner. He doesn’t need this to deal with on top of everything else.”

“Perhaps the distraction will be welcome.”

She lifted her brows. “Well, it’ll distract him, all right. But it’ll be welcome news about the same time pigs fly.”

Bahru frowned.

She didn’t bother explaining. In all the years he’d spent in the States since leaving his native Pakistan, there were still a lot of American expressions that perplexed him.

“Will you come?” he asked again.

Lena knew she had to go. Ernst McNally was her child’s grandfather, after all. “Of course I’ll come. When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow at one. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, of course.”

“Of course.” Nothing but the best for one of the richest men in the world.

“Good.” He patted the box she was still holding. “Take good care of this. We found it in a Tibetan street vendor’s stand amid piles of worthless trinkets. Ernst believed it was special. He said it had your name written all over it, but I never knew what he meant by that.” He blinked slowly. “He would never let me touch it, never let anyone touch it. Said it was for your hands alone. Very strange. But I’ve respected his wishes and never touched it until it was time to bring it to you.”

“Thank you, Bahru.” She was curious, but too distracted by the thought of seeing Ryan again to open the box just then. “Are you sure you won’t come in? Mom’s out, but I could make some tea—”

“No. But I will see you soon, and perhaps… perhaps more. After.”

It was her turn to frown. What did he mean by that?

Turning, he walked in his fake leather moccasins through the half inch of fresh snow—there had been so little that year that winter had felt more like late fall—to the waiting car. It was a black Lincoln with a driver behind the wheel, cap and all. Probably one of Ernst’s. The billionaire-turned-spiritual-seeker had dozens of them, and whatever he had was at his personal guru’s disposal.

Ryan wasn’t likely to let that continue. He’d always thought the former guru-to-the-stars was a con artist, out to scam his father at his weakest moment, right after the untimely death of Ryan’s mother twenty years ago. But Bahru had been at Ernst’s side ever since, guiding him in a quest for understanding that had taken him to the far corners of the world. His businesses had been left in the hands of their boards of directors. And his son in the hands of boarding schools and nannies.

She wondered if Ernst had ever found what he’d been looking for, then decided he probably had now. Bahru eased his long limbs into the backseat, pulling the tail of the sari in behind him and closing the door. The car rolled away through the snow, and Lena stepped back and closed out the cold at last.

She was going back to Manhattan. She was going to see him again. Ryan McNally. The father of her unborn baby. The man she had once believed to be the handsome prince of her childhood fantasies come to life. Carrying the wooden box with her, she all but sleep-walked to the rattan rocking chair in front of the stacked stone fireplace that was one of her favorite parts of the house, even though it was old and had gaps where the mortar had fallen away. It was comforting, and she loved it. She sank into the chair and started rocking, memories flooding her mind.

She remembered the day she had first set eyes on her long-lost prince—other than in the face of her mother’s magic mirror, and her childhood dreams, and the stories she had created out of them in construction paper and crayons. She’d taken one look at him and the impossible visions of her childhood had all come rushing back.

She had been completely at peace, loved her life, her job at a PR firm in New York City, where she made scads of money, and her pricey Manhattan apartment. Her practice of the Craft had matured. As she’d grown up, she had come to understand that magic was more about creative visualization and positive belief than flashes of light and sparkles. Her imaginary sister-friend Lilia had stopped showing up somewhere around the middle of fourth grade, as near as she could pin it.

It was all good. Or she thought it was. And yeah, she’d probably been skating, pretending there was nothing underneath the ice but more ice, ignoring the stuff she’d pushed down there, the stuff she’d frozen out. The undeniable experience of real magic. Those visions of past lives that had been so vivid and convincing at the time. Lilia, the chalice… the curse. A little girl with a witch for a mom and a huge imagination, that was all it was.

Only it wasn’t.

She’d managed to deny every last bit of it until the night she met Ryan McNally. Her handsome prince, right down to the roots of his hair.

She’d been handed his father’s account—temporarily, of course, while Bennet, Clarkson & Tate’s senior partner, Bill Bennet, was recovering from a triple bypass. Timing was everything. Ernst McNally, billionaire, philanthropist, world traveler and spiritual seeker, had been named Now Magazine’s Man of the Year and would receive the honor officially at a posh reception at the Waldorf Astoria. The other partners were booked, and Ernst was an important client. Lena was tapped to be the firm’s stand-in, and she didn’t kid herself by pretending it wasn’t because, of all the younger associates, she would look best in a halter dress. It went against her grain, but she wasn’t confrontational and she wasn’t an activist. She figured she would use the opportunity to show them she was worthy by doing a bang-up job. Instead, she had pretty much proved the opposite by getting pregnant by the client’s son, but that was getting ahead of the story a little.

That night changed her life forever. It was not only the night she had met the father of her baby, it was the night her imaginary childhood friend had returned as big as life and nearly given her heart failure. The night… she had learned that there might be a little bit more to magic than she had come to believe.

Either that, or that a high-pressure job in the big city was a little more stressful than she was equipped to handle.

“Lena?”

She had no idea how long she’d been sitting in front of the crackling fireplace, staring into the flames. But when she heard her mom’s voice, she brought her head up fast. Selma was standing there looking down at her, frowning. Her glorious red hair was shorter these days, and a few strands of gray dulled its old vibrancy a little. She still wore the big gaudy jewelry and jewel-toned, free-flowing kaftans, though.

Captains, Lena thought, smiling at her inner witchling.

“Are you okay?” her mother asked.

“I… Ernst McNally is dead.”

Her mother’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, honey—I’m so sorry, I know you cared for him. How did you hear? Did someone call?”

“Bahru came by.”

“Bahru?” Selma blinked her surprise, turning back toward the big oak door she’d just come through. “He was here?”

“Yeah. Showed up in a big Lincoln with one of Ernst’s drivers at the wheel. I tried to get him to stay, but he was in a rush to leave.”

“I wish I’d seen him,” her mother said.

Lena sighed, recalling how much her mother and Bahru had seemed to enjoy bickering over tea recipes. Mom was a top-notch herbal-tea maker. Bahru was no slouch. But that was before…

“He says I’m named in the will, or the baby is, or something. Anyway. The funeral’s tomorrow. He made me promise that I’d be there.”

Selma’s still-auburn eyebrows pressed against each other. “Do you think that’s wise, honey? To travel that far, this late in the pregnancy?”

“It’s only a few hours’ drive. I can handle that.”

“It’s not just the drive I’m worried about. He’ll be there. Can you handle that?”

She meant Ryan. Of course. “I’m sure I can. I knew this day would come, Mom. I have to face him sooner or later. He has a right to know.”

“You could tell him later. After the baby’s here.”

“Keeping it from him this long was wrong. And you know it. And I know you know it, because you’re the one who raised me never to lie.”

“You didn’t lie to him.”

“And you’re also the one who taught me that omissions of this magnitude are the same things as lies.”

Selma pressed her lips together. “Damn thorough, wasn’t I?” She ran a hand over Lena’s hair. “You sure you can handle him?”

“I’m sure.” So why did she feel compelled to avert her eyes when she said it? Lena wondered.

“Okay, if that’s what you want to do. You want me to go with?”

“Mom, I’m not six.”

Selma smiled and nodded, her spiral curls—even tighter than Lena’s longer, looser waves—bouncing with the motion. “What’s that you have there?” she asked, nodding at the box in Lena’s lap.

“I don’t know. Bahru said Ernst wanted me to have it.” Lena stroked the box. “I got lost in thought and forgot about it.”

“Memories?”

Lena nodded and tried to ignore the hot moisture in her eyes.

“You really loved him a lot. It hurts. I know, honey.”

She wasn’t talking about Ernst, but that didn’t need to be said. They both knew what she meant. Flipping open the tiny latch, Lena lifted the lid as her mother leaned over her from behind.

An old, very tarnished chalice lay inside the box, nestled in a red-velvet-lined mold that fit its shape perfectly. Frowning, she lifted it out, held it up, turning it slowly so she could see the dull stones embedded around the outer rim.

“I think that’s silver,” her mother said. She hustled to the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of tarnish remover and a soft cloth. Then she took the chalice and went to work. Leaning forward in her chair, Lena watched the tarnish being rubbed away, the heavy silver gleaming through. Her mother sat down in the matching rocker on the other side of the fireplace, rubbing and scrubbing and polishing. “It’s real silver, all right. Heavy. It must be worth a small fortune. Where on earth did he get this?”

“A street vendor in Tibet. Bahru said the stand was mostly junk, with this just mixed in with all the rest. He said Ernst took one look at it and knew it was meant for me.”

Her mother sighed. “Never knew a rich guy as decent as that one.” And then she paused and held the chalice up. The firelight made it gleam and wink in what Lena now saw were semiprecious gemstones: amethyst, topaz, citrine, quartz, peridot, three others that she thought might be a ruby, an emerald and a blue sapphire.

“It’s old,” her mother said. “And if these stones are as real as this silver is, and I think they are—I know my rocks—”

“I know you do.” Most of the jewelry her mother wore, she had made herself.

“Lena, this cup could be worth thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.”

“It’s worth a lot more than that,” Lena said very softly.

Her mother frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“Remember when I was little, Mom? My first attempt at scrying? The vision I had?”

“The one where you saw your handsome prince. The one you later thought looked just like Ryan.”

“Didn’t look like him. Was him.” She reached for the cup, and her mother handed it to her. “And do you remember the cup I saw in that vision? The one I described to you?”

Selma seemed to search her daughter’s eyes. “Lena, you don’t think—wait. Just wait here, I’ll be right back.” She was out of her chair and up the stairs, heading, Lena had no doubt, to their temple room on the second floor, where they kept their altar and all their witch things. Herbs, oils, books. It was their own sacred space. The house’s chapel, so to speak. Lena studied the cup while she was gone, wondering what on earth all this could mean.

Her mother returned, a Book of Shadows in her hand. An old one. Goddess knew they had filled many over the years, Selma more than Lena, of course. She was flipping pages as she walked. “I remember, I had you draw what you’d seen. You were only eight, but—here. Here it is.” She came to a standstill in front of Lena’s rocker, blinking down at the page, and when she looked up again there was no more doubt in her eyes. Just astonishment.

Turning the book toward Lena, Selma showed her what her eight-year-old hands had drawn in crayon. The shape was the same, the color—well, she’d used the crayon marked “silver,” though what resulted was a pale shade of gray. But most interesting were the gemstones, because they were each a different color and a different shape.

And they matched the ones on the cup.

“They’re even in the same order, at least the ones that show,” her mother whispered, staring at her as if she’d never seen her before. “My Goddess, Lena, it wasn’t your imagination. It was a true vision you received that day.”

“Looks like,” Lena said. “The question now is—what the heck does it all mean?”

“I don’t know.” Selma moved closer, hugging her. “I don’t know, baby. But we’ll figure it out.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, Lena thought.

Ryan McNally sat in the front pew, and felt small and insignificant inside the magnificent cathedral. But it was fitting that his father be memorialized here. He’d been bigger than life, too. Until his wife’s death had brought him to his knees.

When his mother died, Ryan thought, the best part of his father had died with her. He’d loved her so much that losing her had all but demolished him. Ryan had been eleven, and even then he’d known he would never let that happen to him.

He was seated near several of his father’s closest friends—old men, all of them—and Bahru, who had added a black sash to his red robes today, and who looked as if he’d been crying. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, his cheeks even more hollow than usual.

Seeing the old guru like that almost made Ryan rethink his twenty-year belief that the man was nothing but a con. But only until he reminded himself that Bahru had spent a lot of time around actors, prior to latching on to a broken and grieving widower. He’d probably learned a few tricks of the trade, like tears on demand.

Ryan had to give the eulogy. He’d spent a lot of time on it, yet when the priest nodded at him to come up, he found his knees were locked and he couldn’t quite force himself to move.

Bahru put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. “I promise you, it’s all right.”

He didn’t like or trust the man, even resented him—and yeah, that was mostly because Bahru had been closer to his father than Ryan had been himself. Not Bahru’s fault, though. “Of course it is.”

“Would it help to focus your mind elsewhere?”

“Not much could accomplish that today, Bahru.”

Bahru met his eyes. “Magdalena is here.”

He could have sucker punched him in the gut, Ryan thought, and it wouldn’t have distracted him more. Lena had come. He hadn’t thought she would. He’d figured she would send flowers, maybe call, but he hadn’t expected her to come.

He rose easily, moving up to the front, taking his place at the podium and scanning the magnificent cathedral from a brand new angle. The stained glass, the architecture, the statues—the place was more beautiful than a museum, and it touched him. Beautiful things always did, especially art and architecture.

The sacred place was filled to capacity. No press—they’d been asked to remain outside, where the hearse was waiting and the black stretch limos were lined up around the block.

That thought drew his gaze to the fabric-draped coffin that held his father’s remains. And suddenly his throat closed up so tightly that he didn’t think he would be able to force a word through. His father was inside that box. His father. Lifeless. So hard to believe. He was suddenly awash in regret that his old man’s time had run out. He supposed he had always expected they would make things right between the two of them again before it came to this. And now… now he was just gone. Hell.

Someone cleared their throat, and he lifted his head and looked out over the somber crowd, taking in the men in their black suits, the black dresses and even hats on the older women. White tissues flashed like flags here and there. Sniffles and clearing throats echoed from one direction and then another. People he knew, people he didn’t want to know. A few genuine tears, more phony ones. But even with all of that, his eyes found hers without trying. He looked up and right into them. They were wet, and her tears were genuine. She was genuine. Had been all along, but he’d ruined it. Somehow. She was in a pew toward the back, probably hoping to make a quick exit without running into him. But she was staring right at him, and he got lost in her eyes for a second as their gazes locked. He felt her sympathy, her caring, and wondered yet again why the hell she’d left him. Certainly not because he hadn’t been ready to offer her forever after only six weeks. She wasn’t that unreasonable. She wasn’t unreasonable at all.

Or hadn’t been—until that day.

She gave him a sad half smile and a “go ahead, you can do this” nod. He realized that he could, and began. He read his speech with very little emotion, talked about his father’s generous contributions to various causes over the years, the people he’d helped, the jobs he’d created. And then he stopped and shook his head, looked up from his notes and blinked back the first tears he’d shed since he’d heard the news.

“You know, I’ve always believed that most of my father died twenty years ago when his beloved wife, my beautiful mother, was taken from us by a drunk driver. He gave up everything after that. His businesses, his friends… his son. I don’t blame him. Her death destroyed him. And ever since she left us, my father has been on a spiritual quest, traveling the world with Bahru by his side, trying to find the answer to one question. Why?”

He closed his eyes momentarily to compose himself, then nodded and went on. “I’m not a religious man. But I don’t think it ends like this. I would like to think my father is finally getting the answer to that question. And I don’t think we should be sad about that. Because I want to believe he’s getting it straight from my mother.”

He looked at the coffin, pressing his lips together hard to try to stop their trembling. “Yeah. That’s what I want to believe.”

He stepped down as numerous heads nodded in agreement. And then he sat again, and just tried to block it all out and hold himself together. He felt an emotional storm brewing, and he damn well didn’t intend to let it break out in public.

So he thought about Lena instead. She wouldn’t really leave without seeing him. Would she? What was he going to say to her when he saw her again? After all this time, would she finally tell him why she’d left? It had been—almost seven months now.

Seven months without a word. She owed him an explanation.

He couldn’t imagine what it would be, though he’d tried a thousand times. He’d seen it all play out in his mind, had invented lines for her, none of which had ever made any sense. He couldn’t think of a thing that would explain her walking away when they’d been so damn good together. But right now there were a lot of speakers waiting to say a few words about Ernst McNally, most of them hoping to find the ones that would ingratiate themselves with his heir. He had time to kill, and listening to all that insincerity would only make him angry, and he didn’t want to be angry when he saw her again. So instead he forced himself to relax in the pew and thought back to the night he’d first set eyes on her.

“Who is that?” Ryan asked softly, staring past the beautifully dressed elite filling the Waldorf Astoria ballroom, all of them there to honor his father as Now Magazine’s Man of the Year, to the woman who stood chatting with his dad and Bahru. Even among the wealthy, his father stood out. He had a charisma that lifted him head and shoulders above the others. His steel-gray hair was still thick and wavy, his beard just long enough to qualify as “dignified-eccentric” without crossing the border into “aging hippie.” And Bahru was always easy to spot, with his endless graying dreads, leathery skin and his red-and-white robes.

But she was different. She stood out for an entirely different set of reasons, some of which, he sensed, went beyond her appearance. She was beautiful, yes. Piles of dark red hair spiraling and twisting like satin ribbons. A perfect porcelain face. But there were plenty of beautiful women in the room that night. Actresses, models, women who made their living by their beauty. He’d banged many of them.

But this one… this one called to him somehow. Once he spotted her, he couldn’t look anywhere else. “God, what is she doing with the old man?”

Paul, his best and pretty much only real friend, lifted his brows. “You’re asking me as if I’d know. I’m the outsider here, remember? I’m still not sure why you dragged me to this shindig, pal.”

“No, I’m the outsider. And I dragged you here because I had to come, and I didn’t want to do it alone. Remember, though, not a word about our potential venture to anyone.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t have a thing to say to any of these silver spoons types.” Paul blinked. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Paul was a family court lawyer, an entrepreneur, a freaking genius, and had taken to the streets with the 99% protestors a while back. He didn’t care much for the filthy rich. He probably would have lumped Ryan in with the rest if they hadn’t become best friends in college, before Paul had known who Ryan’s father was.

Not that it had mattered. His dad had been long gone at that point. Physically and in every other way.

Ryan nodded in the direction of the woman, just as she laughed, revealing a wide, sexy mouth, perfect teeth. He wondered if it was a real laugh, or if she was faking it for his dad’s benefit. She wore her mounds of fox-red hair in a way that looked careless and pretended to be coming loose but wasn’t really. Her dress was a long black number that hugged her curves like a lover, with a plunging neckline that revealed cleavage to make his mouth water. He couldn’t take his eyes off the swell of her breasts until she turned just so and the slit in the dress parted to reveal a long, long leg and a thigh he wanted to trace with his tongue.

Damn.

“You’re like something out of a monster flick,” Paul muttered. “Perfectly nice guy transforms into a wolf right before my eyes.”

Ryan shrugged. “Call it a hobby.”

“I call it a lie, but you do what you want. I’m out of here. We still on for that meeting tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Ryan jerked his eyes away from the woman and returned them to his friend. He hadn’t been looking for a friend back when they’d met, but Paul was one of those guys you couldn’t help but like. Salt of the earth, as honest as the day was long, just a purely decent human being. So few of those around these days. And he decided not to make him suffer another minute. “Paul, the meeting’s a formality. I’ve already decided. I’m going to fund the project. I think it’s amazing technology, and there’s no one I’d rather partner with.”

Paul just stood there blinking at him. He ran a hand over his bristly chin and blinked. Ryan thought there were tears forming in his eyes behind those Steve Jobs glasses he insisted on wearing.

“Just remember, not a word to anyone, okay? I’m a silent partner. Though I hope you won’t mind if I come around to watch your team in action. I’m as excited about affordable solar energy for everyday Joes as you are.”

“I don’t understand you,” Paul said softly. “I mean, yes, of course I agree to all of that, and thank you. Thank you a million times over.” He cleared his throat, looked down into the glass he held in one hand and had yet to sip from. “But why do you want to be so secretive about it? I mean, come on, Ryan. Wouldn’t it help your image to be known for funding a project to put solar energy within the reach of every American household?”

Ryan smiled. “Help it? It would destroy it.”

Paul blinked. “But—your image is that you’re a spoiled, self-centered, overly indulged, lazy playboy.”

“Exactly. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m about to go play that role to the hilt. See you tomorrow.”

Frowning and shaking his head in bewilderment, Paul muttered good-night, then turned and headed for the hallway and the curving red-carpeted staircase beyond.

Ryan watched him until he was out of sight, just to be sure he didn’t get waylaid by anyone demanding to know who he was and what he did. If his father found out, he would want in. Because though he’d ostensibly walked away from everything, he still had that profit-seeking missile inside him, and he could smell money to be made even from a mountainside in Tibet. He would just order his “people” to handle it—buy Paul out, make him an offer even he couldn’t refuse, and then Paul would see his beautiful, world-saving, idealistic notions slowly taken over by profit-seeking bottom-liners who would turn them into something ugly but lucrative.

Besides, Ryan needed to be part of a few projects where he could be his own man, completely free of his father’s shadow.

Once Paul was in the clear, Ryan made his way through the throng, pausing to return the greetings of all those in attendance, most of whom disapproved of him and made no secret about it, not that he cared, to his father, who stood out even in this crowd of standout individuals.

Ryan had inherited his height from Ernst, who was broad-shouldered and narrow in the hip. In a tux, the man could stop traffic and impose palpitations on female hearts of any age, race or, Ryan suspected, sexual orientation.

But he didn’t care. As far as he knew, Ernst hadn’t been with a woman since his wife, Sarah. Since her death twenty-two years ago, when Ryan had been eleven, Ernst had never been seen, photographed or even rumored to be dallying with any other woman. He must either have gone celibate or been impeccably discreet. Ryan didn’t see him enough to know which, because, as far as he was concerned, Ernst had also lost his mind at that time. His love for Ryan’s mother had been—all-consuming. Too strong. In the end it had destroyed him.

You wouldn’t know it to look at him. He was still a billionaire, still one of the most striking, fascinating men in the world, but a part of him had died that day. The good part.

Beside Ernst, as always, was Bahru, his “spiritual advisor.” He always wore red-and-white robes, was bone-thin, and both his hair and his endless beard of thick, dark dreadlocks had puffs of white showing through here and there. His age was impossible to determine, but for the first time Ryan thought he was showing signs of aging.

Ryan nodded at Bahru, who gave him a pressed-palm “namaste” bow in return. Then he extended a hand toward his father. “Congratulations, Dad.”

“Thank you, Ryan.” His father took his hand in a firm shake and lifted his free arm as if to embrace him, but then sort of eased off and settled for a shoulder pat right at the end.

Awkward. But that was just how things were between them. His father had abandoned him, motherless and eleven, to go off with his guru. He’d put a gulf between them, and it had only widened since.

Then Ryan turned his attention to the actual reason he’d crossed the room to begin with. The gorgeous female. He didn’t look her in the eye but let his gaze stay lowered while he clasped her hand and brought it to his lips. “Ryan McNally,” he said, before he kissed the back of that hand.

Then he straightened and met her eyes.

She stared at him, her big green eyes getting even bigger. She looked at him almost as if she recognized him, but he was damn sure he’d never seen her before. That he would have remembered. “It’s you,” she whispered, and then she jerked her head to the left, as if someone standing next to her had said something.

But no one was standing there.

She tugged her suddenly cold, suddenly trembling hand free of his and said, “Um, I— Lena. Magdalena Dunkirk. I have to go.”

Turning, she hurried away, then stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. It was lovely to meet you.”

Then she was gone, hurrying through the ballroom in heels that should have made speed impossible, while Ryan kept his eyes on her ass the entire way. The dress hugged it tight enough to show what a really nice ass it was.

“Was it something I said?” he asked, turning back to his father only after she was out the door.

“Maybe your reputation preceded you,” Ernst said. “But that’s just as well. She’s a nice girl. I wouldn’t want you breaking her heart.”

“I don’t really want anything to do with her heart,” Ryan said.

I should have known right then that she was trouble, he thought. Should have steered clear of her at all costs.

But how could he have known that she would be the one to break his heart? For the first and only time in his life.

She had run away after a nearly-two-month-long relationship that had been sheer fire because he hadn’t become serious about her fast enough for her liking. At least that was the explanation he’d constructed in his mind as he’d tried to figure out what had happened. He’d always gone out of his way to be very clear with every woman, right from the start, that he was not the getting serious type. He’d tried even harder to play the playboy for Lena’s benefit. The more she got under his skin, the harder he played the role. Apparently she’d realized she was making no progress and walked.

The ironic part was, she was the one woman he’d ever been with who might have had a shot at making him want to get serious. If she’d waited around, maybe…

But in the end, he knew it was for the best. He never wanted to find himself mired in grief the way his father was. To love someone so much that he fell apart when she left. Hell, he’d had a taste of it, the sleepless nights, the recriminations, the missing her, the getting sappy every time any TV show or radio song or meal reminded him of her. If it had been that bad after two months, he’d definitely been heading for trouble. Doing exactly what he’d sworn he would never do.

It was good that she’d left. Now he was back on track again, cool and free, and not caring. Playing the playboy. It was easier to maintain that image without her.

The crowd of people filling the pews of St. Pat’s were muttering, which was his signal to stop reliving the past and start paying attention again to his father’s funeral service. It didn’t matter anyway. She’d dumped him and run away. It was over. She had come here to pay her respects to his dad. It was the decent thing to do, and she’d always been decent.

The priest had finished, and the pallbearers were moving up to take their places beside the coffin. Bahru and Ryan were the lead pair, so he had to get in gear. Reaching the front, where the casket rested on a stand, he took hold of the brass handle. It was cold to the touch, and the coffin wasn’t as heavy as he would have expected it to be. Then again, there were six of them. The other four were all on his father’s board of directors.

Fine showing at the end of a life. An estranged son, a Hindi con man and a handful of business partners as pallbearers. That said a lot. Said it all, really.

He didn’t want to go out that way, he thought. Friendless and alone.

And then he wondered, as that thought flitted into his mind and he carried his father’s casket down the aisle toward the big doors, if he died right now, today, who would be carrying him to his waiting hearse? Paul, he guessed. And a handful of other men he’d helped in their businesses and who he supposed were friends. Sort of.

He really didn’t have any friends other than Paul.

Maybe he wasn’t as different from his old man as he liked to think he was.

As he passed by the pew in the back where Lena had been sitting, he looked for her, but she was gone, and a sigh of disappointment rushed out of him. Involuntary but unavoidable. Maybe she would be at the graveside service.

He hoped so.