The Story of Son(8)
Author: J.R. Ward

She stopped in front of him and held out the tray. "It's time."

His eyes lifted to hers and they shimmered for a reason other than their extraordinary color. Tears hovered at the base of his thick lashes.

She put the tray on the bedside table and wrapped her arms around him, but somehow he ended up holding her. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to take care of you."

As he looked down into her face, he whispered, "I love you."

"Oh, God . . . I love you—"

"And I will miss you forever."

One of his tears hit her cheek as she started to push free in a panic. But then he passed his hand before her face and all went blank.

6

Three weeks later. . .

Claire stared out of her office window at the painfully clear autumn sky. The sunlight was so bright and the air so dry that the hard edges of the skyscrapers were honed to something like optical knives, the buildings cutting into her sight, giving her a headache. Man, she was tired. "What the hell are you doing?"

She swiveled away from the view and looked across her desk. "Oh, Mick. It's you."

Mick Rhodes, former lover, partner in the firm, all-around good guy, took up the whole space between her doorjambs. "You're leaving?" When she just nodded, he shook his head. "You're not pulling out. You can't walk away. What the hell are—"

"I've lost the burn, Mick."

"Since when? Back at the end of August you were eating opposing counsel for lunch on the Technitron merger!"

"I'm not hungry anymore." Which was both a professional figurative and a literal truth. She hadn't had any appetite for the last week.

Mick yanked his red tie loose and shut the door behind himself. "So take a vacation. Take a month. But don't throw your whole career in the shitter over what is just a case of the momentary burnouts. So Technitron didn't go through. There'll be other deals."

Absently, she listened to the sound of the phone ringing on Martha's desk just out in the hall. And the talk of other attorneys as they hurried by her. And the bird-pecking sounds of a printer.

"I've always loved your name," she said softly. "Did I ever tell you that?"

Mick's eyes popped like she was nuts. Well, natch on that. She'd been feeling nuts ever since Labor Day weekend when instead of working, she'd slept for three days straight.

Truth was, she was worried that she was why the Technitron deal hadn't gone through. Ever since that lost weekend, she'd been fuzzy. Soft. Anxious and distracted.

"Claire, maybe you should talk with—"

She shook her head. "Except why do you use Mick? I've never known you as anything other than Mick. Michael is such a . . . beautiful name."

"Um, yeah. Listen, I really think you should talk with someone."

He was probably right. At night, she couldn't sleep because she was plagued by dreams and during the day she was preoccupied by a depression for which there was no basis. Sure, Technitron had fallen apart, and maybe some of it was her fault, but that just couldn't account for her prevailing listlessness or the ache in the center of her chest.

Martha knocked and put her head in. "Excuse me, your doctor's on line two and I thought you might want to know that old Miss Leeds died. Her butler left a message Tuesday that got lost in the system. I only found it now."

Miss Leeds.

Claire put her hand up to her head as a wave of disassociated hatred washed through her and her temples started to pound. "Ah, thanks, Martha. Mick, I'll talk to you later. I think Friday's my last day, by the way. I haven't totally decided."

"What? You can't take off that fast."

"I've drafted a list of my files and clients and the status of everything. I'll let the rest of you fight over them."

"Jesus Christ, Claire—"

"Shut the door on your way out. And Martha, please find out the where and when on Miss Leeds's funeral, please."

When she was alone, she picked up the phone. "This is Claire Stroughton."

"Please hold for Dr. Hughes."

Claire frowned and wondered what she needed to talk to the doctor about. The tests she'd had done yesterday weren't supposed to be back for several days—

"Hi, Claire." Emily Hughes was typically to the point. Which was why Claire liked her. "I know you're busy so I won't waste your time. You're pregnant. Which is why you've been feeling tired and nauseated."

Claire blinked. Then rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not."

"You're about three to four weeks along."

"Not possible."

"I know you're on the Pill. But the antibiotics you took at the end of August for that cold could have reduced its effectiveness—"

"It's not possible because I haven't had sex." Well, at least not in real life. Her dreams had been hot as hell lately and probably part of the reason why she was so exhausted. She kept waking up in the middle of the night, writhing, covered in sweat and wet between her legs. Try as she might she could never remember what her dream lover looked like, but God, he made her feel spectacular—at least until the end of the fantasies. They always parted at the end and she always woke up in tears.

"Claire, you can become pregnant without technically hav**g s*x."

"Okay, let me be more clear. I haven't been with a man in over a year. So I'm not pregnant. Your back room must have gotten my blood sample mixed up with someone else's. It is the only logical explanation. Because, trust me, I would have remembered hav**g s*x."

There was a long pause. "Would you mind coming down and giving another sample?"

"No problem. I'll stop by tomorrow."

When she hung up, Claire looked around her office and imagined herself taking down her diplomas from Harvard and Yale. She wasn't sure where she would go. Maybe upstate. Caldwell, for instance, was really nice. And it wasn't like she needed to work. She had plenty of money, and if she got bored she could put her shingle out and do a little legal work for private individuals. She was good at wills and anyone with half a brain could close a residential real estate deal.

Martha knocked and stuck her head in again. "Miss Leeds's funeral starts in a half hour, but it's private. There's a reception afterward at the estate, though, which you could make if you left now."

Did she really feel like driving all the way up to Caldwell? For a dead client who, for some reason, she hated now?

God, she had no clue why she absolutely despised poor, elderly, nutty Miss Leeds.

Martha pushed her sleek silver glasses up on her nose. "Claire . . . you look like hell. Don't go."

Except she couldn't not go. Even though her head throbbed to the beat of her heart and her stomach was rolling, there was no way she wasn't making the drive. She had to get there.

"Call for my car. I'm going to Caldwell."

Claire parked at the end of the Leedses' estate driveway, capping off a line of some fifty cars that stretched all the way up to the mansion. She didn't use the valets because she wasn't going to stay long and there was no reason to wait for someone to bring the Mercedes around. Plus she needed a little fresh air.

And, as it turned out, a bottle of aspirin. The moment she stepped out of the sedan and looked up at the big stone house, her head screamed with pain. Sagging against the Mercedes's hard body, she took shallow breaths as dread washed through her.

Evil was in that house. There was evil in that house.

"Ma'am? You okay?"

It was one of the parking attendants. A young kid of about twenty or so, dressed in a white polo shirt that had mcclane's parking on the breast in red thread.

"I'm fine." She carefully leaned in for her B irk in then shut her door. When she turned to smile at the guy, he was looking at her funny, like she was about to faint and he was praying she didn't on his watch.

"Ah, ma'am, I'm just getting this car right here." He nodded to the Lexus in front of her. "Do you want a ride up to the house in it?"

"Thanks, but I'll just walk up."

"Okay . . . if you're sure."

She went up the drive, eyes fixated on the gray stone house. She was shaking by the time she stepped up to the front door and lifted the knocker. Light-headed, weak, she felt as though she had the flu again; with hot and cold waves assaulting her body and her head pounding.

The door was opened by Fletcher.

Claire stumbled back in the face of the old man, her panic going out of control for absolutely no good reason.

Except abruptly she was rescued.

Her lawyer instincts, the ones that made her so good at confronting opposing counsel, the ones that made her a killer negotiator, the ones that had kicked in time after time when she couldn't afford to have her emotions show . . . her instincts clamped down on the out-of-the-blue panic and dread and calmed her instantly.

You never show weakness to your enemy. Ever.

Although why the hell an elderly butler would engender such a reaction, who the hell knew? Still, she was grateful because at least she didn't feel like she was going to pass out anymore. Once fogged, now she was clear.

Claire smiled coolly and extended her hand, the sounds of the wake inside bubbling in her ears.

"I'm sorry for your loss. And I brought the will." She patted her shoulder bag.

"Thank you, Miss Stroughton." Fletcher looked down, his drooping eyes even lower than usual. "I shall miss her."

"We can go over the will next week or do it after the wake. Whatever is best for you."

He nodded. "Tonight would be best. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

"No problem." Claire flashed him her teeth and gripped the straps on her bag tightly. As she walked into the foyer, the fact that she wanted to use some of Hermes's best as a weapon against him was a shocker.

Claire joined the throng of people milling about between the dining room and the living room. She nodded to a number of folks, several of whom were CEOs of the companies the Leeds family had interests in and Claire's firm represented. Out of the rest of the hundred or so men and women, she guessed at least half were senior staff from various philanthropies. No doubt anticipating a huge payday.

As she bumped shoulders and declined passed hors d'oeuvres and tried to figure out why she was in battle mode when there was nothing to fight against, her eyes kept going over to the grand staircase. There was something about it. . . something . . . behind it.

Working her way through the crowd, she went over to the foot of the great, rising spread of steps. Putting her hand on the ornate balustrade, a voice came into her head, one that overrode all the noise of talk and her headache and her urge to kill Fletcher.

Behind the stairs. Go behind the stairs. Find the elevator.

Without stopping to wonder how she knew what was back there, she slipped around to the flank of the staircase and found her way into a little alcove . . .

Where there was an elevator. An old-fashioned brass and glass one.

Take it to the basement.

The voice was undeniable and she reached out to slide the filigreed gate wide. Just before she stepped in she looked up. There was a lightbulb mounted at the top.

If she used the lift, that thing was going to send a signal. And her instincts told her to hide her tracks. If Fletcher knew where she was going, she wouldn't be able to . . .

Well, shit, she didn't know what she was doing. The only thing that was clear was that she had to get down to the basement without him knowing.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw a door beneath the curving staircase and went over to it. There was a brass bolt lock at the top and she flipped it free before trying the handle.

Pay dirt.

On the other side, there was a set of rough stairs, lit by cloudy, ancient yellow lightbulbs. She glanced behind her. No one was paying any attention to her and more important, Fletcher was nowhere to be seen.

Slipping into the stairwell, she closed the door after her and descended, her heels making a clipping sound that echoed around her.

Damn, they were loud.

She paused and removed her pumps, slipping them into the Birkin. Making no noise now, she moved even faster, her instincts on high alert. God, the staircase went on forever, its stone walls and floor reminding her of an Egyptian pyramid, and she felt like she was halfway to China before she came to the first landing. And still there was farther to go.

As she went down, the temperature dropped, which was good. The cooler it got, the more focused she became until her headache was gone and her body was nothing but harnessed energy. She felt as if she were on a rescue mission, although damned if she knew who or what she was springing from the basement.

The stairs dumped out into a corridor made of the same stone as the rest of the house. Lights mounted in the ceiling glowed dimly, barely penetrating the darkness.

Did she go left or right? To the left, there was just more hallway. To the right. .. there was just more hallway.

Go to the right.

She went down about fifty yards, maybe seventy-five, her stockinged feet quiet, the only sounds the bumping of her bag on her ribs and the rustle of her clothes. She was about to lose hope and turn back when she found . . . a huge door. The thing was like what you'd expect to run across in a castle's dungeon, all studded with iron supports and with a sliding bar lock as thick as her thigh.

The moment she saw the thing, she started to weep uncontrollably.

Sobbing, she walked up to the stout oak panels. At about eye level, there was a peephole of some sort. She arched up onto her tiptoes and looked—

"You shouldn't be down here."

She wheeled around. Fletcher was standing right behind her, one of his arms discreetly behind his back.

Claire wiped her eyes. "I'm lost."

"Yes, you are."

She slipped one hand into her shoulder bag and another into her suit jacket pocket.

"Why did you come down here?" the butler asked, stepping nearer.

"I wasn't feeling well. When I found the door under the stairs, I wanted to get away from the crowd so I just wandered down here."

"Instead of going out to the gardens?"

"There were people there. A lot of them."