The Tycoon

The déjà vu of it was sickening. Heartbreaking. I sucked in air but it wasn’t enough. I felt like I was drowning.

Bea grabbed my hand. “Ronnie,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“No. No. I’m not going to do this. We don’t…know who she is. Or who the kid is. I’m not going to jump to these conclusions.” I put it away. All that irrational jealousy. The fear. I set it aside.

I climbed out of the car and lifted my hand to wave hello. But in my heart, all I could think was, Please, please don’t be true.

There were a thousand other explanations, but because my father had made me all too familiar with the worst possible one, I was prone to come to that conclusion. But I refused.

He’d promised. He’d volunteered to write it into the agreement.

He’d fucking cuddled.

He couldn’t do that and have a mistress on my own damn land!

“Hi!” I said and stopped at the foot of the steps. The woman looked at me with a reserved smile. There was nothing reserved about the boy, who practically radiated happiness.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“Yeah, you can,” Bea said, stepping up next to me. I put my hand on her arm. I didn’t need her going junkyard dog on me.

“My name is Veronica King,” I said. “My father—”

“Hank,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“It wasn’t much of a loss,” Bea said.

I nudged her with my elbow. “Anyway, I inherited the land and I just wanted to see what was out here.”

“You inherited this land?” The woman asked with pure skepticism and I nodded. “Does Clayton know?”

“Of course. We’re in negotiations so he can buy it. But—”

“Well, it’s about time for that. Paying rent on this place is just plain stupid.”

“Who are you?” Bea asked, loud and clear.

The woman looked at Bea like she’d lost her mind. “My name’s Maggie.”

“You live here?”

“I work here.”

“And him?” Bea pointed to the little boy. The woman put her arm around him, tugging him to her side. “My son comes with on Mondays. What the hell is going on?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t actually know what’s going on. What is your job?”

“Maggie?” a slow voice called out. “What’s the ruckus?” From inside the house we heard a slide and a thump. And then another and another until there was a man with a walker standing at the door, slightly obscured by the screen.

“Just some visitors,” Maggie said and opened the door so the man could come outside. Her son got in on the action and lifted the front of the walker over the elevated doorframe. This appeared to be familiar work for everybody.

“Who is he?” Bea whispered.

“I have no idea,” I whispered back as I watched the old man sit himself down in a rocking chair. Next to a beat-up chessboard.

The boy climbed up on the seat opposite him and the two of them started to play a game of chess.

“I’m so confused.” I said.

“Dale,” Cindy said. “This is Veronica King and—”

“Veronica?” The old man looked at me with suddenly sharp eyes. “How do I know that name?”

Dale had clearly had a stroke. The left side of his body was delayed, as was his speech. I opened my mouth to explain that I was Hank King’s daughter, that I owned the land.

“She’s the woman Clayton told you about,” Cindy said, and you could have knocked me over with a feather.

“That’s right,” he said, smiling in my direction. “He’s trying to make things right with you. How’s the boy doing?”

Bea and I shared a look. This was not at all what we’d been expecting.

“He’s, ah…doing all right,” I finally said.

“Would you like to come in?” Maggie asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping my voice so Dale couldn’t hear me. “I’m at a loss. Dale is the man who lives here? And your job is taking care of him?”

Maggie nodded. “He was on his own out here until about six years ago when he had his stroke. Clayton pays for care here rather than moving him to a nursing home.”

“Why?”

“Well, nursing homes aren’t always suitable.”

“No. I mean, why does Clayton pay for him to live here?”

Maggie looked from me to Bea and back to me. “Dale is Clayton’s father.”

20

CLAYTON

The buzzer went off in my condo, and it was such an unfamiliar sound that it took me a second to recognize it.

“Yes?” I said when I pushed the button near the door to my suite.

“You have a guest,” the doorman said.

“There must be a mistake. I’m not expecting anyone.”

“Veronica King,” he said, and I swear to God, the thrill that went through me. It was almost embarrassing.

“Send her up.”

I’d sent her the codes last week. Why wasn’t she using them and coming straight up? She was the kind of person who would have them locked down in her memory.