A picture flashed of Harold that was only two or three years old, so he appeared very frail. It faded and was replaced by a very recent photo of Faith. She didn't have to struggle to recollect when it was taken: her first date with Lucas.
They were at the restaurant where they'd gone to eat, and she'd just stepped out of his limo. The expensive car was behind her, as if she'd posed in front of it, as if it was hers. She was wearing her sexy black dress and spiky silver heels, and she'd never been more beautiful or more glamorous.
She didn't recall seeing a photographer that night, so he must have been lurking in the bushes. He'd managed to get the perfect shot, one that absolutely conveyed the image Lucas was trying to portray: rich, gorgeous, bored, and very, very young—much too young and much too pretty to have married such an aged man unless she'd done it for nefarious purposes.
She clicked off the TV as Gracie fumed, "The little shit."
"Did I look smug?"
"Yes."
"Crap."
"When was the picture taken? Do you remember?"
"On our date when we went to dinner."
"He must have planned it."
"Could he really be that calculating?"
The moment Faith asked the question, she realized how naïve she sounded.
Of course he could be that calculating. He was a Merriweather. Harold had told her plenty of horror stories and she'd believed every one.
"He set you up," Gracie said, "then he slept with you afterward. That is so low."
"It's lower than low." An alarming prospect rattled her. "You don't suppose he has a video of us. Would he have made a sex tape?"
"If he did, we still have that gun of Harold's in the hall closet. He taught me how to load and fire it. I'll track Lucas down and murder him."
Faith chuckled miserably. "I don't understand this."
"Neither do I."
"I thought he liked me."
"He did. I could tell."
"Then why would he act like this? He has to know I'll never speak to him again. We're back to battling over the money."
"This is his version of foreplay. He thinks you'll be impressed by macho posturing."
"He could have just never called me. He didn't have to be so mean."
"He's a Merriweather," Gracie pointed out. "Cruelty is in his blood."
"Bryce and Peanut will be dragged into the middle of any public fight. Why would he want that?"
"He's a man, and they're all fools. It probably never occurred to him that there would be consequences for the kids."
"Their lives will be splashed across the tabloids."
The phone rang again and they both grimly stared at it.
"Should I answer?" Gracie asked.
"No," Faith said, but Gracie went over and picked it up anyway.
She listened for a moment, then barked, "No, you may not."
A pause. "Because she doesn't wish to talk to you, and even if she did, I wouldn't let her." A second pause. "Well, I have a gun, and if I see you out in my yard, I'll shoot you with it."
She slammed down the receiver.
"Who on earth was that?" Faith inquired.
"Lucas Merriweather."
"He had the nerve to call me?"
"He wants to see you. He wants to
explain
."
"I'd rather have all my teeth pulled without an anesthetic."
"My thought exactly."
"He wouldn't dare show up here, would he?"
"If he does," Gracie said, "he'll be sorry he tangled with me."
The phone rang yet again, and Gracie unplugged it. "We don't need to have that turned on."
Faith peeked out the window. Another news van had joined the first.
Would she become a hostage in her own home? Would she have to run a gauntlet of microphones and cameras whenever she walked outside?
She staggered over to a chair and slumped down.
"My heart's broken," she said. "I hardly knew him, and my heart's broken anyway."
"Be glad you didn't have time to grow too attached, honey. You'll get over him in a hurry."
"I hope so."
"Especially after you consider what an ass he is. You won't be sad. You'll be very, very angry."
"I'm already there."
"Good. Now let's have breakfast. I refuse to let Lucas Merriweather ruin my day."
Faith gaped at her. Could Gracie really get over it—just like that? Faith couldn't. She and Lucas had had such a potent connection. Would she never see him again? It didn't seem possible, yet what other ending could there be?
"Go ahead and eat without me," she told Gracie. "I'm not feeling very well."
She trudged out, close to weeping and not even sure why she was bereft. His true character had been revealed. He was a
snake in the grass.
She should have known better, but she'd been lured in by that handsome face, by that charm and charisma. Too distraught for words, she climbed to her room and locked herself in, wondering if she would ever come out.
* * *
"No comment."
Lucas pushed past a reporter, but another mike instantly appeared. How many stinking news stations were here?
The street in front of Faith's house was lined with vans. Reporters and their crews were hovering, waiting for something to happen.
By showing up, he'd certainly given them a scoop. Not that they'd needed one. He shouldn't have driven to Boulder—Gracie had been very clear in telling him not to—but he never listened to women, and he wasn't about to start.
"Lucas! Lucas!" A skinny blond reporter hustled up.
"Beat it," he growled.
She was undaunted. "What are you doing? Are you serving papers on her? Are you here to seize the house?"
The idiotic questions brought him stumbling to a halt.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Give me something I can use. Our readers are fascinated. How did she trick him into marrying her? Was he in possession of his faculties? How would you describe his mental state at the time of his death?"
Lucas rolled his eyes. How would they react if he admitted he hadn't seen his grandfather since he was a small boy, that he had no clue as to Harold's mental
faculties
or anything else.
Other reporters circled, trying to hear his every word, and he demanded, "Don't you people have somewhere more important to be?"
"What's your problem, Merriweather?" a thuggish man asked. "You're the one who set your dogs on her."
"I didn't. I have no idea where that story came from, but I deny it. I can officially say that neither I—nor my family—has any quarrel with Ms. Benjamin."
"That's not what your brother told me," someone said.
Lucas didn't respond. He wasn't about to get into a debate
over Dustin's allegations. The situation was already hideous, and he wouldn't exacerbate it.
"Be careful what you print or say," Lucas warned. "If I
am slandered, or if Ms. Benjamin is misrepresented, you'll answer to me."
He shoved through the mob and marched up her sidewalk, fervently wishing he hadn't come.
When Gracie had hung up on him, he'd been thoroughly annoyed, so he'd jumped in his car and raced to Boulder. He'd never considered that they might be under siege, but he should have guessed.
What tale could be juicier than a beautiful young woman swindling a doddering, elderly man out of millions of dollars?
Cameras filmed his every stride. If Faith refused to let him in, the entire, humiliating episode would be captured on tape. But it was too late to turn around. His retreat would be captured too. He couldn't decide what to do except keep moving forward.
He hurried up her steps and knocked. He rang the bell. He knocked again.
She had to know who was on her stoop, who was pounding so vehemently. The fact that she was ignoring him, that she would let him dangle in the wind with all the reporters smirking and laughing, lit his temper on fire.
"Faith, dammit!" he muttered. "Open up! Right now!"
Footsteps stomped toward him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The door was jerked wide, and Faith was there.
"Stop pounding on my door!" she hissed.
"If you'd answer like a normal, courteous human being, I wouldn't have to make all this noise."
"How dare you come here. What do you want?"
"We have to talk."
"I'd rather be boiled in hot oil than talk to you."
"Could we discuss this inside?"
"No. Go away."
She started to close the door in his face, but he was much larger than she was, and he blustered his way in. He yanked the door from her grasp and slammed it, shutting out all the nonsense in her yard. Suddenly, it was very quiet, and they
were alone. They squared off like a pair of boxers about to battle.
She was angry? Well he was too.
Did she think he enjoyed all this chaos? He'd been her biggest champion.
He
had defended her to his family, to his lawyers, and this was the thanks he got?
Was he supposed to ignore Dustin's tape?
Dustin was out for blood, eager to have her arrested, to have her bank accounts frozen until Harold's estate could be adjudicated.
If he succeeded, she'd be sucked into a legal black hole that would take years to resolve. Who would care for Peanut and Bryce? What about Grace? Lucas figured she was retired. How would she support herself? How would she support the children?
"A press conference, Lucas?" she sneered. "You had to hold a press conference? I had to learn about it from a reporter."
"It was my brother Dustin."
"Oh that certainly makes me feel better."
She walked to a table in the corner, grabbed some papers off it, and threw them at him. As they drifted to the floor, he could see they were copies of the photos from Dustin's private detective.
"I downloaded those," she charged. "You posted them on the internet!"
"It wasn't me."
"Isn't it interesting how there was a photographer hiding in the bushes during our date? How he captured my every move and glance?"
"I didn't know he was there. I swear it."
"I don't believe you. How much did you pay him?"
"Dustin hired him and paid him." He was blaming the whole situation on Dustin. Even to his own ears, he sounded weak and ridiculous.
"Silly me," she raged. "I assumed our date was completely innocent. I should have guessed you had spies following me."
Her fists were clenched, her body trembling. She oozed disdain, and on observing it, he was incensed.
He was the one who'd been wronged. Not her.
"I don't need all this attitude from you," he said.
She gasped. "Attitude? Let me tell you something, mister: This isn't attitude. This is pure, animalistic, unadulterated hatred. Get out of my house."
"Not until you explain yourself to me."
"Explain myself! For the past five years, I was here, taking care of your grandfather."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. I cleaned up after him, I helped him, I nursed him when he was ill. I was his friend." She scoffed with disgust. "Where were you, Mr. High-and-Mighty?"
"Don't change the subject."
"This
is
the subject." She slapped a palm over her heart. "
I
was the one he trusted.
I
was the one he could count on."
"Then what am I supposed to think about this?"
He reached into his jacket and brought out the tape recorder. With a furious click, he jammed his thumb on the play button. Her voice filled the room.
Who wants a couple of tiny diamonds? You know I only like men who shower me with millions.
Like Harold?
Yes. What are a few paltry diamonds when I can have the whole bank account?
Her eyes were wide with dismay, and he scrutinized her, trying to figure out what he was witnessing. Was she surprised at being taped? Guilty at being caught? Angry at being tricked? All of those things?
"That's me," she muttered, frowning, "talking to Angela."
"It certainly is."
"Where did you…how did you…"
She stammered to a halt and looked around the living room, struggling to remember where and when the conversation had occurred.
Realization settled in, and she accused, "It was recorded right here in my house. In my kitchen—while I was cooking supper."
"So you don't deny it."
"Of course I don't deny it."
She stared at him, her derision clear. "You wired Angela.
You deliberately sent her to tape me."
"It was her idea."