The Promise (15 page)

Yes, she replied.

A storm raged around the great house of SwanSea the next night. Rain slashed at the stone walls, lightning bright as day lit the rooms, thunder crashed as if the sky and SwanSea’s heart was breaking apart.

It was as if the house knew what she was about to do and didn’t approve,
Sharon thought, lying beside Conall in his bed.

No, she couldn’t think about it. The arrangements were made, and she had no intention of backing out. She had to leave.

Her bags were packed and in the other bedroom. A cab would be waiting at the bottom of the drive for her. A small chartered plane was gassed and ready at the airport. It was two-thirty now. She would leave in thirty minutes.

She listened to Conall’s even breathing and said a small, silent prayer of thanks that he was sleeping so soundly. He had no idea that she planned to bolt, and she didn’t have the heart or the mental strength to tell him. Their two weeks wouldn’t be up for another four days. He would argue with her; more than likely she would give in. And that wouldn’t be good for either of them.

No, it was best she leave. No matter which way she looked at their situation, she saw impossibility. He would never trust her, and without trust there was no love. And if by some chance she did become pregnant, was in fact already pregnant—

No, it was best she leave. She would never be able to believe he wanted her for her sake alone if she were pregnant.

Besides, she had other plans, plans she had made right from the beginning.

Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she rose up on her elbow and softly kissed him. Then she slipped from the bed and went into the other room. She dressed quickly, and carrying her luggage, left the house by a back door.

The storm was moving out to sea. The time between the claps of thunder and bursts of lightning was longer now. And the rain had slackened.

But SwanSea remained as always: A sentry standing guard, protector of its own.

As the cab started away, Sharon turned in the seat to rub the condensation from the rear window. She wanted to get one last glimpse of the place where for a short time she had known such happiness.

What she saw didn’t surprise her.

Black clouds scudded over the chimney tops of the great house. Around it, trees bowed with the wind. No light shone from its windows.

SwanSea was fiercely angry.

Sharon was gone.

At first, when Conall awoke to find her missing from the bed, he assumed she had gotten up early and gone downstairs to breakfast or for a ride. But since she had never done either of those things without him, he soon began to look for her. And when he couldn't find her in any of the obvious places, he turned to the staff.

They had made champagne jelly for him from a rare and expensive vintage of wine, and they had divided M&M’s by color for him, but they couldn’t find Sharon for him.

She was gone.

Eight

Conall flung a file folder down on his desk and shot a killing look at his phone. He’d been back in Boston just over twenty-four hours, and during that time there hadn’t been too many minutes when his mind hadn’t been on Sharon and whether or not he should call her.

His emotions were in turmoil. He didn’t understand why she had left, but he especially didn’t understand how she could have bolted without telling him or even giving any indication of what she planned to do.

He had never laughed as much with anyone as he had with her. He had never known such ecstasy. He had enjoyed their quiet times together just as much as he had those times when they were being outrageous. And he would have bet everything he owned that she felt the same way.

He was hurt, and he was hurting.

Dammit, why hadn’t she called him since her return?

Granted, he hadn’t called her, but then he wasn’t the one who had stolen out of SwanSea in the dead of night.

His hand went to the phone, then jerked away.

He knew why he hadn’t called her.
Pride.
He had once heard his mother call pride the Achilles’ heel of the Deverell men. A lot she knew.

He snatched up the receiver and punched out the number he had memorized over the last hours. It rang once, twice, and then was picked up.

"Hello, Sharon—”

He heard four very irritating tones, then a woman’s voice. “We’re sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number or try your call again. This is a recording.”

He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.
Disconnected?
What in the hell kind of game was Sharon playing? When he got hold of her, he was going to wring her lovely neck—

He tensed. What if she had been hurt? What if she were sick? Lord, what if she were in some kind of danger? He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since sometime after midnight two nights before.
Anything
could have happened to her.

His heart racing madly, he shot out of his chair and dashed for the door.

Boston traffic had never seemed worse, and by the time he arrived at the brownstone where she lived, his nerves felt like live electrical wires, arching and sparking high voltage.

He bounded up the stairs, ready to tear into her for worrying him so, for leaving him.

He pounded on the door with his fist. “Sharon? Come on, answer the door, dammit.”

A door downstairs opened and an old man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Here now, what’s all the ruckus?”

Conall Ignored the man and beat on the door again.

The man took hold of the handrail and with labored steps climbed the stairs. “Young man,” he said when he reached Conall, “you're creating a helluva disturbance, plus you’re wasting your time. Do us all a favor and stop before I have to call the police.”

Conall rounded on him. “Do you know where Sharon Graham is?”

“No, but I do know she’s not in that apartment. She moved out.”

Conall went still. "That’s impossible. She’s been with me the last week or so and back here just a little over twenty-four hours. No one could move an entire apartment that quickly.”

The man rocked back on his heels. “It would have been hard, all right, for her to do it that way. Not saying she couldn’t have, you understand, but she didn’t. She had everything boxed and ready to go when she left town. Then while she was gone, some movers came in, packed it up in a truck, and took off.”

Conall’s mind closed down, refusing to accept what he was hearing. “Who has the key to this apartment? I want to see for myself.”

The man eyed Conall warily, but pulled a set of keys from his pockets. “I’m the landlord, and I’ll be glad to let you have a look, but you’ll have to promise not to do any damage.” At Conall’s terse nod, he inserted the key and opened the door for him.

“Will you be long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, just knock on my door on your way out so that I'll know you’ve left.”

Conall had half expected her to be there, as if this were all some weird joke she was playing on him and he hadn’t gotten the punch line. But he found, instead, an emptiness so complete it staggered him.

The waills, the windows, the floors,
everything
was bare. The apartment had been stripped. All her fragrance, all signs of her personality had vanished ... as if she had never even been in those rooms, much less lived there.

His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked down the short hall. In the kitchen he opened and closed a few cabinets but found nothing. A phone sat on the counter beside a dog-eared Boston phone book. He knew the phone had been disconnected but picked it up anyway. The line was dead.

An awful desolation swamped him.

He walked back into the living room, remembering the first night he had come to the apartment. He had been bothered by its femininity and charm. Looking back, he could see now that she had created a nest, a soft retreat from a hard world, a place to be nurtured and to nurture.

She had wanted a baby and had never tried to pretend any differently. Without wrapping the matter in pretty paper, she had told him straight out she wanted to use him to get her pregnant.

He wasn’t sure from where her firm belief came that he could father a child for her. Perhaps because of the hell she’d gone through ten years before, her mind had
wished
so often that he was fertile, it had become true to her. Who knew what went on in another person’s mind? He obviously didn’t. Not hers, at any rate.

Maybe she had left because she had finally accepted he was unable to give her the child she wanted. Maybe, wherever she’d moved, she’d find someone who could make her pregnant and she’d finally have the happiness she deserved.

He closed his eyes as a wave of pain hit him.
Let her go in peace, Conall,
he told himself.
She's had enough torment in her life. Let her go.

“Did she give the landlord a forwarding address?” Amarillo asked, scribbling in a small brown leather notebook.

Conall shook his head, his expression bleak.

“All right, but I’ll check back with him anyway.I want to see the apartment myself.”

“There’s nothing there.” Conall stared sightlessly at his desk. “It’s totally empty. She didn’t leave so much as a scrap of paper behind. But you should have seen it when she lived there. It was warm, sweet, very homey.”

Amarillo’s tawny-gold eyes narrowed on him. “Don’t worry about the forwarding address. I can check with the phone and utility companies. She will have given them an address where they can send the closing bills. Then there’s her bank. If she’s left town, she will sooner or later transfer her money to a bank near her new place of residence. In this society, there’s a hell of a lot of paperwork, and paper leaves a trail.”

Conall plucked a sleek gold ball-point pen from its black marble-based holder, studied it as if he weren’t sure why it was in his hand, then returned the pen to its sheath. “It’s hard for me to believe that she set these plans in motion before we even went to SwanSea. All that time we were together there, she knew she was going to do this.”

Amarillo studied the tip of one boot. “Are you sure you want me to find her?”

Conall blinked, his mental haze cleared, and the sandy-haired man sitting across from him came into sharp, clear focus. “I’m absolutely sure.”

“Think about it. Maybe it would be best to drop it.”

“I can’t.”

“Are you sure? What she’s done is stone cold calculating, not to mention devious as hell.”

“Or maybe it’s desperate. No, Rill, I want her found, and I want her found as soon as possible.” Amarillo expelled a long breath, then checked his notebook. “Okay, then. We’ll do it your way. Is there anything else you can think of that I should know? Names of friends? Clubs or organizations to which she might have belonged?”

“Did I tell you where she works?” He grimaced. “Worked, I mean.”

Amarillo nodded.

“Then, that’s all I know. Hell, I can’t even tell you if she owns a car or not.”

Amarillo closed his notebook, leaned back in the chair, and looked at his friend with a gaze that held an innate wisdom and a wealth of experience, not all of it good. “You know, don’t you, that you’re in love with her?”

"I know,” Conall said quietly. “I know.”

“You look like hell,” Amarillo said, dropping down into a chair in Conall’s den and grimly surveying the three-day growth of beard on his face. “Thanks.”

“Have you slept, or is that a foolish question? And how about food?”

“Forget food, forget sleep. How about Sharon? Have you found her?”

“The lady doesn’t want to be found, Conall. It’s as simple as that.”

“Are you trying to tell me you can't find her?”

The gold eyes glittered. “Ill never tell you that because I don’t give up. Ever. I will find her. But it’s going to take time, maybe a lot of time.” Conall wearily rubbed his face. “What have you learned?”

“To begin with, I can tell you with complete assurance that no one has left this city in the last week by plane, train, or bus with a ticket in the name of Sharon Graham. Her landlord told me that as long as she lived at the brownstone— which was four years, by the way—she didn’t own a car, and I can find no recent records that she’s bought one. That means she’s either still in Boston, or she flew out of here using another name.”

 “She’s not here in Boston.” Conall’s tone was flat.

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a feeling. Boston seems so ... so empty.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you may be right. Oh, another thing. She’s withdrawn all her money from her bank, and let me tell you, it was quite a large sum.”

Conall frowned. “Withdrawn. In what form?” 

“Cash. All in twenties. All untraceable. She carried it out in a large case over the
strong
objections of the bank officers.”

Conall shot up out of his chair. “Damn. What were they thinking of to let her walk out of there with all that money? That’s dangerous!”

“It was her money. They couldn’t stop her.” 

“You say it was a lot of money?”

Amarillo nodded. “Her salary was quite good, and she lived modestly, obviously saving most of it. Plus, you said her mother had died last year. I’m sure there was an inheritance.”

"Yes,” he said, thinking of Jake’s note containing the promise he had made to Clarisse. Jake’s promise had played havoc with his grandson’s emotional life. Yet without that note, Sharon would never have come back to him.

“With the amount of money she was able to withdraw, she’ll be able to live quite well. You’ve nothing to worry about on that score. The problem is, cash dealings leave no record. That’s how she paid off the utility companies. Therefore, there’s no forwarding address.”

 A look of pain creased Conall’s face, and Amarillo expelled a long breath. “Now, about the movers who loaded up her boxes and furniture while you were at SwanSea. Once again she was very careful. According to the landlord, they were young men and they drove a truck with no company name on it, no writing whatsoever. And I’ve checked with all the moving companies. Nothing.”