Baku.” Lara and Conley both turned to Theresa when she spoke.
“You don’t know the first thing about that account, Theresa.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she agreed, “but I can handle it. I’ll pick up the phone and tell them you’ve been delayed. If they don’t like it, that’s too bad.”
He seemed to hesitate for just a second, and Lara held her breath. She felt a tug of anger that he’d consider Theresa’s suggestion and not her own, but on the other hand, whatever worked, worked.
Reaching for the suture equipment he’d laid out on the counter, the doctor spoke again. “You’ll have to talk to the police, too, you know. We’ve already called them.”
Conley shot Lara a look, his gaze skimming hers in an unfamiliar way, something quick and fathomless shimmering there then swimming away before she could catch it. He turned to the doctor who was threading the needle. “That wasn’t necessary,” he protested. “It was a simple accident. All my fault, really. The car couldn’t have avoided me—”
“It was a hit and run, Mr. Harrison. The police have been called.” The doctor’s words were blunt but his touch was swift and professional. Within seconds, he had Conley’s wound closed with almost invisible stitches. He stepped back and appraised his work, then nodded, clearly pleased.
Snapping off his gloves he washed his hands once more and looked at his patient. “We’ll find you a bed and let you settle in. If you’re okay after a while, you can go home.” Smiling at Lara, he spoke a final time. “Good luck keeping him quiet, Mrs. Harrison. Something tells me you’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER THREE
CONLEY HAD NO intention of sleeping, but as soon as his head hit the starched white pillowcase, he found he didn’t have a choice. When he woke hours later, it was early evening. He was stiff and sore and felt as if…he’d been run over in the middle of the street.
Without moving, he opened his eyes. Lara sat in a padded chair on the other side of the bed, holding a magazine. She wasn’t reading it, just holding it. The look on her face broke what was left of his heart. A deep sadness darkened her gaze and there were lines of weariness around her mouth. Lavender shadows colored the hollows of her cheeks and made circles underneath her eyes.
He let his lids flutter down and cursed himself. She looked like that because of him. There was no other reason and he knew it.
His mind skipped back to the moments before the car had come down the street. It had been a car, he was sure. A coupe. He struggled to recall more details but none came. Almost with relief, he knew that was all he could tell the police. He had absolutely no proof that it’d been anything but an accident. Maybe the driver had kept going because he hadn’t even known he’d hit something.
The argument sounded hollow, even to Conley’s doped-up senses.
He kept his eyes closed but the shot the doctor had given him was working well and all the thoughts Con usually managed to control now refused to stay buried. The problems he’d managed to suppress for months eddied around him like the snow outside.
It had all started with the notes.
They’d been arriving for several months, some by regular mail, some by computer, one right after another. At first he’d been amused, then as they’d continued, he’d become annoyed. His answer had been to ignore them, but lately even that had become impossible. Whoever had been harassing him had decided it was time to turn up the heat.
But harassing wasn’t really the right word, he thought groggily. Harassing implied something different, something angry and abusive. The neatly typed letters and multiply-routed e-mails—all completely untraceable—were of a unique nature. They’d been full of admiration for him, full of praise for his accomplishments, for his successful business. Then they’d turned personal. Comments about his looks, remarks about his body. The author knew him well, so well Conley had become increasingly uncomfortable, even though the tone of the notes had never been threatening. Storing the letters in a safe at the office, he’d copied the e-mails to a file at home and passworded it so Lara couldn’t read it.
The phone calls had started after that. There was never anyone on the line. As bizarre as it sounded, it seemed as if whoever called just wanted to hear his voice. He’d say hello over and over, then the caller would quietly hang up. Finally the flowers had started; red roses sent to him every Monday.
The last straw had come when his coat had been stolen during a business lunch. He’d dismissed the problem as inconsequential, telling Lara he’d misplaced it, but the keys to his office had been in the pocket. He’d immediately had all the locks changed, but it didn’t seem to matter. A week later, someone got inside. Nothing had been taken, but he was positive someone had been there. Small things in his desk drawer had been rearranged and his chair had been left at a different angle. Worse, his computer had been accessed.
At that point, the problem took on a whole new meaning. Conley went to incredible lengths to maintain Harrison’s proprietary secrets. Was someone trying to breech that wall? Knowing Matthew would die before he’d tell anyone, Conley had enlisted his help. Together he and his engineer had added extra security to their entire system, but for a couple of weeks afterward, Conley had made it a point to spend one night a week at the office, varying the nights. He’d set up camp in the room next to his own and waited, but no one had shown up. Finally he’d given up and picked up the phone to call the police.
Then he’d put it back down.
Harrison’s was Conley Harrison. His investors were a nervous group and any hint, however remote, that something was amiss would send them flying faster than a covey of quails spooked by a retriever. Stalker, casual thief, corporate spy…they didn’t care.
If this “accident” was in any way connected to the notes and his moneymen found out, Harrison’s would be history, no matter how successful the company was. The fortune he’d made, the success he’d become…all of it would disappear. He’d be yesterday’s news, another bad businessman who wasn’t smart enough to hang on to what he’d made, his childhood poverty a mocking ghost that threatened to return.
Without the drugs swirling in his body, Conley knew he wouldn’t have even allowed himself to think about any of this. He opened his eyes and looked at his wife. The horrific problems at work faded as he remembered her words that morning.
He’d known they were coming to this crisis but seemed incapable of stopping it. The long, cold silences, the angry accusations, the way she looked at him when she thought he didn’t know. Everything had turned to shit and he didn’t know how to avoid the inevitable. Conley let his eyes close again, the lids too heavy to hold up, his thoughts too onerous to consider anymore.
With Lara’s pronouncement that morning, his future loomed before him. No career. No capital. No wife.
No life.
LARA SLIPPED BACK into the hospital room, the door closing behind her with a whisper. She hadn’t wanted to leave, but with Conley asleep, she’d decided to run home and get him some clothes and give Ed a quick call to tell him what was going on. He’d been apoplectic when she’d refused his demands to bring Conley to Boulder, but Lara had persevered. “They’re keeping an eye on him for a while. Basically, he’s fine.”
And he was. The doctor had already signed his release form. Despite being covered with bumps and bruises, some pretty nasty,
