had left for her vacation on schedule, and he said yes. I asked if things were all right with the temp the agency sent to fill in for her, and he said yes. And when I asked how everything else was, why, he laughed and said it was perfect.”
“Terrific.” Alex’s apprehension shot up a notch. The last time Brady had claimed everything was “perfect” had been right before a Lawrence of Arabia play set, complete with a genuine Bedouin tent and a pair of very cranky camels, had been delivered to the house.
Purchased at great expense through one of the home shopping channels on Alex’s credit card, the play set had been touted as the ultimate educational experience. Heaven knew Alex had certainly learned a lot. He’d learned the true meaning of the phrase “all purchases final.” He’d learned that in Port Sandy County, camels were considered exotic pets and that you were hit with a whopping fine if you didn’t have the proper permit to keep them. He’d learned that when annoyed, the homely creatures spit. But most of all, he’d learned to be on guard when his eldest son started bandying about the word perfect.
“Is that all, sir?”
“Yes. Unless the house has burned down—” he tried to inject a light note into his voice and failed “—I should be in the office sometime next week before I leave for New Mexico. You know the drill—if anything comes up, call.”
“Yes, sir. And don’t worry. I’m sure everything is fine with the boys.”
“Right. See you next week.” Alex disconnected, waited for a dial tone, then punched his home number on the speed dial at the same time he slowed the Mercedes for his exit.
He turned west at the bottom of the ramp and headed into the late-afternoon sun, grateful for the car’s air conditioning. He listened impatiently as the phone began to ring. He was too tired for this right now, he thought. When he had gone to Aristo Cay Resort at the end of May, he’d never expected to be there six weeks. After negotiating its purchase from the Carlyle family for months prior to his arrival, he’d been confident the deal was set and all that was left to do was fine-tune the agreement.
A major miscalculation on his part. But then, there was no way he could have known that Hiram Carlyle’s only daughter, Miranda, had recently divorced. Or that she would take one look at him and get it into her head that a temporary merger should be a condition of the sale.
Alex grimaced. Although he hadn’t lived like a monk in the four years he’d been widowed, he had made it a firm rule not to mix sex with either his business or family life.
Where his family was concerned, his reasoning was simple. His sons had already lost their mother. No matter what it took, he was determined to protect them from such heartbreak in the future. Since he knew he’d never remarry, there was no reason to involve the boys with women he knew would never be more than casual companions.
Professionally, it was simply a sound business practice. He was thirty-five, unmarried, and CEO of Morrison Retreats, which owned and operated five small, exclusive resorts spread across the United States. The business had been his salvation after his wife died, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize it for anything as fleeting as physical pleasure.
Convincing Miranda Carlyle of that, however, had taken a while.
On the other end of the line, the phone continued to ring. Where the heck was everyone? Even if the nanny was tied up with the boys—or the boys had tied her up, which had actually happened a few sitters ago, the housekeeper, temp or not, ought to answer.
Unless something had happened. Unless—
Alex took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Knock it off. Just because no one’s answering the phone doesn’t mean something has happened. More likely the housekeeper was vacuuming and didn’t hear the phone, and Mrs. Kiltz and the boys were taking a nature walk or something.
Except that Brady had told Helen there was a problem.
Alex ground his teeth against an urge to curse. He jerked the phone away from his ear, thought for a moment, hit the disconnect button and again pressed the speed dial. Once more the phone began to ring, although a quick glance at the dashboard clock, which read half past five, made it unlikely this call would be answered, either.
Two rings later there was a click on the line, and a recorded voice said cheerfully, “You have reached Aunt Frannie’s Nannys, quality domestic caregivers for young and old. We are not in at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message, we’ll be happy to return your call.”
Scowling, Alex left his name and number. He turned south onto the dead-end road that led to his house above the coast, switched on the radio and tried to forget about everything but getting home as fast as possible. Pressing on the accelerator, he felt a grim satisfaction as the sleek sedan surged forward, only to have his stomach plummet some ten minutes later when he approached his driveway and found the electronically operated gate wide open.
Gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, he stomped on the gas petal and shot through the opening, oblivious to the bright splashes of magenta, rose and crimson from the late-blooming rhododendrons that lined the long circular drive.
It took what felt like hours before he rounded the final curve. The house rose up in front of him, three stories tall, a glorious sight with its dark green trim and its rows of windows sparkling in the bright summer light.
Alex didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to swallow the fear that choked him as he saw the pair of emergency vehicles parked ahead. His gaze swung wide, taking in the carved double doors that led into the house. They were standing wide open.
He slammed the car to a stop, threw open the door and leapt out. Racing across the manicured lawn, he ducked around a Japanese maple, pelted up the shallow brick steps and slid to a halt in the marble-floored foyer. After the glittering warmth of the sunshine, the vast hall felt cool, dusky—
And quiet. Unnaturally, ominously quiet. “Brady! Nicholas! Michael! Hello—is anybody here?”
Silence. For the space of a heartbeat he didn’t hear a sound but his own labored breathing. Then he detected a faint tapping noise and a murmur of voices coming from overhead.
He bolted up the wide, curved stairway and along the railed balcony that overlooked the foyer, heading toward the children’s wing of the house. Whipping around a corner, he faltered as he approached the boys’ oversize bathroom and spied several uniformed men standing inside.
Oh, no. Had Nick been playing sock hockey, slipped and hit his head? Or maybe it was Mikey. Perhaps his youngest son had tried to wash and blow dry the hamster again, only this time had been electrocuted for his troubles instead of merely nipped. Or what if it was Brady? What if, despite all the warnings, Brady had attempted to put another smoke bomb together and—
He drew a deep breath. Get a grip, Morrison. You aren’t going to be worth zip if you keep this up. Reaching down deep inside, he tapped into the well of icy calm he had discovered when Allison died and shoved aside his panic.
By the time he strode into the bathroom, he had himself frigidly under control. “I’m Alex Morrison. Who’s in charge here? What’s going on?”
For an instant the room fell silent. The three firemen who were clustered around the wall on Alex’s left stopped talking, while a pair of paramedics standing a dozen feet straight ahead turned to stare.
And then the quiet was shattered by a trio
