little five-year-old who only knew that the males in her life had walked out one night and never come back to her. No wonder she was so wary with her brother—half brother, Bailey corrected herself. But how had it been for Sullivan? He would have been around Tara’s age when his feckless charmer of a father had uprooted him for the second time in his life, continuing with him on the restless journey that apparently had been Thomas Sullivan’s life.
“It sounds like Sully inherited more from his father than just those black Irish good looks,” she hazarded.
“From what you said, I guess you’ve got firsthand knowledge of that.” Ainslie put up a hand, frowning. “I’m not prying. But you’re the only one of his women he ever mentioned by name.”
“I wouldn’t make too much of that if I were you,” Bailey said impassively. “Your brother’s moved on since last year, and so have I. I really did come here to see him on business today.”
“That’s too bad.” Under straight dark brows, Lee looked appraisingly at her. “I’ve got a feeling that only the love of a good woman is going to be enough to save the man.”
Bailey felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation run down the length of her spine at Ainslie’s words. It was the second time today someone had tried to cast her in the role of Terrence Sullivan’s savior, she thought sharply. If that was the impression she was giving out, she wanted to dispel it—and fast.
“I’m sure he’ll have no trouble finding plenty of takers for the position,” she said. “But right now I’ve got a more immediate problem to worry about, and so does he. I seem to have mislaid a sister, and his best operative’s gone missing.”
She’d just finished sketching out the details of Angelica’s disappearance and their discovery of Jackson’s trashed home office when Sullivan joined them. He was bearing a large flat box, and under one arm he had three cans of cola that were in danger of falling. Ainslie jumped up and took them from him as he set the pizza box down on the table.
“Where’s the birthday girl?” she asked, pulling a wad of paper serviettes from his back pocket and lifting up the pizza box just high enough to slip a nearby telephone book underneath. “Really, Terry, it’s mahogany,” she chided distractedly.
“The little ingrate asked if she could have hers at the computer. I said we’d be glad not to watch her eating her revolting fruit-topped concoction.” He flipped open the lid of the box. “Pepperoni, tomatoes and onions. Now that’s the way God intended pizza to be.”
“Which is why He invented mouthwash,” his sister said dryly. “But as long as we’re all on the same garlicky playing field, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
She lifted a slice from the box and took a bite. Bailey and Sullivan did the same, and for a minute or so all that disturbed the silence of the elegantly appointed conference room were the sounds of chewing and the occasional murmur of appreciation from Ainslie.
“Good pizza,” she said, daintily licking her fingers and taking another piece. “Bailey was telling me about her sister’s marital woes, Terry. How can you be so sure Angelica’s case has anything to do with Hank’s disappearance? Come to that, how can you be sure that Angelica’s disappearance has got anything to do with what’s in that report? After all,” she added apologetically to Bailey, “from the way you describe her it sounds as if she might just have taken off for a few days to nurse her wounded pride. Is she the type to do something drastic?”
“I wouldn’t have said so if you’d asked me a week ago.” Bailey shrugged and took another slice of pizza herself. “And I still don’t think she threw herself off the nearest bridge or anything like that. But she was upset when she left that message on my machine—it’s entirely possible that she’s decided to pay Aaron back in his own coin.”
“A little fling?” Ainslie raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that slightly rash, when he’s the one with the money? And I presume the money’s important to her, since there’s a thirty-year gap in their ages.”
“Oh, the money’s important to my sister.” Bailey gave a humorless smile. “She was determined to hold out for a millionaire.”
“You don’t sound like the two of you are that close,” Ainslie said cautiously. Sullivan shot her a warning look, but after a moment’s hesitation Bailey answered her.
“I’d like to have been closer, and maybe it was my fault we weren’t,” she said slowly. “I know that since our parents were killed in a car accident six years ago, Angelica made it clear that she was going to live her own life, with no interference from me. At seventeen she quit school, found a job and rented an apartment with a couple of other girls. It wasn’t until a lot later that I learned she was working underage in a bar, thanks to some fake ID an obliging boyfriend had obtained for her. But even from the day she became part of the family, I felt as if she saw me as competition. It wasn’t hard to figure out where that came from, though,” Bailey added fairly. “Her mother had been an addict, and from the little I know about the first five years of Angel’s life, love was a pretty scarce commodity. It’s no wonder she went for something she could actually be sure of when she married.”
“How sure?” Sullivan said suddenly. “Aaron Plowright, as determined as he must have been to get his new little eighteen-year-old plaything into his bed one way or another, certainly wasn’t a lovesick boy when it came to his fourth marriage. Did he get her to sign a prenuptial agreement?”
Bailey looked at him, startled. Slowly she dabbed at her lips with the serviette, her gaze thoughtful. “I seem to remember she did, although she wasn’t happy about it. Like I said, Angelica’s blond and she puts on that dumb act when it suits her, but she’s not stupid when it comes to money.”
“Which means it’s also unlikely she’d be impulsive enough to jeopardize her marital status by fooling around.” Ainslie eyed the last slice of pizza in the box and then shook her head. “You take it, big guy.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right,” Bailey said, her gaze darkening. “Dammit, if my little drama queen of a sister staged that phone message just for effect, I’m going to wring her neck when I see her!”
“I’d say go for it, except for one thing,” Sullivan said with a frown. “Hank’s missing, too.”
Ainslie fiddled unnecessarily with the lid of the pizza box, and Bailey looked down at her hands. Neither of them spoke, and Sullivan’s jaw tightened.
“I thought you agreed with me on this.” His tense comment was directed at Bailey, and reluctantly she met his gaze.
“I’ll admit, back at his house I was halfway convinced. The fact that you say he can’t drink rye, the missing towels, the wrecked computer, the files all over the floor.” She bit her bottom lip. “But to be honest, I think it was the atmosphere that really got to me. For some reason I had the creeps the whole time we were there.”
She shrugged helplessly. “But don’t you see, Sully, there was nothing there that couldn’t be explained away, if only you’d accept that Jackson—” She broke off, not wanting to complete the sentence. Ainslie did it for her.
“He’s a friend, and you’re loyal to a fault to your friends, bro,” she said brusquely. “But he likes the bottle, and when he’s gone off the wagon in the past he’s been a mean drunk. He even trashed the office of Sullivan Investigations when it was just a two-man operation in that seedy location in the South End years ago. Uncle Sean almost
