with complications she’d never had before she was married. Ari was dead, and Bronwyn Davies was glad for the simplification that offered in her own life. She was no longer married, need not obtain a divorce. Which was good. She barely had money to feed herself and her ten-year-old son. She did not have money for attorneys, for messy court battles. When Ari had first been arrested weeks earlier, she’d never considered divorce. In sickness, in health, in deceit and all that. But she’d grown tired of trying to offer Wesley meaningful explanations for things she would never understand: Why is my father a criminal? Why did he do bad things?
Just the thought of these questions made her tired.
I can’t think about Ari. I can’t think about some lag sticking him in prison. I can’t think about his face. Too many lies, not all of them his.
“I’m sorry, Wesley. I know you hate this, but you’ve got to trust me. This is how we need to keep ourselves safe. I know you love Ari—” the words your father definitely stuck in her throat “—and that’s fine, but we have to be practical.”
“We have to lie,” Wesley clarified.
Bronwyn wanted to swear. Now she was providing the duplicitous example. Also, it alarmed her how rapidly Wesley was becoming a cynic. It was one thing for her to be cynical; she had grown up sometimes literally homeless in Sydney because of poverty and had just discovered after ten-plus years of marriage that her husband’s actual job description was “gangster.” It was different when the cynic was Wesley, who was such a brave kid, ultimately, who wasn’t a whiner or a crybaby.
“This is going to be an adventure,” she told him. “You’ll like it.”
Bronwyn could have said, What would your dad think if he saw you crying? That would have stopped those tears in their tracks. Because, of course, Aristotle Theodoros had not tolerated tears in his male child. The child he’d believed to be his flesh and blood.
Well, Bronwyn had been repaid for her own deception now. Touché and all that. Which, after all, was the bigger marital betrayal? Maintaining a double life as a mobster or telling your husband that he was the father of a child who, even at birth, looked eerily like Patrick Stafford? A child who was Patrick Stafford’s son, not Aristotle Theodoros’s.
Then, Bronwyn spotted the first of the white fences and long green fields. Horse country, the Hunter Valley, home of Fairchild Acres, home of Louisa Fairchild and current residence of her great-nephew, Patrick Stafford.
“Wesley, look at the horses. Look how beautiful it is here. You’ll see. You’ll like living out here. Look at all that grass.” She cast a meaningful glance at his soccer ball, though she had no idea if her son would be allowed to play on the grass.
Beside her, Wesley said, for at least the tenth time that day, “I don’t like horses.”
Patrick Stafford gazed out the French doors of Louisa Fairchild’s blue brick Colonial house. Most of the homes in the valley were lowset, but not Fairchild Acres. The sprawling, graceful homestead was very different from the penthouse apartment where he’d grown up in Sydney with his parents. They had been stockbrokers, and Patrick had vowed to do something more meaningful with his life. Yet he’d ended up…a stockbroker. That was all right. He’d lost some romantic ideals along the way, become more pragmatic in general, and he was glad to be able to help people with their finances, as he was helping Louisa.
“Patrick, are you listening to me?” his great-aunt said now.
“Yes, yes.” Of course he was. When he’d first come to Fairchild Acres a month earlier, he’d been keen to confront Louisa, to demand answers; he’d wanted to know why she’d mistreated her sister, his grandmother. But gradually, he’d grown to love this elderly woman, as had his sister, Megan. When Louisa had been accused of murdering Sam Whittleson, he’d been outraged. An eighty-year-old woman kill a man she knew, a neighbor? He hadn’t believed it. And Louisa had been proven innocent, though the stress of her arrest had sent her into cardiac arrest, something she was quicker to forgive than he was.
His sister, Megan, now planned to spend her life with the arresting officer, Dylan Hastings. Yes, Patrick saw that both Dylan’s own misconceptions about Louisa and the orders of his superiors had led to his persecution of the older woman. But still! And now Megan was living with Dylan and his daughter and was planning to open a gallery and artists’ retreat.
So his own struggle was to release the last of his anger over offenses against Louisa that she herself had already forgiven.
In any case, this morning he had other preoccupations. While ordinarily he was the most attentive of listeners, today he kept thinking of the morning’s news. Just a recap of the events of the past month. Aristotle Theodoros had been murdered in prison two weeks earlier, and speculation was rife that he’d been killed to prevent him testifying against the Syndicate.
It had nothing to do with Patrick—not really. He’d met Ari briefly once, after Bronwyn had told Patrick of her engagement. It seemed a hundred years ago now. To Patrick, Ari had been the man Bronwyn chose over him. The man whose money she’d chosen over his lack thereof, no matter what else she’d claimed. Her rejection had put an end to his plans to do some graduate work in history, some writing, nebulous dreams.
He realized now he’d never been a writer.
He’d been born with his parents’ fine-tuned instincts for the stock market. They’d died when he was eighteen, but they’d left him and Megan comfortable. His university goals had reflected that ease, he supposed. It had taken a shallow woman’s ridiculing his dreams to make him see his own future clearly.
Well, hers certainly hadn’t worked out. Aristotle Theodoros’s assets had been seized, and Patrick would have needed the soul of a saint not to enjoy the irony. Weeks earlier, he had caught one glimpse of Bronwyn on the news, her auburn hair in a French twist, Chanel sunglasses, white linen suit, Italian sandals, looking unfamiliar, haughty and distant as she left the courts after Ari’s arraignment. Inadvertently, he was sure, the mercenary woman he’d once believed he loved had married a crook; and now the crook’s money was lost to her.
“I want to know what you think,” Louisa repeated, “about how this will affect the ITRF election.”
How what will affect it? Patrick didn’t want to admit just how inattentive he’d been. Andrew Preston, the American candidate for the presidency of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation, had publicly supported Louisa when she’d been arrested. His generosity had set the stage for a tentative but positive relationship between his family and hers, but Louisa still seemed to prefer media giant Jacko Bullock. Patrick couldn’t share her predilection. The Bullocks, Jacko and his father, Mezner, were in the pocket of people like Ari Theodoros—or so Patrick believed.
A Toyota turned down the driveway, then stopped at the gatehouse. The guard spoke briefly with the driver before the truck continued its approach. It was ancientlooking—and sounding. A muffler would be a good idea. The driver was Vietnamese, Patrick thought, maybe one of Louisa’s gardeners. He considered speaking to the man about getting the four-wheel drive fixed, and then he saw it draw to a stop outside the entrance to the kitchen. A woman with long, very straight auburn hair climbed out, followed by a boy in a soccer uniform, who promptly began playing with a soccer ball he’d brought with him, dribbling, popping it in the air, regaining control, until the redhead told him to stop.
“Perhaps if you looked at me, Patrick, you would hear what I’m saying.”
“What?” He spun around.
His
