for.”
“It hasn’t been easy. But Stacy keeps me focused on what’s important. And I try not to dwell in the past.”
It was clear he was still in love with his dead wife, and that said volumes about the kind of relationship they’d had. Beth had been deprived of that deep connection, that death-till-you-part kind of love in her own marriage and envied those who had it. Though not enough to ever look for it again.
“I don’t get lonely very often,” Beth said. Though sometimes at night when she lay in her cold bed, she yearned for a warm body to snuggle with. Buster came close to fitting the bill, but it wasn’t quite the same. “I have my aunts, the guests, people around me all the time and, of course, my dog, so I’m rarely ever alone. There are times when that can be frustrating, like when I’m all set to watch a movie and I get interrupted.”
“I can’t remember the last film I watched. It’s not as much fun now that Carol’s gone. And Stacy’s taste is so different than mine. I like the old black-and-white films, but she won’t watch a movie if it’s not in color.”
“I guess kids Stacy’s age like movies where everything gets blown up. My best friend, Ellen, is the same way. She’s a huge Bruce Willis fan and doesn’t understand the simplicity and humor in a classic film like The Philadelphia Story, which she thinks is boring. I love the classic films, too. I’m very addicted to my video and DVD collection.”
While Beth went on to discuss a Humphrey Bogart/ Lauren Bacall movie she’d watched recently, Brad listened intently, surprised by the primal reaction he was having to her infectious smile, the sound of her voice and the sparkle in her big green eyes as she extolled the virtues of Bogart’s abilities as an actor.
Beth Randall was a very attractive woman. He’d thought her cute at first glance, but he could see now that she was so much more. Brad hadn’t felt such an overt response to a woman since he’d met Carol at med school, and he was stunned by it.
Of course, Beth and Carol were nothing alike. Carol had been a cool blonde, with pretty cornflower-blue eyes and a conservative air about her—the typical Southern belle. Beth, on the other hand, had massive amounts of coppery hair that tempted a man to run his hands through it. She was relaxed, casual….
“Is something the matter, Dr. Donovan? You keep staring at me as if I’ve grown another nose.” She reached up to touch hers, hoping it wasn’t dripping.
“No. In fact, your nose is very cute.”
She turned fifteen shades of red, feeling the heat of embarrassment all the way down to her toes, which she was curling and uncurling under the table. “Thank you.”
“I was wondering if you’d mind answering some questions about my father’s stay here.”
The question took Beth off guard and her stomach knotted. She tried to remain poised and nonchalant, schooling her features to reflect that. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to add right now, Dr. Donovan.”
“It’s Brad, remember?”
“I haven’t had a chance to speak to my aunts,” she lied. “But I will. And soon.”
“Do you think they know something? It seems whenever I bring up my father’s disappearance you get nervous.” He stared intently at her, wondering if she knew more than she was saying and hoping she didn’t.
“Nervous?” Beth laughed one of those Katharine Hepburn ha, ha, ha laughs. Only hers didn’t come off nearly as innocent or flippant. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just tired. I’ve had a long day. So if you’ll excuse me.”
Before he could utter another word she bolted from the kitchen with lightning speed, not remembering about the milk for Stacy until she’d reached the haven of her room. But she had no intention of going back down.
There was no way she was going to face him again. Not until she knew who was buried in her basement.
CHAPTER FOUR
AUBREY FONTAINE PRIDED himself on having an uncluttered mind and a reasonably fit body, though his penchant for sweets, especially Krispy Kreme doughnuts, rendered him somewhat overweight. Still, for someone nearing fifty he wasn’t in bad shape.
A man used to giving orders and having them obeyed, he wasn’t accustomed to performing mundane chores, doing his own laundry, cooking meals or cleaning his apartment. He had a staff to do that. So, as he stared at the stacks of cardboard boxes, piles of old newspapers and magazines, and an assortment of what he considered first-rate junk that he’d found lying about his deceased mother’s spare bedroom, Aubrey was not pleased about completing the menial tasks before him.
Isabel Fontaine had died from colon cancer five days before—a blessing, since the old soul had suffered cruelly toward the end. And though he’d done what he could to ease his mother’s pain—excellent doctors, full-time duty nurses and a private room at the hospital—in the end it had all been for naught. Money couldn’t save his mother. Only God could do that, and He had chosen not to.
Brushing impatient fingers through his thin graying hair, Aubrey heaved a sigh. He didn’t have time to deal with this right now. He was a busy man, had a corporation to run and important financial deals in the works. He made money from investing, not from performing the duties of a garbageman. But he’d promised his mother on her deathbed that he would go through her private papers and attend to dispersing what little money she’d saved to her cousins, and that’s what he intended to do.
Isabel had been a good mother, if a somewhat distant one, and Aubrey would honor her memory and do what he had promised. A man was only as good as his word. His many business dealings had taught him that. One didn’t get to be a successful CEO of a company without having some integrity. Of course, he never allowed that integrity to interfere with making money. An honest man could still be successful; he just had to be smarter than the competition, and he had to be willing to look opportunity in the face and jump on it.
Aubrey never allowed anything to interfere with making money.
Removing his suit jacket and tie, he set them on a nearby chair, rolled up the sleeves of his custom-made shirt and began wading through the mess, tossing old magazines and newspapers into the trash receptacle, and then removing his parents’ old clothes that he’d found hanging in the closet. Chester Fontaine had died of a heart attack when Aubrey was twenty, and he gathered his father’s suits, shirts and ties and added them to the pile he would donate to the Good Will, or one of the veterans groups.
Aubrey had never served in the military—a bad back had designated him 4F—but he always tried to do what he could for those less fortunate than himself. Besides, he needed all the write-offs he could get. Damn bastards at the IRS always had their hands in his pockets.
His cell phone rang. His assistant was on the other end, and she sounded frantic. Though extremely competent, Myra Lewis leaned toward hysteria, which he found annoying and very nonproductive. “Tell that asshole Connors there’ll be no deal unless he meets our terms,” he told the high-strung woman. “For chrissake, Myra, I’m not running a charitable organization! He either takes what I’ve offered for the property or the deal is off. Do you understand?” She stuttered that she did, and he clicked off, shaking his head in disgust.
He couldn’t get through an hour without that cursed cell phone ringing. For all its convenience, the damned invention
