Tears Of Pride. Lisa Jackson
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was the part of her job she liked least, dealing with her boss on personal matters. In this case it was like rubbing salt into an open wound.
“Is it three o’clock already?” Noah asked, grimacing as his wristwatch confirmed the efficient secretary’s time schedule. “I’ve got to run. If there are any more calls, or people who need to see me, stall them until tomorrow…or better yet, till sometime next week. Unless, of course, you hear from Anthony Simmons. I want to speak to him right away. He owes me a report on that fire at Cascade Valley.”
Maggie’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yes, sir,” she replied before stepping back into the hallway.
Noah threw his coat over his shoulder and snapped his briefcase closed. He half ran out of the office and down the hallway before stopping. On impulse he turned to accost his father’s secretary once again. “Oh, Maggie?”
The plump redhead was a few paces behind him. “Yes?”
“There is one other thing. If Sheila Lindstrom should call again, tell her I’ll get back to her as soon as possible. Get a number where she can be reached. I’ll check back with you later.”
The smug smile on Maggie’s round face only served to irritate Noah further. Why did he feel a sudden urge to amend his position with the intriguing woman who had called him earlier in the day? For all he knew, Sheila Lindstrom might be involved with the arson. He didn’t know anything about her. It was crazy, but he felt almost compelled to speak to her again. Perhaps it was the mood of the letters she had sent him, or maybe it was her quick temper that had sparked his interest in her. Whatever the reason, Noah knew that it was very important that he talk with her soon. She was the first one of his father’s business associates who had shown any ounce of spunk. Or was it more than that?
He shrugged off the unanswered question as he slid behind the wheel of his silver Volvo sedan and headed for the meeting with Sean’s probation office. Noah had been dreading this meeting for the better part of the week. Sean was in trouble. Again. When the school administrator had called last week and reported that Sean hadn’t shown up for any of his midmorning classes, Noah had been worried. Then, when he finally found out that his son had cut classes with a group of friends and later had been picked up by the police for possession of alcohol, Noah had become unglued. He was angry and disgusted, both at himself and his son.
If Sean was in trouble, Noah had himself to blame. Sixteen years ago he had begged for the privilege and responsibility of caring for his infant son, and he was the one who had insisted on raising the child alone. Unfortunately, he had made a mess of it. If Sean didn’t straighten out soon, it could spell disaster.
Although it wasn’t quite three thirty, the Friday afternoon traffic heading out of the city was thick, and driving was held to a snail’s pace. Even Seattle’s intricate freeway system couldn’t effectively handle the uneven flow of motorists as they moved away from the business district of the Northern Pacific city.
The high school that Sean attended was near Ben’s home, and in the twenty minutes it took to get to the school, Noah found himself hoping that the probation officer would give Sean another chance. Noah knew that he had to find a way to get through to his son.
Noah’s car crested a final hill, and he stopped the car in front of a two-story brick building. At the sound of the afternoon bell, he turned all of his attention to the main entrance of the school. Within minutes a swarm of noisy teenagers burst through the doors of the building and began to spill down the steps. Some held books over their heads, others used umbrellas, still others ignored the afternoon drizzle altogether.
Noah’s eyes scanned the crowd of teenagers as it dispersed over the school yard. Nowhere did he see his blond, athletic son. The thought that Sean might have stood him up crossed Noah’s mind, but he pushed it quickly aside. Surely the kid wouldn’t be that stupid! Sean knew the importance of today’s meeting with the juvenile officer. He wouldn’t blow it. He couldn’t!
Noah continued to wait. His hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly with each passing minute. There was no sign of his son. The teenagers on the steps thinned as they dashed across the lawn, heads bent against the wind and rain. The roar of car engines and rattling school buses filled the air. Still no Sean. Noah’s impatience was beginning to surface, and he raked his fingers through the thick, coarse strands of his near-black hair. Where the devil was that kid? The appointment with the juvenile officer was in less than thirty minutes, and Sean was nowhere in sight.
Angrily Noah opened the car door, pulled himself to his full height, slammed the door and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He leaned against the car, oblivious to the rain that ran down his back. His eyes skimmed the empty school yard. No sign of his son. He checked his watch once, uttered a low oath and continued to lean against the car.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS DUSK WHEN SHEILA found the address listed on the torn envelope, and even though twilight dimmed her vision, she could tell that the house Ben Wilder called home was immense. The three-story structure stood high on a cliff overlooking the banks of Lake Washington, and the grounds surrounding the manor encompassed several acres. The stately stone house was surrounded by a natural growth of sword ferns and ivy. To Sheila, the building seemed strangely cold and uninviting. Even the sweeping branches of the fir trees and the scarlet blossoms of the late-blooming rhododendrons didn’t soften the hard, straight lines of the manor.
An uneasy feeling that she was intruding where she didn’t belong nagged at Sheila’s mind, and she considered retreating into the oncoming night. She chided herself for her case of nerves. What would it hurt to knock on the door and inquire as to the whereabouts of Ben Wilder? Nothing ventured; nothing gained. Wasn’t that the phrase?
It was obvious that someone was home. Not only was there smoke rising from one of the chimneys, but also, several windows in the stone mansion glowed brightly from interior lights. Even the porch lanterns were lit. It was almost as if her presence were expected. A cold chill of apprehension skittered up her spine.
Ignoring her mounting misgivings, Sheila parked her car behind the silver Volvo sitting in the long, circular drive. Before she could think twice about the consequences of what she was about to do, she slid out of her car, gathered a deep breath of damp air and walked to the door. A quiet rain had begun to settle over the city, and droplets of moisture clung to Sheila’s hair. After hiking the collar of her raincoat more tightly around her throat, she knocked softly on one of the twin double doors. As she nervously waited, she wondered who would answer her knock and what his reaction would be to her inquiry. Would she really be able to procure information as to the whereabouts of Ben Wilder or was this just one more leg in the wild goose chase she had been participating in all afternoon?
The door opened suddenly. Sheila wasn’t prepared to meet the forceful man standing in the doorway. In a house the size of a Tudor, she had expected a servant to greet her, but she had been mistaken. The tall, well-built man standing in the light from the hallway presented himself with an arrogance that spoke of power rather than servility. His face was handsome, though not in a classical sense. His features were even, but severe. The angle of his jaw was strong, and dark, ebony brows hooded deepset delft-blue eyes. The lines of worry on his face intensified his masculinity and the power of his gaze. His eyes sparked with interest as he looked down on Sheila. Involuntarily her pulse quickened and fluttered in the hollow of her throat. Surely he could sense her unease.
“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked with practiced boredom. Sheila instantly recognized his voice. It belonged to Noah Wilder. Of course! Why hadn’t she expected him…or had she? Had her subconscious sought him out? She swallowed with difficulty while her heart clamored in her chest.
“I was looking for Ben Wilder,” was her inadequate response.
“Ben?” He cocked a wary black eyebrow before crossing his arms over his chest and leaning on the doorjamb. The light fabric of his shirt strained over his shoulder muscles. A lazy smile softened the severe planes of his face. “You want to see Ben? Who are you?”
There was