CHAPTER TWO

 

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CALDER STUMBLED OUT of bed—hardly an unusual occurrence. She wasn't a morning person.

Once, in her younger days, she tried to change her sleep patterns. Early to bed, early to rise—and all that nonsense. Her good intentions lasted exactly two weeks. She could have stuck to the routine. And been miserable. Instead, she gave into her true, night owl nature, happy to stay up, rather than get up, to watch the sunrise.

After she brushed her teeth and washed her face—an absolute must before she could function—Calder slipped on her robe—a match to the blue silk nighty she'd donned before falling into bed. Without a glance in the mirror, she piled her hair into what barely passed for a topknot, and padded from the room.

Funny thing about living in a genuine, bona fide Manhattan mansion since birth. As much as Calder loved the building, cherished the memories, luxuriated in the comfort? Most days, she didn't notice the little details.

Purchased by Calder's great-grandfather, Orville Benedict, in the late nineteenth century, the building sported six floors. The elevator—added after World War II—serviced a library, several offices, eighteen bathrooms, and enough bedrooms for a small army—or at the very least a platoon.

Near the top of a long, winding staircase, Calder stopped as the light from a large stained-glass window bounced off her hand. When she was little, the different colors fascinated her. As an adult, they still did. However, always on the go, she rarely stopped long enough to admire the effect.

The polished Brazilian Cherry floors covered every inch of the mansion. Top to bottom. Except for the tiled bathroom. And stained cement basement where nobody but the maids and handymen spent much time.

At the bottom of the stairs, Calder's bare toes dug into the plush Persian rug. Woven over a century ago, the muted blues and greens fit the size of the foyer as if made specifically.

Mindbogglingly expensive pieces of art, painted by long-dead artists, hung on every tastefully painted wall. Sculptures. Prized pieces, small and large, decorated antique tabletops.

Immaculate and perfectly maintained, at a glance, a casual observer might think they'd entered a museum. However, to Calder and her sisters, the brick and mortar, marble and glass, and everything inside, was simply home.

Then, unbidden, she remembered the man from the night before and the words he spoke to Milo.

You think money makes you invincible. Above the law.

Said with such contempt, Calder wondered if Adam would spew the same words at her if he could see her now. Probably. But, damn it, he didn't know anything about her. How dare he judge? How dare he—?

Calder groaned. She'd convinced herself she'd put her encounter with Adam out of her head. Seemed he and his piercing blue eyes were harder to forget than she could have anticipated.

"Jerk," Calder muttered. Unfortunately, for a house with so many rooms, somebody—and their big ears—always seemed to lurk around the corner.

"If you mean Milo Prendergast, I concur. Wholeheartedly."

Andi, her burnished gold hair fashioned into a perfect French twist, entered the foyer from the direction of the downstairs office. Spiked heels clicked her arrival as her long legs quickly ate up the distance across the room.

From her fall fashion line, the outfit Andi wore was perfect for the working woman who insisted on the latest in haute couture. An immaculately tailored coral-colored pencil skirt, silk blouse, and jacket in a slightly darker contrasting shade showed off the best of her svelte figure.

She could have walked the runway if she had the desire. And wasn't so busy building her fashion empire.

Calder glanced at the grandfather clock which stood guard by the front door for as long as a Benedict had occupied the residence. Seven fifteen? She could never understand how her sister looked so put together at such an ungodly hour. Or why she wanted to.

"Milo is history."

"Good. I can't believe he lasted past the first date." Andi nodded decisively as she slid an arm around Calder's waist. "You can do better."

You should rethink your taste in men. Adam's voice piggybacked Andi's. Apparently, the harder she tried to get the man out of her head, the more his words clung on for dear life.

Normally, Calder would have agreed with Andi's assessment. However, thanks to judgmental Adam, her dating history had become a sensitive subject.

"Milo isn't the worst the New York singles scene has to offer."

"Hardly a ringing endorsement." Andi chuckled.

"Mmm." Calder wished she had a solid argument. But anything she could add would be so full of holes, the result would resemble a piece of Swiss cheese.

"Billie's up bright and early. Humming. Loudly. The last time she crawled out of bed before noon…" Andi let out a sigh when she realized the implications. "Oh, crap. Mom has a new man in her life."

"And I know who he is." Some people relished the role as bearer of bad news. Calder wasn't one of them. "We need to talk. All of us."

Andi glanced at the clock.

"I don't know if I have time for a full-fledged, private room meeting."

These days, their sixth floor, sisters-only room was empty more often than not. The daily afternoon get-togethers ended as their lives morphed from childhood fancies to adult responsibilities. However, when the situation was serious, they found their way back. A place of comfort and safety. Like a warm, well-used security blanket they could wrap themselves in, if only for an hour or two.

"The kitchen will do. I can have a cup of strong Earl Grey, and you can watch."

Arm still around Calder, Andi laughed as they made their way toward the back of the house.

"Breakfast never tastes good until at least twelve o'clock."

"You mean lunch," Calder teased. She'd lost count of how many times they'd had the same conversation.

"I'll be twenty-nine in June. I've earned the right to eat my strawberry waffles any time I choose. And call the meal anything I like."

"Whatever you say, Grandma. Just don't let Billie hear you talk about your age. She'll go apoplectic."

Andi rolled her eyes. Their mother was forever thirty-five. A lie she told anybody who showed the least bit of interest. And those who couldn't have cared less. If Billie had seriously considered the ramifications when she gave birth to four daughters—all of whom would inevitably grow older—she most likely never would have procreated.

"Lucky for us, Billie never thinks beyond today."

As Andi pushed open the kitchen door, raised voices greeted their entrance.

Bryce stood with hands on hips, an annoyed expression on her face. Instead of her usual casual jeans and t-shirt, she was dressed in a chic pair of crushed black-velvet leggings, knee-high burgundy leather boots, and a tunic top which brushed past mid-thigh. She'd sleeked her naturally wavy red hair back into a braid.

"All I wanted to do was fix myself a bowl of oatmeal. What's the problem?"

Her stance equally combative, Ellen Finch, long-time Benedict head housekeeper and cook, stood between Bryce and her prized possession. A six-burner gas stove with more bells and whistles than anybody in the house could comprehend—besides Mrs. Finch.

"When was the last time you cooked?"

"Well—"

"Not just oatmeal." Mrs. Finch crossed her arms over the apron which read Quiche Me, You Fool. "When have you prepared anything that required heat? Even a piece of toast."

Bryce knew when she was backed into a corner with no room for escape. But Calder had never seen her twin back down from an argument without at least a token fight.

"If I don't start now, when will I?"

Eyes crinkled at the edges, a look of indulgence in her pale-blue eyes, Mrs. Finch patted Bryce's shoulder.

"Oh, Bryce. Honey." The woman's ample bosom shook with laughter. "You don't want to learn how to cook."

"I might," Bryce declared. Though the stubborn gleam in her gray eyes had dimmed to resignation.

"Relax. I didn't mean to single you out. Andi and Calder are the same. And don't get me started on Destry. That girl doesn't stay in one place long enough to catch her breath, let alone heat up a frying pan." Her expression indulgent and filled with affection, Mrs. Finch shooed Bryce away.

"The fault lies firmly on your shoulders." Calder brushed a kiss over Mrs. Finch's cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of lemon and cinnamon. "If your cooking wasn't so scrumptious, one or more of us might have turned toward the culinary arts."

Mrs. Finch looked pleased. For most of her adult life, she'd taken care of the Benedicts. She'd been there when each sister entered the world. Watched as they took their first steps. Nurtured. Scolded. Comforted. Disciplined. As well as anyone, she knew how the sisters had often been left to navigate the twists and turns of childhood and adolescence without the guiding hand of a loving parent.

Speaking to a friend, Mrs. Finch once called the Benedict girls forces of nature. Good luck to anybody who tried to stand in their way. Calder smiled at the memory as she watched the only true motherly figure they'd ever known. If what Mrs. Finch had said were true, the reason was simple. They'd learned from a master.

"You don't need to worry about the culinary arts as long as you have me." Mrs. Finch started to prepare Bryce's oatmeal. "And if any of you would get your act together and find a decent man, I'll do the same for your children. The good Lord willing, your grandchildren as well."

"A good man isn't hard to find." A shadow passed over Andi's features. "Holding on to him is another matter."

Calder and Bryce exchanged worried glances. Andi was their rock. An immovable pillar of strength. She did such a good job of hiding her pain, sometimes they forgot she wasn't invincible. However, even the heart of a superhero could be broken.

"Andi—"

Andi brushed off Calder's concern with a shake of her head.

"Tell us about Billie's newest boyfriend."

The trace of sadness that never quite left Andi's eyes made Calder's heart twist with sympathy. But because she understood, she let her sister change the subject.

"Hardly newsworthy." Bryce took a seat at the counter. Andi joined her while Calder fixed a cup of tea. "Billie wouldn't be Billie if she didn't have six or seven men dangling at her whim."

"She was up awfully early this morning." Mrs. Finch frowned as she stirred the cereal.

"I heard her humming," Andi added.

"Oh, boy." Bryce rubbed her temple in anticipation of a headache to come. "The ink on her divorce papers is barely dry."

"Legally, she's still married to Howard for another three months." Calder carefully sipped the steaming liquid from her favorite cup. "Normally, Billie doesn't hit the humming stage of the relationship until the ghost of her latest ex-husband has a chance to dissipate."

"I liked Howard." Andi sighed.

"We all liked Howard." Calder thought about the gentleman with the backbone of a jellyfish and felt a twinge of pity. "Billie liked him. Until she didn't. Six months after she said I do, and his sweet face was barely recognizable for all her metaphorical footprints."

"Yet, like most of Billie's discarded conquests, Howard is still in love with her. Or is the word obsessed." Bryce shrugged with a world-weary cynicism beyond her years. "Perhaps they're the same things."

"Love is completely different than obsession." To punctuate her point, Mrs. Finch waved a large stainless-steel serving spoon through the air. "A fact I can attest to."

At eighteen, Mrs. Finch had married her high school sweetheart. To her sorrow, two years later, he died in the first Gulf War. She grieved. Mourned. Was certain she would never love again. Until she met Dougal Sheen. A butcher with a very successful Upper East Side shop, he'd courted her with gifts of juicy briskets and perfectly trimmed pork chops. How could she resist? They'd happily kept company for the past ten years.

"You're the exception, Mrs. F. Not the rule," Bryce said.

"No. The exception is a mother with six divorces and fathers who aren't much better." Mrs. Finch never held her tongue where their mix-and-match parental gene pool was concerned. "You can't let their example cloud the way you live."

Calder had heard Mrs. Finch's argument more times than she cared to remember. Truth was, their parents had left them with emotional scars. Happily ever after would be nice, but none of them held out a lot of hope. Andi was a perfect example. Not long ago, she was convinced she'd found the one. Turned out, she was wrong.

As for the rest of the Benedict sisters? Calder, Bryce, and Destry hadn't come close to anything that resembled forever after. And, to varying degrees, were doubtful they ever would.

"We're here to discuss our mother's love life. Not ours." With purpose, Calder switched the conversation back to its original track. "Billie's found a new man. Or perhaps he found her. Either way, the news isn't good."

"Come on, Calder. Billie needs a man in her life. So what?" Unconcerned, Bryce continued to concentrate on her breakfast. Until she met Calder's gaze.

Calder and Bryce might not have the same father. Yet, they shared a connection beyond one of mere siblings. A strong, mental bond. Not exactly two bodies, one brain. But sometimes, like now, the description wasn't far off.

Without another word, Bryce set down her spoon. Calder had her full attention.

"I wouldn't have said anything." The decision to burden her sisters with something that might be nothing had weighed on Calder. "We know the signs. The early morning. The humming. Seems Billie's further along in her new relationship than I anticipated."

Andi, impatient at the best of times, checked her watch.

"Enough prologue, Calder. Get to the meat. Who is Billie's newest conquest? And why should we care?"

"Ingo Hunter."

"Yikes." With a grimace, Bryce pushed away her half-eaten bowl of cereal. "So much for my appetite."

"Are you sure? Of course you are." Andi's clear green eyes clouded with worry. "Crap."

"Exactly." Calder wished she was wrong.

"Wait. Back up a second. Did I miss something?" Mrs. Finch looked from sister to sister, her expression puzzled. "What's wrong with Ingo Hunter? Isn't he one of the most successful businessmen in New York?"

"In the world. If you want to believe him." Calder refilled her cup. "Money isn't the problem."

"A man like Ingo Hunter never has enough money." Andi should know. She dealt with fortune-driven egos all the time. "Though Billie's inheritance is safe from Hunter."

Their grandfather, Thomas Benedict, had taken a vast family fortune from his father and built an empire. He'd always planned on siring sons. Little princes to learn at the feet of the king. Three marriages and he couldn't do better than one child. And a girl to boot. To say he wasn't happy would be a massive understatement.

Wilhelmina Carlotta Benedict. Beautiful as a child. A gorgeous woman who would undoubtedly stun until she took her last breath. Her father had drawn up his will long before he knew the extent of his daughter's intelligence. Or the direction of her personality and temperament.

Some might say Thomas Benedict had been psychic. Some sixth sense told him not to trust his legacy to a woman who would turn out to be utterly hopeless in matters of money.

Billie's daughters knew better. Forethought had nothing to do with his decision.

"While dear old Granddad was a misogynistic curmudgeon—"

"Asshole's a better word," Bryce interjected.

"Hard to argue with the truth." Calder's smile didn't reach her eyes. "He did us a favor when he made out his will. If Grandfather had left Billie everything instead of her trust fund and a yearly allowance, I don't know where we'd be."

"Out on the street," Andi said. "Years ago."

The street was an exaggeration. Each sister inherited a sizable amount from their grandfather—though they weren't allowed full access until either they married or reached their thirtieth birthday. And except for Destry's father, Billie married men with money. A lot of money. With each divorce, their mother received a hefty settlement.

The women in the Benedict family were financially set for life. However, the house they called home—and the bulk of the fortune—would never legally be theirs. Thanks to good old Gramps, only a male heir could inherit.

"I still don't understand." Mrs. Finch placed the breakfast dishes in the sink. "You've always been philosophical about your mother's need to have a man in her life. Why is this time different? What is wrong with Ingo Hunter?"

"Ingo Hunter is a wolf. The big, bad kind," Calder said. Should they tell Mrs. Finch everything? Or spare her the sordid details? Bryce shrugged. Andi nodded. Decision made. "We've all dealt with him. And the man does not like to take no for an answer."

"You mean he tried to…you know?" Mrs. Finch looked shocked. Though she'd passed her fiftieth birthday, she'd led a fairly sheltered life.

"Yes, Mrs. Finch. He propositioned each of us." Calder had to smile. "Separately. But his intent was the same every time."

Mrs. Finch, her face scrunched in disgust, slapped her dishtowel onto the counter.

"You need to tell your mother."

Bryce snorted. "Tell Billie she landed fifth on Hunter's list of Benedict women? I don't think so."

"Count me out," Andi agreed.

"Billie's ego wouldn't appreciate the slap," Calder pointed out. "If she believed us."

"Still—" Mrs. Finch's eyes grew round. "Wait. You said Billie came in fifth?"

"Yes."

"Destry, too? Unbelievable."

In Mrs. Finch's eyes, the youngest Benedict would always be the most vulnerable. Her baby girl. In fact, Destry had the toughest skin. And an uppercut that could down a man three times her size.

"Speaking of Destry. Should we let her know what's going on?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Bryce held up a hand to stay any comments. "I know. Stupid question. I still remember the last time we kept her in the dark. She's small, but her lungs are mighty. Six years and my ears just stopped ringing."

"I'll call her." Andi chuckled at the memory as she took a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "Obviously, Hunter wants something. Maybe all he's after is some fun. In which case, he found the right woman."

"For Billie's sake, and our own, we have to assume Hunter is after more than her body."

Calder agreed with Bryce. Forewarned was forearmed.

"For now, all we can do is keep our eyes and ears open."

"Billie likes to talk." Bryce rolled her grey eyes. "Especially when she's the main topic. One or two not so subtle questions and she'll keep us up to date on her end of the new romance."

"In the meantime?" Mrs. Finch asked.

Again, Calder exchanged silent, telling glances with her sisters. What choice did they have?

"We do what we've always done in the wake of Billie's dramas. We live our lives." Calder placed her cup in the dishwasher. Cleanup. Another lesson Mrs. Finch had taught them well. "I'm going to get dressed and enjoy my day off."

Andi gave Mrs. Finch one of her patented comfort hugs.

"Don't worry."

"I'm Irish. And Catholic. Worry is what we do."

What Mrs. Finch did was care for them. Love them. The housekeeper's diligent concern for their wellbeing was one of the reasons they loved her.

"I'm off to work. I have business meetings all morning."

"Sounds boring," Calder teased. She knew Andi loved every aspect of what she did. A details nerd, what most people found tedious, the oldest Benedict sister thrived on.

"What are your plans?" Calder asked as Bryce slid from her chair.

"My agent needs to see me about something or other. Life or death, from the sound of things. But Antoinette's sense of urgency is one of the things I like about her." With a yawn, Bryce stretched her arms over her head. "She stresses over my career, so I don't have to."

"As I recall, your nerves were pretty raw before the release of your last book."

Bryce dismissed Calder's reminder with a wave of her hand.

"I worry for a few days. If the numbers are good, party time. If not—?"

"The numbers are always spectacular."

"Knock wood. I never take book sales for granted. I'm no longer the new kid with all the buzz. The trick is to remind readers why they liked the last book while we tease them with why they have to get their hands on the new one." Bryce grimaced. "Advertising and the dreaded publicity. Why do I have to pose for a camera when all I want to do is write?"

Bryce had turned her love of reading into a wildly successful career as an author. Her books received rave reviews. More important, they sold. What caught the public's interest from the start was how the beautiful redhead with delicate features and a winning smile could produce such page-turning, blood-curdling works of suspense and horror.

"What's so hard to understand?" Bryce often mused. "A vivid imagination kind of goes with the whole writing territory."

Calder understood. Bryce didn't strive for fame or fortune. Since childhood, her head was filled with words. She felt compelled to fit them together into stories, if only to keep her brain from exploding. Success was great. Heady. Gratifying.

Yet, if Bryce never sold another book, she would get up every day and plant herself in front of her keyboard. The need to write was in her blood.

Dressed in her robe, her hair piled into a messy mass, not a lick of makeup on her face, Calder waved Andi and Bryce on their way. Without the least bit of guilt. Days like today when she could simply lounge around the house were rare. She planned to enjoy every second.

"The fresh strawberries you had delivered the other day? Please tell me you have some left."

"I stashed a bowl in the bottom drawer just for you." Mrs. Finch knew what each of her girls liked and disliked. Calder craved fruit. Varieties of all kinds. The more, the better. Given a choice, she would take a basket of apples over a box of chocolates without hesitation.

"Any thoughts about what you'd like for lunch?"

Eyes closed with pleasure, Calder savored the first bite of juicy berry. Perfectly cold. Just enough sweet mixed with the tart.

"Grilled cheese and whatever soup you have handy."

Calder's tastes were simple, yet specific. Only sharp cheddar would do. Sourdough bread. Lightly buttered and grilled to a deep golden brown. Just the thought brought a smile to her face.

"Easy on my end. I made a big pot of cream of tomato to take to the shelter. Dougal should be here anytime to make the delivery. I'll ladle out a bowl for you before he leaves."

"Dougal is a keeper, Mrs. F." Calder popped another berry into her mouth. "Ever thought about making an honest man of him?"

"We've both been down the aisle before. Good, solid, happy marriages." Mrs. Finch shook her head. "For now, we like things the way they are. He has his home. I have mine. But you never know. When we're old and gray, we might decide to share our waning years as husband and wife."

Between her mother and father, Calder had witnessed almost a dozen weddings. And the flip side? A near dozen divorces. Though she couldn't remember the early ones, the more recent were vivid. She'd lived to tell the tale, but had little faith in the notion of long-term relationships. Genetically, she was cursed. Mrs. Finch and her Dougal gave her a sliver of hope. But try as she might, she didn't hold out much hope for herself.

"You go and enjoy your day off."

"I will. And give Dougal a big kiss for me."

Mrs. Finch's cheeks colored. An honest to goodness blush. Calder took the shortcut toward the back stairs, chuckling as she went. Lord, she loved that woman.

The scent of fresh paint hit Calder when she was halfway to the top landing. The rumble of voices followed. In such a large house, some kind of maintenance was always underway. Mrs. Finch would announce when and where so no one would be surprised by the presence of workmen—or workwomen.

More often than not, Calder forgot.

Since she was certain the painters wouldn't be here without the housekeeper's approval, Calder didn't pause except to cinch the belt on her robe a bit tighter. Eyes on her task, she turned down the hall. And ran straight into a large, hard, immovable object—of the human variety.

"Excuse me. I wasn't looking where I—" Calder's words—and smile—faded when her gaze met a pair of impossibly blue eyes. Certain he must be an optical illusion conjured from her thoughts, she leaned closer to get a better look. "Adam?"

"Hello, Calder."