Page 23 of Roark
“You’re welcome, sir. I know Geoff originally said you wouldn’t need it, but the refrigerator and cupboards are packed with supplies. Dorianne’s the head of kitchen staff at the manor; she’ll be sending someone over within the hour to take care of your daily meals. For now, I just brought over some of the scones and muffins from the morning buffet, and the coffee, of course. You have my number should you need anything else, and Geoff plans to check in with you this morning also.” She stood with her shoulders slightly back, her hands folded in front of her starched long black skirt and white blouse.
“Thank you, Lily. You’ve been wonderful since I arrived.” It was a true statement, and he did appreciate the extra help of her finding clothes for Tamika.
“Very well, sir. I’ll be on my way. Ms. Rayder, I’ve given you my card. As soon as I receive your email address—”
“Sent it while you were talking to Mr. Donovan,” Tamika said with a nod. The smile she’d aimed at him was only slightly condescending, but when she looked directly at Lily, Roark noted it was sincere.
“Very well then. I’ll take care of everything.” With a slight nod, Lily left the kitchen.
And then they were alone.
Again.
Roark hadn’t considered how he’d handle being alone with her after dreaming of her last night. He wasn’t really good with morning-afters. “Good morning.” That seemed like the most appropriate thing to say.
“Good morning to you. And thank you for having Lily get me clothes. Designer clothes at that. Do you always treat the women you bring home for the night this generously?” The sexy nightgown had been replaced with a black jogger jacket and he suspected pants to match. But since she was sitting and he was standing at the other end of the counter, he couldn’t tell. There was some sort of animal print design on the shoulder of the jacket that seemed to work with what he suspected was Tamika’s saucier personality.
“No. I’m not in the habit of buying women clothes, if that’s what you’re asking.” Other than his mother, sister and ex-wife, Roark had never bought gifts of any type for any woman. Wining and dining, gift giving and spoiling women, all that was Ridge’s area of expertise. Roark was about his company and his family. When a woman fell within those guidelines, he treated them differently. That had only happened once and it had ended badly.
He took another sip of coffee. “We’re expected at the cottage at eight.”
“Expected? By who? The police?”
Roark shook his head. “Not exactly.”
She wasn’t wearing any makeup this morning; however, her skin sill appeared silky smooth, thick, perfectly arched eyebrows lifted as she continued to stare at him. “What does that mean? I was wondering why no police showed up at the hospital to question me. Do you know something I don’t?”
He suspected they both knew things the other didn’t, and that was the reason for this conversation they were having now.
Roark moved to one of the stools near the end of the island closest to him. He pulled it out and took a seat. The island was at least nine feet long, so it seemed like she was a world away from him as she sat at the other end. “My mother was killed in a fire two weeks ago. We believe it was arson. The police suspect me, my brother, or my sister. Or possibly all three of us together.”
There was a small white plate in front of her with an iced scone on it. He hadn’t noticed that before, but now when she used her fingers to push it away, he did. “My father was killed in a fire thirteen months ago. I know it was arson. I walked the scene, saw the point of origin myself, so I’m positive someone set that fire with the intent to kill him.” She spoke the words adamantly, but Roark caught the hint of emotion lacing each one.
“How do you know that for sure? That the fire was set to kill your father?”
“Because he was drugged. It must’ve been in his coffee, because that’s all he’d had that morning after leaving home. His coffee that he brewed fresh in that awful little pot on the credenza in his office. Somebody put the drug in that, he drank and then—”
“He was paralyzed.” Roark finished the sentence for her, not totally sure he was right, but going with the feeling of dread he’d felt yesterday when he’d looked at his phone and seen the report of the fire at the cottage.
“Yes.” She spoke the word on a whisper and nodded. “Succinylcholine.”
Roark nodded this time, and they both sat staring at each other, letting the words they’d just spoken sink in. “Did you show your mother that letter?”
She laced her fingers, then let them slip apart. “No.”
“Because you did think they were having an affair.” During their first meeting she’d been sure to state there was no affair, but he suspected that’s just what she’d wanted to believe. His mother had been a widower for twenty-three years. If she’d found someone to make her happy, Roark wasn’t going to begrudge her that. But Tamika’s father had been a married man.
She looked away from him, staring out the window across the room. The sun hadn’t shown its face yet this morning, so the sky was still a muted gray hue. This part of the house faced the tennis courts and walkways leading to the manor’s main building. “I never wanted to think of my father as a cheater.” She turned back to him, her gaze pinning him with just a hint of sadness. “And that letter didn’t really prove that he was. I couldn’t ask him, and I didn’t find anything else to support an affair. That was the first time I’d ever seen your mother’s name or anything like that in my father’s belongings.”
“But you still didn’t take it to your mother and ask her. She knew your father better than anyone. If you really didn’t think it was an affair, why not ask her?”
Tamika pushed back from the island, the legs of the stool making a loud sound as they were dragged across the floor. She stepped down and grabbed her plate, walking it to the counter where she set it beside the sink. “After the funeral, my mother wasn’t herself. She was quiet and withdrawn, and I didn’t want to do anything to make that worse. I didn’t want to make her have to think about losing him anymore.”
She’d brushed her hair back from her face today so that it hung straight down her back, the dark color blending with the hue of her jacket. Yesterday she’d worn high heels with her outfit; today she had on black platform tennis shoes with the CKDavis emblem in gold on the back heel.
He remained silent while he waited for her to continue. She turned around slowly, planting her hands behind her on the counter as she leaned against it.
“My mother wasn’t handling his death well. One weekend, two weeks after the funeral, she just packed up everything and came here to stay. She didn’t even tell me before she left. I found out when I went to her house and saw the for-sale sign. When I called her, she said she wanted to be closer to him, and the cottage was the only place she could do that. I didn’t fuss—I just went along with it.”
