Page 9 of Roark
Roark had ignored that message because her name wasn’t familiar, and at that point he hadn’t realized the phone number was the same as the one that had called him at least twice a day for the past six days. Then, around ten last night, the next text came.
I realize you may be wondering who I am and why I continue to reach out to you, but I think you’ll be very interested in seeing this letter your mother wrote to my father last year…three days before his death.
That, the last part, had stopped Roark cold. He’d just stepped out of the shower and had held the towel around his waist in one hand, his phone in the other. He’d read the message again and then five more times before he’d responded.
If this is some type of joke, I’ll have you arrested and jailed.
She hadn’t responded until five this morning. The pinging sound of his phone notifying him of a new message had woken him from the light sleep he’d been struggling through.
I don’t have time to joke. I just want answers and you will too. I’m in Painswick but I can come to London to meet with you.
After rubbing his eyes and reading the message again, he’d replied:We’ll meet in Painswick.
He’d provided the place and the time and now waited for her arrival. Waited and wondered who the hell Tamika Rayder was and how she or her father knew his mother.
What he knew so far was that she was prompt. At exactly eleven-thirty, she walked into the breakfast room and immediately met his gaze. That was how he knew it was her, because while Roark had never seen her before, he was certain she’d seen him. At least a picture of him. All she had to do was visit the website for Donovan Oilwell or Donovan International. And why would she have done that? Because Maxine Donovan, as the wife of a Donovan and heir to one of the largest corporations in the country, was well-known in London. If Ms. Rayder was bold enough to reach out to him via phone and text messages, she would’ve done her research the minute she’d seen his mother’s name on a letter. Finding his personal cell phone number would have taken a lot more effort.
He watched her walk toward him. Confident steps, taken in high-heel black shoes, black pants, black-and-white print blouse, a chunky necklace that hung to the center of her bodice. Her hair was past her shoulders, dark, straight and silky. She carried a purse, its thin strap over her right shoulder, and she smiled when a server almost bumped into her. When the server mumbled her apologies, Ms. Rayder replied, “No worries. I’ll hurry and move out of your way.”
“Congenial” and “cheerful” were words he might use to describe her so far.
“Mr. Donovan,” she said when she finally stood close enough to him. “I’m Tamika Rayder.”
Roark didn’t smile. He met her gaze and inhaled slowly but didn’t react to the sweet scent she’d brought with her. “Where’s the letter?”
She tilted her head, her mouth turning down in a frown that disappeared seconds later. “Well, okay then, we’ll get right down to business.” With a hand on the back of the chair, she pulled it out and took a seat across from him. She hooked her purse on the side of the chair beside her and signaled to the server to request a glass of water. “My father’s name was Lemuel Rayder. He was the fire chief in Alexandria, Virginia.”
So, she was American. He could tell by her accent, but he’d learned long ago not to make quick assumptions. In business, as well as in life generally, Roark was a slow thinker and a contemplative reactor. “You’re a long way from home. Are you sure you’re just following up on a letter?”
Her water arrived, and she immediately picked up the glass to take a sip. Then another as she sat back in the chair, staring at him over the rim. “I’m not a stranger here. My parents loved Painswick.”
He watched her lips while she talked and ignored the way her fingers gripped the glass and her arm lowered it to the table. Her lipstick was a dark crimson color that didn’t seem to be too much and he shouldn’t have cared if it was. Yet, he couldn’t stop staring at her. “It’s still a long way to come for a letter.” He finally tore his gaze away from her mouth, finding her eyes once more. “Where is it?”
“Don’t you want to know what it says that would make me come all this way to speak to you?”
“We’ve already settled how far you’ve come, and I can read.”
She smiled. It was a slow movement, each side of her mouth lifting until the smile was not only an alluring distraction but also added a light to her chestnut-colored eyes. “I’m betting you can also be a little friendlier. I mean, you run not one, but two multi-million-dollar companies. You can’t possibly be this borderline rude with your business associates. Perhaps you just don’t like women who call you repeatedly and leave cryptic text messages, things I can totally understand. But still, you could at least have something to drink and try to be cordial.”
“I’ve never been called borderline rude.” But he could definitely see why she was the first to bring that character flaw to his attention. “Look, now’s not a good time for my family. If you really have something my mum sent, I’d like to see what it’s about.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. When he didn’t say another word, she set the envelope on the table and pushed it until it was right next to his hand.
Orange , or another very light citrus fragrance mixed with something more floral—that was what her scent was. Soft, a tad sweet and sensual, very sensual.
Roark felt his brow furrow and reached for the envelope. He pulled out the letter and began to read, going through what read like a pen-pal style of correspondence.
Haven’t seen you in years—hope all is well. It’s nice to know we all turned out to be upstanding adults, even when nobody thought we would.
There was a smiley face drawn after that sentence, the circle of the face not closed completely, the way his mother used to do. Forty-year-old Roark still remembered how his mother drew, probably because whenever she’d written his and his siblings’ names on their gifts for Christmas, she’d drawn either a smiley face, a heart or a Santa face beside it.
His chest tightened as he continued to read.
I wonder sometimes. Do you? It’s been a really long time, but then some days it doesn’t seem like that long ago. It was probably silly of me to write to you, but we were once close and as we get older, I think more and more about our time together.
The letter ended there with her name signed, the slash from the “x” longer than the rest of the letters. It was his mother’s signature.
Roark folded the letter again and put it back in the envelope. “You said your father died.”
