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Authors: Patricia Rosemoor
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clung to her with trust and something more, something
that cut deeper despite his worry over his daughter...and then...suspicion had
reared its ugly head.
Now he didn't
know what to think.
How could he
be certain his feeling closer to Keelin hadn't been part of her master scheme
to take him?
She'd made
moves on him, throwing her arms around his neck, touching his face in that
gentle way that made his heart thunder in his chest. He'd wanted to touch her
and kiss her and do more than just hold her. And this while his only thought
should have been of his daughter, Tyler remembered, disgusted with himself.
Keelin making him think he was to
blame, that some enemy he'd made was
using Cheryl to get even, could have been no more than a stroke of genius on
her part. A smoke screen so that he would forget he didn't trust her. That he'd
vowed never to be fooled again.
He
automatically discarded any envelopes with a familiar return address. Two were
from people he didn't know. A third had no return address at all. His fingers
tightened on the ordinary white paper that could have been purchased at any
drug store.
"Are you
okay?"
Tyler glanced
up at his assistant, her gaze sympathetic, but he couldn't answer. No, he
wasn't okay. He wouldn't be okay until he held Cheryl in his arms. He tore open
the envelope and pulled out the missive.
This was it.
No originality
here. Block letters cut from magazines and newspapers glared out at him.
Don't involve the police further if you value your
daughter's life. I'll be in touch.
For a moment, Tyler
forgot to breathe. Pressure built inside him until he was ready to explode.
"Tyler?"
He glanced up
at Pamela, at the dark eyes reflecting his own anguish. He handed her the
warning missive. She blanched when she read it.
"Oh, God.
What are you going to do?"
"Whatever
the bastard who sent that says."
Inspecting the
envelope as if he could read the sender's true intentions from it, Tyler
suddenly realized that while it had been stamped, there was no postmark.
"This never went through the U.S. mail." He showed Pamela.
"You
think someone slipped it into the pile when it was first delivered?"
"How
else?"
"We had
at least a dozen strangers wandering around downstairs this morning," his
assistant admitted. "I suppose any one of them could have done it."
Or someone who
was not a stranger at all, Tyler mused. Keelin? Definitely someone who knew him. He still couldn't get over the idea of
Cheryl's going off with someone she trusted more than him...
"What
about George Smialek ?" Pamela suggested.
"Maybe he's crazy enough to do something like this."
"He's
suing me."
"But a
suit isn't personal."
"You have
a point." Though Cheryl didn't know the man.
"So,
aren't you going to call the police?"
"No. The
sender threatened to kill Cheryl if I did."
"You
could give them what they want and they could kill her anyway."
As if he
hadn't thought of that.
"Pamela,
I don't want you telling anyone about this."
He had to find
his daughter before it came to a life or death situation, Tyler thought. Keelin
McKenna was the key. Though he prayed Keelin was on the up-and-up, she could be
part of the scam.
One way or the
other, he feared he would be forced to put his daughter's fate in Keelin
McKenna's hands.
SKELLY LIVED IN A POSH NEW BRICK AND
STONE rowhouse on Lincoln Avenue, one of the diagonal
streets cutting across Chicago's north side. The triangular development with
entrances at each of the three corners had been designed to emulate a London
neighborhood. All the rowhouses looked over inner
streets and small snatches of green. Living quarters stacked up two stories
over the street-level garages.
"Quite a
place you have here," Keelin said, wandering around the generously
apportioned living and dining areas. She wondered if Skelly was in love with
black lacquered furniture, or if the same designer who'd planned his office had
had a free hand in his home, as well.
As she stood
over
that cut deeper despite his worry over his daughter...and then...suspicion had
reared its ugly head.
Now he didn't
know what to think.
How could he
be certain his feeling closer to Keelin hadn't been part of her master scheme
to take him?
She'd made
moves on him, throwing her arms around his neck, touching his face in that
gentle way that made his heart thunder in his chest. He'd wanted to touch her
and kiss her and do more than just hold her. And this while his only thought
should have been of his daughter, Tyler remembered, disgusted with himself.
Keelin making him think he was to
blame, that some enemy he'd made was
using Cheryl to get even, could have been no more than a stroke of genius on
her part. A smoke screen so that he would forget he didn't trust her. That he'd
vowed never to be fooled again.
He
automatically discarded any envelopes with a familiar return address. Two were
from people he didn't know. A third had no return address at all. His fingers
tightened on the ordinary white paper that could have been purchased at any
drug store.
"Are you
okay?"
Tyler glanced
up at his assistant, her gaze sympathetic, but he couldn't answer. No, he
wasn't okay. He wouldn't be okay until he held Cheryl in his arms. He tore open
the envelope and pulled out the missive.
This was it.
No originality
here. Block letters cut from magazines and newspapers glared out at him.
Don't involve the police further if you value your
daughter's life. I'll be in touch.
For a moment, Tyler
forgot to breathe. Pressure built inside him until he was ready to explode.
"Tyler?"
He glanced up
at Pamela, at the dark eyes reflecting his own anguish. He handed her the
warning missive. She blanched when she read it.
"Oh, God.
What are you going to do?"
"Whatever
the bastard who sent that says."
Inspecting the
envelope as if he could read the sender's true intentions from it, Tyler
suddenly realized that while it had been stamped, there was no postmark.
"This never went through the U.S. mail." He showed Pamela.
"You
think someone slipped it into the pile when it was first delivered?"
"How
else?"
"We had
at least a dozen strangers wandering around downstairs this morning," his
assistant admitted. "I suppose any one of them could have done it."
Or someone who
was not a stranger at all, Tyler mused. Keelin? Definitely someone who knew him. He still couldn't get over the idea of
Cheryl's going off with someone she trusted more than him...
"What
about George Smialek ?" Pamela suggested.
"Maybe he's crazy enough to do something like this."
"He's
suing me."
"But a
suit isn't personal."
"You have
a point." Though Cheryl didn't know the man.
"So,
aren't you going to call the police?"
"No. The
sender threatened to kill Cheryl if I did."
"You
could give them what they want and they could kill her anyway."
As if he
hadn't thought of that.
"Pamela,
I don't want you telling anyone about this."
He had to find
his daughter before it came to a life or death situation, Tyler thought. Keelin
McKenna was the key. Though he prayed Keelin was on the up-and-up, she could be
part of the scam.
One way or the
other, he feared he would be forced to put his daughter's fate in Keelin
McKenna's hands.
SKELLY LIVED IN A POSH NEW BRICK AND
STONE rowhouse on Lincoln Avenue, one of the diagonal
streets cutting across Chicago's north side. The triangular development with
entrances at each of the three corners had been designed to emulate a London
neighborhood. All the rowhouses looked over inner
streets and small snatches of green. Living quarters stacked up two stories
over the street-level garages.
"Quite a
place you have here," Keelin said, wandering around the generously
apportioned living and dining areas. She wondered if Skelly was in love with
black lacquered furniture, or if the same designer who'd planned his office had
had a free hand in his home, as well.
As she stood
over
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