More Than a Man. Rebecca York
bills and her physical therapy bills. She’d even reached the point where she knew she should apply for food stamps. Then, at least, she could be sure of eating regular meals.
Pearson must have seen the defeated look on her face, because he visibly relaxed. “It’s going to be easy. I got the idea from that guy who ran for president. The one who got caught in a hotel room in L.A. with his mistress.”
“That was a longtime affair.”
Pearson waved her to silence. “Whatever. The point is, some men have a lot to lose if they get nailed in the wrong bed with a blond looker like you. Let me tell you how we’re going to work it.”
As she listened, she clenched her fists, her mind scrambling for a way to thwart her brother’s plans.
NOAH LANDED at LAX and collected his luggage from the flight crew, then picked up his Lexus hybrid in the private lot. Once he was on the highway, he pulled his cell phone from the glove compartment, plugged it into the cigarette lighter and called home.
His man, Thomas Northrop, answered.
“I’ve landed. I’m in the car and I’ll be there in two or three hours, depending on the traffic.”
“We’re glad to have you back.” Thomas paused. His voice was sober when he began to speak again. “I’m sorry about what happened on The Fortune. I know you have to be grieving for those men.”
“Yes, thanks,” Noah answered. He and Thomas were old friends. Or at least as friendly as a man like Noah could get with anyone. “Anything I should know about?” he asked.
“You have four e-mails from that doctor—Sidney Hemmings.”
“Is something wrong?”
“He’s inviting you to a medical research conference in Las Vegas. He says that would be the perfect opportunity for the two of you to meet. He’s holding a complimentary place for you.”
“Yeah, he mentioned it a couple of months ago. I’m still thinking about it,” Noah answered. He’d been corresponding with Hemmings for fifteen years—first by mail and then by e-mail. The doctor was doing some of the most interesting work in the field of longevity and he was a presenter as well as an organizer of the international conference.
Noah was caught between his innate caution and his desire to meet the brilliant researcher face-to-face.
“I’ll think about it,” he said. He’d detected a subtle note of disquiet in Thomas’s tone. “Anything else?”
His chief of staff cleared his throat, then spoke in a halting voice. “Simon is home.”
Noah sucked in a breath. Simon was Thomas’s older son. And in following long-standing tradition, he should have been the one to take over from his father. But Simon had never been an easy child to deal with, and in his teen years, he’d exhibited some mental instability that had evolved into paranoid schizophrenic episodes.
Noah had paid for his treatment at a very expensive private mental hospital in the Bay Area. With medication, he’d been able to leave the hospital and had been living in Half Moon Bay, working at one of the many garden centers in the town.
“He quit his job and came home,” Thomas said. “I think he might be off his meds.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. We’ll deal with it.”
“He’s been asking questions about you,” Thomas continued. “Questions I won’t answer.”
“I’m sorry to put you in that position.”
“As you said, it’s not your fault.”
They talked for a few more minutes about the young man as Noah drove north, looking with disgust at the brown haze hanging over the coastline.
By the time he reached Santa Barbara, the sky looked better. Continuing north of town, he turned off on a two-lane road that wound through stands of sycamores, live oaks and mounds of pampas grass.
It was a landscape he liked, a landscape he hoped he wouldn’t have to abandon anytime soon.
He had a good chance of realizing that ambition, because the location of his home was secret. When he’d changed his name twenty years ago, he’d made sure that nobody knew where the man named Noah Fielding really lived. His mail came to a post office box. His bank was out of state. And he could handle trans-actions over the Internet. In fact, there were no clues leading to his current location, and he meant to keep it that way.
GARY Carlson arrived on Grand Cayman just after Noah had checked out of his bed-and-breakfast. Gary was the brother of Eddie Carlson, the man who had been piloting The Fortune when it had gone down.
Eddie and Gary had been close, and he was having trouble coping with his brother’s death. He was also wondering why Noah Fielding felt compelled to transfer a million dollars to the widows of the men who had been in the submarine with him.
As soon as his plane landed, Gary went directly to the police station and tried to get the straight scoop on what had happened below the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.
The cops were sympathetic, but they wouldn’t give him anything beyond basic information because the incident was still under investigation.
Next he talked to the captain and crew of Neptune’s Promise, which was docked in George Town.
There were mixed reactions from the crew. Some thought the rich man who had backed the expedition, Noah Fielding, had sacrificed the other men to save himself. Others thought Fielding was just a lucky son of a bitch.
Whichever it was, Gary wanted to talk to him. But nobody seemed to have his address and nobody knew how to get in touch with him.
After thirty-six hours on the island, his anger and frustration building, he knew he wasn’t going to get any information on his own. He wasn’t a patient man under the best of circumstances, and he suspected his grief was affecting his judgment.
But he wasn’t willing to drop the inquiry into his brother’s death. Once back in Baltimore he looked up a local outfit he’d heard about—the Light Street Detective Agency—and hired them to tell him where to find Fielding.
PULLING up at the entrance to his walled estate, Noah used his remote control. The gate swung open, then closed behind him as he drove toward the sprawling house.
The landscaping along the winding driveway took advantage of the dry climate, interspersing huge boulders with yuccas, cacti and native plants like manzanita. Rounding a curve, he caught sight of the house which was mostly one story but jutted up to a second floor in several locations.
Home.
It was based on the design of an ancient pueblo village that he’d seen long ago and admired for the simplicity of its lines. He’d drawn up plans and started building the house himself, on acreage he’d acquired years earlier while using a different name. It was the site of an old ranch that the family had never been able to make a go of. They’d been glad to unload it to the eccentric gentleman from San Francisco. Noah had found it the perfect solution to his need for privacy. An estate out in the dry, brown hills.
The first dwelling had consisted of five rooms, but he’d added on to it over the years, hiring local workmen to help him with the construction. The house wasn’t the only building on the grounds. He had a workshop, a lab, a stable, a number of storage buildings and a fully equipped gym spread out around the property.
Thomas must have been waiting for a signal from the gate because he stepped outside the front door and waited for the car to pull to a stop.
Noah slowed, studying the man as he walked toward the Lexus. He’d been with Noah for a long time, and now he was in his