Chapter 9
S inclair looked more handsome than ever.
He wore a light jacket over a beige sweater and khaki pants.
In the cool air of the morning, his blue eyes looked sharper than ever, his jaw like stone.
And, unlike his frequently clean-shaven face, he had grown out a few days’ worth of whiskers.
My heart ached at the sight of him.
Before I could answer his question, Mr.
Sherwood took a step closer to him.
Both men were tall, but Mr.
Sherwood was slightly shorter by about an inch or so.
In what looked to be a standoff, neither man said a word.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Although his presence wasn’t necessarily unwelcome at this very moment, I had already told him we were through.
Seeing him again simply reopened the wound.
“I came to apologize.”
I almost spat out that he could have done that over the phone—and he certainly could have—but this gesture, coming here in person, meant a lot to me.
It told me he really did care and, like it or not, my heart softened.
But Mr.
Sherwood took two more steps toward Sinclair, getting too close and all but puffing out his chest.
“You are her father’s enemy and yet here you are trying to win this young woman’s affections. You don’t deserve her.”
Had our relationship been that obvious?
I was gearing up to read him the riot act about making assumptions until I looked back at Sinclair.
His eyes quickly shifted from his usual confident self—to something I didn’t recognize…
but I suspected his expression had looked the same just a week ago when he’d held me tightly, so close that I couldn’t look in his face.
There was pain in his eyes and I knew—everything, from the tightness of his lips to the furrow of his brow, from his whole life was on display on his face.
He believed it…
that he was unworthy of my love.
“No. You’re wrong,” I said, my voice calm and steady again but even more emphatic.
“Aside from my father, Sinclair is the best man I’ve ever known. We didn’t see eye to eye at first, but he is not his father. He has made sure my every need has been taken care of—and my father’s as well. That’s why I’m here right now. And he offered to pay for my education…and his contributions to WCC were made so that he could help students get a better education. He doesn’t just do that for the college, either—he is a charitable man.”
“I see you’ve swallowed the Kool-Aid just like the rest of Winchester. That’s disappointing, Anna—you could have done so much in your position. We could have been so good together.”
But I wasn’t paying attention to him—I was looking at Sinclair and it was as if I had inflated him like a balloon.
Had no one other than Edna ever told him how special he was?
How important he was?
How good and kind?
I knew now that much of his gruff, prickly persona had been nothing more than armor.
Inside, the part he’d let me see, was a loving, tender man who had become the world to me.
“I think you’d better leave,” he said, his voice once again sounding confident and self-assured.
“If you don’t want to do it willingly, I’ll help you.”
“Get off my property” came a voice from behind me.
When had my father come outside?
And how much had he heard?
Mr.
Sherwood’s face was red—not from embarrassment but from anger.
“You haven’t heard the last of me!” he spat at Sinclair before storming out of the yard.
Sinclair said, “Mr. Miller,” and held out his hand.
My father, for his part, looked weak, as if he were going to fall down, making me question how effective that infusion was going to be.
But we’d been told that weakness and fatigue the first few days were common side effects.
“Dad, you need to rest.”
Still, my father shook Sinclair’s hand—and then Sinclair helped me get him inside the house.
Behind us, we heard a loud crash and I turned my head to see what had happened.
Mr.
Sherwood began speeding off in his car, after having backed into Sinclair’s.
But Sinclair simply said, “He’d do well with an anger management class.”
I laughed—and I’d apparently needed it.
Once my father returned to his recliner, he took a sip of water.
“You’re right, princess. I need to rest.”
“Will you be okay if I go for a little bit?”
“I’ve got my phone,” dad said, nodding toward where it set next to the lamp on the end table.
“Call if you need anything. I’ll be back soon.” And then I turned to Sinclair.
“We need to talk.”
Giving me a quick nod, he waited—and then followed me out the front door.
The damage to Sinclair’s white BMW, one of his many cars, had been minimal—just a few scratches on the bumper.
After he’d helped me in the car, he’d gotten in the driver’s seat and drove off as if he knew exactly where he was going.
And, it turned out, he did.
When he turned onto the main highway that cut through Winchester, he turned his car to the east.
Before I could figure out exactly what I wanted to get off my chest, he said, “I’m going to pick up some Chinese takeout—and if your father’s up for it, I’d like to share a meal with you both at your house.”
“He could barely eat the breakfast I made him.”
“ I’m hungry. I could talk to him and we could eat afterward instead.”
I was hungry too since I hadn’t had a chance to eat—and the French toast wouldn’t be as good cold.
So I nodded, knowing exactly where we were going.
There were two Chinese restaurants in Winchester but he was driving toward the one my father and I had eaten at once or twice, and I’d always loved it.
It was one of the few places in town where I’d actually felt welcome.
As we walked up to the restaurant, he asked, “What’s your dad’s favorite dish here?”
“He loves the sesame chicken.”
“And what about you?”
“I like chicken chow mein. What’s your favorite?”
“I’ve never eaten here—but I like anything kung pao—the spicier, the better.”
I wasn’t going to say it, but Sinclair seemed more relaxed than I’d ever seen him.
Not only did his tone have a playful quality, but his eyes and jaw looked as if he was no longer tense.
Sinclair ordered and paid for our food.
He asked the woman at the counter, “How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
With a nod, he placed his hand on my back and led me through the door.
Outside there were two concrete tables and benches where people could dine when the weather was nice, but I’d never actually seen anyone sit out there—until we did.
Like usual in the autumn in Winchester, the day was growing warm, thanks to the sun shining down on us.
Sinclair straddled the bench, so I did as well, facing him.
Taking my hands in his, he scanned my face with his earnest blue eyes, and I sensed he had a lot to say.
I’d planned on asking questions, but I knew now that I wouldn’t have to.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you about the repairs at the college, Lise. I didn’t want you to be distracted. The repairs didn’t quite cost a million, but they cost more than they should have. Leona wanted the lab ready for fall—and I agreed. Students were already scared and disappointed, and I didn’t want the terrorists to think they’d won.”
“ Terrorists? ”
“I’m using that word figuratively—but it’s the principle. You don’t negotiate with terrorists. Anyway, the lab was ready on time, and we spent more than we would have if we hadn’t rushed the repairs.”
Nodding, I said, “I guess that makes sense. If I’d been a nursing student who’d signed up in the spring for classes that relied on the lab, I would have been upset at having to wait.”
“You probably won’t believe this now, but I’d planned to release you from your contract once you were done with the dungeon…and I’m sorry I kept that from you. I just wanted you focused on finishing.”
Had I heard him right?
It was as if he were affirming right there everything I’d said to Mr.
Sherwood less than half an hour earlier—that Sinclair’s character was far more upstanding and forthright than Sherwood’s, slinking in the shadows and having students do his dirty work.
Sinclair squeezed my hands.
“And, I’ll admit, I didn’t want to let you go. But after this past week, I knew it was the right thing to do.”
I smiled at him, feeling as if I were basking in his glow as much as the rays of the sun overhead.
“I can’t thank you enough. Dad needed me here.”
“It looks like he still does.” He ran a finger along my cheek, pushing back the tiny wisp of hair that had escaped my ponytail.
“Do you know when you’ll be able to come back?”
“I’m not sure. I just want him to get to the point where he can move around without feeling exhausted.”
“Can I send a nurse—or get him different care?”
“No. I don’t know how dad would feel about someone else in the house fussing over him. And he won’t say it out loud, but I know he wouldn’t have gone to his first treatment if I hadn’t been there. This treatment is top of the line. He and I did a lot of research about a year ago and he and his doctor finally decided it was his best chance of fighting the disease. Then, of course, he was on a waiting list to get in.”
“That says a lot. What about help with paying for it?”
“Well, that was another battle we had…getting it paid for, but everything finally fell into place with this appointment. That’s why I didn’t want him to miss it.”
Sinclair’s hands squeezed mine.
“He’s lucky he has you.”
“I feel the same way about him.”
“Well…we’ll have you return to the mansion when you feel like your father can handle being alone. And once you finish your work in the dungeon, I’ll let you return home.”
Had I heard him right?
He continued.
“If you focus on cataloging what’s left and stop wasting your time assessing value of the items, you should be done in a week or so.”
My brain finally caught up.
“Are you sure about that?
His gentle smile warmed me again. “Lise, I read your weekly reports—and I have a good idea of what all is down there.
You would have already been done with that project if you hadn’t started researching the value of many of the items.
”
“Okay, but you have a lot of antiques down there that would fetch a pretty penny.”
“If I felt like parting with them.”
“And the Downey painting.”
His grip on my hands tightened momentarily.
“You proved your worth as an employee.”
There was one thing we hadn’t said—and I had to know.
“What about us?”
A grin cracked his face as his eyes filled with something I’d never seen before—but I couldn’t quite place what it was.
“We’ll figure that out down the road.”
On the ride home, the sweet and spicy scent of Chinese food lingered in my nose, even though Sinclair had put the big bag of food in the trunk.
He asked, “Who was that man in front of your house?”
“That was Mr. Sherwood.” I didn’t want to tell Sinclair about the man’s near confession, at least not yet, partly because I wasn’t even sure if I believed him.
Although he’d told me the truth about the repair of the lab, I felt like everything he’d said had been to manipulate my emotions.
For all I knew, he’d made up everything about having a “crew of students” do his dirty work.
And if he had manipulated students into “revolting” with him, I didn’t know that I wanted to get them in trouble.
Over the past year, I’d seen students practically worship the man—which meant they might have been suckered in like cult members.
Doing his bidding, if they had, could have ruined their entire lives.
Despite how this whole thing had begun, I no longer regretted it.
My future was unclear, especially with Sinclair, but I felt like I was in a better place.
Even though I no longer planned to attend DU—if, in fact, Sinclair really was going to let me go after I finished my work—I now knew what I wanted to do with my life.
Sinclair’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.
“That doesn’t really explain who he is. Although I have no intention of suing him for a hit and run, I like to know who my enemies are.”
How much had Sinclair heard of our conversation before he’d approached?
I didn’t know for certain—and I couldn’t remember exactly all we’d said.
But I could answer Sinclair’s question regardless.
“His name is Alan Sherwood. He teaches history classes at the college.”
“And why was he at your house?”
“I ran into him at the grocery store yesterday. He’s the one who told me about the lab getting finished early.”
Sinclair stopped the car at a red light and turned his focus on me.
“But why was he at your house today ?”
“I think it was just an excuse to see me.” Although that hadn’t been Sherwood’s stated intention, I knew it was part of it.
“He’s kind of a creepy guy and I’ve always gotten an interested vibe from him.”
“Jesus. And I thought I was robbing the cradle.”
My cheeks flushed.
“Your advances weren’t unwanted.”
“But his are,” Sinclair said, giving the car gas when the light turned green.
“Would you like me to take care of him for you?”
I had no idea what he meant but one part of my mind conjured up plenty of scenarios.
My father had always believed Augustus Whittier had found ways to soil his name among Winchester citizens, but he’d never known exactly how the tycoon had done it.
Was that what Sinclair meant—or had he simply intended to confront the man himself?
Either way, I didn’t want anything else bad to happen.
“No.” And then, as my mind shot back to that scene in the front yard when Sinclair had subtly threatened him, I added, “You already did.”