Kitabı oku: «The Marine»

Chapter One

Dear Major Branigan:

It is our duty at this time to inform you of the death of Marcus McCoy due to an unfortunate, unforeseen encounter with a grizzly bear while fly-fishing in Alaska on June 8 of this year, and per the stipulations set forth in his last will and testament, to make formal his acknowledgment of one USMC Major Rick Thomas Branigan, age 33, of 7259 Villa Crest Drive, #12, Oceanedge, California, as being his son and heir to an equal portion of his estate.

It is the wish of Joseph McCoy, father to Marcus McCoy, grandfather to Rick Branigan and founder of McCoy Enterprises, that you immediately assume your rightful place in the family home and business with all due haste and utmost discretion to preserve the family’s privacy.

Regards,

David Weidman, Esq.

Weidman, Biddermier, Stark

“I don’t have time for this right now,” Major Rick Branigan grumbled at the letter he held in one hand while he braced his other hand against the open front door of his condo.

The lawyer lady on his doorstep looked around her, as if someone might actually hear them on the second-floor landing, then nodded sagely. “That’s why I’m here, Major,” she said in a rich, smooth voice straight out of a steamy, Southern-night fantasy.

Without being asked in, she brushed past Rick and entered his condo, as bold as you please.

She smelled faintly of an exotic spice that went perfectly with her amber eyes and winged black eyebrows but was as incongruent with her beige, don’t-mess-with-me-in-court suit jacket and skirt as was her voice. Rick, in his lowly civi jeans and white T-shirt, turned to watch her stroll toward his glass-topped dining room table.

Her legs, as well as the rest of her, were shapely enough to win over any male jury. Not that he should be noticing, considering the latest complication heaped on his plate. But she was one hell of a looker despite the bun into which she’d pulled her black hair—one that would make a drill sergeant proud.

Only, he was no drill sergeant, and thanks to the felony charge he’d saddled himself with, he wouldn’t be sitting on a jury anytime soon. His butt was likely destined for jail. He glanced out into the bright sunlight at the red pickup truck sitting in his parking space, its left front bumper and side panel bashed in. Damn, how had his life become so messed up so fast?

He shut the front door and followed her. “Excuse me, Ms.…Hayes, was it?” He wasn’t certain of her name because the fact that she was a lawyer for McCoy Enterprises, sent to hand-deliver a very special and wholly unexpected letter, had caught up his interest. Along with the contents of the letter. Rick waited to feel some emotional reaction to news of his father’s death, but nothing came. He shrugged. He hadn’t even known the guy’s name.

The lawyer lady glanced up from where she was unloading papers from her sleek black leather briefcase. “That’s correct. But please, call me Lynn. Especially since we’ll be working closely for the next few days while I help represent you legally, then escort you to Dependable, Missouri.”

Despite the sickening roll his stomach performed at her blithe mention of his need for legal representation, Rick scoffed. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about pretty much all of that, ma’am.”

She paused, a file folder half out of her briefcase, and stared at him as if he’d just claimed women were better suited to working within the home—something his mother had single-handedly disproved.

“Mistaken?” She finished removing the file and placed it on the table with a telling deliberateness. “Major Branigan, I put forth a concerted effort to never make mistakes. They’re counterproductive to my goals.”

He eyed her courtroom version of spit-polish. The woman seemed ready to argue a case before the Supreme Court, which seemed like overkill to him. Kind of like calling in a Harrier jet with full armament when a side arm would suffice. “Of which, I imagine, you have quite a few, Ms. Hayes.”

“At the moment, just three. To quickly extract you from your current situation without drawing media attention and to get you to Dependable, Missouri, in time for your grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday party a month from now on July third.”

“That’s only two. What’s the third?”

She froze. Without looking at him, she stated, “The third is personal, Major.”

Personal, eh? What sort of personal goal would a clearly high-priced attorney have? She’d already been hired by one of the most successful general retail corporations in the United States, if not the world. McCoy stores were found everywhere and sold pretty much everything one needed in this modern world.

Wondering why she’d mention a third goal in the first place if it was personal, he fished. “But tied to the other two?”

“Yes,” she crisply admitted. Then she added, “Now, let’s review the facts of your case to ensure the information I was given is correct.”

He clenched his abs against the anger and dread starting to party in his gut. “I’m not interested in you helping me prove my innocence, Ms. Hayes.” Especially when she worked for his father’s family.

“I’m not interested in helping you prove your innocence, Major. I’m here to facilitate a speedy and un-noteworthy end to the situation you’ve found yourself in. We need to plead you down to a lesser charge of reckless driving—or best, failure to heed a traffic signal—instead of leaving you to face felony DUI hit-and-run. Then getting you discharged will be simple. Quick. Assuming the judge or magistrate and prosecutor are as agreeable as Joseph believes they will be because of your record. Granted, since I’m not licensed to practice law in the state of California, all I can do is offer advice to the lawyer we hire for you—”

“I already have a lawyer.” If only to speed up the inevitable: demotion at best, dishonorable discharge and prison at worst.

The anger and dread spread into his chest.

She shifted her weight, drawing his attention briefly to the curve of her hip. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure it’d be wise to retain council from—” she flipped open the top file and read “—Acme Legal Services.” Her mouth flattened, as if the name tasted bad. She studied him for a moment. “Please don’t tell me you picked the first firm listed in the phone book.”

So what if he had? Since he’d been pleading the Fifth nearly from the get-go, the quality of his lawyer didn’t matter. Still, he wished the man hadn’t automatically submitted a plea of not guilty at the arraignment hearing.

Rick looked her in the eyes and crossed his arms over his chest by way of answer.

She made a save-me-from-idiots noise as she pulled out a chair—the one at the head of the table—and sat down. Unconsciously or not, the woman knew how to send a message. She was the independent, in-charge type. His mother would love her.

Another reason to have nothing to do with her.

Sliding the open file in front of herself, Ms. Hayes produced a hefty black-and-gold pen from her briefcase. “Arranging for new council will be the first order of business.”

“No.”

Her pen stilled on her notepad. Without glancing at him, she asked, “Care to explain why?” Her tone was casual enough, but a hint of mounting annoyance snuck through.

Some of the Marine officers he admired the most used a similar tactic to convey their opinions.

This admirable quality aside, he was in no mood to play today. Probably never would be again. “No. Nor do I care for your help.” Though he’d done so inadvertently, he’d placed himself on this path and had every intention of reaching, with honor and dignity, whatever end it might hold for him.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Rick fought the panic-spurred temptation to let her help him. “It’s time for you to leave, Ms. Hayes.”

“Major Branigan.” She carefully set her pen on a file that undoubtedly contained everything about him down to his regulation shoe size.

Everything but the truth.

Folding her hands in front of her, she stared at him, her amber eyes glowing with conviction. “I understand the need to accept punishment for getting into your truck and driving after having a six-pack too many beers—especially considering the extent of the injuries the woman in the car you hit suffered.” She glanced at the file. “One Emelie Dawson, forty-six, divorced mother of two. But I refuse to allow you to offer yourself up that way.”

He remembered the letter he still gripped, and looked at it again. “Because that would be bad for the McCoys?”

Her response was unapologetic. “Because it would be bad for the McCoys.”

He shouldn’t care, shouldn’t want to know after all this time. But he couldn’t stop himself from finding out more about his father’s family.

He asked, “Isn’t making known their connection to me—and the circumstances surrounding it—worse? I recall seeing a fluffy report about the McCoys on one of those entertainment news shows. The reporter said the head of the family is some sort of high-moral-standards drum banger. Revealing that one of his kids—”

“Marcus was Joseph’s only child.”

Rick frowned. “His only—? Granted, the reporter was some ex–beauty queen, but I could have sworn she mentioned—”

“Alexander McCoy is actually Marcus’s first illegitimate child,” she smoothly interrupted him again.

So smoothly it took him a moment to register what she’d conveyed in that honey-slick voice of hers.

“I’m not his only?”

“No. You’re one of four men.”

“Four!” His already low opinion of the man who’d sired him crashed and burned.

He had three half siblings. But they would never be the brothers to him that his fellow Marines were.

The lady lawyer coolly shifted the file in front of her. “While my purpose here is to—”

“I know what your damn purpose is, Ms. Hayes,” he said, doing some interrupting of his own, but not nearly as smoothly as she had. The story he’d thought he’d known was turning out to be even worse. He might as well have it all. “But the only thing I want from you is what you know about my father.”

LYNN HAYES COULD ONLY stare at the compelling, seething man standing stiffly before her, his hands fisted at his sides, the letter he should have considered his salvation crumpled in one big, strong hand. His reaction to not only the letter but to her presence stunned her. She didn’t like being stunned, and she needed every ounce of her self-control not to let the unwelcome feeling show. She couldn’t afford to mess this up. Everything she’d worked so hard for to this point depended on success.

She looked back down at the file she’d acquired from the base commander—Joseph McCoy’s connections never ceased to amaze and inspire—that detailed a military career epitomizing United States Marine Corps values. Major Rick Branigan had been awarded several medals, including a Purple Heart for injuries sustained in the first days of full-scale military action in Afghanistan. Injuries that, while in no way debilitating, now kept him from combat assignments but hadn’t made him want out.

By all accounts, Major Branigan was indeed one of the best and the brightest, having achieved his current rank mere months ago and having had a spotless record, even before joining the Corps.

So why would he throw it all away by driving drunk, then fleeing the scene of an accident he’d caused?

Some people—people like her parents—just didn’t realize how good they had it. They cared only for the buzz of the moment. Then, when they finally screwed up big and had everything taken away, they could only stand there with blank looks on their faces.

Only, Major Branigan didn’t have a blank look on his handsome face. His classic McCoy features—strong jaw, aristocratic nose (though he had clearly busted his at one time) and arresting, deep blue eyes—radiated emotions he was visibly trying to contain. Emotions that were at odds with the Marine Corps poster boy he’d first appeared to be—complete with the Corps’s emblem tattooed on his bulging left biceps.

Definitely not the one Lynn had expected. Personally, she would have given anything to find out she didn’t really belong to the family she’d been born into. A family devoid of love and support. But she couldn’t blame him for wanting to hear about his connection to the McCoys rather than about what she could do for him.

Still, she hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you what I know about the Lost Millionaires.” She wasn’t one of the McCoys’ advisors. Yet.

His rigid stance collapsed under the weight of his incredulity. “Lost Millionaires?”

“That’s what Joseph called you all while coordinating efforts to track you down after learning of your existence when Marcus’s will was read last Wednesday, June twelfth.”

His eyes slid closed. “Just tell me.”

She refolded her hands. “While none of this is for public consumption, mind you—”

“Imagine that.”

“Yes, well…”

He opened his eyes, and she fought the unusual urge to squirm beneath his hard, blue gaze.

Something furry brushed against her bare shin and made her jump. She glanced down in time to see a cat in the guise of a small ring-tailed lemur, its eyes as startlingly blue as its owner’s, cozying up to her. “You have a cat.”

“Yes, I have a cat.”

Momentarily derailed by the reality of a macho military type like him owning something so…fluffy, she just stared at it. It stared back.

“You were saying?” Major Branigan’s deep voice returned her focus.

She shifted her leg out of the way and met his equally inscrutable stare. “Apparently, Marcus McCoy indulged in several short-lived, clandestine relationships that resulted in children being born—all boys thus far, interestingly enough—”

“And he paid each mother a million dollars to keep the identity of her illegitimate baby’s father a secret, even from the kids themselves, right? Or was my mother simply a better negotiator than the rest when it came to her ‘consulting fee’?”

The pain in his sharp tone made her stomach tighten.

“No—” Lynn was forced to clear her throat against her unexpected and unprecedented empathy. Why in the heck should she feel for him? His mom had scored herself a butt-load of security.

All her mother had ever scored was her next high—Lynn blinked to cut off the thought and refocus. No ties, no limits.

She lifted her chin. “No,” she repeated. “All the women were paid the same sum and given the same conditions.”

His stance relaxed almost imperceptibly. “And this Alexander McCoy…?”

“Actually the maid’s son. Raised by the McCoys to believe he was Marcus’s brother.”

“So much for the McCoy stores’ motto—‘Don’t trust it if it’s not from the real McCoy.’”

Worried about the distaste in his voice, she nodded slowly.

“Unbelievable. At least my mom was always straight up with me about the circumstances surrounding why my father wanted to remain anonymous and where the money she’d used to start her architecture firm had come from.” He shook his fist holding the letter, eyeing it. “Admirable bunch.”

The McCoys were, but Lynn let his sarcasm pass and simply lifted a shoulder. What he thought of them wasn’t her concern.

“What about the other two guys?”

“One is a rancher in Colorado. The other, a contractor, lives in Dependable and was easy to contact.” Because he, too, had managed to land his rear in jail, Lynn had discovered when she’d checked in after arriving here. Merely a charge for disorderly conduct, and easily resolved. Something she’d hoped the major’s would be, too.

Determined to make it so, she continued. “Joseph had hoped to notify you all simultaneously, but I was delayed in getting all the pertinent information I need surrounding your case. We thought it best for me to have everything before contacting you.”

Thank goodness the next phase in his hearing process was also delayed because of a clogged court docket and the fact the primary witness—the driver in the car he hit—couldn’t be present yet. The woman was stuck in a hospital bed, in traction. Unfortunate for the woman, but it bought Lynn time. Time she apparently was going to require.

Relaxing his grip, he uncrumpled the paper. “So why name his sons in his will and blow the family-secrets closet wide open?”

“Joseph believes Marcus finally saw the error of his ways.”

Branigan raised his gaze to hers. “Did you know this Marcus?”

“Yes. He frequently worked with those of us in Legal preparing contracts for suppliers or for developers who wanted the McCoys to open new stores. Though more often than not, he teleconferenced or e-mailed because he was usually off somewhere handling client relations.”

“And now everyone knows the sort of ‘handling’ he liked to do.” The major gave her a quick once-over, his meaning clear in his sharp eyes.

Lynn kept her mouth shut. While she’d caught Marcus looking a little too long at her breasts and legs and he had always indulged in mild flirtation with her—as well as with a lot of other women at McCoy Enterprises—things had never progressed further. He’d either learned his lesson, or he’d considered her and the other ladies to be too close to home. He had left one other woman from Dependable, besides the maid, pregnant and rich but that woman had been the last of his fertile flings.

They hoped.

The major reread the letter. “Seems he didn’t have very good relations with grizzly bears.”

“Apparently.”

He looked her dead in the eye. “So why do you think he claimed us—the ‘Lost Millionaires’—in his will? Especially after going to such expense years ago to cut himself loose from his duty and responsibility?”

Lynn didn’t blink. “I can’t begin to speculate.”

Oh, but she had. Endlessly. And she had her theories. None of which she was going to share with the man she’d been sent to bring into the McCoy fold without scandal.

Marcus realizing the error of his ways certainly wasn’t one of her theories. Nor was guilt. That wasn’t his style—even if he’d placed his illegitimate sons in his will because he fully expected to live a lot longer than he had, a reasonable assumption on his part considering how robust Joseph still was at nearly seventy-five years of age.

Major Branigan tossed the letter onto the table. “Doesn’t matter why. I’m not going to be attending some family reunion anytime soon.” He turned and walked to the tall windows in his attractively decorated living room with its view of the distant ocean.

He was so tall and well shaped beneath his white T-shirt and jeans that Lynn had to admit she preferred the view she had from where she sat. Which was saying something, because she sure as heck wasn’t a card-carrying member of the Pocket Watchers of America.

She’d never even spoken with the girls who’d wasted their time checking out the back pockets of the boys’ Levi’s in school. Her focus was normally on her schooling or work. But the major was work.

Fortunately, the tension radiating from every lean, hard inch of the man squashed any pleasure that checking out his butt might have given her.

The breadth of his shoulders expanded as he inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled. “Even if I were free to leave town, I still wouldn’t be interested. I’m a Marine, ma’am.”

“Not for long if you’re convicted. I’m sure you’re well aware of the fact that you’ll be dishonorably discharged before you can say ‘ooh-rah.’”

His hands fisted at his sides again. “That’s hoo-rah. And what happens to me is none of your business.”

“Your grandfather, Joseph McCoy, has made it my business. He’s not about to let a grandson he’s just found out about go to jail if he doesn’t have to.” An attitude that had shocked her, given Joseph’s morally upstanding reputation.

The major turned slowly to face her, his jaw hardened with the sort of determination only a decade in the Marines could give a man. “I said yes when the cops asked if I was driving that truck the night of the accident. I’m afraid Mr. McCoy is out of luck.”

Her knee-jerk response was Not if I can help it, but something about his admission of guilt struck her as odd. Coupled with what she knew about him from his files…

The fine hairs on her arms stood on end. Something was wrong. Did Joseph suspect as much, also? Was that why he was willing to seek special treatment for the first time that she was aware of?

She shook her intuition off. She wasn’t here to worry about right or wrong. She was here to earn the promotion Joseph had all but promised her in exchange for the presence of this grandson at his birthday party on July third. The promotion could be one more step upward. One more step toward the security she could never be too sure of.

Her third goal—a security for which she’d do anything, sacrifice anything.