Sheryl Nantus: Family Pride

Her eyes narrowed.

I continued. “You married into the Hanover fortune—why can’t I accuse you of the same thing?”

I knew it wasn’t the right thing to say if I wanted to suck up to his parents but I’d had it with the Hanovers at this point.

One edge of her mouth twisted upward. “Our marriage was arranged. Does that surprise you?”

I didn’t reply.

She drew the fork tines across the plate again, creating a high-pitched squeal that ripped at my eardrums. “My parents owned one of the first companies Hanover Investments bought out. Instead of hating the Hanovers, my parents became fast friends with them and worked for Michael’s father for the rest of their lives. Both families saw the importance of making sure Michael married a good woman, a strong woman who could take the social reins and keep the company running on that front. Go to the charity meetings, smile for the cameras and organize the dinner parties.”

“What a wonderful life,” I said.

The smile vanished. “It’s not a perfect marriage but it works for us. And I’ll not have Brandon jeopardizing the fortune his family’s made on some woman he picked up in a bar. He deserves a woman who can handle this side of the business, not someone used to slinking around in the shadows and who doesn’t know which fork to use at a formal dinner.”

I smiled.

She gave me a confused look. This was a woman used to threatening and getting what she wanted.

Too bad.

“I guess we’ll have to leave that up to Bran.” I sliced off another piece of beef. “Last time I checked he was of legal age and able to do what he wanted. Besides—” I lifted the bloody chunk up to eye level, “—if you check your file again you’ll see I’m very capable of handling myself.”

It was a threat and I intended it to be seen as such.

Bernadette’s eyes widened before she regained control. “Enjoy the steak.” She turned away and joined the conversation between the other two Hanovers, letting me dwell on the oddities of parents.

The small talk went from Bran’s newest published article on the death of Mike Hancock, a fellow journalist, to general chat about the stock market trends to the number of charities the Hanovers nursed in one form or another. The entire time I watched the two elder Hanovers watch Bran watching me for any sign I was about to snap.

The chocolate mousse chosen for dessert was light and fluffy, melting in my mouth with only the memory of sweetness left behind. It took all I had to not lick the plate.

The delicious finish had me purring right up until Bran’s father spoke with a low, powerful tone that reminded me he wasn’t just a nice old man.

“I’m going outside for a smoke. Rebecca, would you like to join me?” He extended his hand.

“I don’t smoke,” I replied.

Bran cleared his throat to my left, just out of sight.

Michael ignored his son’s discomfort and reached out, his hand hanging in the air over the remains of the mousse. “Humor an old man. Let’s go have a chat—let Bran have a few minutes alone with his mother.”

I let him lead me away from the table. This had less to do with giving Bran some private time and more about getting me away from Bran.

If Michael Hanover figured he’d be able to scare me out of a relationship with his son he was about to be very surprised. I’d been threatened with much worse for lesser crimes.

The scars on my back itched.

We stepped past the doorman and back outside onto King Street. The line of people waiting for a table hadn’t gotten any shorter and more than a few eyes followed our stroll with a mixture of envy and curiosity.

Hanover led me to the doorway of a nearby building, putting one foot up on the stone steps as he surveyed the traffic around us.

King Street was one of the happening places in Toronto, expensive restaurants rubbing shoulders with high-priced stage productions and a slew of bars offering fancy drinks at high prices for the elite.

The theater crowd was getting out from the evening performance and people swarmed toward the pubs and the cafes to discuss the latest stage offering. A set of rickshaw drivers waited for business, the backs of their chariots advertising the next big musical.

“You’re a private investigator, according to your file.” The elder Hanover withdrew a silver cigarette case from the inside of his jacket. He flipped it open and chose a single death stick.

He didn’t offer me one.

“Your men do good work. Of course they could have looked in the phone book.” A stiff breeze smacked my bare arms, raising goose bumps.

The slim silver lighter shot out a pencil-thin beam of flame. “I’d like to hire you.”

I had no smart-ass answer to that.

He took a deep draw on the cigarette, encouraging the orange-and-black char to continue up the death stick. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve got plenty of financial resources at my disposal—why would I want to hire some second-rate hack who’s dating my son?”

I had an answer but bit it back for Bran’s sake.

Michael puffed out a smoke ring. “I need someone outside of my professional circle. It’s a delicate matter that requires discretion. I’ve studied your file. You know how to keep secrets.” He looked at me, his eyes the same dark brown as Bran’s. “Consider it a favor.”

“I don’t do illegal.” I kept my voice intentionally low. “I won’t break the law.”

His eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t asking you to.” He flicked an inch of ash onto the sidewalk before taking another deep long drag. Smoke trickled out of his nose. “I have an associate, David Brayton. He has a somewhat...delicate situation on his hands.”

“Girlfriend or boyfriend?”

“You’re fast.”

“When I have to be.” I glanced at the evening crowd walking past us. “I don’t like to work for family or friends. Too complicated.”

It was the truth.

The tip of the cigarette burned bright, almost lost in the middle of the neon circus around us.

“There’s a few gaps in your life. Holes in your file my man couldn’t find anything on. Darkness when it came to your family life, your relatives.” He took another deep drag. “Secrets.”

I put on my best poker face despite the ice slashing through my veins. “Don’t we all have secrets?”

Michael shook his head. “Not like this. The investigator did a fast and dirty first pass on you but I can tell him to start digging and start digging deep.” His eyes bored into mine. “Digging up whatever it is you’re hiding.”

I almost giggled.

I opened my mouth to tell him he couldn’t blackmail me, that it’d be useless to even try, and the reality slapped me across the face.

If I refused to do this favor for Michael Hanover I’d be signing his death sentence.

The Pride and Jess wouldn’t care who he was or who he fathered; they’d take out the investigator and everyone connected without hesitation if he got close to revealing our existence to the public. First rule of the Felis—keep our secret at all costs.

I knew how far they’d go to cover our tracks.

It’d be bad enough if I didn’t know the man, but I loved his son. I couldn’t be responsible for his death and possibly his wife’s as well. It’d destroy Bran and I couldn’t bear that cross and hope to keep building a life with him.

All I had to do was one little favor.

“I don’t keep secrets from Bran. Whatever I do, he knows. He knows everything about me so you can’t shock him with your dirty little guesses about me or my past.”

“Whatever. I’ve been around a bit longer than you and I can tell you husbands keep secrets from their wives all the time and vice versa. It’s the natural state of things.” Michael studied the smoldering tobacco. “I’m not worried about my son. He can take care of himself.” He dropped the half-smoked cigarette on the ground. “But my wife, well... She can be quite vocal if the situation arises. And she protects her family like a lioness. I wouldn’t advise you take her on. The pen might be mightier than the sword but my wife’s voice carries a lot of weight on the society pages. She can make or break reputations with a single word.”