Cassie Miles - Protecting the Innocent

His gaze slid across the cluttered desk to a photograph of his wife, Anya, and their four-year-old son. Roman picked up the framed picture of a healthy toddler and a bashfully smiling woman with long, straight, white-blond hair. He’d always admired Anya. Though she appeared delicate and ephemeral, her blue eyes snapped with intelligence and humor. She was always ready to laugh, always up for a challenge. If she hadn’t married his friend, Roman might have gone after her for himself, giving up his reputation as one of the most eligible bachelors in the Bay Area. “You’re a lucky man, Jeremy.”

“Don’t I know it. I never thought I’d be able to have children. And little Charlie—” He broke off, coughing. “That kid is the light of my life.”

Little Charlie was the primary reason Jeremy had agreed to work at Legate on specialized projects. It was Legate’s discoveries and experimentations that had paved the way for Anya’s successful in vitro fertilization.

When Jeremy coughed again, Roman said, “That sounds bad. You should take some time off.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Jeremy forced a grin. “Is it possible? Is Roman Alexander, the administrative slave driver, suggesting that one of his scientists take time off?”

Roman grinned back at him. Very few people would dare to smart mouth to him. But his relationship with Jeremy was different. They’d known each other since they were both on the high school track team. Roman achieved a statewide record in the 500 meters that remained unbroken. Jeremy had been a pole vaulter.

“Somebody has to look after you eggheads,” Roman said. “If I didn’t come over here and rattle your test tubes occasionally, you’d forget to eat.”

“I’ll have this project done by the end of the week. Then I’ll have a month, maybe two, in Denver with Anya and Charlie.”

“Or you could book a flight out today,” Roman suggested. “This formula of yours isn’t exactly a world-shattering priority.”

“I beg to differ. This antiseptic cleansing agent will prevent infection, especially in makeshift Third World clinics where—”

“It’s soap, Jeremy.”

“Maybe you’re right. I should go home and get well.” He sat behind his desk. “Right after I finish this last computation. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”

If Roman had a woman like Anya waiting for him, he’d have flown out the door. He waved goodbye to his dedicated friend. “Say hi to Anya and Charlie for me.”

“You bet.”

Roman left the office and dodged around the clutter in the hallway. After this move was complete, he might take a little time off himself. He needed a break, and the sexy lady lawyer he’d been dating had dropped a couple hints about how much she’d enjoy a long weekend of skiing in Squaw Valley.

Outside, the fog had lifted only slightly. The promise of another dank, dreary day made the sunlit ski slopes with glistening white snow seem even more appealing.

Halfway up the incline toward the mansion, the ground rumbled beneath his custom-made running shoes. An earthquake? Then he heard the explosions.

Building Fourteen shattered in three bursts of red flame. Bits of glass shimmered in the sudden intense heat. Chunks of concrete from the foundation soared then crashed to earth. The wooden frame of the building splintered into matchsticks.

Acting on instinct, Roman charged back toward the lab, toward the door he’d left only moments ago. But there was no door. No building. Only a raging wall of flame. He darted close, but the heat drove him back, stinging his eyes. Harsh black smoke seared his lungs.

He had to get inside the fire. It was his job to take care of these scientists. He wouldn’t let them die. He ducked down and crawled closer.

Crimson embers burned holes in his running suit. Nothing could survive this heat, but he had to try, had to impose his iron will on the force of the explosion.

Someone pulled him back. Dizzy from inhaling the acrid smoke, Roman didn’t have the strength to resist. He sat back on his heels and stared.

Jeremy! God, no! This can’t be.

“This is what Jeremy wanted.” Claudette Bouchard spoke in her usual authoritative tone.

“I know, Mother.” Anya Bouchard Parrish stared down at her hands, folded calmly in her lap as if her heart weren’t racing.

“These were your husband’s instructions.”

Her mother paced in the executive office at the Legate mansion on her birdlike legs. Claudette was a petite, tidy woman—utterly organized, from her color-coordinated pumps to her French twist hairdo.

Next to her mother, Anya always felt like a clumsy giantess though she was only five feet eight inches tall. She pushed a messy wing of blond hair away from her cheek.

Claudette snapped, “Why are you hesitating?”

Because Anya still couldn’t believe that her loving, sensitive husband had made these provisions in his will without mentioning his plans to her. Why? Why hadn’t they discussed this?

Her gaze lifted, and she stared across the marble desktop toward Fredrick Slater, the founder and CEO of the Legate Corporation. Beneath his steel-gray mane, Slater’s craggy features softened as he regarded her with sympathy—an expression that had become all too familiar. Anya was a thirty-two-year-old widow with a five-year-old son. Everyone felt sorry for her; none could assuage her grief.

“Anya,” her mother said impatiently. “We’re all trying to do the right thing. For Charlie’s sake.”

The right thing? A bitter sigh died in her throat. Nothing had been “right” since Jeremy was killed eight months ago in Building Fourteen on these very grounds. She might have blamed Slater for the tragedy that claimed the lives of four scientists and two maintenance people, but the explosion was investigated and deemed an accident. While Building Fourteen was in the process of being closed down, the gas main was supposed to be disconnected. But there was a leak. And then…

Without wanting to, she imagined the burst of flame, the shattering force of utter annihilation—a vision that haunted her nightmares. Roman’s description had been too vivid, but she’d asked him to tell her about it. She needed to know the details, to somehow understand this horrifying, incomprehensible disaster.

The stillborn sigh escaped her lips. Sometimes, her loss weighed like an anchor, dragging her down. Anya didn’t know how she would have made it this far without Roman’s unflagging support.

Eight months ago, he accompanied the casket with Jeremy’s charred remains back to Denver for the funeral. Though she knew Roman was a busy executive, he took time off from Legate and stayed in Denver for weeks, entertaining Charlie and offering his shoulder for her to cry upon. She’d drawn from his strength.

More than anyone else, he shared her sorrow. After he returned to Legate, his e-mails and phone calls were always a comfort, seeming to come at those moments when she missed Jeremy the most.

She thought it odd that Roman hadn’t contacted her when she and Charlie arrived last night. Their plane was met at the Oakland Airport by a Legate limo.

She looked toward Slater and asked, “Where’s Roman?”

“Out of town,” he said. “We had an emergency in L.A. that required his immediate attention.”

“Will he be back today?”

“Most likely.” Leaning forward on his desktop, Slater laced his fingers together. Though he wasn’t a big man, his hands were large with fingers so long, he was probably capable of playing Rachmaninoff. “Do you have specific questions, Anya?”

“A few.” She rose from the leather chair facing his desk and went to the arched, second-story window overlooking the Legate grounds. The October grass had faded, and the live oak and elm had begun to turn. Though she couldn’t see the waters of the bay beyond the forested landscaping, moisture hung in the air, creating an idyllic mist.