False Family. Mary Anne Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ but it had been less than ten minutes.

      “If I get there close to six, I think it will be all right,” she said, hoping it was true.

      “Seeing him is pretty important to you, isn’t it?”

      “Yes it is, and I really appreciate you giving me a ride,” she said, realizing she should have said those words a lot sooner. But surprise had robbed her of logical thinking for a few moments.

      Right then, the man turned onto a narrow lane. As Mallory looked ahead of them, a cracking bolt of lightning lit the sky, exposing trees pressing on both sides and rain that ran down the pavement like a river. Then the light was gone, thunder pealed, and the only glow in the blackness came from the headlights of the sports car.

      “You’re going there for the holidays?”

      “Not entirely.”

      “Business, too?”

      Another bolt of lightning tore through the night, and thunder followed close on its heels. “It’s getting closer,” she said.

      “Excuse me?”

      “The lightning. When you see lightning, you start counting one thousand one, one thousand two. And whatever number you get up to before you hear the thunder, that’s how many miles you are from the strike point of the lightning. That last lightning struck only a mile or so from here.”

      “Is that a scientific fact, or an old wives’ tale?”

      “I think it’s scientific.”

      “Or maybe it was created to take people’s attention off the storm.”

      She glanced at him again. “A diversion?”

      “Yes, sort of like you’re doing right now when I asked you that question.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “I asked if you were seeing Saxon Mills on business and I was given the theory behind calculating the distance of lightning when it strikes.”

      “I’m going there to see Mr. Mills,” she said. “That’s it. Period.”

      “I was just trying to figure out what’s so important that you were willing to go out on a night like this.”

      The more he prodded at her for details, the more she dug in her heels. She wasn’t about to tell him exactly what she was doing on a road in this storm with his car hurtling toward her. “I didn’t expect the storm to keep up so long.” She laughed, a forced sound at best. “Besides, everyone knows we’re in a drought situation in California. Now they’re saying there’s no end in sight to the storm.”

      “Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

      “Mallory King. Who are you?” She deliberately said the question echoing his abruptly blunt tone.

      “Anthony Carella. Where are you from?”

      “The city.” She felt annoyance at the man’s curt tone of interrogation and repeated his words back to him. “Where are you from?”

      “Los Angeles.”

      “Why were you at the theater in San Francisco?”

      He was silent for a moment as he downshifted, slowing the car to a crawl. Then he glanced at her, his look lost in the shadows. He was silent for a long moment, then he turned back to the road ahead of them. “All right. I get the idea.”

      “What idea?”

      “I tend to interrogate people. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

      And you never answered my question about the theater, she thought, but didn’t ask it again. “What are you—a lawyer?”

      “No. Just a businessman.”

      She sat back in the seat. “Are you going somewhere for the holidays, or are you going somewhere on business?”

      She could see him shrug, the movement sharp in the shadows. “Both. I’m going to see an associate of mine, and it happens to be the holidays.” He cast her a fleeting glance as he slowed the car a bit more. “To answer your earlier question, I heard from a reliable source that I’d find the play interesting.”

      “You like Dickens?”

      “I like interesting things,” he murmured.

      Mallory looked ahead of them and saw they were at the end of the road, facing a pair of massive stone pillars caught in the watery glow of the headlights. Imposing iron gates were open, and the car drove through onto a rough, cobbled drive that wound to the right. Wind shook the low car as it climbed upward. Then, as it crested the rise, two bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, one right on top of the other.

      The eerie blue-white light exposed the scene in front of Mallory for no more than a split second, yet the images seemed to burn into her brain.

      On a hill that rose out of a sea of rain-beaten grass dotted by trees that were almost bent to the ground by the wind, stood a looming structure that for all the world looked like a medieval castle. Corner turrets rose high into the turbulent night sky, and narrow windows glowed faintly gold from the interior lights. The drive wound up toward a jutting portico supported by huge pillars, and low lights lined sweeping steps that climbed to the entrance.

      “This is Saxon Mills’s home?” she breathed as thunder rumbled.

      “You sound surprised.”

      She sat forward as they approached it, straining to make out more details, but unable to see little more now than the hulking shape and the dim glow of light at the windows and stairs. “I am, and I’m impressed. I’ve heard about the man being eccentric, but this looks like a castle.”

      “I think the resemblance to a castle is more than coincidental.” As they neared the portico, the headlights swept in front of them, exposing rough stone walls that shimmered with rain. “If you know Saxon Mills at all, you know he gets some sort of a rush out of taking on the mantle. Actually, I don’t believe he’d mind if you chose to worship him.”

      Mallory looked at the man. “Mr. Carella—”

      “Tony,” he said, correcting her. “I don’t go along with formal royalty in this country.”

      “It sounds as if you don’t like Saxon Mills very much.”

      He eased the car under the portico and stopped at the foot of the stairs, which led up to twenty-foot doors set in the heavy stone walls. The wind drove rain under the protection of the overhang, but the heaviest part of the downpour was blocked. “Whether I like him or not isn’t important. I know what he is. That’s the bottom line.”

      “He’s an eccentric millionaire,” she said.

      “A billionaire, and he’s much more than eccentric.”

      “Whatever,” she murmured, glancing at the dash clock. “I’m already fifteen minutes late. Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate СКАЧАТЬ