No Way Out, Page 2

  Having already helped her son squirm out of his shirt and into his warm-up jacket, Nancy was bent over her task, fighting the clock to get the job done in time. And Brian was making her job harder by bouncing around on the backseat like a jumping bean, his open jacket flap-ping against his bare chest with fast, impatient thwacks.

  "Mom, we're almost there," he protested, staring out the car window. "The game's starting in a few minutes. I gotta have my shirt."

  "Here it is." Nancy flourished the good-as-new top, tossing it playfully at her son. "Now, quick, take off your jacket, and we'll get you back into full uniform. By the time Dad parks, you'll look like the pro-ball pitcher you are. The Yanks will have nothing on you. Except that they've stopped growing, so their uniforms fit. If you'd tell your muscles to slow down, maybe this sort of thing wouldn't happen so often."

  "Thanks, Mom." Brian tore off his jacket, gazing at Nancy with the utter relief of a seven-year-old who's been saved from public humiliation.

  Nancy tousled his hair as he squirmed into the shirt. "Let's get you buttoned up so you can make a dash for the pitcher's mound."

  No time for phone calls now, Stephen noted, popping the cell phone out of its cradle and into his shirt pocket. The Little League field was in sight. His promising investment would have to wait.

  Frustrated, he steered the car into the parking lot, where it bounced over gravel as he headed for the shaded area near the bleachers.

  Brian's nose was pressed to the car window. "Is Miss Talbot here?"

  "I don't know, sweetheart." Nancy followed his gaze, trying to pick out Brian's teacher from the dozens of people milling toward their seats. The stands were always packed on opening day. The parents of Leaf Brook's elementary-school students were very involved in their kids' lives. Baseball season was a big deal here. Which meant everyone came out for opening day, parents and grandparents alike.

  "I don't see Miss Talbot," Nancy continued, unfastening her seat belt as the car came to a stop. "But that doesn't mean anything. There are too many people on their way to the bleachers to tell one person from another."

  "If I know Miss Talbot, she'll be here," Stephen assured his son, turning off the motor and mentally shoving aside his problems. There would be time during the game to make his call. When Brian's team—but not Brian-was at bat, that's when he'd excuse himself and slip away for a minute or two. "Especially if she promised, like you said. She's never broken a promise to you yet."

  "I know." Brian still looked worried. "But it's the first game of the season. What if she forgot to come? Winter's long. There haven't been any games for her to come to since September. She's out of practice."

  Stephen's lips twitched as he climbed out of the car, opening the back door for Nancy and grabbing the bottle of water his son inevitably forgot. Only Brian would think in terms of a spectator being out of practice.

  His wife slid out of the backseat, searching her husband's face briefly before helping Brian gather up his gear. "It's Little League opening day," she reminded Stephen. "And it's no secret who's pitching. With the senatorial campaign under way, I'm assuming the press will be looking for you."

  "Probably." Stephen shrugged. "I'll talk to them— after the game. Right now, I'm Brian's father. Not the mayor. And not a candidate for the state senate."

  Nancy flashed him a quick smile that brought back memories of the happy young woman he'd married ten years ago. He found himself wishing he could make her smile like that more often. These days, she usually looked tired, and drawn.

  He hated being the cause of that.

  But dammit, he was drowning.

  They were heading for the field when a silver Mercedes SL500 pulled into the lot, top down. Its driver honked, then stuck his arm in the air to wave.

  "Uncle Connor!" Brian's entire face lit up, and he waved back wildly. He jumped from one foot to the other, watching his uncle park the car and trying to have enough patience to wait. Ultimately, he lost the battle and rushed forward to meet the tall, dark-haired man who'd unfolded himself from behind the wheel and was now heading toward them.

  "I didn't know you were coming," Brian exclaimed, slapping him five and grinning ear to ear as the two of them rejoined Stephen and Nancy.

  "Fat chance I'd miss your opening day." Connor Stratford smiled one of his rare smiles, something he reserved for his nephew. "Cool glove," he added, inspecting the mitt Brian had gotten for Christmas. "But your uniform's looking a little snug. I think you've grown since last month."

  "I did. Especially my muscles. I popped a button off my uniform. Mom had to sew it on in the car."

  "That must have been fun." Connor leaned over to kiss his sister-in-law's cheek. "Lucky woman. Manipulating a sharp object with this dynamo in tow and my brother doing fifty to get here on time. I don't envy you."

  "Forty," Stephen corrected, grasping Connor's hand. "And look who's talking. How many lights did you run between Manhattan and here? And how many cars did you leave behind in the dust?"

  "Not too many." Connor draped an arm around Brian's shoulders and headed toward the field. "Saturday mornings, the West Side Highway's fairly quiet. I don't think I did too much damage."

  Stephen linked his fingers with Nancy's and followed suit, automatically scanning the area for reporters. They were there, all right, camera equipment and all. The good news was, they hadn't seen him yet. Maybe he could actually enjoy a few innings before he was accosted. Better yet, maybe Connor could run interference for him. No one was better at thinking up creative strategies than his younger brother. It was in his blood, just as it was in their father's. It had made Harrison Stratford a multimillionaire and the business mogul he was today. And it made Connor the extraordinarily successful venture capitalist he was.

  A venture capitalist who was busy as hell. Much too busy to take off a good portion of Saturday to be with his family.

  Normally, that realization would raise a red flag in Stephen's mind. If Connor showed up in Leaf Brook for an unexpected visit, it was usually to check up on him. But not today. Today was about Brian. And when it came to Brian, Connor's feelings were real and intense. The two of them were nuts about each other.

  So the red flag remained down. And the tensions between the brothers were held at bay.

  "I'm glad you're here," Stephen murmured to Connor. "I thought work might keep you."

  "Work can wait. My ace pitcher can't." Connor tugged at the rim of Brian's baseball cap, which had been hastily yanked on by the ace pitcher in question.

  "My arm's in great form," Brian announced. "The coach said so. So did Miss Talbot. Did you know she had the fastest curve ball in her whole neighborhood when she was a kid? Her dad taught her. He was a Little League pitcher, too, about a zillion years ago. Did you know that?"

  "I think you might have mentioned it thirty or forty times," Connor assured him.

  "Anyway, Miss Talbot knows all about curve balls. And she said mine is even better this year than last."

  "I don't doubt it." Connor shaded his eyes, reflexively peering around as they reached the stands, assessing the way the members of the press had positioned themselves.

  Abruptly, Brian pointed, excitement rippling through him once again. "There's Miss Talbot! She's up front. In the first row. Let's go say hi."

  Unfortunately, Miss Talbot wasn't the only one in the front row, Connor noted. Three reporters and two photographers were right next to her—pretty heavy media attendance for a Little League game. Obviously, they were there to speak with the mayor, or, rather, the senatorial candidate. They had yet to catch sight of the Stratfords, but that would change the minute they walked over there. Normally, that would be fine. Stephen was in his glory when he was in front of the cameras. His natural charisma captured the public like a magnet. Effortlessly, he charmed reporters, photographers, and the voting public alike, making their dreams his, their hopes his intended reality. Without trying, Stephen always became the center of attention.

  Today that wouldn't f
ly. It was Brian's day, Brian's moment in the sun. His father would want it no other way.

  As if to verify that fact, Stephen tensed up, his gaze fixed on the waiting reporters, his body language confirming Connor's assessment: he wanted to keep a low profile until after the game. Then he'd talk to the press.

  "Brian, your coach is signaling you," Connor announced, inserting himself and heading off the problem. "The team's waiting. Wave at Miss Talbot as you take the field. She'll understand. We can say hi afterward. Right now, you'd better warm up, and we'd better grab some seats or we'll miss your opening pitch. We'll sit over there." He pointed to a section of bleachers just behind home plate. "That way, we'll have the best view of the pitcher's mound."

  "Okay ... I guess." Brian looked reluctant, torn between his urge to see Miss Talbot and his unwillingness to disappoint the uncle who was his hero.

  The scales tipped in Connor's favor when Brian saw his teammates motioning him on.

  "Yeah, okay," he agreed, this time with conviction. Flashing his family a thumbs-up, he took off. He stopped halfway to the dugout area, turned, and gave Miss Talbot a huge wave. She sat up straighter, a bright smile lighting her face, and waved back.

  "Thanks," Stephen muttered to Connor as they all settled themselves at the end of the second row of the bleachers he'd selected—which happened to be two sets of bleachers away from the press. "If that had come from Nancy or me, it never would have flown."

  "You're his parents. I'm his uncle. I've got the easy job. You do the work. I win the popularity contests." Connor watched the exchange between Brian and his teacher. "Speaking of popularity contests, I see our guy's still crazy about Miss Talbot."

  "Yup," Stephen concurred. "The sun rises and sets on her. Rightfully so. She's an amazing teacher, motivates the kids like I've never seen."

  "Ah, so it is more than her curve ball," Connor returned dryly.

  "No question," Nancy chimed in, her admiration for Brian's teacher clear and unmistakable. "Although her skill with the curve ball doesn't hurt. Neither does all the time she spends unofficially coaching the kids at practice. But Stephen's right. She's quite an educator. She's smart and enthusiastic. She's also able to see the world through the eyes of a child. I'm sure you can't relate to that, given the world you work in, but believe me, it's a remarkable trait, one that takes insight and sensitivity. Put all those qualities together, and you've got a rare . combination."

  "Rare? I'd sooner say extinct." Connor slanted a baffled look in Julia's direction. It was far from the first look he'd given her. Julia Talbot might be an anomaly, but she was hard not to notice, even from a distance. And from up close, she was a knockout. He knew that firsthand, having met her five or six times, thanks to Brian's zealous introductions.

  They'd never exchanged more than a few words. That wasn't a surprise. As Nancy's description attested, his world and hers were polar opposites. She lived in an idealistic, sheltered environment dictated by children's laughter. He lived in a cold reality where money was king and power was god, a world that, long ago, would have stripped away his rose-colored glasses—if he'd had any to begin with. But being a Stratford, he'd learned from the start that life was one increasingly formidable challenge, one you either beat or were beaten by.

  Opposites was putting it mildly. He couldn't fathom that someone as naive as Julia Talbot existed. And, judging from the wall she put up whenever they spoke, she was as stumped by him as he was by her, and whatever small aspect of him she did understand, she didn't like.

  That didn't stop him from looking.

  She was beautiful, all right, in a real and natural way that differed sharply from the women who traveled in his circles. Her features were delicate and almost makeup-free, enhanced by a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of her slightly upturned nose. Her silky dark hair with its deep red highlights was pulled back in a French braid, although a few wisps had escaped and were clinging to her cheeks. She wore a tan spring jacket and a pair Of jeans that did a pretty good job of concealing her slender curves. But Connor had seen her at Brian's summer games, during the hotter months of July and August, when she'd worn only a T-shirt and shorts. Her body was the kind men fantasized about.

  Right now, her back was to them, her concentration entirely fixed on Brian. She whooped and cheered as he and his team took the field.

  "She's seeing Greg Matthews."

  "Hmm?" Connor slanted his brother a puzzled look. "Who is?"

  "Julia Talbot. Greg mentioned it to me at the city council meeting this week. He sounded pretty intense about the whole thing."

  "You're kidding. That's an unlikely pair. He's a smooth businessman with enough political savvy to run for office himself. And she's ..." Connor shook his head. "Talk about a lamb in a lion's den."

  "Yeah, I thought so, too."

  "How long have they been seeing each other?"

  "About a month. They met at a reception for the principal of her school."

  Connor's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "There's no figuring out what attracts one person to another. Then again, I'm hardly an expert. My track record with women stinks."

  "That's because you're married to your work, and so are the women you've been involved with. Not a formula for happily-ever-after, if there is such a thing."

  There was a definite trace of bitterness in Stephen's tone, one Connor picked up on loud and clear. He would have called his brother on it, point blank, if Brian hadn't been warming up to make his first pitch.

  Questions would have to wait.

  But the uneasiness that had begun gnawing at Connor's gut during his last visit to Leaf Brook intensified.

  * * *

  It was the bottom of the fifth inning, and Brian's team was winning, 3-1, when Stephen began fidgeting. Connor frowned, recognizing the signs, and hoping he was misreading them.

  What Stephen did next told him he wasn't.

  Half rising, Stephen climbed past Nancy, who was seated on the aisle. Simultaneously, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. "I have a quick call to make," he said tersely. "I'll be back in a minute."

  "Now?" Connor demanded. "Brian's team is up "

  Stephen's cold stare told Connor to mind his own business. "There are five batters ahead of Brian and two more outs before he's back on the mound. I won't miss a thing."

  He swung down and headed away from the crowd.

  Connor saw Nancy's lips tighten, and she swallowed hard, as if to fight back tears. But her gaze never shifted from the ball field.

  Another warning sign.

  "Nance?" Connor kept his voice low. "What's going on?"

  He knew she heard him. But she didn't answer.

  "Nancy." Connor wasn't letting this go. "Is my brother in trouble?"

  She turned her head slightly, enough so he could see the pain on her face. "Leave it alone, Connor. It's just the pressure of the election. It's getting to him. He'll be fine."

  How many times had Connor heard those words in the past? "Dammit," he hissed.

  "It's okay," Nancy reassured him quickly. "Really. It's nothing I can't handle. And politically, Cliff has things under control. He's laying out most of the campaign, making things run smoothly. That way, Stephen has less on his plate. Once the preliminary polls show the numbers we're hoping for, everything will settle down."

  Everything. What she really meant was Stephen.

  Connor cast a quick look around, seeing no eavesdroppers, only cheering parents and absorbed spectators. Even so, he forced himself not to push the matter. He was a Stratford, conditioned from birth to protect the family at all costs. Part of that meant not airing their dirty laundry in public. Any specifics would have to wait until later—assuming he could get them at all. Neither his brother nor his sister-in-law was inclined to open up. Nancy was busy protecting Stephen, and Stephen was busy protecting himself. Both of them were in denial.

  The only good news was that Cliff Henderson was on top of the campaign. That would minimize S
tephen's pressures, which, in turn, would curb the downward spiral of his behavior.

  That prospect eased Connor's mind a little. Cliff was Stephen's oldest and closest friend. He was also his attorney, and now his campaign manager. Their friendship dated back to college, when they'd attended Yale together. They'd both continued on to Yale Law, during which time they met Nancy, who'd been a junior under-grad when the two men were in their second year of law school. Actually, she'd met Cliff first, even dated him a few times, but the relationship hadn't taken off, and when she and Stephen met, it was love at first sight. They'd gotten married after she graduated and after Stephen was admitted to both the Connecticut and the New York Bar. First, they'd settled in Connecticut, using Harrison Stratford's connections to get Stephen's career off the ground. Then, when Harrison deemed it time to launch his son's political career, they'd moved to Leaf Brook, the up-and-coming city Harrison chose as a prime location for Stephen's political roots to take hold.

  Throughout these changes—and the establishment of his own private practice—Cliff had remained a loyal friend to Stephen, eventually moving to upper Westchester, where he could live at a commutable distance to his office and a mere half hour's drive to Stephen and his family.

  Connor liked the man. He was a sharp, honorable guy with a quick mind and the ability to see the big picture. He believed in Stephen and his future, and when the time had come for Stephen to fulfill his father's directive to run for office, Cliff had been right there, supporting him and helping get his campaign off the ground.

  Cliff was smart. Too smart, given that he and Stephen went back twenty years together, not to know about Stephen's compulsion—or at least to suspect. But whatever he knew, or thought he knew, about the skeleton in Stephen's closet, he kept that knowledge to himself. Instead, he quietly applied himself, showing up where he was needed, doing what had to be done.

  Doing what had to be done. Now, that was the catch.