“It’s wonderful to see you, Mr. Collins. I hope you had a good trip.”
“It was good, Mrs. M, and I’m happy to be home.”
“In your absence, Mrs. Collins has been here several times. She—” Mrs. M pursed her lips, breathing out with a long sigh. “—took things.”
He’d expected as much. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. M. I’ll take care of it.”
She frowned, but nodded without pressing any further. “Shall I make you a spot of lunch?”
“I ate on the plane. Just some coffee in the office, please.”
Her footsteps had barely faded down the hallway to the kitchen when Evan noticed the first missing item, a large porcelain jar, Ming dynasty, that had stood on a pedestal in the corner of the entry hall. Directly across, the living room wall was empty where the Salvador Dali had hung. He’d liked that painting, his choice rather than hers. Whitney had allowed it in the house only because it was worth a fortune. He would have to take inventory. Whitney should know he had every valuable documented. At the same time, however, he found he was numb to the loss of his possessions. The lawyers could hash it out.
Honestly, the more he looked around his home, the less he cared for any of it. It was way too large for him. This was Whitney’s showpiece, a twelve-bedroom monstrosity with Italian marble in the large foyer, a curving staircase like something out of Gone With the Wind, and a tub in the master suite that rivaled the Roman baths. The house included a formal dining room and living room, an actual ballroom, a somewhat cozier family room, a library, and the gym. There was a large home office, plus an enormous kitchen and informal dining room used for private meals. The outdoor pool, Jacuzzi, and tennis courts were just beyond the formal garden, which included every flowering bush imaginable and exquisite roses his gardener tended daily. Of course, Whitney had spared no expense in furnishings and artwork, which she now seemed to think she was entitled to take. At least he could be reasonably assured she wouldn’t make a grab for the first editions in his collection, since she’d never entered the library.
Evan had always spent the bulk of his free time in the library. He’d enjoyed many evenings in that quiet, comfortable room discussing books with Paige over an excellent bottle of wine. He’d enjoyed those nights far more, in fact, than the galas Whitney had insisted they attend—and throw.
Now that Whitney was gone, he didn’t need twelve bedrooms or elaborate grounds. What he needed was a change. A new start. He should sell the damn thing and buy a flat in San Francisco where he wouldn’t have to commute to his headquarters.
But if he did that, he’d be too far away from Paige, who lived just a few miles away in Menlo Park. There would be no late-night discussions about books, no shared bottle of wine, no more spontaneous weekend visits.
And no more kisses.
Damn it, he needed to stop thinking like this. Needed to stop wanting like this.
When the doorbell rang, his immediate thought was that he’d conjured Paige, wishing it were true, even as wrong and crazy as that was.
A beat later, a worse thought hit. One far more likely since Paige was probably still back in Chicago. It had to be Whitney, here to whisk away another priceless piece of art—and fan the flames of anger and betrayal.
Never seeing his soon-to-be ex-wife again would be too soon. They could hash out the divorce through their lawyers. But he didn’t want Mrs. M to answer the door and end up in the middle of something ugly between him and Whitney. That wouldn’t be fair to the woman who had gone out of her way to take care of Evan all these years.
He steeled himself against the fury of seeing Whitney again, but when he opened the door, he instead found a young man and woman on his front porch.
Their hair was a matching shade of light brown—though the woman’s was streaked with blond. They looked to be somewhere in their mid-twenties, and judging by the similarities of their features, they were obviously related.
“Hi,” the man said. “We’re looking for Evan Collins. And I’m pretty sure you’re him.”
A slight movement behind them made Evan realize they weren’t alone. An older woman stood in the background.
Despite the years and the lines on her skin, despite the gray in her brown hair, he knew that face, even though he hadn’t seen it in twenty-five years.
His mother was back.
Chapter Eight
The silence was so deep it had no bottom.
Evan’s mother looked at him with the same expression she’d worn whenever his father had started to rage. Eyes narrowed with fear, brow furrowed, worry etched into the lines at her mouth. With a clench of his gut, he was right back in their dilapidated Chicago apartment, trying to dodge his father’s fists.
“You’re Evan Collins, right?” the stranger repeated, while the young woman stepped back to flank his mother, hovering by her protectively. Only, Evan’s mother hung back as if ready to bolt. “Aren’t you?” he said again in a surprisingly tough voice. Or maybe it was desperation that made him think he had the right to get up in Evan’s face like this.
“Yes,” he finally replied, “I’m Evan Collins.”
That was all it took for his mother to break down, tears all but spurting from her eyes like a broken water line. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so proud of you.” She put her hand to her mouth and kept repeating the words. “I’m so sorry. I’m so proud of you. I’m so sorry.” Over and over again.