A prevailing silence ensued, and finally, Michael spoke first.
“Rochelle, you realize I have to contact Bentley Harrison, don't you?”
He moved to a standing position just behind where she sat. His hand touched the back of her chair, and she turned to look up at him.
His closeness, and the heat emanating from him, was somehow unsettling and comforting at once.
“If you have to contact Uncle Bentley, then I have no choice.”
His fingers touched her shoulder gently for a second, and Rochelle's nerves flooded with a warm excitement too new to define.
In the five years Rochelle was with Tobias, Remy, owner of The Boutique, was probably the closest person she knew whom she could call friend. The cook had been friendly enough, but Tobias's abuse taught her not to trust anyone. Trust was a commodity she did not have a great deal of, or more aptly put, she did not find too many people worthy of it. Michael, on the other hand, was gaining points fast in the trust department.
Before Rochelle closed the safety deposit box, she slipped her diamond rings in it.
Michael returned the box to its place. He led Rochelle back to his office, aware of heavy stares as bank employees and customers followed their progress through the lobby. Most of them had never seen him so patronizing with a client, especially a female client. It was bound to cause a stir, but he could live with the gossip. He just wanted to keep it from touching Rochelle. From the little information gained from her, he believed she had experienced some tough times. She needed no additional concerns now.
When Rochelle saw Michael raise his arm to look at his watch, it dawned upon her she had monopolized a good deal of his time.
She reacted. “I'm terribly sorry I've taken so much of your time. If you have something else to do…”
“No problem,” he said quietly. “Would you have me turn away the most affluent client I have? My time is your time. Anyway, it isn't often we have a new face in town,” he stated frankly and was rewarded with a meek smile of gratitude.
When they were in his office, Rochelle slumped into the same chair occupied earlier, her shoulders drooping tiredly.
“Are you okay, Rochelle?” Michael asked.
“I'm just tired. I do not suppose we can postpone this until tomorrow. I really need to find a place to stay.”
“I would be remiss in my duty as your banker if I didn't advise you against postponement. You cannot keep carrying around that bag of money. It's too dangerous.”
“Then tell me what to do.”
“Do you have any idea how much money is in that bag?”
“No, it's only a guess. I know how much I withdrew from the bank, but there was additional money in a safety deposit box. It has to be counted.”
“Let's take first things first. Why don't we call Bentley Harrison?”
He made a call to a teller, requesting information. Picking up a pen, he jotted it down on a pad. Rochelle watched him, her nerves catapulting with anxiety at the thought of being in contact with Miami, even through the telephone. She hoped this would not turn into a horrible nightmare. There was always the possibility Tobias's organization reached far beyond the Miami area. For all she knew he could have subsidiary operations scattered about the country. For that matter, Michael Matheson could be involved with him, for all she knew. Nothing seemed impossible where Tobias was concerned.
Her fear of him made her cautious, and with good reason. She did not feel entirely safe with anyone.
Still, she was doing the only thing she could do. She entrusted Michael with enough information to put Tobias in her midst within hours if he were of a mind to betray her. She watched Michael pick up the phone, push a button for an outside line and then dial. He transferred the call to his speakerphone so Rochelle could hear the conversation. The number proved to be a direct line that put him straight through to Bentley Harrison.
Michael identified himself, and said, “I'm calling in reference to an account in my bank, Mr. Bentley, of which you are the executor.”
“What about it?” Bentley asked dryly, and one could almost visualize him suddenly sitting up straighter in his chair, leaning forward attentively.
“The young woman whose name is on the account is here in my office. She would like to access the account.”
Bentley was quiet a moment, and Rochelle could readily infer he was digesting the information and weighing it. “Let me speak with her,” he demanded, needing confirmation that the call was indeed from whom the man said he was.
“Uncle Bentley?” She could hear him let out a relieved sigh.
“Are you all right, honey?”
The sound of his voice brought a rush of melancholy and an overwhelming flood of sadness. “I'm safe, Uncle Bentley,” she said shakily.
“Sweetheart, is it safe to speak openly to you there?”
Michael nodded his head at Rochelle.
“Its okay, Uncle Bentley, there's just Mr. Matheson and me here.” She tensed, knowing some traumatic news was about to be delivered to her. She sucked in a deep breath of air.
“Sweetheart, things have reached a bad state of affairs here in Miami. Under no circumstance must you let anyone else know where you are residing. It would be highly dangerous. Your husband has half of Miami searching for you. The newspaper got wind of your disappearance and I understand Tobias has hired several private detectives to find you. The last I heard, the police may get involved. You know he has henchmen in the police department. The time may come when you might need to disappear again.”
Michael glanced at Rochelle, enlightenment dawning fully now on how desperate her situation was. It was easy enough, earlier, to think she might be over-reacting. Now, he knew better. She was running for her life. Knowing that, took on an entirely new perspective for him. She was alone and needy, and he was the only person in Windy Point who knew her situation. She needed a friend just now, and he seemed the only one available.
Rochelle tried to remain impassive, but Bentley's news brought on a new wave of misgivings, her face contorting into an expression of raw emotion. Her eyes flooded with reflected green pools of water and her lips quivered softly as she ground her teeth together trying to control it. Taking a tissue from her purse, she wiped away the moisture before it spilled down her cheeks. “I understand, Uncle Bentley.”
“What do you need from me, honey?”
“Mr. Matheson will tell you.”
“Mr. Bentley, a large amount of money was put in safety deposit boxes both here and in Miami. I need to know the disposition of that money before I can put it in an account. I will also need documentation from you, the executor, to enable her to access her established account.”
“The money is clean, taxes have been paid, and I have documentation to prove it. I can fax you all the information you'll need.”
Michael gave him his fax number.
“It'll be forthcoming,” he said, stringing out a noticeable pause.
“Mr. Matheson, her father placed great stock in your friendship…”
“Sir, I am not who you think I am,” Michael interrupted. “My father, James Matheson is dead. I am his youngest son.”
“Then I implore you, sir, to take every precaution with the information you receive. If certain persons were to learn of her whereabouts, dire consequences for my goddaughter could ensue.”
“I assure you, Mr. Harrison, I shall assume the same confidentiality my father would have and give my client any help I can offer.”
“Uncle Bentley,” Rochelle said before Michael severed the connection, “please be careful. I've never mentioned your name, but if he found out your connection to me, he would stop at nothing to get information from you.”
“Don't worry about me, honey. Take care of yourself. I'll be in touch only if I think it's necessary.” He severed the connection, and Michael hung up his phone.
Rochelle clasped her hands in her lap, her gaze aimed at one corner of Michael's large desk, her thoughts running rampant. Half of Miami was searching for her, Bentley had said. The fear that kept her neck and shoulders tense grew stronger, and the thought that she would never be safe again left her feeling cold and numb inside. She should not be surprised that Tobias was arming an all-out search for her. She had expected it. Nonetheless, hearing it from someone she knew put it in bold perspective, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Her eyes turned to deep pools as she raised her head to stare across the desk at her benefactor. Her quivering chin magnified her strong emotions and vulnerability. She swallowed several times, trying to bite back the tears, wondering if she would ever feel safe again. For the past several days, she had been living in a vacuum, her emotions held tightly in check. Now they came flooding forth as if from a broken damn, boiling over in an outpouring of weeping.
She tried choking back the sound of her sobs, even muffling them with a tissue, until the effort became too great.
Michael came out of his chair, suddenly experiencing a terrible sense of helplessness. Female tears had a way of doing that to him.
He had never built a resistance against their impact. He moved around his desk next to her chair, as she fought to regain control.
Gently, he placed his hand upon her shoulder and felt her tense at his touch. He kept his hand there, pressing gentle, soothing caresses across her wracked shoulders. He gave her his handkerchief, and she dabbed frantically at her damp face and moist eyes.
With Michael's hand gently caressing her shoulder, his masculine body standing next to her with the faint smell of spice teasing her nostrils brought her back to awareness. She fought to regain control. When she raised her head again, only her wet eyes and red-blotched cheeks betrayed the emotional scene just displayed. She raised her lovely chin, exposing her ivory throat while dry little sniffles caused her chest to heave.
“I'm sorry for my emotional outburst. Hearing Uncle Bentley's voice…well…things just caught up with me.” Her pose was graceful, her manner gracious, her attitude regal, but an underlying sadness spread across her features. Five years of pain and mental distress was a long time to bottle up one's cares, but until she and Tobias were divorced, and their ties severed altogether, there would be no peace for her.
“I assure you, an apology isn't necessary. I think I am beginning to understand your situation. I don't admit to understanding how you must feel, but for what it's worth, I want you to know I'll help anyway I can.”
Almost immediately, he wondered at what he might be up against, getting involved in a domestic situation that boded threat and danger. Whoever was looking for Rochelle obviously had powerful connections to have friends, or henchmen, as Bentley called them, in the police department. Nevertheless, Michael was now committed, not only to helping her, but also to a growing infatuation. Like most bachelors still in their testosterone prime, he wasn't exactly immune to the magnetism of a beautiful woman.
She sat straight in her chair, like a queen on a throne, her control soon restored. “If you don't mind, I'm ready to continue with whatever we need to do,” she said, her voice still a bit shaky.
“Can I get you something?” Michael asked, admiring the way she forced herself to bounce back from despondency.
“No thank you. I'd really like to finish what I need to do here so I can attend to other matters.”
He went to a side door opening into an adjoining room containing a big executive table with more than a dozen chairs. He motioned Rochelle to follow him. Setting the duffel bag on the table, he pulled out a chair for her, and handed her a yellow pad with several sharpened pencils. An adding machine sat in front of her. He thrust his hands aloft in quiet supplication. “I can't help you with this. You have to fill out the deposit slip.”
Rochelle gave a noticeable sigh, opening the duffel bag and removing her bra, panties, a wrinkled suit, and sneakers with socks stuffed in them. Embarrassed, she scrambled to unpack the money so she could stuff the clothing items back in the bag.
“Thank you for your help. I apologize for having to involve you in my affairs,” she said casting a cautious glance toward him.
“Why is that?” Michael asked. At least for the moment, he was undaunted by any risks her situation might present.
“You heard what Uncle Bentley said. There will be no end to the search for me. There could be danger involved in even knowing me, and I feel a responsibility to tell you that.”
“I don't understand. Why is he so intent upon finding you? Do you possess information that could cause problems for him?”
“No, he has been careful not to expose me to anything that could be used against him. It isn't that at all. It is a matter of ego and a need to control what he owns. I belong to him—or so he thinks.”
“I take it you're speaking of your husband?”
She nodded her head in reply.
“I shall consider myself adequately warned. Now, I suggest you stop worrying,” he said gently, and left her to count her money.