Without A Trace by Nora Roberts

  "I don't know. I haven't decided." She wasn't going back to New York, or anywhere else, without him. He just didn't know it yet. "What about you? Are you winging straight off to the islands?"

  Why was it she could make him so uncomfortable when she smiled that way? It was as if she could see what he was thinking. Or trying not to think. "I've got some business to take care of in Chicago first." He paused for a moment, because he hadn't taken it all in yet. "For some reason, Charlie left me his house."

  "I see." She smiled again, brilliantly. "So it seems you have a home after all."

  "I don't know anything about teal estate," he mumbled. They were in Beverly Hills now with its mansions and trimmed hedges. This was the kind of place his father had always dreamed of. The O'Hurleys had come up in the world, he thought. Or some of them had. He yanked at his tie again. "Listen, Doc, this is a dumb idea. We can head back to the airport, take a flight to New Zealand. It's beautiful there."

  And at the other end of the world. Gillian resisted the urge to lecture or comfort. "A promise is a promise," she said simply.

  "I don't want to spoil this for Chantel, or the rest of them."

  "Of course you don't. That's why you're going."

  "You don't understand, Gillian." And he'd never been able to bring himself to explain it before. "My father's never forgiven me for leaving. He never understood why I had to. He wanted—I guess he needed for me to be a part of the dream he had. The O'Hurley Family, in big, bold lights. Broadway, Vegas, Carnegie Hall."

  She was silent for a long moment. Then she spoke quietly, without looking at him. "My father never forgave me, never understood me. He wanted me to be one thing, and I was always another. Did your father love you, Trace?"

  "Sure he did, it was just—"

  "My father never loved me."

  "Gillian—"

  "No, listen to me. There's a difference between love and obligation, between true affection and expectation. He didn't love me, and I can accept that. But what I can't accept is that I never made peace with him. Now it's too late." She looked at him now, and though her eyes were dry they shone with emotion. "Don't make that same mistake, Trace. I promise you, you'll regret it."

  He could think of nothing to say, no argument to give. He was here because he'd promised, but more, because he'd wanted to come. The ideas, or maybe he should call them dreams, that had begun to form couldn't be brought to fruition until he'd resolved his life. He couldn't do that until he'd closed the rift with his family. With his father.

  "This could be the biggest mistake you've ever made," he said as he pulled up to the gates guarding Chantel's estate.

  "I'll risk it."

  "You're a stubborn woman, Doc."

  "I know." She touched his face. "I've got as much on the line as you do."

  He wanted to ask her to explain, but a guard knocked smartly on his window. "You're early, sir," he said when Trace rolled down the window. "May I see your invitation?"

  She hadn't thought of that, Gillian realized with a start. Before she could speak, Trace pulled out a badge. "McAllister, Special Security."

  The ID looked official, because it was. The guard studied it, compared the laminated photo to Trace, then nodded. "Go right in, sir," he said, nearly snapping a salute.

  Trace tooled through the gates and started up the long drive.

  "McAllister?"

  Trace slipped the ID back in his pocket. "Old habits die hard. Good God, what a place." The house was huge and white and elegant. The grounds were trimmed and rolling. He thought of the crowded hotel rooms they'd shared, the meals his father had cooked on hot plates, the airless dressing rooms, the audiences that snarled as often as they applauded. And the laughter. And the music.

  "It's beautiful," Gillian murmured. "Like a picture."

  "She always said she'd do it." The pride came through, deeper than he'd expected. "The little brat pulled it off."

  "Spoken like a true brother," Gillian said with a laugh. She was helped from the car by a man in uniform, and was suddenly every bit as nervous as Trace. Maybe she should have made him come alone. She was hardly prepared to meet royalty, even the Hollywood variety. And his family might resent… As he came to her, she reached out a hand. "Trace, maybe I shouldn't."

  The front door burst open and nearly cracked on its hinges. A woman with a wild mop of red curls and an exquisite dress of sapphire blue raced down the stairs. With something close to a war cry, she launched herself into Trace's arms.

  "You're here! You're really here!" With her arms in a stranglehold around his neck and her mouth smothering his, Trace could do little more than absorb the scent and feel. "I knew you'd come. I didn't believe it, but I knew. And here you are."

  "Maddy." Because he needed to catch his breath as much as he wanted to look at her, Trace drew her back by the shoulders. There were tears streaming down her face, but she was grinning. And the grin was exactly as he remembered. "Hi."

  "Hi yourself." She pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket, blew her nose hard, then laughed. "Chantel will kill me if my nose is red." She blew again. "How do I look?"

  "Terrible, but there's so little you can do with that face." With the laughter, they were close again. He held her and wished he could believe it would be so easy with everyone. "Maddy, I love you."

  "I know, you jerk." Her breath hitched on a sob, "Stay this time?"

  "Yeah." He brushed his cheek against her hair. "I'll stay this time." Looking over her head, he watched Gillian.

  "I can't wait to show you off." Maddy drew back beaming, then glanced at Gillian. "Hi."

  "Maddy, this is Gillian Fitzpatrick."

  Still sniffling, Maddy turned. "I'm so glad to meet you." Gillian found herself enclosed in the same exuberant hug. "In fact, I'm thrilled." She drew away far enough to wink, then squeezed Gillian again. "You look wonderful, both of you, just wonderful." She slipped an arm around each of them and started up the stairs. "I can't wait for you to meet Reed. Oh, here he is now."

  Coming down the hall was a leanly built man with hair shades darker than Trace's and more conservatively cut. He looked as if he'd been born in the tux. So this was Reed Valentine of Valentine Records. Rich, well-bred and straight-line. Thinking of his free-spirited, unconventional sister, Trace decided he could have come up with no one less suited to her.

  "Reed, it's Trace." Maddy gave Trace another quick kiss, then dashed to her husband. "I told you he'd be here."

  "So you did." Reed slipped a protective arm around Maddy and sized up the brother even as the brother sized up the husband. "Maddy's been looking forward to seeing you again." With his arm still around Maddy, he offered a hand. Trace took it. It wasn't as smooth as he'd expected.

  "Congratulations."

  "Thank you."

  "Oh, don't be stuffy, Reed. We have to kill the fatted calf, at least."

  Reed saw the expression on Trace's face and smiled. "I have a feeling Trace might prefer a drink." He turned a smile of considerable charm on Gillian. "Hello."

  "Oh, I'm sorry," Maddy began. "This is Gillian. She's with Trace. We should go in and sit down, and I'll find everyone. Things are a little confused."

  To prove it, two boys raced down the hall, one in oblivious and desperate pursuit of the other. "I'm going to tell Mom."

  "I'm going to tell her first."

  "Whoa!" Maddy grabbed an arm each before they could come to blows. "Slow down. You'll have those cute little tuxedos filthy before we can start the wedding."

  "He said I looked like a geek," the smaller of the two said.

  "He kicked me," the older said righteously.

  "I tried to kick him, only I missed." He looked across at his brother, hoping he'd have another chance.

  "Kicking's not allowed. And, Chris, you do not look like a geek. In fact, you look very handsome. Now, can you behave long enough to meet your uncle?"

  "What uncle?" Ben, the oldest, looked up suspiciously.

  "The only one you haven't m
et. Trace, this is Ben, and this is Chris. Abby's boys."

  He wasn't sure whether he should shake hands, crouch down or wave from a distance. Before he could make up his mind, Chris stepped forward to give him a good study.

  "You're the one who went away. Mom said you've been to Japan."

  So crouching down seemed natural. "Yeah, I've been there."

  "We studied about it in school. They eat raw fish there."

  "Sometimes." Good God, he thought, he could see himself in the boy, just as he saw Abby's solemn eyes in the brother.

  "Did you?" Chris wanted to know.

  "Sure I did."

  Chris made a face. He couldn't have been more pleased. "That's gross. Dad—that's Dylan—took us fishing, but I wouldn't clean them."

  "I did," Ben said, tired of being left out. He shouldered Chris out of the way to get a good look for himself. "I liked the spaceship model you sent me. It was neat."

  "I'm glad you liked it." Trace wanted to ruffle the boy's hair, but figured it was too soon.

  "He only lets me play with it if I beg and beg," Chris put in.

  "That's because you're a geek."

  "Am not!"

  Ben started to launch into a full-scale exchange of insults, then clammed up when he recognized the sound of footsteps.

  "Trouble?" Dylan said mildly as he stepped into the hall.

  "Dad, we've got another uncle, and he's here." Delighted to be in charge, Chris grabbed Trace's hand and dragged him forward. "This is Uncle Trace. This is my dad. We changed our name to Crosby and everything."

  So this was the brother no one knew very much about. Dylan's writer's instincts were humming. "Glad you could make it. Abby's always showing the boys where you've been on Ben's globe. You get around."

  "Some." Trace was pleased enough to meet the brother-in-law, but he was wary of the journalist.

  "He eats raw fish," Chris supplied. "Hey, Mom, guess who's here?"

  Abby came from the direction of the kitchen, her dancer's legs still graceful beneath the deep rose dress that draped over the child she carried. Her dark-blond hair swung loosely at her shoulders. "The caterers want me to tell certain greedy little fingers to keep out of the canapés. I wonder who they might mean." Her brow was lifted as she smiled at her husband. Then, looking past him, she saw Trace.

  "Oh." Her eyes, always expressive, filled as she opened her arms. "Oh, Trace."

  "Mom's crying," Ben murmured as he watched his mother being held by this man he'd only heard about.

  "Because she's happy," Dylan told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Imagine if you didn't see Chris for a long, long time." Ben considered it, and a gleam came into his eyes. "Monster." With a laugh, Dylan ruffled his hair.

  "It's such a surprise. Such a terrific surprise."

  Trace brushed a tear from her cheek. "Maddy already stole my handkerchief."

  "It doesn't matter. How did you get here? Where did you come from? I've so many questions. Give me another hug."

  "This is Gillian," Maddy announced, though Gillian had done her best to stay in the background. "She brought him." At Trace's lifted brow, Maddy grinned. "I mean, he brought her."

  "Whichever way, hello." Though she sensed some intrigue, it could wait. Abby kissed both of Gillian's cheeks. "I'm glad you're here, both of you. And I can't wait to see Chantel's face."

  "Why wait?" With a laugh, Maddy hooked an arm through Trace's. "She's upstairs making herself more beautiful."

  "Nothing changes," Trace commented.

  "Not much. Come on. Gillian, you, too. Chantel will want to meet you."

  "Maybe I should—"

  "Don't be silly." Abby cut off her protest and took her hand. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime."

  "Dylan and I will… check on Quinn," Reed said.

  "Thanks." Maddy threw him a smile as she climbed the stairs.

  "I wonder how Pop's going to react," Dylan murmured.

  "That's something I don't want to miss. Come on, boys, let's see how the bridegroom is holding up."

  With her usual flair for the dramatic, Maddy rapped on Chantel's door.

  "I don't want to see anyone unless they have a bottle of champagne."

  "This is better." Maddy opened the door and stuck her head inside. "Abby and I brought you a wedding present."

  "At the moment, I'd prefer the champagne. I'm a nervous wreck."

  "This'll take your mind off it." With a flourish, Maddy pushed the door wide.

  Chantel sat at her dressing table in a long white robe, her crown of pale-blond hair done up in intricate coils. She saw Trace in the mirror and turned very slowly.

  "Well, well," she said in her dark, alluring voice. "Look what the cat dragged in." She rose to look at him.

  She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. Perhaps more. And was undoubtedly every bit as hard a nut to crack. "You look pretty good, kid."

  "I know." She tilted her head. "You don't look too bad. A little rough around the edges, maybe."

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Nice house."

  "We like it." Then she let out a long breath. "Bastard. There goes my makeup." He met her halfway and swung her in one long circle. "I'm so glad you're here, and I hate you for making me cry so I look like a hag for my wedding."

  "A hag?" He drew her away. "Fat chance."

  "Trace." She brushed the hair from his forehead. "We always knew the day would come, but you couldn't have picked a better one. God, don't you even have a handkerchief?"

  "Maddy took it."

  "Figures." She used the heel of her hand.

  "This is Gillian." Maddy all but shoved her into the room.

  "Oh?" Always cautious, Chantel lifted a brow. "How do you do?"

  "I don't want to disturb you." Chantel's brow lifted a little higher at the accent, and a smile came into her eyes. "I think I should go down or—"

  "She's with Trace," Abby put in.

  "Is she really?" In the way of triplets, the sisters communicated the rest. "Well, isn't that nice? Excellent taste, Trace." She took both of Gillian's hands. "Sorry I can't say as much for yours, but champagne is definitely in order."

  "I'll get it."

  "For heaven's sake, Maddy, I'll have one of the servants bring it. You can't go traipsing up and down the stairs in your condition. Take everyone into the sitting room down the hall. Quinn's barred from this wing, so I'm not risking any bad luck. I'll be there as soon as I fix my face again." She put a hand on Trace's arm. "Stay, please."

  "Sure." He shot a look at Gillian, but she was already being washed away in the wave of his sisters.

  "We missed you," she said when they were alone. "Is everything all right?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  With her hands in his, Chantel sat with him on the bed. "I guess I always figured you'd come home in absolute triumph or absolute destitution."

  He had to laugh. "Sorry, it's neither."

  "I won't ask what you've been doing, but I have to ask if you're staying."

  "I don't know." He thought of Gillian. "I wish I did."

  "All right. You're here today. I hate to be sloppy, but I can't tell you how much it means to me."

  "You start crying again, you will look like a hag."

  "I know. You always were a pain in the—"

  "Chantel, Reed said you needed me. I've been trying to keep your father from fighting with the—" Molly paused halfway into the room.

  He'd thought he'd prepared himself to see her again. She looked older, but not old. Changed, but somehow constant. She'd scolded him and comforted him, walloped him and soothed him. Whatever was needed. He felt twelve years old as he stood and looked at her.

  "Mom."

  She didn't want to burst into tears. That would be a foolish thing before she'd said so much as a word. With the strength that had gotten her through years on the road, she took a deep breath. "Let me look at you." He was thin, but he always had been. Like his father. So like his father. "It's good to have you back." She too
k the next step and folded him in her arms. "Oh, Tracey, how good it is to have you back."

  She smelled the same. She seemed smaller now, more delicate, but she smelled the same. He buried his face in her hair and let himself feel. "I missed you. Mom, I'm sorry."

  "No regrets." She said it almost fiercely as she held on. "There's to be no regrets. And no questions." She drew away to smile at him. "At least not now. I'm going to dance with my son at my daughter's wedding." She held out a hand for Chantel. Some prayers were answered.

  "Molly! In the name of all that's holy, where did you run off to? Those so-called musicians don't know a single Irish tune."

  Molly felt Trace stiffen. "Don't repeat mistakes," she said with a sternness he remembered well.

  "What's the matter with that girl, hiring a bunch of idiots? Molly, where the devil are you?"

  He bounced into the room the way he bounced through life. Sure of himself and on the edge of a dance. It was rare for Frank O'Hurley's feet to falter, but they did when he saw his son.

  "I have to see about champagne," Chantel said quickly. "Mom, there's someone I want you to meet. Come let me introduce you."

  Molly stopped at the door and looked into her husband's eyes. "I've loved you all my life," she said quietly. "And will no matter what foolish thing you do. Don't disappoint me, Frank."

  Frank cleared his throat as the door shut behind him. A man shouldn't feel awkward with his own son. But he couldn't help it. "We didn't know you were coming."

  "I didn't know myself."

  "Still footloose and fancy-free, are you, Trace?"

  His spine stiffened. "So it seems."

  "That's what you always wanted." It wasn't what he wanted to say, but the words came out before he could stop them.

  "You never knew what I wanted." Damn, why did it have to be a repeat performance? "You never wanted to know. What you wanted was for me to be you, and I couldn't be."

  "That's not true. I never wanted you to be anyone but yourself."

  "As long as it fit your standards." Trace started to walk out, but then he remembered what Gillian had said. He had to make peace, or at least try. He stopped, still feet away from his father, and dragged a hand through his hair. "I can't apologize, I won't apologize, for being who I am, or for doing anything I've done. But I am sorry I've disappointed you."

  "Wait a minute." Frank held up a hand. A moment before he'd been afraid he would lose Trace again, and he hadn't been sure he would be able to get him back. He'd had years to regret. "Who said I was disappointed? I never said I was disappointed. What I was was angry, and hurt, but you never disappointed me. I won't have you saying it."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "You had your say once, twelve years ago. Now I'll have mine." His chin was jutted out. He, too, wore a tux, but on him it looked like a stage costume. Trace would have bet his last nickel there were taps on the bottoms of his shoes. He