Page 14 of Roark
There’d never been anything he couldn’t do, and that was mostly because his father had told him repeatedly when he was growing up that he was a Donovan and could do and be whatever he wanted.
“We were meant to be kings,” Gabe Donovan would tell his sons as they’d sat with him in his home office or when he’d take them out for long walks. “The world will try to tell you differently. They’ll try to break you down, brainwash you to believe you’re no more than the slaves they created hundreds of years ago, but they’re wrong. We were more before they stole us, and we’ll be more long after they’re dead and gone.”
Roark believed every word his father had told him. As such, he’d studied and worked harder than anyone else in his classes, because he knew he was born to be more.
“You’ll take this company to places I never dreamed of, Roark,” Gabe had told him on his sixteenth birthday.
His father had come to his room early that morning, before Roark could get up and start his day with the celebratory breakfast his mother had orchestrated.
“You’ve got the passion for it deep in here,” Gabe had said as he’d reached out and touched a finger to Roark’s chest. “I’ve been so proud, watching it blossom inside you.”
Roark recalled sitting up in his bed, his father sitting on the edge beside him, looking as distinguished and debonair at seven o’clock in the morning as he did at one of their grand parties in the evening. “I won’t disappoint you,” he’d told his father, meaning those words with everything in his soul.
Gabe had shaken his head. “I know you won’t, son. You’ll make your mother and I proud. But most importantly, you’ll make yourself proud.”
Those last words hadn’t mattered to Roark, not as much as the part about making them proud had. Opening his eyes slowly now, Roark acknowledged that was what had pushed him through his entire life, making his parents proud and living up to the Donovan name. No matter what was going on in his mind or his heart, he had to push through. He had to make them proud.
He typed for another forty-minutes, stopped and re-read the memo twice, and then moved to his work email so he could send the document to his assistant for final editing. The insane number of unread messages in his inbox startled him and with a grumble, he decided to go through them first, just in case there was something else he needed to address with his assistant or ask her to handle. He could put everything in one email.
Roark started with the latest emails received since Friday afternoon when he’d left the office. Not even twelve hours later, and he had one hundred forty-two new messages. He was making steady progress when half an hour later he stopped at a message from a familiar sender: Tamika Rayder.
I get this may have been a jolt for you, so I’m attaching the letter just in case you want to read it again. If you come up with some explanation, here’s my contact info. If not, it was nice meeting you, Roark Donovan.
As he read the message silently, her voice echoed in his head. A little bit husky, and a lot sexy. Way too sexy for him to even contemplate while reading a message such as this. Who was this woman, and why was she so obsessed with this damn letter? Without a real answer in mind, Roark clicked on the attachment and re-read the lines he’d seen this morning. He had no idea who this man was, had never heard of him before and thus had no logical explanation for why his mother had sent this letter. Except for the most obvious—Maxine knew Lemuel Rayder.
Okay, so what? His mother had known a lot of people, and Roark wasn’t so self-absorbed to believe he had to know each person she’d known. She’d been an adult, and he hadn’t been in the business of keeping tabs on her.
That didn’t stop him from clicking to another screen and typing in Lemuel Rayder’s name. It was time to figure out who this guy was, even if just to give himself peace of mind.
Fire Chief, husband to Sandra and father of one—Tamika Rayder. Lemuel Rayder had been an upstanding citizen, born and raised in Arlington, Virginia. He’d attended community college for two years before entering the fire academy. After graduation he’d joined a station house, where he’d served for seventeen years before moving up the ranks to become first captain, then battalion chief and finally fire chief for the county. His wife was a social worker who’d retired two years before her husband’s death in a five-alarm fire the day before their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.
A fire.
The same way his mother had died.
Roark stopped reading and took a deep breath. He lifted his hands and scrubbed them over his face.
It was a coincidence, that was all. Roark didn’t usually believe in coincidences.
But he was hungry. Closing the screen on Lemuel Rayder, he returned to his emails and closed out of the one from Tamika. He didn’t delete it but instead moved it to a folder marked “miscellaneous.” He’d think about why he’d made that decision later. After sending the memo and a few other assignments to his assistant, Roark closed down his computer and grabbed his jacket.
The walk from the clubhouse to the manor took only ten minutes, the cool evening air as refreshing as the dreary scenery filled with trees, rolling hills of grass, and dwindling daylight.
The lobby of the manor had less activity than when he’d arrived this morning, but there were two attendants behind the sleek black lacquer front desk. He’d changed out of his suit earlier and now wore jeans, boots, a black T-shirt and lightweight black jacket. His steps were muted as he moved across the gray-and-white marble floor and asked if there was a place he could have dinner.
“Absolutely, Mr. Donovan.” Lily had come up behind him as he stood at the front desk. When he turned, it was to see her smiling, one arm extended in the other direction. “We have four five-star restaurants onsite with top-rated chefs. The Billiard Room is our premier steak house. We’re aware that steak’s one of your favorite meals. Correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” he replied as he followed her down three stairs into another area.
The floor here was a deep burgundy carpet, and in one corner there was a big glossy black piano, the man sitting behind it playing a jazzy tune. Wall sconces were lit along the dark-green painted walls as they approached double oak wood doors. Lily reached to open one, but Roark stepped around her and opened it instead.
“After you,” he said and watched as the woman’s smile grew more nervous than cheerful. She’d glanced around as if she thought she’d get in trouble for allowing him to open the door, and Roark had to hide his irritation. “It’s okay. I won’t tell.”
Lily walked into the restaurant, and Roark followed. She grabbed a menu and continued past the hostess stand. Roark smiled at the host dressed in all black who looked as if she had no clue what was going on. When he was seated at the table, Roark accepted the menu from Lily and immediately flipped to the wine list in the back.
“Would you like a Manhattan? We have Maker’s Mark 46.”
He shouldn’t be surprised that she knew his favorite drink, since she obviously had a list of his likes and dislikes programmed in her mind. “Yes. Thanks. And I’ll take the Delmonico, medium well, roasted potatoes and asparagus.” The sides weren’t on the menu, he knew, but it was what he liked, so he was certain Lily would make sure the chef accommodated him.
