Don't Say a Word - Barbara Freethy [68]
"Stan was your father's editor."
"I know that, but what did he have to do with setting up cultural exchanges in Moscow?"
"Stan is a patron of the arts," Brady said with a secretive smile. "He worked behind the scenes of many cultural exchanges in Russia and other countries. Why don't you ask him about it?"
"I think I will," Alex said slowly. He thought back to his conversation with Stan and knew that the other man had definitely not shared any of his own involvement in that Russia trip. Why? Was he hiding something else?
"I do need to go," Brady said. "If you want to reach me, call Stan. I'll get back to you as soon as I can, I want to be of help to you and Julia-whatever you need. The most important thing is that you both back out of this, get rid of the press, and go on with your lives." That said, he turned and walked to the car.
"What do you think?" Julia asked when they were alone.
"He was lying at least some of the time."
"I agree, but which part of the time? The time when he was talking about my mother or your father… or about Stan?"
"Hell if I know." Alex dug his hands into his pockets and stared out at the ocean. "My father was murdered. That's what I know for sure."
"I'm sorry, Alex," she said quietly. "But it still wasn't your fault."
"It was someone's fault."
"Let's take a walk on the beach," Julia said. She kicked off her high-heeled sandals and rolled up the cuffs of her blue jeans.
"I don't want to walk on the beach. It's foggy, it's cold. And we should be doing something." Although he couldn't quite think of what that something was.
"It's not as cold as Buffalo. The sand will feel good between your toes. And we need to think before we act. Come on, Alex."
"Fine." Alex slipped off his tennis shoes and socks and followed her onto the sandy beach. For a while they just walked, absorbing the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore, the seagulls squealing as they dipped in and out of the water, and the low drone of a small airplane cruising along the coast. As the minutes passed, the fog began to lift, rays of sunshine peeking through. By afternoon it would probably be completely sunny, but for now Alex appreciated the fog. It mirrored the way he felt inside. There were sparks of light in his brain, but still a thick curtain wouldn't let him see all the way to the truth.
The cool, moist sand felt good beneath his feet. The sensation brought him back to reality, grounding him in the present, taking him away from the past. He couldn't remember the last time he'd walked on a beach. He'd always been too busy for such simple, time-wasting pleasures.
He paused as Julia bent over to pick up a shell. Her long, thick, wavy blond hair blew loosely about her shoulders, and he itched to put his hands through her hair again, the way he had the night before, trapping her face to his kiss. His gut tightened at the memory. Julia was a beautiful woman. It was no wonder he was attracted to her. Unfortunately, it wasn't just her body he found immensely appealing; it was her personality, her willing-to-try attitude, her determination to know the truth even if it hurt, her curiosity in the outside world, and her kindness, her compassion, her softness-a softness that would probably get her into trouble if she trusted the wrong people. He would have to make sure she didn't do that. He would have to protect her.
But first he had to figure out who the wrong people were. He walked down to the water's edge, thinking once again that the sea held the answers. His father had died in this ocean, his hopes and dreams for the future lost in the waves. All because of a photograph. How could he ever forgive himself? His father's death was all his fault. And there was no way to change any of it.
A sharp wind picked up off the ocean, spraying his face with water. For a split second he wondered if his father was trying to tell him something. Was he wrong? Was he buying into a story that someone was trying to sell him? Why should he believe Daniel Brady or Stan or