The Heir

by Joanne Rock

  Apparently not.

  While he shoved that thought aside with the weariness of a man who’d done the same thing a hundred times, a knock sounded on his study door.

  “Come in,” he answered, never glancing up from the screen.

  “Mr. Pierce?” A woman with his cleaning service opened the door a sliver. “A Miss Cruz is in the front room for you.”

  His stomach dropped like he’d just buckled into an amusement park ride. But he simply powered off the screen and stood.

  “Thank you.” He dismissed her with a nod. “I’ll be right with her.”

  He told himself that whatever Nicole wanted didn’t have a damned thing to do with him. No doubt she had more questions for him about Zach’s past or the drawings, or some other connection between her nephew and Mesa Falls. But knowing as much didn’t stop a jolt of hunger for more.

  Much, much more.

  As he closed the study door behind him, he wanted to believe that the need for her was purely physical. Their connection had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, the memories of it so hot and all-encompassing that thinking about her could drag him right back to that afternoon, enticing him to relive every minute of it over and over again. And something about that overwhelming sensual immersion made him fear what he felt for Nicole went beyond the physical. Her protectiveness for Matthew made her a force to be reckoned with, a job she’d undertaken even though she wasn’t Lana’s—or Matthew’s—blood relation.

  Desmond admired the hell out of that kind of loyalty, especially after growing up in the kind of household he had. Nicole’s commitment to Matthew humbled him.

  Nearing the formal living room at the front of the house, Desmond braced himself for the inevitable effect of seeing her. He’d thought his first glimpse of Nicole in her sleep camisole had been the reason for his fascination. But he now realized she could have been wearing layers of sweats and he still would have been every bit as captivated.

  “Nicole.” He spoke the name like he was releasing a breath, all the pent-up need for her appeased—in part, at least—by seeing her again.

  Today, she wore a pale blue sweater with a gray wrap skirt, the hem printed with the image of an iris bloom. Her long auburn hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders, the ends spiraling in ringlets he wanted to coil around his fingers. Had she gone to extra effort for him, he wondered? The idea was appealing, but he dismissed it, recalling her words.

  Finding out the truth is the only reason I’m here.

  He’d do well to focus on that.

  “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” she began, turning from the view of Trapper Peak and the Bitterroot Mountains. “I received the sketchbook by special delivery today. I thought it might help to see the physical object, since my father didn’t photograph all of it.”

  She pointed toward a flat package he hadn’t noticed propped against a table near the front door.

  There was something detached in her manner today, the same reserve that had been there since they’d left Miles’s house the night before. He should be grateful for it.

  Instead, he could only think about how much he’d rather have her hands on him. Peeling off his shirt. Her fingernails pressing into his shoulders as he did something that pleased her. Yeah, he hated the distance between them.

  “You didn’t disturb me.” He took another step toward her, as if pulled there by invisible force. “I was looking at the photo images of the sketches, so if anything, the arrival of the original makes the work easier.”

  The cover of the book hadn’t been photographed, for instance. He wondered if there were clues to the owner’s identity on the inside cover or on the back.

  “What are you looking for in the drawings?” she asked, sounding a little breathless.

  Because he was closer to her? He hoped so.

  “I’m not entirely certain,” he admitted, wishing he had more concrete answers. “But finding something new of Zach’s—something I didn’t know existed before—is like hearing his voice again.”

  Her dark eyes tracked his. The fact that she looked up at him now made him realize he’d somehow moved closer still.

  “I know what you mean.” She nodded, the red curls dancing around her shoulders with the movement. “I spent a long time going through Lana’s belongings after her death. Touching things she’d touched. Discovering little treasures that I knew must have been important to her based on where I found them. A note in a jewelry box drawer. A dried corsage from a long-ago dance.”

  A vulnerable look passed through her eyes, and he couldn’t resist the urge to touch her. He stroked a hand over the silky length of her hair, sifting his fingers through the soft curls.

  “I can’t imagine how tough this year has been for you.” He admired her grit for taking on all that she had. Loss of her sister aside, there would have been a lot of practical matters to take care of in securing legal guardianship of her nephew. “It couldn’t have been easy to become a parent overnight.”

  For a moment, she stood very still. Not moving nearer, but not moving away, either. He fought the need to bend his lips to her hair and kiss the top of her head. To pull her against him fully and offer her the comfort of his arms around her.

  But then she stepped back and out of his reach. She returned to the window overlooking the mountains.

  “It was awful.” Her voice revealed the power of her emotions or he might have been more troubled by her need for space. She hugged her arms around her waist. “My father was devastated. He’s still inconsolable about losing Lana. So I didn’t have any help from him in comforting Matthew.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “And Matthew processed his grief a little differently from how you might expect a boy his age would.”

  Desmond shook his head. “If I learned one thing from Zach’s death, it’s that people—all of us—process grief uniquely. Alonzo Salazar was good about finding us all outlets to deal with it.”

  “How did you deal with it?” she asked, surprising him.

  He debated how much to say. He’d never been comfortable revealing that part of his life, but if he ever wanted the chance to be close to this woman again, he couldn’t keep pulling away. He’d been the one to put the distance between them that he already regretted.

  “Good works.” He crossed the living area to stand near her at the window. “I put every second of my free time into helping at a local shelter that benefited battered women and kids. I needed to build something positive. It was my way of honoring a cause that was important to Zach.”

  Her dark eyes were perceptive.

  “I remember how concerned you were when I mentioned Lana’s father was abusive,” she remarked softly. “Did Zach come from a violent home?”

  “We both did.” It was an admission he’d never made to a woman before. Only his friends knew about his past. “Zach was the first person to recognize what my home life was like. He—”

  The memory of that bond—of finding someone who understood, someone he didn’t have to explain to—the relief and gratitude he’d felt were beyond explanation to anyone who hadn’t lived that particular hell. “He helped me get through it. To fight back.”

  She slid her fingers through his, a touch so welcome he couldn’t help but squeeze her palm tight at the wordless support. The understanding all the more valuable because it wasn’t tinged with pity.

  Dragging in a long breath, he continued. “Anyway, I put all my grief into volunteering at the center. Sorting donated clothes, refereeing games for the little kids, cleaning the place. Whatever they needed. I organized a class fundraiser through Dowdon that helped the center purchase a new building.”

  “You were far more productive during your mourning than I’ve been during mine. Some days I feel like I’m barely hanging on.” She stared down at their interlaced fingers. “When I let myself think about the fact that I
’ll never talk to her again, it hurts so much it’s almost hard to breathe.”

  With his free arm, he pulled her against him, pinning their locked hands between their bodies. For a long moment, he simply held her, wishing he could take away some of the pain. Knowing there was no way to fast-forward through the steps of grieving a loss like that. He couldn’t tell her that the loss got any easier, because in his experience, it didn’t. You just got better at finding ways to deal with the pain of missing someone.

  She stirred against him and he released her, sensing she might need to collect herself. She ran a hand through her hair, her long skirt swishing around her calves where high leather boots hugged her legs.

  “I should show you the original sketchbook my father shipped to me,” she murmured, half to herself, as she paced near the narrow package leaning against a table. “Chiara seems positive this book belonged to Zach. She didn’t remember seeing him with this one in particular, but she pointed out a few doodles on the cover that he liked to make on all his books.”

  “Has she already seen the original?” Desmond moved to help Nicole lift the kraft paper–covered book onto the coffee table. He held the paper while she tugged the book free.

  She dropped into the closest love seat, and he sat beside her. His knee grazed hers, the contact enough to send his thoughts hurtling back to the tree house, where he’d gotten intimately acquainted with every square inch of her. Their gazes collided, and he would bet from the way hers darted from his that she was remembering the same thing.

  “No. But last night she texted me photos of some ink drawings she made from memory. Then, when this arrived today, I sent her a picture of the cover.” Nicole withdrew her phone from her leather handbag and turned the screen toward him. “These were her images.”

  Desmond took the device from her, carefully reviewing the ink sketches along with Chiara’s note about the designs Zach liked to doodle while he was thinking. They were simple, repetitive patterns that were shaped into bigger designs. Feathers and scales, flower petals and leaves.

  “Would you agree he drew that kind of thing?” Nicole asked, glancing at the phone.

  The scent of her hair tempted him to lean closer, to bury his face in the softness of all that red silk.

  “It looks sort of familiar, but I wouldn’t be able to say for certain. Chiara would know, though. They attended an art camp together that summer, and from what I gather, she paid close attention to his work.”

  “She told me she had a huge crush on him.” Nicole smiled. “I’m sure she hoarded every scrap of information about him that was available to her fifteen-year-old self.” She slid the sketchbook toward him. “Now take a look at this.”

  Desmond set down the phone on the coffee table and took up the softbound book held shut with an elastic band. Artwork covered the formerly brown cover. A partial lion’s face covered half, the elaborate mane consisting of all the variations of doodles Chiara had anticipated—feathers, scales, petals, leaves. Each section of the mane was a little different, so that even though there might be four sets of feathers, each of them was decorated a different way, with broken lines or dots, squiggles or solid shading.

  He traced the bisected lion’s face with his finger, lost in thought. He remembered Zach drawing all the time. Between classes, during classes, even at night in their dorms when the rest of them were shoving, wrestling or otherwise hanging from the rafters. Hell, Zach had drawn while doing homework, one hand on his pencil, the other cueing up a video lecture. Desmond would have lost those memories without this reminder right in front of him. A tangible voice from the past that Nicole had given him.

  She leaned closer, her hair spilling partially onto his shoulder as she looked at the book with him.

  “The similarities can’t just be coincidence,” she observed quietly before peering into his face. “Can they?”

  He knew she wanted him to confirm her suspicions. Give her some kind of proof that his dead friend was the father of her nephew. But as much as he wanted to help her solve the mystery, he couldn’t be positive.

  “I wish I had answers for you, Nicole. But we’re trying to reconstruct the past with a patchwork of guesses. We’ve lost all of the people with the power to confirm or deny our suppositions.”

  She frowned, edging back to consider him. “You don’t think this is your friend’s sketchbook?”

  “Actually, I do.” The memories of Zach drawing returned to his brain. Clear. Crisp. Like they’d just been back at Dowdon the day before. “Not just because Chiara recalled the things he drew. But because of the sketches inside. The similarity to the horse in the tree house. The similarity to the images Alec used.”

  There were too many things that tied Zach to the book, including when it came into Lana Allen’s possession.

  “Then why did you hesitate?” She retrieved her phone, returning it to her purse.

  Inserting space between them.

  He knew he needed to let her go. They weren’t going to end up in each other’s arms again anytime soon, no matter how much he wanted that. Wanted her. But he couldn’t help wishing he could rewind things, and...hell. He didn’t know. He couldn’t give her the answers she needed.

  “Because even though I think this book belonged to Zach, it still doesn’t seem like enough proof that Zach is Matthew’s father. And bottom line, that’s what you want to know.”

  She went very still. Then, stiffly, began to slide the sketchbook back into the packaging.

  “Let me,” he offered, taking over the task.

  He tucked the corners of the paper cover around the book and then stood it on end beside the love seat.

  “Has anyone reached out to Alec Jacobsen to ask him about the images he used in his game?” As she rose to her feet, her skirt brushed his leg briefly.

  The need to pull her back to him was so strong that he jammed his hands in the front pockets of his pants as he stood.

  “We’ve tried.” He hated to be the one to deliver the news, but she had a right to know. “He was supposed to be watching over things at the casino for me this week, but he hasn’t been seen on-site since last night.”

  “What?” Tension radiated from her stiff shoulders. Her fists clenched at her sides. “Meaning he took off as soon as one of your friends tipped him off that we know he stole more of Zach’s artwork than he gave him credit for.”

  She whirled away from him, skirt flaring.

  “No.” He hastened to place himself between her and the door. “There’s no way that happened. I’m positive.”

  “Oh, really?” She halted just inches from him. Close enough to touch. “Last night was Miles’s dinner party. Last night eight of us stood around a billiard table and saw evidence that suggests Alec Jacobsen is a thief. The timing is damning.” Her breathing was hard. Fast.

  He wished it was because they were almost touching. But anger sizzled off her words.

  “No one tipped him off,” he repeated, staring directly into her furious brown eyes.

  “How do you know?” Her gaze narrowed.

  She didn’t back down.

  And it was a good thing he’d kept his hands in his pockets, because the need to touch her still rode him.

  “Because I employed the same private investigator that followed you to Prince Edward Island to keep an eye on Alec for us.”

  * * *

  Did she trust him enough to believe him?

  The misplaced awareness she felt for Desmond was short-circuiting her brain, making her unsure what to think. Falling into bed with him had shaken all her prior convictions like so many puzzle pieces, scattering them in every direction until she couldn’t put them together anymore.

  Recognizing the effect was all the stronger the closer she stood to him, she edged back a step. She needed a breath that wasn’t tinged by the sandalwood scent of his aftershave.

  �
�If you’re having him watched, why don’t you know where he is?” She crossed her arms. As if she could create a barrier between herself and the desire for the man standing between her and the exit.

  Not that she wanted to leave now.

  “I never said I didn’t know where he is.” His hands were still fisted in his pockets, his shoulders looking every bit as tense as hers felt right now. “I said no one has seen him at the casino, which he’s supposed to be managing for me.”

  She arched an eyebrow. Waiting.

  “He’s in New York,” Desmond continued. “I still hope he’s got a damned good reason to be there, but his movements make me think he could be planning to leave the country.” His gray eyes scanned her, and he gestured toward the living room. “Will you sit back down, and we can discuss it?”

  She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to be that close to him again. The memories of their time together were never far from her mind. Seeing his hands move over the sketchbook earlier had brought her right back to those hot moments when his palms had wandered all over her naked body. Even now, she had to suppress a shiver.

  “I’m fine here, thank you.” She sounded terse. She couldn’t help it. “What makes you think he’s leaving the country?”

  “The PI reported that Alec updated his passport. Also that he has an appointment with his financial adviser this afternoon.”

  “Why did you have him followed? Is it because you believe—like I do—that your friend profited from Zach’s work without giving him any real credit?” She’d researched the game thoroughly before falling asleep last night. She’d even bought a copy to give to Matthew. “I read the credits on the box, by the way. Zach’s name isn’t there.”

  “I had him followed because I’m not entirely convinced Vivian Fraser would have acted alone to threaten Chiara, the way Alec’s assistant claimed.” He sounded troubled about that. “And for what it’s worth, Alec acknowledged Zach’s influence on his video game in a well-publicized video—”

  “Anonymously. I saw the video.” She couldn’t help but feel indignant. She’d only just learned about Zach Eldridge, the young man who’d died too soon, but she felt defensive of him. “And I noticed how Alec protected himself from having to share any earnings with Zach’s potential heir by never mentioning Zach’s name.”