The Runaway Heiress

by Meg Tilly

  “Wow. Thanks. In your menial vocabulary, I presume that is considered a compliment?” she said, reaching across the table and snagging the potatoes. That comment yanked another laugh from him. She felt good. Felt seen. Didn’t know how he’d managed to do it. The majority of the population never looked past the mask she presented. She plopped some of the potatoes on her plate, strands of melted cheese trailing from the spoon, the scent of their greasy goodness making her mouth water.

  “I’ll bet,” he said, toying with his wineglass, watching her over the rim, “you come from one of those stuffy old families.” He grinned. “Probably can trace your ancestors back to the first Mayflower.”

  Pretty much. Getting too close to the truth. Time to change the subject. She popped a forkful of the potatoes in her mouth. “Umm . . . these potatoes are so tasty. Sheer heaven.”

  “Glad you approve,” he said, taking a mouthful of wine, holding it on his tongue for a second, then tipping his head back for the swallow. There was something about the way he savored the flavor of the wine that made heat pool low in her abdomen. And for a split second she had the oddest desire to slide along the leather banquette, cradle his face between her hands, and taste the remnants of wine from his lips.

  “That.” He leaned forward. “There.” His hand had risen as if to pull the thought from her mind. “What were you just thinking?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I want to know. I’m curious.”

  “Oh well,” she said, returning her attention to her plate. “As my employer, you have a claim on my time. Not my thoughts.”

  12

  The roar of a luxury sports car yanked Sarah from sleep, disoriented, her heart pounding. Kevin was the first thought that dropped into her sleep-soaked brain. The engine sound was similar to the Maserati GranTurismo he had pressured her into putting on her black American Express card the day after they returned from Vegas. “A wedding gift,” he’d said. “After all, that rock you are wearing didn’t come cheap.”

  However, as the bedroom slowly came into focus, Sarah remembered where she was, and the nausea and panic gradually began to subside. She lay back down on the sinfully comfortable bed and inhaled long and deep. She was safe for the time being, had a full belly of food and a place to stay. She would savor that blessing. Charlie resettled, draping his furry body over her shoulder, tucking his head into the nook of her neck, his paws gently kneading and then releasing the shoulder of her pajamas as his body vibrated with a rumbling purr. “Don’t get too comfy,” she told him, stroking him softly. “I’d love to stay here with you, but there is work to be done. A three-minute cuddle is all you get, and then I’m off.” It was amazing how much heat one little cat could generate. She let three minutes slip into four, then five. Finally she made her move, reluctantly disengaged Charlie’s sleepy body, mindful of claws, then padded into the bathroom. Catching sight of herself in the mirror made her chuckle. She had the satisfied look of someone who’d just indulged in a week of fabulous, mind-blowing sex. Apparently, an obscenely delicious dinner had a similar effect.

  After she finished her morning ablutions, she got dressed, ate a quick breakfast consisting of the leftover chop-chop salad and cheesy toast. She’d really wanted to chow down on some of the protein components, but she needed to be pragmatic. The salad had dressing on it and was already rather wilted. It needed to be consumed first. She put some food and fresh water out for Charlie, then headed to the big house, the specter of her ex lingering in her psyche like a persistent low-grade toothache.

  * * *

  * * *

  Kevin was in his Maserati, attempting to get out of the damn JFK airport parking lot when his cell phone rang. Some dipshit was holding up the exit line, hadn’t prepaid, probably a woman. He glanced at his dashboard. Phillip Clarke. The lawyer handling Sarah’s parents’ estate. He cracked his neck to release tension, then hit answer. “Hello, Phillip. Thanks for returning my call.”

  “Mr. Hawkins.” The lawyer’s dry, crackly voice came over the speakerphone. He had met the elderly bureaucrat at the wedding reception. The Rainsfords’ family lawyer appeared frail, as if a strong wind could send him flying. Unfortunately, age hadn’t dimmed the man’s razor-sharp intellect.

  “I wanted to keep you up to date with regards to the search for Sarah. I’m able to confirm that it was indeed a photo of her splashed across the Washington Post and the New York Times. She was tangled up in the Tristin Guillory mess on Solace Island. He held her captive.” He and Sarah would need to have a little talk about that. If she’d allowed that privileged prick to bang her, she was dead, inheritance be damned.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if it were a bad connection and there was a slight delay before the full connotation of his words landed.

  “So, you found her?” the lawyer finally said, his voice void of any inflection. Kevin would have preferred to deliver the news in person. Would have been easier to read Clarke, but meetings with the old man had to be scheduled weeks in advance. Clarke always canceled at the last minute due to some bogus “emergency,” and the rescheduling dance would start all over again. “Is Sarah with you now?”

  “No. Unfortunately, by the time I had arrived on the Gulf island, she was gone. However, I spoke with several of the nurses at the hospital, the police, the woman at Art Expressions Gallery, where she worked—”

  “And they confirmed that this Mary Browning was indeed Sarah?” Clarke cut in. “I’m surprised. The news clipping you showed me didn’t look anything like her.”

  Whether it actually was Sarah or not, it was vital that Phillip Clarke believed it was. If Kevin wasn’t able to produce proof positive that Sarah was alive, then in a couple more years the $385 million tied up in the Rainsford estate would be going into a fucking charitable trust. As in accordance with Sarah’s parents’ wills, said trust would be run by none other than the sneaky little dipshit Phillip Clarke Esq. Well, Kevin was no dummy. He’d had access to a calculator. He’d done the math. The setup fee, along with the “fiduciary services and asset management” fee, was over a cool $5 million for the first year. It would then “drop” to a mere $3,080,000 annual fee, which would rise in conjunction with the increased value of the investments. Yeah. He had the old man’s number. Had a couple of other theories about the corrupt old bastard he was checking into as well. The lawyer could pretend he was above it all, but the kind of payday and power that came from overseeing the Rainsford estate was a hell of a motivation to declare Sarah Audrey Rainsford Hawkins dead.

  At least in the limbo land Kevin was trapped in now, he had access to the joint checking account with $35,000 arriving from Sarah’s trust like clockwork at the end of every month. Life would be even sweeter once Sarah was back under his control. He wouldn’t have to settle for the scraps. All that beautiful money would be his. A four percent rate of return on $385 million would net him $15,400,000 year in and year out. Of course, Kevin would have to keep a closer watch on Sarah now that he knew she was a runner. Wouldn’t allow her the multitude of freedoms she’d enjoyed before. He would keep her at arm’s reach at all times, even if it meant shackling her to the basement wall.

  “Oh, it’s Sarah, all right,” he told the lawyer. “One hundred percent. She dyed her hair a dishwater brown and slapped on a pair of glasses.”

  “Which would beg the question why?”

  “Why what?” Kevin replied, smooth as an ice-cold slug of Grey Goose, but he knew what was being inferred. He inched his car forward, his mouth bitter with memories. The Rainsfords hadn’t thought he was good enough to marry their darling, shit-don’t-stink daughter, and it was clear Phillip Clarke shared their narrow-minded opinion. When Sarah refused to give him up, her parents arranged for her to meet with Phillip to draw up a prenup. Stupid bitch.

  Well, Kevin had shown them who was in charge. Instead of taking Sarah to Central Park for the promised picnic, he’d driven
the two of them to the airport for a “surprise getaway to Vegas, baby.” He’d crossed all the t’s and dotted his i’s. Had prearranged a spa day for her. While she was getting pampered, he’d snagged her driver’s license, cased the casino until he found a stripper who was similar in looks, height, and weight. Took a little bit of convincing and a thousand bucks, but it was totally worth it. An hour and a half later, he and “Destiny” exited the courthouse with a marriage license tucked in his back pocket. “Don’t forget,” the Clark County clerk had said as she handed over the document. “This license is only valid for use within the State of Nevada and must be used within a year from the date of issue.”

  “Won’t be a problem, ma’am,” he’d replied. “Me and my little honey are planning on tying the knot tonight.” He’d given Destiny a big old kiss and slap on the ass for good measure, and then they’d strolled out of the office hand in hand. All that playacting had made the two of them horny, so she’d thrown in a BJ on the ride back to the hotel for good measure.

  When Sarah had returned to their hotel room, dazed and massaged to a mellow complacency, he led her downstairs, a docile lamb to the slaughterhouse of sin. They downed a couple of green-apple martinis at the bar while watching the topless dancers prance around on the stage. It was especially fun sitting beside his wife-to-be watching “Destiny” drive the patrons wild, knowing she had serviced him a mere hour before. It had been Sarah’s first foray to a strip bar. Apparently, it wasn’t her cup of tea. Said it made her sad. Insisted on leaving before the set was over. She was hungry, wanted dinner, but he vetoed that. With food in her belly, she might not get as inebriated as he needed her to be. “When in Vegas, baby,” he’d said as he’d steered her back to the hotel room and unpacked the bottle of tequila and wedges of lime from his overnight bag. Convinced her it had been a major fantasy of his for her to do body shots off him while he watched in the overhead mirror.

  “Kevin,” she’d protested. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Soon, baby, soon. Body shots first, then sex, then dinner.” Made her do the shots over and over until “she got it right.” Aka was drunker than a skunk and having difficulty managing basic motor skills. Perfect. Had a quickie, as promised, slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Watched the clock. Timed it. Got off in forty-eight seconds, a new record. Yanked up her panties, called a Lyft, still had her ID from his earlier outing. Half dragged, half carried her down the hall, into the elevator, through the lobby, and into the waiting car. They arrived at the twenty-four-hour wedding chapel fifteen minutes later and got married right and tight. The whole time she was bawling like a baby that, no, no, no, she wanted a real wedding, with flowers and a beautiful gown. She wanted her mom and dad, poor little baby girl. Had to slip a couple of extra hundreds to the wedding officiant when it looked like he was going to balk. Suddenly, the man became very compliant, cracked jokes, slapped Kevin on the back, wasn’t too picky about her portion of the vows. They all signed. Sarah’s hand needed a little guidance, and then it was done. Married. Until “death do us part.” No prenup.

  Granted it wasn’t the most romantic of nights. The Lyft driver had to pull the car over twice on the return trip to the hotel so she could barf her guts out by the side of the road.

  She was still pretty green when they flew back to JFK International Airport the next morning as Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, and there was not a damned thing her parents could do about it.

  Beeeeeeeep! Someone in the car behind him was leaning on his horn, jolting him back to the present. Phillip’s dry voice was droning on. “I’d be more inclined to believe Sarah was indeed alive if she had withdrawn funds from your joint account. Has she?”

  Kevin fed his parking ticket into the machine, and the traffic arm lifted. “No,” he said as he pulled into traffic.

  “Any charges on the credit cards?”

  “No.”

  “Any activity on her cell phone—”

  “As I told you during our last meeting, she left her phone and credit cards behind.” Kevin kept his voice level, the impatience out, but he could feel tension building. Needed to remove his hand from the steering wheel, crack his neck to disperse it. “However, a woman on the run—”

  “And again, we circle back to my original question. Why would she be on the run?”

  “I wish I knew,” Kevin replied, keeping a tight leash on his fraying patience. “I’ve been so damned worried. I can’t imagine how Sarah’s coping. She’s always been so fragile, prone to tears and bouts of depression.”

  “I never noticed any signs of depression.”

  “Of course you didn’t. She’s a very proud woman, didn’t want family and friends to worry, but behind closed doors . . .” Kevin sighed heavily. “I should have known. She’d been acting strangely for several months before she disappeared. Must have had a psychotic break of some kind.” Some jackass was traveling forty miles an hour in the fast lane. “Idiot,” he muttered, swerving around the slowpoke and continuing on his way.

  “I beg your pardon?” Clarke’s voice grew even chillier.

  “Not you.” Kevin managed to squeak out a laugh. “A crappy driver on the road.” It was an effort to eradicate any telltale trace of anger in his voice. “Look, Phillip. I don’t know why Sarah took off, but I plan to find out. It breaks my heart to think of her out there, defenseless and vulnerable in this crazy-assed world. Look what happened with that madman on that yacht. I left a copy of the articles with your secretary. You read them, yes?” Phillip didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. They both knew he had pored over them just like Kevin had. “Sarah needs to come home, where she will be loved and protected. I won’t rest until she is. The trip to Solace Island was fruitful. Apparently, she’d gotten herself a vehicle. The apartment manager had the license plate number in his files. I’ll be back on the job Thursday, will put in a BOLO then.”

  “A BOLO?”

  “Be on the lookout. More precisely, an ATL—an Attempts to Locate. With technology and the automated license plate readers installed on the roofs of most major city police cars, it’s only a matter of time before a cop drives past her car. When that happens, an alert will show up on the system, along with the precise spot her vehicle was sighted. The instant that occurs, I’ll”—Kevin cleared his throat—“I’ll track her down.”

  13

  Using every ounce of control at his disposal, Phillip Clarke managed to place the receiver gently into its cradle before slumping into his high-backed leather office chair in an effort to absorb the psychological blow without undue agitation to his heart. Is it possible the girl is alive? Lieutenant Kevin Hawkins could be bluffing, but just in case . . .

  Phillip sighed. He was tired and old and had no stomach for this type of foolishness. However, this was too important. He would need to follow up. The stakes were too high, couldn’t afford to make a mistake. He pressed the intercom button on his phone.

  “Yes?” Phillip closed his eyes and let the warmth of Vicki’s voice wash over him. “Mr. Clarke?” She always addressed him formally in the office. In the early days, sometimes a “Mr. Clarke” would accidentally slip out when they were in the throes of passion. Ah, those were the days when he could wield his mighty sword at the blink of an eye. He sighed. No more. Type 2 diabetes had robbed him of that. Now it was the sweet, calm tenderness she provided that caused him to fabricate excuses to his wife before hopping into his cashmere-white Mercedes S-Class and making the furtive journey across the bridge to Brooklyn. He’d grab an hour or two at their little hideaway. The love nest he had purchased for her decades ago. Then, reluctantly, he’d head back to hearth and home. “Mr. Clarke . . . ?” Vicki’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Are you all right?”

  For a second he couldn’t remember why he had called her. Oh yes. The girl. Sarah Rainsford. “I . . . I . . .” He was having difficulty catching his breath. He heard the scrape of her chair, the sound of her sensible shoes hurrying to his
door. Vicki used to wear the most glorious spiky-heeled pumps in the old days. She had sashayed into his office, a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old looking for a job. For him it was love at first sight. He’d hired her within the hour. Took a little longer to cajole her into his bed. She’d made him wait, but it was well worth it.

  The door to his office swung open, and there she was, standing in the doorway. His angel. She looked worried, hurried toward him. “You’re pale,” she said, almost an accusation, as if she’d caught him trying to sneak an extra serving of banana custard. She moved to the bar and poured him a tumbler of water. “Take a sip,” she ordered, her two fingers now resting lightly against his carotid artery, her eyes on the lovely Cartier watch that he’d bought her to commemorate their tenth anniversary eighteen years ago. She had wept when she’d opened the box and had worn the watch every day since. He’d lost count of how many watchbands she had worn through.

  Vicki frowned. “Your pulse is a little elevated.” She pulled open his desk drawer on the side. He missed the feeling of her cool fingers against his skin. “Wouldn’t hurt to take a baby aspirin.” She popped open the bottle and fished one out. “Open up,” she said, and then placed the aspirin under his tongue. He made a face. It was bitter but nothing he couldn’t bear. Just made a face because it always caused her to make soothing noises and gently ruffle what was left of his hair.

  “I need you to—”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “Wait till it’s dissolved.”

  Suddenly impatient to get on with what needed to be done, he worked the bottom of his tongue against the pill and crunched the last vestiges of it.

  “I need you to book—”