The Runaway Heiress

by Meg Tilly

  “I. Made. The reservation.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Two rooms.”

  “Okay. Got it.” The desk clerk’s fingers tapped nervously on the padded desktop, and his gaze darted back to his computer screen. “By the way,” he said almost apologetically. “I’m a huge fan of your work. I studied filmmaking.” He laughed nervously. “And look how that turned out. Anyway, I’m happy for you, dude.” He punched something else into the keyboard, looking anything but happy. He shook his head, eyes squinting as he scanned the screen and scrolled down. Sarah was pretty sure whatever the desk clerk was looking at wasn’t promising, as his lower lip was caught between his teeth and the sheen of sweat on his forehead was now beading. “Okay . . . All our single rooms are booked for the night. Let me just . . .” He pushed back from his desk. “I need to have a word with our manager. One second, please.” The desk clerk held up a finger, eyebrows launched upward as he disappeared through an almost invisible door at a trot. He returned a few moments later beaming from ear to ear. “Have I got a treat for you!” he declared, rubbing his hands together. “Our manager is going to upgrade you to one of our exclusive two-bedroom villas. He was holding it open for a high-roller, but I explained how huge you were, told him what happened. You are going to freak out when you see this place. Three thousand, two hundred square feet of unadulterated luxury, two bedrooms, a living room, three bathrooms, a massage room, your own private pool—”

  “No thanks.” Mick plucked his credit card off the desk and snagged the crook of Sarah’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  “Mick.” He gave her arm a little tug, but Sarah set in her heels, refusing to budge. “Why in the world—”

  “We need separate rooms,” he growled.

  “We would have them. Two bedrooms, not to mention all the other stuff.” She turned to the desk clerk. “Thank you so much. That would be absolutely wonderful. So kind of you to arrange that.”

  “And doors that lock,” he gritted out.

  “Don’t worry,” she said with an airy wave of her hand. “I’m not going to jump you. I’m pooped. Am planning on taking a steaming-hot shower and then crawling into bed.”

  “It’s not your self-control I’m concerned about.”

  “It’s remarkable how you can squeeze words through those clenched teeth,” she said cheerfully, as if what he’d said hadn’t sent a bolt of lust coursing through her. She plucked the credit card from Mick’s fingers and handed it to the desk clerk with a smile. “Here you go. Write that puppy up.” She turned and leaned in toward Mick, not so their bodies were touching. Just close enough so the heat of his force field would shimmer along her skin. “However,” she murmured, “tomorrow, when we obtain proof that I am not a married woman”—she leaned in even closer, rising on her toes—“all bets are off,” she whispered, her mouth barely skimming his ear. She heard his breath hitch, which filled her with delight and a wonder, too. The words had slipped from her lips with an ease that astounded her. And where had that husky rasp come from? Never had she felt this kind of freedom before, this feeling of safety, of stepping into her power and sexuality without fearing reprisals or a fist. She lowered her heels, placed her hand on his chest, and tipped her head toward him in a confidential manner. “Because four years is a hell of a long time to go without.” Watching as heat flared in his eyes, reveling in the fact that an answering response was pooling low in her body where her legs met her torso, a pulsing, swelling, hungry wanting. “That is”—she could feel the accelerated thud of his heart against her palm—“if you’re up for it?” she said, a sultry smile dancing on her lips. Then Sarah stepped away, letting her hand fall gently from his torso. She tugged her gaze back to the desk clerk, who was sliding paperwork across the desk, but not before Sarah had the pleasure of seeing Mick swallow hard and his irises darken even further.

  31

  Sarah closed her eyes, letting the hot water from the rain shower pummel her back, her buttocks, and cascade over her sensitized skin. It had felt so good to wash the day from her body. Visualizing all of her troubles flowing off her to join the water spiraling into a whirlpool and disappearing down the drain. The gorgeous shower was a thing of beauty, all white marble, glass, and chrome. It even had a steam component, which she had switched on so it could heat up while she’d shed her clothes. When she’d stepped inside, the warm steam particles surrounded and embraced her.

  Sarah turned languorously and let the water beat against her upturned face, her breasts, her abdomen. Luxury. She sighed contentedly, savoring every molecule of comfort. When I am finally able to extricate myself from this mess, I will never, ever take for granted the multitude of blessings my parents gifted to me by the sheer luck of my birth. I will give back and share my blessings with those less fortunate. I promise.

  And as the water soothed and caressed her, Sarah thought of other blessings that had come her way. Surviving the deranged madman on Solace Island who had thought she was his sister. Meeting Mick, who, for all his gruffness, had an inner core of such generosity and kindness that it humbled her. Prior to Kevin, would I have gone out of my way to help a stranger in need? Would I have even noticed? Been aware? She didn’t bother digging through her memory bank. She knew the answer. And Zelia was another blessing the universe had gifted her. Zelia had known Sarah was lying when she’d applied for work and yet had given Sarah the job at the gallery anyway. Befriended her. Helped Sarah when she had needed to run again, gave her money, no questions asked. “I miss her,” Sarah whispered in the empty bathroom. She missed Zelia’s laugh, her joie de vivre, the sound of her voice. And on the heels of all that, a wonderful idea began to form. It’s nighttime. Zelia won’t be at the gallery. She’ll be home. Tucked in bed, cozy and warm in Gabe’s arms. You could call the office and listen to her voice on the message machine. It wouldn’t endanger either of us because even if Kevin has managed to bug Zelia’s phone, I won’t leave a message, so he won’t know it’s me. And if he’s tracing calls, who cares. We’re checking out tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mick was nursing his second whiskey on the rocks when Sarah blew into the common living room like a summer storm, wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick white terry-cloth robes, barefoot. He had been mulling over their conversation from the Mexican restaurant. She had mentioned a baby right before she fell apart. Where was her child now? Had she run and left the baby with her violent ex? Who would do that? And on the heels of that thought, My mother would. He felt bile rise up in his throat. He couldn’t imagine Sarah doing something like that; but then, what did he truly know about her? She had said everything she’d told him was a lie. Ask her. If she did, it’s yet another reason to keep your distance. Mick opened his mouth. “I thought you were going to stay in your room,” he said. Good going. Way to tackle the subject head-on.

  “Don’t worry.” She smiled like a siren luring him to the rocks. “Your precious virtue is safe with me.” She was rubbing her wet hair with a towel.

  His body, taut with need, was urging him to cross the room and take possession of her mouth. He took another slug of whiskey and felt it burn all the way down. But what if she didn’t abandon her baby? What if something terrible happened? Maybe she miscarried, or the baby died. Sarah had looked so heartbroken, so devastated, when the subject had come up. Are you going to be the asshole who rubs salt in the wound?

  “I’d like to make a long-distance call,” Sarah said. He nodded to acknowledge he was listening. Didn’t look over. Didn’t want her to read his thoughts. “Will be only a minute or two. Would you mind if I used the phone?”

  “Sure.” Mick set his drink down on the mahogany-and-granite wet bar. The ice cubes clinked against the crystal tumbler. Besides, it’s none of my goddamned business. I’m helping her sort out a problem. That’s it. “Be my guest.” He nudged his cell phone along the bar top, keeping his eyes on his forefinger pushing his phone. It
was self-preservation. Couldn’t look at her straight on, knowing she was likely naked under that robe. It would be akin to staring directly at the sun—tempting, but one runs the risk of permanent damage to the corneas.

  She shook her head. “I know hotels charge an arm and a leg, but it would be better if I used their phone. Just in case, so the call can’t be traced to your cell phone.”

  He tipped his head at the phone sitting on the desk in the living room. “Have at it.”

  Sarah crossed the room. He tried not to notice the gentle hypnotic roll of her hips and failed miserably. “I’ll pay you back someday,” she said, tossing the damp towel over her shoulder. “I swear.”

  He waved her off. Forced his body to swivel around on the barstool so he was facing forward. Could still see her reflection haunting him in the damned mirror. He wrapped his hand around his ice-cold drink and took a healthy swallow, relishing the burn as he watched her sit at the desk. She crossed her legs, leaned forward to pick up the phone, and began to dial. Her robe, tightly cinched at the waist, gapped open slightly, revealing long, slender limbs, her knees, and a portion of her thighs. Mick tore his gaze from the mirror and stared at his drink, watched condensation trickle down the side.

  Sarah was listening intently now, eyes wide—her hand rose to her mouth as if holding words back. Then abruptly, she hung up the phone, her body motionless. Her hand was still on the receiver, as if she was reluctant to break the connection.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her hand left the phone as she turned to face him. There was a sadness and a longing in her eyes. Who had she needed to call? What did that person mean to her? “I’m fine.”

  “No one was home?”

  “Something like that.” She rose to her feet. “Thanks for letting me use the phone.”

  He tipped his drink to her. “Mi casa es tu casa.”

  She smiled wanly at him. “You’re very sweet.” As she passed him on her way back to her room, she gently brushed the knuckles of her left hand along his cheek, leaving a tingling of heat in their wake. “Again, I’m so sorry about the scratch marks, about hitting you this morning.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “It was wrong.” Her eyes were dark with regret.

  Mick shrugged. “Believe me, I’ve had worse.”

  “I hate that. You’re starting to bruise, right here.” She placed a gentle kiss high on his cheekbone, bringing the faint scent of lemons and springtime to tantalize his nostrils. “So sorry.” She straightened, sorrow in her eyes as she scanned the rest of his face. “And here . . .” Her cool, slender fingers were now on his neck near his carotid artery. “I must have scratched you. Again. I’m so sorry. There is no excuse.” Her fingers started to traverse ever so lightly along the angry red mark. Pure torture.

  “Forget about it. I have.” Mick shifted slightly so her fingers fell away.

  “All right.” She stood there for a second. He could feel her eyes heating his skin. “Good night,” she finally said. Mick could feel the air shift as she stepped away. The sense of loss was almost crippling as she headed down the hall, but he forced his body to stay glued to the barstool, his hand clenched around his drink. She was vulnerable and in a precarious position. He threw back his drink, could feel the liquid fire’s journey all the way down as he poured himself another. It was going to be a long night.

  32

  Phillip Clarke hadn’t planned on spending his evening sitting in his darkened car, staring at Vicki’s town house. He was supposed to be across town having dinner with clients. But when Phillip left the office, instead of heading to Daniel Boulud’s restaurant on the Upper East Side to sup on exquisite French cuisine, he found himself in Brooklyn again. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed, and made his apologies. “I’m terribly sorry. Was heading out the office door when I was laid low with a vicious bout of dysentery. Racked with stomach pains, squirting like a goose. Am trapped on the potskie. Yes. It’s very inconvenient. You go ahead. Give my regrets. It’s all taken care of. Vicki already gave them my card—” And saying her name caused the lie to become the truth, because unbelievable pain doubled him over with its intensity. “Sorry,” he croaked. “Have to go.” He switched his phone off and dropped it on the seat beside him. Had to wrap his arms tightly around himself and rock back and forth as he waited for the grief to subside. He’d always known he’d loved her. Just hadn’t realized how much until it was too late.

  A woman with a large black standard poodle passed the car, paused, and then backtracked. She rapped on the window of the passenger side of Phillip’s car. “Are you all right, sir? Do you need me to call 911?”

  He managed to unwrap one arm from his abdomen to shoo her away. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine, sir. Is there someone I can call for you? A family member, perhaps?”

  “Go away! I’m fine. Just need a little space. A little peace and quiet!”

  “All right.” The woman straightened and backed away.

  He watched her scurry off. Nosy bat, he thought as he pulled a handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He mopped his eyes and then blew his nose long and hard as he tried to figure out what his next move should be.

  33

  “Wow. I’m amazed.” Sarah glanced around the relatively empty Marriage License Bureau. “I’d figured that, Vegas and all, this place would be swamped.” She seemed better this morning. The shadows in her eyes had retreated.

  The lack of people had surprised Mick as well. Weddings in Vegas had always been big business. The metal barriers were set up for people to queue, but there was no line. A few couples were at various kiosks, a family was near the wall watching a younger man who was typing something into a computer. Mick studied Sarah’s face. “This place triggering any memories?”

  “Nope,” Sarah replied with absolute certainty. “Never been here in my life.”

  He felt some of the tension easing out of his belly. “You ready?”

  “Wait.” He could see a flicker of sudden panic in her eyes. Her hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist as she turned to block the view of their faces from the clerks sitting in their kiosks. Then Sarah noticed the cameras over the main door and in the corner, so she moved even closer, almost as if stepping into an embrace. The delicate floral hint of her shampoo and the uniquely feminine scent of her surrounded him, snatching his breath. “What if they need to see my real ID?” He had to study her lips to make out what she was saying, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Do you have it?” he murmured softly.

  She shook her head. “Just the fake Rachel Jones one.” He could see a slight tremor run through her, could feel it in her hand that had gripped his wrist. “I . . . I left everything behind when I ran.” From the expressions chasing across her face, Mick would put money on Sarah’s thoughts being momentarily trapped in memories of the past, none of them good. He had the urge to punch something. Preferably Kevin’s face, but he would be content with doing damage to any part of the scumbag’s anatomy.

  “Then we’ll brazen our way through.” His instinct was to lead the way, fight her battles, to throw his body between her and any dragons that might arise. However, he could tell by the tension around her eyes, the slight tautness around her mouth, that she was scared. The only cure for that was for her to take control. Step into the fear so she could move past it. “And if it doesn’t work.” He shrugged with a nonchalance he didn’t feel.

  “Right.” Sarah nodded, raising her chin. “I’ve got nothing to lose by trying and everything to gain.” She was slightly pale as she threw back her shoulders. “Let’s do this.” Sarah sucked in a breath, turned, and headed along the winding path formed by metal barriers. Mick followed in her wake, so proud of her courage, her strength in facing the multitude of challenges life had thrown her way. Sarah stepped up to kiosk four. Mick flanked her.

&n
bsp; “What can I do for you today?” The clerk was behind a bullet-resistant glass window with a metal speak hole. She looked to be in her late thirties, early forties. She was a large, comfortable-looking woman with dangling earrings and light-brown hair piled on her head with a sparkly clasp.

  “Hello.” Sarah’s voice cracked slightly. She cleared her throat and started again, a pleasant, calm smile on her face. “Hello. I’m hoping you can help me. I was—”

  “Oh. My. Holy kamoley!” The clerk rose to her feet, cutting Sarah off, and was staring at Mick with a dawning smile on her face. Must be a fan, Mick thought. Sometimes being a famous director could be a pain in the ass, but in a circumstance like this it could be quite helpful. “Mick Talford . . . is that you?” She said it with a familiarity to her tone. As if she knew him.

  Mick didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of his ugly past rubbing up against Sarah’s predicament, even peripherally. He was tempted to grab Sarah’s arm and haul her out of there, marriage license be damned, but he didn’t. He stayed put. “Sure is,” he said. “How are you doing?” A generic enough response. Covered all bases. He hoped he’d read the situation wrong and the clerk was indeed a movie buff.

  “Look at you. All grown up, and my goodness you look fine.” Shit. “I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. But I’ve been following you in the papers.” Maybe we went to school together? He stared at her hard, racking his memory bank but coming up blank. The woman was dressed in a paisley cotton dress, a white cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Her face was pleasant enough. Forgettable. He’d almost swear he didn’t know her, but something about her voice niggled at him.