by kimberly
"I know you've seen a great deal of pain in your life," he said, "but you must realize Anlese isn't your enemy. Except for her and your cousin, Morgan, you have no one else. Why shouldn't you go home and get to know them?"
"Morgan?" Julienne could feel the blood draining from her face. The mention of his name almost caused her to dump her drink, so startled was she to hear the name Cassie had often cursed.
"Saint-Evanston is his name, right?" she asked eagerly, her eyes alight with recognition. "Morgan Saint-Evanston?"
"Yes," DiMarco confirmed. "It was Mr. Saint‑Evanston who instructed me to buy the photos for safekeeping. He felt it was not fitting for them to be released."
"Does he have the negatives?"
DiMarco nodded. "Yes." His inquiring gaze swept her face. "You remember him?"
Julienne fought to retain her composure. She clasped her hands together, until her knuckles became white from the pressure. "Remember him?" She frowned. "Not really. But mother mentioned him, often."
"What did she say?"
Julienne offered a wry smile. "She despised him." Her forehead wrinkled in thought. She was digging into pockets of memory that she'd almost forgotten existed.
"Did she ever say why?"
Julienne lowered her head to rest on her clasped hands. She stared at the blank tabletop through the gap of her arms. She felt as if someone had led her to the top of a cliff and then, without warning, pushed her off. Somehow she'd managed to catch the edge, but she was still left to dangle helplessly high above the ground. She drew in a deep, fortifying breath. Cassandra had railed against the many lovers she'd taken, whether for money or pleasure, but there was one man above all the bastards that she hated to the depth of her soul… Morgan Saint-Evanston.
"Mom just said he destroyed her whole life, and grandmother helped him do it." Julienne raised her head, peering over her hands. A tic of frustration tugged at the corner of her mouth. She was trying to be strong, trying to conceal the grief of the little girl still living behind her eyes. "My mother was very good at keeping her secrets. I never really got the details, you know, but I felt that he hurt her very badly."
"You have her side," DiMarco commented. "What about theirs?"
"Considering how my mother felt about her family, why should I offer benefit of doubt?" Suddenly, her throat felt blocked by the intense pounding of her heart. It was difficult, having the perspective of a grown woman and the agonies of a child conflict within one's mind. She hadn't been prepared to have all her yesterdays surge forth and unfurl unpleasant events she'd fought to forget.
DiMarco rubbed his chin, considering what he should or should not say.
"Because it's the only fair thing to do," he reasoned. "There are two sides to every story. You have half from your mother. Now you have the chance to get the other side. You might be surprised what you learn from talking to them."
"I see." Julienne nodded, mulling over his words. He was, of course, absolutely correct. There had always been one particular question she'd never gotten an answer to. Today's events begged examination, for they cast light on a murky area in Cassandra's past: who was Julienne's father? Was it the man Cassandra hated?
If it's true it's him, she fretted, her mind considering the questions, how do I confront this?
"Can I find out more about these people?" she blurted. "You know, without them knowing I'm poking around?"
DiMarco finished his water and carefully replaced the cap on the empty bottle.
"You want to run a goddamn background check? Hire a private investigator, for Chrissakes." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was tired and sorely wanted to go home, not trapped handholding a neurotic client. "Better yet, if you want to know what they're like, go see for yourself."
"You don't understand," she argued. "I wasn't ready to deal with this!" It was necessary that she keep her voice in check, her emotions neutral, otherwise she would lose control and utterly collapse.
DiMarco absently readjusted his glasses. It was clear he was ready to move on with his day. "I don't know the whole story--only those involved do, but give them benefit of the doubt. Maybe Cassandra left for all the wrong reasons."
Julienne felt apprehension surge through her veins like chips of cold steel. This could be the piece of the puzzle missing from my entire life. Is it time to put it into place?
"It's too late to confront my mother," she said slowly, "but I could, maybe, talk to grandmother--and Saint-Evanston. He has yet to answer for his involvement in Cassie's life." She shook her head in regret. "I thought these things would leave me alone after she died. I see now the bodies don't stay buried, do they?"
"It's time to stop running." DiMarco advised. "Go home and ask some questions about your mother. Whether or not you like the answers, I think it's time you paused to examine your life. You want to kill yourself? Get a gun. Otherwise, show some sense and take the olive branch they've held out. You've been offered a sanctuary. In this world, that means a lot."
"And if I don't want to stay there, I can just walk away, right?" she asked.
"If you don't like them after you get there, then leave," DiMarco replied. "At least you'd have made the effort. Then, the dead can rest in peace."
Julienne nibbled her lip in indecision, torn between fear of the unknowns in her past and the uncertainty of her future. What did she have to lose by going to Virginia? "I suppose I should at least acknowledge their generosity."
DiMarco's face relaxed in visible relief. "I bought a ticket for you in anticipation that you'd go home. Your plane leaves in two hours. Saint-Evanston said you'd come."
"Did he?" She arched an eyebrow in surprise.
"Yeah."
Offering a thin smile, she said, "Morgan Saint-Evanston is a presumptuous man, isn't he?"
DiMarco nodded. "I think he's used to getting his way, yes."
Julienne made a spur-of-the-moment decision. "Then, who am I to disappoint him?" Her gaze crept to the manila envelope in DiMarco's briefcase containing the photos. "Burn those, will you? I'll get the negatives myself."
Saint-Evanston has them.
But not for long.
She claimed the envelope she'd neglected to open. Fingering it, she glanced around the room. She wasn't sorry to be leaving. Grabbing the strap of the purse that hung on the back of her chair, she tucked the envelope safely into its depth.
I've got to lay Cassandra to rest. Her green eyes narrowed in thought as her chin lifted in defiance. And settle my own business with him.
In the back of her mind, she'd already started to mentally measure the man she'd marked for confrontation. If he had a strong will, she would have to prove that her neck was just as stiff. It would be a test of her mettle to open the Pandora's box that was Cassandra Blackthorne's past. And perhaps, by untangling her mother's mysterious history, she could find the peace always seeming to elude her.
"Let's go," she told DiMarco. "And leave those damned magazines for the next person."
Chapter Three
Julienne was on the verge of falling apart as a series of blinding flashes hit in rapid succession.
Jostling photographers pounced to get the best shots. The whirring click of cameras filled the air as she exited the safe haven of Goldridge Center.
"Turn this way, babe!" a photographer commanded. He clicked off a series of shots, dashing down the walkway to keep pace with the fleeing figures.
DiMarco tightened his hold on her arm and propelled her through the throng of paparazzi. "Give her a little peace, please!" he snapped. "There's no show here! My office will release a statement later today."
"Go away!" She choked in frustration, her hand rising to stifle the sob threatening to escape her lips. The cold bit through her clothes, her thinness making her susceptible to the elements. She shivered. "Leave me alone!"
A woman reporter and cameraman moved into her path to freedom. "Let's see your face, honey. Show us what James Hunter did."
"I have nothing
to say," she gasped, shoving away the microphone as she turned her head away from the video cam. She wanted to run away and hide in a dark corner from which she would never have to emerge. There was no such escape, though. The world wanted to see what havoc her husband's blade had wrought upon her. To thwart the rain and the media, she had put on over-size Jackie-O sunglasses. A thick silk headscarf concealed the damaged parts of her face.
Letting DiMarco guide her, she hurried to the curb, where an ocean-blue Mercedes waited. The driver immediately opened the passenger door and urged them inside. She slid into the spacious back seat, grateful to be away from the hounding media. Her attorney climbed in beside her, swiping water off his head before removing his glasses to wipe off the lenses. She relaxed, then jolted upright as a cameraman came around the car and loudly bumped the lens of his video camera against her window. She responded automatically, giving him a middle-finger salute.
"Get this damn thing going!" DiMarco settled his glasses across the bridge of his nose as the car pulled away from the curb. "God, I hope it's not like this at the airport."
"They know," Julienne grated. "Leeches. They prey on the misery of others, especially that of the famed, like me."
"Then you should be glad to get out of it," he said.
"I think I am."
Conversation fell into silence. Neither felt like talking.
Untying her dripping scarf, Julienne squinted and peered through scratchy eyes out into the day that wrapped the city like a wet cloak. Away from the hospital and its grounds, the air carried a scent that was familiar, one of a city overcrowded and decaying under the façade of progress. Its grating sounds of life hurt her ears. It was all a symphony led by an insane conductor, one out of tune with nature and everything remotely melodic. At least she found the steady pattering of the rain soothing.
She turned to stare out the window. In the foggy glass she could see the misty outline of her reflection. She peered over the rims of her glasses. Her pale face was taut with uncertainty and worry.
My eyes, she thought. They're dead. They have no life, no soul.
God, oh, God, why wasn't she happy? What was wrong with her? Why was it she felt empty inside, driven to fill her mortal shell with so much misery? Was it because something had always been missing in her life?
A family? she mused. A stable home?
Her thoughts turned again to the envelope Anlese had sent. It triggered a flood of repressed memories from her childhood. Most were of her mother. She cringed as the unwelcome past replayed across her mind's screen.
Though seven years had passed since her death, time had not managed to dull the impression Cassandra Blackthorne had left on her daughter. Fittingly, she was named after the Greek prophetess Cassandra, a woman given the gift of prophecy by Apollo in exchange for her favors. When she refused, he punished her by letting her keep the gift but preventing anyone from believing her. Her utterances were believed to be the ravings of a madwoman.
Cassandra Blackthorne had mirrored her ancient counterpart--beautiful, fiery, erratic, and unreasonable. She was a woman on the edge, dragging her young daughter through the hell she had created for herself. Cassandra supported the two of them by working as an exotic dancer. When she couldn't make enough money stripping, she sold herself to the men who came to the nightclubs. Taking their money didn't seem to bother her. She treated it as her revenge, a punishment she was levying against herself and, more so, against the family she hated.
What do you think your grandma would say if she saw me? Cassie would ask. She wore her abuses like a badge. The men she prostituted herself to were not always gentle.
Grandma. Anlese Blackthorne.
Julienne searched her memory. She recalled few physical characteristics of the woman she'd lived with during the first three years of her life. Her name, of course, was familiar. She knew Anlese's handwriting well, though. She'd seen it on the elegant envelopes before. They were often delivered for Cassandra.
Without opening the letters, Cassandra always tore them up and threw them in the trash.
They're trying to buy us back, Jules, Cassie would tell her. They think money can lure us back, but I'll never sell you over to their practices, I swear. They're evil and want to take you away from me. I won't let that happen. We'll go away first, as far as we can.
Julienne remembered dreading the times when the envelopes would find them. It meant Cassie would go into fits of hysteria and want to move again, find another place beyond the reach of the family who could not, or would not, let her escape entirely.
Their transit had been endless. No two towns were the same, and they were never in a single location long enough to settle comfortably. They were no more than gypsies, never owning more than they could carry.
Cassie Blackthorne's life had abruptly ended in New York City, the last place she would try to hide. She was beaten to death in an alley. Her killer was never found. No one cared. Cassandra was nothing. A white-trash stripper in a skin show. She was only one of thousands of prostitutes killed on the city's streets at night after hours.
And after Cassandra's death, the envelopes had ceased to be delivered.
If only Cassandra had opened one of them, how would their lives have gone? Would they have gone home?
Oh, Cassie, what were you running from?
She thought about her own envelope. This time it was her name and not Cassandra's written across its face. Why had no envelopes come for her after Cassandra died? Why had her grandmother not tried to contact her? What could Anlese have written now that would explain the years of silence?
Shutting her eyes against questions unanswered through almost two decades, Julienne reached for the cross hanging at her throat. Reading the letter now could make or break the tenuous connection with the people who were her blood relatives. Did it really matter what it said, anyway? In a matter of hours, she might learn for herself what had driven Cassandra away from the Blackthorne family.
Chapter Four
The flight into Belmonde, Virginia, was a blur. Julienne spent most of the journey in the washroom, carefully retouching the layers of cosmetics she wore. Without them, she looked vulnerable, haggard and drawn; and she wasn't ready for anyone to see her up close.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing at Belmonde in five minutes. Please make sure your seats are in the upright and locked position and your seatbelts are fastened." The voice on the intercom was cold and lifeless, an impassionate end to an uneventful trip.
Julienne arranged her belongings and returned to her seat. If any of the other passengers in the first class section recognized her they were polite enough to keep to themselves. In fact, she rarely drew a second glance, reassuring her that she was not the horrible ogre she believed herself to be. Despite her success at disguising her flaws, she was still a bundle of raw nerves. Strands of copper clung to her perspiring face and neck. She simply could not relax. How could she? In a matter of minutes, she was due to meet the family her mother had been desperate to leave behind.
When it was time to deplane, she took a deep breath. She wanted to be calm. Disciplined. She drew her purse onto her shoulder and clutched her cosmetics case. The butterflies in her stomach would not cease fluttering as she walked down the canopied ramp and into the main terminal. Immediately, she searched for signs of photographers, ready to dash into the nearest ladies room if any came after her. There were none. Her destination had been well concealed from the prying press.
As she sighed in relief, her eyes darted around the unfamiliar area. Other travelers milled past her, forcing her to follow their migration. Friends and families around her met and greeted, chattering in animated conversation.
Doubling her pace, she passed passengers hurrying to board outgoing flights. Weaving her way around jostling bodies, she realized she had not a clue as to who was supposed to meet her. She thought about buying a ticket back to California. What would it hurt to have a ticket in hand? If she wanted to leave, her exit would be assured.
She dug her billfold out of her purse. Opening it, she was dismayed to discover she had no credit cards or check book. She didn't even have her ATM card. She did have thirty-two dollars and fifty-eight cents--hardly enough to purchase a ticket.
"Shit," she muttered. She'd forgotten those things had been stripped from her in the emergency room, along with the quarter-gram of cocaine nurses had discovered in her purse. Since that night she'd done without the means to take care of herself. Her bills were paid through her business manager. So much for four months of hospitalization. She'd apparently grown used to letting others think for her. The need for money hadn't occurred to her when DiMarco put her on the plane. She simply assumed she had everything she required.
Assume makes an ass out of you and me, she reminded herself. Her hands quivered a little and it took a moment for her to fight off the crushing sense of helplessness. Her resources, it appeared, had dried up in an instant. How dumb can you be? I didn't even think of what I would need to get out of here if the need arose.
She hesitated, wondering if she should call DiMarco when she noticed a small group of people beginning to come together, pointing her way. Panic seized her heart, its grip squeezing until she was sure she would lose her breath. Did they recognize her? Her fame, although notorious of late, had to be intriguing to people in a small community, where gossip was a mainstay over afternoon tea. She tensed when an elderly woman broke away and approached her. The smile on her face was warm and welcoming.
Grandmother?
"Hello, dear," she greeted. "My name is Edith Danridge, and you look lost." She was beautifully dressed, her soft Southern accent was one of education and refinement.
"I am." Trying to hide the disappointment in her eyes, Julienne returned a grateful smile. The woman was trying to be kind. The least she could do as a stranger was to greet the locals. She was grateful no one had recognized her yet. She was just another anonymous nobody in the crowd.