What had happened at Penny’s home seemed impossible. But it wasn’t, Diana thought, her steps lagging, her desire to simply sit down and sob almost overcoming her. The bombing had happened, and her only comfort was that Willow had escaped, physically at least. Who knew what long-term emotional effects the violent tragedy would have on her?
And what about Tyler’s claim that everyone who knew Penny could be a target for a killer? He might still be in pursuit of Willow. At that moment, Diana had almost told Tyler about the night in the hospital when she’d been certain someone had hidden in the bathroom. She’d stopped only because her story sounded so flimsy. Why would someone come into a crowded hospital and hide in a bathroom, waiting for the right moment to murder her or Willow or both of them?
Her belief that the firecrackers had been a diversion for the would-be murderer’s escape also sounded melodramatic on this sunny afternoon. Add to it the fact that two orderlies and two security people had searched her room and found absolutely no trace of an intruder, and she certainly sounded like a hysterical woman. That didn’t change Diana’s mind—she knew she hadn’t been dreaming—but she couldn’t stand to be laughed at by Tyler Raines. For some ludicrous reason that she didn’t understand, she wanted his respect.
Diana’s cell phone buzzed in her tote bag and she jumped. Of course, Simon would have recharged the battery, she thought in weak amusement as she rummaged through the bag until she found it.
“Hi, Uncle Simon,” she said. “Couldn’t stand the thought of me carrying around a cell phone with a dead battery, could you?”
“I’m sorry to have invaded the inner sanctum of that saddle bag you call a purse, but a cell phone with a dead battery is of no use. I just thought I’d make sure you’re all right.” His voice was tight with the effort of trying to sound offhand when he was obviously worried. “You’ve been gone longer than we expected.”
“I’m fine,” Diana tried equally hard to sound at ease. “I thought I was going to need a presidential mandate to get into Clarice’s house. The living room and kitchen will need some work, but the two bedrooms and bathroom are fine. The fire marshal accompanied me into the house and I gathered up everything I thought Clarice would need.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m certain Clarice will be glad to have her own possessions.” He paused then asked offhandedly, “Did the fire marshal say what caused the fire at Penny’s?”
“No,” Diana answered truthfully. The fire marshal had said nothing about a bomb. That revelation had come from Tyler. “They’re still investigating.”
“They should know something! It’s after five o’clock,” Simon said irritably.
“Maybe they’ve come to some conclusions now,” Diana returned evenly. “I left there a couple of hours ago. Traffic was heavy and the mall is crowded,” she lied. “I’ll be home soon, though.”
“Good. I shouldn’t have checked on you. I promised you I’d never act like your parent.”
“You aren’t. My parents never noticed how long I’d been gone.”
“They were a bit self-involved,” Simon said mildly. “Anyway, I’m sorry for being a bother. After what happened last night, I’m acting like a mother hen.”
For the first time all day, Diana laughed. “Uncle Simon, the last thing I can imagine you as is a mother hen.” She paused as he chuckled. “How’s Willow?”
“Fine. My story put her right to sleep!”
Diana grinned, thinking the child probably immediately fell unconscious in self-defense.
“Don’t wear yourself out shopping, dear. You looked dead tired when you left here today.”
Diana felt dead tired by the time she finally discovered a store filled with novelty merchandise. A sales girl quickly produced rhinestone crowns, and Diana bought one that she knew would fit Willow. Normally she would have been delighted with her find. But today she felt only tired relief. Willow had lost so much. At least Diana could restore one of her favorite playthings.
At 6:45, Diana pulled into Simon’s driveway beside an unfamiliar blue Lincoln Town Car. She couldn’t think of any of Simon’s friends who had a blue Lincoln unless one had a new car.
When she entered the house, Simon called out for her from the library. He sounded tense and imperative. Diana walked into the room carrying two large shopping bags and nearly stopped in her tracks as a muscular middle-aged man with white-streaked brown hair and metallic-gray eyes rose, looking at her with an unnerving mixture of curiosity and fury.
As Diana and the man locked gazes, Simon hurried to her side as if trying to protect her. He clasped her arm with a strong hand and said tightly, “Diana, this is Jeffrey Cavanaugh.” Simon paused. “It seems Mr. Cavanaugh is Penny’s husband.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
“Her husband?” Diana asked faintly.
“Yes.” The man’s sharp voice lashed at her. “I’m Penny’s husband, Mrs. Van Etton.”
“Mr. Cavanaugh, I explained earlier that we were waiting for my niece,” Simon said coolly. “This is Miss Diana Sheridan.”
“And Penny’s husband is dead,” Diana added.
“Do I look dead?” Jeffrey Cavanaugh returned aggressively. “We were married for seven years. We never divorced.”
“But . . . But that’s not possible,” Diana insisted.
Jeffrey Cavanaugh took a step toward her. “Exactly eighteen months ago, while I was on a business trip, Penny took our daughter and disappeared. She didn’t even leave a good-bye note. She just vanished.”
Diana stood silent for a moment, stunned. Then instant hostility bubbled up within her. “No. Penny would not do something like that. Why are you lying?”
The man glared at her. “I am not lying. For eighteen months, I’ve been looking for them. Do you know how that woman has made me suffer? She took my child. My child! Your uncle said you’re Penny’s close friend. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know what she did.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. . . . Cavanaugh, was it?”
The man’s silvery eyes seemed to glitter. “You know damned well who I am.”
“I’ve never heard of you until today. I don’t know who in hell you are,” Diana said furiously. “Where are you from? How did you hear about Penny?”
“I’m from New York City. Manhattan.”
Diana glared at him. “You act like that explains everything. I asked you how you found out about Penny.”
“Shortly before noon, the authorities contacted me to say they’d located a match to my wife’s fingerprints. She’d been living in Huntington, West Virginia, under the name of Penny Conley. They told me Penny had been seriously burned in a house fire but Cornelia was unharmed and staying with Penny’s employer.”
“Cornelia?” Diana repeated blankly.
“My daughter.”
“Willow,” Simon murmured to Diana then looked sternly at Jeffrey Cavanaugh. “I think we should sit down and discuss this situation calmly. I don’t believe any of us knows exactly what is going on, and arguing isn’t helping matters.”
“I agree. Jeff, please don’t get so upset.”
For the first time, Diana noticed a woman sitting on one of the couches. She was a younger version of Jeffrey Cavanaugh except for her large dark-blue eyes, so different from Jeffrey’s narrow, almost eerily silver gaze. Beside the woman, an elegantly good-looking dark-haired man glanced away from Diana, obviously ill at ease with the tension vibrating between her and Cavanaugh.
Simon instantly became master of the situation, his look of confidence returning. His voice held a note of self-assured old-world courtliness when he said, “Diana, this is Lenore Wentworth, Mr. Cavanaugh’s sister.”
Although the woman strongly resembled her brother, her expressive blue eyes transformed her face from plain to almost pretty. “How do you do, Miss Sheridan?” she said in a soft, lilting voice and with a sweet smile. She could have been a little girl at a party.
“Hello,” Diana snapped.
>
Simon continued smoothly, nodding to the man seated beside Lenore. “And this is Mrs. Wentworth’s husband, Blake Wentworth.”
The man rose from the couch. His patrician facial structure with its high cheekbones and slightly aquiline nose seemed exactly suited to the ambience of the formal library. His hair—coal black and wavy—gleamed in the fading sunlight flowing through the bay windows. The depthless, ebony pools of his eyes conveyed an almost intimate compassion for her feelings in this bizarre situation. As they shook hands, he gave her a small, genuine smile revealing teeth just a shade away from being perfect, and she noticed a tiny dimple in his chin. Blake Wentworth was without a doubt the most classically handsome man Diana had ever seen. Lord Wentworth should be his name, Diana thought distantly, and he should own a giant English estate. When he said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Sheridan,” all she could manage was a nod.
Jeffrey Cavanaugh remained standing—imposing, and breathing hard. He clenched and unclenched his large hands. Simon, still holding Diana’s arm in a protective gesture, gave him a cold look. “Mr. Cavanaugh, as I said earlier, I believe we should all simply sit down and try to sort out this dilemma.”
“It’s not a dilemma,” Cavanaugh boomed.
Simon took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full six feet. “Sir, I realize you’re extremely distressed, but you are in my home, and if you cannot conduct yourself in a civil manner, I must ask you to leave. Now, we are going to talk calmly about this matter, or do you prefer the alternative?”
Jeffrey Cavanaugh stood, rigid and angry, his piercing gaze fixed on Diana. His sister, Lenore, looked at him anxiously. Blake Wentworth fell into a deep study of a small alabaster carving of the Great Sphinx of Giza placed on the table in front of him. Just when Diana sensed that her great-uncle was stiffening in preparation to evict his three unexpected and unwanted visitors, Jeffrey sighed, took two steps backward, and seemed to deflate into a large armchair behind him.
“Nan,” Simon called. “Nan offered to stay an extra hour when our guests arrived,” Simon murmured to Diana before repeating, “Nan!”
The young woman tripped on an untied shoe lace and stumbled clumsily into the library, her cheeks flaming. “Yes . . . sir.”
Nan never said “sir,” and Simon glanced at her in surprise before he asked, “Will you fix tea, please?”
Jeffrey looked stonily at Simon. “I don’t like tea. I don’t want any tea.”
“Well, I do,” Lenore Wentworth said with gentle peevishness. She gave her husband a practiced smile. “I’m sure you’d like some also, wouldn’t you, darling?”
Blake tore his gaze away from the carving and just missed making eye contact with either Diana or Simon. Diana had the impression he was deeply embarrassed by the scene playing out in front of him. He looked at his wife, who gave his arm tiny, loving strokes, and managed to stretch his lips stiffly. “Yes, tea would be . . . nice.”
“I gotta’ leave no later than seven-thirty.” Nan’s loud, toneless voice crashed like a brick through glass. “That’s a half hour from now.”
Simon didn’t give the girl the satisfaction of looking at her. “Then if you start on the tea right now, you can serve it long before your quitting time. Do run along, Nan.”
Lenore and Jeffrey both glanced at Diana, who refused to utter a word of apology for Nan’s attitude. She was grateful when Simon took the two bags she’d carried into the house and still clutched in her arms like shields.
“Did you find all you wanted?” Simon asked pleasantly.
“Yes. Clarice’s things are in the bags. Willow’s new clothes are in my car.”
Jeffrey Cavanaugh’s eyes narrowed. “My daughter’s name is Cornelia. Who is Clarice?”
“I’m sorry if we’ve offended you, Mr. Cavanaugh, but we’re accustomed to calling your daughter Willow,” Simon returned with dignity. “Mrs. Clarice Hanson is Penny’s next-door neighbor and good friend. The fire badly damaged her house, too, so she’s staying with us. She and Willow—Cornelia—are quite fond of each other. I believe Mrs. Hanson’s presence makes Wil-Cornelia feel more secure.”
“I want to see my daughter,” Jeffrey said flatly.
Simon’s tone remained even. “Clarice is playing a game with her upstairs. Don’t you think it would be better to leave the child alone rather than force her to come down here when tempers are still running high?”
“No!”
“Yes,” Lenore said sternly then looked surprised at herself and added coaxingly, “Jeff, I know you’re anxious to see Cornelia, but Mr. Van Etton is right. We certainly don’t want to frighten Corny.”
Diana flinched. Corny? Did the Cavanaughs really call that beautiful little girl Corny? She had a giddy impulse to giggle.
“I agree with Lenore.” Blake Wentworth spoke up for the first time. “The child has been through a horrible experience, Jeff. Although, thank God she wasn’t physically hurt, we can’t be certain at this point of her emotional state.” His deep, mellow voice sounded of a cultured home and prep schools without being pretentious. “Why don’t we leave her with her friend right now? I’m sure the Van Ettons won’t object to you seeing her later.”
“Of course we won’t,” Simon said cordially.
Diana expected Jeffrey to bark an objection. Instead, he gazed at Blake for a moment then nodded. “You’re right, as usual.”
Annoyance flashed over Lenore’s features. “He’s not saying anything I didn’t say.” She sighed and suddenly looked tired and about five years older. “If you’re finally listening to sense, though, I guess it doesn’t matter whether it comes from Blake or me.”
Yes, it does, Diana thought. You love your husband but you resent that your brother listens to him, not to you.
“Lenore, Jeff doesn’t value my opinion more than yours. He’s simply accustomed to taking my advice.” Blake looked from his wife to Simon. “Jeffrey and I are business partners.”
“What business would that be?” Diana asked.
“Cavanaugh and Wentworth. It’s a real estate developing company. Jeff is the chief executive officer and I’m the chief operating officer.”
Diana stared at Blake. “You’re the Cavanaugh and Wentworth?” she exclaimed as Nan walked into the room carrying a massive silver tray. “You’re claiming Penny was married to the CEO of Cavanaugh and Wentworth?”
“I don’t claim to be married to her,” Jeffrey said challengingly. “I am married to her.”
“Well . . . Well, that’s just not possible!”
Nan drowned out Diana’s shocked shrillness by slamming down the tray on an antique table in front of Simon. China rattled, milk splashed, and sugar spilled.
“See? I’m no good at serving tea,” Nan proclaimed loudly, her face crimson. “I’ll make a mess.”
“I believe you all ready have,” Simon muttered. Then he gave her a smile. “I think we can manage now. No doubt you have all kinds of exciting plans for your evening.”
Simon’s voice bore an edge of sarcasm that Nan would have never caught. Lenore did, though, and she sent Diana a tiny grin.
Nan unexpectedly announced, “I guess I can stay a while longer in case you need something.”
“Such as?” Simon asked politely.
“Well, I won’t know till you need it, now will I.”
Simon managed to look unruffled. “Then please retire to the kitchen, Nan, until we decide what we need.”
“I guess I’ll be serving.” Diana reached for a cup and saucer after Nan shot Simon a narrow-eyed look then plodded sulkily from the room. “I don’t know what kind of tea Nan chose.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Lenore said affably. “My mother is absolutely addicted to tea and so am I, especially since I’ve been around her like I have for the past two weeks. She lives in Connecticut and she hasn’t been feeling well lately, so she sent for me, as usual, even though she has a full-time caregiver. I was at her house when Blake called me with the news about Penny.” Diana noti
ced Blake nudge his wife. “Oh!” Lenore blushed slightly. “I ramble when I’m tired or nervous or feeling awkward. . . . Oh, here I go again!” She giggled then sighed. “I’ll take my tea clear with some artificial sugar.”
Diana poured for Lenore and Blake. Lenore looked at her brother and asked, “Jeff, are you sure you won’t have tea?”
“I don’t like tea.”
“Yes, we’ve established that fact,” Simon replied blandly, offering the man nothing else to drink. “Diana, fix yours next. You look like you’re ready to drop. I think I’m up to pouring my own cup.”
So much ceremony went into serving the tea, Diana felt as if she were at Buckingham Palace. By the time all of the pouring and stirring had stopped, Jeffrey sat rigid, his face looking like a stone carving.
“May we discuss my daughter now that everyone has their damned tea?” he asked, seething.
“Willow is fine physically,” Simon answered pleasantly. “What we need to establish is that she is really your daughter and that Penny Conley is really your wife.”
Jeffrey’s face turned a dark red. “I have established that information to the satisfaction of the FBI. I should think that would be good enough for you.”
“Jeff, it’s obvious these people care a lot about Cornelia. They’re only being careful.” Lenore gazed at her brother pleadingly. “Can’t we be a little less antagonistic? Why don’t you show them Corny’s birth certificate? And show them a picture of her.”
“A birth certificate and a picture of Cornelia won’t prove anything to them.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Lenore said.
Jeffrey shot them all a look meant to turn their blood to ice, then he lifted a beautiful briefcase, opened it, and removed a folder. He handed it to Simon, who removed first the marriage certificate of Jeffrey William Cavanaugh and Penelope Ann O’Keefe. Next, Simon picked up a birth certificate for Cornelia Ruth Cavanaugh. Finally, Simon withdrew a large studio photo of a child around three years old with strawberry-blond hair and dark-blue eyes. With her pretty, babyish features, she resembled Willow or any number of little girls.
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