The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  "Some time to think ... I love you ... Kate.'*

  Jill tried to clear her head. She could not. Lauren was saying something, but her tone was as cold, as unfriendly, as the regards leveled at her. Those accusing, cold, hostile stares ... Jill watched the figures before her begin to waver and blur. Hal's ghostly white face, the blood ... She had been driving ... The room had dimmed, and now it lightened, and then dimmed again. And then absolute darkness came.

  It was a blessing.

  She heard voices first. Voices she did not recognize, male voices speaking words she could not comprehend.

  Jill drifted, oddly light-headed and at peace. And then, as she became more conscious, she realized she had fainted. With that realization came the piercing comprehension that something was terribly wrong. And then her peace was shattered. By the stabbing, gut-wrenching realization that she had fainted because Hal was dead.

  "What was Hal thinking?" a deep, sandy voice said. It was patrician, British, and very angry.

  Jill stiffened. She had been about to open her eyes, remembering where she was now, but she kept them screwed shut.

  "Hal was doing what he had to do—^following his own drummer—that was Hal." Another voice, this one less hostile, but curt nonetheless. The speaker had an American accent. He must be the cousin, Alex.

  "He should never have started up with her in the first place," the first voice said with the same deep pitch of anger. "He was asking for trouble. Bloody, bloody hell."

  Jill didn't understand. What were they talking about? Were they talking about her?

  "And look at what has happened," Lauren said, very clearly anguished. "Now he's dead. Because of her!"

  Jill was tense. They all blamed her for the accident. Her stomach roiled with sickening force.

  "Enough of this arguing, all of you," a third, older voice said. It was weary and it obviously belonged to William, Hal's father. "We are in a difficult time and ..." He stopped abruptly, his voice breaking, unable to continue.

  Jill's heart broke again, for him and for herself.

  "Uncle William, sit down. Let me refill that."

  "Thank you," William whispered, choked.

  Jill wished she were anywhere but there, with the Shel-dons in their living room. She should not be there. This was too personal, too intimate.

  "She has nerve," the first voice cut in with its gravelly tone. It was not a compliment. "I wonder just what she knows, exactly, and why she is here." It had to be Thomas speaking.

  "Your father is right. Let's not make this worse, and accusations are pointless now, without hard facts." The American was speaking again. Alex.

  "Accusations," Thomas repeated harshly. "Don't tell me not to accuse her, Alex, on several counts. Damn it."

  "I'm not telling you what to do. But Uncle William is right. This is a tough time, not the time to be rash."

  Someone was leaning over her. Jill tensed, afraid to be discovered pretending to still be passed out. "Miss Gallagher?" It was Alex speaking again.

  Jill was distressed. She opened her eyes, tears burning her

  lids, despising them all now, her instincts trying to scream some kind of warning at her. Her gaze instantly met his.

  His eyes were surprisingly blue, his skin swarthy, his hair short, black, and curly. They stared at one another. He soon straightened to his full height—and he was tall, perhaps six feet or more. "She's conscious." Alex continued to stare down at her. His gaze was piercing, and suddenly Jill was afraid that he knew she had been conscious for some time now—and eavesdropping on them all.

  Jill started to sit up, but inmiediately was overcome with dizziness again.

  Lauren looked down at her. "You fainted. Perhaps you should Ue still for another moment or two.'*

  "This has never happened before," Jill said hoarsely, embarrassed and wanting nothing more than to recover her strength and flee the room, and all of them. She had fainted— and that was not the same as those blackouts. "I didn't eat." How inane that comment sounded. Her gaze shifted to the three men as she tried to sit up, this time successfully. They were all gazing at her. She could identify them now. William was tall but paunchy and tired-looking, with a full head of white hair, and he was, she thought, well into his seventies, but still attractive for his age. In his double-breasted, navy blue blazer, his tan slacks and signet ring, he looked exactly the way she had expected a wealthy, blue-blooded aristocrat to look.

  Thomas was his heir. He was the oldest of the siblings. Hal had mentioned more than once that his brother, whom he had adored, was an incorrigible playboy with the kind of looks and charm few women seemed capable of resisting. Jill had avoided looking his way until now, but she would have to be blind not to notice that he was every bit as drop-dead good-looking as Hal had said. His dark blond hair was sun-streaked, he was tanned, and he had the kind of muscular but not bulky body that obviously worked out vigorously at the gym. His features were more than classic, they were strong and male—the high cheekbones and strong jaw giving way to a surprisingly full and sensual mouth. He was wearing a

  black Polo shirt and tan trousers, a gold Rolex, Gucci loafers. Jill had expected handsome and she had expected chic. He looked like a jet-setter and a full-time playboy. Jill bet he had a dissipated lifestyle. JUl also knew that Thomas was divorced, and that his two small sons lived most of the year with their mother.

  Jill realized she was staring, worse, that he knew it, for his gaze had locked with hers. She flushed. The look he sent her was cold and cutting. His message could not be louder—^Jill had no doubt that he found her entirely lacking, at least in appearance. Clearly he disapproved of her faded jeans and "boyfriend" jacket, if not of her. Clearly, like Lauren, he blamed her for Hal's death.

  She should have realized that this would be her reception. Maybe she was a fool for having come. But how could she not attend Hal's funeral?

  "Introductions are in order," Alex said, cutting into her thoughts.

  Jill met his eyes again as he stepped forward. The heat remained in her cheeks. "Fm sorry," she said, more to him, but really for everyone's benefit.

  His nod was curt; his gaze shifted. Clearly he was as unsympathetic as everyone else. "Stress, shock, it happens." He was matter-of-fact.

  Jill found herself regarding him. Hal had said his cousin was originally from Brooklyn, but what else had he said? He'd talked less about Alex than Lauren and Thomas. Jill, thought she recalled something about Alex having lived in London for a number of years and his working in the family company. Hal had said he was brilliant, she remembered that—^he had gone to Princeton on an athletic scholarship if her memory now served her.

  She realized she was staring. His regard had darkened— as if he knew she was studying him, and Jill averted her gaze, managing to stand up. She folded her arms tightly around herself. Was this what it felt like to be tossed into a den of hungry wolves? She intended to beg to go to her room as soon as the introductions were dispensed with.

  "My uncle, the earl of Collinsworth, my cousins, Thomas

  Sheldon, and Lauren Sheldon-Wellsely," he said flatly. "And I am Alex Preston/'

  Jill stiffened, aware of what he was doing and incredulous that he would deliberately put her in her place as an American commoner among British aristocracy. His gaze held hers. She was not mistaking his intentional put-down. Jill was thoroughly taken aback.

  Hal had said his family would greet her with open arms. That they would love her as if she were another daughter. But when Hal had said that, he had been alive. Had he really believed that?

  Jill looked past Lauren and nodded warily at the other two men, who continued to regard her just as Alex continued to stare.

  Thomas broke the brief silence. "You're the dancer," he said flatly, his amber eyes on hers.

  Jill flinched. "Yes, I am. A professional dancer." She felt the need to defend herself, because his tone led her to wonder if they thought her a stripper or something. "I'm in a Broadway show. We open in ten day
s."

  "Lovely," Thomas said. "The next time I'm in New York, I'll be certain to attend."

  Jill knew her cheeks flamed. "I'm sure you will enjoy the performance. I'll make sure that you have front row tickets."

  "How kind of you. I imagine it will be one smashing performance."

  Jill blinked. What did that mean? She knew there were layers there, but she was too exhausted and anxious to sort through them now.

  "How was your flight?" Alex cut in.

  Jill was not relieved, because his tone made it clear that he didn't give a damn. But she could not hand him a platitude. "It was difficult. Very difficult." And to her horror, her voice cracked and broke. Instantly Jill turned her gaze away.

  Everyone seemed surprised, but whether by her display of emotion or her declaration of the truth, Jill could not tell. Everyone, that is, except for Alex. His regard was steady but incomprehensible. He watched her fumble in her tote for a moment, and then he handed her a tissue the way he might

  hand a homeless person a quarter, with neither a smile nor any real sympathy at all.

  William stepped forward. "Miss Gallager. We appreciate your bringing my son home."

  Jill tensed, instantly feeling ill and faint again, facing William, wondering if her guilt showed—and praying that she would not have a blackout now. He was beginning to waver before her very eyes. "I am so sorry," she began. "I never thought—"

  "Yes, of course, we all are. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to retire." His smile was brief and strained; clearly he did not want her to finish. "Until tomorrow then. Good evening."

  Jill watched him leave the room, walking like a very old man, his shoulders hunched over, his strides slow and heavy with effort. She had done this to him, she managed to think.

  "My father is seventy-nine years old," Thomas spoke suddenly. Jill was riveted by his gaze. "This has destroyed him."

  Jill did not know what to say. "It was an accident," she whispered.

  "An accident," Thomas repeated harshly. "An accident."

  "Tom." Alex stepped between them, gripping his shoulder. "We're all shocked and exhausted." There was a warning in his tone. "Let's skip all this." He turned to Jill. "You must be tired from the flight. Lauren will show you to a room."

  Jill was so eager to flee she turned and took a stumbling step toward the doorway, but Thomas's cutting voice halted her an instant later.

  "What happened?"

  Jill froze.

  "I asked you what happened," Thomas said. "My brother's dead. I have a right to know."

  Jill had no choice but to face him. "We were going away for the weekend. There was a tree." She did not continue.

  Thomas stared. Everyone stared. "I don't understand," he finally said. His nose was turning red. "I spoke extensively with the Highway Patrol. You weren't drinking. You weren't on drugs. The traffic was moderate, and moving well. The

  roads were only slightly damp. I do not understand!" His voice rose.

  "Fm sorry," Jill whispered, trembling wildly now. **I don't know what happened ..." But she did. Hal had upset her and she hadn't been concentrating on the'road. She had killed him, and Thomas had every right to blame her, to hate her—they all did.

  "Tom. Not now. Not today. Not like this." Alex's voice was hard.

  Thomas wheeled to face his cousin. "Then when? Tomorrow? Before or after the funeral?"

  "I expected to meet all of you under far different circumstances," Jill suddenly whispered. Tears blurred her vision. They all turned to stare at her. Lauren, cold; Thomas, visibly upset; Alex, his face an unreadable mask. "Hal spoke of you so often, so glowingly ... he loved you all and made me love you too, and he told me how he wanted us to meet... it should not be this way!"

  Thomas made a scoffing sound.

  Jill tensed.

  Thomas stared. "I am going to drop all pretense. Miss Gallagher. All pretense and all attempts at civility. My brother is dead, and had he not been in New York, he would be very much alive today. I can imagine what it is that you want, and I will tell you this. You will not succeed."

  Jill was dazed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  But Thomas wasn't through. His face flushed, he said, "Hal had no intention of ever bringing you home."

  Jill stiffened, unable to respond, because she was recalling their very last conversation. Horror had overcome her. And she thought. What if Hal had told his entire family that he was having doubts about us?

  Alex turned, clearly intent upon ending the gathering. "Lguren, why don't you have sandwiches sent up to Miss Gallagher's room? She looks exhausted. I'm sure she wants to retire for the evening. As we all do."

  Lauren stared at Alex as if she did not understand a word he said. Jill, who was almost quaking, looked from the one to the other, and watched Lauren finally, reluctantly, walk away

  to do as Alex had asked. *Thank you," Jill said to Alex, praying for one kind face in the family.

  He just looked at her, and this time she saw the loathing in his eyes, barely disguised.

  "How long did you know my brother?" Thomas demanded.

  Jill tensed with dread. "Eight months."

  "How did you meet?" Thomas continued, his regard unwavering.

  Jill found herself glancing at Alex instinctively, even while knowing that no support would be forthcoming from him. Alex looked at her and finally at his cousin. "Tom, leave it until tomorrow."

  "It's a fair question," Thomas said. "They're all fair questions. She appears here with his body. He is in a coffin, God damn it. I want to know how they met."

  Jill wished she had something to lean on for physical support. Before she could reply, Lauren was reentering the room and said, "I believe he first saw her in a health club."

  Jill glanced at Lauren. "No. I do train at a small studio in SoHo, but we met on the subway."

  "That's not what Hal told me," Lauren returned.

  "It's the truth," Jill said, mildly perplexed. Lauren was mistaken.

  "The underground!" Thomas was incredulous. "Just what the hell was my brother doing on the bloody dammed tube?"

  "It's a very good way to get around the city," Jill said defensively.

  "My brother had a driver at his beck and call," Thomas returned.

  "He did, but he didn't want to live that way. He rarely used the driver in the eight months I knew him."

  Thomas looked at her in such a way that she knew he thought her influence was responsible for, such absurdity on the part of his brother, either that, or he thought she was lying. "It's the truth," Jill cried. "Hal was down-to-earth."

  "Don't tell me how my brother was," Thomas snapped.

  Their gazes locked. And Jill suddenly wondered how Hal had expected her to ever fit into his family. They were from completely different worlds. His was old money, and she

  didn't even have a family—^her aunt did not count and Jill hadn't been in touch with her in years. Financially, Jill could just make ends meet. She glanced around the huge living room. It was twice as large as her studio back home. These people were old money, upper class, and snobs. What was she even doing there?

  "Look, I even use the subway when I'm in New York," Alex said calmly. "Is her room ready?" he asked Lauren, who was standing beside him.

  Lauren nodded.

  Surprised, Jill glanced at him, grateful for his defense, but she was not deluded, for he was hardly her champion either.

  "Since when? Your fraternity days?" Thomas asked Alex with sarcasm.

  Alex smiled very shghtly. "When I'm in a rush, I've left my driver midtown in a traffic jam and hopped a train." He shrugged. "It is a good way to get around, if you can handle yourself."

  "Hal had no business being in the tube, just like he had no business staying in New York." Thomas looked at Jill. His meaning was clear. It was all her fault. Everything was her fault

  She was exhausted, she was ill, and she had never felt more debilitated, but she had had enough. '^Excuse me. He had every business
being in New York. I loved your brother. He loved me! We were happy!" But even as she spoke, their last damned conversation was in the back of her mind, causing doubts she should not have—and how could he have done this to her? "I have never loved anyone more. I will never love anyone this way again," Jill heard herself say. She stopped. She was about to cry.

  This time no one handed her a tissue. The huge salon was silent, stunningly so, and Jill found her own Kleenex. She dried her eyes, refusing to look at either Thomas, Alex, or Lauren now. But she had seen their expressions. No one believed a word she had said; they all thought her a liar.

  Jill inhaled, fighting to steady her nerves, trying to con-

  trol the ever-present urge to cry. "It's the truth," she said to them all.

  "Well," Thomas finally spoke. "We can dispute your version of the truth all day, can we not?"

  "No," Jill said. "No. You cannot."

  Thomas's jaw was tight. They stared at one another. This time Jill refused to back down even though he was overpowering.

  Thomas smiled grimly—^it was more of a twisted curling of his lips—and he suddenly turned and strode from the room. His strides were hard and angry.

  Jill realized that she was shaking—and badly. Never in her life had she had such an encounter before.

  "How long will you be staying with us. Miss Gallagher?"

  Jill met Alex's penetrating blue eyes. She wet her lips. "I'm scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow."

  Alex nodded. "If you give me your flight information, I'll see that you have a driver to take you to Heathrow."

  Jill knew he couldn't wait for her to leave, and that her departure wasn't scheduled soon enough to suit him or any of them. Yet she couldn't offer to change her flight—she could not afford to do so. As it was, the round-trip fare, booked only a day in advance, had cost her well over a thousand dollars. She did not have money like that to spare. Jill was silent, and she was angry. Why did it seem like the entire family had wanted her to send Hal home alone? She had every right to attend the funeral.