The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  The woman with the mole stared back at Jill, smiling ever so slightly, Jill now saw, and her eyes were daring Jill to ... to what?

  "Just what do you think you are domg in here?" a harsh voice demanded from behind her.

  Jill cried out, dropping the photograph.

  "I asked you what you were doing in here," Alex Preston said from the doorway. And he flicked on the rest of the lights.

  Two

  J

  ill's palm rested on her wildly racing heart. "You frightened me," she said.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't expect to find anyone in here." Alex entered the room. His expression was difficult to read now, but there had been no mistaking it a moment ago. "What are you doing in here?" His blue stare was extremely, uncomfortably direct.

  Jill hesitated. "I couldn't sleep."

  His gaze did not waver. "This is Hal's room. How did you find it?"

  Jill flushed. "By chance. I'm sorry if my prowling around has offended you."

  "You're a guest here—not a prisoner. But this is a family home." His meaning was clear—she could have disturbed the family.

  "I knew Hal's room was on the second floor," Jill continued uneasily. "When I couldn't fall asleep, I went downstairs to make a drink. I sort of just wandered up here. I didn't intend to bother anyone—and I don't think I did—until now."

  He was studying her very closely and he did not reply. Jill could not guess his thoughts. That increased her discomfort, as did his scrutiny. But she was given the opportunity to study him as well. He had changed into a pair of very worn, faded Levi's. They fit his slim hips snugly, like a glove. And he donned a butter-soft, yellow cashmere sweater—one that

  looked very expensive. Not very many men could wear canary yellow and get away with it.

  Jill looked away. Hal's photography was everywhere. "I miss him," she added helplessly. "I really do. I guess that's why I came up here."

  "We all miss him." Jill fidgeted as Alex glanced around the room, then at the photograph lying on the bed. "Were you looking for something?" he asked abruptly. His gaze was on the framed photograph. "What's tl^t?"

  Jill was bewildered. "No. But I couldn't help looking at his things. I almost felt him here, with me, a moment ago." Was he suspicious of her? She tried out a small smile but he did not smile in return as she picked up the old photo of the two women. Her fingers slid over the frame of their own volition. "I found this on his night table," Jill said slowly. Again, the woman with the mole caught her eye, seemingly staring at Jill. Jill stared back. One of these women was named Kate Gallagher. Something inside of her lurched unpleasantly.

  She stared at the women in the photograph, having no doubt that Kate Gallagher was the one with the teasing, vivacious look in her sultry eyes. Of course her name was a coincidence. If only Hal hadn't mentioned "Kate" with his last dying breath, she thought grimly. If only her last name weren't Gallagher.

  "What is it?" Alex cut into her thoughts.

  She had been so absorbed that Alex's soft question startled her. She had, for one moment, forgotten where she was and who she was with. For an instant, perhaps only a second or two, she had been completely focused on Kate Gallagher. "The handwriting on the back of this is Hal's," Jill said slowly. "This is a photograph of two women, Kate Gallagher and Anne Bensonhurst, and it's dated 1906.1 find this odd, because Hal was not a collector of other people's work." She finally looked up at Alex. "And isn't it strange that I have the same name as one of the women in the photo?"

  "Gallagher is an extremely common name," he said without hesitation.

  "But why was he keeping this? Do you have any idea?"

  She would never tell Alex, or anyone, that Hal had spoken another woman's name as he died.

  Alex shrugged, but he stepped closer to her and peered down at the photo she held. "Ann Bensonhurst was Hal's grandmother and my great-aunt That is obviously why Hal kept the photo."

  Briefly, Jill was relieved—that simple fact explained everything. "Anne Bensonhurst was his grandmother," she repeated. Then her relief vanished. Did it explain everything? She glanced at Alex, finding it difficult to take her gaze from the photo. "You know, don't you, that Hal was very interested in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period. In New York we used to go to museums. He was always drawn to the tum-of-the-century exhibits."

  "He was a history buff," Alex said.

  But Jill was suddenly remembering an afternoon spent at the Met. Afterward they'd sat outside at the Stanhope, drinking cappuccinos while people-watching, his arm around her shoulders. Suddenly it was there again, inside of her, a huge bubble of grief, the devastating sense of loss, the aloneness, the guilt. The pain was overwhelming.

  "What is it?"

  Jill swallowed. She must not think about Hal. She must think about Kate Gallagher. It was safer, easier. "Is Anne the one on the left with the darker hair?"

  "Yes."

  "She looks like you, except plainer.'*

  "Her older sister, Juliette, was my great-grandmother."

  "And how did your branch of the family wind up in America?" Jill was genuinely curious. She wiped her eyes with her fingertips.

  Alex seemed to relax. "My grandmother married an American, it's as simple as that. Actually, she was very fortunate. There was nothing left for her here in Britain."

  There was something in his tone that made Jill regard him closely. "What do you mean?"

  "My great-grandmother died in a carriage accident as a young woman. The Bensonhurst fortune passed on to Anne. Not the title—titles can't be passed down to females, but the

  wealth. My grandmother, who was bom a Feldston, was sent away to a girls' school when her father remarried. Most of his small fortune went to his son. My grandmother was the "poor" relation, and it was extreme good fortune that an American gentleman fell in love with her and whisked her off to a foreign land."

  Jill wondered if he identified with his grandmother. But there was nothing penniless about this man. Even in his jeans, he had a strong aura of success, self-assurance^ and power. He did not seem bitter, either, but she felt certain that he was good at hiding his emotions. "So you've returned to your roots," Jill remarked.

  An extremely intense gaze pinned her down. "My roots are Luigi's, where my mother waited table her entire adult life. My roots are Coney Island, not Mayfair."

  Jill didn't flinch from his stare. "How did you wind up here?"

  He glanced away. "My mother passed away when I was thirteen. I was no stranger to the family—^they had us out every summer. They took me in." He smiled briefly. "Hoodlum-in-training that I was." His smile faded. "It was the best thing that ever happened to me."

  Jill was silent, trying to imagine this man as a young streetwise boy from Brooklyn being thrown into the midst of this family and this kind of life. "It must have been very hard."

  He shrugged, clearly no longer willing to discuss the subject.

  Which was fine with Jill. She glanced at Anne and Kate again. "Wouldn't it be the strangest coincidence if Kate Gallagher was a relative of mine?" The words had come forth unbidden and unpremeditated.

  "The odds are a million to one."

  Jill agreed with that. On the other hand, she had this inkling that there was more here than met the eye ... "Do you know anything about her?" Jill asked curiously, studying the two women. Now it seemed to her that Kate was smiling ever so slightly at the photographer. She inspected the photo-

  graph more closely and decided that Kate was interested in the photographer, either that or she was a ham.

  "No. Why would I know anything about some person in an antiquated photograph?"

  "Do you know where this was taken?" Jill asked, suddenly handing it to him.

  Alex studied the picture. "Frankly, I don't have a clue. It could be anywhere." Ignoring her, he put the photograph back on the nightstand, laying it down, face-up. "Hal was the historian in our family," he said. "My interests lie in the present and the future, not the past."

 
; "Well." Jill hesitated. "I guess I'm drawn to history, too."

  When he did not respond, she became aware of how late it had become, how tired she was, and the fact that she was standing barefoot in the room with him. Suddenly she noticed that he was barefoot, too. She folded her arms across her breasts. "I guess I should return to my room and try to get some sleep." She glanced 43ack at the nightstand. For some reason, she wanted to take the photograph with her, and study it again. But it was a family heirloom and it belonged to Hal and his family. She did not think Alex would let her take it to her room.

  But what if Kate Gallagher was her ancestor? Obviously she could not be her great-grandmother, because they shared the same last name. Jill was intrigued, so much so that she shivered ... until she recalled Hal's dying words, and then she felt the weight of depression. Her life had never seemed or felt more complicated or more bereft. If only he were alive to give her the answers she desperately needed.

  Alex remained silent. His lapses into silence were unsettling. Jill avoided his unwavering eyes. "Well," she said, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "K you don't mind, I'll make myself another drink before I go back to my room." She started to move toward the door.

  But he did not move, and he barred her way. "What did happen, Jill?"

  Jill froze. Her heart lurched.

  "Of should I say, how did it happen? How did you hit the

  tree?*' His tone was calm, unlike his cousin'&efforts to question her earlier.

  Jill wanted to escape him now. "You yourself said this can wait. I don't think I can talk about it yet." She glanced at the door, wanting to flee, desperately.

  "You're better off talking to me—than to them," he said, his hands on his hips. "By tomorrow, Thomas will be wanting the very same answers—again. But he is extremely upset—and very angry. Why don't you tell me instead? It will save you a helluva lot of grief."

  First Thomas, now Alex, con|ronting her, pinning her down. Jill began to perspire. "Is this an interrogation?" Jill asked slowly, aware of the heat accumulating in her cheeks.

  "No. Not unless you make it one." When Jill did not speak, he said, "Why are you so nervous? What are you hiding?"

  Jill inhaled The sound was unmistakable in the bedroom. "I'm not nervous," she shot back, a lie. "I'm exhausted, jet-lagged, and I'm sick. I've just lost someone—"

  He cut her off, as if he did not believe her. "Hal was very close to the family. Although recently he wasn't calling ... as if he were too preoccupied ... or as if he were hiding something himself."

  Jill stiffened. "I know how close he was to his family, he talked about you guys all the time. He had nothing to hide." But he had, hadn't he? He'd had their relationship to hide.

  "He had you."

  He was astute. Jill despised him for his candor. She hedged, buying time frantically. "What does that mean?"

  "Come on," Alex said flatly. "Why beat around the bush?" His stare remained direct and intent. "You live in a cheap studio in the Village. You're a dancer. You're American. Penniless. You're not exactly the kind of girl he would bring home, much less marry."

  "That was to the point," she whispered, aghast. "I take it you have never fallen in love?" She was trembling. His words hurt—maybe because they were so goddamned close to what might be the truth.

  He ignored that. "Look, I'm an American, too. I grew up on the streets of Brooklyn. I know all about penniless, and I

  know my cousins. I know my uncle. He had plans for Hal, especially after the disappointment of Thomas's divorce and the way things are with Lauren."

  Jill wondered what had happened, both with Thomas and Lauren, but did not ask.

  "K you really thought Hal was going to bring you home and marry you, then I am very sorry for you," Alex said flatly.

  Jill bit her lip. "He was," she said. "He was."

  His look was direct and pitying. "I know what Hal was hiding," Alex said. "But I can't quite figure out what you are hiding."

  She stared, becoming angry at last.

  "WTiat happened the night of the accident?"

  "I don't know," she lied. "It all happened so quickly. We were talking and then I looked up and saw the tree. I've never even been in a fender bender before!"

  "I know."

  She stared.

  "I've done my homework," he said, holding her gaze. "But not enough of it—apparently." He did not pause. "You were driving. The roads were clear. It was the middle of the afternoon. You weren't drinking and there was no sign of drugs in your blood. How does one go off the road and hit a tree, given those conditions?" He was pushing.

  She found herself locking gazes with him. He made her uncomfortable and immediately she turned her head away. "Don't do this," she said, low. "Not now, not this way, not tonight. I can't handle this."

  "Hal was my cousin. We grew up together. I want to know what really happened. You weren't concentrating on the road. That's my conclusion. Which means you were distracted."

  Jill broke. "I am going to live with the fact that I was driving and I hit that tree and I killed Hal for the rest of my life. I don't know what happened," she cried. Jill hugged herself, finding it hard to breathe, hating Alex for pressing her this way. "I'm not hiding anything," she whispered.

  "What were the two of you talking about?" he asked ruthlessly.

  "I don't remember!"

  "How convenient,'* he responded. "Were you arguing?"

  Jill knew she had turned white.

  "You were arguing," Alex said quietly, his gaze holding hers. "And I can guess what you were arguing about."

  Tears filled her eyes. "Your family is terrible," she cried. "You are terrible. I loved Hal! Can't you see that? Can't you? You are the coldest person I have ever met! I have lost the man I love," she shouted at him. "The man I've spent my whole life dreaming of!"

  "And I've lost my cousin. Thomas and Lauren lost their brother, my aunt and uncle have lost their son, God damn it," he said harshly. "Everyone is shocked, everyone is sick, we are all suffering, damn it."

  Jill backed away from him.

  He turned abruptly, his broad shoulders trembling. He was suddenly very angry.

  Jill stared at his back. "I'm so sorry," she whispered finally. He did not turn. "I know you hate me, all of you, but I already hate myself. Please, please don't do this to me anymore."

  He did not move.

  Jill sank back down on the bed. Her hands were shaking— she was shaking. Briefly she covered her face with her palms, but she could not seem to stop trembling, she could not find even a hint of calm. "Tomorrow I'll find a hotel somewhere."

  Alex faced her. His expression was now implacable. "Forget it. There's not a decent room available; I had my travel agent working on it all day."

  It was clear that he wasn't being kind. Was anyone in Hal's family capable of compassion? she wondered. Very unsteadily, very spontaneously, Jill whispered, "Why aren't we helping one another now, sharing our anger and our grief, instead of confronting one another like this?"

  "Because Hal is dead," he said simply.

  Jill clapped her hands over her mouth, almost bursting into tears. How right he was. Hal was dead, and his legacy was anger and hatred and all of her lies.

  **Look, let me take you back to your room," Alex said. "It's late and Fm tired."

  Jill did not look up at him. She wasn't ready to look at him. She didn't answer him, either.

  "You ready?" He cocked his head toward the door. "Even if you can't sleep, I suggest you get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be one helluva day."

  Jill flinched. Reality crashed over her then, making her forget all about the photograph and Alex's hateful questions. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they were burying Hal.

  "After you," he said, gesturing for her to precede him out. He touched her arm impatiently.

  Jill shrugged him off. She didn't want him touching her, not even in a casual gesture. And as she moved past him, she wondered how she would get through the next day. She did not
know if she had the strength to endure Hal's funeral.

  Worried about whether or not she had asked her next door neighbor to look after her cat, Jill dialed New York. By her estimation, it was about eight in the evening there. But her neighbor, an unemployed actress, kept very odd hours. She went through jobs the way Madison Avenue women shopped. Jill was relieved when the phone was picked up on the second ring. "KC, this is Jill. I'm calling from London," Jill said.

  "Jill! I am so worried about you. How are you?" KC cried.

  Jill lay on her back in the huge four-poster bed of her room, holding the phone to her ear. She could envision KC clearly. She was taU and willowy, very attractive, with a heart of gold. Right now, Jill knew her expression was one of utter sympathy. "I'm okay," she began. Then, "God. I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all."

  "I know," KC said, her tone ringing with compassion. "Jill, everything will work out-—I just know it will, in time."

  Jill didn't answer. The pain was stabbing through her again. But she knew KC meant what she said. As determined as KC was to become a working actress, she was even more passionate about the spiritual side of her life. She more than

  dabbled in everything from palmistry to Hinduism. They had met three years ago at a party in SoHo for an opening show. KC was not a guest, she was there to read people's palms and do tarot card readings. Jill had been talked into allowing KC to do a reading for her by a friend. Extremely dubious, and a little drunk, Jill had sat down opposite the blond.

  To Jill's amazement, KC had taken one look at the cards laid out on the table before her and said, "You are so terribly alone."

  In that excruciating instant, she'd gained Jill's complete, and suddenly sober, attention.