The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Jill grabbed her purse. "KC, I gotta go." While Thomas was still in the middle of his workday—or so she hoped. "Please ask around and see if you know anyone interested in a sublet."

  "Wait!" KC caught her by the elbow. "Jillian, I haven't been completely honest with you."

  Jill's eyes widened. KC wasn't capable of deception. The notion was absurd. "What do you mean?"

  "I saw something terrible," KC cried, gripping her arm. "Please don't go!"

  Jill's enthusiasm vanished. KC was so distressed that she did not move, did not speak, not for a long moment. "What? What did you see?"

  KC dropped her hand. "In the dream, Jillian. Kate became you."

  Jill stared.

  Kate became you,

  Jill was haunted by the statement as she turned the key, given to her by the doorman, in the lock of Hal's apartment. KC did not know what the dream meant. But she said the darkness and shadows in the dream were terrifying, and they still frightened her. KC was convinced that Kate's fear was real, and that it was crying out to her and Jill across the sea of time.

  Jill was uneasy as she let herself into the co-op. She did not know what to think. It had only been a dream. But KC was so upset. Jill couldn't remember when she had ever seen her this upset.

  It was late in the afternoon and clouds had moved in, threatening rain, so Jill flicked on a light in the living room. As she did so, a man strolled out of the master bedroom.

  Jill cried out.

  He actually jumped, too. "Jill?" Alex Preston said, eyes wide, brows lifted.

  Jill placed a hand on her thundering heart, coming out of her shock. And then she realized that he was wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans. His chest, which was broad and muscular, was bare. His hair was wet. In fact, his entire torso seemed damp—he'd obviously just stepped out of the shower.

  "Hello, Jill," he said, coming forward now.

  Jill realized she had been staring, worse, that she had walked uninvited into the Sheldon apartment—and had been caught doing so a second time. She jerked her gaze to his face. He smiled at her. "I wasn't expecting company," he said.

  "I'm sorry." Alex was all lean muscle—not half as thin

  without his clothes as he appeared with them on. "I didn't know you were here. I. . ."

  "Obviously. I just got in. Literally," he said, pausing and leaning one shoulder very casually against the wall. "How did you get in? Oh. Let me guess. Hal gave you a key."

  Jill felt distracted, and wondered what she was going to do now. "I think I'm in trouble," she finally said.

  "Really?" He didn't seem angry. In fact, he appeared highly unruffled by their encounter. He hadn't been exactly friendly back in London, but now, everything about him, from his posture to his expression, seemed more relaxed.

  Jill bit her lip. How much to tell him? Everything she told him would get right back to Thomas. On the other hand, she could buy herself some time in the apartment. "I saw Thomas the other day," she said slowly.

  "Oh?" His smile remained in place. But his gaze was probing.

  Jill winced. "I meant to ask him for permission to come here and look for a series of photos which Hal was dedicating to me. But I didn't want to bother him so I just came up. I didn't realize you were here. I'm sorry to disturb you." She hated telling the tale she had just spun.

  His blue gaze was steady. Jill had the feeling he knew she was making up stories. "Where did you run into Thomas?"

  "Here." Jill smiled uneasily.

  Then he shrugged. "Okay. Go ahead. Look for the photos. In fact, this will be our little secret." His gaze held hers. He was no longer smiling. "I won't tell."

  Jill stared, doubting that. "Why?"

  "Because I'm not hung up on control the way he is." Alex stared back at her. "Because I try to be kind," he said. "I think we've all been through enough, don't you?"

  Jill wondered at his about-face in personality. And oddly enough, she felt unhappy with herself for having lied to Alex. She was now perturbed, but she shoved her distress aside. She did not have all day. Where would Hal have stashed the letters? She walked over to the bookcase and took a handful of hardcovers down. She began opening them.

  Alex said, from directly behind her, his breath on her neck, "Why are you looking for photographs in books, Jill?"

  Jill jumped, whirling. "I..."

  He took the book from her hands. "What are you looking for?"

  She could not think of a reply.

  He snapped the book closed. "Maybe I can help. Obviously it's important to you or you wouldn't be here—risking my cousin's wrath."

  Jill grimaced. "I'm afraid to trust you. You're on their side." The moment the words were out she wished she'd been more discreet. She decided to throw the Xanax down the toilet when she got home. It was messing up her thought processes.

  "Why are there sides?" he asked.

  "Because I killed Hal. Because I'm the gold digger." She met his eyes.

  He did not answer her, replacing the books onto the shelf. Then he turned. "I know you loved him. Thomas will see things more clearly when he gets over the shock of Hal's death."

  Jill sank down in a chair, holding her temples with her hands. "It was an accident. A horrible one. One I'll never forget." For the briefest of moments, she felt his hand, clasping her shoulder very lightly, and then it was gone. Jill slowly looked up. What the hell did that mean?

  "No one can change the past. Living in it only causes pain. We all have to move on," Alex said quietly.

  "It's not so easy."

  "Life isn't easy, Jill, and anyone who says it is, is either a moron or a liar."

  Jill smiled a little. "You have a way with words."

  He bowed. "The truth? I'm okay with words. But I'm a helluva lot better with numbers."

  She smiled again, a bit more.

  "How are you holding up, kiddo?" he asked matter-of-factly.

  Jill was taken aback. What did he care? "I'm fine."

  "You don't look fine. You look like you're out of it."

  "I'm on medication. I don't think I like it."

  "Maybe it's a good thing, for now. Why don't you get some rest?"

  "I can't. At night I dream ..." She shrugged helplessly, feeling very fragile now. She hadn't wanted to expose herself this way. She wished he weren't being sympathetic. "Forget it." She forced a smile.

  He studied her. "Maybe you should take a trip, get away."

  She inhaled. "I'm returning to London."

  Surprise flickered in his eyes.

  "A friend of mine has two cats which need taking care of, and now that I've lost my job, it seems like a good idea." She looked away from his piercing blue eyes. Why did she have the feeling that-she should have kept her plans to herself ? "I can't stay here, not right now." She stopped before she said anything else.

  "I understand."

  Jill met his gaze. It was soft with sympathy. She shifted to avoid his eyes, as if that would put some distance between them, hugging herself. She was starting to unravel, seeing sympathy where there should only be hostility.

  "So what are you looking for?" Alex asked.

  The change of topic was welcome. Jill hesitated. She did not want to lie anymore. Besides, she had every right to try to research her ancestry. "Letters." She looked at him. Their gazes locked. "Kate wrote Anne letters. I have to find them."

  Alex studied her. "So you're still after Kate Gallagher. Why?"

  Jill didn't answer immediately. She wanted to tell him everything. The urge surprised her—especially because it was so strong. But he wasn't a friend or a confidant, even if he was acting like one at the moment. He was a Sheldon, no matter that his last name was Preston.

  "You're hoping she's your family, aren't you?"

  Jill started. "Is that so terrible?" she finally said. "Unlike you, I have no family. When your mother died, the Sheldons took you in. Wholeheartedly. My parents died, and while my aunt took me in, she hated every moment of responsibility and commitment whic
h that entailed. What's wrong with my

  trying to find out if a very fascinating woman who mysteriously disappeared happens to be a relative of mine?"

  "It's actually very understandable," he said, as calm as she was not. "You have your work cut out for you, Jill. You know that."

  Jill met his gaze. "I know."

  He smiled and shrugged. "So, let's start."

  Jill got to her feet. "You're going to help me?" She was completely off-balance now.

  "I've got an hour to kill until my next meeting. Why not?"

  "Thank you," Jill said, uncertain of just where he was coming from. It was unsettling, first Lauren and then Thomas with their apologies, and now Alex, acting kind. Maybe it was a conspiracy.

  Again, she tried to shake the cobwebs from her mind. Probably the truth of the matter was that everyone was acting oddly, because when someone beloved died, the shock remained for a very long time. Jill thought she disliked Hal's family but she wasn't sure. They were probably as ambivalent about her.

  She gave up trying to figure him out because he didn't matter—Kate Gallagher mattered. She went back to the bookcase. As she began inspecting each and every book, she heard him walking into the bedroom, undoubtedly to finish getting dressed.

  When he returned, he had thrown on a plain white undershirt. "Jill," he said, taking her hand and preventing her from reaching for another book. "Let's get real. If Hal had old, valuable letters, he would make copies. The originals are undoubtedly in a safe-deposit box—or a safe. The copies, well"—he smiled and pulled her with him into the office— "have to be filed away."

  Jill blinked at the computer, which was already on, as Alex turned on the rest of the room's lights. "Do you work all the time?" she asked, wandering over and peering down at the screen. The file that was open was some kind of financial progress report, with gross and net estimates, overheads, etc. Had the numbers on the screen been Chinese characters, they could not have been more foreign to her.

  "I like my work," he said, sitting down in front of the PC. "A slight crisis brought me here, actually." He smiled then, as if he enjoyed crises. "Fve been in meetings ever since I arrived—got two more tonight. I hope to catch the first flight out tomorrow."

  "That's a lot of traveling in twenty-four hours."

  He laughed. "I'm used to it." Then his smile vanished. His stare was scrutinizing as he exited his file and clicked another program. The screen filled up instantly with hundreds of file names.

  "Those can't all belong to Hal," Jill gasped, dismayed.

  "I stay here whenever I'm in town. Which is often." Alex smiled, but at the screen, not at her, scrolling through.

  Jill suddenly recalled the nights when Hal had suggested they stay at her place, not his. He'd never told her that he had company in the guise of Alex or Thomas—or anyone else. He'd said, instead, that they could dine in Tribeca or SoHo, or even have great take-out and stay in. He'd called her studio "cozy."

  Alex twisted to look up at her. "What's wrong?"

  He was extremely astute. Jill met his gaze, feeling sick. "All the nights he stayed at my place, he never once told me the real reason—that you or Thomas were in town."

  Alex regarded her unwaveringly. "How well did you know Hal?"

  Jill inhaled. She did not want to answer him. But it was obvious now that Thomas was right—she hadn't known him very well after all.

  "Look, Hal meant no harm. He had a heart of gold. But sometimes he reminded me of a big puppy. He wanted to please. Hal wasn't very good at telling people things that would upset them." Alex gave her a long look and turned back to the screen. "I'm doing some searches—Gallagher, Kate, etc."

  Jill nodded. She said without premeditation, to his back, "He told me that this apartment was his. He lied."

  Alex's fingers stilled. He shifted to face her. "I'm sorry."

  She had expected some comment, but not that. "Yeah." She forced herself to stare at the screen. "I can't figure it out."

  "I told you," Alex said, his gaze still on her. "He was a pleaser. He told you what you wanted to hear."

  Jill met his gaze, almost wishing she hadn't come to the co-op and run into Alex Preston. Was Alex trying to tell her that Hal had only told her that he loved her because he wanted to please her?

  Suddenly she wanted to cry. Hal had told her he loved her—but he had been very involved with Marisa. So it had been another lie.

  An unforgivable lie.

  And then there was Kate.

  "Are you okay?"

  Alex was staring at her. Jill nodded, even though she wasn't, and she brushed her eyes with her fingertips. "It didn't matter to me who owned this apartment," she said.

  He didn't look up at her. "Your parents died when you were very young. On some subconscious level, I bet the idea that Hal owned this apartment and had that kind of stability was very attractive to you."

  Jill froze. Because she realized he was right.

  She was always in debt, out of work half the time, struggling to meet her bills. And she was alone. But Hal had a family he adored and spoke often of, and had money to spend as he chose. And she'd thought he owned the co-op.

  "Nothing," Alex said finally, still running a search. Jill was relieved at the timely interruption to her thoughts. Then he said, "Hold on. Maybe Hal hid some files somewhere." He began typing rapidly on the screen again.

  "You're very good at this," Jill remarkecl, still standing behind him and peering down over his shoulder. She was relieved by the change of subject.

  "Yeah, I am. Eureka. Gallagherl.doc, Gallagher2.doc, Gallagher3.doc."

  "Oh, God," Jill said, seized with excitement. "Those have to be the letters."

  Alex twisted around again. "Unless he was keeping a file on you."

  Jill started—and realized that Alex was joking. "That wasn't funny."

  "Sorry."

  "Pull them up. Start with the first one," Jill said impatiently.

  A moment later Alex said, "I can't."

  "Why not?" she cried.

  "We need a password." He continued to type. Jill watched him type Gallagher, Kate, Jill, Hal. He even tried Anne, CoUinsworth, Bensonhurst. The screen did not blossom.

  They spent the next half hour trying every word they could think of that had some relevance to the family or Hal. "Try photography," Jill-finally said, despairing of ever coming up with the right word.

  Alex typed, to no avail.

  "Wait a minute," Jill cried, eyes wide. "When Lauren and I were at Uxbridge Hall, Lauren said Hal and Thomas had this secret language when they were kids. It was words spelled backward! Try Etak," Jill urged, gripping the back of Alex's chair.

  "Kate spelled backward. Okay." Nothing happened. "Any more suggestions?" he asked. And just as Jill was about to suggest he try Gallagher spelled backward, his fingers flew over the keys. R-E-H-G-A-L-L-A-G.

  The screen filled instantly with a document. Jill found herself gripping Alex's shoulder, leaning over him, almost paralyzed with excitement.

  "It's a letter," he said tersely. "Dated January 10, 1908. I'll print it out."

  But Jill did not move. "Stop," she whispered, her hand covering his. Chills swept over her as she read aloud, " 'Dear Anne.' "

  The next line was "I am so afraid. I am afraid for my life."

  Part Two

  The Empress

  Seven

  Dear Anne,

  I am so 2ifraid. I am afraid for my life.

  Oh, my dearest friend, I know you understand me far too well, and comprehend my penchant for melodrama. I do not want to alarm you, Anne. But in this case I do not exaggerate. I am so alone, so afraid, and I have no one to confide in. I trust you with the truth.

  I did not return home. I am not in New York. I am letting a pleasant little country manor not far from Robin Hood Bay. You see, my dear friend, and I am certain you will forgive me my deception, which has caused me no undue amount of pain, I had no choice but to leave the city. I am with child, Anne.

&
nbsp; Please, do not chastise me now! I can hear your gasp, see the horror and pity in your eyes, as well as the tears. Do not pity me. I have no regrets. Anne, I love this child's father and have no doubt that we will soon be wed. His family—and it is a very good and old family—stands in our way. But he is determined to bring his father round. I know he shall succeed. He is a master of persuasion. I suppose I know that well enough. When I return to London I shall be a bride, with a beautiful baby in my arms, his baby and, I hope, his son.

  Do not ask me to tell you the identity of my love. I

  cannot. It would be a terrible mistake at this tender point in time.

  Do not think ill of me, Anne. There have been times where I have wished I could be more like you—so proper, a genuine lady—who would never dream of having such a liaison. But I am not like you, and it is not just because I am Irish and American. I have never understood why the blood has always run so wild in my veins. I have never understood why I have always felt that life is a huge and exciting treasure chest, put there just for me, so I might open it and explore all of its many and vast and oh-so-precious contents. But I do know that I have waited my entire life for this man. He is my knight in shining armor, Anne.

  Do you remember how I described to you the excitement of riding in the hot air balloon that day in Paris one year ago? The pounding of one's pulse, the breathlessness, the absolute giddiness and delight? That is how one feels when one falls in love, Anne, with one's truest love. I know. It is how I feel now, even as I write, my only company the pounding of the rain on the windowpanes.

  But, dear God, I am so alone, and I am so lonely. Of course he is not here, he is abroad; it is his father's doing. I have a staff of three—two maids so simple they can barely fill my bath, and a housekeeper so grim I would sooner talk to myself than share my fears with her. I do not, obviously, go to the village. No one has ever seen me other than my staff, and I can only speculate what the gossip must be in the surrounding countryside. We have let word out that I am a grieving widow. It was his idea and I do think it perfect. But then, he is rather perfect himself.