The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  She heard footsteps in the parlor, assumed it was Lucinda, her neighbor, whom she had faxed with her itinerary, and she went rushing into the other room. She skidded to a halt at the sight of Alex Preston standing there in a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit.

  He smiled somewhat sheepishly at her. "You left the door wide open. There's no doorbell. Just a knocker. You didn't hear it."

  Jill found herself folding her arms protectively across her chest. Their gazes held, her pulse thundered. "How did you know I was here?" Her heart continued to thud. He had more than surprised her—she was stunned both by his appearance at her flat and his timing. She hadn't called him to let him know that she was returning to London. In fact, they hadn't spoken since he had called her from the airport to tell her the files had been lost.

  She couldn't get over what had happened. She had called Computer City. Power surges were rare.

  On the other hand, she had been told that what Alex had said had happened was possible.

  "Lucinda told me," he was saying, his smile fading—as if he sensed that his presence wasn't really welcome.

  Jill stared. He was like an unwelcome apparition—except that he suddenly seemed drop-dead good-looking in his oh-so-elegant custom suit. She fought that unwelcome thought. She wanted to blame it on the new prescription she was taking. Her doctor had called her and when he had found out that she had thrown out the Xanax, he'd asked her to take half the dose, and she had been giving it a shot. In the past few weeks, she had started to feel like a human being again.

  Hal had lied to her, Hal had loved Marisa, but she'd been beaten up before and she could—and would—get through this. "I didn't know you knew Lucinda," she said slowly. Why was he there?

  Why did she feel so completely off-balance?

  "She gave me a tour of Oxbridge Hall a few weeks ago," he replied. His smile returned, but he appeared a bit embarrassed. Jill was trying to register the fact that he had been to Uxbridge, when she realized that he was holding a gift-wrapped bottle under one arm. It was obviously wine and just as obviously, it was for her.

  He saw where her gaze had settled and he held out the bottle. "Champagne. A little house warming gift. Hope you don't mind."

  She took it. "Thank you." She did not understand why he had come, or why he had brought the gift. She set the bottle down on the coffee table without opening it. Was this a peace offering? But hadn't they already made peace? Was this a pass?

  Jill inhaled, her back to AJex. This was not a pass. That had been an insane thought. Alex was not just Hal's cousin, but he was a powerful, wealthy man. Men like Alex could have their share of gorgeous, twenty-year-old, would-be models, especially if they were good-looking as well as loaded. Jill knew it for a fact. She saw fat old power brokers in New York with their young, flawless girlfriends all the time. It was called life and it was spelled in capital letters.

  She straightened and faced him. "I didn't know you were a history buff, too."

  "I'm not. Not really"

  "I don't get it," Jill said. "Why did you go to Uxbridge Hall?"

  He came closer, his eyes intent on her face. "Maybe Kate has gotten her hooks into me, too."

  Jill held his gaze, unable to look away.

  "You still want to find her, don't you?" he said.

  She hesitated. "Yes, I do." More than ever, she thought silently.

  "Are you still angry with me because of those lost letters?"

  Jill inhaled, taken aback and suddenly wary. "I'm not angry."

  "I heard it in your voice that morning. And even now, I can see doubt—about me—in your green eyes."

  Why was he pressing her? Jill's caution increased. "I don't know why you're here. It's not like we're friends, and Hal's death is between us." And, "My eyes are hazel, not green."

  He stared. And said, "Today they look very green. It must be the light—or that shirt you're wearing."

  She was wearing a tightly fitted button-down shirt that paid homage to the seventies. It was a collage of arresting colors—different shades of blue and green. Her pants were tight, flared, and black.

  He continued, "I like the fact that you speak your mind, Jill. But I thought, maybe, we were friends."

  She flushed and turned away from him. "Maybe life is too short to play games." He hadn't really answered her.

  "It sure as hell is," Alex said, jamming his hands in his pockets. "I came here to welcome you back to town, being as you know no one, really, and if you want, I came to help you find Kate."

  Jill nodded, remaining wary. She had promised herself, after all, that she would rely on no one now but herself. Yet there was a voice inside of her that was nagging at her, tugging at her, saying. Why not? Why not be friends? Hal's death remained between them, true, but what if he was a really decent guy? She could certainly use help in navigating her way around London. He was smart and resourceful. And he appeared to be decent—if anything, he looked smart, honest, well-to-do. What if she tested him out a bit?

  The notion was unnerving. It made her shaky, it made her sweat.

  "You're staring at me again. Have I grown two heads?" he said.

  She had been so immersed in her speculation that she jumped. "I wish I could figure you out."

  He did smile. "There's not much to figure out. I'm a hardworking Brooklyn boy—transplanted to London. Period."

  Jill did smile and shake her head. "Right." They both knew he was selling himself way short.

  "You look like you're feeling better," he said abruptly.

  "I am." Jill pushed her bangs off of her forehead. "I'm still taking some medication, but it's a low dose." She looked him in the eye. "Hal messed up. He messed me up. But I can live with it. I try not to think about it too much."

  His gaze held hers. There was warmth and understanding and even compassion in it. "You're a strong woman. I think we have a bit in common, you and I."

  Jill felt herself actually flush at the compliment he had given her; then she thought about what he had said. He was right in one way. They'd both come from poor backgrounds, and they'd both lost their parents as children. But that was where all similarity ended. "You're loaded and successful and you live and associate with blue bloods. I'm flat broke, I can only wear beaten-up shoes because of my profession, and I shop at thrift shops."

  He smiled. Widely.

  "All right," Jill said, allowing herself another small smile. "We have something in common." Then she sobered. They had Hal in common, too.

  "Don't go there," he said softly, picking up on her thoughts.

  Now she recalled just how perceptive he was. "Are you telepathic?"

  "Not at all. I'm just good at reading people. It comes with the territory."

  Jill nodded, reminding herself to go slowly if she was going to allow him to enter even the periphery of her life, even as a mere friend and acquaintance. And that, of course, was all it would be. Assuming that he was making a discreet pass at her, which surely he was not.

  "How are your aunt and uncle?" she asked, wanting to know. Guilt raised its ugly little head.

  He sobered. "Okay. Considering. Margaret's on medica-

  tion for her heart. I'm worried about her, actually." His concern was reflected in his blue eyes. "William's doing as well as can be expected, I guess. He's tired all the time and complaining of it, but he's thrown himself into a few of the company's outstanding projects to keep his mind occupied."

  Jill felt for them both. "And Thomas and Lauren?"

  "Thomas is working like a dog. I've never seen him so gung-ho. Lauren's still grieving openly." His regard was piercing.

  "And you?" The words popped out before Jill could rethink them.

  He stared before answering. "I wish Hal had been more honest with you and Marisa. I also wish he'd had the chance to live out his life."

  Jill tucked her hands into the very small pockets of her very tight pants. Did that mean that he still blamed her for Hal's death* on some subconscious level? How could he not? Th
e ugly guilt refused to go away. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. "I guess we all wish he were still here," she finally said.

  His gaze was searching.

  "I would have figured it out sooner or later," Jill said grimly. "I was naive. But I'm not stupid."

  "The one thing you're not," he agreed. "I have something to give you."

  Jill hadn't noticed his soft black attache case sitting on the floor beside her bags, and now he produced a manila envelope that he handed to her. "Open it."

  Jill obeyed, curious. Her eyes widened when she was faced with a bold headline from the London Times, dated January 21, 1909. "American Heiress Missing," she read. The lead-in stated, "No Clues as to Whereabouts of Gallagher Heiress." It was a copy of the old newspaper article.

  Jill began to tremble, seized with excitement. She quickly glanced at the next sheet—it was another copy of an article, this one from the London Tribune. "Oh, God," she whispered, reading aloud, "Foul Play Ruled Out in Disappearance of Gallagher Heiress." The third article was from the New York World, and dated September 28, 1909. It said, "Disappearance of Kate Gallagher Remains an Unsolved Mystery."

  "The case was never officially closed," Alex said quite casually, jerking Jill out of the past. "But it was dropped in the fall of 1909 when all the leads just fizzled out. Lucinda Becke was right. Kate Gallagher did disappear—as if into thin air."

  Jill gazed up at him, stunned by what she had been handed. "How did you find this? Were these articles in the archives at Uxbridge Hall?"

  He grinned. It was boyish. "No. I like cruising the Net. With the right software, you can go anywhere—including into the old archives of newspapers like the Times and the Tribr

  "But why? Why go to all this trouble?" Jill did not understand. And she was dying to read the three articles. She could hardly restrain herself from dashing over to the sofa to do so.

  "Maybe I wanted to help out—after letting you down so badly with the letters."

  He wasn't smiling. He seemed very sincere—and very intense. Jill forgot to breathe. Why was he going out of his way like this?

  Alex broke the tension. "Go sit down and read. Fll heat up some water and make us some tea."

  Jill nodded. She sank down on the sofa, her hands still shaking. The complaint regarding Kate's disappearance had been filed by her mother, Mary Gallagher, on January 2, 1909. Jill's excitement increased. The article described Kate as being the daughter of the deceased Peter Gallagher of New York City. Surely this was the very same Peter Gallagher who lived at Number 12 Washington Square—Jill had to assume so.

  Kate had apparently been last seen at a birthday party thrown in honor of Anne Bensonhiirst. That event, Jill read, had been held on Saturday, October 17, and it had been held at Bensonhurst.

  Chills swept over Jill. The words in front of Jill blurred. She stared down at the copy in her hands, but instead saw Kate in a black lace ball gown, ravishingly beautiful and pale with distress. The crowd around her was a kaleidoscope of gay colors, the women bejeweled, the men in black tuxedos

  and starched white shirtfronts. An orchestra played. Kate stood alone watching the crowd in the huge hall.

  An observer, not a participant, and an unhappy observer at that.

  "Her mother was insistent that Kate would have never disappeared of her own volition," Alex said.

  Jill was so startled that she almost jumped from the couch at the sound of his deep voice. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, regarding her. "Where were you just now, Jill?"

  "I could see it. Her. At Anne's birthday party. That was where a dozen witnesses claimed to have last seen her. I could see her, and the crowd, so clearly. It's almost scary how vivid it was." Jill could not smile at him.

  He launched himself off of the doorjamb and sauntered forward with his long, easy stride. "Obviously she had her child—or lost her child—and returned to London—only to then disappear."

  Jill hadn't thought about that. "You're right."

  "If you've read all the articles, you know that quite a few of Kate's friends disagreed with her mother. Seems like your ancestor, if she was your ancestor, had a reputation for being rather reckless, impulsive, and wild."

  "I believe she was my great-grandmother. I beFieve it more and more every day."

  "Why?" He sat down next to her on the sofa, and as he did so, the kettle in the kitchen began to sing.

  "It's just a feeling I have. A strong one." Jill met his gaze, expecting him to laugh at her.

  He did not laugh. He said, "Sometimes the strongest feelings are correct. When my gut tells me something, I listen to it."

  Jill smiled slightly at his terminology. "I've learned that my grandfather, Peter Gallagher, died in 1970 at the age of sixty-two. That means he was bom in 1908, Alex, the same year Kate delivered her child."

  "That's interesting," Alex said. "How'd you find that out?"

  "A letter my mother wrote to her mother." Jill smiled now in her enthu^asm. "My grandfather was also bom in Yorkshire, maybe in the city of York."

  Alex regarded her. "There's still no proof. And we don't know that Kate had a healthy child. Jill, a lot of women died in childbirth back then although Kate did not, at least not in May of 1908, because she was alive and kicking at Anne's birthday five months later. But infants died all the time back then."

  "I realize that," Jill said, refusing to be swayed to pessimism. "What do you think happened?"

  "Don't have a clue." He seemed cheerful as he jumped off of the sofa and hurried into the kitchen to turn off the kettle. Jill was reading the second article when he returned with two cups of black, sweet tea. He had shed his jacket and loosened a very boldly colored red and gold tie. "Hope it's not too strong."

  "I'm not a tea drinker."

  "Neither am I. Guess you'll have to stock some coffee in the house."

  Jill found herself staring at him, but she was seeing Kate. "I think she ran off with her lover."

  His blue gaze roamed her face. "To live happily ever after?"

  "Yes." Jill neither blushed nor became defensive.

  "There aren't too many fairy-tale endings in real life, Jill," he said slowly.

  "No." She thought about Hal—with a small pang. She wondered if she would ever be able to forgive him his treachery. She wondered if she would ever want to.

  "I didn't mean to raise a tough subject,"

  She glanced at him and finally said, "You're very intuitive."

  "Does that get me Brownie points?"

  She stood up. He was too tall, he took up too much of the couch. "Why would that get you Brownie points?"

  "Most women like a guy with sensitivity." He continued to regard her.

  "I loved Hal," Jill said very sharply. She could not believe it. He was coming on to her!

  "I know you did." Alex stared at her. He didn't say what Jill felt certain he was thinking—but you loved someone who

  loved someone else and now you don't know whether to love him or hate him. "Jill; everyone has to get on with their lives, yourself included. If you don't mind my advice."

  Jill was suddenly very angry. Furiously so. "What do you think I'm doing? Hal is dead because of me, he lied to me about a huge part of his life, I really didn't know him, but I'm trying to get over it—over him—to the best of my ability. And you know what? 1 think I'm doing okay—and I don't need you coming on to me or advising me or telling me that

  I'm not!"

  Abruptly Jill sat down, staring at her knees. She had to face it. Hal had known Marisa for a lifetime—he had known Jill for only eight months. Whatever bond had been between Hal and Marisa, it had withstood the test of time. It must have been very special.

  Jill knew she could not compete, not now, in the present, and not then, in the past. She had been a fling. An interim fling that had only happened because of Marisa's divorce.

  She did not want to acknowledge the rest of her thoughts. But they loomed now, loud and clear, in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, she had also
been Hal's lover because of Kate.

  "Look." The one word was terse. Jill had to glance at him. He was flushed, but in control. "I wasn't trying to criticize you. And I wasn't coming on to you, either."

  Their gazes locked. Jill didn't believe him, but she kept it

  to herself.

  "When I come on to you, you will know it," Alex said

  flatly. V, i:u

  Jill stiffened. There was something in his tone that tnght-

  ened her.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to upset you, I only came to offer you some support." Alex flashed a brief smile at her. It seemed strained. "Maybe we need to lay more than Hal to rest, sooner rather than later."

  Jill hesitated, daring to look him in the eye—danng to be honest. "I want to. I'm tired of this. Of being sad, of being angry, of being fine—only to find it's an illusion. But it's so hard. I wake up at night and my first feeling is, I miss him.

  Then I remember everything, and I don't miss him at all. It's horrible."

  His expression softened. "I can imagine. But you have no choice, Jill. You've got to let him go. You've got to let it all

  go."

  She stared back. He didn't know. He could only imagine what her turmoil was like. No one could know—unless they'd been lied to and duped by someone beloved who was now dead.

  "What is it?" he asked sharply.

  Again, he'd picked up on her thoughts. Jill was tense. "There's something I haven't told you. There's something I haven't told anyone," Warning bells exploded in her brain. Like tiny fragments of blinding light. But she could not hold her tongue.

  Alex waited, patient, passive, absolutely still.

  "When Hal was dying, he told me he loved me, but he called me Kate."

  Alex started, eyes widening slightly. "Maybe you misheard.'*

  "No. I didn't. He said, 'I love you, Kate.' And I know, with every fiber of my being, that he was thinking of Kate Gallagher," Jill cried.

  Alex just stared.

  Nine