The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Jill saw a pile of magazines. Her heart stopped. The top one was Photography Today and she recognized it immediately.

  "Hal stayed here," Alex said from behind her. He, too, had seen the magazines. "I just peeked in the bathroom. There're towels, soap, shaving cream, a razor."

  Jill could not move. Hal had stayed here, perhaps just before she, Jill, had met him. And this place was connected to Kate. Why had Hal stayed here? Or was the question now absurd?

  He had stayed here because of Kate. Jill felt it.

  She sat down on the bed, nauseous and shaken. Could she handle the truth? Could she handle more discoveries about the man she had once, completely, loved?

  What if Hal had been with her because she was Kate's great-granddaughter?

  Alex had moved past her and opened up the bureau draw-

  ers. They were empty. He then sorted through the magazines, his hands stilling. And Jill saw that a manila envelope lay beneath the stack.

  A feeling of overwhelming dread settled over her and she stiffened, hands clasped tightly in her lap, waiting for the next blow.

  As Alex opened the envelope, he pulled out a series of eight-by-ten glossies. Even from a distance, Jill could tell they were black-and-white. She did not have to see them to know that they were Hal's.

  He stared at the top one, not saying a word. Jill grew concerned. His hands seemed to tremble, and a slight pink color had crept along his high cheekbones.

  He slipped it beneath the others, stared at the second one, then quickly went through the dozen or so photographs.

  "What is it?" Jill was standing. She hadn't been aware of rising to her feet. Her voice had sounded like a croak.

  He faced her. "Here." He shoved the stack at her.

  Jill took one look at the photo, instantly recognizing Hal's work, and in the next instant, she almost fainted, because she was staring at Kate, naked and so very beautiful, curled up in a plush upholstered chair. The pose was so tasteful that the photograph could have been in Vogue magazine. Neither her nipples nor her pubis was visible, but she was rampant femininity and sensuality rolled into one, her breasts spilling over her folded arms, her narrow waist giving way to a lush hip and curved thighs. Her head was lolling back, and there was such a suggestive and dreamy look in her eyes that it was clear that she was in love with the photographer.

  But Hal could not have photographed Kate.

  Instantly Jill realized she was looking at herself, not at Kate.

  She recalled the shoot immediately, her hands shaking, and it felt as though her cheeks had erupted into fire.

  She stared at herself. She did not really look this way— Hal had softened the angles of her body and her face with his skillful manipulation of light and shadow. God, for one instant, one terrifying instant, she had thought she was looking at Kate.

  Her hands shaking more than before, she flipped through. The other shots were more revealing—in one she was standing, facing the camera almost but not quite directly, pushing back her hair with one hand, sunlight streaming onto one side of her body from an open window. In this shot she did not look like Kate at all—she was all lean, toned muscle, a dancer with a dancer's body. Jill grimaced and held the stack of glossies to her chest.

  Her heart was pounding. She managed to meet Alex's gaze.

  He did not smile. "Well, Hal was very talented—but we already knew that."

  What could she say? "Yes." Then, "You're blushing." She tried to keep her tone casual. She knew she failed. "You've seen naked women before."

  "Not you." Their gazes locked.

  Jill stood, retrieved the envelope, shoved the photos inside, and laid it back on the bureau.

  "Did you model for him often?"

  Jill met his eyes again. He had tried to sound casual and he had also failed. Somehow the air had thickened in the room. "Sometimes. Actually, yes. But not always nude."

  "You look great, actually," Alex said, his gaze unwavering.

  Jill couldn't look away. It was a stupidly male comm.ent, but she could not chastise him. She could not even respond. Her mind had gone blank, her feelings, numb.

  "Well," Alex said. "I guess you'd better keep these." He picked up the manila envelope and handed it to her. "How about lunch? I don't really know what we were looking for, but we certainly found out something." Without waiting for her, he strode to the door and through it.

  Jill stared after him. It was a long moment before she could move; she could only think. Hal had been in love with Kate. She was certain of it.

  Jill sloshed through shallow puddles in the park behind Stainesmore. Her mind refused to quit. She almost did not know what to do with herself.

  Hal had photographed her in such a way that she had looked exactly like Kate—her face appearing rounder, her body more lush, and her hair, pushed untidily up, had given the illusion that it was long and curly. Oh, God.

  The pieces of the puzzle were falling together—and Jill did not like it one bit.

  Hal, Kate, herself. Clearly, amazingly, the three of them formed some kind of time-crossed lover's triangle. Maybe Hal had even tracked her down because of Kate. It was a horrid notion.

  And Jill couldn't even begin to speculate on how Marisa fit in. But she felt sorrier for her now than she had before. Loving Hal had not been easy for either of them, apparently.

  There was a small stabbing pain below her left breast. At least Alex had not noticed the similarity. She didn't know why this small fact relieved her, but it did.

  She had been walking for a long time, taking small bites out of a granola bar that she had found in her pocket. The rain had finally ceased, but a thick mist hung over the grounds, making it hard to see. Jill paused, looking back over her shoulder the way she had come. She was stunned to find that she could not even see a turret or chimney of the house.

  She was about to go back, but something made her glance around. The mist swirled. It lifted slightly. Jill made out the faint outlines of a chapel perhaps a hundred yards to her right.

  She squinted. It must be the very same chapel she had noticed when Alex had driven her back from Coke's Way a few hours ago. She was disoriented—she had no sense of direction—but the small chapel had to be on the other side of the road, which Jill could not see.

  Not that it mattered. She should go back before she got lost.

  The mist continued to swirl, and before Jill could turn, she saw several headstones shimmering in the wet fog directly ahead of her. She had somehow stumbled across a cemetery.

  The cemetery did not interest her, especially as it was getting darker out. But she wondered if it belonged to the family, or to the surrounding villages. Jill walked over to the closest granite stone and read the name Martha Watts Benson

  upon it. The dates for this particular soul were given as February 11, 1901-May 1, 1954. Well, that answered that question, she thought.

  ' Jill turned to go, intending to head back to Stainesmore, hoping that she would not get lost. That possibility seemed distinct now, because Jill had no markers to orient herself with. Damn it, she thought.

  She glanced at the old stone chapel, which she could barely make out, and tried to remember just where it had been in comparison to the house. She hoped it had been directly south of the family's summer home.

  Jill started decisively forward. A moment later her foot connected with something solid and she went down with a thud.

  "Ow!" Something hard—a stone—dug into her hip. She rolled away from the object, sitting in the soaking wet grass, beginning to feel the cold, thinking about the black and blue mark she would undoubtedly have. Then she looked at the stone she had tripped on.

  It was overgrown with weeds, but if she did not mistake her guess, it was a small and unobtrusive headstone.

  God. She'd fallen over a grave! Wasn't that bad luck or something? ^

  Jill was about to get up. Her teeth were chattering now. Instead—and later she would have no explanation for her behavior—she crawled forwar
d, pulling the weeds off of the small marker, which was no more than a foot and a half high.

  The stone was gray-black. Like the slabs of stone from the tower.

  Chills swept Jill, but then, she was wet and freezing, and it had started to drizzle again.

  As she pulled the weeds off, her fingers brushed indentations in the slab—the stone was engraved. Jill crept closer. Her breath got stuck somewhere in her chest.

  On all fours, she froze. Jill stared at the words swimming before her eyes, her heart careening with sickening force.

  "Katherine Adeline Gallagher," it said. "June 10, 1890-January 12, 1909."

  Part Three

  The Tower

  Fifteen

  J

  ^ ILL STARED AT THE HEADSTONE IN SHOCK. THEN SHE GRIPPED

  it, the Stone feeling as if it were ripping apart the flesh on her fingertips, unable to tear her gaze away from the engraved date of death—January 12, 1909. She could barely breathe; she was panting, unable to consume enough air into her severely constricted lungs.

  Kate had not merely disappeared in 1908, she had died shortly after, for here was the glaring proof.

  Jill suddenly sat back on her knees, in front of the headstone, closing her eyes, squeezing back hot tears. Kate, so young, so beautiful, so vibrantly alive, had died at the age of eighteen. Jill should not be surprised. She'd had an awful, dreadful feeling for some time now, especially since last night, that something terrible had happened to her. And she had been right.

  What had happened? And why?

  Jill choked on a sob, shaking uncontrollably. And her own image was there in her mind—but as Hal had photographed her, not as she acmally was. Lush, voluptuous, like Kate.

  And Kate became you . . .

  Jill refused to dwell on KC's strange words. But damn it, she and Kate looked alike, and Jill was never going to forget her overwhelming and bizarre reaction to the tower. Jill was afraid.

  She wiped her eyes. Hal hadn't died telling her that he loved her, he had died telling Jill that he loved Kate. It was

  even more difficult to breathe now. The truth was glaring, and it was unavoidable.

  They had met on the subway. Or so Jill had once thought. But Lauren had insisted that Hal had met her at her club. Had he watched her there, singling her out because she looked like Kate? Had he singled her out because he knew that she was Kate's great-granddaughter?

  Of course he had.

  Jill did not want to cry. She had thought the tearful outbursts long since finished, her tears all used up. But they flowed freely now. She cried in silence for her other self, the Jill who no longer existed, the young woman who had naively, completely loved and trusted a very confused and troubled man.

  "Jill? What is it?"

  Jill recognized Alex's voice instantly as he hurried to her, his boots making a loud squishy sound in the soaking grass. She did not want him to see her like this. He would not understand; he'd think she was crying over Hal. She quickly rubbed her eyes.

  He lifted her to her feet and turned her around and pulled her into his arms.

  Jill did not move. She could not move. Not just because she was stunned, but because he felt very safe, very right.

  She did not know how long she remained there in his embrace, but she forgot about the headstone and Kate. He was cupping the back of her head, over her baseball cap, with one large hand. It was extremely comforting, the way a mother might cup the soft, warm head of her infant.

  But they both knew she was no child. His hand slid slowly down, to the bare nape of her neck. The contact was electric. And in that moment, she became aware of standing head to toe with him, of being pressed up against the length of his lean, muscular body. For another heartbeat, she remained motionless, while her mind came to life. I want this, she thought. I want him.

  Reluctantly, she stepped back, away.

  His gaze swept her eyes and her face, searchingly.

  For one moment, she did not look away; she could not.

  Then she turned and pointed, her hand trembling slightly. "Look."

  He followed her gaze. He was holding a penhght in his hand, and he moved past her, squatted and shone the light on the grave. He was silent.

  Twilight was falling. The drizzle had again stopped, leaving nothing but thick fog and the darkening mauve-blackened night in its place. Jill realized she was soaked to the bone. Her teeth began to chatter. Alex rose to his full height. "Holy Toledo," he said very quietly.

  Jill couldn't help it, the statement was so absurd that she burst into what sounded distinctly like hysterical laughter.

  He didn't smile, his gaze roaming her features, one by one. "Well, there goes your theory that Kate Gallagher ran off with someone to live happily ever after."

  Jill nodded, shivering.

  Suddenly Alex pulled off his own car coat, a heavy, wool-lined distressed leather affair, and he slipped it over her soaking anorak. "You'll catch pneumonia," he said. He slid his arm around her, as if he did not think her capable of making it back to the house without his support. They started across the field.

  "She died," Jill chattered, their hips brushing and bumping. "And someone knew the exact date. Someone knew it and buried her, Alex. He buried her here, near Stainesmore. We have to find out what happened, and who did it!"

  He did not answer. But he pulled her closer against his body as Jill began to shake uncontrollably. Kate, Hal, Marisa, Alex ... the dynamics, the turbulence around her, was overwhelming.

  "I didn't tell you about the dream," Jill said hoarsely, glancing up at his perfect profile. "Kate was in terror, imprisoned somewhere, maybe in that tower, and there was dirt all over her, under her fingernails, and there was so much blood. 1 saw her, Alex."

  He started; Jill felt it. "It was just a dream." His tone was sharp. "I'm worried about you. We need to cease this quest for a few days. You must rest, Jill, before you come down with the bloody plague."

  Jill's temples suddenly throbbed as she looked at him, startled by his use of such English language—and dated English language at that. "Tomorrow night we're going back to London. We can't let this go, not yet. We need to search Stainesmore for more evidence, more clues, find maybe go back to the manor and search there, too. Do you think there might be some records at the chapel? Surely they would keep records about who is buried in their cemetery?"

  He regarded her as they stumbled across the soggy parkland. "What do you hope to gain?" Jie finally asked softly.

  Jill suddenly pulled away from him, staring at him, incredulous. "What kind of question is that! She was my great-grandmother and someone murdered her!"

  "We don't know that she was your great-grandmother and we don't know that she was murdered." His eyes flashed.

  "Are you turning against me, now?" Jill began to tremble again, with renewed vigor. She did not want to contemplate her suspicions about Alex now. It was more than she could handle.

  He stared. "I would never turn against you," he finally said. He cursed, running a hand through his hair. "What do you want, Jill? How do you want this to end up?"

  "I want to know the truth. I want to know what happened to Kate, and why it happened. And what about her child, Peter—who might be my own grandfather? He didn't die. What happened to him?" Jill paused. "If your family is involved, so be it. Then there will be lots of juicy gossip in the tabloids for a week or so. They can handle it." She was bitter.

  "My aunt and uncle have just lost their son," Alex said harshly. "They don't need any more unpleasantness in their lives. Not now."

  She stared at him. "So you are worried that it will be something affecting the family—that it will be unpleasant?" Jill finally pressed.

  He hesitated. "How could I not be worried? They're very old, they've just lost Hal. Aunt Margaret's heart is bothering her. My uncle has aged twenty years in four weeks." His tone had risen. "/ don't want them hurt.''

  Jill stared. She had never seen Alex this emotional before. Or this firm, this unyiel
ding. It hit her hard, then, that he would never yield on this point; that his loyalty to the Shel-dons was undying—that it was written in stone.

  "Jill," he said, more softly, with renewed composure, "no matter what happened to Kate, she died a long time ago, and no one is going to pay for the crime—if there was a crime. I don't want to see my aunt and uncle hurt. They've suffered enough—and I know you agree with me at least on that. Let's drop this for a week or two. Especially before you become so obsessed there's no reasoning with you at all."

  "I'm not obsessed," Jill said, perturbed. How far would Alex go in order to protect the Collinsworth family? He was the outsider who had always wanted in. He was "in" now. Didn't he have a lot more motivation than Thomas ever would?

  "I think you're obsessed and it's damned convenient, too. Instead of crying into your pillow every night over Hal and all that he did to you, you've got this bone to chew on," Alex said, not quite calmly.

  Jill couldn't respond at first. Of course Alex would feel the need to champion and defend his family's honor. Wouldn't she be as stubbornly, as fiercely loyal to her own family, if she suddenly discovered that she had one?

  But she did have a family. Kate Gallagher was her family—and Kate needed her now.

  Jill stumbled, bumping into Alex, trying to remind herself that Kate was dead and in spite of her gut feelings, there was no substantial proof that Kate was her great-grandmother. That it wasn't the same, not at all.

  "I'm not letting this go, Alex," Jill finally said. "I can't. And it's unfair for you to want me to, especially now, when I'm making such headway—when there's so much at stake." She turned her back on him and marched in the direction they had been going. It was dark out, but the many yellow lights of the house now winked and danced through the swirling fog, beckoning her, an eerie beacon light guiding her back to Hal's home.

  "Just what is at stake, Jill?" Alex called after her.