The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  He stroked her hair. "You made me so angry last night. I regret it now. I'm sorry, Jill, really sorry. But I don't want my aunt and uncle hurt any more. How can I convince you to let this suspicion of yours about Edward go?"

  She tensed again, afraid he was manipulating her, but his arms tightened around her and she closed her eyes, succumbing to his embrace. "I have to know who killed Kate."

  "I know you do." He seemed to kiss her ear. Tiny jolts of pleasure shot through Jill. "I want to know, too. But they don't need to know. The tabloids don't need to know. And you're making yourself ill. Jill—I think you should make an appointment with Dr. McFee."

  She finally looked up at him, trembling—^but not with fear. "I'll think about it."

  "Good." His gaze held hers. "You are so beautiful," he whispered.

  Jill's heart slammed to a halt. When it resumed its beat it did so slowly, firmly, resonating in her chest. Her gaze was riveted to Alex's. And she recognized the look in his eyes.

  Worse, she recognized the feeling in her own body, the urgent vibration of need. This could be a huge mistake, she thought. But she was now the first to admit to herself that, in spite of her fears, her doubts, and her suspicions, she was insanely attracted to him, enough so to throw caution to the winds. And right now, it did not seem possible that he'd had a hand in the threats against her, not in any way. Of course, how could she think clearly when his chest was crushing her breasts, his thighs molding her thighs? They had started something at Stainesmore that she had to continue. What if she could trust him? What if this was a beginning for them? She would never know if she did not take a risk.

  Her hands slipped to his waist. It was hard and tight.

  He kissed her. Interrupting her thoughts, framing her face with both hands. Jill had almost forgotten how exquisite kissing him was. Almost, but not quite.

  The kiss became hungrier. There was only his mouth and hers, his body and hers.

  She did not move, because she could not move. Eternity passed.

  Jill's hands slid into the thick, short hair at his nape. There was one place she wanted to be. And that was in his bed, beneath him, thighs spread, with him deep inside of her.

  She wasn't sure she had ever wanted anyone this way before.

  Alex. Tall, lean, dark, cashmere sweaters and faded, tight jeans.

  i

  He was bending her over backward, his mouth demanding now, his tongue searching. One of his thighs had pushed between hers. She rode him.

  Jill's hands moved to his shoulders, but not to push him away. To hold him more tightly.

  He broke the kiss. "Christ."

  "Let's go upstairs,*' Jill said hoarsely. "And we'll worry about tomorrow then."

  Jill was aware of him following her up the stairs, and she felt his gaze on her back. Her heart had the cadence of a jungle drum. Every nerve ending in her body was firing off neurons and transmitters in a rapid, mindless succession. She was beginning to feel dazed, and she couldn't help thinking, perhaps foolishly, that she had missed him, and badly.

  In her doorway she hesitated, the bed looming before her in the room, acutely aware of him behind her. She was shaking. Without warning, his hands gripped her waist, turning her abruptly airound, his mouth coming down hard on hers.

  Jill couldn't wait either, and she met his tongue, wrapping her legs around his hips. He thrust into her and pressed her against the wall. His erection—hot, hard, huge, straining his jeans—ground against her crotch. Jill clutched his shoulders, kissing him back, moving her hips against him.

  He tore his mouth from hers, kissed and bit her jaw, her throat. Jill cried out.

  He suddenly set her on her feet again, lifting her sweater up over her bra, and lifting the bra up too. His tongue slashed over her nipple. He palmed her. Hard, between her legs, where she felt damp with urgency.

  Jill heard herself moan again, with abandon—she could hardly breathe—she was going to come. She reached for him, grabbed the bulge of his rock-hard penis. "Alex."

  But he was already pulling her jeans down her hips. He cupped her sex again, inserting a finger there.

  An instant later they were on the floor. Alex kicked off his jeans and drove into her; Jill wrapped her legs around his waist and encouraged him to push faster, harder. He strained

  over her and began to whisper into her ear. Shock seized Jill, and she exploded.

  He slid out, still fully distended, and rubbed the ripe tip of his penis over her wet pubis. Instantly Jill tightened. Their eyes met. In spite of his strained expression, he smiled briefly at her. "One more time," he said roughly.

  Jill leaned up on her elbows and nuzzled the length of his erection. Then, heart rioting, body aching, she slowly sucked him into her mouth—every possible inch.

  He gasped her name, gripping her head, surging forward. And abruptly he moved away, pulling her thighs over his shoulders, going down on her, his tongue everywhere. Just as Jill knew she could no longer stand it, he reared up and thrust deep, hard and slick, wet, raging heat.

  They came together in one stunning, blinding moment.

  They lay still, unmoving, on the floor, except for their pounding, racing heartbeats. As the tension began to drain away from her body, Jill listened to his breathing as it slowed and evened, running her hands over his leather jacket. She still had her sweater and bra on, too—twisted up over her breasts.

  Oh, my God. Her only coherent thoughts.

  He kissed her on the lips, met her eyes, and sat up. Jill met his gaze, which was uhflinching, also sitting up. Was there a question in his eyes? Was there regret?

  Reality hovered over them. "Not now," Jill whispered, speaking her thoughts aloud. Jill bit her lip, then tore sweater ^ and bra up over her head and flung them aside. ||

  He didn't smile. His blue gaze drifted over her, slowly, until Jill felt a blush staining her skin. »

  "I want to stay the night."

  Jill could hardly speak. She nodded.

  He smiled. And he removed his jacket, his sweater, his socks.

  Jill woke up alone.

  Her small travel alarm clock buzzed insistently, annoy-ingly. She wanted to go back to sleep, she was exhausted— but then, instantly, her mind flooded with memories of

  Alex's lovemaking and she was wide awake. She did not move, recalhng the touch of his hands, his fingers; the taste of his mouth, his tongue; the powerful, consummate feel of him inside of her; the way he'd lowered himself between her legs to lick her senseless. She thought about how he'd tasted inside of her mouth. They had not slept very much last night.

  Jill groped for the clock and turned it off. She recalled setting it now because Alex had said he had a breakfast meeting at the Dorchester at eight. It was seven.

  And she and Lucinda were to leave for Yorkshire at nine.

  Jill sat up. His side of the bed was mussed, his pillow indented. Her bedroom door was open, as was the door to the bathroom across the hall. He was not in the bathroom, either. She wondered, with a sinking heart, if Alex had left without saying good-bye.

  Biit wouldn't that be for the best?

  She gripped the mattress grimly. She had thought the sex she'd had with Hal to be unsurpassable. She had been wrong.

  Jill was unhappy. She got up, stepping into a pair of jeans and pulling on a white T-shirt. She had loved Hal, even if it had been one-sided and a mistake. She did not love Alex. She did not know how they had achieved such passion last night.

  Maybe it was due to the bizarre circumstances she found herself in, she decided. Maybe the fear and treachery surrounding her had made their lovemaking that much more intense.

  She paused before the mirror above the bedroom bureau, her hand pressed against her swollen lips, her eyes growing moist. She had regrets. Her fears—and suspicions—were not really allayed. She had to consider everyone related to the family a suspect. But worse than that, she wanted to be with him, again. "Oh, God. What am I going to do?" she asked herself in the mirror.


  The answer came immediately. Find the truth. Kate's voice, there in her mind, so frighteningly loud and clear.

  Jill glanced around, but Kate was nowhere to be seen— thank God. She was grim, uneasy. When she found the truth, she would also know the truth about Alex. She prayed that he

  had not been involved in anything more than wanting her paid off.

  Jill heard a noise downstairs. She hesitated. If he had left, without even a good-bye, it would be both a disappointment and a relief. If he was downstairs, a part of her would be pleased—while another part of her would be dismayed. Jill realized she was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She walked slowly downstairs, barefoot.

  He was in the kitchen, on his cell phone. And the cof-feemaker was brewing up' a pot of fresh coffee. Its sweet, thick aroma filled the room.

  He saw her and halted in midsentence. Their gazes locked.

  Jill was tongue-tied, like a fifteen-year-old after the first time.

  Except that she wasn't fifteen, and someone had killed Lady E. and ransacked her home and that someone had to be a Sheldon.

  Alex smiled at her, and said, "Okay. Thanks. Bye." He flipped the phone closed. His eyes were warm.

  "Good morning," Jill said cautiously.

  He continued to smile. "Good morning."

  He was staring. She crossed over to the counter and poured coffee into the two mugs, her back to him. "I haven't forgotten that you make a great brew." She wanted to smile back at him, but she was sane again, and her mind would not let her.

  He said, softly, "I hope that's not all that you remember."

  She felt her cheeks heat as she turned around to face him. "Last night was great." Her tone was so calm. She did not know how she remained so composed. And her words were a vast understatement.

  His gaze remained steady on hers. But his smile faded. "Yeah. You okay?"

  Jill glanced away. "Yeah."

  One of the most awkward silences in Jill's life settled abruptly between them. Jill could hear a neighbor's dog barking, a car on the street outside, and water dripping in the kitchen sink. Finally he said, "I have to run. I forgot an

  important file at the office, otherwise I'd have time to have coffee with you."

  "That's okay," Jill said, clutching the hot mug in both hands. Stupidly, she was disappointed. Yet a part of her needed him to leave. So she could figure out what to do now—about him—about them.

  He walked to her, paused. A moment passed in which he said nothing, in which he only sc^itinized her. "I'll call you later," he finally said, sliding his thumb over her jaw.

  Chills swept over Jill. How easily he could arouse her. In response, she pulled away.

  "Jill?"

  "Okay," Jill said. Not telling him that she would not be home later—that she would be in Yorkshire, at Stainesmore.

  He kissed her cheek, unsmiling now and even grim and maybe even hurt, and strode from the kitchen. Jill watched him go.

  When he had left, the front door slamming behind him, Jill slowly sat down. Talk about a no-win situation, she thought miserably.

  But there was no point in dwelling on what had happened. It had happened, and she would have to face the consequences, whatever they might be. And if she could stop thinking about Alex, she would, but right now, he was a strong presence in her mind.

  Jill went upstairs with her coffee to shower, dress, and pack. At eight forty-five she was ready, and she carried her duffel outside to her rental car.

  She had just opened the trunk and was heaving the duffel in when Lucinda appeared with her own ovemighter. They exchanged greetings and Jill took the other woman's bag from her and deposited it in the trunk, slamming it closed.

  "Shall I drive us out of the city?" Lucinda asked. "Or would you rather? I am very good at giving directions." Lucinda smiled.

  Jill glanced at the older woman. She felt obligated to do as much of the driving as possible because of their age differences. "Why don't I drive for the first two hours or so and then we'll switch?"

  "Thank you, dear," Lucinda said cheerfully, getting into her side of the Toyota. "I'm not the best driver in heavy traffic, you know."

  Jill climbed in. A moment later they were on A40, traveling at a good forty miles an hour. The traffic was moderate. Jill thought that that, along with the fact that it was a clear day, was a very good sign.

  Alex pushed his way into her mind. She tried to shove him out, and failed.

  "There's a light up ahead," Lucinda remarked.

  Jill had noticed the roundabout where several vehicles had stopped ahead of them, allowing cross traffic to proceed through, and was already touching the brake. To her initial surprise, the Toyota did not slow.

  She stepped on the brake again, more firmly—but the Toyota continued to cruise along at forty-three miles an hour.

  Jill pumped the brake, realizing in that single moment of horror that they had no brakes. Their brakes had failed.

  It was deja vu. They were speeding along—the huge tree looming before them — a scant instant before that heart-stopping, violent, terrifying moment of impact.

  "Jill?! Slow down!" Lucinda cried as they careened toward the cars halted in front of them at the busy intersection.

  "I can't!" Jill shouted, pumping the damn brake frantically, sweat breaking out all over her body. "The brakes don't work!"

  A red car was only yards away, in front of them. The Toyota raced on. The red car bumper looming before them. It was seconds until impact ...

  Lucinda screamed.

  Part Four

  Judgment

  •

  Twenty-Two

  September 15, 1908

  Ohe was ill. Kate held herself, afraid to succumb to nausea, as her carriage careened down the street.

  But they were not going fast enough. Kate rapped on the back of the coachman's seat with her gloved fist. "Faster, Howard," she demanded. "Faster!" The two bays were already whipped into a canter.

  "Yes, m'lady."

  Kate told herself to breathe deeply. There must be a mistake, she thought, bouncing on the velvet squabs of the seat.

  Abruptly she closed her eyes, which were filling with tears. Hadn't she known that one day Edward would be forced to wed someone else? As easily as his wicked old father had threatened him with disinheritance if he married her, Kate, he could do the same if he did not marry the bride of CoUinsworth's choice.

  But dear, dear God, Anne? Edward was to marry Anne? Her very best friend in the world?

  Tears slipped down Kate's cheeks. Pain pierced through her breast. There had to be a mistake—a vast and monumental mistake.

  She opened her eyes and dabbed at them with her gloved fingertips. Two images vied for her attention in her mind's eye. One was Edward's striking face, his eyes soft with the love he felt for her. The other was Anne's face, her eyes

  glowing, her expression animated-»-and never prettier. Anne was in love with Edward.

  Kate pressed her hands to her mouth to cut off a cry. This was terrible! And why hadn't Edward told her of this? Had he decided, finally, to capitulate to his father? No! That was impossible. Kate reminded herself of their interlude just hours earlier that day, the passion and love that they had shared. Undoubtedly he hoped to spare her feelings, Kate thought.

  Kate had been so upset when Anne had told her about the engagement that she had not even been able to ask the questions that now gnawed at her. Had Edward been courting her? Kate did not believe it, but Collins worth was very powerful and who knew what he might hold over Edward's head? And now she was trying to recall if she had seen an engagement ring upon Anne's hand. She did not think so.

  The carriage was slowing. Kate was overcome with fury, and she was about to bang on the coachman's partition and scream at him, demanding to know why he dared to slow down, when she realized that they were turning into the drive of Uxbridge Hall. Her heart now lurched hard. And she was afraid.

  She had only been to Edward's ancestral home once, when he h
ad brought her there after a ride in the park to give her his "grand" tour. Shortly afterward the earl had denied Edward permission to court her, much less marry her, and their affair had turned into a secret liaison. It hurt Kate's heart to be faced with the huge and imposing stone mansion now. She could not help but think about how she would never be welcome there, not unless one day, soon, Collinsworth died so she and Edward might wed.

  What is happening to me, Kate whispered, aghast, that I am waiting for an old man to die? Oh, God, what is happening to me?

  "Miss?" A servant was opening the carriage door.

  Kate came to and slid her hand in the servant's, allowing him to help her down.

  "May I help you?" one of two footmen asked her at the front door.

  Kate's hand was trembling as she took one of her calling cards from her purse. She remained dazed, but she needed all of her mental acuity now and she knew it. "Is Lord Braxton at home?"

  "I will make certain he receives your card," the footman said, taking the small, printed piece of parchment from her.

  "Is he at home?" Kate asked very firmly.

  The footman's eyes flickered. "I do not believe so. I will give him your card, Miss Gallagher. I am certain he will return your call."

  Kate did the unthinkable. She walked right past the servant and into the Hall's marble-floored foyer. "Please tell Lord Braxton I must have a word with him now. It is of the utmost importance."

  The liveried footman stared at her, eyes wide. Kate knew her breach of etiquette was severe. She could not care.

  "Very well," he began, when a sharp, patrician female voice called, "Fordham. What is going on there?"

  Kate trembled as the countess of Collinsworth entered the foyer, her organza skirts billowing about her.

  "Miss Gallagher has called upon the viscount," the footman began.

  The countess was a beautiful, elegant, very wealthy, and very haughty woman. Kate had been introduced to her just once, and had been immediately and obviously dismissed as unimportant. Now the countess stared at her with dark, penetrating eyes. And although her eyes were brown, her hair was blond. It was a startling contrast.