The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  She was stricken anew. The letterhead was the Periopolis Investigative Agency of New York City. Jill scanned the first paragraph and realized that she had been the subject of a thorough private investigation before Alex had ever met her—the day after Hal had died.

  "Oh, you bastard," she whiskered, knifelike pain stabbing through her chest.

  Abruptly she stood. He was still swimming laps.

  Jill reached for the cable. Her hands were shaking so badly that it took her a good minute to connect the printer to the laptop. She glanced wildly around. Paper. She needed paper.

  There was sheaf on the table by the window. Jill ran over' to it, watched Alex treading water. She ducked away from the window, afraid he might see her, and ran back to the printer, panting now. She shoved the paper in. She knew she didn't really need his report on her, but she hit the print button. As the printer began to print out the report she stood, gazing out of the window. Alex was standing in the pool now, adjusting his goggles. Was he getting out?

  "Damn!" She tore the two pages from the printer, opened up the next file on herself, her vision oddly blurred again. She hit PRINT again and stood, looking outside.

  Alex was stretching, standing waist deep in the water.

  "Oh, God," Jill whispered, squatting beside the printer. "Hurry, hurry up." Then she stiffened, her gaze taking in the name McFee. What the hell was this?

  She shifted to read the Libretto's screen. It was a medical report, but the subject was DNA—DNA?!

  Jill gripped the Libretto with both hands. ". .. no possibility that Jill Gallagher is not a relative. The DNA matches

  taken from her hair sample and William's blood were conclusive .. /'

  Jill sat back on her heels. For an instant, she was so stunned she could not think.

  Then it came. Edward was her great-grandfather.

  Kate was her great-grandmother.

  There was no elation, there was only absolute stunned confusion.

  And Alex would finish his laps at any moment.

  Somehow Jill hit print on the next JGallagher file, ran to the window. He was hoisting himself out of the pool!

  And as she turned to run back to the notebook, she thought he looked up, at his window—at her.

  "No," she gritted, tearing the next pages from the printer. She opened the first KGallagher document. And she recog-►nized it immediately.

  It was the-letter Kate had written to Anne that she and Alex had discovered together on the desktop PC at the Fifth Avenue apartment. Jill could not be surprised. But the extent of her bitter dismay stunned her. He was more than a bastard. There was no word in her vocabulary that would do justice to what he was.

  Jill canceled what she had done, opening the next letter. She hit the print command.

  Her teeth were chattering. The room seemed oddly cold. She was cold. Cold, sick, betrayed. As the printer began to whir, she ran to the door, cracking it ever so slightly, and peeked out. She saw no one. Oh, God! How long would it take Alex to come upstairs?

  Jill calculated she had mere minutes left before he would discover her.

  And then what?

  The Land Rover was outside. The keys were left under the rubber floor mat. She would use that to escape.

  But she wanted both of the last two KGallagher documents. She knew she did not have time to get them.

  The printer stopped. Jill tore the page from it and janmied it into her jeans with the other pages that were already there.

  She ran to the printer, yanking at the cable. She thought she could detect footsteps in the hall.

  Jill glanced around his room as she unscrewed the printer cable. She ran, tossed it back into his briefcase, certain she heard footsteps now. Then her gaze took in the open Libretto and the printer with a stack of paper in the feeder. Jill slammed the Libretto closed, tore the paper from the printer, closed that, and, the sheaf in her hand, she ran to the door, peeking out. She could hear him coming up the stairs.

  Jill dashed across the hall, into her room, slamming and locking the door behind her.

  Alex walked directly into his bathroom, turning on the shower. He fooled with the temperature until the shower was so hot that the bathroom immediately began to fill with steam. He shed the thick terry robe and skimpy Speedo, stepped inside, closed his eyes, and let the hot water pummel him. It did not, could not, ease his tension.

  Which was unbearable.

  Perhaps ten minutes later, he turned off the water and stepped from the stall. He toweled off, refusing to regard his reflection irt the bathroom mirror, unable to look himself in the eye. Naked, he walked into the bedroom, reaching for briefs that he'd left on the bed. As he stepped into them, he felt disturbed.

  With the finely attuned instincts of a hunter, Alex froze, not reaching for his jeans. He listened carefully to the sounds of silence all around him.

  But his room was not absolutely silent. The faucet in the shower was dripping. He'd left one window cracked, and the cord from the Venetian blinds behind the draperies was pinging against the wall.

  Alex looked around his room. Neither of those sounds interested him.

  And then he heard it, a soft, faint, barely-there whirring.

  His gaze slammed to the Libretto, which was closed. An instant later he had reached his machine, and opened it, but it was off—and it did not whir, anyway.

  His gaze fell on the portable Brother printer. The power light was ON.

  His jaw flexed, hard. "God damn it," he said.

  In her red anorak, Jill ran across the lawn toward the Land Rover. Panting, she reached the black utility vehicle, swinging open the door and reaching beneath the seat, where she'd seen Alex leave the keys. Her hand closed over them.

  She was shaking, breathless, terrified. A chant was echoing in her mind ... He was the one. He had to be the one. The letters, the files, the lies. How long had he known the truth—that she was Kate and Edward's great-granddaughter? She had to get away. She had to get away now.

  Jill jammed the keys in the ignition, glancing backward over her shoulder, out of breath, her bangs in her eyes, expecting to see Alex flying down the front steps of the house at any second. She saw nothing, no one, behind her. The heavy front door remained solidly closed. The engine turned over, far too loudly. Jill prayed that Alex was still in the shower—she'd heard it running as she'd made her escape from her room—as she shifted into first and then second and took off down the drive, gravel spitting in the Rover's wake.

  And just as she reached the end of the drive, a big tan Mercedes sedan pulled into it.

  Jill wrenched the wheel hard to the left to avoid a collision, careening past the sedan. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the driver and the passenger. Even though William wore some kind of cap, there was no mistaking who he was. The woman beside him in the front seat had her hair covered with a scarf—^Margaret.

  Jill turned onto the narrow coastal road, burning rubber, her heart wedged unpleasantly into a hard knot high up in her chest. William and Margaret, there in Stainesmore—it made no sense. Glancing repeatedly in her rearview mirror, Jill stepped on the accelerator. She gripped the leather-bound steering wheel with both hands, which were clanmiy and wet, her heart drumming in her chest, the Land Rover leaping over the road's bumps and ruts. It was only a matter of time

  until Alex discovered either the violation of his files or that she was gone.

  Jill did not know what to do. She wanted to fax all of the documents stuffed into her anorak to Lucinda, but she was afraid to stop in the village, afraid those few precious minutes would enable Alex to catch up with her. The Land Rover careened down the hilly, twisting road. It was misting out and Jill tried—and failed—to find her wipers.

  Periodically Jill could glimpse the choppy gray waters of the North Sea through the sparse trees on the left side of the road. She realized Coke's Way was not far ahead.

  Grainy, grayish headstones pierced the fog, ahead of her, against a backdrop of slick wet grass and s
piny trees.

  The chapel! She could fax everything from the vicar's office.

  Jill gunned the accelerator pedal. She raced down the road and swung the wheel wildly, turning far too abruptly across the oncoming lane into the drive of the chapel. She hit the brakes, the Rover spitting gravel. And even as she ran toward the old stone church, she was frantic, wondering if Alex was on the road behind her, if she was losing her small, precious head start.

  Lights were on—a good sign. She thrust open the old, scarred wooden door, found herself standing in the nave. The chapel was filled with shadows because of the late afternoon and the rain that would start at any moment. "Vicar? Vicar Hewitt?" Her voice sounded high, raw, and panic-stricken even to her own ears.

  He appeared out of the shadows at the far end of the nave. Slowly approaching. Jill could not make out his expression because of the gloom but suddenly she was paralyzed, because it flashed through her mind that he had been waiting for her. But no, that was impossible, she was losing her grip, completely.

  "Miss Gallagher?"

  "I need your help," Jill cried, twisting her hands and realizing with some odd, detached surprise that they were scratched. "I need to use your fax, and I need you to keep a lookout for me!" Tears slid down her cheeks.

  "A lookout?" the vicar asked, pausing to stand before her.

  "I'm being followed," Jill whispered. "I'm in trouble. Can I use your fax now?" She started past him, toward the small office behind the nave.

  "Miss Gallagher. You are distressed. Let me take you to my home for some hot tea and you can explain to me what this is all about."

  Jill shook her head, running now down the nave. "Maybe you could send these faxes for me." She could envision Alex behind the wheel of the Lamb, just moments away.

  "I'm afraid you do not understand. I do not have a fax machine."

  Jill stumbled and stared. It took her a full moment to comprehend what he was saying, and then, when she did, she heard the most awful sound she had ever heard in her life—a familiar, powerful roar—the sound of Alex's Lamborghini stopping in the drive outside of the chapel.

  For an instant, Jill was paralyzed.

  In the next instant, she looked up, met the vicar's dark eyes. "Don't tell him I'm here!" And she ran past him, down the nave, into his office, and out the back door.

  The vicar did not move. A moment later the front door opened and Alex stepped inside, removing a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses. It had begun to rain, and his distressed brown leather jacket was spotted with water.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Preston," the vicar said. He pointed. "She went that way."

  Alex nodded.

  Twenty-Four

  October 17, 1908

  1 HE LAST PLACE SHE WISHED TO BE WAS AT BENSONHURST.

  Kate stood on the landing above the ballroom, staring down at the crowd. She had not seen or spoken to Anne since that horrendous occasion a week and a half ago at the Fairchilds'. In the interim, she had not been able to eat or sleep. She had spent most of her time with Peter, holding him to her breast, trying not to give in to her grief and despair and a terrible sense of impending doom.

  Kate clutched the railing for support. She had nibbled on dry toast that morning, and now felt faint. She wished she had eaten something heartier. But she supposed there was a bright side—she had been able to squeeze into her most dramatic ball gown, a bare, black lace creation she had worn once before her pregnancy. She was making a statement. She knew she was beautiful and desirable, and tonight, no one would think otherwise.

  She had dressed for Anne now that they were rivals.

  The ballroom below was filled with guests; Kate was late. She saw Anne and her parents holding court in thp very center of the huge room, Anne lovely in a pale pink taffeta gown. She was wearing, Kate realized, some of the Benson-hursts' most priceless jewels. Diamonds dangled from her ears, were roped about her throat. The jewelry was overpowering. Kate herself was wearing nothing but a locket on a

  black velvet ribbon. It was a very special locket, given to her by Anne at Christmas two years ago. In it were their two portraits. That holiday, they had sworn to be best friends forever.

  Briefly, Kate's eyes blurred with tears as sadness overcame her. She had become overly emotional these past few days—every little thing, every recollection, every memory, every doubt, every fear, was enough to make her weep. How torn she was over her predicament. She did not want to be at odds with Anne, she did not want to fight with her for Edward's hand. She wanted everything to be set right; for things to be the way they had been before Kate had returned to London.

  Then Kate realized that the earl of CoUinsworth and his wife, the countess, stood beside Anne and her family and she stiffened. They had all seen her.

  Kate slowly came down the stairs, refusing to tremble, her long, scalloped hem trailing after her. She wondered if Aime had told her secret—hers and Edward's—to the world. Everyone seemed to be staring at her, as if she were an uninvited guest—or a fallen woman. Kate neither faltered nor flinched. And she had been invited—before that fateful day in the Fairchilds' gardens.

  Kate continued toward Anne, her parents, and the Shel-dons, her head held impossibly high, her cheeks flaming, hoping against hope that Anne had not heartlessly destroyed her reputation. They were at a terrible impasse, but surely such a friendship meant something, still.

  And where was Edward? Kate did not think he had arrived yet.

  She had not breathed a word of what had transpired to Edward. She had not dared.

  Kate felt more than ill. She felt as if she were on a terrible precipice, and that there was no way to step back, that there was no way to safety, to certainty. She had been living with an almost insane fear, a feeling that one small nudge and she would be hurtling downward, to her death. These past few days, she had been haunted by her fears and what could only be a frightful premonition—that something disastrous was about to occur. That her very worst nightmare would soon

  come true. That she was about to lose Edward, Peter, everything.

  She had recently come into the habit of glancing over her shoulder, almost expecting to see Anne there, or someone, watching her, waiting for her. Kate was afraid she was unraveling; she was afraid she might be losing her mind.

  She paused before Anne and her family. "Happy birthday," she said with her most gracious smile. Her pulse was pounding in her chest. Nerves beset her.

  And Anne did not smile back. Anne stared at her as if she were a monster with two heads.

  Oh, God, Kate thought, feeling so ill she might very well vomit there on the spot. But she continued to smile, and she kissed Anne's cheek. Anne said not a word. Her expression was frozen into a nearly expressionless mask. Her eyes, however, were filled with disdain.

  Kate turned so abruptly that she lost her balance. Only to find Lady Bensonhurst staring at her with such censure that she realized, in the next heartbeat, that Anne's mother knew about everything. And the civil greeting Kate had been about to offer died unspoken on her lips. Anne's mother knew — Anne had told her about Edward and Peter.

  A feeling of panic rushed over Kate.

  She looked past her to the earl of Collinsworth and his wife. His cold hard stare was every bit as unwelcoming as Lady Bensonhurst's. The only person present who seemed to have any compassion was the countess; her smile was slight, but perceptible.

  It hardly mattered. Kate had come out of pride. She had also come to stake out her territory, even if Anne would be the only one to know what she was about. And perhaps she had come hoping to find that an old friendship still lived. Now she managed a curtsy, muttered some greeting, she knew not what, and fled.

  She needed air. Desperately.

  As she rushed through the crowd she finally saw Edward, his gaze fixed upon her. But Kate could not stop. She was truly about to be sick. She ran past astounded guests and through the terrace doors onto the terrace behind the house.

  In the comer, she hung over the raili
ng, heaving dryly, miserably. The night could not be worse.

  "Kate!"

  Not now, she thought silently, desperately, clinging to the stone balustrade.

  Edward's hands steadied her shoulders as she straightened. "You're'ill! When did you become sick?"

  Kate did not face him; he remained standing behind her. The moon was full in a starry night sky—a very unusual sight. "Very recently," she said withvreal and bitter irony.

  He was silent. Then his hands tightened on her shoulders and he turned her around. "You have been acting strangely all week. Avoiding me, I think, as much as it is possible for a woman to avoid the man she shares a bed with. What aren't you telling me?"

  Kate looked up at his beloved face, into his searching eyes, and almost blurted out everything.

  Anne said, "Edward. Kate is ill, please do not embarrass her. Let me manage this, as this is a moment between women."

  Kate looked past Edward and saw Anne behind him, her eyes overly bright, her expression extremely, severely, composed. And she was afraid, terribly afraid, to be alone with her.

  For one moment, Edward did not move. Then he stepped aside. "Of course. I would never wish to embarrass a lady." He bowed and finally smiled at Anne, but stiffly, before striding away.

  Kate almost called him back.

  And Anne's face changed. "How dare you come here!" she cried, low. "How dare you set foot in my home!"

  "Anne .. ." Kate began, shocked by her vehemence. She had expected bitterness, perhaps, and anger, but not fury, not rage.

  "No! You must leave, this instant, before you humiliate me upon my birthday!" Anne's eyes were glittering unnaturally. Two spots of pink had appeared on her cheeks, perfect little round circles that might have been painted there. The effect was clownish.