by Paula Roe
She winced. Even now, the mere memory of her father’s commanding bellow still had the power to make her jump.
Focus. Chase Harrington. Right.
She could ignore him.
Yeah, right. You think Mr. Million Dollars would stand for being ignored?
Her mind whirled with too many questions lacking answers. What on earth was he doing here? Lord, had he actually thought she’d been serious about her sarcastic Dylan’s “girlfriend” crack? So what did he want? She swallowed. And the big one—did he know about the girls?
She hesitated, uncertain and unprepared until the doorbell made the decision for her. In a flurry of irritation she raced down the steps and yanked the door open.
“Don’t touch that bell again!”
His hand hovered, then dropped as he stared at her through the security screen. He dominated the space on her porch—tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in an expensive suit, an equally fine winter coat only emphasizing his impressive frame. “Okay.”
“Are you stalking me, Mr. Harrington?” She crossed her arms against the night chill.
“No. I just want to talk to you.”
“If you’ve tracked me down to accuse me of something else—”
“That’s not it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Can we talk inside?”
“You could be a psychopath for all I know,” she retorted. Of course, she’d checked up on Mr. Million Dollars—have to stop calling him that!—days ago. And what she’d found gave no indication he was a criminal…at least, not on the record, anyway.
Across the street a light came on—Connor Jarvis’s—and she sighed. After a quick glance up the stairs, she unlatched the screen door. “Fine. Come in.”
He paused on the threshold. “I could be a psychopath.”
“Apparently you’re not, or so Google says.”
Surprise flashed across his face and she swallowed a satisfied smile, adding, “Silver Spring’s a bit far from One Madison Park just for a talk.”
Yes, I’ve been checking up on you. She let him digest that as she relatched the door.
She hadn’t forgotten their encounter, least of all that weird, tense moment just before Ann’s driver had inadvertently rescued her. She’d spent the last few days trying to forget it, steadfastly refusing to do what she normally did, which was scrutinize every single word, every action and reaction, then sort and define subtext and body language, keeping herself awake at night in the process.
She could practically hear her sister Juliet’s teasing laughter ringing in her ears. You always analyze things way too much, Ness. Does he like me? Do I like him? Should I hold his hand? Should I kiss him? And if I do, will it mean I’m too easy?
She’d interpreted Dylan’s interest—correctly, as it turned out—and followed up on it, which was how she’d ended up in his bed. And boy, had that turned out to be one colossal misjudgment on her part.
Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice, chère, her grandma used to say. And Partridges are smarter than that.
She finally turned to face him, the hall’s subdued lighting creating shadows and slashes of light across his face. Unfortunately, it was a very nice face and Vanessa could feel the unwanted flicker of attraction warm her insides.
He’s just a good-looking guy. Yet there was something else, something behind those carefully shuttered eyes, that called to her, something different.
Yeah, you always go for the brooding, intelligent, emotionally stunted ones, don’t you?
Vanessa clamped down hard on all emotion, instead letting righteous indignation flow freely. Chase Harrington here, in her home, did not bode well, of that she was certain.
Three
“Look, you’ve obviously been checking up on me, Mr. Harrington,” she began, arms crossed and eyes hard. “So you should know I was a legitimate bidder in that auction.”
“It’s Chase.”
Chase studied her as she stared at him expectantly, her legs planted wide and arms crossed in a classic defensive stance.
Chase tipped his head. “You’re swaying.”
Her cheeks flushed and she abruptly stilled. “Force of habit. So…you were telling me why you were here.”
Good question he’d yet to fully answer himself. Did rampant curiosity count or would that make him really sound like a stalker? “What you said at Waverly’s—the bit about you being Dunbar’s girlfriend. Was it true?”
She blinked, shock leaking out before she swiftly wiped her expression clean. “No. And anyway, what possible interest is my life to someone like—” she put her hand out, palm up, and swept him from head to toe “—you?”
That got his back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“That little…” He mimicked her gesture with a lot less finesse.
She pulled her back straight, chin tipping up. “I mean, you are obviously a rich man. Someone with connections and power and influence…”—did she just curl her lip?—“And I, on the other hand, am not.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Miss Partridge.”
She frowned and there was that look again, that irritating-as-all-hell flash of arrogance. It was an expression so effortlessly executed he wondered if she’d spent hours practicing in the mirror.
Chase gritted his teeth. Yeah, this was such a great idea.
As they silently glared at each other, a baby’s muffled cry drifted down the stairs, cutting through the charged air. Vanessa’s gaze snapped away, then she put a foot on the first step. “If that’s all you came to say…?”
“There’s more.”
Irritation flared in those wide green eyes, but she reined it in with practiced ease.
“Go,” he said, nodding up the stairs. “I’ll wait.”
With a frown and a grudging “fine,” she turned away.
Chase’s gaze followed her jeans-clad bottom as it swayed upward, one mesmerizing step at a time. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Bare feet… Nicely filled pair of denims…
Wait, what?
He shook his head then dug fingernails into his clenched palm for good measure. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out her rapid steps.
He’d managed to gain control when she returned fifteen minutes later, her hands brushing back a few stray hairs as she slowly descended.
“You have a baby,” he stated, feigning ignorance.
She crossed her arms. “Two girls. Twins. But considering you know where I live, I’m pretty sure you already know that.” When he slowly nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “Why the interest in me?”
“Why did you want Dunbar’s manuscript?”
“I told you why.” She cocked her hip, hands going to her waist as she effected a deliberately bored expression. “I hate waiting.”
Chase sighed. She was trying too hard and his patience was dwindling. But instead of plowing through her facade, he moved on. “So you’re a D. B. Dunbar fan.”
“Of his books, yes.”
He swiftly picked up on that correction with no outward indication. What did she think he’d meant?
Then she added, “So you must be quite a fan too.”
“Me? No.”
She frowned. “You’ve never read any of his books?” At his head shake, she said incredulously, “Charlie Jack? Calm Before the Storm? Justice Prevailed?”
“No.”
“You should. He is…was…” She paused, searching for the rights words before settling on, “Incredibly, amazingly talented. The world he painted just takes you to another place.” She smiled the smile of a true believer. “There are a finite number of words in the English language, yet when D. B. Dunbar arranged them he did it in such a way every page just sang. He was—” she hesitated a brief second, a flash of something behind her eyes “—a great writer.”
He’d bet a thousand bucks that wasn’t what she was originally going to say.
She brushed her hair back again, the other hand going to her back
pocket. “So why did you buy the manuscript if you’re not a fan?”
“It’s a collector’s item,” he said neutrally. “A good investment that will only increase in value with the author dead.”
A flinch. Just a small one, barely noticeable. But he still caught it.
A thread of disquiet surged.
In New York she’d been as slick and icy as a January sidewalk. But here, on her own turf, not so Perfect. That is, if you didn’t count that haughty display earlier.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, recrossing her arms. “Why the interest in me?”
“Because I wanted to make sure you were on the level. And if you were, I owed you an apology.”
Her brow twisted into confusion. “A phone call would’ve sufficed.”
“Ah, but you could’ve hung up on me.”
“Most probably. So, Mr. Harrington—” she crossed her arms “—what did you find out about me?”
Oh, boy. Amazingly, he found himself tongue-tied, trapped beneath that challenging green gaze like a fifteen-year-old kid caught spying on the girls’ bathroom. He took a steadying breath, unable to shake the remnants of his past. “Your sister and Ann did go to college, your parents are hugely successful lawyers. You started out studying law but instead changed your major. But…”
“But what?” She lifted her brow questioningly. “You’ve come all this way, you might as well ask. Whether I’ll answer, though, is another thing.”
“You’re not exactly flush with cash, are you?”
“How could I afford to bid, you mean?” Her face tightened, shoulders straightening. “I have an inheritance from my maternal grandmother.”
Oh, this just gets better. Of course Vanessa Partridge has an inheritance. “But not enough to outbid me.”
Her mouth thinned. “No.”
Chase’s outward expression revealed nothing of the confusion warring inside. Her response didn’t feel rehearsed, and he’d seen some standout performances in his time. So, if he scratched shill bidder, what was left? She was more than just a rabid fan.
But how to approach it so she wouldn’t end up kicking him out?
Fresh out of inspiration, he glanced up at her brightly painted blue door. “So, what are your girls’ names?”
She hesitated then said slowly, “Erin and Heather.”
Chase’s eyebrows shot up. Score. “The characters in Dunbar’s manuscript.”
“What?”
She grabbed the stair railing, her eyes rounding.
He put out a steadying hand, but she waved it away with an “are you kidding me?” look. Suitably chastened, he watched her shake her head, her gaze on the floor.
“I skimmed through the manuscript,” he continued slowly. Her thick auburn ponytail slid over her shoulder as her chin dipped and she placed one hand on her hip. “About halfway in he introduces two characters called Megan and Tori. But in his notes, he renames them.”
Her head snapped up. “Did the notes explain why?”
“No.”
“So the published version will be—”
“Heather and Erin. Your daughters.” He paused, then added calmly, “And Dunbar’s.”
Silence fell, stretching interminably, punctuated only by the thick exhale of her breath. Shock? Anger? A prelude to tears? Whatever was going through her head, he knew one thing with unerring certainty: Vanessa Partridge wasn’t the type to cry in public. Her straightened shoulders and lifted chin just seconds later proved that thought.
“You’d better come up.”
His brow lifted. “You sure?”
With a swift nod, she turned and went back up the stairs.
Refusing to focus on her rear end, Chase finally reached the top and followed her inside. He took in the short horizontal hallway and a glimpse of a bedroom to the right before she pointed in the opposite direction and said, “Take a seat.”
He did as she asked and walked into her living room.
Stacks of books, their spines creased and worn, lined the far wall of the cozy room, spreading out under the large window to his left, before a small television and DVD player filled the remaining gap. A high shelf housed a multitude of keepsakes—a candle holder, an oddly-shaped clay sculpture and a dozen tiny origami figures. Magazines cluttered the coffee table, along with a stack of colored paper and a jar of chunky crayons. A playpen sat center, bracketed by a corner lounge chair.
So, was this the real Vanessa Partridge?
He gave her apartment another once-over. Why would someone with silver-spoon parents be living in a rental and working as an underpaid preschool teacher?
* * *
Vanessa closed the door behind them, her mind a whirling mass of chaos and confusion. Why? Why had Dylan…?
That phone call.
“I have to talk to you.” That was it. One scratchy, tinny message he’d left on her voice mail. She’d assumed he’d meant “right away” and gone from hopefully optimistic to raging fury after three hours and five messages and he still hadn’t shown up. Then she’d turned on the TV and discovered Dylan was not only half a world away, but he’d died in a plane crash.
She slowly walked into her living room. Never had she felt the sting of bewilderment so keenly than at this exact moment. Yes, she’d been dumb enough to get involved with a guy incapable of loving her the way she should be loved, and that awful, gut-gouging hope when she’d played his last message over and over had been her own personal torture device for days.
But this? This was off the charts.
She’d had no one to confide in after the accident, which had magnified her isolation a thousandfold. When the news had run the D.B. Dunbar stories 24/7 for weeks, interviewing his neighbors, his editor, his assistant, all she could do was stare at the screen with a mix of frustration and anger. Starting her new life and new job had been hard, but they’d been minor traumas compared to the ever-constant ripples that being D. B. Dunbar’s secret girlfriend had wrought.
And Chase Harrington was the only other person alive who knew the truth.
Well, more than most. She shot him a panicky glance.
“So what—” she began.
A soft muffle interrupted them and their eyes met. Vanessa turned and started down the hall until Chase’s hand on her wrist pulled her up short.
“Wait.” She stared at him, then at his warm fingers encircling her wrist. He let her go. “Just talk to her from outside the door. Don’t go in there and don’t turn on any lights.”
She frowned. “Why…”
The cries grew louder and Chase added, “Can you just try it?”
Vanessa glared at him then silently went down the hall to the door slightly ajar. “It’s okay, Heather,” she began softly.
“Higher. More singsongy.”
Of all the— She gritted her teeth and did as he instructed. “Mommy’s heeeere. Just go back to sleep, sweetie.”
She paused, letting Heather mutter again before adding gently, “Time for sleepy, sweetie. Baaaaaack tooooo sleeeeeep.”
She held her breath, waiting. After a second or two of baby mumbles, silence fell.
No. Way. She slowly turned to Chase, staring at him incredulously. “How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “I spent a lot of time with kids when I was younger. It seemed to work for them.”
When a sudden wail pierced the air, Chase added wryly, “But obviously not for Heather.”
Vanessa shot Chase a look then went swiftly into the girls’ room. The soft glow of the night-light spread across the walls and ceiling, highlighting Heather in the cot, flat on her back with eyes screwed up, ready to throw herself into her usual crying jag. Vanessa began the routine: a low gentle croon, slowly flipping her to her side, then rubbing her back, all the while scanning the mattress then the pillow.
Aha! She grabbed the pacifier and wrapped Heather’s fingers around the plastic handle. Almost instantly, Heather shoved the rubber nipple in her mouth and started to grumble, s
ucking furiously.
So very angry. Vanessa smiled. Erin couldn’t care less, she was so laid-back. But Heather—her fierce little warrior girl—couldn’t sleep without one.
With a quick check on the still-sound-asleep Erin, Vanessa made a silent exit, shaking her head as she padded back to the living room.
Chase was standing in the middle of her space, hands behind his back and legs apart. It was such a typically male stance, one that indicated control and command, that she felt her defenses go on full alert.
“Heather only wakes up when she loses her pacifier,” she said, trying to ignore the authority he radiated.
“Ahhh.”
“Erin could sleep through a bomb blast.”
He gave her a wry smile and for just one second, Vanessa wondered what it’d be like if he put everything into it. Devastating, most probably.
“You have kids?” she began.
“No. Look, I should apologize and—”
“Would you like a—” she said simultaneously. They both stopped, waited a second, then started again.
“…go.”
“…drink?”
Again, silence descended, but this time, Chase’s mouth curved and suddenly all Vanessa could hear was her heartbeat as it picked up the pace.
Mr. Million-Dollar Smile. Wow.
“I—I have coffee,” she said faintly, hating the way she stumbled over those three simple words. She quickly attempted to drag back the tattered remnants of composure, but his smile told her she was fooling no one with her straight back and square shoulders.
In fact, that smile only brought out a dimple. A dimple, for heaven’s sakes! As if he didn’t have enough money and looks in his corner already.
Well, deduct a few points for arrogance.
“Vanessa, let’s be honest here. I know why you were bidding on that manuscript.”
And a few more for impropriety.
He had no idea what the real story was and she had half a mind to tell him where to go. She even drew herself up, bolstering her mental strength while the cutting words formed on her tongue.
Yet as he silently stood there, waiting for her response with a look of—was that sympathy?—on his face, she chickened out at the last minute.