A Precious Inheritance

by Paula Roe

  Already half-aroused, he fell back on the bed with a curse.

  And that stupid, pointless argument.

  He was in love with Vanessa Partridge. The signs were all there: he’d trusted her with Sam, with his past. Yet he had no clue how she felt about him, and that awful, gnawing uncertainty came with a whole bagful of awkward emotions.

  It was as if he was a kid all over again, fearful of expressing himself, afraid of mediocrity, terrified of rejection.

  So he’d gone and rejected her first. What the hell did it matter where he lived as long as Vanessa was with him? As long as they were happy?

  But now she’d probably never speak to him again.

  He lay there for a few more minutes, sifting through everything, reliving those awful words, until his head began to throb in earnest.

  Do something.

  He tightened his jaw. He was a man of action, not a boy of doubt. An apology wouldn’t cut it—he needed a big gesture. And he knew exactly what he had to do.

  He rushed through a shave then a shower, the memories of last night still fresh on the warm tiles. Charged with purpose, he dressed then called down to the lobby.

  “I’ll bring the contents of your safe up to you personally, Mr. Harrington,” the day manager replied, “along with your breakfast. I trust your stay with us has been satisfactory?”

  “Very much.”

  “That’s excellent. Is there anything else I can do for you today, sir?”

  “No, thank you.”

  After Chase hung up he made a few phone calls and was checking in with his office when the knock came.

  Anticipation surged as he opened the door, revealing a waiter and the neatly suited day manager. As the waiter laid his breakfast tray carefully on the table, the manager—Ryan Kwan, his badge indicated—stood to one side, hands behind his back.

  Chase hung up. “You have my package?”

  Kwan swallowed, his shoulders as rigid as a soldier at attention. “It appears, sir, that the contents of your safe are…ah…missing.”

  Chase stared at the man for one uncomprehending second before a swell of fury quickly overtook it.

  “What the hell do you mean—missing?”

  Kwan swiftly dismissed the hovering waiter then closed the door behind him. “If I could verify your safe number?”

  Chase reeled off the number, barely able to keep a tight rein on his growing anger.

  Kwan nodded then said, “If you would follow me downstairs, Mr. Harrington…?”

  The seemingly endless elevator journey only chewed away the last of Chase’s thin control. A bunch of innocent scenarios had already been reviewed then rejected—mistaken safe number, accidental removal by staff—but instinctively he knew this was definitely not an accident.

  So who on earth knew he was here and knew he had the manuscript with him? Who wanted it so badly?

  Vanessa did.

  Everything ground to a halt the moment that terrible thought popped into his head. But still he considered it, examining the facts from every angle, dissecting the scenarios then put it all back together.

  No.

  He finally discarded the thought outright, but the damage was already done.

  Even if they hadn’t spent last night heating up his bed, he knew her. She’d been with him, by Sam’s side, for nearly two days, and he’d gotten to see a side of her that he somehow knew had always been there, if he hadn’t been so blinded by her former life and all his prejudices.

  So why the hell had he even suspected her, even for a second?

  The elevator doors slid open and as he followed the manager across the foyer, a dark cloud of realization began to build, poisoning his thoughts.

  Because you can’t trust anyone. Because your life is a totally screwed affair, thanks in part to the hand you’d been dealt as a kid.

  He’d spent years running away from that kid, drowning out the memories with money, power, success.

  If he could think that of Vanessa, there was something seriously wrong with him. He sure as hell didn’t deserve her. She’d be better off with a guy who’d trust her implicitly, someone who wasn’t always suspicious of everyone and everything around them. Who looked at people with open honesty instead of waiting for them to betray, humiliate or leave him.

  Who are you to deserve someone like Vanessa?

  * * *

  “Ness, you’ve checked your messages three times already! Can you just put that thing down and enjoy having lunch with us?”

  Vanessa placed her phone on the table with a sigh, glancing from her sister to an amused Ann Richardson while the lunchtime bustle of her favorite local café swirled around them. “That’s rich coming from you, Jules.”

  “Yeah, but all mine are work-related. I hardly think you’re about to get called in on an emergency diaper-changing.”

  Vanessa pointedly ignored her sister’s lame joke and turned to Ann. “So, you’re going to Rayas. Gorgeous country. Near Dubai, right?”

  “Yes,” Ann said. “But there’s no time for sightseeing—it’s a business trip.”

  “Anything to do with those golden statues?” asked Juliet. “I read about them in the paper,” she added at Ann’s look. “One’s missing, along with your treasure hunter, right?”

  “Roark’s official title is acquisitions officer, but yes, that’s right.”

  “I met him once, a few months back at that party of yours, remember? Totally gorgeous, but,” she added to Vanessa, “a bit too dangerous for my liking.”

  “Oh, Roark is a perfectly decent guy,” Ann countered.

  “So why doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” Juliet asked.

  When Ann shrugged, Vanessa offered, “Maybe he’s just too busy. Or he hasn’t met the right girl yet.”

  “He’s a scoundrel,” Juliet said with a sniff. “I like perfectly decent men.”

  “Ha!” Ann laughed. “Sometimes you need a scoundrel in your life. Especially a gorgeous one.”

  “Yeah, I think you’ve had enough of those, sweetie,” Juliet said dryly. “And speaking of gorgeous… I hear your Rayan sheikh is rumored to be a bit of a hot one. Raif something-or-other.”

  “Sheikh Raif Khouri. Crown prince of Rayas. And I suppose he is attractive if you’re into the whole ‘dark and mysterious’ thing.” Ann began spooning her pumpkin soup with way too much intent.

  “He’s single?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sooo…” Juliet placed her chin thoughtfully on her steepled hands. “Any chance of a little romance while you’re there?”

  Ann gave her a look. “No.”

  Vanessa weighed in, glad Juliet’s single-minded attention had focused elsewhere. “Gorgeous man, romantic country…”

  “And is he a scoundrel?” Juliet grinned.

  As they all laughed, Vanessa made a surreptitious glance at her phone again.

  “…and there’s Australia. A long flight, of course, but lots of men to—oh, Ness, will you just call the guy and stop fiddling with that phone?”

  Vanessa snapped up to meet her sister’s narrow look.

  “So out with it.” Juliet sighed. “He’s the one you flew to Georgia to see, right? Who is he?”

  “No one you know.”

  “You sure? I know a lot of people.”

  “Trust me. You don’t.” She couldn’t help but flick a glance at Ann, who was listening to their to-and-fro with an amused smile.

  “What does he do?”

  “He runs a hedge fund.”

  Juliet’s eyebrows went up. “Well, well. You’ve got yourself a rich man. I take it he is rich?”

  “Yes.”

  “And? What’s his name?”

  Vanessa’s gaze went first to Ann, then back to Juliet. “You are not going to check up on him.”

  Juliet held up a hand. “I swear to God, that’s Dad’s shtick. Not mine. Now, out with it.”

  Vanessa sighed. “His name is Chase Harrington. He—”

  “The guy who won the Dunb
ar auction?” Ann interjected.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  Ann left that hanging, until Juliet took up the slack. “What else does he do?”

  “He works, he spends his money, he donates to charity.”

  Her sister frowned. “Is that all? What about other interests outside work? What do you two talk about?”

  “Lots of things.” Vanessa felt the blush rise at the memory of one particular intimate conversation.

  “And,” Juliet added with a direct point of her fork, “what do you have in common?”

  She stumbled her way through a few answers, yet when Juliet went back to her salad niçoise, Vanessa mulled over the questions again.

  She knew Chase lived to make money and was committed to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. She also knew what truly motivated him, which made him different from all those other men who didn’t care about the deeper consequences of amassing a fortune. He had a conscience. An inner drive. He was a man whose experiences and deep-held beliefs had shaped him into the success he was today.

  And she also knew he made love like a god fallen to earth.

  Hunger now gone, she toyed with the remaining pasta on her plate.

  Was she that forgettable? Was his grief and anger so huge that it completely overshadowed last night? She’d thought it had been an amazing, breathtaking night, but obviously…obviously…

  Chase hadn’t thought so. Because he’d been swayed by one stupid argument.

  She’d called him twice and had gotten his voice mail twice. The third time, she’d hung up before it had clicked through again. Dammit. How could they work things out when he refused to even talk to her?

  She sat there, glaring at her phone even as her heart began to crack.

  Well, it was his loss if, after one argument, he decided he didn’t want her.

  The jerk.

  That thought burned a hole in her stomach, until the ache of it all began to make her feel sick.

  “I have to get back to work,” she said when the waiter appeared with the dessert menu. She gave him a small smile and stood. “I’ll take a latte to go.” She turned back to Juliet and Ann. “You both stay. Continue catching up, okay?”

  “Okay,” Juliet said. “But you know we’ll be talking about you as soon as you leave.”

  Vanessa grinned, her mood lightening. “You always do.” She leaned in and kissed her sister’s cheek, then Ann’s. “Have a safe trip. I hope it’s a successful one.”

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  Despite Ann’s confidence, Vanessa could still detect a faint sheen of worry behind her eyes, which was odd, considering Ann was such a strong personality and totally in control of everything she did and said.

  Although not lately, judging by the papers.

  “Let me know how it goes,” she said impulsively, her hand still on Ann’s shoulder. “Okay?”

  Ann patted her hand, smiling. “Sure. I’ll call you.”

  With her take-out cup firmly in one hand, Vanessa made her way back to work, sad in the knowledge that Ann probably would call her. Unlike Chase.

  * * *

  On Thursday, Chase had had enough of staring blankly out at the breathtaking New York skyline sunset from his apartment window. Instead, he threw on his running gear, headed down to the second-floor gym and for sixty solid minutes, ran on the treadmill until he’d left every churning thought in the dust.

  For the past four days the familiar sting of failure had tainted everything he did, creating a bitter aftertaste that only infuriated him more. He’d thrown himself into the usual flurry of phone calls, texts and emails, keeping a close watch on the stock market, his regular websites and TV stations. Yet his orderly brain demanded answers, answers that were frustratingly lacking.

  He hated failure and this one was worse than any tanked business deal—this was personal. A thousand times worse. He’d not only failed Mitch and Sam, but now he could add Vanessa and her girls to the list.

  He grabbed a towel and wiped his dripping brow. The papers had exploded with the missing manuscript story hours after the police had been called to the hotel, so he’d had the fallout of that to deal with too. After two grueling days of dodging the press, he’d finally managed to return to New York, to the relative peace and quiet of his apartment.

  Past the pounding of his heartbeat and his heavy breath, he clicked on the decline button and the treadmill began to level out with a smooth whir.

  Vanessa had called his cell phone three times, but every time, left no message.

  Which meant she’d changed her mind about talking to him. He wouldn’t want to talk to him, either, not after the way he’d left everything.

  You’re afraid of seeing her again, aren’t you? Afraid of facing her disappointment, knowing he was the one who’d lost that manuscript. And knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing about retrieving it.

  Every day meant another rumor, another speculative guess as to who the thief was. The one currently doing the rounds was that Ann Richardson was behind it all.

  Waverly’s CEO, a criminal mastermind? Damn ridiculous. From what he’d been hearing of the woman—credible sources, not the tabloids—there was absolutely no reason for her to jeopardize Waverly’s reputation or her own by committing a felony. In fact, she had way more to lose.

  And Vanessa trusted her, which meant more than secondhand reports.

  As his stride slowed and the treadmill began to power down, he swallowed the rest of his water then grabbed his phone.

  A handful of missed calls, work stuff…and a familiar number. Anticipation surged as he redialed the ex–Rushford colleague who now worked on the New York Times front desk.

  “Mal, it’s Chase. What have you got for me?”

  “Well, for one, the rumor that Ann Richardson was behind the theft? False.”

  “Yeah, I was kind of thinking that.”

  “And the good news is they found out who stole your manuscript. Does the name Miranda Bridges ring a bell?” Mal said.

  “No. Who’s she?”

  “Dunbar’s publicist. She’s been dating a guy whose brother is currently in Rikers for homicide. The feds have linked him to a bunch of ex-cons, including a thief and a fence. And the trail from them led back to a night-desk guy working at the Benson the night before your manuscript was discovered stolen. The whole lot were arrested a couple of hours ago.”

  “They were professionals.”

  “Looks like it. The feds are already linking them to a bunch of other high-profile thefts in the Washington area.”

  Chase ran a hand over his eyes. “And the bad news?”

  “You know me too well. Your manuscript has already surfaced on the black market. The lead in your case is trying to track it, but it’ll take some time. And even then, these people use aliases to bid. The chances of recovery are slim.”

  “So it may be gone after all.”

  “It was insured, right?”

  Chase sighed. “Yeah. But that’s not the point.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t have better news.”

  He remained standing on the now-silent treadmill long after he’d hung up.

  He’d done what he’d set out to do, which was to fulfill Sam’s wish, and despite what he’d told Vanessa, that achievement did bring him enormous satisfaction. Yet somewhere along the line he’d decided he had to fulfill Vanessa’s wish too. Failure—an old, familiar feeling—cut as deeply now as it had years before, when he’d been fresh from the Rushford Investment fiasco.

  And just like before he needed to focus on the things he could control. Which meant work. Making money.

  He jumped off the treadmill and headed for the shower with grim purpose.

  An hour later, Chase walked into his corner office, the lights still on. The view from the window was identical to his apartment’s, one floor above: a breathtaking nighttime panorama of the city with the Empire State Building center stage and red taillights streaming down Madison Avenue. He’d gotten in
to the habit of turning off all his apartment lights and drinking in the perfect photographic scene, marveling at just how he’d gotten here.

  Tonight, however, it wasn’t the view that commanded his attention.

  A thick envelope sat on the corner of his desk. He grabbed it, turning it over.

  It was addressed to him, no return address.

  With a smooth flick of his finger, he opened the flap, reached inside then stilled when he pulled out the familiar sheaf of papers.

  Dunbar’s manuscript.

  His heart sped up, thumping hard against his ribs and he tossed the package on his desk, strode to the door and yanked it open. He swept his gaze down the short corridor, first left toward the elevator then right, to the darkened office on the other side. Nothing was amiss and no one was about. His assistant had long gone for the day, the cleaners yet to arrive.

  “Hello?” he said into the cavernous silence, then paused, listening.

  Nothing.

  He went back to his desk and read the attached note:

  Chase: This came up on the black market. You earned this back. Now give it to its rightful owner—little owners, I should say.

  It wasn’t signed.

  He dropped his hand and the note fluttered to the floor. Who on earth would do something like this? He knew lots of people who could afford it, but none he’d peg as a charitable donor, especially now with the notoriety attached to the manuscript. They were all too selfish for that.

  Vanessa was the only person who came to mind, yet why would she buy it, then return it to him?

  With a frustrated sigh, he collapsed into his chair.

  He had no idea who was behind this or why they’d spent a bundle getting back the manuscript. But he did know what he was going to do next.

  Thirteen

  Vanessa stood in the school kitchenette, trying to soothe a crying baby while a feeding bottle warmed. When Stella strode in, heading for the fridge, her back pocket suddenly blared the familiar strains of “Route 66.”

  “Hey, Stell, could you do me a favor and get my phone? It’s my sister.”