Crandall had spent long, torturous years trying to atone for the fact that he’d never loved the boy’s mother the way she’d loved him. To honor her memory, and to keep peace between himself and Caleb, he’d kept his distance from Tessa, throwing himself into work like never before, using his career to make him forget the one thing he truly wanted, but could never have.
Now that he and Caleb had reached an understanding about the past, and now that his son was happily married and on the verge of becoming a father himself, Crandall decided he’d done enough penance. He was sixty-six years old, alone and battling a failing kidney. Time was no longer on his side. The clock was ticking, and if he wanted to reclaim the only woman he’d ever loved, he had to act fast. But now that he’d devised a plan to lure her away from her no-good husband, Crandall realized he didn’t want Tessa back in his life solely because they shared a granddaughter. He wanted her back because she still loved him and regretted choosing another man over him all those years ago. And he was willing to do whatever it took to help bring her to that realization, even if it meant lying, cheating and stealing.
If he’d had even the slightest inkling that she really loved Hoyt Philbin, he would have given up on winning her back a long time ago. But he knew the truth, that she was trapped in a loveless sham of a marriage bound by the dictates of their elite social circle. As the wife of a mayor, Tessa had spent years making the right connections and cultivating the proper image. Leaving her husband for another man would not only shatter that image, it would force her to admit she’d made a terrible mistake in choosing Hoyt over Crandall, a decision she’d stubbornly defended for more than forty years, though anyone who knew her as well as Crandall could see that she was miserable.
Opening his eyes, he saw that she had turned her head to stare out the tinted window, giving him her proud, delicate profile. It was so strikingly similar to Solange Washington’s that his breath snagged in his throat.
Beneath the silk wrap she wore, Tessa’s chest rose and fell rapidly with the effort to control her ragged breathing. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap, the fine bones protruded.
Without turning her head to look at him, she said in a low voice, “What makes you think we have a granddaughter?”
Crandall hesitated an appropriate beat, then reached for a manila folder on the seat beside him. He opened it and removed several photos of Solange Washington taken over the past two days by a freelance photographer he’d hired. Wordlessly he passed the pictures to Tessa, who accepted them as reluctantly as if he were offering her a poisonous snake poised to strike.
The moment her eyes landed on the first image, she gasped and nearly dropped the stack of photos.
Crandall felt inordinately vindicated by her reaction. It was the same way he’d felt when Solange Washington had stepped through the door of his library on Monday afternoon, looking so much like a younger version of Tessa he half believed he’d stumbled upon a time warp that had sent him back thirty-five years. With her chestnut-brown hair, high cheekbones, slim nose, slanted dark eyes and full lips, Solange was a dead ringer for the woman who’d stolen Crandall’s heart so long ago. Even her complexion—that unusual brown brushed with gold—was the same. Twenty-four years of knowing about her existence had not prepared him for the shock of actually coming face-to-face with her.
The photographer had captured her as she was running errands yesterday. In each photo, she wore a white peasant blouse with billowy sleeves and a long, red gypsy skirt, similar to an outfit Tessa had worn in an old photograph Crandall still had in his possession. Every once in a while—glutton for punishment that he was—he’d pull out the picture and stare at Tessa’s brightly smiling face, wondering what had gone so terribly wrong between them.
As he watched, Tessa slowly lifted her hand and traced trembling fingertips over Solange Washington’s hauntingly familiar image. “What’s her name?” she whispered.
“Solange. Solange Washington. She applied for the position of my personal assistant. I met her on Monday when she showed up for the interview.”
When Tessa raised her head to look at him, Crandall was surprised to see tears glistening in her eyes. “Does she know…did she know who you were?”
“No.” His mouth thinned to a grim line. “Or she pretended not to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Solange Washington was adopted as a small child and grew up in a town called Haskell. According to her, she doesn’t remember much about her past.”
“I see.” Tessa’s gaze bored into his. “And you don’t believe her.”
Crandall brushed an invisible speck of lint off the knife-blade crease of his dark trousers. “What I find hard to believe,” he said mildly, “is that after twenty-six years, Solange Washington decided one day to pack up and leave her hometown and make San Antonio, of all places, her new home. I also find it hard to believe that of all the jobs she could have applied for, she applied for one of mine.”
“I’m not at all surprised that she applied for the position,” Tessa said with a hint of impatience. “You know very well any number of people would kill to work for you. Why should this girl be any different?”
“She didn’t grow up in San Antonio, for starters.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s never heard of you before. Are you going to tell me you only received applications from people living in or near San Antonio?”
“Of course not,” Crandall said gruffly.
“My point exactly. Besides, she was new in town and needed a job. I imagine your ad, offering free room and board, must have sounded quite attractive to her.”
“There was no mention of free room and board in the ad. I did that on purpose.” Crandall frowned. “The point is, one way or another, whether or not she got the job, she was going to find a way to get to me.”
Tessa gave him a mocking look. “So you’re convinced that the girl is after something. What is it this time? Your money? Or your soul?”
“Possibly both,” Crandall said, ignoring the biting sarcasm in her voice. “That’s why I decided to hire her. If she’s up to no good, I’d rather be able to keep a watchful eye on her.” This part, at least, was the truth.
A shadow of cynicism twisted Tessa’s mouth. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Crandall?”
“Damn right,” he snapped, unapologetic. Tessa could sit back in her ivory tower and judge him all she wanted, but if Solange ever learned the truth about who she was and decided to seek revenge, Tessa stood to lose just as much as he did. Her marriage had already suffered as a result of her infidelity and the birth of their illegitimate child. There was no telling how her husband, Hoyt, would react to the news that his wife’s torrid love affair had not only produced a daughter, but a granddaughter as well. Talk about a gift that kept giving.
Tessa sifted through the photos, lingering over each one before shoving the pile back at Crandall. “So you’re having her followed and investigated.”
“I had these photos taken for you. I knew you wouldn’t believe me unless you saw her with your own two eyes.”
Tessa uncrossed and crossed her long, sleek legs. “We don’t know for sure that she’s Melanie’s daughter.”
“The hell we don’t,” Crandall growled. “We may be getting old, Tess, but we’re not blind. That girl is the spitting image of you, and you know it. What I want to know is who sealed her birth records so tight my private investigator keeps running up against a brick wall.”
Tessa frowned in confusion. “I don’t under—” As comprehension dawned, her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that I sealed her birth records?”
“You or that conniving bastard you married,” Crandall bit off tersely, convincingly.
Tessa nearly leapt out of the seat. “How dare you! Do you even know what you’re saying? If I had learned years ago that we had a granddaughter, do you honestly believe I would have kept something as important as that from you?”
> “You might have done anything to keep the truth about Melanie from coming to light and jeopardizing your husband’s political career,” Crandall said with calm, implacable resolve, ignoring a prick of guilt. “If memory serves me correctly, he was preparing to run for mayor around the time Solange Washington would have been born.”
“That’s positively absurd!” Tessa exploded. “When Melanie came to my house that day, it was the first time since her birth I’d ever laid eyes on her or heard from her. If what you’re suggesting was true, that would mean I’d secretly kept tabs on her all those years after she was adopted, and you know damn well I didn’t!”
Crandall studied her lovely, outraged face, pretending to search for any signs of deceit. After all, this was the same woman who’d once declared her undying love to him just a week before announcing her engagement to another man.
When he made no reply, her expression turned to one of wounded disbelief. “My God,” she whispered brokenly. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Crandall clenched his jaw. “Talk to your husband when you get home. Ask him how far he was willing to go to make sure none of the skeletons in your closet surfaced during his precious campaign.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Tessa fumed. “If you refuse to believe what I’m telling you, that’s your problem, not mine.” She glanced down at her diamond-encrusted wristwatch, then reached into her designer clutch purse and pulled out her cell phone. “I need to get back to the charity auction,” she told him. “It was only supposed to last for two hours. Please ask your driver to take me back to the mall so that I can catch a cab to the hotel.”
Crandall gave her a cold, narrow smile. “As you wish.”
They returned to the shopping mall without exchanging another word. Crandall, fully expecting Tessa to launch herself out of the limousine before it came to a complete stop, was understandably surprised when she made no move to leave.
Gazing at him, she asked quietly, “What if you’re wrong about Solange?”
He arched a dubious brow. “About her being our granddaughter?”
“No. About her motives for entering your life.” Tessa smiled, a soft, wistful smile. “What if she genuinely has no idea who she is? Or what if she does know, but all she wants is to get to know you? Will you let her, Crandall? Will you let her into your heart?”
He hesitated. In all the years he had known of Solange’s existence, he’d never allowed himself to contemplate the idea of having a relationship with her. Now that he’d met her in person, he understood why. She reminded him so much of Tessa, the woman who’d broken his heart and left him to pick up the shattered pieces, that it was easier for him to think of her as someone to keep at arm’s length, someone who couldn’t be trusted. Although he knew it was purely irrational, a part of him—a big part of him—feared that if he let down his guard with Solange, if he let her get too close to him, it was only a matter of time before she, too, broke his heart.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He wouldn’t.
As if she’d intercepted his thoughts, Tessa shook her head sadly at him. “I didn’t think so.” She reached for the door handle, then paused. “If you do learn that she’s our granddaughter, I want to meet her, Crandall.”
His eyes narrowed on her face. “I don’t think that would go over too well with your husband,” he said caustically.
“Let me worry about that.” Her eyes turned softly imploring. “Will you keep me posted on the investigation?”
Crandall hesitated, then gave a short nod.
As he watched Tessa climb out of the limo and hurry to the waiting taxicab, a slow, triumphant smile crawled across his face.
And for the first time in over forty years, he allowed himself to anticipate the very real possibility that he would soon have Tessa back in his life—permanently.
Chapter 9
Later that night, Solange sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor surrounded by half-opened cardboard boxes. After Dane left, Rita had taken her on a tour of the house before Solange returned to her bedroom to begin unpacking. A sedate fire crackled in the fireplace, warding off the evening chill. Rita had warned her the nights could get downright cold in the mountains, and she’d been right. A foray onto the terrace to gaze up at the glittering night sky had sent Solange scurrying back inside after a few minutes, rubbing her arms and shivering. Laughing, Rita had left the room and returned bearing a mug of freshly brewed hot chocolate from the kitchen.
Alone now, Solange sipped the sweet, obscenely rich drink while she debated what to unpack and what to stash in the storage closet Rita had shown her earlier. With the exception of her clothes and a few personal items, nothing she’d brought with her really needed to be unpacked. The spectacularly furnished suite contained everything she would ever want or need, from extra linens, blankets and towels to a full range of fragrant soaps, lotions and toiletries. Someone had even been considerate enough to stock the bathroom with feminine products.
In the end, Solange unpacked her clothes and decided to stow the rest of her belongings, which seemed shabby and out of place in her new lavish digs. But as she reached for a box labeled FRAGILE in black Magic Marker, she paused, then grabbed her box cutter and went to work.
Inside, covered carefully with bubble wrap, were several wood-framed family portraits, along with an old leather-bound photo album and Solange’s high-school yearbook. Had these items been kept in the farmhouse, instead of a storage shed in the backyard, they would have been destroyed in the fire. But, ironically enough, her mother had always insisted on storing important documents and other family memorabilia inside that musty old shed, contending that too much clutter in a house created fire hazards.
She couldn’t have imagined that a leaky gasoline generator, not clutter, would cause the fire that would someday claim her life.
Solange’s throat tightened as she reached inside the box for a photograph. Slowly she removed the plastic wrapping and gazed at a faded photo of herself at age nine, nestled between her parents against an artificial woodsy background. George and Eleanor Washington, a handsome couple in their late forties, had donned their Sunday best, which meant a simple tweed suit for him and a thrift-shop dress for her.
With a stab of nostalgia, Solange recalled tugging at the itchy lace collar of her yellow summer dress and whining because she was missing the Dallas Cowboys in their season opener against the despised Washington Redskins. The year before, while hanging out with the Somerset brothers, she had discovered the novelty of professional football, and had been addicted ever since. While Eleanor threatened bodily harm to her squirming daughter, George merely gave her an empathetic smile. He, as it later turned out, was a devout Redskins fan who’d been in the closet for years, because in Haskell, it was downright sacrilegious to root for any other team but the Cowboys.
Solange smiled softly, flooded with memories of watching Sunday-afternoon football games with her father, talking trash and teasing him about his dirty little secret when none of his friends were around.
A movement out of the corner of her eye interrupted her musings and made her glance up sharply. She was surprised to find Crandall Thorne framed in the doorway, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his fine wool trousers as he watched her with an unreadable expression.
“Good evening, Miss Washington,” he said quietly.
Scraping tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand, Solange scrambled to her feet, feeling as if she’d been caught loafing on the job by her drill sergeant. If she hadn’t been clutching the photo to her chest, she might even have saluted him. Tall and broad-shouldered, Crandall Thorne struck such a commanding figure he made Solange feel clumsy and unsure of herself.
“Mr. Thorne—”
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said mildly. “I just got home and thought I’d come by to see how you were settling in. I trust you’ve found everything to your satisfaction?”
“Definitely,” Solange said with a vigoro
us nod. “This room is amazing, and Ms. Rita has been the most gracious hostess. And your chef makes the best lasagna I’ve ever had in my life.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
Solange smiled. “You have a very beautiful home, Mr. Thorne.”
He inclined his head. “I apologize for not being here to welcome you this afternoon, but I had some pressing matters to take care of in town. Rita tells me you had car trouble.”
Solange grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately. The engine died on me. Dane Roarke was kind enough to give me a ride.”
Crandall sent her a vaguely amused look. “I doubt kindness had much to do with Mr. Roarke’s generosity,” he said sardonically, “but I’ll be sure to thank him, anyway.”
Solange smiled. “And speaking of gratitude, Mr. Thorne, I wanted to thank you for giving me this job opportunity. I know you had misgivings about hiring an aspiring lawyer, so I appreciate your willingness to take a chance on me anyway.”
Crandall passed a slow, appraising look over her face. “Do you believe you were the best person for the job, Miss Washington?”
Solange grinned. “Absolutely.”
He stared at her a moment longer before nodding toward the framed photograph still clutched to her chest. “May I?”
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