Legacy of Lies

by JoAnn Ross

  "Must you be so crude?"

  "Don't get up on your high horse with me, sweetheart." He ran his hand up her leg beneath the table. His thick square fingers slipped beneath her emerald silk skirt, exploring the soft skin above her stocking top. "I remember you liking it crude." His fingers tightened. "And hard.

  "In fact, how about you and I moving this meeting somewhere else. Somewhere more private."

  Mickey O'Rourke was everything Miranda despised. He was uneducated, horridly common and, thanks to an unfortunate habit of playing the ponies at Santa Anita racetrack, he was also, despite his hefty fees, always skating on the brink of poverty.

  She had no doubt that while her civilized ancestors had been drinking tea and playing polo, his people had amused themselves by painting their naked bodies blue and leaping out of trees.

  He showed her no respect. Not in their business meetings or in bed. But, she allowed, the man was hung like a Brahma bull and could keep it up all night. He also had access to something she wanted. Something that made her willing to hang around places like this waiting for him to show up.

  "What have you discovered?"

  "I'll give you the rundown in a minute. Soon as I get a drink." He signaled the bartender, calling out an order for something called a Black Marble.

  "Okay. The information your husband's private cop came up with checks out," he revealed, proving finally that he could, when required, get down to business. "Alex Lyons was born in Raleigh. She had a twin brother who was killed when he was still a kid. There's no record of any father."

  "I already know that," Miranda said on a frustrated huff of breath.

  "Yeah, but did you know that the mother seemed to have an incurable case of wanderlust?"

  Damn. Miranda wondered if O'Rourke was going to turn out to be a waste of money, after all. "The papers I found in my husband's home safe reveal that the family moved a great deal."

  "Every year, like clockwork," he agreed. The waitress delivered his drink to the table. He took a taste and nodded his satisfaction.

  "You know, Wambaugh invented this drink," he informed Miranda. "Stolichnaya on the rocks with an orange peel and a black olive."

  "It sounds absolutely delightful." Her acid tone said otherwise. "Who is Wambaugh?"

  "Joseph Wambaugh. The writer," he elaborated at her blank look. "He used to be a cop. Now he writes books about cops."

  "Ah. A kindred spirit." Her voice was tinged with sarcasm, letting him know she was fully aware that he'd been dismissed from the LAPD for various infractions, among them allegations of illegal gambling and citizen complaints of police brutality.

  His open Irish face closed up. Storm clouds gathered in his blue eyes, reminding Miranda that despite his seeming Celtic charm, O'Rourke could be a very dangerous man. "Christ, you can be a bitch."

  "True enough." She took another sip of her martini. Her green eyes turned as frosty as the Beefeater gin. "But let us not forget that I happen to be a very wealthy bitch. Who has thus far paid you a great deal of money for nothing."

  "Not exactly for nothing. What would you say if I told you that the Lyons family happened to move hearth and home each spring?"

  "Spring?"

  "April to be exact." He leaned back in the chair, took another drink and waited.

  It did not take long for comprehension to click in. "That's the anniversary of the murders and kidnapping. It's also the same month Eleanor runs her annual newspaper advertisements seeking information concerning Anna."

  "Bingo. Interesting coincidence, isn't it?"

  "But not proof."

  "True enough. But it's a start."

  "Yes." She sipped thoughtfully.

  "You know, if this Lyons chick does turn out to be Anna Lord, it wouldn't be that difficult to arrange an accident."

  "An accident?" The idea, which she honestly hadn't considered, proved surprisingly appealing. "Surely that would be extremely dangerous."

  He shrugged again. His shoulders, thickly muscled from daily workouts at Gold's Gym, strained the shirt seams. "Not really." He lifted his glass in a pantomimed farewell to the cops as they left the pub to return to their black-and-white cruiser parked outside.

  "Don't forget," rogue cop Mickey O'Rourke reminded Miranda, "I've got a lot of friends in high places."

  Miranda toyed with the green plastic toothpick from her drink as she thought about Eleanor Lord's will leaving the bulk of her vast empire to Anna. She thought about the irritating design deal Eleanor had offered Alexandra Lyons.

  Then she thought about the way Zachary had been looking at Alex the night of Eleanor's party. From his intense expression, she'd suspected the pair had not been discussing business.

  Whether or not Alex Lyons was, indeed, Anna Lord, Miranda realized that the woman still represented a very real threat.

  "Let's cross that unsavory little bridge when we come to it," she advised. "In the meantime, I've something else I want you to do."

  Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a photograph. The candid snapshot of Zach had been taken on Ipanema Beach during their honeymoon. Before that unfortunate little episode in the Mesbla store. He was wearing the brief black European swimsuit she'd had to coax him into. His hair was ruffled by the ocean breezes and he was smiling into the camera lens. That was, Miranda considered, the last time she could recall Zach smiling at her.

  "This is a photograph of my husband."

  O'Rourke nodded in recognition. "Zachary Deveraux. The department-store honcho."

  "Yes. I wish to know every time he and Alexandra Lyons are together."

  "You got it." He took the snapshot and slipped it into his shirt pocket. "How much coverage do you want? We can do bugs in both their offices and the broad's home, photo stakeouts, around-the-clock surveillance—"

  "I want, as you investigator types put it, the works."

  "Gonna be expensive."

  "I've always believed one gets what one pays for."

  "A lady after my own heart." He tossed back his drink, popped the fat black olive into his mouth and slipped his clever hand beneath the table again. "Is this meeting over?"

  A familiar warmth that had nothing to do with the two martinis she'd drunk began to flow through Miranda's bloodstream. "I believe so."

  "Good." He snapped her garter. "What would you say to a little afternoon delight?"

  She'd been planning a brief trip to Saks. A few days ago, while comparison checking their couture lines, she'd seen a silk Chanel scarf she'd found particularly appealing. Miranda weighed the equally attractive choices; both shoplifting and sex always gave her a rush. Then, remembering that long, lust-filled afternoon at the Beverly Hills Hotel last week, she made her decision.

  "It will have to be off the clock." She absolutely refused to pay for what was so readily available for free. "You're good, Mr. O'Rourke. But not that good."

  "Why don't you withhold judgment on that?" The rogue grin was back. "Until you've seen what I can do with my handcuffs."

  That idea, Miranda admitted privately as they left the pub, had definite possibilities.

  Chapter Eighteen

  With "Blue Bayou" on hiatus and Eleanor's optimistic and energetic plan to launch the retail line in a mere six months, Alex turned all her attention to creating her retail designs.

  She was not working in a vacuum. In order to work with Alex on the design concept—and to observe her closely—Eleanor began to spend more and more time in Los Angeles, staying at her bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Worried that perhaps she'd bitten off a bit more than she could comfortably chew, Alex found the canny retailer's assistance invaluable.

  As the first television product licensing venture ever aimed at upper-middle-class adults, the Alexandra Lyons Blue Bayou collection was staking out new retailing territory. The trick was adapting Alex's ultraglamorous costumes into equally alluring, reasonably affordable clothing.

  Remembering what Debord had said about knowing exactly who you were designing for b
efore she put pencil to sketch pad, Alex spent hours staking out Lord's stores to get a true fix on her clientele. The quintessential Lord's woman, she determined, was a woman with charm and sophistication and beauty. She was intelligent and successful and as a rule preferred sensual, rather than overtly sexy, clothing.

  It was decided from the start that Alex's clothes would not bear any outer labels linking them with the popular television program. After all, Eleanor pointed out succinctly, a Lord's customer was independent and self-confident. She would never purchase anything that might label her as a fashion victim.

  "As you can see, I modified certain outfits," Alex explained during a meeting with Eleanor in Zach's vast corner office. She'd been relieved to learn Zach wouldn't be sitting in on the design portion of the meeting. "What works on television doesn't always translate into real life."

  Eleanor nodded thoughtfully, comparing the actual still photographs of the actresses wearing the various dresses and suits during taping and the colorful sketches depicting Alex's adaptations.

  "That's true," she agreed with a regretful little sigh that suggested her retail marketing sense was warring with her feminine side. "Most women aren't going to put on big, veiled hats to go to the market or the office. More's the pity," she murmured as her gaze lingered a long time on an ultraglamorous, but oh, so huge red hat draped in black flowered lace.

  "Oh, I like this." She held up a sketch of a pastel pink gingham dress with a full, gathered skirt. The model in the drawing was holding a prim little handbag and sporting a beribboned straw boater. "It reminds me of Leslie Caron in Gigi, with a touch of Brigitte Bardot in Babette Goes to War."

  "That's the idea," Alex admitted with a quick, only slightly sheepish grin. "Those films were on late-night cable back-to-back the night I was trying to come up with a design for Tiffany to wear back home to the bayou for her sister's wedding."

  Sophie had devised that plot twist after Alex, needing to talk about Zach with someone, had told her about that long ago day.

  "The day she got pregnant with her old high-school sweetheart's baby," Eleanor remembered. "Gracious, that was a hot scene! The night Clara and I watched that episode, I half expected their lovemaking to set off the smoke detector."

  She grinned and fanned herself dramatically with the sketch; for not the first time since they'd begun working together, Alex found it difficult to believe that Eleanor was actually in her seventies. Her appearance, along with her unwavering zest for life, made her seem decades younger.

  "The contrast between that sexy scene and that sweet fifties-style dress was brilliant," Eleanor said, unstinting as always with her praise.

  Alex returned the warm smile. "Thanks."

  At the time, Sophie had worried that the dress wasn't as blatantly obvious as the rest of Tiffany's wardrobe. But Alex had argued that the exaggeratedly innocent gingham would work. And it had, better than she could have hoped.

  "The Tiffany wardrobe is certainly different from what we usually feature at Lord's," Eleanor mused, flipping through the sketches for the umpteenth time.

  Eleanor's careful study of the sketches reminded Alex of the time Debord had first examined her portfolio. Back then, she'd felt certain she would die from anxiety. Now she had more confidence, and while she admittedly worried that the older woman might reject her suggested designs, she knew such a rejection was not the end of the world.

  "It is a slightly younger look," Alex said carefully.

  She'd been worried about that ever since Zach's demographics had revealed the average Lord's charge-card customer was nearly a decade older than the Bourbon Street stripper character. But conversely, letters from younger viewers made up a large proportion of "Blue Bayou's" fan mail.

  And although she'd never claim to be a retailer, from a purely practical viewpoint, Alex thought it foolish to ignore such sales potential.

  "Definitely younger," Eleanor agreed. Her gaze lingered on a blue-and-green plaid pleated skirt and white blouse reminiscent of a Catholic school uniform. The only difference was that the skirt was scandalously short and shot with gleaming gold threads, and the blouse was created from diaphanous silk organza. Schoolgirl sex.

  "What you've done is wonderful, Alex. It's about time Lord's had an infusion of new blood."

  As she dug into her portfolio for the lingerie collection, Alex released a breath she'd been unaware of holding.

  "I realize that marketing really isn't my field," Alex said, distracted momentarily by Zach's arrival. Knowing he kept a very close eye—and an equally tight fist—on the Lord's bankbook, Alex had been expecting him.

  Today they were going to discuss factories, and she had a very good idea that she and Zachary Deveraux were about to have their first serious disagreement.

  "But," she continued, returning her attention to Eleanor, "an idea occurred to me I want to share with you."

  "What idea is that?"

  "I thought you might want to consider having actual customers appear in some of the print advertising."

  "Like those mink ads?"

  "Exactly. Except they always use famous faces. I thought it might be fun to show that any woman can be a star wearing clothing from the Blue Bayou collection."

  A curtain of silence settled over the room. Alex could practically see the wheels turning inside Eleanor's head.

  "I love it." She clapped her hands together and gave Alex a look that reminded her of the gold stars teachers used to put on her papers. "You definitely have a flair for retailing."

  A genetic flare, Eleanor decided, exchanging a brief, I-told-you-so look with Zach.

  Alex grinned, enjoying the praise and the moment. She'd been admittedly nervous about working with Eleanor. And not only because the job would entail seeing Zach on a regular basis. Stories regarding the elderly retailer's impatient, often curt tongue and short temper were legion; independently minded herself, Alex had worried that she and Eleanor Lord might clash on a regular basis.

  But instead, they worked flawlessly together. For two women of different generations, raised in such disparate life-styles, she and Eleanor were, Alex had discovered to her surprise, remarkably alike.

  As much as Alex enjoyed her work for Lord's, she quickly discovered she'd been right to worry about working so closely with Zach. The truth, as much as she tried to deny it to Sophie, as much as she wished it otherwise, was that she possessed a burning passion for a man she was forced to work with, a man she could only see in public, a man she didn't dare permit herself to be alone with anywhere but in his office.

  And even there they tended to keep the door open by mutual unspoken agreement, making Marge, his secretary, or better yet, Eleanor, their chaperone. And on the rare occasion they did find themselves alone, they maintained an inviolate border between personal and business conversations.

  "The important thing is to find a factory that will give us low labor costs and efficient delivery," Zach began without preamble when Eleanor turned the meeting over to him. "And right now, from a cost-per-unit criteria, we can get the biggest bang for our bucks in Korea."

  Alex had been expecting this. She was also ready for it. "I won't allow the Alexandra Lyons collection to be manufactured by miserably underpaid women in some horrid Seoul workshop."

  "You won't allow?" He reined in a burst of irritation that was threatening to ignite a temper he thought he'd put away when he'd donned his expensive Brooks Brothers suits.

  "That's right."

  Alex folded her arms and turned her gaze to the oil painting on the wall depicting Zach with his parents, sisters and grandmother working the family sugarcane farm. She remembered him telling her how it reminded him of his roots.

  "And quite honestly, knowing your background," she added, "I'm amazed that you'd consider exploiting the less fortunate."

  Eleanor, watching the exchange with interest, made a slight sound that could have been a cough. Or a smothered laugh.

  "I fail to see where giving impoverished citizens hones
t employment is exploiting the less fortunate."

  "Did you actually visit any of those so-called factories?"

  Zach had the grace to flush. Alex watched the color rise from his white shirt collar and felt a flicker of hope.

  "They're not that bad," he argued. But his voice lacked conviction.

  "Not that bad?" She raised her voice, realizing immediately she'd taken the wrong tack when his ebony brows came crashing down toward those midnight dark eyes. "Zach." She lowered her voice. Patience. "They're horrible."

  "I suppose you've been there?" His normally mild tone was edged with a sarcasm she was unaccustomed to hearing from this man.

  "Actually, I have. When I was working on Seventh Avenue, one of the foreign reps had a heart attack, so I was sent in his place."

  A cloud moved across her face at the memory of those vile, dark workrooms redolent with the stench of sweat and kimchi, where half-naked laborers toiled eighty or more hours a week for a miserly wage.

  "The first one I saw had some unpronounceable name, but like all the others I visited, it should have been called Pandemonium."

  The capital of Hell in Paradise Lost. It was, Zach admitted reluctantly, a deadly accurate description. He'd found the shops as unpalatable as Alex had. But despite his moral misgivings, his first loyalty was, as always, to Lord's.

  "Look, Alex, I'll agree that in a perfect world, everyone would live in nice little houses with picket fences surrounding lush green lawns and spreading elm trees. But we're talking about the real world. Where life isn't always fair."

  Her exquisite face, which haunted too many of both his sleeping and waking hours, had closed up. Realizing that she wasn't buying this argument, Zach decided to try another tack.

  "I don't know if you're aware that The Lord's Group gives a very generous amount of its corporate profits to charity each year," he began slowly, shifting into the same lecturing mode he used when delivering the annual report to the stockholders.

  "Which in turn generates a very healthy tax write-off," she countered.

  "That's beside the point, dammit! Would you just let me finish?"