Claim the Crown

by Carla Neggers

  She looked embarrassed. “He isn’t aware I have it— but he was there, of course. That was the night he and Judith announced their engagement. You’d think he’d remember what she was wearing.”

  “It’s been thirty years.”

  “But she was the love of his life, and if they were the Balaton jewels—” She broke off, confused, maybe even frightened.

  David drank some of his tea; it tasted lousy. “Do you think he might have something to hide?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I can sympathize,” he said, giving her one of his lopsided grins. Women usually told him he had a great smile, but he was never sure what to believe and what not to believe; women had a tendency to tell him anything they thought he wanted to hear—at least most of the ones he’d met since the trust. They tried to be whatever they thought he wanted them to be, instead of just themselves. “Why did you come out here, Sarah? Why not just cut your losses?”

  “I came north because I wanted to see your sister...meet her, try to explain. As for out here, to the farm—” She shrugged. “I was asked to come here.”

  “Asked? By who?”

  She snatched up a marigold. “By my father.”

  “Well, well, well.”

  “He...he’d like you to join him in New York for dinner tomorrow evening. He didn’t tell me why. I don’t understand anything of what’s in his mind, what he’s planning, why. I just know he’s my father and I believe in him—and I’d like to help him.”

  “Why did he send you? Why not just invite me himself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Weird.”

  “He always has his reasons, David. Well? Will you come?”

  “Busted leg and all?”

  She smiled, an elusive tenderness coming into her eyes. “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, what the hell.” He grabbed his crutches and climbed painfully to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Calling Ash.”

  * * *

  After talking to David, Ashley walked up to her rooftop deck and looked west across the Charles River, toward Cambridge. She thought of her brother, battered and beaten, alone with Sarah Balaton, parts of their conversation still fresh in her mind.

  “Do you believe her, David?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please be careful. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  “Ash, a couple of months from now, we’ll be sitting in front of the wood stove laughing about all this while Barky soaks his feet and tells us he busted my leg and knocked you on the head for a good reason.”

  “And lied to us about who we are?”

  “Yeah. That, too.”

  Her eyes burned with fatigue and tension, and with hot, unwanted tears. Would there be answers on Badger Rock Island, Maine? Was she making another mistake by leaving her disabled brother with a woman who was deeply, perhaps dangerously, involved with this mind-shattering mess?

  “You must stop...I love you more than I do myself...I have kept you alive all these years... What I do, I do only for you...”

  As she remembered her uncle’s words, she shut her eyes and sobbed violently, gripping the rail of the deck. “Barky. Oh, God, what are you doing?”

  The sound of footsteps whirled her around, and the tears vanished as she saw the tall, ramrod-straight figure of Jeremy Carruthers coming onto the deck. It was ridiculous, she thought, this running away and chasing, this finding and wanting, this aching inside her that wouldn’t go away. The sun and the wind caught his dark hair, and the harsh afternoon light brought out the lines in his face and the darkness around those pale, pale eyes. He looked tired and unamused and not particularly glad to see her.

  “How’d you get in?” she asked.

  “I pocketed a key when you left me alone the other day. Thought it might come in handy.” His smile was almost sad. “I can’t be trusted, you know.”

  She felt an unwelcome sense of guilt, a feeling that was becoming all too familiar. “But you’d have made a good spy. You have the right instincts.”

  He joined her at the railing, standing close. The sun had begun to dip beyond the hills to the west, streaking the sky with fiery colors, and there was a slight breeze, tinged with the smell of exhaust fumes. Storrow Drive was clogged with rush-hour traffic.

  “Was Oliver brutal?”

  This time Jeremy laughed. “Not at all. In fact, we had a drink and shared tales of conniving women.”

  “That’s a sexist remark.”

  “Oliver’s a sexist man. However, I was able to persuade him that I was a victim of your female manipulations, a fool helplessly in love with a willful and impetuous woman—like Oliver himself.”

  Ashley glanced sideways at him. “You know you’re full of it, don’t you?”

  “Oliver suggested the same thing—not as baldly, of course. I had to prove to him I wasn’t a sleazy reporter. My business card, he said, was inadequate as proof. Finally, I called my father and had him vouch for me. Then, of course, I had to make due explanations to my father, who’s beginning to get sick of all this ‘nonsense’ and pointed out that Mac and I have work piling up and clients wondering where the hell we are.”

  “He hadn’t heard from Mac?”

  “I didn’t ask—Oliver was right there—but I don’t think so.”

  “And Oliver was finally convinced of your innocence?”

  “Finally. He drove me to the airport himself.”

  Ashley winced. “Poor Nelle. I wonder what she’ll do.”

  “If she’s smart, she’ll cross you off her list of friends.”

  “If she’s dutiful, obedient and boring, she will.”

  “She’s none of those—and neither are you.”

  “Nor you.”

  “Liars never are.”

  “I suppose not.” She didn’t avert her eyes. “Am I a jerk?”

  He smiled. “No bigger one than I am.”

  Then he lifted her hands from the rail and placed them on his chest, and he slipped his arms around her waist. And when they kissed, languorously, she felt the ache inside her slowly begin to ease.

  21

  He found her alone on the porch of the little house. She had been pacing, terrified, guilt ridden. Now she looked at him, and she saw that he was sweating in the humid southern heat. He was as dashing and mystifying as she remembered, but somehow frightening, too. It had been months since the panicky, disastrous escape across the Hungarian border. And yet, no one knew Lillian Parker had ever set foot in Budapest. It was their secret. It had to be.

  And she had thought she would never see the orült szerzetes again. The mad monk.

  “You must leave her with me,” he said in his precise, excellent English.

  “I can’t.”

  “You have no choice. For her safety—and yours—you must trust me. If I knew to follow you here, so will others.”

  “Aren’t you being melodramatic?”

  “No.”

  He was a man who never wasted words; he seemed without emotion. She had learned that within minutes of meeting him. “Will you stay here?”

  “It’s too risky. We’ll have to move.”

  She turned, looking out across the valley of cedars. It was so quiet here. “And you won’t tell me where you are, will you? Where she is? What’s happening to her?”

  “That would endanger both of you.”

  “You’re so sure, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I am.”

  “She doesn’t believe she’s in any danger, you know.”

  “I know.”

  A tense silence followed. She wondered what other young women her age were doing. Why did she always have to be so different? “I suppose you’re right,” she said quietly, hoping. “I have no choice. I have to trust you—as I did in Budapest. Tell me I was right then.” Her eyes lifted to him. “Tell me it wasn’t my fault.”


  He met her look, and there was tenderness and firmness, a strange blend, in his golden brown eyes. For him, she could be strong. “You must leave as soon as possible.”

  “If anything happens to her...I’ll blame you forever.”

  His expression remained the same. “If anything happens to her, I will blame myself forever.”

  * * *

  Just this one last brandy, Lillian Parker thought as she curled up on the brocade sofa in her Park Avenue apartment. She was enveloped in a red silk charmeuse caftan. Somehow it was easier, more satisfying, to indulge in self-pity when wearing silk. The tears squeezed out from under her closed eyes, but she brushed them away angrily. She had never been one for self-pity. It was useless, a waste of valuable energy.

  She hurled her glass at the fireplace. It hit the marble mantel and shattered, and she could suddenly see her own life among the shards. Her cowardice, her misery, her fear of the truth. She could look at other people, peer deep into their souls, but she could never look into herself, peer into her own soul. She had never been to a shrink, never gotten into any mystical religions, never taken up transcendental meditation. Even the books she read were strictly entertainment and all had the happiest of happy endings. Real life was depressing enough, she told herself; she saw shitty endings every day.

  She flew to her feet, found another glass, poured herself another brandy.

  You’re spoiled, she told herself in silent anger. Spoiled, headstrong, nosy and shallow.

  No one could be as hard on Lillian Parker as Lillian Parker herself. She took grim pride in that.

  As she made her way back to her couch, the intercom buzzed. The doorman announced she had a visitor. “Andrew Balaton, Miss Parker.”

  Well, hell, send in all the clowns. “Please admit Mr. Balaton, Louis.”

  Andrew arrived in an Italian suit, radiating, as always, good taste, good health, intelligence. He kissed her hand. She remembered the first time he’d done that, thirty years ago, in the midst of hell.

  “Andrew, Andrew,” she said, falsely ebullient, more than slightly drunk. “So good to see you. Come in, sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Brandy? Martini?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  She sat nervously on the sofa. During the past twenty-five years, under his direction, Crockett Industries had grown, profited, and changed its reputation from a wild Texas oil company run by the last of the Crazy Crocketts to a dignified, reputable Fortune 500 giant. Andrew had managed to change the reality of the company without tarnishing its legend, but he was one of the few truly modest men Lillian knew. He asked for no credit. He simply collected his paycheck, watched the value of his own Crockett Industries stock multiply and thanked J. Land Crockett for giving him, a mere immigrant and his son-in-law for less than a year, a chance to prove himself.

  He had loved Judith Land more desperately than Lillian had ever seen anyone love anything. And, with Lillian’s help, Judith had betrayed him. For that, Lillian would never forgive herself. She almost laughed, bitterly: just add it to your long long list of regrets.

  “Isn’t this a surprise,” she said, and, although not the tittering type, found herself nonetheless tittering. She sounded like a schoolgirl. But Andrew, she knew, wouldn’t object. He found silly women reassuring. “It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it?”

  He smiled politely, pretending not to notice the broken glass and splashes of brandy on the peach-colored carpet. “Too long.”

  She cleared her throat. She knew she was talking too loudly and trying too hard to sound cheerful. A man as perceptive as Andrew Balaton surely would notice. She tried to calm herself. “Well, Andrew.” She paused, and took a sharp breath. “What brings you to New York?”

  He watched her with his handsome deep brown eyes. “I think you know, Lillian.”

  “Ahh.” She smiled her best ingénue smile. “Crockett Industries plans to make a bid for the network.”

  “You never were good at being coy.” His words cut her off, and were all the more biting because they were delivered so quietly. That was Andrew’s style. He could cut someone to ribbons without ever changing his tone of voice. Crockett was all bluster and noise, but not Andrew. No, never Andrew. “It doesn’t suit you,” he went on. “You have always been Eastern cool—very reserved, very polished, very direct. We are alike in this regard, are we not?”

  “I never thought we were alike in any regard, Andrew.” She took a huge gulp of brandy and held her glass precariously between two fingers. “Tell me why you’re here. Obviously you have a reason.”

  “Of course—and one you know, Lillian. Of all people, you know why I’m here.”

  “Suppose you tell me.”

  He gave just the barest hint of a smile and inclined his head, evoking his arrogant, aristocratic ancestors. “Ashley Wakefield.”

  Lillian smiled, swinging her glass. “Mystery heiress and dolphin rescuer. What about her?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Me? I don’t even know her.”

  He stretched out his trim legs. “You met with her this morning in her office in Boston.”

  “You’ve been spying on me?”

  “What did you see her about?”

  “That’s none of your business.” She leaped to her feet, brandy splashing over her gown, and pointed toward the door. “Get out of here. Now, Andrew. Before I call someone and have you thrown out.”

  He didn’t move; his expression didn’t change. “Lillian, Lillian. You know I don’t want to upset you. But you also must know how concerned I am. I don’t want you to suffer, Lillian. I don’t want Crockett Industries to suffer.” He raised his shoulders slightly. “Perhaps I’m overcautious. Please sit down.”

  She sat in an antique Chippendale chair she’d inherited from her starchy, proper grandmother. It had a sobering effect. Her hair was lank, her hands shaking, and her caftan was wet, splattered with brandy. She felt disheveled and undesirable, but she’d never cared what Andrew Balaton thought of her. He’d been Judith’s. He was untouchable.

  She could feel the sobs rocking inside her, but she held them in until her stomach hurt. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. She hadn’t thirty years ago, when she thought they all would die in the swamp on the Austro-Hungarian border. And she hadn’t a year later, at the funeral of her best friend. She had no intention of crying now.

  “What did you and Ashley Wakefield talk about?” he asked dispassionately.

  “It was personal business.”

  “For Crockett?”

  She nodded. “He wants to see her.”

  “Why? Did he recognize the jewels?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “When?”

  “I gave her his personal number. She was going to call him and arrange a time to get together.”

  “How did he know about her?”

  All the energy went out of Lillian. “I sent him a copy of the magazine. He said he’d seen it, but I don’t believe him.”

  “I see.”

  “I thought..I knew he’d see it sooner or later. I just hoped it would be easier coming from me. It was a stupid move, I know. He might never have thought twice about Ashley Wakefield. Andrew, I don’t want to be involved in this. I can’t—”

  “Lillian.” He walked over to her and took her hand; his felt so warm. “Lillian, it’s very important that you find out for me when and if Ashley Wakefield will be seeing Crockett.”

  “Why, Andrew? What difference does it make now?” She tried to focus on him, but her vision was blurred, and she sank lower, so tired. “You should have been the reporter, Andrew.”

  “Lillian. You must help me.”

  “I can’t.”

  He squeezed her hand gently, then pushed back her auburn hair with a light touch of his fingers. “Poor Lillian.” His voice was low, sympathetic. She knew he was being patronizing, but took no offense; it was all he understood. “I know how difficult this must be for you. I myself am t
orn apart inside. But we can’t let our own misery cloud our judgment now. Pull yourself together. Don’t force me into a situation that would be disastrous for us both.”

  She stared up at him. “What are you saying?”

  “Just that the world has never known what a foolish and dangerous thing the great, serious Lillian Parker did in Hungary thirty years ago. It would be a shame if your fans, your employers, your colleagues...history...had to find out.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Give me a choice.”

  Her vision cleared. “Damn you. Damn you to hell and back, Andrew Balaton.”

  His hands dropped to his sides, his shoulders drooped, and suddenly he seemed so small and sad and frail. “I have already been there.”

  For the first time, Lillian felt truly sorry for him. For the first time, she knew he hurt as much as she. “Threats aren’t necessary, Andrew,” she said wearily. “I’ll help you.”

  She had even smiled when Andrew left.

  Then, in a panic, she ran into her bedroom and dug a large suitcase out of the closet. She pinched her finger as she threw it open on her bed, but she paid no attention to the stab of pain. She had to leave. Get out. She would go to Monaco—anywhere. The network could survive without her for a week or so. She’d tell them she was on a hot story. Something. They trusted her.

  God, she thought, she couldn’t wait to get away from this.

  “So you run.”

  The voice of her dreams…

  She whirled around, expecting nothing. It had happened before—a vision, a vengeful act of the imagination. But this time he was there. As always, he wore black. He was older, stouter, more weather-beaten. The eyes were the same. Intense, knowing. When she’d first seen them, she’d known she’d never forget them.

  “My God, it is you.” Her voice was a strangled whisper; her heart thumped wildly. “How did you get in here?”

  “There is always a way.”

  “For you,” she said.

  He shrugged, almost imperceptibly. “Where are you going, Lillian? Tell me. Where does a woman run to escape what she cannot escape?”

  She threw a lace camisole into the suitcase. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m due a vacation. Now’s as good a time as any.”