The Secret Heiress

by Bethany Campbell

  “I don’t deny it,” Gerhart said in his bland way. “But we’ve got to connect the dots carefully and completely. That’s why you pay us. Don’t you try it. You—or anybody close to you. You could get hurt.”

  Andrew couldn’t help himself. He looked at the photograph of the beautiful girl with the bobbed hair. And it seemed that, across the years, some ghostly ancestor of Marie stared back at him—a lovely girl, both strong and vulnerable.

  Studying her, remembering Marie, he felt his groin tighten and his heart fill with yearning. “I don’t want any more people hurt,” he said.

  “You keep looking at that portrait,” Gerhart said without emotion. “Do you know who she is?”

  Yes. She’s the image of the woman I can’t get out of my mind. “No,” he said gruffly. “No idea.”

  Gerhart almost smiled. “Louise Brooks. A girl who came out of nowhere. Maybe the greatest silent screen beauty ever. That’s one of the few pictures of her looking blond. It’s from The Canary Murder Case. She was actually a brunette. Men used to take one look at her and fall in love. Can you imagine that?”

  Yeah. I can imagine that. He remembered a face just as unforgettable, drawing close to his. He remembered kissing lips even more desirable. He remembered touching flesh that was real and soft and fragrant and more stirring than any image.

  He dragged himself back to reality. “You think Jacko Bullock’s mixed up in this?” he asked Gerhart.

  Gerhart’s eyes told him nothing. “People who orchestrate things like this, they’re very good at staying invisible, Mr. Preston. That’s how they survive. My advice to you? Watch your back. You don’t know what such people might use as weapons. Be very careful.”

  Andrew thanked him but didn’t quite believe him. He had been careful. He’d walked the line since being in Australia, and he’d walked it straight and narrow. He was bewitched by Marie, but he hadn’t compromised her or himself.

  What could Jacko or anybody else have on him?

  Nothing.

  But, against his will, he looked up at that haunting photograph again. And the woman from the distant past seemed to convey a message: You’re not as safe as you think. Nobody is.

  When lunch was over, Marie took a break and rode her bike, glad to have a few hours to herself. She rode aimlessly but tried to avoid a route that would take her past too much of the Koongorra fire damage.

  She found herself on the curve in the road by Lake Dingo, where Louisa’s land met Sam’s. The grove where she’d met Andrew still stood, tall, rustling and untouched by the fire.

  On impulse she dismounted the bike and chained it out of sight, behind a blackberry thicket.

  She made her way down the slope and to the Hermit’s Cave. She sat in the same spot where she and Andrew had rested on the checkered picnic cloth.

  She vividly remembered how he’d looked that day: tall, lean, and broad-shouldered. His usual blue chambray shirt, faded jeans, well-worn boots. He looked more like a cowboy than a rising star in the Sport of Kings.

  His air, sexy and electric, had warred with the impression he gave of total self-discipline. He’d radiated conflict, honor wrestling with desire.

  The memory gave her a shiver deep in her stomach, and she had to admit she’d found herself the same conflict. For the first time in her life, she’d felt almost helpless with sexual longing. It had been the forbidden delight that she’d never wanted to experience, never wanted to admit was real.

  But it was real, and ultimately it frightened her. Why? As long as she could remember she’d been disciplined, cautious, temperate, even puritanical. Would Andrew break all those defenses down the next time he took her in his arms?

  He could. For he had truly courted her, but it was almost all by words, not touching. He’d drawn her inextricably into his mind, his emotions, his life. He treated her with more respect than any man who’d ever pursued her. He was gentle, he was attentive, and he took his time. And she felt she was learning to know him better than she had ever known another human being—except for Colette.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That night Andrew called Marie from his hotel room. She didn’t pick up at nine or nine-thirty, so he tried again at ten. He was about to give up when she answered. “Andrew? Hi—I was just getting out of the shower when the phone rang.”

  He tried not to think of her stepping from the shower, naked, glistening, water sliding between her breasts and gleaming on the nipples of her pert breasts. He tried not to think of a towel wrapped around her waist, or her toned legs spangled with droplets.

  “Oh,” he said and thought about all those arousing images anyway.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I jumped into my sleeping uniform.”

  She’d used this phrase before, and he knew it meant sensible pajamas. He hoped the bottoms were short, showing off her legs. He hoped the top had buttons that weren’t all done up, revealing a bit of cleavage. And he hoped someday to have her in no uniform at all, just her silky skin, in his arms and in his bed.

  “Were you out?” he asked, his throat tight with imagining her.

  “I went to The Secret Heiress with Rennie. I—well, I learned something today. I wanted to talk to him about it.”

  He tried to push lust out of his mind while he lay back against the pillows of the hotel bed. “Can you tell me?”

  “If you’ll keep it to yourself,” she said. “The new woman— Bronwyn? I sort of identify with her.”

  “And why would that be?” he asked.

  “She grew up poor. Even poorer than me. And she had only her mother. But hers wasn’t as strong as mine. Bronwyn married a man named Ari Theodoros for security—or so she thought. She didn’t know he was into crime until he was arrested.”

  “Right,” Andrew said. She’d told him the bare bones of this story before, and she wasn’t the kind to repeat herself without reason. “So now what’s happened?”

  She paused. He could almost see her thinking, the golden brows drawn together, the pretty mouth worried. “Bronwyn says she and Patrick Stafford were a couple for a long time. But he never seemed serious about making a living. So she married Ari instead.”

  Andrew was a bit surprised. Patrick didn’t strike him as the “couple” sort. He seemed a man born to play the field. But an old flame had flickered back into his neighborhood?

  “So maybe she’s there to reignite the old spark?” Andrew said with a frown. “That may put him off. Theodoros lost everything when he was convicted, right? But Patrick’s in line to inherit a big chunk of Louisa’s estate. Look, I know you like her. But if I were him I’d be suspicious.”

  “I understand. But suppose she has a different motive? And it’s not to marry Patrick.”

  Andrew smiled. Marie was acting so feminine, so caught up in the emotions of her friends. He thought it was sweet of her, and he was curious about why she sounded perplexed.

  “So what is her motive?” he asked almost jokingly. “Just to apologize for dumping him?”

  “No,” Marie said in a careful voice. “She wants Patrick to acknowledge that the little boy is his son, not Ari’s.”

  He sat up straight in bed. “Marie, doesn’t that immediately get down to money? Does she want child support? Or some kind of annuity? A permanent home at Fairchild?”

  “No,” she answered. “She just wants Patrick to recognize the boy. Wesley loved Ari—but now he’s ashamed. Ari wasn’t just arrested, he was murdered. She thinks it’d help her son to know the full truth, and for Patrick to take an interest in him.”

  Andrew was skeptical. “What does she want you to do? Plead her case to Louisa? So Patrick gets cornered into doing what Bronwyn wants? How can he even know it’s his child?”

  Marie’s voice went cool and deliberate. “The boy’s the image of Patrick. I’ve seen pictures of Theodoros. Short, stocky, a bulbous nose. Wesley doesn’t look like him at all.”

  “Honey,” he said, “I asked you a question. What’s Bronwyn want you to do?”

/>   “She just wants a confidante, that’s all,” Marie said defensively. “Are all men programmed alike? You’re saying the same things Rennie said.”

  He sighed. She was smart, but even smart women could be manipulated when little kids were concerned. He pushed his forelock back from his brow. “You’re right. I’m acting preprogrammed. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Fine,” she said almost airily. “You saw your detective today. What did he say?”

  “Not enough. Nobody knows what Sandy’s motive was for murder and arson. But if he did it on somebody’s orders, that’s probably why he got killed. To keep him quiet.”

  “The detective—did he warn you to be careful?” He thought he heard fear in her question.

  “Yes, honey, he did. And the same goes for anybody I care about. That means you. We’ve tried to stay under the radar. But be cautious, Marie. I don’t want anything happening to you. I couldn’t take it.”

  She said nothing in reply, and he supposed he’d startled her, filled her with foreboding.

  “So,” he said, keeping his tone steady, almost light, “you take care and so will I, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said in a small voice.

  “Let’s start this conversation over. What did you do today? Anything special?”

  “I went back to the Hermit’s Cave. I climbed down there and sat for a while. Just looking at the trees and the birds and…thinking.”

  “Thinking about what?” he asked.

  “You. Me. Us.”

  His heart went into a long, uncertain tailspin. “And what did you think—about us?”

  He remembered the cave, and kissing her, holding her, drawing her closer and closer—and then going too far. Which was why he’d spent the last weeks on the phone with her. And why now they were like two Victorian lovers, communicating very politely, while inside, both were afire with passion.

  “I think,” she said, “that we’re doing the right thing. And I’m grateful to you, Andrew. For not pushing me or laying down ultimatums. For giving me some space. I think we know each other a lot better than if we—you know.”

  He knew. If he’d had his way and made love to her at the cave, a furtive act in a hidden place, it would have been a lust too easily satisfied with a woman he hadn’t really known. And if she’d been like that, maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to know much more.

  “But,” she said, surprising him, “I want to be with you again. Soon. Maybe not alone, yet, but at least in the open. Maybe we could start slowly. You could meet with Rennie and me at The Secret Heiress. You know, very casual.”

  If I’m in the same room with you, at the same table, within touching distance of you, I will not feel casual, he thought. I will feel crazy with wanting you.

  “I’m seriously thinking of going back to Darwin,” she said. “I told that to Reynard, but he doesn’t want to accept it.”

  He got up and began to pace the floor, just as he’d done in Hans Gerhart’s office. “I don’t want you to go, either. I want to be as close to you as possible.”

  “We talk on a phone now. We can do that if I’m in Darwin. And you said you’d come to see me in Darwin. Or didn’t you mean it?”

  “Of course, I meant it,” he said with feeling. “But Darwin’s a long way off. At least in Hunter Valley we’re only a few miles from each other. And I don’t think Louisa’d have any objection to me seeing you.”

  “She appreciates what you’ve done. Even though she’s pledged her support to Bullock.”

  She sighed, but he smiled. The old girl had sent him a fat check after the bushfire with a brusque note that it wasn’t a campaign donation. He’d donated the money to the Laminitis Research Fund. But he suspected he’d won her acceptance of him, if not her support.

  “I’ve actually gotten to like Louisa,” Marie said with a little laugh. “She has gotten much less prickly since she went through all those troubles. She almost dotes on Wesley. But I know that now she’s on the mend, I need to go back to my own life.”

  “Marie,” he said, a knot in his throat, “don’t rush into this. Think about it. We’ve had so little time together.”

  She was silent a moment, then said, “When will you be back? Soon, I hope.”

  “I could make it there in three days and stay maybe two nights. My schedule’s getting crazier all the time, but Lord knows I want to see you.”

  “Yes,” she said shakily. “This is getting hard to bear.”

  “I think of you all the time,” he said earnestly. “Not just because you’re beautiful. Not just because you’re smart and talented and spirited. You’re moral and honest and stand up for what you believe in. And I admire all those things in you.”

  He thought he heard her catch her breath, as if she choked back a small sob. “Hey,” he teased gently. “Now it’s your turn to say something nice about me.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll try. You’re patient and kind. You always seem to protect the people you care about. You can admit you’re wrong, and you can apologize. You don’t back down from your beliefs and show no fear. You face setbacks squarely, and you go on. You keep your word.”

  She paused and then finished. “I believe in you. And I want to keep believing in you…is that enough?”

  He thought it more than enough, and it brought a great jolt of anticipation. He thought of the feel of her perfect body in his arms once again, under his hands. He thought of burying his face in the fragrant golden silk of her hair. He thought of the words she’d just said, and hope and desire flooded him.

  “I think that’s about as good as I could ever ask for and more than I deserve,” he said, his voice low. “Sweet dreams, love. I’ll come home to you soon as I can.”

  He hung up. She couldn’t speak. She hugged her phone to her chest a moment. He’d called her “love.” He’d said “I’ll come back home to you.”

  But he’d also said she was moral and honest. She hadn’t felt moral and honest since she’d arrived in Hunter Valley. The truth assailed her: he didn’t really know her.

  And maybe, in some terrible, cowardly way, she didn’t want him to know the truth. If he discovered why she’d come to Fairchild Acres, he’d think she was greedy and deceitful, a scheming sneak. Why, oh, why, had she let Reynard talk her into this?

  She needed to go back to Darwin before her impersonation was exposed. She needed to reclaim her soul and her self-respect.

  Would Andrew really come to her there? If he knew the truth?

  The kitchen staff was gearing up for the gala, and Francois was clearly vexed at Louisa’s constant supervision—and her criticisms. Just as clearly, she was anxious about the gala; she wanted it to be perfect, and she didn’t care if she achieved perfection by dancing on the aching heads of her staff.

  Then, suddenly, two days before the gala, she disappeared from the kitchen, apparently distracted by something else. Francois loudly thanked God and at least half a dozen saints for keeping her away.

  And Bronwyn whispered to Marie just exactly what had torn Louisa’s attention from Jacko Bullock’s Glorious Gala. Marie stared at her, eyes wide with shock. “How’d she take it?” she asked Bronwyn.

  Bronwyn grinned. “I think she’s actually happy…” then leaned and whispered in Marie’s ear again.

  That night, Marie went with Reynard to The Secret Heiress. They sat in the dimly lit room, and light from the candle on the table flickered over his face, making it seem changeable and phantomlike.

  “Rennie,” she said, “remember how I said Bronwyn told me that Wesley is Patrick Stafford’s son?”

  Reynard looked skeptical. “Women often pop up and make such claims when the ‘father’s’ got money. Or, like Patrick, is about to get it.”

  “Don’t be so cynical,” Marie told him. “The child looks just like him. And today, Louisa found out. And she intends to recognize the boy as her great-great nephew.”

  Reynard swore and smacked the table so hard that his beer nearly spilled. �
��The Old Girl’s got one foot in the grave and now heirs are coming out of the woodwork—like a swarm of bleedin’ greedy termites!”

  He swore again and glowered. “You’re her only direct descendent. Who are these Johnny-come-latelys?”

  Marie eyed him with mixed calm and distaste. “They’re her legitimate heirs, Rennie.”

  “The kid’s not,” he snapped. “He’s a right little bastard. If she’s going to recognize any bastards, it ought to be your mother and you.”

  She felt her expression go cold. “That’s not funny and not called for. And remember you’re a member of the club yourself.”

  He squared his shoulders and stared at her in determination. “I talked you into coming here because it was maybe the one significant thing I’d ever be able to do for you. You’ve got to make your move soon. You’d best speak the truth. Before another six battalions of descendents march in.”

  “Oh, cool off, Rennie. I can’t prove I’m related to her. And I’ve waited too long to speak up.”

  “You know about those letters she wrote from the home for unwed mothers,” he challenged.

  “They’re locked away,” she shot back. “And she may destroy them at any time. She may not want Patrick and Mega never to know.”

  “I’m so angry I could eat my own head,” he grumped. “But we can’t give up. I want you to get your rightful share. I owe it to my sis to see you do.”

  “I don’t want it,” Marie said, and she meant it. “I want to go home. I’ll give Louisa two weeks notice—”

  “And then quit? Just quit? Trot off like a scared sheep? A lily-livered coward?”

  She refused to rise to the bait. “You call it cowardice. I call it conscience. As soon as the gala’s over, I give my notice.”

  He squinted at her, his expression hard. “You may think differently by then. If you’ve any sense, you will.” He sipped his beer, his eyes still on hers.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I know you had my welfare in mind. But I was brought up to take care of myself. And I will.”