by Jessica Bird
What the hell had she been thinking?
Not much at all, she thought as she slowed down and turned around.
It wasn't Smith.
Fear flooded her senses, temporarily wiping out the feel of her body, the sounds in her ears, everything. She quickly assessed the person behind her. She couldn't see the face because whoever it was had on a raincoat with the hood up. She didn't wait to get a good ID.
Grace started to sprint, looking left and right in hopes of seeing some other joggers. Because of the rain, she was all alone on the path.
Running as fast as she could, she hurled herself headlong through the trees and across the grass, trying to remember how to get to the street. Her heartbeat was ripping through her chest and her legs were numb from exertion, but she pressed on.
She looked over her shoulder. Whoever it was, they were keeping pace.
Images of Mimi, Suzanna, and Cuppie, all dead with their throats cut out, came to mind. She reached down into her legs for more speed. Angling toward home, she tried to reassure herself she could make it back.
But she wasn't sure she'd be able to.
Was this it, she thought with terror. Here in Central Park? In a flash of panic, she remembered what Smith had said about his clients living longer lives because they did what he told them to do.
She had broken one of his simplest rules.
Suddenly, through the rushing sound in her ears, she heard a hoarse voice calling out. She realized the person following her was yelling something.
And then a word she never again thought she'd be referred to as broke through her fear.
"Starfish!"
Her father's voice came to her, Buck up, Starfish, let's see that smile.
Grace's stride broke as she wrenched around in surprise and tripped. Hitting the pavement in a slide, she felt her shin and knee getting scraped, but that was the least of her worries. As the stranger came upon her, she raised her arms up as if to ward off blows.
"I—I’m not going to hurt you ..." Grace was surprised to hear a woman's voice, one that was harsh from heaving breaths. "Really..."
When her pursuer did nothing threatening but instead propped her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath, Grace thought she might just have been spared.
As soon as she found her own voice, she said, "Who are you? And how did you know my name—"
The stranger pulled back her hood and Grace frowned.
There was something familiar about the woman's face, as if she'd met her before or seen—
Oh my God, Grace thought, going cold.
Her father.
The stranger had the same coloring he'd had, the same: shaped face, similar deep-set, blue eyes.
Squinting against the rain and the impossibility of what she was seeing, she wondered if she was losing her mind.
"I'm ... your ... half sister. Callie," the woman said, still breathing heavily.
chapter
20
Smith got out of the shower, thinking it was a damn shame he'd missed taking one with Grace. Even though they'd made love three times during the course of the night, he wanted more. He couldn't believe he'd thought a single: night with her would be enough. He was going to need, months, maybe even years.
It was a tragedy they didn't have that kind of time.
Waking up next to her had been another revelation. After years of leaving women as soon as he could get his pants back on, he'd rolled over next to Grace and had no interest in being anywhere else. He'd watched her as she'd slept, absorbing the look of her lashes against her cheek, the slight parting of her lips, her hair as it flowed over the pillow.
Smith toweled off, threw on some clothes and went out, expecting her to still be in her dressing room. When she wasn't, he looked at her bed and got caught up in remembering what she'd done to him in the night. As she'd grown more comfortable and confident with him, she'd become bold, demanding ... innovative. His body began to overheat.
He was definitely taking a shower with her tomorrow morning.
Smith was about to go out and find her in the kitchen when he saw the count's rings on the top of her bureau. He picked up the engagement one. The thing was heavy, the stone a glorious dark blue, the diamonds on the sides sparkling with white fire.
What kind of ring would he give her? It'd be nothing like the carats and carats of sapphire he was holding. It would be simple. A band, maybe—
He shook his head. He wasn't buying rings for anyone.
And certainly not for her.
He was a reformed juvenile delinquent, an ex-military man, a former spy. He sure as hell wasn't the right guy to become the second husband of Grace Woodward Hall, previously known as the Countess von Sharone.
Period, end of story.
He let the sapphire slip out of his fingers and watched as it bounced and then wobbled to a standstill.
He was surprised he'd even thought about marriage at all, even if it was just hypothetical. Wives were even more of a no-no than girlfriends in his line of work, because families were the ultimate threat to clear thinking. The more ties you had to people, the more stability you courted, the more chances you had to be vulnerable.
He'd always thought it was a mistake for people to assume that if they had a home and a wife and a couple of kids that somehow the world was a safe place. A lot of them figured that just because they had a cup of coffee sitting across the table from the same person every morning they were somehow secure. Smith knew otherwise. Like everyone else, those folks were bargaining with fate; they just didn't know they were at the negotiating table.
He knew he was better off alone, because as long as he was a solo operator, all he had to worry about was death.
And that was one force of nature that didn't scare him. Once you were dead, nothing mattered.
His clarity of thinking about the pitfalls of families had always been a source of pride but now, he wasn't feeling quite so self-satisfied. Meeting Grace was changing what he thought about having a home. For the first time, he could understand the attraction of dependents. The truth was, he liked hearing her move around at night. He liked seeing her in her bathrobe in the morning with her hair a mess. He liked the way she snored softly when she slept on her back. He liked her warmth next to him—
Smith's instincts pricked to attention.
He listened carefully to the silence of the penthouse for only a moment and then he ran down the hall. He looked in the living room, the dining room, and then pushed his way into the kitchen. When he burst out into the front hall, a voice inside of his head had started screaming.
* * *
As Grace stared up at the woman, she blinked away the rain that was falling into her eyes. She felt the hard pavement under her butt, the cold, wet sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders, a hot stinging pain in her leg.
So this had to be real, she thought.
“I don't have a sister," she whispered even though her eyes were telling her otherwise. The resemblance to her father was subtle but undeniable and a feeling of betrayal came over her in a sickening rush.
"How do you know about Starfish?" she demanded roughly.
The reply was soft and full of pauses, as if the woman wasn't sure how Grace would react.
"When I was little, I saw a picture of you and him in the newspaper and I asked who you were. He said you were his other daughter and I wanted to know what your name was. He told me it was Starfish. I've always thought of you as that. Even when I learned your real name."
Grace felt a sting of jealousy go through her, that this other person, this stranger, knew the special name her father had given her.
How dare he be dead when this all comes out, she thought, irrationally.
As she struggled to her feet, the woman put out her hand hut Grace refused the gesture.
The woman's arm slowly fell to her side. "I should have written to you first but I figured you'd think I was some kind of crook. You probably do, anyway. I just needed to meet you in
person. I've seen you in pictures for so many years. It was like you weren't real. So beautiful and glamorous. I used to pretend..." A sad smile stretched her lips. "I just wanted to meet the other part of him. The bigger part... of my father."
Grace stared at the woman. Rain was darkening her red hair, laying it flat and wet on her scalp. Her blue eyes seemed to have old shadows behind them.
"What's your name again?" Grace asked.
"Callie. Actually, it's Calla Lily."
A shiver went through Grace. The name. The name she'd heard her father say in the dream.
She shook her head, feeling reality shift and spin as her brain struggled to reorder her life.
Grace refocused on the woman. "You look like him."
"I know. It's the red hair, I think."
"Your eyes, too." Grace heard the anger in her own voice.
She wanted to tell the woman to go to hell, to accuse her of lying. At the very least, she wanted to have never gone out for the run, as if that would have somehow magically prevented their meeting.
"I know this must be a shock."
Now there was an understatement.
Grace began to wrack her childhood memories for signs of her father's double life. He had been gone a lot. He was a very successful man, so of course, he always seemed to be on the way to a meeting or coming home from one. Had those trips been excuses to go to his other life? She thought about how busy her days at the Foundation were. Before he'd died, he'd done everything she was doing as well as looked after the family's extensive investments. Where had he found the energy?
"Well, obviously it had come from somewhere, she thought. Somehow, he had found the time to lead another life. To create another life.
Callie raised a hand and wiped some hair out of her face. "Now that I'm standing here with you, I don't know what I thought I'd accomplish."
Grace looked deeply into the woman's eyes.
Her father's daughter.
"It was you," she said abruptly, focusing on the slicker. "Watching me when I went in and out of work, waiting for me outside of restaurants. You followed me to the funeral, didn't you."
"Yes." Callie looked away. "It was hard to approach, you. I kept thinking I could just go up to you but you were never alone and I—I didn't want to cause a scene. As for the funeral, I just had to see him buried because a part of me refused to believe he was gone. The papers didn't say where the services were going to be held, just the date. I followed you because I didn't know how else I could say good-bye to him."
Grace's stomach lurched and she started shaking her head again.
"I have to go," she mumbled.
As she began walking blindly, she felt the rain flowing down her face. Or it might have been tears.
Calla Lily.
Her father's voice echoed in her head.
She'd gone a couple of yards when she paused and looked back.
The woman was staring after her, looking small underneath the slicker.
That coat was not expensive, Grace thought. Just a cheap, plastic rain jacket. And her shoes were old, serviceable. She wasn't dressed like someone who had money.
Was she looking to contest the will? Was she really just after some cash?
Grace thought of John. He could find out exactly who the woman was and sniff out whether she was someone with ulterior motives.
"It's cold out here," Grace said. "Do you live nearby?"
"Not really. My apartment's in Chelsea."
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Grace thought. Words to be damned by.
"Then come back with me and get dry."
Blue eyes regarded her warily. "Are you sure?"
No, she wasn't.
Grace nodded anyway and Callie approached with caution.
"You're bleeding," she said, pointing with alarm.
Grace glanced down at herself. She could see the scrape on her leg through a tear in the sweatpants. Blood was staining her running shoes.
That should probably be hurting, she thought. Funny, she felt nothing at all.
"Are you sure you can walk?" Callie asked. "I can get us a cab."
"I'll be fine."
Whenever this horror movie of a life of mine stops adding new scenes. And new characters.
They went back to the street together, moving slowly in spite of the rain because Grace was limping.
"You really didn't know, did you?" Callie said softly. “I'd always wondered if you might have guessed. It must be really hard to find out... It's been twenty-seven years and I still find the whole thing difficult to deal with."
Hearing Callie's age set off another cascade of anger. Twenty-seven years. Her father had been living a lie for over a quarter century. He'd made them all live a lie.
Grace thought bitterly back to that lecture of his on the importance of staying with Ranulf. He'd even thrown in a line about the significance of the vows they'd taken, a comment that was now harder to stomach than his recitations of the von Sharone family's prominence. Courtesy of Callie chasing her down, his words stank with hypocrisy and Grace found herself wanting those three extra months she'd spent with Ranulf back.
As well as all those years she'd believed her father was an honorable man.
When they stepped under the awning of Grace's building, Callie paused and shook the rain out of her jacket and her hair. Looking uncomfortable, she followed Grace inside, her eyes moving over the uniformed man who opened the door for them, the luxurious lobby, the brass and glass elevator.
"This is a beautiful building," she murmured as they rode up to the top floor.
When they stepped out of the elevator, Grace frowned. Her front door was wide open and an unfamiliar blond man, who was big as a linebacker and dressed in black, was standing in her front hall. When he caught sight of her, his smile wasn't friendly.
"I believe your countess is back," he said dryly.
John exploded into the doorway and Grace took an involuntary step back. He was livid with rage.
"Where the hell did you go?" he bellowed.
She had to fight the urge not to get back on the elevator and disappear again.
Clearing her throat, she said very quietly, "I went out for a run. I'm sorry I didn't come and get you—"
"What the fuck were you thinking!" He jabbed his forefinger at her. "You don't go anywhere without me. That's our agreement. You want to tell me what the fuck was going through your head?"
She glanced back at Callie, who seemed to be trying to melt into the wall. Grace didn't blame her.
"You need to calm down," she whispered to John. "Everything is fine."
"Yeah, everything is just fine. I'll go call off the police now and tell all my men to go home because everything is a-okay. No fucking problem, Countess." As he marched back into the living room, he put his phone to his ear and started talking in short, angry bursts.
"Maybe this isn't the best time," Callie said softly.
"No, he'll calm down."
Hopefully, she added to herself.
As Grace stepped inside, she saw three other men in her living room, all tall, wide-shouldered guys in dark clothes.
They looked like some kind of military squad even though they weren't wearing uniforms. When their eyes settled on her all at once, she felt like a kid who'd violated curfew.
Or an agitator who needed to be eliminated.
"Hello," she said to the group.
The man who'd been at the door when they'd arrived, the handsome blond one, barely inclined his head. The rest showed no response at all.
John clipped his phone shut and addressed them. "Marks and his boys are turning around and heading back to the station. Thanks for coming."
"Glad she showed," said the blond one. He shot John a sardonic grin. "Otherwise we were going to hog-tie you to a chair before you hurt yourself."
"Fuck you, Tiny."
Tiny threw a beefy arm around John and grabbed him on the back of the neck, giving him a shake. In a much lowe
r voice, he said, "You okay?"
John said something under his breath and Grace watched as the two men's eyes met and held.
"Okay, we're outta here, ladies," Tiny said to the men. As they walked past her, he paused and said, "Do us all a favor, Countess, and stick close to home, will ya?"
"Good-bye, Tiny," John said with warning.
The man rolled his eyes and smiled over his shoulder.
"If I keep talking to her, you gonna start calling me Itty-Bitty?"
Tiny waved over his shoulder as he led the men out the door.
Grace looked at John. He had his hands on his hips and he was staring at the floor. His jaw was rigid.
Callie spoke up. "Look, I really think I should go."
John's head snapped upright. "Who the hell are you?"
"This is Callie," Grace offered. “My—er... half-sister."
John's eyes narrowed on the woman. "I didn't know you had one."
"Neither did she," Callie answered.
"Well, welcome to the goddamn family. I'll talk to you later," John said to Grace before heading down the hall.
"Will you excuse me?" Grace said quickly as she went after him.
She was right on his heels when he stopped her in front of his room. "You need to get the hell away from me until I calm down."
With that, he shut the door in her face.
Grace released a breath.
As she returned to the living room, she regretted bringing Callie back with her, especially because she should have known how upset John was going to be.
She was just making bad call after bad call today.
"Would you like to take your jacket off?" she asked the woman.
Callie's eyes were somber as she shrugged the raincoat from her shoulders. She put it over her arm, holding it close to her body even though it was wet.
"Here, let me have that." Grace noted that Callie's damp clothes were clean but not fashionable and that she wore no jewelry of any kind.
When she turned around from the closet, Callie was standing over the picture of Grace with their father. As she picked up the frame, Grace's heart contracted.
Damn him, she thought.
