The Runaway Heiress

by Meg Tilly

  Sarah faced Mick. The hope and relief in her smile almost blinded him. “You guys know each other?”

  The woman laughed, good humor dancing in her eyes. “He has no idea who I am. Do you, Mick?”

  “Well, I . . .” There was no good way to answer that.

  “That’s okay. You were young, and I . . .” Another hearty belly laugh tumbled out. “It would be an understatement to say I look a little different. Popping five kids out will do that to a woman.”

  “Five kids?” Mick was stalling for time. “Incredible.”

  “Yep.” She extended her left hand toward the bullet-resistant window and wiggled her fingers, the simple gold wedding band catching the light. “Got married to a real nice man. Has a steady job with NV, our electric utility company. You still don’t recognize me, do you? Want me to give you a hint.” She smiled big, and that’s when he noticed the missing molar and a memory flashed to him. In the party room at Desert Rose, a john had been throwing back drinks when Chastity approached. The guy flipped, hauled off, and decked her. Knocked out her tooth.

  “Don’t need one,” Mick replied. “Good to see you, Chastity.”

  Chastity’s grin grew even wider. “You do remember.” Her face lit up as if he had just given her a diamond necklace.

  “Of course I do. Just took a minute to place you.”

  “Well, bless your soul.” Chastity turned to include Sarah in the warmth of her smile. “You got yourself a good man here.” She returned her attention to Mick. “Mr. Hollywood, working with movie stars and shit. Who would’ve guessed?” Chastity tipped her head toward Sarah. “Did you take her by your old stomping grounds?”

  “Hell no.”

  Chastity let out a hoot of laughter. “Don’t blame you. Flo’s ghost might be lurking around those charred old ruins. Don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but that decrepit scary bitch was harsh.”

  Sarah looked at him. He could see curiosity in her eyes. “Who’s Flo?”

  “His grandma.” Chastity leaned toward the speak hole in a confidential manner. “And believe me, darling. You can thank your lucky stars she’s dead—”

  “Okay, enough with the reminiscing,” Mick cut in.

  Chastity looked at him, her head cocked. “You haven’t told her, have you?”

  Mick’s stomach clenched. His face felt like a mask. “It’s not relevant.”

  “Told me what?” Sarah asked.

  Chastity kept looking steady at Mick. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “it’s better to tell the truth. Otherwise you’re going to be starting off the most important relationship of your life with a lie. That’s a foundation built on quicksand.”

  “Thanks, Oprah,” Mick said dryly. “Hate to burst your bubble, but we aren’t here to get married.”

  “You aren’t?” Chastity seemed slightly crestfallen.

  “No.”

  “I got married here in Vegas,” Sarah said. “We came to get a copy of my marriage license.”

  “Oh.” Chastity glanced at Mick with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry about jumping to erroneous conclusions, but in my defense . . .” She extended her hands outward, laughter in her eyes again as she lifted her overplucked eyebrows. “One needs to take into consideration the venue.”

  “An easy mistake to make,” Mick replied. “Can you help her out?”

  “You can get a copy of your marriage license,” Chastity told Sarah, “but you came to the wrong place.” She scribbled an address on a notepad. “You need to go to the Clark County Clerk’s Office. It’s right around the corner—Two Hundred Lewis Avenue. Three-minute walk, max.” Chastity ripped the note off and handed it through the slot to Sarah. “There you go, love. Out the door, make a left, another left on Third, and left on Lewis, and again, sorry about the mix-up. It was great to see you, Mick. You’re looking good.”

  “You, too,” Mick said. He stepped away from the kiosk.

  “Wait.” Sarah touched Mick’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. Even in a sterile institutional setting, her touch set his body humming. He scanned her face. Thought he saw an answering flare of heat in her eyes in that split second before she turned back to Chastity, but it could have been a trick of the light. “Is it difficult to get a copy?” he heard Sarah ask, the sound of her voice washing over him like a whiskey bath. “Do I need documentation?”

  “Her husband was unable to make the trip with us.” Mick added.

  Chastity smirked. “I get it. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter. We’re friends.”

  “Mm.” Chastity’s smirk broadened into a smile as she circled her hands in the air. “From the sparks I see zinging around, you two will be doing the horizontal hula any day now.”

  “Will Sarah need to show ID or anything like that?” Mick asked, his voice curter than it needed to be, which apparently Chastity found hilarious.

  “You’re something else, Mick. Still such a prude.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “And after all these years, still charging windmills, saving kittens from drowning—”

  A man in an inexpensive suit crossed behind Chastity. “Chas, when you finish up here, Nora could use your help?”

  Chastity straightened. “Sure,” she replied over her shoulder. The man continued his journey to the copy machine. Chastity turned her attention to Sarah, all business now. “No need for IDs, documentation, nothing like that. It’s public record. You just request it. Easy-peasy. There’s no forms to fill out. Fifty cents for a plain copy, six dollars and fifty cents for a certified one.”

  “What’s the difference between the two?” Sarah asked.

  “Both of them are printed off the original license. The certified one is printed on special paper stock that incorporates security features and will have a raised seal on the front.”

  “Thank you so much.” Sarah beamed at Chastity. “You’ve been such a big help.”

  It wasn’t until they were walking along Third Street that Sarah turned to him, her hand shading her eyes against the harsh sunlight. “You used to live here?”

  “Drop it,” he growled. Normally when he used that tone of voice, people shut up and backed away fast. Not Sarah. The corners of her generous mouth twitched upward, as if she were suppressing a grin. Her short, spiky hair and laugh-filled eyes made her look like a mischievous elf. All she needed was a green and red tunic and a hat with a pom-pom.

  “Sure, Boss.” She paused on the sidewalk, then mock frowned and wagged a finger at him. “Wait a minute,” she said accusingly, as if he’d been trying to slip a fast one past her. “You’re not my boss. I fired you. You are, however, if Chastity’s to be believed, a prudish, windmill-chasing, champion of kittens earmarked for a watery grave. Weird, huh? Considering you’re supposed to be the wild bad boy of Hollywood.” She grinned at him like a sunny day as she tucked her arm through his. “Let’s move along, my country vicar,” she said, giving him a little tug. “We have places to go, documents to obtain.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Would you like a receipt?” the Clark County clerk asked.

  Sarah stared at the copy of her marriage license in dismay. “Excuse me. This is the wrong one. It’s the marriage license that was signed at the chapel. What I need is a copy of the license that was issued at city hall.”

  The balding clerk’s mouth tightened. “This is a copy of the marriage license issued by city hall.”

  “But my signature is on it.”

  “Yes.” The clerk was looking at her as if he suspected Sarah was missing a marble or two.

  The man’s listening skills could use a little polishing. “This isn’t”—Sarah spoke slowly and clearly so there could be no mistaking her request—“what I needed. You gave me the one from the chapel. I need a copy of the license that was issued at city hall.”

  “A
gain, ma’am. This is the license from city hall. You then took said license to the chapel, got married, and signed the license. This is your marriage license.”

  “My understanding is in order to get legally married, we both had to be present at city hall to get the license. Had to fill out a form. Show ID. Yes?”

  The clerk crossed his arms and huffed out a breath, glancing at the ceiling as if his fraying fragments of patience could be found up there. He must have found the reset button, because when he looked at her again, his face was placid once more. “That is correct. And your point is?”

  Sarah exhaled slowly, forced herself to walk the intensity back a few notches, to think clearly. “My point is I didn’t apply for a wedding license. Somebody else must have been acting in my stead. Which I believe would render my marriage invalid.” Her mind was flipping through information. She was grateful for Mick’s steady presence behind her. “However, in order to pursue this avenue further, I came here to get documentation, to get proof. The man who is/or is not my husband is a violent, abusive man. I live every day”—she had to swallow hard, then exhale slowly—“scared for my safety. I intend to sort this mess out.” It was difficult to keep the shakes from taking over. “I know for certain I didn’t go to city hall. We were in Vegas for one night. I was at the spa until after city hall had closed. Yes. My signature is on the marriage license, but I have no idea how it got here. No memory of agreeing to get married, or the ceremony.” Sarah’s heart was pounding. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears, but she spoke calmly, was determined not to plead to this officious bureaucrat. You have every right to be here. To ask for what you need. “I need your help. I want to find proof of whether I am actually married or not. I need a copy of the original application.”

  To Sarah’s surprise, the clerk’s face had softened, his brow furrowed in consternation. “Oh dear.” He wrung his hands. “I’m so sorry.” The man was looking at her with such worry and sorrow in his eyes that she wondered what his backstory was. Did he have a daughter or a sister trapped in an abusive situation? Or maybe he grew up under the specter of abuse and witnessed brutality firsthand. “Unfortunately,” he continued. “Once the copy of the signed marriage license is received by us from the wedding venue, we scan the updated license into our system and then shred the corresponding paperwork.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Sarah slumped into her seat, the solid door of Mick’s Porsche shutting behind her.

  Mick rounded the car and got in the driver’s seat. “What now?” He turned to face her. His relaxed wrist was slung over the top of the leather steering wheel, the sunlight catching the soft hairs on his forearms, turning them the color of cognac. For a split second she longed to lean over and run her cheek over his arm, to feel the heat, to see if those sun-kissed hairs were as downy soft as they looked.

  “I don’t know.” She jerked her gaze away, wishing for a moment that things were different between them, that the warmth of his body could offer a welcome distraction from the crushing disappointment. I shouldn’t have let my hopes soar so high. She stared blindly forward, determined to find an alternate solution. The registration forms for the marriage license have been shredded. Yes. There is no way to prove your marriage was fraudulent. That sucks. What’s your next step? Her mind flashed to the hotel spa. Maybe the spa’s computer would have a record of her spa day. A long shot but worth a try. Sarah straightened. “Would you mind swinging by the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino? I’d like to visit the spa and see if they have a record of my spa day.”

  Mick shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t do that.”

  “Okay. Fine. I get it.” She kept her voice light. “It’s a long shot and you have people to see, things to do.” She opened the car door. “I’ll grab a taxi and meet you back at—”

  “Sarah, put the porcupine quills down. You should know by now that I’m happy to drive you wherever you want to go.” Mick reached across her and pulled her door shut again. “The Hard Rock shut down.”

  “Oh.” She slumped back into her seat. What is the matter with you? Always expecting the worst of people. Is this who you are now? A wave of weariness rolled over her. She wanted to go back to the hotel, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head. Unfortunately, they’d already checked out, so that wasn’t an option. Sarah shut her eyes, trying to find her balance. So proving the marriage was fraudulent didn’t pan out. You aren’t any worse off than you were yesterday. The internal pep talk wasn’t working. Usually she was like her childhood Bozo Bop punching bag. No matter how many blows that clown received, it would always bounce back up. But then, one day, the toy got a leak, could no longer bounce up, and was taken out with the trash. The one-two punch of the morning had drained all the air out of her. Odd how such a small setback—after all she had been through—had laid her so low.

  “The Hard Rock closed its doors in 2019,” Mick continued. “Richard Branson bought the resort and did a big renovation. It’s the Virgin Hotel now.”

  “I see.”

  “It was a good idea though.”

  Sarah scrubbed her hands through her shorn hair, attempting to activate her brain. What now? She was tired. Tired of running. Tired of the uncertainty. Tired of doors shutting her out.

  “Where to?” Mick’s voice nudged through her downward spiraling thoughts.

  “I don’t know.” She felt as if she too were ready to be taken out with the trash.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mick studied Sarah’s face. She looked so lost and small. Unsure. She had been ready to think the worst of him, hop out of his car at a moment’s notice. Clearly trust was still an issue. And why wouldn’t it be? She’s shared so much with you. What have you shared with her? Nothing of any importance. Why? Because you’re scared shitless that if you let her see past the veneer, she’ll no longer look at you with that glow in her eyes. “Bullshit.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t . . . What did you say?” She looked so weary.

  “Nothing. Didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud.” You had the perfect opportunity when Chastity brought up Flo, and what did you do? Shut her down, and Sarah, too.

  Dammit.

  Mick could feel bile rising in his throat, fear, too, but he knew what he had to do. “Right.” He pulled his car into the traffic. “There’s something I want to show you before we head back to LA.” She gave a slight nod, her eyes still closed. Mick got into the left lane. At the traffic light, he made a U-turn and headed out of town.

  34

  Mick pulled off Route 266 onto the pounded dirt and gravel parking lot, the tires of his Porsche spitting up clouds of dust. He jerked his chin toward the view of the burned ruins of the collection of double-wides through the windshield. His heart was thundering in his chest. “You asked about where I grew up.” He felt slightly disoriented, almost nauseous. A car like his would have caused quite a stir back in the day. Big money. “There she blows. Home sweet home.”

  Sarah looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “Oh, Mick,” she said, a soft smile dawning on her face as if he’d just gifted her with something very precious. “You want to get out?”

  “Not really,” Mick replied as he yanked open his door and exited the vehicle. He forced himself to do it fast, his breath held as if he were jumping off a pier into a glacier-fed lake. He could hear Sarah get out as well. Mick didn’t look at her. Kept his eyes firmly on the building. Acting relaxed, but he could feel the tension gripping his jaw.

  “It’s beautiful land in a stark sort of way.”

  He shrugged. Could feel heat rising on his neck. Whatever. The smell was so familiar. The air, crisper than in Vegas, comingled with the scent of dust, disappointment, and the spicy, bitter tang of the big sagebrush that speckled the desert landscape. He was experiencing a feeling of vertigo. Never had taken anyone here, but Sarah had looked so desolate. So he had come up with the poorly conceived i
dea that by showing her this place, as repulsive as it was, he might somehow gain a little of her trust. Either that or she’ll run screaming for the hills. Mick sucked in a breath of air, seemed to be having difficulty getting oxygen into his damned lungs.

  Sarah tipped her chin toward the weather-beaten sign out front, peeling white backdrop with red lettering. THE DESERT ROSE RANCH. “This is where you lived?”

  He nodded.

  “Looks like those photos of . . .” She paused, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, “A house of ill repute.”

  He shoved his hands deep into the front pockets of his faded jeans. “It was.” His voice came out flat. He ambled across the drive. Tufts of cheatgrass and red brome had pushed their way through the hardened earth, looked as if they were determined to take over and thrive. As he approached the front door, he was aware that the building was smaller than he remembered. However, the feeling oozing out of the ruins was just as bleak.

  “What happened to it?” he heard Sarah ask from over his shoulder.

  “Fire.” He nudged the charred steps to the front door with his foot. There were four steps, which he used to hop up and down when he was a boy. Feet together, knees bent, then launch into the air and land with a thump. When he was really bored, he’d wrap his legs and arms around the rough wooden banister, mindful of splinters, and hang upside down like a monkey, all the blood rushing to his head. Those steps had been good for sitting on, too. Hot summer days, an ice cube melting slowly in his mouth as he watched the occasional car whiz by. Sometimes the cars would slow down on the approach and Mick would disappear around to the back like a ghost before they had pulled into the lot. Grandma Flo had strict rules about that kind of thing. Would whup the hell outta him if any of the johns caught him out front. Didn’t want them to be scared off by the sight of a dirty-assed, snot-nosed kid.

  “Wildfire?” Her voice was like a clean light surrounding him, somehow keeping the worst of the memories at bay. He shook his head. Another shrug, nonchalant, as if all the moisture hadn’t evaporated from his mouth. Sarah stepped next to him, the scent of honey and milk radiating from her sun-warmed skin. She slipped her hand into his, intertwining her slim, elegant fingers with his brutish ones. If he had any shred of decency, he would have moved away, not tarnished her further with his presence. But the terrifying pull of his childhood, the bombardment of memories, had him tightening his grip on her hand. “Tell me,” she said. And so he did. His throat constricted, his voice sounding odd to his ears. Ragged, hoarse, as if he’d been gargling battery acid. He told her about that night when he was ten and had woken to the sound of a crash. Didn’t know what it was. Sat up in bed. There was a whooshing, roaring sound. Crackling. Could smell gasoline and smoke. “I could see a glowing orange imprint outlining the door and the inset of the panels. I guess because the wood was thinner there. Thick black smoke was streaming in through all the seams and crevices like a bad horror movie. The windows in the trailers had been jerry-rigged. They could only be opened two inches max, enough to let in air, but nothing more. ‘A safety measure,’ Grandma Flo had said. She didn’t want johns or boyfriends creeping in on the sly, fucking for free. It was those windows that had turned the Desert Rose Ranch into a firetrap. The gauzy hot-pink drapery ignited like dry summer grass. Turned the Ranch into a hellish inferno.”