The Daughters of Winston Barnett

by Dara Girard

  Janet looked over at him now as they lay in bed. It was mid-afternoon but neither cared. She studied him. He made a marvelous model and she'd spend the rest of her life capturing him in every medium she could think of.

  "Frederick?" she said, knowing he wasn't asleep although his eyes were closed.

  "Hmm."

  "What do you think about hanging a mirror on the ceiling?"

  Frederick opened one eye and stared at her with affection. "I was right." His mouth curved into a slow, intimate smile. "You do have a dirty mind."

  Janet laughed and slipped her arms around him feeling blissfully free and truly alive. He gathered her close and she rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. Everything was perfect. At last she was home.

  The End

  Excerpt from

  The Sapphire Pendant

  by

  Dara Girard

  Prologue

  Late 1800s

  The west wind swept over the Caribbean Sea, drumming her fingers along Jamaica's white sands, rushing through its caves with a wicked, echoing laugh.

  Sonya Clifton sat by the window, a silhouette in the moonlight. Her revenge was complete; there was nothing left to keep her here. She turned at the whisper of shifting sheets and stared at the man who filled the large bed. His white shoulders were like eggshells against the green bedclothes.

  He had said he loved her, but she knew his words to be as tempting and poisonous as the manchineel tree, whose very leaves could cause blisters. She would leave him, this German holidaymaker who toyed with young hearts. Yes, she would leave him, but she hadn't accounted for the memories.

  She glanced down at the pendant he had kept hidden under a loose floorboard, unaware that she knew its whereabouts. Her nimble, brown fingers caressed the blue-and-green feather motif and the small sapphires suspended in the rope-chain. She held it up, letting the moonlight fall upon the star-sapphire center—twilight locked in stone.

  She draped the pendant around her neck, then kissed the sapphire eye before slipping out the window.

  Chapter 1

  Early 2000s

  "For God's sake, Jessie, let's get out of here before we're caught," Wendy scolded in a harsh, loud whisper that seemed to bounce off the dark mahogany chairs and glass display cases in the room.

  Jessie barely heard the warning, her cinnamon eyes fixed on a display case near the far wall. Its contents whispered to her in a soft, haunting song.

  "I must get this back somehow," she muttered, staring at the sapphire pendant that lay seductively in its velvet bed.

  Wendy grabbed her arm, eager to leave before either their boss or the owner, Mrs. Ashford, saw them. "So you've said many times." Her blues eyes shifted to the closed door, under which a sliver of light flickered as a shadow passed.

  "I promised my father, when he sold it, that I would get it back one day." Jessie swallowed, trying to dislodge the tightness in her throat. Neither her father nor her mother had lived to see her fulfill that promise, but she would do it anyway.

  "Well, if you don't have a job, you won't be able to afford it. Susan was looking for you."

  Jessie's nagging thoughts quickly disappeared. "Damn." She couldn't afford to get fired again. Aside from having bills to pay, her eldest sister would kill her. She clicked off her penlight, pushed it into her trousers pocket, and headed for the door.

  They raced towards the stairs. Jessie suddenly halted at the sight of a striking woman draped in a smoke-colored silk dress, her cunning dark eyes surveying the crowd from the top of the circular staircase.

  She took a step back, ready to flee in the other direction. "We'll have to go around the back."

  "Why?"

  "Because that's Stephanie Radson. She works with Kenneth."

  Wendy rested a hand on her hip. "So what?"

  It meant he was lurking somewhere nearby, and Jessie always did her best to avoid him. "I want to go out back," she said hastily.

  "That's too far."

  "Fine, then I'll meet you in the kitchen."

  Wendy only shook her head as they parted ways.

  Jessie raced down the hall, then halted when she saw Amelia Wainwright, an older woman of indeterminate years, who had two buried husbands and a habit of talking without taking a breath. Jessie moved to duck into a room, but Amelia saw her and waved.

  "Oh, good. I was hoping you would be here."

  Jessie groaned, then plastered on a smile. "Yes, well—"

  "I am so glad to have a moment with you, because I have a question and I was thinking to myself, 'Who do I know that can help me find the answer?' And I racked my brain, and nothing came; I just couldn't readily think of anyone to help me. And then I thought about the last party I attended—I think it was three months ago?—and you did a reading there, saying that Mrs. Ostick would have a new arrival soon. Of course we all thought that finally her daughter was expecting, but instead her son got a divorce and had to move back home, but she did get that new arrival you were talking about. So I thought to myself, 'That's it! Jessie Clifton can help me!' And now here you are." She smiled.

  Jessie glanced at her watch. "I'm on duty right now and I have to get back to the kitchen."

  Amelia's smile began to fade, and a look of anxiety entered her hazel eyes. "Oh, but it's just a quick question. I won't take up too much of your time. I know how hectic working at a party like this can be. Well, I don't know personally, but I can imagine—"

  Jessie shifted impatiently, but kept her voice gentle. "What is your question?"

  Amelia glanced up, tapping her finger against her bottom lip. "When I woke up this morning, for some reason, I had to wear this bracelet." She held out her wrist. "I haven't worn this bracelet in years—ever since poor Christopher passed away. He gave it to me, you know. I—"

  Jessie shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked on her heels, hoping the woman would get to the point soon. "And what do you want to know?"

  "Why did I choose to wear it? What does that mean?"

  Jessie sighed, then held out her hand. Amelia took off her bracelet and placed it in Jessie's palm. Jessie ran her fingers over the diamond-and-emerald bracelet, ignoring its cost to focus on its meaning. She let it rest in her hand a moment so that her intuition could read the energy there. She glanced up and read Amelia's face. Once she had gathered all the information she needed, she clasped the bracelet on Amelia's wrist. "You're worried about your health, aren't you?"

  Amelia clutched her hands together and nodded, her hazel eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  Jessie smiled reassuringly. "There is nothing to worry about. You're only experiencing indigestion. You do not have the same stomach cancer that killed your husband." She patted Amelia on the shoulder. "Now, I suggest you make an appointment with your doctor to put your mind at ease, and tell your cook to stop experimenting with her spice collection."

  Amelia stretched out her arms. "How can I ever thank you enough?"

  Jessie took a step back and waved the thanks away. "It's nothing, really. I'd better go." Before Amelia could say any more, Jessie rushed past her and hurried through the back door. She raced across the immaculate back lawns of the Ashford mansion like a gazelle running from a pack of hyenas.

  She dodged a man carrying a table, jumped over a lady arranging flowers along the house, and slid to a stop in front of the servants' entrance. She adjusted her catering uniform and walked into the kitchen.

  Wendy approached her with a paper towel. "Where have you been? You look like a melting chocolate sundae."

  "Very funny," Jessie said, wiping the sweat sliding down her forehead. "I got cornered by Mrs. Wainwright." She tossed the towel away, envying her best friend's cool composure. Her olive-toned skin looked a bit flushed, but her black hair was pulled in a strict bun and her uniform was perfect, a lesson she'd learned from her French West Indian parents.

  "Don't do that again," Wendy said, turning towards the ovens.

  "I won't."

 
Susan, Montey's chief assistant, pointed at her. "Montey was looking for you," she warned, watching Jessie make her way around the kitchen. "I had to cover for you."

  Jessie flashed a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I—"

  "No time for excuses." Susan pointed to a carton of shrimp. "Put those in the fridge, then help Carole arrange the hors d'oeuvres." She raised her voice. "Make sure she doesn't eat any."

  "I won't," Carole replied in a hurt tone.

  Jessie put the carton in the fridge, then joined Carole, whose greedy fingers were reaching for a tantalizing miniature asparagus tart. Jessie slapped her hand away. "Those are for the guests."

  "They won't miss just one," Carole argued, popping one in her mouth.

  "Montey will notice."

  Carole licked her long, slim fingers. Despite having the appetite of a polar bear, she had the figure of a model. Like many others in the Garden catering crew, she was saving money for school next year. "I'll say I dropped it."

  "Then you'd better wipe the crumbs off your face."

  Jessie smiled as Carole hastily wiped imaginary crumbs from her mouth. She listened to the light music penetrating the kitchen walls. Suddenly the doors burst open, and Amy appeared with an empty tray. Her face was flushed; her green eyes were blazing. She rested against the table and grabbed her chest in a dramatic show of heart palpitations.

  "Are you okay?" Jessie asked, concerned.

  Carole frowned. "Did Mr. Withers pinch your butt again?"

  Amy shook her strawberry-blond head. "He's here," she said breathlessly.

  Carole's brown eyes widened, then she grabbed her own chest. "He's here?" she whispered.

  "Who's here?" Jessie asked.

  The two women looked at her as if she had fallen from another planet.

  "Mr. Perfect," Amy replied, forming the words in her mouth as if she were talking about a Greek god who had come to Earth on holiday.

  Jessie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Oh, is that all?"

  Unable to understand her disinterest in one of the most handsome and eligible bachelors on the entire East Coast, the two women ignored her.

  Amy took another deep breath. "He is so gorgeous. His pictures don't do him any justice."

  Carole reached for another tart, sighing loudly. "I know. He was good-looking in high school, but now…" She shook her head, trying to find the right words. "Now he's downright sinful."

  Amy tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned closer to Carole. "I asked him if he liked the food, and he looked right at me and said…" She paused, to heighten the climactic moment. "Yes." She fanned herself. "He's got the most beautiful brown eyes, and his voice…I thought I would faint dead away."

  Jessie wished she could faint right then, so she wouldn't have to hear anymore about Mr. Perfect, aka Kenneth Preston. She tried to catch Wendy's attention so she would have an excuse to leave, but failed. Aside from the clattering of dishes and the shouted orders, the kitchen hummed with news about Kenneth's entrance.

  She couldn't completely blame them. He was a hometown hero, a young man whose ingenuity and skill had brought new pride to Randall County, Maryland. He had been elected CEO of his boss's failing electronics company, and he had made it a multimillion-dollar success, creating jobs and bringing new investors to the area. But what more could you expect from a guy who was every parent's dream? The perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect date, the perfect everything. It made Jessie sick. Of course, it didn't help that they belonged to the same community.

  In the Caribbean community, he was an idol. In a county proud of its ethnic diversity, the Caribbean community was quickly making its mark, and Kenneth Preston was its trump card. More times than Jessie could count, her mother would despair, wondering why Jessie couldn't be more like Kenneth. In a culture where your bragging rights are your social currency, Mrs. Clifton would have been bankrupt, had it not been for her two older daughters.

  Like Carole, Jessie had grown up in Randall County and had firsthand experience with Mr. Perfect: falling for his charms and easy smile, and thinking him the perfect dream when he was actually the perfect nightmare. He was not what others thought, but attempting to convince anyone of that fact was fruitless, so she stayed out of his way and listened with disinterest to the stories that always circled around him. She knew otherwise. He was an arrogant, uptight jerk who would appear in hell wearing a three-piece suit just to keep up his image. Nobody had ever seen him in short sleeves, and only on rare occasions did he ever look unkempt.

  "I can't believe he's not married yet," Amy said.

  "Too busy having fun, I guess," Carole replied.

  Amy drummed her fingers on the table. "I think he might be suffering from a broken heart. Remember that doctor he was seeing?"

  "I heard he got bored with her."

  "That was four years ago, and there hasn't been a woman since."

  "I wouldn't be too sure. Rumor has it that he's dating his employees."

  Amy shook her head. "No way. He wouldn't do that."

  "He seems commitment-shy."

  "He is a womanizer who collects hearts because he doesn't have one of his own," Jessie said. "Doesn't quite make him perfect, does it?"

  They ignored her.

  "I wish there were some way to get him to see me," Amy said.

  Jessie handed her a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "It might help if you were up there in his field of vision, instead of down here talking about him."

  "You're right," Amy replied, missing Jessie's bitter tone. "Oh, but you should have seen his date—"

  Susan unexpectedly joined the group, like a camp leader ready to put her troop in line. Her brown face was marred with a frown of displeasure. "Unless you're talking about how many glasses need refilling, or tarts that need to be heated, I suggest you ladies get to work."

  Amy lifted a tray and backed out through the doors. Carole was reassigned to filling glasses, and Jessie was ordered to take a tray of them upstairs.

  She reluctantly headed for the main ballroom through the underground tunnel, instead of the elevator. She hoped to be able to avoid Kenneth as long as possible, and hoped to act professional if she did run into him. She walked through the gray hallways, her shoes pounding against the white tile, and mused about the residents of the house. They probably weren't even aware that such an underground structure existed. It smacked of Upstairs, Downstairs. Them and Us. Kenneth had been an Us, and now he was a Them.

  Not that she cared. She walked up the stairs, the music and voices growing louder. She wondered what it would be like to have a party in the middle of the week, and to have no worries, except what outfit to wear the next day. She thought of her sisters: Michelle busy at work and Teresa giving piano lessons. They didn't have the luxury of such impromptu soirees. When she reached the door to the main floor, she steadied her tray and lifted her head before entering.

  She turned the corner and walked right into Mr. Perfect and the plateful of food he was holding. His meal smashed right into her uniform, like a pie in the face of a clown. Jessie lost her precarious hold on the tray full of glasses, and they fell to the ground with a shattering crash, spilling their contents like a broken aquarium.

  "Why don't you watch where you're going?" she said, looking down at her ruined uniform and the broken glass.

  He didn't offer her an apology; instead, a sour grin touched his face. "Figures it would be you."

  She rested a hand on her hip, annoyed that Amy had been right. He did look gorgeous. His chestnut skin looked ravishing against the gunmetal gray of his shirt and his black trousers. He stood there staring at her with amused brown eyes, surrounded by an air of casual command that only a man blessed with his status could cultivate. She ground her teeth. "What's that suppose to mean?"

  "It means that whenever you're around, disaster strikes."

  "If you had been watching where you were going, this wouldn't have happened."

  "Lower your voice," he ordered. "You're drawing attenti
on…"

  She lowered her voice to a deadly whisper. "I think what caught their attention was the shattering glass."

  "Don't blame me. I'm not the one turning corners like I'm on a secret mission."

  "Is that supposed to be some sort of explanation for throwing your food at me?"

  "Throwing?" He lifted a dark eyebrow. "You walked right into me!"

  She knew he was right, but she was too angry to calm down. She would not allow him the last word. "Well, you shouldn't have held it so clumsily. Or perhaps you could have had your latest concubine—I mean date—deliver it to you."

  As if to add credence to her claim, a young woman, dressed in an outfit that could afford Jessie the down payment on a new luxury car, came up to Kenneth and possessively grabbed his arm. "What happened to you?" she asked Jessie, her lovely brown eyes genuinely concerned. Her parents had taught her that "the help" were people too, and she wanted to be sympathetic. She glanced down at the glasses. "You know, you really should get this cleaned up before someone gets hurt."

  The woman had such a graceful, feminine manner that she made Jessie feel practically masculine. "That's clever of you to notice," she managed quietly.

  She smiled, missing Jessie's sarcasm, and leaned towards Kenneth, her face in a pout. "I want to go home."

  "In a minute," he said absently, his amused expression gone. "Go get something to drink."

  "But—"

  He stopped her with a hard look. She lowered her beautiful lashes and walked away.

  "Looks like your date wants her nappy changed," Jessie muttered.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. "Just for a minute, stop being a smartass and look at your left hand."

  She lifted her hand and saw a pencil-thin cut slashed through her palm; a stream of blood seeped through and dripped onto the floor. Pain suddenly registered, but it was quickly replaced with an odd sense of annoyance. "Damn."

  Kenneth handed her a crisp, white handkerchief, forcing her to apply pressure. Before she could argue, he turned away. "Clean up this mess, please," he told a passing waiter.