A Precious Inheritance

by Paula Roe

  Animosity seeped from every pore of his sharply dressed body, broad shoulders straight, cool arrogance lining an impressively striking face. Tanned skin, chiseled jaw. Her inner artist paused to admire the view. Classically handsome, really…

  “Who are you?” he barked.

  She blinked, the spell broken. “None of your business. Who are you?”

  “Someone who can make a lot of trouble for you. How do you know Ann Richardson?”

  Vanessa shoved her handbag strap up her shoulder. “Again, none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  The man refused to budge, preferring instead to stare her down.

  Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.

  She raised one condescending eyebrow then slowly crossed her arms. “Do I need to call security?”

  “Oh, go right ahead. I’m sure they’ll be interested in your story.”

  What? Confusion spiked, followed quickly by a thread of worry. She drew in a sharp breath. “Look, I don’t know who you think I am or what I’ve—”

  He snorted. “Cut the crap. I know exactly what you’ve been doing. The question is, do you want to come clean or should I do it for you?”

  The cold steel in his voice matched his eyes, slicing through her tough protective shell in one swift movement.

  “Come clean?” she said faintly.

  “Yeah. And I’m sure I could wrangle a few reporters interested enough to run a story.”

  Shock stole her voice, her breath. How could he know? No one knew. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers tightening around her woolen collar.

  Yet as he stood there, bristling and combative as he invaded her personal space, a thought began to grow inside, pushing past her outrage and fear. What was it her father always said? “Until there’s irrefutable evidence, never admit to anything.”

  Wow, it did help to have a defense lawyer in the family.

  A shot of resolve forced her hand into a tight fist by her side. Quickly she called on every tired muscle to straighten her already ramrod back as she inhaled, filling her lungs with self-assurance.

  “And what story would that be?” she said calmly, pinning him with her direct gaze.

  His murmur of disbelief annoyed the hell out of her. “Shill bidding.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “A plant, bidding against—”

  “Legitimate bidders to bump up the price. Yes, I know what it is. And you… you—” she released a relieved breath “—are out of your mind.”

  “Are you denying you know Ann Richardson?”

  Vanessa’s mouth tightened. “Of course I know her—she was my sister’s college roommate.”

  The stranger’s expression turned shrewd. “Right.” His gaze swept over her, scrutinizing, studying. Frankly contemptuous in his perusal.

  That faint sheen of worry started up again, sending a shiver down her spine. Careful, Ness. “It’s true, and very easily proved.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Listen, Mr.…?”

  “Harrington. Chase Harrington.”

  “Mr. Harrington. You won the auction. You are now the proud owner of the rare and precious hand-notated copy of D. B. Dunbar’s final book—” Her voice nearly cracked then, but she swallowed and forged on. “So go and pay Waverly’s and enjoy your prize. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “So why were you bidding on Dunbar’s manuscript?”

  She dug around in her bag for her sunglasses. “Why did everyone else in that room want it?”

  “I’m asking you, not them.”

  With a deliberately bored shrug, she slid her glasses on. “I hate waiting. Especially for a D. B. Dunbar.”

  He crossed his arms, his expression part skeptical, part disgusted. “You couldn’t wait six months.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bull.”

  The stress of the past few years, the tense auction, missing her babies and the frantic craziness of New York had done their damage, steadily chipping away at her control. And now this… this… arrogant SOB in her face. She’d had enough.

  Resentment surged through her veins, heating her face and pulling her shoulders back. She shoved her glasses on her head then tipped her chin up, giving him her haughtiest death stare.

  “You know what? You got me. You want to know who I am?” When she took an aggressive step forward, surprise flashed across his face, and empowered, she took another. “I was Dunbar’s secret girlfriend, he left me with nothing and I was bidding on that manuscript so I could wait a few months, then flog it off for a nice little profit when his book came out. That sound about right to you?”

  She punctuated every word with a pointing finger, until finally she paused, a bare inch away from poking that finger into his broad chest.

  His eyes were a sharp, clear blue, the kind of blue reserved for movie stars and rock gods. Yet strangely, it reminded her of a perfect Colorado winter, the morning after the first snowfall.

  Contact lenses, probably. His whole persona screamed money and entitlement, and with that, ego and vanity came hand in hand. Yet as she paused, breath pumping from her lungs and fists now on hips, his gaze flicked to her mouth.

  The moment flared, so sudden and intense that Vanessa sucked in a gasp. Her anger shorted out as awareness flooded in, infinite possibilities and anticipation threading through the air, binding them.

  It left her reeling.

  Chase couldn’t help but notice how wide those green eyes had become. Innocent eyes, he would’ve said, if not for the fact that she’d spent the last twenty seconds practically screaming her crazy scenario at him.

  And boy, a woman with a mouth that good was as far from innocent as he was.

  He dragged in a breath, then quickly exhaled when he realized it was all her. Something vanilla, plus something else…soft and powdery, familiar yet unable to place.

  Princess smelled amazing, and that pissed him off because the last thing he needed was a raging attraction to her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t do commitment or Perfects.

  Control. He had to get control.

  “Miss Partridge?” came a voice, and as one, they both sprung back and turned.

  A uniformed man stood there, a cap tucked under his arm.

  “Yes?” she said, her chin going up, eyebrows raised in an imperious “why are you interrupting me” expression.

  “Miss Richardson said to inform you her car is ready for you. Where would you like to go?”

  She spared Chase a haughty look. “JFK, thanks.” And without another word, she turned on her heel and followed the driver down the long corridor.

  She had the rounded tones and patrician air that clenched every muscle in Chase’s body, sending it onto high alert. She even had the walk down pat, he realized, watching her hips sway beneath that tight black skirt, her precise footsteps in killer heels eating up the hall. Part hypnotic, part infuriating, that arrogant walk told him she knew exactly where his eyes were focused. He’d bet a thousand bucks a smug smile was plastered all over that beautiful face, too.

  With hands on his hips he glared at her back until she turned the corner and finally disappeared.

  She hadn’t declared her innocence or answered his questions. And now he had a name—Partridge. Which meant this was far from over.

  Two

  Chase checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes then stared out into the dark, leafy suburban street, shifting restlessly in the luxurious leather seat of his rental car as his thoughts tossed.

  Vanessa Partridge. His gaze honed in on the apartment building three doors down, at the lights behind the drawn curtains on the second floor.

  At first he’d thought there was something in that manuscript, something incriminating she wanted to remain private. But apart from a stack of hand-written notes and a bunch of chapters running low on toner, he’d come up empty.

  He’d stared at those neat pages on his desk for so long he could’ve burned a hole in
them. And eventually he returned to his original accusation—she was a Waverly plant.

  He buttoned up his coat then swung open the car door, wincing as an unseasonably cold October breeze rushed in. A thousand questions burned, their missing endings gnawing away at him. Despite the information Chase had charmed out of Waverly’s staff, then had followed up online, nothing could fill in the gaps better than the woman herself. Yes, her story about her sister and Ann Richardson had proven correct, but the rest was woefully deficient…and he hated the imperfection those holes wrought.

  Why would Vanessa Partridge resort to shill bidding? And why would the daughter of two highly respected Washington lawyers have such a blatant disregard for the law?

  Chase shoved his hands in his pockets. If she was as innocent as she claimed, how could she afford to bid on that manuscript, given her single-parent status and teacher’s salary? Daddy’s money? So why not use that money for a house, a flashy car, a nanny?

  Those questions had dogged his thoughts after he’d observed her leaving the nursery school where she worked, dressed in jeans and a battered bomber jacket, hair tied in a simple ponytail. He’d watched in fascination as she went through what was obviously the familiar process of carrying two babies outside, strapping them into her old BMW, throwing her bags into the trunk, then driving fifteen minutes to a double-story apartment block. One of many that lined an average street in the lower end of Silver Spring, Maryland.

  Everything about Vanessa Partridge screamed respectability, from her old-money Washington-lawyer parents, to her centuries-old bloodline. But she also baffled him. Why would someone turn her back on a promising career in law, one where she could fall into the family practice straight after her bar exam? When he’d read that particular bit of information he’d known that a trip to Maryland was in the cards. He dealt in speculation every single waking moment: it’s what he did, first as the new guy at Rushford Investments, then as one of McCoy Jameson’s most sought-after portfolio managers. These days, he worked for himself and a few choice investors. He had a talent for making money and he’d made an obscene amount of it over the years, even through the turbulent time following the crash. He was pretty much free to please himself.

  And right now, what pleased him was figuring out the puzzle that was Vanessa Partridge because everything about her just didn’t add up.

  He stared up at the drawn curtains of Vanessa’s apartment.

  If it somehow turned out he was wrong, he owed her an apology. Chase Harrington always admitted his mistakes. But the only way he’d get to the truth was by confronting her.

  No, not confronting. He’d done that back in New York and look what had happened—she’d been all up in his face and then, wham! That moment when he’d suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to kiss her.

  His breath puffed out, clouding in the cool night air. Dammit. She was a Perfect in every sense of the word, and not just by the standards of his narrow-minded hometown. She had the breeding, the money, the attitude…the looks. That skin, the hair. The mouth—that beautifully shaped, top-heavy mouth, coupled with those wide green eyes…

  With a muffled curse he slammed his car door closed. Get a grip, Chase. He’d fought hard to keep his past in the past, even though it had molded him into the man he was today, guiding his decisions so he could get as far away as possible from his previous life. Far away from people like Vanessa Partridge.

  She’d piqued his curiosity and raised too many flags. If she was a shill bidder, he had to report her.

  And if she wasn’t?

  His mind flashed back to earlier, when he’d watched her struggle to get her two children into the car.

  Until he knew what her story was and how she was connected to his manuscript, he needed a cool head. Angry meant emotional, and that had the potential for mistakes. He’d learned that lesson from a very early age.

  * * *

  “Good girl, Heather. You ate all your dinner!” Vanessa gently wiped the drooly, smiling mouth of her eighteen-month-old daughter before turning to the little girl’s twin, who sat beside her in an identical high chair. “And how are you doing, Erin? Still painting?”

  The chocolate-curled baby looked up from her pumpkin-smeared tray to grin. “Pain!” Then she slowly stuck her fingers in her mouth, her eyes twinkling in mischief.

  Vanessa laughed, swiping away a fleck of food in the toddler’s hair. “That’s some mighty fine artwork you’ve got there. Edible, too. How avant-garde of you.”

  Wanting in on the conversation, Heather clapped her hands and squealed, prompting her sister to follow suit. Pumpkin splattered Vanessa’s shirt, leaving orange smears on dark blue. Vanessa quickly wiped it off with a smile, even as her insides cramped with bittersweet regret.

  She’d been back home for two days, back to her normal life and her job and still she couldn’t shake the failure of her New York trip.

  I am very disappointed in you, Vanessa. If she closed her eyes, that imaginary voice even sounded like her father’s.

  She cupped Heather’s warm cheek with her palm, her mouth grim.

  Yes, she had friends, her girls, a job she loved. All those had satisfied her for nearly two years. A few times she’d thought of calling her parents, even apologizing, but she quickly nixed that idea. She had nothing to apologize for.

  Then she’d heard about the auction and it was as if she’d been hit by a renewed purpose. Something had taken hold of her conscience and wouldn’t let go, a righteous emotion that had amplified day by day, night by night, until two weeks ago. She’d thought about it, analyzed it to death before allowing herself to hope, to plan, to follow up. Dylan may have left her—left her babies—with nothing to remember him by, but she was determined to right that wrong.

  She’d failed.

  Obviously, someone up there didn’t want her to have that manuscript.

  She sighed, gently wiping pumpkin from Heather’s high chair. So many memories rolling through her head. So many mistakes.

  Well, except two. Her gaze went to Erin and Heather, gleefully mucking about with their food, and her chest tightened to almost painful intensity. She’d go through her father’s horrible accusations, their awful row and her storming out all over again if it meant having these two gorgeous babies in her life. They were hers. All hers.

  “Mum-mum-mum?” Heather said, huge brown eyes so like Dylan’s staring up at her.

  Vanessa’s breath caught as she leaned in to kiss the soft, downy head. Lingering notes of baby shampoo mixed with pumpkin quickly chased away the regret and she smiled.

  “I think it’s time for someone’s bath.”

  “Baff!” Erin echoed with a final bang on her high chair.

  With smooth efficiency, she wiped down the high chairs then unstrapped the girls. With one on each hip, she padded out of the kitchen, through the living room and down the short hall.

  This apartment was perfect, although sharing her master bath would definitely lose its appeal once the girls got older. Eventually they’d have to find a bigger place, something with three bedrooms and at least two bathrooms.

  Maybe fate was telling her she needed to use her money for more important things.

  Shoving all thoughts of that auction from her mind, she concentrated on the familiar routine of bathing the girls, drying them, reading a bedtime story, then settling them down in their cribs. As usual, Erin was the first to fall asleep, her little breath coming in deep and even almost immediately. Heather was the restless one, unable to settle unless Vanessa was softly singing, her hand a reassuring pressure on her back.

  She was halfway through the second song of her nightly Rascal Flatts repertoire when Heather finally stilled and her breathing changed.

  With a soft sigh, Vanessa gently drew her hand away, tiptoed across the room and pulled the door to.

  She was nearly to the kitchen when the phone rang.

  She surged forward and grabbed the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”

  “Evening, Va
nessa. It’s Connor Jarvis from number fifteen.”

  Her heart sank. Her elderly neighbor took his self-designated role as McKenzie Road’s protector of the street’s females seriously. While it was flattering most of the time, tonight was not the night. “Hi, Mr. Jarvis. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I know the Taylors below you are away for the month and, ahhh…” She waited patiently for Jarvis’s hacking cough to subside. Finally he wheezed, “So you know I told you about that guy loitering at number seven last night?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think he’s out in front of your place.”

  “What?”

  She walked swiftly over to the living room window, dipping down the blinds a bare inch and staring at the lamp-lit street.

  “Outside?” she said. “Where?”

  “He was at the curb a few minutes ago, looking up at your window. But now I can’t see him.” Jarvis paused again, coughing for long-drawn-out seconds.

  “You sure it was a man?” Vanessa said, slowly scanning the shadows outside.

  “Couldn’t miss it. Tall, broad. Dressed in a suit, for crying out loud. What kind of criminal wears a suit?”

  “Ones who’re good at their job?”

  Jarvis burst into wheezy laughter until Vanessa began to feel bad about her lame joke. Finally, he got it under control enough to say, “You want me to call the cops?”

  Before she could answer, she caught movement in her yard. The security light came on a second later, bathing the would-be criminal in a harsh amber glow.

  Vanessa sucked in a breath as her stomach bottomed out.

  “You want me to call the cops?” Jarvis repeated.

  “No. No, I…” She sighed. “I know him. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Jarvis. I’ll deal with it. You have a good night.”

  She quickly hung up before the man had a chance to grill her further.

  Vanessa paused in the middle of her living room, moments passing before she realized she had the tip of her thumb in her mouth, the nail flicking back and forth over her front tooth.

  Fingers out of your mouth, Vanessa!