Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance)

by Linda Style

  She’d made some progress. Her ignorance about the motorcycle business had worked in her favor, and after a fairly normal discussion, she’d asked Gannon again for his ideas. He’d suggested she get firsthand experience by following a biker around or hanging out where they did.

  Exactly what she’d hoped he’d say and a great segue to her question… “Maybe I could start here?”

  At first his expression had been guarded. Then, studying her, he’d passed a tanned finger across his slightly parted lips. His eyes narrowed.

  “Maybe.” He’d nodded. “Maybe you could.”

  Once they’d settled it, she’d decided to go back to the inn and get a room for a few days—or longer if necessary. Then she needed to tie up some loose ends from the last shoot and, if she could, reschedule the next two. She couldn’t concentrate on getting custody of SaraJane and worry about business as usual at the same time.

  She had no idea if Gannon had the child with him where he lived or if he’d hidden her somewhere—with friends or relatives, out of town, maybe even out of state. A sense of hopelessness fell over her each time she imagined the possibilities. Somehow she had to win the man’s trust so he’d open up to her. After that, her next move would depend on what she found.

  Caution was the operative word. If he found her out, he could easily send her packing and SaraJane might be lost to her forever.

  Like Morgan. Her throat closed the thought. Tears sprang to her eyes. She hadn’t seen Morgan in four years. But even so, she simply couldn’t fathom that she’d never see her again. There was some consolation in knowing Morgan would live on through SaraJane, but finding the child, getting custody…it all seemed so daunting.

  But she had to find her. She couldn’t fail Morgan again. She just couldn’t.

  With an ache in her heart as she drove, Whitney watched a golden sun melt over the top of the mountain range as trees of orange, crimson and burnt umber set the hillside afire. But the deeper she descended into the canyon, the darker it became.

  Watching the evergreens and shrubs thicken, she recalled yesterday’s motorcycle ride and how she’d panicked when Gannon stopped on the precipice above the river to show her the inn.

  She remembered how foolish she’d felt when she realized he was earnest in showing her where to stay. Now, craning her neck to see, she saw the well-lit approach, then drove across the bridge. She pulled into the circular driveway and parked in front, under an arch of multicolored ash and maple.

  Although the old Victorian inn sat on the side of the mountain, the area was on level ground that covered at least an acre. Above the double-door entry, a fixture splayed warm amber light across the wide veranda, the sign underneath it the only clue that the Estrade Inn was a place where people could stay. It looked more like a bed-and-breakfast than an inn.

  She stepped from her car, her senses immediately stimulated by the fresh scent of river flora—a fragrant earthy aroma that evoked memories of the Hudson River behind her childhood home outside Hyde Park. One of the few good memories of a childhood filled with…memories she’d learned to block the second they surfaced.

  Briefly, she closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, then rang the bell and waited, absorbing the ambiance. Three white wicker chairs and a love seat with colorful floral-patterned cushions were grouped in a corner on her right. Farther down, a wooden porch swing hung from chains, and next to it were two large rocking chairs and a child’s hobbyhorse. The sight of the horse reminding her of her purpose.

  If she’d known last night that she was going to stay, she would’ve made reservations for a few days and would also have left her luggage in the room, instead of taking it with her when she went to meet Gannon. The front door swung open and a tall gray-haired man welcomed her into the large reception area as if he knew who she was and why she was there.

  “Come over here and we’ll get you signed in properly, young lady,” he said, ambling toward a rosewood library table on one side of the foyer. “And we’ll get you a key for the front door. Mabel did the best she could last night, but sometimes she forgets the details.”

  Whitney followed him to the desk. She hadn’t been called “young lady” as many times in her entire life as she had in the past two days. And how did he know she’d be coming back?

  He slipped on a pair of Ben Franklin glasses and printed something in his book before sliding it toward her. “My name’s John. Everyone calls me Johnny. My wife Gretta and I run this establishment,” he announced, straightening his shoulders.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Whitney Sheffield.”

  “I know. Rhys called to tell us you were coming back and that you needed a good room. He said you’re a photographer on an assignment.”

  Well, that took care of any further explanation on her part. Although it bothered her that Gannon had called ahead on her behalf, it had saved her some time. The two men obviously knew each other fairly well, and remembering Mabel’s warning, she’d have to be careful with her questions.

  “My wife isn’t here right now,” the man apologized, “but she’ll be back soon. In the meantime we’ll get you set up. You can meet Gretta tomorrow morning at breakfast.” He peered over the top of his glasses at her. “Unless you don’t get up for breakfast?”

  “No, no.” Whitney shook her head. “I mean, yes, of course I get up for breakfast. Well, at least coffee,” Whitney corrected, then gave him her credit card to complete the transaction.

  “You can get room service between 6 and 10 a.m.,” the innkeeper said on the way up the stairs. “There’s a menu in your room. All you have to do is pick up the phone and let us know.” He winked, smiling, his soft words making her feel more welcome than she had anywhere in a very long time.

  Johnny unlocked the door and told her to look around while he brought up her suitcase. Whitney stepped into the spacious suite to do exactly that, but just as she reached to pick up a figurine from the top of the dresser, she heard a noise behind her. She pivoted to see a tall woman standing in the doorway. She wore a long black knit dress, cowboy boots and silver-and-turquoise bracelets on both wrists. Her dark hair, artfully highlighted with an equal amount of silver, was precisely cut in a chin-length bob.

  “Hello.” The woman came forward. “I’m Gretta. I got back a little earlier than expected, so I came up to meet you.”

  Whitney clasped the woman’s outstretched hand and decided instantly that her eyes, an unusual azure color, were her best feature. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Whitney Sheff—”

  “I know. Welcome to Estrade.” Still smiling, Gretta brushed a dark thread from Whitney’s shoulder as a concerned mother might.

  “Just hit that red button and you can get right through to either Gretta or me,” Johnny said, entering the room behind his wife. He deposited Whitney’s suitcase on a wooden luggage rack against the wall. “We can get you anything you need. Hit nine and you can dial out directly.”

  Almost at a loss for words at their graciousness, Whitney thanked them, and once they’d left, she pulled out her cell phone, punched in Albert’s number and waited.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “ALBERT, IT’S WHITNEY. Got anything new for me?”

  “Hey, Whit, I was worried about you. You find the slime?”

  “I’m okay, Al, and yes, I did find Gannon. Plans have changed a little, though.”

  “Changed? How?”

  She explained, then asked, “Any luck on the birth certificate?

  “Tough one, Whit. No record in Orange County.”

  “Damn, I thought that’s where Morgan lived there when she had the baby. What now? Have you tried outside Orange County?” Whitney paused, paced the room in front of the bay windows. “Maybe you should try a couple other counties or the neighboring states.”

  Albert sighed, a gurgle of exasperation in the back of his throat. “It would help, ya know, if we had even an inkling of what alias she used, or a social security number, an address—anything. It’s impossible to run a trace
without a few facts.”

  “But can’t you just run some kind of private investigator check? Isn’t all that information available at your fingertips?”

  “Ah…” Albert hedged. “Sometimes. But even with the big database providers like DBT and IRSC or DATAFAX, you gotta supply some facts to get something back. I’ve done that using all the information you gave me, but Morgan was using a phony name and apparently never used her social security number to work anywhere. Under those circumstances, it’s pretty hard to run a trace or do any kind of background check. Especially when the last verifiable information was from four years ago, when she was only sixteen and living at home.”

  “But you found Gannon…and Morgan was with him. Can’t you just go from th—”

  “Whit—” Albert gave another sigh, and after a moment, she heard him take a deep breath. “I know how you feel. But I have done this before, and believe me, I’m following up on it from every angle I can. Sometimes people use part of their real names, or a relative’s, or even assume a dead person’s identity. It takes time to check it all out. And I’m following up on Gannon’s end, but at this point, it requires footwork, working backward, tracking down people Gannon might’ve known back then. That all takes time.” He stopped for another breath, the frustration in his voice evident. “Ya know?”

  Now it was Whitney’s turn to sigh, her spirits flagging.

  “And I do have other clients—and even a social life—such as it is.” He gave a derisive laugh, but when he continued, she heard understanding in his voice. “I’d love to drop everything and devote every waking minute to finding the kid for you, but it just ain’t practical. Ya know?”

  “I can give you more money if that’ll hel—”

  “Whit! I can’t do that and you know it.” He paused again, then taking his voice down a notch, said, “Believe me, I’m doing everything I can. I know it’s hard, but we’ll find her. Unless…uh, if you’d feel better getting someone else—” He let the sentence hang.

  “I’m sorry,” Whitney said. “You’re right. I know you’re doing everything you can.” Crap. It wasn’t Albert’s fault that Morgan had given Whitney only a few shreds of information.

  Morgan had left an out-of-the-blue message on Whitney’s voice mail one night, told her Gannon’s name, the last address where she’d known him to be, and then launched into all the despicable things he’d done to her. She’d told Whitney SaraJane’s name and age and asked her to promise to find the child and gain custody. That was it. She’d overdosed the same night.

  Albert, her sweet and patient cousin, had been there for Whitney through it all, even when the police told her as far as the LAPD was concerned the biological father had every right to his own child.

  But Albert had found Gannon for her, and she was sure he’d get the birth certificate somehow. Not that finding the birth certificate would be sure proof of anything, either. There was no way to know whether Morgan listed her own name or birthdate or place of birth, which would help prove Whitney’s relationship to her niece. They also had to know if Morgan had named Gannon as SaraJane’s father. If not, the man would have no legal claim on the child. Not without DNA tests—or proof of marriage.

  According to Whitney’s attorney, finding the birth certificate was as much a way to rule out certain things as it was to prove them. Because without it, even if she found SaraJane, if Whitney couldn’t prove the child was her niece, she was screwed.

  “Our best bet is Gannon,” her cousin said. “He’d know where the kid was born and where she is now.”

  “Yeah, I know, Al. That’s the plan, but I don’t know how much time I’ll need. I have to take it slow so he doesn’t get suspicious.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to do it?”

  “Can we not get into that again? I need to do this. Really.”

  “Okay, okay. Just so you know my feelings about it. I’ve got some other ways to get the info, like I said, but it’ll take some footwork. I’ll do what I can, but you be careful. You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

  “I’m fine, Al,” she answered, wishing she could say it with more conviction.

  “You don’t sound so good.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired.” And emotionally drained. “Listen, Al.” She pulled the barrette from her hair. “I’ve got to take care of a few business things before I do anything. If I can’t do that by phone, I may fly to La Jolla for a day or two. You can get me there. The instant you get anything, okay? And I’ll be in touch.”

  “You’re on. Catch ya later, babe.”

  “Albert,” Whitney said quickly before he hung up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

  Whitney hung up, squelching her frustration. She knew getting the birth certificate wouldn’t be easy, and her impatience was unreasonable.

  Morgan had used several names after she’d left home, and had been virtually untraceable, even with a couple top investigators working on it. The one time they’d actually found Morgan she’d been living nomadically, moving from one street friend’s home to another in Cincinnati…and she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with her family. When Albert volunteered to help find SaraJane, it was a blessing. It was so much easier to work with someone who actually cared what happened.

  A huge lump formed in her throat. She’d failed Morgan. Failed her in every way she’d ever promised to keep her little sister safe.

  In the three months since Morgan’s death, that failure—that anguish—had lodged sharply and painfully in the deepest part of her soul. She doubted she’d ever get over it.

  Tears welled, but she held them back. She wanted more than anything to cry…to release the darkness. But tears would only be a manifestation of her own grief. A futile act of self-pity. Morgan was dead and all the tears in the world couldn’t bring her back.

  According to Whitney’s attorney, they needed to prove relationship to SaraJane, which could be done with DNA tests if they couldn’t come up with a birth certificate. Since her plan to catch Gannon in a drug deal, get the transaction on film and buy him off, probably wasn’t going to work, she’d have to sue for custody.

  And one of the first things she’d learned was that it wasn’t easy to take a child from a natural parent—even when the parent was as unsavory as Gannon was purported to be. She’d have to prove him unfit.

  But now, after meeting him, she even wondered about that. Whatever his character, though, Gannon was the key to finding her niece.

  It was painful to imagine the kind of life the poor kid had been subjected to—living on the streets with a teenage mother on the run, kidnapped by her junkie father… She shuddered to think how such early trauma might have affected the child.

  Just thinking about it all made her weary. She could only try to make it up to SaraJane—give her niece a secure home where she’d know she was loved and wanted—the kind of home Whitney and Morgan had never had.

  She’d bought the house in La Jolla as soon as she’d known she’d need a real home for SaraJane. She doubted any judge or court would see either her condo in New York or the apartment she worked from in San Diego as an appropriate and stable environment for a child. And she wasn’t leaving it to chance.

  She picked up her phone again and tapped the Favorites key for her editor’s number. Though it didn’t look as if her original plan would pan out, it seemed the hastily hatched book idea just might. It would get her closer to Gannon—and, with luck, her niece.

  Impatient, she tapped a finger on the back of the phone. Tanya’s voice mail kicked in. “You’ve reached Tanya Elliot. Please leave a message.”

  “Tanya, it’s Whitney. Sorry I didn’t call before I left New York, but I promise I’ll fill you in when we talk. I have a terrific idea to run by you.” She paused, thinking. “I’ll be gone early in the morning, so call me before eight, Arizona time, or leave a message to let me know the best time to reach you.”

  Whitney hung up and as
she did, a feeling of resolve settled within her.

  This was going to work out. It just had to.

  If she could get Tanya, who was not only her editor but her best friend, to agree to the book idea, she’d feel less vulnerable when she faced Gannon again.

  A sharp twist of apprehension coiled in the pit of her stomach. Around Gannon her emotions took one erratic turn after another. His presence attacked her sensibilities, filling her with doubt and guilt and a whole lot of other reactions she didn’t want to acknowledge.

  She closed her eyes and focused on the one thing she needed to do. One step at a time. She had to make this work. If she didn’t, she could lose everything.

  The book was the vehicle through which she’d insinuate herself into Rhys Gannon’s life. Then, when she found SaraJane, she’d make her move.

  If everything went well, Gannon would never know what hit him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  RHYS GATHERED the gearshift and a few other parts that had come in for the custom job he was working on, placed them in a box to take to the workshop and patted his pockets for the keys. It probably wasn’t necessary to keep the shop locked in a town like Estrade, but he did, anyway, from force of habit. The equipment was too expensive to take chances.

  He grabbed the blueprint from the top of the file cabinet and unrolled the tube, smiling with satisfaction as he did. This was a far different career from what he’d been doing for the past twenty years, and far more gratifying.

  He picked up a wrench and tossed it from one hand to the other, glancing around the vacant store before he headed out to the shop. Not a customer in sight.

  When he bought the business a year ago, he’d had plans. Not big ones, just plans that went along with his need to change the direction of his life. But since then, with the trial taking up most of his time and money, he’d been unable to get things off the ground.

  As much as he wished things had been different, they weren’t, and there was no point in thinking about what he couldn’t change. He’d get the money he needed…one way or another. He tossed the wrench into the box, pulled out his phone and called home.