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

by Linda Style

  Several silent moments passed and Whiney shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Rhys seemed to be doing the same. Finally she plucked a cookie from the plate and bit off a chunk, more than she wanted. Anything to take her mind off Rhys’s presence and the sense of intimacy she felt sitting here with him.

  Rhys gave Whitney a quirky grin, then leaned against the back of the pint-size chair, an arm slung over the one next to him, and in a remarkably good Bogart imitation said, “Sweetheart, I think we’ve just been had.” His expression was amused. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  In mid-swallow, she laughed, surprised by his droll humor. As she sucked in air, part of the cookie lodged in her wind-pipe. She coughed, delicately at first, then spasmodically.

  Then, suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Within a millisecond, Rhys leaped to his feet, rounded the table and hoisted her from the chair, his arms around her chest ready to administer the Heimlich maneuver.

  “Wait,” Whitney gasped, then coughed to clear her throat. She raised an arm. “I’m okay. Really.”

  But as she stood there with Rhys’s arms wrapped around her ribcage, feeling his taut muscles molded against her, her legs started to quiver. His head rested against hers, and his warm breath fanned her cheek. She felt the tension in his arms under her breasts and unconsciously relaxed against him. An unequivocal shiver of desire rippled through her.

  “You sure?” He breathed the words next to her ear.

  Hell no. She was suddenly hot, sweaty hot, and with her insides pulsating as they were, she couldn’t have torn herself away if she wanted.

  “I’m an expert at this,” he said softly. And at that moment she had no doubts whatsoever that he told the truth.

  ***

  “I’m gonna help Grammy with the cake,” SaraJane announced with authority after dinner and slid from her booster seat at the long dining table. Johnny had excused himself moments before to help in the kitchen, leaving Whitney and Rhys to stare uneasily at each other across the massive expanse of oak.

  All through the meal Whitney’d been preoccupied with thoughts of Rhys and how wonderful it felt to have his arms around her. How many times since she’d come to Estrade had she imagined what that would be like? Now she knew—and, God help her, she was as sure as daylight would come that Rhys knew what she’d been thinking, too.

  The way her body had fired up, she might as well have stamped “NAKED LUST” across her forehead.

  His eyes locked with hers, his expression pensive, yet filled with invitation. Was he weighing the same thoughts? Of course he is. She could practically feel the sexual energy coming at her in waves.

  She adjusted her barrette, then snatched up her glass, gulping down the cool water, hoping it might douse her internal fire. She couldn’t be attracted to him. She couldn’t actually like him. Because if she did… Well, there were just too many reasons why she couldn’t. Shouldn’t.

  And just as many why she did.

  Rhys and his parents had welcomed her into their lives with barely a question asked. And every time she saw Rhys with SaraJane, she saw nothing but love and tenderness in his eyes. And every time, she wondered if Morgan might have lied.

  But what about Albert’s findings, and that biker who’d given Rhys a bundle of money? What was that all about? Reminded that she hadn’t heard from Albert for a while, she resolved to call him later, even though she realized that no contact meant no new information. And he did have other cases to attend to; she had to remember that.

  There was only one thing she knew for sure. If Rhys was a drug dealer, that was unforgivable. A man who destroyed innocent lives without remorse was the most despicable of all.

  Yet she’d seen no concrete proof, no proof of a single thing Morgan had said. Whatever the truth, it was her sister’s secret, and she’d taken it with her.

  Whitney lowered her water glass, deliberately looking away to avoid his gaze.

  “I’m going to be gone for a few days,” Rhys said.“You might want to take a break, too.”

  Take a break? She stared blankly. What did he mean?

  “I’ve got to go to Phoenix on business, and as long as I’m there, I thought I’d take in a bike show, talk to other dealers, make a few contacts.” He plucked a ripe olive from the bowl in front of him. “Pop’s going to mind the shop, so you could take a breather and do whatever photographers do when they’ve got some spare time.”

  He was leaving? Going away? “What about SaraJane? Are you taking her along?”

  “Mom’ll look after her,” Rhys answered as if Whitney had every right to know his plans. He smiled reassuringly. “No need to worry.”

  Did he want her to leave, too? Was he suggesting that? “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  Rhys cut her off with the wave of a hand. “It’s okay. Really.”

  Whitney gave a wan smile. “Oh.” She shrugged, her thoughts scrambling. “Well, I don’t need to go anywhere. I guess I can just stay here. What was that you said about a show?”

  “Bike show. Biggest thing this side of Daytona and Sturgis.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about and apparently her bewildered expression clued him in.

  “The two biggest annual motorcycle events in the nation. Daytona Beach in March—that’s the traditional kickoff for the racing season—and Sturgis, South Dakota, in August. Both are major bikers’ rallies. People come from everywhere. Thousands.” He paused, blinking thoughtfully.

  “Come to think of it, you oughtta go to some of those rallies for photographs if you want the real biker scene. The event in Phoenix is different, more like an auto or home show where vendors come in and set up their booths. But it’s interesting, too.”

  He studied her for a moment, then his eyes lit as if inspiration had just struck. “You know…you could go with me.” He leaned forward. “Yeah. It’d be an experience for you. Lots of local color for your photographs.”

  Not sure she heard him correctly, Whitney’s pulse raced.“That…sounds wonderful!” she gushed, ready to laugh excitedly, but caught herself. Good grief. The least she could do was maintain some semblance of professionalism. “I mean, it does sound like a wonderful opportunity for some in-depth research.”

  After giving her some more information, Rhys said he could get her a room at the same hotel. That way, she could follow him around, meet the dealers and wholesalers and learn about the business from another perspective.

  “If you’re interested in getting that involved, that is.” He gave her another quick grin and reached out an arm, catching SaraJane on the fly from the kitchen. He swept her up onto his lap.

  “Hey, kiddo. Did you help Grammy with that dessert? I don’t see anything coming out.” SaraJane snuggled into his chest for a hug, then abruptly sat up, swinging her tiny pink-and-white tennis shoes back and forth.

  “Maybe I should go and see about dessert, too,” Whitney offered, rising, her mind filled with the potential implied by this trip with Rhys. It could be an unparalleled opportunity to get information—nearly three hours in the car each way. She’d be sure to find out where SaraJane had been born—and then get Albert on it.

  Except, right now, watching SaraJane on her father’s lap, seeing the love light in his eyes, the unadulterated affection, she wasn’t sure she wanted to discover anything that might destroy the picture.

  Gretta returned with dessert—a light lemon cake—before Whitney could help, and Johnny came back from the foyer. SaraJane wriggled off Rhys’s lap and scooted back onto her booster seat with Johnny’s help. Rhys gave Whitney a conspiratorial smile.

  “Think about it. I’m leaving on Thursday.”

  ***

  Whitney debated her wardrobe options for the trip to Phoenix. Three days altogether. Definitely not a black-tie affair, Rhys had said teasingly when she’d accepted his invitation and asked what to take along in the way of clothes.

  Tossing a couple of pairs of jeans and leggings into her bag, she decided they’d just hav
e to do, especially since it was all she’d brought to Estrade—and there weren’t any shops in town to buy more.

  A shiver of anticipation coursed through her. SaraJane would be safe with her grandparents, giving Whitney the opportunity to ask Rhys some leading questions. Not only that, she could photograph to her heart’s content.

  But, as filled with excitement as she was, she again reminded herself of her goal. And why going with Rhys to Phoenix was a good thing. Besides having the opportunity to find out more about Rhys and her niece, she’d be working on the book, taking photographs. It was her livelihood, what she enjoyed doing. Nothing wrong with that, she rationalized.

  She surveyed her load—one suitcase and her cameras. That was it. Oh, there was another thing. She plucked up the notebook she’d been using as a diary to chronicle her daily conversations with Rhys. Anything he said might give another clue about where SaraJane was born so she could set Albert on the right course.

  During the time Whitney and Rhys had spent together at the shop, Rhys had opened up a little. He’d told Whitney his parents had worked all their lives to save enough money to move from the city and that they’d come to Estrade more than twenty years ago because Johnny had visited the ghost town once and discovered property in the area was inexpensive. Rhys had revealed the fact that he’d worked in Chicago after college, but kept the rest of his past to himself.

  She’d spoken to Albert as often as possible, trying to put the pieces together. Albert was due to get the vital stat information from Chicago any day now, and maybe that would help. There were gaps in Rhys’s life between his living in Chicago and Los Angeles, and another gap between Los Angeles and Estrade. Blocks of time unaccounted for that neither she nor Albert could figure out.

  Something important seemed to be missing—and whatever that something was, it could be the key to gaining custody of SaraJane. But whether it was or wasn’t, she felt an utterly compelling need to know.

  Again and again, she ran through the chronological sequence and always came up with something different. Rhys had grown up in Chicago, graduated from college and earned an MBA, but she had no idea where or when. She guessed that because of his age, he’d graduated sometime in the early eighties.

  His marriage, she had to assume, took place in Chicago, because that was where he’d lived and worked until he left for Los Angeles. Albert’s findings had him in L.A. about four years ago, and the bank-loan application she’d seen indicated he’d last worked in Chicago five years ago. The application, she’d discovered, was incomplete, and his activities during the period were visibly missing.

  As much as she would have liked to ignore it, she couldn’t. Rhys was hiding something. And because of that, Morgan’s words kept pounding in her brain. He’ll say and do anything to get what he wants. It doesn’t matter who he hurts in the process.

  The fact that her own judgment had failed her in the past made her even more cautious. She had to keep her guard up…couldn’t make the same mistakes again. Not when her niece’s future was at stake.

  She closed the notebook with a clap, then crossed to the window, where she knelt on the padded seat and parted the curtain to see if Rhys had arrived yet. A moment later, she saw him pull into the drive.

  After parking, he opened the back door and tenderly drew a blanket around his sleepy-eyed little girl. He zipped up her jacket and tightened the hood before he gathered her in his arms to come in.

  How ironic. From everything she’d seen and learned about Rhys’s character so far, proving him unfit was the last thing she’d be able to do. Sometimes she even questioned whether it would be the right thing to do.

  In the end, she’d still need to prove to a court that SaraJane would be better off with her.

  It was a question she asked herself all the time. She’d failed the one person she cared about most. What made her think she’d do anything differently with SaraJane?

  She had no qualifications for motherhood. No experience. And she certainly had no close-knit family to offer love and support. All she had was her own overwhelming love for her sister’s child, and a promise to keep.

  Slowly she released the curtain, resolving not to worry about any of this right now. The time she’d spent with SaraJane was precious and she wanted it to continue.

  But for now, she needed to be content with the status quo. Only not too content. She had to stop allowing her thoughts to drift to what it might be like to stay on in Estrade with Rhys and SaraJane.

  A major fantasy, that. And it had the added appeal of conveniently resolving an ugly situation. If she could somehow forget about Rhys’s past and what he’d done to Morgan—

  God, her head ached with conflicting thoughts. She scrubbed a hand over her face. It really was a fantasy. One that was all mixed up with her teenaged hopes and dreams—unrealistic hopes and dreams.

  And self-pity was as unproductive as dreams were futile.

  On that note, she locked her suitcase, then hoisted the camera bag over her shoulder. A sharp rap sounded on the door. She opened it and found Rhys on the other side.

  “I came up to see if I could help.” He thrust out a hand for the suitcase. “I’ll carry that.”

  She handed him the bag, her hand touching his as she did. The mere contact sent her pulses racing. Dang. She felt as if her nerves were exposed on the outside of her skin, tingling wherever he accidently touched her. Or even breathed on her.

  Worse yet, she liked it. She liked the way her stomach lurched when he was close, the way her heart raced until she had to catch her breath, the way his masculine scent sent her blood rushing through her veins.

  Her responses when she thought about Rhys were exactly the way she’d always imagined being in love would feel. And now that she felt it, whatever “it” was, she was truly baffled.

  The whole scenario was wrong and contrary to her better judgment. Most importantly, in every possible way she could imagine…he was the wrong man for her.

  ***

  Rhys descended the stairs two at a time. He was crazy to invite her along. It was like passing a gourmet meal under a starving man’s nose and telling him he couldn’t eat.

  Fortunately Whitney was in control—as always.

  On the outside.

  To keep her professional cool, her guard was always up. She’d keep him at a distance. Yeah, but he saw that banked fire—so sizzling, so combustible, so ready to burst into flame. And man, oh, man, he couldn’t deny he wanted to be the one to ignite it.

  But he knew better. The women that seemed to appeal to him were the worst in the world for him. He’d tried before and all it had gotten him was an ulcer and a divorce. Hell, as if once wasn’t enough he’d even tried it again, although he’d been smart enough not to get married a second time. And he’d learned a lot from that experience.

  He’d learned he couldn’t be something he wasn’t. It was as plain as that. The old adage about making silk stockings out of pig’s hair, or whatever that saying was, more than applied to him.

  Downstairs he loaded Whitney’s luggage into the Jeep, with her cameras close at hand. If he knew anything at all about the woman, it was that she never missed a photo opportunity. Her camera was like an appendage.

  Finished, Rhys bounded inside for breakfast with Whitney and SaraJane. As he entered the sunroom, he saw the two of them with their heads close together in quiet conspiracy.

  Watching them warmed him inside. Seeing them together, they could easily be mistaken for mother and daughter, their rapport so easy and natural.

  His stomach bottomed out and for one anxious moment, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. SaraJane was bonding with Whitney. Which couldn’t be good in the long run. Soon Whitney’d go back to her jet-set life and forget all about them.

  SaraJane had been abandoned once. He couldn’t let it happen again. Still, he wanted his little girl to have all the love she deserved—even if only for a brief while.

  Rhys waved them into the kitchen, smiling pr
oudly as SaraJane placed her tiny fingers in Whitney’s hand. It was odd, but he liked the fact that SaraJane and Whitney resembled each other.

  He’d decided quite some time ago that Whitney’s beauty was a bonus, the frosting on a very substantial cake. If SaraJane grew up to be half as pretty and half as smart, she’d be one lucky little girl.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “YOU’LL LOVE IT. I guarantee you’ll think it’s the most beautiful bike you’ve ever seen. One of a kind.” They rounded the corner and Rhys drove the Jeep into a gas station to fill up. “When it’s done, you can photograph to your heart’s content.”

  “But wouldn’t it be good to get some photos of the work in progress?” According to Rhys, the motorcycle he was building would be the quintessential custom vehicle. But he refused to let her see it until he’d completed it.

  “Even then, I’d need to talk with the buyer before I gave any kind of go-ahead for photographs.”

  Whitney leaned over the seat and poked her head out the window on the driver’s side while Rhys pumped gas. “I don’t understand. Why would you need to talk to anyone? It’s your business. It’s your inventory until it’s done, isn’t it?”

  The wind caught Rhys’s dark hair, giving him a tousled little-boy look. He raised the collar on his leather jacket and cast an indulgent look in her direction.

  “Maybe you can operate a photography business that way, but I can’t. If I didn’t get money up front, I’d be working at too much of a risk. The potential buyer might never show.”

  He stuffed the pump handle back into its slot, waited for the receipt to pop out, and then slid into the driver’s seat again. “Frames, engines, parts, whatever, have to be ordered. It’s expensive, and I don’t have the extra bucks lying around to do it. A custom bike can go for thirty grand or more.”

  Checking the mirrors, he headed onto the Black Canyon Highway, the road from Estrade to Phoenix. “Usually I receive half the payment on signing the contract and the remainder at completion. In this instance,” he said, “the buyer paid the total cost on signing.” His lips thinned.