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

by Linda Style

  After his disappointment at the bank yesterday, he’d driven to the prison in Florence to tell R.J. they might have to use the public defender if he couldn’t come up with more money for the new attorney he’d hired. Even if he sold everything he had, he couldn’t afford the guy.

  When R.J. had come out, he’d sat in the chair on the other side of the window, silent, refusing to talk. Rhys couldn’t blame the boy after all he’d been through, so he’d gone on, making casual conversation, hoping to get even a small response. He told R.J. about the business, how SaraJane was doing, and he told him about Whitney.

  Whitney was the only topic that sparked R.J.’s interest. Once the ice was broken, they’d talked, and for the first time in months, Rhys had hope. R.J. had opened up to him, wanting to know more about this new woman in his father’s life.

  It was a good sign. R.J. had never expressed the slightest interest in Rhys’s life before. Except when he needed money.

  Rhys brought his attention back to the moment as Whitney approached, snapping photos as she walked toward him. He was glad for the respite from his troubled thoughts. Not that she wasn’t a pack of trouble, too.

  Objectivity was what he needed as far as Whitney was concerned. In his present circumstances, getting involved with anyone would be the dumbest thing he could do—and it sure as hell didn’t make sense to get his guts all tangled up about a woman who’d be gone a week or a month from now. But when had love ever made sense?

  He blinked at the random thought.

  Love? When had that entered into it?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I NEVER REALIZED Arizona had such spectacular scenery,” Whitney said breathlessly, then sank against the large rock where Rhys had propped his foot. “Whew! Guess I’d better start an exercise regimen.”

  “It’s the altitude. Stay here long enough and you’ll get used to it.”

  She let out another groan and, inhaling deeply, squinted at him. He leaned forward, resting one hand on his knee. The wind ruffled the loose curls at his neck and the sun cast a golden glow on his well-defined features.

  She raised her camera, and he looked directly into the lens. When she hit the motor drive, he smiled, that sexy half smile that made her stomach flutter in response.

  “Great shots,” she said, lowering the camera. “Really great.”

  “I’d rather you got the scenery.” He grinned as if a little self-conscious about having his photo taken. He reached down to pluck something from her hair, and his fingers grazed her cheek.

  She tried to decipher his strange almost tender expression.

  “What do you intend to do with those photos? The ones of me, I mean.”

  She shrugged, meeting his eyes. “Dunno. Dartboard maybe?”

  Rhys laughed, extending a hand to help her up. “Better watch it or I won’t stop for lunch.” His hand rested on her shoulder, guiding her as they walked back to the car. “That is if I decide to let you ride with me.”

  Both laughing, they went back to the car, then drove into the town of Sedona and ate lunch at a Mexican restaurant in a complex called Telaquepaque. Despite her preoccupation with Rhys’s revelation, Whitney marveled at it all—the scenery, the Southwestern specialty shops, the art galleries, the color of Rhys’s eyes, the shape of his lips…

  Afterward, they followed the silver ribbon of Oak Creek through Sedona and the Oak Creek Canyon, stopping frequently so she could take more photographs. The crystal-clear water mirrored the red rock and cerulean sky, framed by the slender alabaster trunks of lofty sycamores with leaves that glittered green and gold in the sunlight. Sheer granite cliffs soared beside them as they climbed the switchbacks toward Flagstaff, all the while listening to blues music as seductive as the scenery.

  The rest of the way home, they talked about music, movies and books, their likes and dislikes. She was again impressed with the knowledge Rhys possessed, not only about the arts, but about the world in general. His life in Estrade and the motorcycle shop seemed at odds with his former life, yet she couldn’t imagine him anywhere else.

  If she’d thought it once, she’d thought it a thousand times—the man fascinated her.

  Rhys expelled a long breath, glanced over his shoulder at her, then back at the road. “Mind if we make a quick detour before I take you to the inn?”

  Whitney shrugged. “You’re the driver.”

  He turned onto an unpaved side road. Clouds of dust plumed behind as they rumbled to a stop in front of a rustic redwood home nestled in a stand of towering pines.

  “I need to pick up a couple of things,” he said, getting out of the Jeep. He walked around the front and opened her door. “C’mon.”

  Whitney looked at her cameras and the luggage in back. “Aren’t you going to lock the car?”

  Rhys struck a patient pose in front of her, thumbs hooked in his front pockets, feet spread. “I live here. There’s no one else around for miles.” He held out his hand.

  Whitney latched on, then followed him along the crushed rock drive to the house. “Make yourself comfortable,” he told her after they entered. He pointed out the bathroom on their way to the kitchen.

  “Want something to drink?” He peered into the refrigerator.

  “Sure,” Whitney said, and gazed around, astonished by the size of the house. From the outside, only the first floor was visible and the home looked smaller than it actually was. Now she could see there were several levels.

  It was rustic, with beamed vaulted ceilings, pine walls and lots of old oak furniture. But it also had a contemporary flair with vertical blinds covering some of the floor-to-ceiling windows, except for the windows that provided a view of the mountain on the other side.

  The place fit him perfectly. Solid, masculine and strong, with deep footings that dug into the side of the mountain. The home spoke of comfort, warmth…and permanence.

  Of course it would, she decided as she watched him move things around in the refrigerator. The man she’d come to know would value all those things.

  He held up a diet soda, the kind she liked. “Feel free to look around. You probably need to stretch your legs after the ride. I’ve got to grab some papers.” He disappeared through a door off the kitchen.

  Apparently they’d come in on an upper level at the back of the house, so when she walked toward the stairwell, she peered down from a balcony overlooking the living room. An enormous copper and iron chandelier hung in the middle of the room, a massive natural-stone fireplace spanned one entire wall and soared upward to the apex, where it met the broad wood beams that cut across the A-frame roof.

  As impressed as she was, she was equally confused. This was clearly not the home of a pauper.

  She edged around the inside balcony, past a cozy study area, to sliding glass doors that led to a wooden deck. She unlocked one side and stepped out, instantly awed by the sight. Rhys joined her when he returned.

  “What a fabulous view, Rhys,” she said, her gaze skimming the pines that surrounded them. She glanced down. “But aren’t you a little afraid SaraJane might tumble over the edge?”

  “I’ve had everything kidproofed. The exterior doors all have locks at the top and I’ve installed alarms that I activate when SaraJane’s at home. The inside is kidproofed, too, cabinets with those locking clamps, and the poisonous stuff is high out of reach and locked away—and yes, I still worry.”

  He leaned against the rail, combing sturdy fingers through his windblown hair. “With all the attorney fees for R.J., my retirement fund and any other stocks and holdings I had are gone. The house and my motorcycles are the only things I own that aren’t mortgaged to the hilt. And holding on to them will ensure SaraJane’s future. No matter what happens, she’ll always have a home.”

  Rhys’s admission underscored his protectiveness of SaraJane. It moved Whitney, but she still couldn’t dismiss her discomfort about his son.

  “Rhys, I know I might be out of line asking this, but do you have legal custody of SaraJane?”


  He shook his head. “Her mother abandoned her more than two years ago. No one knows SaraJane is here, and with R.J. where he is, it’s best to keep it that way. At least right now.”

  A knot formed in Whitney’s stomach. “It’s wonderful that you want to ensure SaraJane’s future like that, but what’ll you do if your son wins the appeal? I mean, won’t he want to have SaraJane with him?”

  Rhys’s expression went grim. He pinched his eyes shut, and when he opened them, she saw profound sadness.

  “It would tear my heart out,” he whispered, then banged a fist on the rail. “I’d like it if they stayed here, but I realize it’s a selfish desire. I love SaraJane and I love my son. R.J. is innocent—and he’s clean now. He should have the chance to be a father to his own daughter, wherever he wants.”

  “But how can you be sure? I mean about his…his other problems?” she asked, choosing her words cautiously when what she really wanted was to scream and shout that a drug dealer had no rights at all. Even if R.J. wasn’t a murderer, the other facts were indisputably true. Albert had discovered that much. But maybe Rhys didn’t know everything she did, and seeing his torment, she swallowed her words.

  His pain was written on his face. The lines that curved around his mouth seemed a little deeper, and the fire in his eyes had died away. R.J. was his son, after all, and from what he’d said earlier, she guessed Rhys carried a fair amount of guilt over the way he’d turned out.

  When Rhys looked at her again, misery flickered in his eyes. “If I thought—” He stopped midsentence.

  Still aghast at the idea that R.J. could ever have custody of SaraJane, Whitney forged ahead. “You wouldn’t stop him from taking her—just because he’s her father?”

  After a long pause he said, “I love SarJane more than anything, and if I ever thought she was in danger, there’d be no question. But…I believe R.J.’s changed…and I believe everyone deserves a second chance. Right now, after everything R.J.’s been through, and seeing the changes he’s made in his life, the answer is no. I wouldn’t stop him.”

  He gave her a thin smile. “C’mon. We’d better get a move on.”

  As soon as they arrived at the inn, SaraJane rushed out, calling, “Poppy! Poppy!” Gretta and Johnny followed.

  “Hey, punkin.” Rhys scooped up the child and swung her around before planting several kisses on her pink cheeks.

  SaraJane reveled in his affection and hugged him fiercely around the neck. As Whitney walked toward them, Rhys reached out and drew her into their circle.

  They stood together, smiling, hugging and laughing, and a wonderful feeling of completeness settled over Whitney. If only they could stay like this forever.

  After a quick dinner and after Rhys and SaraJane had gone home, she hurriedly said good-night to Gretta and Johnny so she could get to her room to call Albert about Rhys’s disclosures. She rubbed her temples with two fingers.

  The best and the worst of it all was learning her judgment about Rhys had been correct. He was exactly the type of man she’d believed him to be. But his words about his son came back to her in a rush. There was no escaping what he’d told her today. And the idea of R.J.’s ever taking custody of SaraJane was more than she could bear. She didn’t know what to do—but she sure as hell couldn’t let it ride.

  After shedding her jacket, Whitney picked up the phone and kneeled on the padded window seat.

  Maybe R.J. wouldn’t win the appeal. What would happen then? What if he spent the rest of his life in prison?

  Would Rhys take SaraJane to the prison to visit her father? Did he do that now? Whitney shuddered at the thought.

  And didn’t SaraJane have a right to know about her mother and her mother’s family? Since Morgan had lied about almost everything in her background, Rhys’s family may not even be aware the Sheffields existed. If Whitney backed off now, SaraJane would never know she had another set of grandparents—such as they were—and an aunt.

  And what about Morgan’s inheritance? The money Morgan had received at eighteen from their grandparents’ estate was still sitting in the bank waiting for her—and it was peanuts compared to what her share would be in later years. SaraJane had a right to that money.

  But she’d be damned if she’d let R.J. get his hands on it. Or let Rhys use it to pay for R.J.’s defense.

  If Rhys believed his son was entitled to be a father to SaraJane and she told him about the inheritance, wouldn’t Rhys then tell R.J., and wouldn’t that just add fuel to the fire?

  R.J. would never give all that up, even if he remained in prison. Her original plan to pay him off would seem like a pittance in comparison.

  Today she’d intended to reason with Rhys, hoping any feelings they had for each other might allow them to work things out. In her fantasies she’d even envisioned the two of them married and raising SaraJane together.

  Jeezus. What a fantasy that was. Rhys’s loyalty to his son wouldn’t allow it. He was a man who’d stand by his principles—no matter how misdirected those principles might be.

  And she had to stand by hers. Her stomach knotted as her resolve hardened. There was no choice. She’d have to pursue custody as she’d originally intended, only now it should be easier to win custody. Now that she knew SaraJane’s father was a convicted murderer and Rhys didn’t have any legal standing.

  Noticing the flashing message light on the phone, Whitney hit the button and listened. It was Tanya wanting a return call ASAP. Good. Talking with Tanya would help. Right now, she needed a friend.

  “Hey, Tanya. Got your message. What’s up?”

  “It’s about time! Where on earth have you been? I was getting ready to call out the National Guard.”

  “I was in Phoenix. I’ll tell you about it later. What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. When I returned home last night, there was a strange message on my machine, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it, other than let you know as soon as I could. Anyway, it was a woman, Martha somebody, who said your mother needed you and that you should call immediately.”

  A cold shiver crawled up Whitney’s spine. “Call where?”

  Tanya rattled it off. “That’s your parents’ number, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It sure is.” If something was wrong with her mother, surely her father would’ve let her know—unless he was too drunk to care.

  A stabbing pain jabbed right under her sternum. The same pain that had been her childhood companion.

  “Listen,” Tanya said. “Find out what it’s all about and call me back. Okay?”

  Whitney’s throat constricted remembering the years of anxiety attacks that an understanding physician had finally diagnosed as the result of living with alcoholic parents. Whitney’d been slowly on her way to a breakdown until finally, at her shrink’s urging, she’d taken a stand with her mother…and had been thrown out of the house. At seventeen she was on her own. She’d taken her small inheritance from her grandparents and fled to Europe, as far away as she could get.

  “Sure,” she said, her jaws tightening as she hung up. She’d fled, all right—and she’d stayed away. Although she’d called, tried to stay in touch with Morgan, suggested she come live with Whitney, it hadn’t done any good. Eventually Morgan left, too. Whether she’d been thrown out or fled on her own accord, she’d never know. But it was obvious Morgan blamed her or she’d have kept in touch. Come to her for help. Maybe Morgan was right.

  If she hadn’t quarreled with her mother and left home, maybe Morgan wouldn’t have felt abandoned; maybe her little sister would be alive today.

  That was Whitney’s burden to bear. And sitting around thinking about it was simply putting off the inevitable.

  Make the damned call. The sooner you do it, the sooner it’ll be over with. Steeling herself, she entered the number.

  Four…five rings. She lost count. Then a man’s voice answered, slurred.

  “Daddy?”

  “Whitney, darlin’, iss thaad you?”

  “I only
have a minute, Dad. Is Mom there?”

  “Nooope. Not here.” A long pause, then a dull clunk like glass against the receiver. “Gone. Sheez gone. Left.” His voice was nearly inaudible.

  “Dad, just tell me where Mom is! I can’t talk now.”

  “Wait, jus a sec…jus hold on, missy,” he mumbled. The phone clunked, papers rustled, heavy breathing, more rustling. “Goddit. Goddtha nummer.”

  Whitney listened. “Repeat it for me, Dad.” And before she hung up, she made him say the number three more times to be sure.

  She recognized the area code as one in California. Probably some resort spa where her mom could be pampered while she drank herself into oblivion. Hands shaking, she punched in the number and waited.

  “Palmetto Clinic.”

  Her stomach sank. Not again. When she finally managed to ask questions, she learned that her mother had overdosed on pills and alcohol, whether purposely or by accident, no one could say. They told Whitney where to go if she wanted to be part of her mother’s rehab program.

  Letting the phone drop from her ear, the old familiar pain lodged in her midsection. Oh, Mother. She pressed her hand to her mouth, hard, battling the tears.

  Why now? What good will it do? What good had it ever done?

  Clearing her head, she forced herself toward the bathroom, where she turned on the faucet and sat on the edge of the claw-footed tub, watching the water creep up like the rising bile in the back of her throat.

  One more thing to think about, one more problem to solve. Slowly she pulled off her clothes, hoping the tepid water would wash away her despair.

  After her bath, she tried reading in bed, but her sense of hopelessness seemed only to grow—an insidious cloak of darkness wrapping tightly around her. There was no escape.

  She hadn’t conquered the demons of the past at all, and tonight they rose up, spitting fire and flame.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, holding tight, rocking back and forth, longing for the comfort of Rhys’s arms. Wishing she had an ounce of Rhys’s strength and determination—and his ability to love.