* * *
HEIRESS MISSING!
Elliott Granddaughter Last Seen Days Ago
Bridget Elliott, the granddaughter of publishing billionaire Patrick Elliott, has become the subject of a nationwide police search after going missing four days ago.
Ms. Elliott, 28, was last seen in the Hamptons, where she attended her brother Cullen’s wedding at The Tides, the Elliott family estate. According to a hired valet, her vehicle was seen leaving the estate at 10:12 p.m.
Police were alerted when Ms. Elliott failed to show up for work at Charisma magazine, part of the Elliott Publications Holdings, where she is employed as a photo editor. Residents in her SoHo apartment building have not seen the missing heiress in days.
Sources close to the family say Ms. Elliott received a phone call shortly before the wedding from an unidentified caller who claimed to have information the woman wanted. At this point police do not suspect foul play.
Family patriarch Patrick Elliott told reporters that his family would spare no expense of their reported billion-dollar worth to locate Ms. Elliott. “We won’t rest until she’s back home, safe and sound,” the soon-to-be retired CEO said. “No matter what it takes.”
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CHARLENE SANDS
Heiress Beware
Special thanks to Jefferson County Deputy Sheriff Jackie Tallman for her help and guidance in getting the facts straight. My heartfelt gratitude goes to one-time Navarro County Deputy Sheriff Betty Swink and Hollis Swink for their help and constant loving support. And a big thank-you to senior editor Melissa Jeglinski for creating such a great cast of characters for the Elliotts continuity series.
Acknowledgment
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Charlene Sands for her contribution to THE ELLIOTTS miniseries.
Books by Charlene Sands
Silhouette Desire
The Heart of a Cowboy #1488
Expecting the Cowboy’s Baby #1522
Like Lightning #1668
Heiress Beware #1729
Harlequin Historicals
Lily Gets Her Man #554
Chase Wheeler’s Woman #610
The Law and Kate Malone #646
Winning Jenna’s Heart #662
The Courting of Widow Shaw #710
CHARLENE SANDS
resides in Southern California with her husband, high school sweetheart and best friend, Don. Proudly, they boast that their children, Jason and Nikki, have earned their college degrees. The “empty nesters” now have two cats that have taken over the house. Charlene’s love of the American West, both present and past, stems from storytelling days with her imaginative father sparking a passion for a good story and her desire to write. When not writing, she enjoys sunny California days, Pacific beaches and sitting down with a good book.
Charlene invites you to visit her Web site at www.charlenesands.com to enter her contest, stop by for a chat, read her blog and see what’s new!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
One
“Don’t you dare die on me,” Bridget Elliott pleaded for all she was worth. But the darn rental car died despite her plea. The motor shut down and no amount of key turns and pumps to the gas pedal would do any good.
She peered out the windshield to view nothing but vast dry Colorado land, an abundance of road ahead and a bright dawning sun that promised a sweltering day to come. A born and bred New Yorker, she was accustomed to scorching June days, but she’d never been to Colorado, and from the look of the place, she hoped she’d never have reason to come here again.
But her mission was just, and the hot tip she’d received last night during her cousin Cullen’s wedding reception had put her on a late-night plane. She’d flown all night, making plans and hoping to add one last chapter to the book that would expose secrets and lies her grandfather had imposed on their family for two generations. Patrick Elliott, the family patriarch, owner and CEO of Elliott Publication Holdings, one of the largest magazine empires in the world, would finally be exposed for the man behind the image. There’d be no more positive spin on the Elliott clan. Bridget planned to clear the air, uncover family secrets and expose scandals with truths that could knock her grandfather off his feet.
He deserved it. The last stunt he’d pulled, earlier in the year, had stunned and angered the whole family. He’d announced his impending retirement, but instead of picking his successor, he thought to make a bitter game of it, pitting his four children against one another for the job.
It had been the last straw for Bridget.
So for the past six months, she’d been searching for Aunt Finola’s child. The baby, conceived when her aunt was a teenager, had been given up for adoption—an adoption forced upon her by her own father, Patrick Elliott. Bridget suspected her dear aunt had never gotten over the loss, choosing instead to devote her life to Charisma magazine to fill the void. Being the photo editor at Charisma, Bridget often witnessed the sense of loss in her aunt’s eyes, even now, more than twenty years later.
And Bridget had finally made a breakthrough with, hopefully, a reliable tip from someone who claimed to know the identity of the child. She had to get to Winchester. She had to locate Aunt Fin’s daughter. Finding her aunt’s child would secure the ending chapter in her book. The world would finally see the kind of man her grandfather really was.
It was close to 6:00 a.m., yet not a soul appeared on the road. Of course, if she’d broken down on Highway 25, she would have been rescued by now, but the directions given by her tipster had taken her off the well-traveled road to this two-lane highway.
Bridget sighed, slumping in her seat. She didn’t have time to waste. Then she remembered her cell phone. At least she could call for help, maybe get a replacement car out here quickly. She reached into her purse, coming up with the phone. But her hopes dimmed immediately. Dead battery. Heck, Bridget was forever forgetting to plug the darn thing in to recharge. That made two dead batteries in the span of a few minutes. At least, she thought her car’s battery had died. But maybe not. Maybe it was just a fluke.
She tried the key in the ignition one more time. “Come on, please,” she pleaded to the car gods. “Start, damn it.”
Like an unruly child, the Honda Accord refused to comply. Nothing. Not even a little grunt of a sound. “The rental company is going to hear about this,” she muttered, slinging her purse over her shoulder and exiting the car.
She slammed the door shut and began walking. Vaguely, she remembered seeing a sign a while back that Winchester County was ten miles ahead. If her calculations were correct, she’d have about a five-mile trek to reach her destination.
“I can do this,” she said, her three-inch-heel boots grinding on the asphalt. Always fashion conscious, a true-blue testament for Charisma, Bridget now wondered why she hadn’t thought to pack her walking shoes.
Where were her Nikes when she needed them?
Sheriff Macon Riggs bounded out of his patrol car and strode with purpose toward the woman lying on the side of the road, her body motionless and damn close to the edge of the cliff. She would never have survived the steep drop had she fallen. The woman faced sideways, with her legs twisting awkwardly, but it was the blood at the back of her head that worried him the most. No doubt she’d hit that sharp wedge of granite beside her, the one smeared with blood.
As he came closer, he noted a face devoid of expression, but beautiful all the same. Dark blond hair framed her face, and her
lips, still pink with life, were slightly parted.
He took her hand and gave a squeeze. “Miss, can you hear me?”
Mac hadn’t really expected a response, but the woman’s eyes snapped open immediately. She stared up at him, blinking several times, and he gazed into amazing lavender-blue eyes. The combination of blond hair, fair skin and that particular shade of blue made the woman memorable by anyone’s standards.
He leaned in closer and reassured her. “I’m Sheriff Riggs. You’re going to be all right. Seems you had an accident.”
“I did?” She spoke softly, with furrowed brows and a puzzled expression that suggested she was dazed from the head injury.
“Looks that way. You hit your head on a rock.”
Again, she appeared confused.
“Hang on and don’t move. You’re close to the edge of the cliff. I’ll be right back.”
Within a few seconds, Mac returned to her side with the first-aid kit he kept in his patrol car. “I’m not going to move you until you give the okay. Do you feel pain anywhere?”
The woman shook her head slightly. “Not really, except my darn skull’s pounding like a son of a—gun.”
Mac held back a grin, admiring her attempt at restraint. “I bet. You think you can sit up?”
“I think so.”
He knelt down, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and helped her to a sitting position. The material of her raspberry-pink sweater bunched up in back under his fingertips, but it was the V-neck in front that drew his attention. After one swift glance, he kept his eyes averted from soft skin and mind-blowing cleavage, focusing instead on helping the injured woman. “That’s good. I can look at the back of your head now.”
“Does it look bad?”
Mac did a cursory examination. The blood had clotted to her hair and there was no further oozing. No telling how long she’d been unconscious, though. It was a good thing Mac thought to patrol this road from time to time. Or she might just have rolled the wrong way, right smack into Deerlick Canyon.
“Actually, you’re pretty lucky. It doesn’t look too bad.” Mac sat behind her, positioning himself to attend to her injury. He dabbed at the gash with moistened gauze, parting her hair to see the extent of the wound.
“Does this hurt?”
“No. Keep going.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, to distract her from discomfort she refused to admit. He’d seen her flinch the moment he touched the gauze to her head.
“My…name?”
“Yeah, and while you’re at it, want to tell me what you were doing up here? What happened? Did you fall?”
The woman tensed, her body becoming as rigid as a plank of wood.
When she still hesitated, Mac softened his tone. “Okay, first let’s start with your name.”
“My name is…” she began then started again. “My name is…”
She scooted away from him enough to turn around. She stared into his eyes, blinking, with a panicked look on her face. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice elevating. She paused again, her eyes darting in all directions, seemingly searching her memory. “I don’t know who I am! I can’t remember anything!”
Tears pooled in her eyes and she blinked hard, trying to keep them at bay. With desperation in her voice, she repeated frantically, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Mac stood, then reached down to take both of her hands and slowly help her up. With her erratic behavior, he wanted her away from the edge of the cliff. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll have the doctor check you out.”
“Oh, dear God. I can’t remember anything. I don’t know who I am, what I’m doing here.” Pleadingly, she tugged on his sleeve. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Winchester County.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Colorado.”
She shook her head hard, her eyes wide, and Mac saw the determination on her face as she tried urgently to remember something. “Do I live here?”
“Don’t know. Seems you were on foot. But we’ll search for a car later. There’s no sign of your belongings, either. No purse or backpack or anything. If you had anything with you, I’d guess it went over the edge when you fell down. That’s if you fell. But I can tell you one thing for sure, with those boots you’re wearing, I doubt you were hiking.”
She glanced down at smooth black leather boots, then noted the rest of her apparel. Designer jeans, lightweight cashmere sweater, a black suede belt that slanted over the material and across her hips, but oddly, no jewelry other than a watch with one bright diamond on the face. She took all of this in with no recognition. It was as if she were staring down at a stranger’s clothes. “I can’t remember. Dear God. Not one darn thing!”
“C’mon, let’s get you to Dr. Quarles.” Mac took her hand, but her legs buckled when she took her first step.
“Whoa,” he said, catching her.
He turned her toward him, her body pressed against his. She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, leaning in for support. He held her for a minute as she rested her head on his chest. She seemed to need this moment to regain her composure, or maybe to simply lean on him for moral support. He understood her alarm. Waking up in a strange environment, with no sense of who she was or what she was doing up here, had to be frightening.
As Mac patiently held her, his own sense of composure came into play. A professional lawman, he denied the pulsing thump in his throat and the slight acceleration of his heartbeats. Yet, she was soft and beautiful and felt damn good in his arms. It had been quite a while for Mac. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to hold a woman. But her next words brought him back to task.
“My head’s spinning.”
Mac didn’t hesitate. He lifted her up in his arms and walked slowly to the patrol car. Before setting her inside, he took a few seconds to make a mental scan of the area. No car, no sign of her belongings anywhere. Later he’d come back with a few deputies to scour the vicinity. Right now he had to get this young woman to the doctor.
And then he’d try to learn her identity and unravel the mystery of her appearance here.
She didn’t know who she was. She didn’t remember one thing about herself. Her mind spun and she focused her eyes solely on the man holding her in his arms. Sheriff Riggs. He held her gently, but with strength, and she felt protected and safe. She depended on the comfort he lent as she gazed into his dark eyes. He had nice eyes, she thought, and probably a good smile when he let his guard down. But she got the feeling Sheriff Riggs didn’t do that all too often.
She’d been lucky he found her when he did. She’d been lucky she hadn’t rolled off that ridge into the canyon. But that was where her luck ended. She searched her mind over and over during these past few minutes, hoping that something would register. Anything.
Nothing did.
The sheriff placed her in his patrol car, leaning in awkwardly, brushing her body with his. As he released her, his arm grazed just under her breasts and she silently gasped at the accidental contact.
“You okay?” he asked, his face inches from hers.
He paused a moment and stared at her, their eyes locking. She nodded, breathing in his aftershave, a subtle manly, musky scent that defined the sheriff. She got the feeling he’d protect her with his last breath if need be. Instinct told her he took his job and his life seriously.
He got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Let me know if anything looks familiar,” he said, slanting her a glance as they drove off.
Again, she nodded. She peered out the window, watching as the high ground they’d traveled became level. They’d entered a valley where cattle and horse ranches lined the highway. Mountain ridges off in the distance provided a majestic backdrop to the rest of the scenery. Again she searched her mind endlessly for any hint or clue as to her identity. Did she live here? Was this her home? Or was she on a mission of some sort? Or a vacation? Was she meeting with someone?
When nothing c
ame to mind, she closed her eyes, willing the dizziness away. She prayed the doctor would have good news for her.
“Stay put,” Sheriff Riggs said once he pulled into a driveway and parked the car in front of a small medical building. “I’ll come around and get you.”
“I think I can walk.” She opened the car door and let herself out. Warm air hit her and she took a steadying breath, leaning on the car for support.
Sheriff Riggs was beside her instantly, looking at her with concern. “Not dizzy anymore?”
“I didn’t say that,” she said, feeling the effects again of standing upright. “But it’s getting better.”
Without hesitation, he wrapped his arm around her waist and helped her into the doctor’s office.
Thirty minutes later, after Dr. Quarles had given her a full examination, he called for the sheriff. “Mac, it seems this young lady has a form of amnesia. With retrograde amnesia, the patient can’t recall anything that happened before the accident or incident. A blow to the head could have caused it, but this kind of amnesia can also be brought upon by stress. The good news is that she has no permanent damage. Physically, she’s fine. Oh, she’ll have a headache for a day or two. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a few tests done at the hospital to be sure, though. The injuries are minor, but I’d feel better if she—”
“When will I get my memory back?” she asked pointedly, interrupting the doctor.
Dr. Quarles shook his head, peering down at her through his glasses with kind brown eyes. “I can’t answer that. Could be hours, days or weeks. Sometimes a patient goes for months without regaining his memory. Usually, with this kind of amnesia, you’ll start recovering older memories first, but I have to warn you, you may never remember ones that might have caused the amnesia in the first place. The mind tends to block those out.”
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