Worth Dying For

by Beverly Barton

  “What’s so interesting in those files?” Dante asked, wondering if he’d missed something when he’d gone through the information while in flight. Admittedly, his interest in thoroughly studying those files had come as much, if not more, from his curiosity about the Westbrook girl’s resemblance to Amy than to the case at hand.

  “I’m not sure,” Lucie admitted. “It’s just reading these—” she waved the pages she held in her hand “—is like reading the script for a nighttime soap opera. I suppose the lives of all super-rich people have a tendency to seem melodramatic.”

  “What’s melodramatic about the Westbrooks?”

  “Are you kidding? G.W. came from fairly humble beginnings, married into money and more than tripled the family fortune. When she was eighteen, his beloved only child, Tessa, nearly died in a horrific car crash that killed her boyfriend, who was supposedly Leslie Anne’s father. Then four years later his beautiful socialite wife died after battling cancer for years. G.W. supports his younger sister, his wife’s sister, his niece, his current girlfriend and her son and—”

  “Enough.” Dante cut his eyes toward Lucie and grinned.

  “Okay, but you see what I mean, don’t you? We’re walking into a scene straight out of that old TV show Dallas.”

  “This is a simple case of a runaway teen.” Dante wanted to convince himself of that fact, wanted to prove to himself beyond a shadow of a doubt that Ms. Leslie Anne Westbrook had no connection whatsoever to Amy Smith.

  “Don’t kid yourself. Nothing is ever simple with the ultrarich. I’ll bet you a week’s salary that there’s some deliciously scandalous reason the Westbrook kid ran off.” Lucie tucked the file pages back into the folder on her lap. “From all reports, this girl is squeaky-clean. A real straight arrow. A well-adjusted, happy teenager who adores her family.”

  “So maybe the report is wrong. Or it could be a matter of not having all the facts.”

  “My point exactly. We don’t have all the facts. And what do you want to bet that we aren’t going to get them from G.W. or Tessa.”

  Dante slowed the car when he saw the massive black wrought-iron gates up ahead on the right. Impressive. Damn impressive.

  “Would you look at that!” Lucie let out a long, low whistle. “Southfork, here we come.”

  “My bet is the Leslie mansion will look a lot more like the plantation houses in Gone with the Wind than J. R. Ewing’s humble abode.”

  “Hmm. Wonder if Tessa Westbrook has anything in common with Scarlett O’Hara.”

  Dante chuckled as he pulled the car up to the massive gates, then responded to the electronic guard, using the verbal code he’d been given by Sawyer McNamara. The iron gates opened to reveal a long, narrow paved driveway. Half a mile later, the Leslie home came into view. He’d been right—the huge house boasted a series of massive white columns that wrapped around the front and sides of the well-maintained mansion. He’d no sooner pulled to a stop in front of the house than the double front doors opened and a tall, lanky man with a shock of steel-gray hair appeared on the veranda. The guy wore a plain black suit, white shirt and black bow tie. Although there was an air of confidence in the way the sixty-something man approached them, Dante instinctively knew this wasn’t G. W. Westbrook. Dante’s guess was this distinguished gentleman was a loyal assistant or servant.

  The man rushed forward when Lucie opened the car door. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said in a deep voice, dripping with a South Mississippi molasses, slow and sweet accent. “I assume you’re Ms. Evans—” he glanced across the car’s hood at Dante “—and you’re Mr. Moran.” He held out his hand to assist Lucie.

  “That’s right,” Dante said. “And you’re—”

  “Hal Carpenter, sir. The family’s chauffeur-cum-butler.”

  “Double duty, huh?” Lucie said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Westbrook doesn’t relegate his household staff to only one position.”

  “Saves on salaries that way, I suppose,” Dante said.

  Hal’s back stiffened. “Would you come with me, please? Mr. G.W. and Miss Tessa are waiting in the library and are quite anxious to meet y’all.”

  With her eyes widened in a guess-he-put-you-in-your-place expression, Lucie grinned at Dante. They quickly fell into step behind Mr. Carpenter. Just as they entered the three-story foyer, Lucie managed not to gasp at the opulence. Instead she took the opportunity—since her mouth was already open—to ask the family chauffeur-cum-butler a question.

  “Mr. Carpenter, do you have any idea why Leslie Anne ran away?”

  He paused for a split second, then replied, “I’m afraid not, ma’am. We’re all at a loss as to why Miss Leslie Anne would just up and leave the way she did.”

  “You don’t think there’s any chance she was kidnapped?” Dante asked.

  “No, sir.” Mr. Carpenter paused at the closed pocket doors outside what Dante assumed was the library. “When you meet Mr. G.W., please take into consideration the circumstances. He and Miss Tessa are terribly concerned—”

  Lucie patted Mr. Carpenter on the back. “We understand.”

  Yeah, they understood, Dante thought. Mr. Carpenter had just warned them to go easy on the old man, to not ask upsetting questions and if Mr. G.W. acted like a crazed lunatic, they should forgive him because he was so concerned about his granddaughter.

  The butler nodded, then knocked on the door softly. Without waiting for a response, he slid open the pocket doors and announced, “Ms. Evans and Mr. Moran from the Dundee agency.”

  A tall, robust man, with a receding hairline partially disguised by having his snow-white hair cut extremely short, stood in front of the six-foot-high fireplace flanked by bookcases. His keen brown eyes surveyed Dante and Lucie, studying them quickly but intensely.

  “Come in, come in.” G.W.’s words were a command, not an invitation.

  Lucie entered first, a tentative smile on her face and her hand halfway extended, apparently prepared to withdraw if she met any hostility. Dante stepped over the threshold, but paused there and searched the room for any other occupants. His gaze settled on the woman rising from a leather wing chair to the left of the fireplace. For a moment his heart stopped. The woman whose gaze met his possessed Amy’s brilliant blue eyes. The blue of a summer sky. But the moment passed and he took a really good look at Tessa Westbrook. She was approximately the same height as Amy, but her blond hair was darker and she was a good fifteen pounds thinner. He tried not to stare at her face, but he couldn’t help studying each feature. There was a vague similarity in the features, but this woman was not Amy Smith.

  Not my Amy.

  “Well, man, don’t just stand there staring at my daughter, come on in and let’s get down to business.” G.W. skewered Dante with his surly glare.

  “Thank y’all so much for getting here so quickly.” Tessa broke eye contact with Dante, then walked toward Lucie. The two exchanged a cordial handshake. “We’re absolutely frantic about Leslie Anne.”

  “I can imagine,” Lucie said. “Rest assured the Dundee agency will do everything possible to find your daughter and bring her home safely.”

  Tessa glanced at Dante. “Please excuse my father’s rudeness, but he tends to be rather blunt, especially when he’s upset.”

  Polite but not friendly, Dante thought. Tessa Westbrook possessed the type of cool, elegant beauty that made a man wonder if there were wanton fires hidden beneath the poised, chic veneer. Despite a few basic physical similarities between the two women, Tessa was as different from Amy as night is from day. Tessa appeared to be exactly what anyone would expect from the daughter of a multimillionaire. Dressed in expensive, tailored suede slacks, matching ankle boots and an oversize turtleneck cashmere sweater, the woman all but screamed m-o-n-e-y.

  “No need to apologize for me, missy. I expect Mr. Moran has dealt with a lot worse than me in his time. Isn’t that right, Moran?”

  “Yes, sir, in my capacity as a federal agent, I’ve dealt with all kinds, even a f
ew high-powered moguls with god complexes.”

  Absolute silence prevailed. Then G.W. let out a loud belly laugh and walked straight toward Dante. “Well said, young man, well said.” G.W. extended his hand, which Dante accepted and the two exchanged a man-to-man shake.

  “Won’t y’all sit down.” Tessa invited them with a mannerly sweep of her arm, her wide gold bracelet sliding just below her wrist. “Would either of you care for coffee or tea or—”

  “If you don’t mind, Ms. Westbrook, I’d like to get down to business,” Dante said. “As soon as we finish this interview, I’ll be joining our other two Dundee agents in the search for your daughter. Ms. Evans will remain here with the family to handle things on this end.”

  “Then let’s get on with it,” G.W. said. “What do you need from us?”

  “Any information that might help us locate Leslie Anne,” Lucie replied.

  “We’ve done everything Mr. McNamara instructed us to do,” Tessa said. “Starting with compiling a list of all her close friends.”

  G.W. picked up a sheet of paper from the mahogany desk and handed it to Dante. “We’ve spoken to everyone on the list and no one knows—”

  “Sometimes kids won’t tell parents things they’ll feel compelled to tell a private investigator,” Dante explained.

  Lucie glanced from Tessa to G.W. “If we knew why Leslie Anne ran away, it might help us—”

  “We have no idea,” G.W. said. Quickly. Much too quickly.

  Dante figured if the old man didn’t know why his granddaughter ran away, he had his suspicions. “What about you, Ms. Westbrook?” Dante turned to Tessa. “What would prompt your daughter to run away?”

  “I told you that we have no idea.” G.W. put his arm around his daughter’s slender shoulders.

  “Is that right?” Dante stared directly at Tessa.

  Tessa nervously rubbed her neck, unintentionally bringing attention not only to the large diamond studs in her earlobes, but the tendril of golden blond hair that curled waywardly against the high plush collar of her red sweater. “Leslie Anne has no reason to leave home,” Tessa replied. “She has an almost-perfect life.”

  Dante kept his gaze connected to Tessa’s. Something inside him wanted to undo the loose bun of thick hair secured at the back of her head. Would her hair be as long and silky as Amy’s had been? Even now, after seventeen years, he could still remember the feel of Amy’s hair stroking his chest when she took the dominant position as they made love.

  She’s not Amy, he reminded himself. Amy is dead.

  “If that’s the case and her life is almost perfect, then why are y’all so sure she hasn’t been abducted?” Dante asked.

  Tessa replied, “Because she—”

  “Why is this information important?” G.W. demanded. “What difference does it make why she ran off?”

  Tessa reached out and squeezed her father’s hand. “Please, Daddy, if telling these people about Leslie Anne’s note—”

  “What note?” Lucie asked.

  Tessa looked to her father, as if asking permission. He nodded. She squeezed his hand again, then glanced from Lucie to Dante. “Leslie Anne left a note for me.” Tessa reached inside the pocket of her suede slacks and pulled out a piece of hot pink paper.

  As if they were the only two people in the room, Tessa walked directly to Dante and handed him the paper. When he took the note from her, their hands brushed. They stared at each other and a crazy kind of sensation tightened Dante’s gut.

  Forcing himself to break the electrically charged link between them, Dante unfolded the small piece of paper and read the message Leslie Anne had written to her mother.

  Mom, you’ve lied to me again, haven’t you? I know the truth now. At least I think it’s the truth. Why couldn’t you have been honest with me? Right now I hate you and I hate Granddaddy. And I’m confused. I’ve got to figure out what the truth is, what I can and can’t believe about myself. Don’t try to find me because I won’t come home until I’m good and ready. If ever!

  Dante lifted his gaze. Tessa stood only a couple of feet away, her body tense, a fine mist of tears in her blue eyes. “What did you lie to your daughter about? What truth has she found out?”

  “Hell, Moran, this is all nonsense,” G.W. said. “The child is sixteen. She’s confused about everything. That’s only natural for someone her age, isn’t it? Why she’s gotten some cock-and-bull notion in her head that we’ve lied to her, I don’t know. It really doesn’t matter, does it? What does matter is finding her as soon as possible before she gets into trouble.”

  “Daddy, please.” Tessa looked pleadingly at Dante. The muscles in his belly tightened. “We have…I have lied to my daughter all her life, but only in an effort to protect her.”

  “Protect her from what?” Dante asked.

  “From my past.”

  He couldn’t breathe. Hell, man, don’t do this to yourself. Tessa Westbrook’s past has nothing to do with Amy Smith’s past and you damn well know it.

  “Tessa, don’t—” G.W. barely got the two words out before his daughter turned sharply and glared at him.

  Returning her attention to Dante, she sighed deeply. “I lied to Leslie Anne about her true parentage. We—I allowed her believe that she was the result of a teenage affair I had with a young man named John Allen. There is no John Allen.”

  He had to ask Tessa the one question that had been tormenting him from the moment he saw Leslie Anne’s photograph. “Who are Leslie Anne’s biological parents?”

  “Are you asking if my daughter is adopted?” Tessa stared at him inquisitively.

  Dante nodded.

  “No, Mr. Moran, she is not adopted. I’m Leslie Anne’s biological mother.”

  “And her father?”

  An expression of unbearable pain, of a soul-deep agony appeared on Tessa’s face. “Leslie Anne’s biological father was the monster who raped me.”

  LESLIE ANNE pulled off the road at the first rest stop she found on Interstate 59 after crossing the state line into Alabama. She’d drunk a large Diet Coke at lunch and was about to pee in her pants. Three eighteen-wheelers lined one parking lot while an assortment of vehicles took up half the other parking spaces. With a crowd of people entering and leaving the rest rooms, she felt relatively safe to leave the car. The attendant greeted her when she entered the facility. She smiled and nodded, then rushed into the bathroom. After using the first available toilet, she washed and dried her hands. Her mouth and lips felt dry, so she rummaged around in her purse until she found her lip gloss. When she lifted the wand to her lips as she stared into the mirror over the row of sinks, her hand paused in midair. She stared at the face looking back at her.

  She had her mother’s blond hair and slender figure, although at sixteen, she was already three inches taller. But her nose, mouth and facial structure didn’t resemble her mom’s.

  Leslie Anne’s heartbeat accelerated.

  Did she have his nose? His mouth? Was her face shaped like his?

  It was possible, wasn’t it? After all, if the information she’d received was the truth—and why would anyone tell her such a horrific lie?—then he was her father. His evil blood flowed through her veins. Had he passed down his malevolent genes to her?

  The lip gloss wand fell from Leslie’s Anne’s fingers and hit the sink with a distinctive clink. As she swallowed her tears, she picked up the wand and stuffed it back into her purse.

  “Honey, are you all right?” a kind voice asked.

  Leslie Anne swatted away her tears. A sweet-faced grandmother with her two preschool grandchildren in tow looked at Leslie Anne with motherly concern.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, I’m fine. I think I’ve got an eyelash in my eye, that’s all.”

  Leslie Anne rushed out of the bathroom and back to her friend Hannah’s car. After locking the doors, she flipped open the glove compartment and yanked out a tissue from the dispenser inside, then wiped away her tears and blew her nose. She dumped the used tissue i
n the empty ashtray, then lifted the large manilla envelope from the floorboard on the passenger’s side. Her hands trembled as she opened the package and removed the newspaper clippings. Sorting through the ones with photos, she searched for one that showed the man’s face. Several had no accompanying photo and several that did showed the man from the side or with his hand up over his face. Just as she’d given up hope of finding one that gave a view of his face, Leslie’s Anne’s hand trembled.

  There’s one!

  A photo taken outside the courtroom the day he’d been found guilty and sentenced to death in Texas showed the face of an angry man. She studied that face, searching for any resemblance to her own and found none. Was she seeing the truth or was she seeing what she wanted to see? She didn’t want this man to be her father. But if he was, she certainly didn’t want to look like him.

  Please, God, please. Don’t let him be my father. I can’t bear it if he is.

  MY PLAN WORKED even better than I thought it would. Leslie Anne must have believed everything I told her in my letter; otherwise, why would she have run away? If I’m lucky, maybe she’ll disappear off the face of the earth. Maybe someone else will dispose of her and save me the trouble. That little brat’s very existence is an offense to good, decent people everywhere. She should have been drowned at birth. With her out of the way, there’s nothing to stop me from getting what I want, what I’ve always wanted.