"I didn't say I was her." Julia's heart began to race. "I just said I have the same necklace."
"This is a dream, isn't it? I'm so tired I'm hallucinating. If I close the door, you'll go away."
Julia opened her mouth to tell him she wasn't going anywhere, but the door slammed in her face. "I'm not her," she said loudly. "I was born and raised in San Francisco. I've never been out of the country. I'm not her," she repeated, feeling suddenly desperate. "Am I?"
Chapter Two
Alex could hear the woman talking on the other side of the door, which didn't bode well for his theory that he was dreaming. That blond hair, those blue eyes, the upturned nose—he'd seen her features a million times in his mind. And now she was here, and she wanted to know about the girl in the photo. What the hell was he supposed to say to her?
Don't ever talk to anyone about the photo or the girl.
His father's words returned to his head. Words that were twenty-five years old. What would it matter now if he broke his promise? Who would care? For that matter, why would anyone have cared?
He'd never understood the frantic fear in his father's eyes the day the photo had been published in the magazine. All Alex knew for sure was that he'd made a promise in the last conversation he'd had with his father, and up until this moment he'd never considered breaking it.
His doorbell rang again. She was definitely persistent.
Alex opened the door just as she was about to knock. Her hand dropped to her side.
"Why did you say I was her?" she demanded.
"Take a look in the mirror."
"She's a little girl. I'm an adult. I don't think we look at all alike."
He studied her for a moment, his photographer's eye seeing the details, the slight widow's peak on her forehead, the tiny freckle by one eyebrow, the oval shape of her face, the thick, blond hair that curled around her shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, and dressed in a short tan linen skirt that showed off her long, slender legs, and a sleeveless cream-colored top, she looked like a typical California girl. He felt a restless surge of attraction that he immediately tried to squash. Blondes had always been his downfall, especially blue-eyed blondes.
"Did your father know the little girl's name or anything about her?" she persisted.
"He never said," Alex replied. "Can I see that necklace again?"
She opened her hand. He stared down at the white swan. It was exactly the same as the one in the photograph. Still, what did it mean? It wasn't a rare diamond, just a simple charm. Although the fact that this woman looked like the orphan girl and had the necklace in her possession seemed like a strong coincidence. "What did you say your name was?"
"Julia DeMarco."
"DeMarco? A blond Italian, huh?"
"I'm not Italian. I was adopted by my stepfather. My mother said my biological father was Irish. And she is—was—Irish as well. She died a few months ago." Julia slipped the necklace back into her large brown handbag.
Adopted. The word stuck in his head after all the rest. "You didn't know your biological father?"
"He left before I was born."
"And where were you born?"
"In Berkeley." Her lips tightened. "I've never been out of the country. I don't even have a passport. So that girl in the photo is not me."
"Just out of curiosity, how old were you when you were adopted?"
"I was four," she replied.
And the girl in the photograph couldn't have been more than three.
He gazed into her eyes and knew she was thinking the same thing.
"I was adopted by my stepfather when he married my mom," she explained. "And she wasn't Russian. She never traveled. She was a stay-at-home PTA mom. She did snacks for soccer games. Very all-American. There is no way I'm that girl. I know exactly who I am."
She seemed to be trying damn hard to convince herself of that fact. But the more she talked, the more Alex wondered.
"You know, this isn't your problem," she said with a wave of her hand. "And I obviously woke you up." Her cheeks flushed as she cleared her throat and looked away from him.
Alex crossed his arms in front of his bare chest, not bothering to find himself a shirt. "I just got off a plane from South America."
"Were you taking photographs down there?"
"Yes."
"How did you get hurt? Not that it's any of my business."
"You're right. It's none of your business."
She stiffened at his harsh tone. "Well, you don't have to be rude about it."
Maybe he did, because he didn't like the way his body was reacting to her. The sooner she left the better. He was smart enough to avoid women who wanted more than sex, and this woman had "more than sex" written all over her.
"Are you sure there's nothing else you can tell me about the photo?" she asked.
He sighed. Obviously, he hadn't been rude enough. "Look, you're not the first person to wonder who that girl was. There was quite a hunt for her when the photograph was first published. Everyone wanted to adopt her."
"Really? What happened?"
"She couldn't be found. Our governments weren't cooperating at that time. International adoptions were not happening. It was the Cold War. In fact, no one was willing to admit there even were orphans in Moscow." It wasn't the whole story, but as much as he was willing to tell her. "Besides the fact that you have blond hair and blue eyes, and you have the same necklace, what makes you wonder about that photo? Don't you have family you can ask about where you were born? Don't you have pictures of yourself in Berkeley when you were two or three years old? What makes you doubt who you are?" Once the questions started, they kept coming.
"I don't have family I can ask," Julia replied. "My mother was estranged from her parents. They washed their hands of her when she got pregnant with me. And there aren't any photos, not of her or of me, until she married my stepfather. She said they got lost in the move from Berkeley to San Francisco."
"That's not much of a move. Just over the Bay Bridge."
Her lips tightened. "I never had any reason to believe otherwise."
"Until now," he pointed out.
She frowned. "Damn. I can't believe I'm doubting my own mother just because of a photograph in a museum. I must be losing my mind."
If she was, then he was losing his mind right along with her, because everything she said raised his suspicions another notch. A familiar jolt of adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream. Was it possible this woman was that girl? And if she was, what did that mean? How had she gotten from Moscow to the U.S.? And why didn't she know who she was? Was she the reason his father had told him to never speak about that photo? Was she part of something bigger, something secret? Had his father found himself in the middle of a conspiracy all those years ago? Alex knew better than anyone that photographers could get into places no one else could.
"I wish I could talk to my mother about this," Julia continued. "Now that she's gone, I have no one to ask."
"What about your stepfather?"
"I suppose," she murmured, "but he's had a rough year. My mom was sick for a long time, and he doesn't like to talk about her."
"There must be someone."
"Obviously there isn't, or I wouldn't have come looking for you," she snapped.
"What was your mother's name before she became a DeMarco?"
"It was Sarah Gregory. Why?"
"Just wondered." He filed that fact away for future use.
She suddenly started, glancing at the clock on the wall. "I have to go. I have a family birthday party at DeMarco's."
"DeMarco's on the Wharf?" he asked, putting her name together with the seafood cafe on Fisherman's Wharf.
"That's the one. Gino DeMarco is my stepfather. It's my aunt Lucia's birthday. Everyone in the immediate family, all thirty-seven of us, will be there."
"Big family," he commented.
"It's a lot of fun."
"Then why go looking for trouble?"
Her jaw dropped at
his question. "I'm not doing that," she said defensively.
"Aren't you? You think you're the girl in the picture."
"You're the one who thinks that. I just want more information about her."
"Same thing."
"It's not the same thing. It's completely different. And I'm done with it. Forget I was ever here."
Julia left with a toss of her head. Alex smiled to himself. She wasn't the first blonde to walk out on him, but she was probably one of the few he wouldn't forget. She might be done with the matter, but he was just getting started. Unlike Julia, he did have someone else he could talk to—his mother. Maybe it was time to return her calls.
* * *
Kate Manning loved parties, and she especially enjoyed being the center of attention as she was tonight. Actually, the party was in honor of her late husband, Charles Manning, whose photographs were on display, but that was beside the point. She was here, and he wasn't. She'd had twenty-five years to come to terms with that fact, and there was nothing to do but keep moving on. Maybe that seemed cold to some, but she was a practical woman, and as far as she was concerned, the love she'd had for her husband had been buried right along with him.
She was now sixty-two years old, and after two failed marriages in the last twenty years, she'd resumed using the Manning name. This exhibit in honor of Charles's work had put her back on the society A-list, and she was determined to stay there. She'd been dropped from most invitation lists three years ago when her then husband, a popular city councilman, had slept with an underage girl, causing a huge scandal. He'd been booted out of office, and Kate had been shunned by her supposed friends. But now she was back, and if she had to play the tragic widow of a brilliant photographer, then that's exactly what she would do.
It had also occurred to her in recent weeks that she might be able to augment her income by selling Charles's photographs to a book publisher. While she wasn't poor by any standards, she was acutely aware that her lifestyle required a steady income, and if there was still interest in Charles's work, then who was she to deny the public the opportunity to buy a book of his photographs? She just needed to convince Alex to go along with it. But he was a lot like his father— stubborn, secretive, and always leaving to go somewhere. It was no wonder he wasn't married. He couldn't commit, couldn't settle, couldn't put a woman before his work—just like Charles.
"Kate, there you are."
She put the bitter thoughts out of her mind as Stan Harding came up to her. Stan had been one of Charles's closest friends and the best man at their wedding. He was also one of the many photo editors Charles had worked with over the years. Stan was semiretired from World News Magazine as of last year, working only on special projects, like putting together the photographs for this exhibit.
A handsome man, just a few years older than herself, with stark white hair, a long, lean frame, and a strong, square jaw, Stan was one of the most intelligent and interesting men she'd ever known. He'd been married briefly years ago, but his wife had died of cancer the year she and Charles had split up. For a brief moment back then, she'd toyed with the idea of getting together with Stan. But his loyalty to Charles, even after Charles had passed away, had always been too high a hurdle to clear. She'd had to settle for his friendship.
"Hello," she said, accepting his kiss on the cheek with a pleased smile.
"Are you having a good time, Kate?"
"Better now that you're here."
"You always say the right thing," he said with a smile.
She certainly tried. "We've gotten a wonderful response to the exhibit. I can't believe how many people have come tonight." The room was literally overflowing with men in formal suits and women in beautiful cocktail dresses. Waiters moved through the crowd offering champagne and gourmet appetizers prepared by one of San Francisco's best chefs. She felt a little thrill run through her as she complimented herself on her efforts. She hadn't thrown the party by herself, but she'd done a lion's share of the work, and it was turning out perfectly.
"You did a fine job," Stan said, as he gazed around the room. "Charles would be proud."
She wasn't so sure about that. Charles had hated her need to socialize and host parties, and he'd never been one to brag about his work or take the credit he deserved. He'd even asked the magazine to print his pictures without a byline on occasion. She'd never understood his reasoning.
"I thought Alex might be here," Stan continued. "Joe said he got back into town today."
And he hadn't called her. She didn't know why she felt hurt. It wasn't as if they were close, even though he was her only child. The rift had started years ago. Alex had blamed her for the breakup of his family. Then Charles had died, and Alex had hated her ever since. He didn't act that way on the surface, and they certainly never spoke about anything as personal as Alex's feelings, but she knew the truth.
"The photos Alex took in South America were amazing," Stan added. "You must be very proud of your boy."
"I am, of course." She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a sip. "I spoke to Joe earlier about doing an article on Alex and Charles, a side-by-side look at the father and son," she added. "It would sell a lot of magazines."
Stan nodded, a twinkle in his eye. "I'm sure it would. I understand Alex is quite popular with the ladies."
Kate didn't doubt that. Alex had his father's roguish good looks, thick dark brown hair, light green eyes, and strong, muscular build, with not an ounce of fat on him, probably because he kept too busy to eat. He was always on the run, always looking for the next great shot. She sometimes wondered if he bothered to sleep. She certainly couldn't see herself in him anywhere—he was the spitting image of his father. She suddenly realized that spitting image was walking straight toward her. She threw back her shoulders, feeling a sudden pang of nervousness.
"Mother," he said with a cool smile.
"Alex. What on earth are you wearing?" She couldn't believe he'd come to the party in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. He frowned at her question, and she mentally chided herself for getting his back up so fast. But, dammit, couldn't he think about propriety once in a while?
"It's nice to see you, too, Mother." His smile warmed as he nodded to Stan. "What's up?"
"Not much. Glad to see you made it safely back," Stan said. He stepped forward and gave Alex a brief hug, much as a father would a son. Over the years Stan had tried to fill the gaps in Alex's life by showing up at his ball games or school graduations. It made Kate feel a bit sad and a little angry to realize that Alex could hug Stan but not give her even a light pat on the shoulder.
"You should have called me, Alex," she said abruptly. "I was worried sick after I saw that photograph in the newspaper of you being dragged off to jail." She pursed her lips as she studied the purple swelling around his eye, and some latent maternal instinct made her say, "That must hurt. Did you see a doctor?"
"I'll live. Don't worry about it."
"You have to stop taking so many chances. You're not superhuman. I don't understand why you're willing to risk your life on perfect strangers."
"I'm just doing my job. But I didn't come here to talk about my job."
"Why did you come?" she asked sharply. She didn't like the intense look in her son's eyes. When he wanted something, he tended to go after it with all that he had. Maybe that was the one trait he got from her.
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