The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  His ac­cu­sa­ti­on hit a ner­ve. Erin win­ced. "You're free. Jaz­zy's free. The­re's not­hing to stop y'all from-"

  "Big Ma­ma wo­uld di­sown me if I mar­ri­ed Jaz­zy. I'd ha­ve not­hing. Not a di­me to my na­me. I'd ha­ve to gi­ve up a for­tu­ne. I'm not wil­ling to do that."

  "Then you don't lo­ve Jaz­zy as much as you pro­fess to lo­ve her."

  "What do you know abo­ut it? I lo­ve her. I've lo­ved her sin­ce we we­re te­ena­gers. And just be­ca­use Big Ma­ma is for­cing me to marry La­ura do­esn't me­an I'm gi­ving up Jaz­zy."

  "Did you spend the night with Jaz­zy?"

  "I went by to see her."

  "And she tur­ned you away."

  "You're wrong. She didn't…" With his mug sur­ro­un­ded by both hands, Jamie le­aned for­ward and held it bet­we­en his spre­ad thighs. He glan­ced at Erin. "She didn't let me stay, so I fo­und a mo­re wil­ling lady, who shall re­ma­in na­me­less. Af­ter all, I don't kiss and tell. You might want to re­mem­ber that for fu­tu­re re­fe­ren­ce."

  "I don't think so."

  Erin sip­ped on her cof­fee, fi­nis­hing it off qu­ickly. Why was Jamie re­al­ly he­re? Why was he using her as a so­un­ding bo­ard? As his mot­her con­fes­sor? It wasn't as if they we­re fri­ends. She didn't even li­ke him, and she wo­uldn't gi­ve him the ti­me of day if he wasn't Jim's gran­d­son. Un­less he was a com­p­le­te fo­ol-which he wasn't-he had to know that she'd ne­ver ha­ve sex with him. Even if she wasn't in lo­ve with Big Jim, she wo­uldn't be crazy eno­ugh to be­co­me in­vol­ved with Jamie. Any way you lo­oked at it, he was bad news.

  Jamie pla­ced his cup on a co­as­ter atop the coc­k­ta­il tab­le, then sto­od and went stra­ight to Erin. Be­fo­re she re­ali­zed his in­tent, he drop­ped to his kne­es in front of her, grab­bed her by the back of her neck and ha­uled her for­ward, just far eno­ugh to kiss her. He to­ok her mo­uth de­man­dingly. For a mil­li­se­cond she fro­ze, shoc­ked by the unex­pec­ted as­sa­ult Then to­tal awa­re­ness hit her. Her empty mug slip­ped out of her hand and hit the wo­oden flo­or with a splin­te­ring crash. She slip­ped her hand bet­we­en the­ir bo­di­es and ga­ve him a hard sho­ve. He re­eled bac­k­ward and fell flat on his butt.

  He lo­oked up at her and grin­ned. "Now tell me that wasn't bet­ter than what you get from the old man."

  "Your gran­d­fat­her is twi­ce the man you are-in every way. Now, get yo­ur sorry ass up off my flo­or and le­ave. I don't know what sort of ga­me you're pla­ying with me this mor­ning, but I'm not in­te­res­ted. If I tho­ught for one mi­nu­te that I co­uld help you… for Jim's sa­ke, I wo­uld. But I think you're be­yond help."

  Jamie jum­ped to his fe­et li­ke a jack-in-the-box. "Walk me to the do­or, dar­lin'."

  "You know the way out."

  "How abo­ut a go­od-bye kiss?"

  "How abo­ut get­ting the hell out of my sight?"

  "Now, swe­et thing, don't be that way."

  "Leave. Now!"

  He win­ked at her, then sa­un­te­red out of the li­ving ro­om. She fol­lo­wed him and sto­od se­ve­ral fe­et away as he ope­ned the front do­or. Be­fo­re he left, he tur­ned to her and sa­id, "I'm go­ing to ac­ci­dently men­ti­on to my gran­d­fat­her that I was with you this mor­ning, sha­ring cof­fee, kis­sing…"

  "You bas­tard!"

  "I'd li­ke to be ab­le to tell the old son of a bitch that I'd scre­wed you, but I can imply as much and he might be­li­eve me. Af­ter all, if he asks you if I was he­re this mor­ning, you won't lie to him, will you?"

  Whistling as he wal­ked to­ward his Mer­ce­des, Jamie ac­ted li­ke a man who didn't ha­ve a ca­re in the world, as if the­re we­ren't do­zens of wo­men who'd li­ke to put a sta­ke thro­ugh his black he­art. Af­ter get­ting in­si­de the car, he lo­we­red the win­dow and blew Erin a kiss. As he bac­ked out of the dri­ve, she he­ard him la­ug­hing.

  She sho­uld pro­bably call Jim and tell him what had hap­pe­ned. Fo­re­warn him. She wo­uldn't even bot­her if it wasn't for the fact that be­ca­use of the dif­fe­ren­ce in the­ir ages, Jim wasn't as con­fi­dent abo­ut the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip as she was. God damn it, she ha­ted to re­lay this in ci­dent to Jim, kno­wing how up­set he'd be with Jamie. The boy, who sho­uld ha­ve be­en Jim's pri­de and joy, was an ut­ter di­sap­po­in­t­ment to him. A part of Erin wis­hed she was still yo­ung eno­ugh to gi­ve Jim a child, even if at se­ven­ty-fi­ve he might not li­ve to see the child grow up. But she was past the age of mot­her­ho­od and Jim wo­uld pro­bably la­ugh at the no­ti­on. Too bad he didn't ha­ve ot­her gran­d­c­hil­d­ren, at le­ast one worthy of a man li­ke Big Jim Up­ton.

  For abo­ut the hun­d­redth ti­me sin­ce she left Chat­ta­no­oga at day­b­re­ak that mor­ning, Re­ve Sor­rell as­ked her­self why the hell she was do­ing this. Why did she fe­el com­pel­led to co­me to Che­ro­kee Po­in­te in se­arch of a wo­man she'd ne­ver met? It wasn't as if she ne­eded any mo­re re­la­ti­ves. Sin­ce her mot­her di­ed this past sum­mer, co­usins by the do­zens had co­me out of the wo­od­work, all with an in­te­rest in the vast Sor­rell for­tu­ne she'd in­he­ri­ted. One rat­her un­gen­t­le­manly co­usin of her fat­her's had ac­tu­al­ly had the balls to sue her, on the gro­unds that she was only Spen­cer and Les­ley Sor­rell's adop­ted child. The ca­se had ne­ver got­ten off the gro­und, sin­ce Re­ve's law­yer had con­vin­ced her co­usin's law­yer that they'd be la­ug­hed out of co­urt.

  As she dro­ve slowly along Ma­in Stre­et, she se­ar­c­hed the fa­ces of the ci­ti­zens scur­rying to and fro in the small dow­n­town area. She had grown up in Chat­ta­no­oga, a mid-si­ze city, with just the right amo­unt of hus­t­le and bus­t­le not to ha­ve re­ma­ined a sle­epy So­ut­hern town and yet not so lar­ge as to ha­ve lost its old-fas­hi­oned charm. She still li­ved in her pa­rents' ho­me on Lo­oko­ut Mo­un­ta­in, in an old and pres­ti­gi­o­us ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od. Al­t­ho­ugh not the Sor­rel­ls' bi­olo­gi­cal child, she'd still be­en ra­ised with the­ir be­li­efs, tra­di­ti­ons, and so­ci­al snob­bery. She was, in all but blo­od, a true Sor­rell. And the­re wasn't a day that went by she didn't thank God for her go­od for­tu­ne.

  As an in­fant of only we­eks, she'd be­en bles­sed the day she was pla­ced with the Sor­rel­ls. Her pa­rents hadn't told her she was adop­ted un­til she was six, and in the tel­ling, they'd ma­de her fe­el very spe­ci­al and gre­atly lo­ved. When at fo­ur­te­en she'd as­ked them a lot of qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut her true pa­ren­ta­ge, they swo­re they knew not­hing abo­ut her birth pa­rents. It wasn't un­til she'd be­en awar­ded her bac­he­lor's deg­ree from UT that her then wi­do­wed mot­her told her she'd be­en fo­und in a Dum­p­s­ter in Se­vi­er­vil­le, thrown away li­ke trash when she was lit­tle mo­re than a new­born.

  It wasn't as if she had co­me to Che­ro­kee Po­in­te to­day on a whim or that she'd simply ta­ken Jamie Up­ton's word that she had a lo­ok-ali­ke in this small mo­un­ta­in town. She'd met Jamie at a Chris­t­mas party la­te last ye­ar when he'd be­en vi­si­ting fri­ends in Chat­ta­no­oga. He'd do­ne his best to charm her, and he had al­most suc­ce­eded. She'd fo­und the man ut­terly ir­re­sis­tib­le.

  But on­ce she'd dis­co­ve­red that he'd be­en fas­ci­na­ted by her be­ca­use she re­sem­b­led his te­ena­ge swe­et­he­art, her com­mon sen­se kic­ked in­to play. And if the­re was one thing Re­ve Sor­rell was known for, it was her com­mon sen­se. Ne­ver a play­girl, al­ways a se­ri­o­us stu­dent as well as an obe­di­ent da­ug­h­ter and a lady who had be­en ac­cu­sed by many men of be­ing an ice qu­e­en, Re­ve pri­ded her­self on not al­lo­wing emo­ti­ons to ru­le her. She was an ad­mit­ted con­t­rol fre­ak. Of co­ur­se, kno­wing Jamie Up­ton for the char­ming sco­un­d­rel he was didn't me­an she might not lo­ok him up whi­le she was in the area. Af­ter all, hadn't
he in­vi­ted her to co­me for a vi­sit and stay with his fa­mily on the­ir es­ta­te out­si­de town?

  "I know a girl who co­uld be yo­ur twin," Jamie had told her. "You sho­uld co­me to Che­ro­kee Po­in­te and me­et Jas­mi­ne. She'd get a kick of me­eting her lo­ok-ali­ke."

  Reve had hi­red a pri­va­te in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on agency to com­pi­le a re­port on Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot. She and the wo­man we­re the sa­me age, al­t­ho­ugh the­ir bir­t­h­days we­re al­most a we­ek apart; but then her pa­rents hadn't known her exact birth da­te. And Jaz­zy, as her fri­ends cal­led her, had be­en ra­ised by an aunt, an old wo­man known as the town ko­ok.

  Would a mot­her ha­ve gi­ven her sis­ter one child and thrown the ot­her in­to the gar­ba­ge? So­me­how it didn't se­em li­kely. The pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ve had in­c­lu­ded a do­zen pho­tog­raphs of Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot when he'd han­ded in his re­port, and Re­ve had to ad­mit that the­re was a stri­king re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en the two of them. Eno­ugh so that they co­uld easily be sis­ters, per­haps even twins. She had put off me­eting the wo­man fa­ce-to-fa­ce, un­su­re how she wo­uld re­act when she met Jaz­zy. If they we­re sis­ters, wo­uld she fe­el an in­s­tant bond, an im­me­di­ate fa­mi­li­al con­nec­ti­on?

  Re­ve par­ked half a block down from Jas­mi­ne's, got out of the Jag, loc­ked it se­cu­rely, and step­ped up on the si­de­walk. The air was crisp, fresh and co­ol, sprin­g­ti­me mor­ning co­ol. She chec­ked her watch. Eig­ht-fif­te­en. Still early eno­ugh to or­der bre­ak­fast at the res­ta­urant. Just go in­si­de, she told her­self. Or­der bre­ak­fast and see how the pe­op­le who work for Jas­mi­ne re­act to you. If they don't go run­ning to her with news that they’ve se­en her twin and she do­esn’t co­me out to see for her­self, then you '11 ha­ve to ask to spe­ak with her.

  When she ar­ri­ved at the en­t­ran­ce to the res­ta­urant, she pa­used, to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, then stif­fe­ned her spi­ne and re­ac­hed for the do­or han­d­le. A lar­ge mas­cu­li­ne hand shot out aro­und her and grab­bed the han­d­le. Star­t­led by the unex­pec­ted mo­ve, she gas­ped and glan­ced over her sho­ul­der. A tall, lanky man with overly long brown ha­ir and sexy gol­den eyes smi­led at her. Her sto­mach did an in­vo­lun­tary flip-flop when he sta­red at her as if he wan­ted to kiss her. It wasn't that she didn't ha­ve a long li­ne of eli­gib­le men knoc­king on her do­or. She did. But every sin­g­le one of them knew she was a mul­ti­mil­li­ona­ire. This man didn't know her, had no idea she was the he­ir to the Sor­rell for­tu­ne. And he ac­ted as if he was in­s­tantly in­te­res­ted in her.

  His smi­le wa­ve­red. He sho­ok his he­ad. "Lady, has an­yo­ne ever told you that you've got a twin?"

  "I beg yo­ur par­don?"

  "Different ha­ir style and yo­ur co­lor is dar­ker. Mo­re auburn. And yo­ur eyes are brown, not gre­en, but then I'm pretty su­re she we­ars co­lo­red con­tacts." He sur­ve­yed her from he­ad to toe. "You're a few po­unds he­avi­er, may­be an inch tal­ler. And yo­ur clot­hes are clas­si­er. But I'll be dam­ned if you don't lo­ok eno­ugh li­ke her to be-"

  "And just who are you?" Re­ve as­ked, her to­ne de­li­be­ra­tely stern.

  "Sorry." He step­ped back as she tur­ned to fa­ce him. "I'm Ca­leb McCord." He held out his hand.

  "Mr. McCord." She sho­ok hands with him. "I'm Re­ve Sor­rell. Do­es that na­me me­an an­y­t­hing to you?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad. "No­pe. Sho­uld it?"

  "No, I sup­po­se not"

  "Does the na­me Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot me­an an­y­t­hing to you?" he as­ked. "You wo­uldn't by any chan­ce be a re­la­ti­ve I don't know abo­ut, wo­uld you?"

  "Do you know Ms. Tal­bot well?"

  "Well eno­ugh to know she do­esn't ha­ve a sis­ter, at le­ast not one she knows an­y­t­hing abo­ut."

  "That cer­ta­inly ma­kes two of us. As far as I know, I don't ha­ve a sis­ter. But a re­si­dent of Che­ro­kee Co­unty I met at a party a few months ago men­ti­oned I had a lo­ok-ali­ke he­re in Che­ro­kee Po­in­te, and sin­ce I was in the area an­y­way… well, I re­mem­be­red his com­ments and I'm cu­ri­o­us eno­ugh to want to me­et her."

  "And who wo­uld that be-the per­son who told you that you lo­oked li­ke Jaz­zy?"

  "Jamie Up­ton. Do you know him?"

  A dark frown era­sed all warmth from Ca­leb McCord's rug­gedly han­d­so­me fa­ce. "So you're one of Jamie's wo­men, huh? So­met­hing el­se you and Jaz­zy ha­ve in com­mon."

  "I ta­ke it that you don't es­pe­ci­al­ly li­ke Jamie."

  "Hate the guy's guts."

  "Because?"

  "Because be­ing a man in­s­te­ad of a wo­man, I ha­ve the go­od for­tu­ne to see the son of a bitch for what he is."

  "Which is?"

  "He's a sorry, go­od-for-not­hing lo­use who­se hobby is bre­aking he­arts and des­t­ro­ying li­ves."

  Apparently this man ca­red for Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot and re­sen­ted Jamie's con­nec­ti­on to the lady. "You're je­alo­us be­ca­use Jas­mi­ne was his te­ena­ge swe­et­he­art and she still lo­ves him."

  Caleb chuc­k­led. "The guy did a num­ber on you, too, didn't he? Is that the re­al re­ason you're in town? Jamie ro­man­ced you, scre­wed you, then left you to co­me back to Jaz­zy. And you're he­re in town to see what Jaz­zy's got that you don't ha­ve?"

  "Mr. McCord, you ha­ve a very vi­vid ima­gi­na­ti­on. Jamie didn't use and abu­se me, al­t­ho­ugh he wo­uld ha­ve if I'd gi­ven him a chan­ce. I'm he­re stricdy out of cu­ri­osity. I want to me­et Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot."

  "Then co­me right on in with me and I'll in­t­ro­du­ce you to her." Ca­leb held open the do­or, then fol­lo­wed Re­ve in­to the res­ta­urant.

  The hos­tess, who­se -na­me tag re­ad Tif­fany, rus­hed for­ward, then stop­ped de­ad in her tracks. Her pink lips for­med an oval as she gas­ped in sur­p­ri­se when he lo­oked at Re­ve.

  "We want a bo­oth," Ca­leb sa­id. 'Two cups of cof­fee. Black?" he as­ked Re­ve.

  "Cream, no su­gar," she rep­li­ed.

  "And ask Jaz­zy to jo­in us. Tell her I've got a lit­tle sur­p­ri­se for her."

  "I'll say you do. Who is she?" Tif­fany lo­oked at Re­ve. "I me­an, who are you, ma'am? I can't get over how much you lo­ok li­ke Jaz­zy."

  "So ever­yo­ne ke­eps tel­ling me."

  "Second bo­oth on the left, by the win­dows," Tif­fany sa­id. "I'll tell Jaz­zy and then get the cof­fee."

  As they he­aded for the bo­oth, se­ve­ral he­ads tur­ned and mo­re than one set of eyes sta­red una­bas­hedly at Re­ve as she wal­ked by. All of a sud­den she wasn't so su­re co­ming he­re li­ke this had be­en such a go­od idea. May­be she sho­uld ha­ve cal­led Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot first and as­ked her a few qu­es­ti­ons. May­be she sho­uld ha­ve te­lep­ho­ned Jamie and as­ked him to set up a me­eting bet­we­en her and her so-cal­led twin.

  By the ti­me they sat down and Re­ve be­gan to re­lax, whis­pers and mur­murs sur­ro­un­ded them. Tif­fany ca­me rus­hing back to the­ir bo­oth, a cof­fe­epot in hand. She flip­ped over the cups al­re­ady on the tab­le and po­ured the ste­aming brew, then re­ac­hed in her ap­ron and pro­du­ced se­ve­ral small con­ta­iners of half-and-half, which she pla­ced by Re­ve's cup.

  ''Jazzy will be right out. She's just fi­nis­hing up bre­ak­fast in her of­fi­ce with her aunt Sally and Lu­die. Ludie brought in so­me pi­es she'd ba­ked yes­ter­day, so we'd ha­ve them for to­day's lunch crowd."

  "Did you men­ti­on that I had a lady with me who just hap­pens to be Jaz­zy's spit­ting ima­ge?" Ca­leb as­ked.

  "I just told her that you wan­ted her to co­me out and me­et a lady you had with you and that she was in for qu­ite a sur­p­ri­se when she saw the lady."

  No so­oner had Tif­fany wal­ked away than Ca­leb sto­od up be­si
­de the bo­oth, an odd grin on his fa­ce. Re­ve tur­ned just eno­ugh to glan­ce over her sho­ul­der. The bot­tom drop­ped out of her sto­mach. The wo­man wal­king to­ward them wo­re skin­tight je­ans, a bright yel­low T-shirt that ac­cen­tu­ated her lar­ge bre­asts, and spor­ted a short, flya­way ha­ir­cut that proc­la­imed her stylish and hip. Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot was stri­kingly at­trac­ti­ve. And very sexy. Two things Re­ve Sor­rell wasn't. But the body was si­mi­lar to hers, al­t­ho­ugh hers was well ca­mo­uf­la­ged be­ne­ath clas­si­cal­ly ta­ilo­red pin­s­t­ri­ped black slacks, a black bla­zer, and a whi­te shirt. And the wo­man's every fe­atu­re was a per­fect match to Re­ve's. Sa­me fo­re­he­ad, eyes, no­se, mo­uth, ears, long neck, che­ek­bo­nes, chin.

  A cold fe­ar en­com­pas­sed Re­ve as Jaz­zy drew ne­ar. The­re was no way so­me­one co­uld lo­ok that much li­ke anot­her per­son wit­ho­ut them be­ing re­la­ted. That me­ant this wo­man co­uld very well be her sis­ter, may­be her twin sis­ter.