Heir to Secret Memories Read online

  The woman’s hostile gaze swept disdainfully over Paige’s black skirt and silver blouse before she turned her back.

  Something about her seemed vaguely familiar—not many women had such a prominent streak in their hair. Maybe Paige had seen her at another charity event.

  Just then Sally sailed into the room, her flowing red gown with sleeves that draped to the floor drawing every eye.

  “Well?” Stopping in front of Paige, Sally gestured theatrically, sloshing champagne from a crystal flute. “Did you see it?”

  “See what?” Paige asked.

  “My latest discovery. Haven’t you wondered why people keep staring at you? Remember, I promised you an evening you wouldn’t soon forget.”

  A tinge of unease tightened Paige’s belly as her friend ushered her toward the east wall of the room. Sally’s surprises were predictably obscure. “I saw the ice sculpture,” she ventured.

  “Not the ice sculpture.” Sally waved her arm. “My newest artist.”

  Everything Sally did was dramatic, from her famous charity soirees to the way she scoured the city dressed in her talent-hunting uniform of designer jeans and a shapeless, ancient men’s suit jacket that would do a homeless man proud, topped by an equally disreputable fedora.

  Paige smiled indulgently. “Have you been prowling through dusty junk shops again?”

  “Of course. It’s the best way in the world to discover new artists. I found this one in a musty little voodoo shop down near the docks. It’s the surprise I promised you.”

  A framed drawing hung by itself in the center of an alcove. As Sally stepped aside, the crowd of people seemed to melt back into the paneling.

  Paige stiffened as her vision telescoped in on the picture.

  “Oh my God,” she choked, shock stealing her breath and tightening like a vise around her throat.

  It was a small piece, sketched in charcoal. There wasn’t much to it, just a few perfectly executed lines. Only the eyes were fully drawn, but Paige recognized herself, much younger, looking over her naked shoulder with mischief in her glance.

  “Voilà!” She heard Sally’s throaty laugh. She felt all eyes on her.

  “Isn’t it stunning? And the resemblance is phenomenal.”

  Sally’s voice echoed in her head like music from the next room, heard but not recognized. Her thoughts were on another time. She remembered the very day. It was the day Johnny had asked her to marry him, the day he’d given her his mother’s ring and promised her he would love her forever.

  The last time she’d ever seen him.

  Paige squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth. It couldn’t be Johnny. That was another life. Johnny was dead.

  Consciously relaxing her arms, she forced herself to smile. “It’s not me,” she said tightly. “It’s just one of those amazing coincidences.”

  She stepped close to Sally, whose smile was fading a bit. “Where did you get that? You should have warned me,” she whispered.

  “I bought it for you. I just wanted to display it first. Do you know the artist?”

  Paige shook her head and started to turn away, but Sally pointed and her long red fingernail drew Paige’s eye back toward the sketch.

  As sudden as a punch in the stomach, Paige’s diaphragm seized as she focused on the signature. Three letters in a unique stylized script, followed by an anchor in the shape of a Y. It was a design Paige would never forget, one she’d have sworn was embossed on her heart.

  A shirt with that monogram on it was stuffed in a box, along with other mementos of a past that seemed like a long-forgotten dream.

  For an instant, she ached to touch the letters, trace them with her fingers like she’d done long ago when she’d still believed in dreams. Her hand lifted, her fingers reached and she had to struggle to stop them from caressing the glass over the signature.

  It couldn’t be. The dead didn’t come back to life.

  Paige clenched her fist and forced her hand back down to her side.

  “Paige Reynolds! You’re not going to faint on me, are you? You’re white as a sheet!”

  Paige shook her head. “Where did you say you found it?” she asked, trying to lighten her voice.

  Sally beamed, her face reflecting triumph. “One of those little streets down by the docks. Isn’t the resemblance phenomenal? It’s almost as if you sat for the artist.”

  Paige frowned. Sally’s words sliced into her already aching heart. “Well, that’s impossible,” she replied flatly.

  Then, aware of the attention they were receiving from the crowd, she pasted a false smile on her face.

  “Thank you so much,” she said through numb lips. “The drawing is beautiful. I must apologize, but I have to go. Katie’s with a new sitter. I don’t want to be late.”

  “A new sitter? I can see why you’d be concerned. Well, you must bring her for a visit soon. Maybe I should have a showing of children’s art,” Sally said. “Katie’s six years old now, isn’t she? She’s such a little doll, with those beautiful dark-blue eyes of hers.”

  Paige’s face felt stiff. “She was just six in May. I really have to go. I’ll talk to you later this week.”

  “Call me tomorrow. We’ll have lunch and you can pick up your drawing,” Sally called as a handsome, elegant man touched her arm. She turned with a flourish, back in perfect hostess mode.

  Paige’s hands trembled, her throat hurt and her eyes burned. If she didn’t know better, she might think she was about to cry, but Paige Reynolds never cried. Ever.

  As she worked her way toward the door, fielding questions and comments about her resemblance to the drawing, she glanced back at it. The cartoon villainess stood nearby, eyes narrowed against the smoke curling up from her cigarette, watching her.

  SERENA YARBROUGH LET cigarette smoke drift out through her nostrils. She’d overheard the little blonde’s conversation with Sally McGowan. She dug her nails into her palms, barely restraining herself from tearing after the woman Sally had called Paige Reynolds.

  She turned back to the drawing, adopting a bored expression as she scrutinized the signature that consisted of the letters JAY plus the old Yarbrough shipping logo.

  That anchor had been the trademark logo of Yarbrough Shipping until two years ago when Serena had acquired several small and diverse companies, which transformed Yarbrough Shipping into Yarbrough Industries. She’d had the logo redesigned and updated.

  Lifting the champagne flute, she managed not to bite into the glass as she sipped delicately. Aware that someone might be watching her, she forced her anger into a cold knot of resolve.

  The signature on the drawing was unmistakable, but it was the date that made her want to rip her clothes and scream in anger and frustration.

  This year.

  Johnny Yarbrough was alive! Her stepson, the true heir to the Yarbrough fortune, had somehow managed to survive her scheme to get rid of him.

  Her brother, Leonard, had assured her Johnny was dead when his goons had dumped his body into the river. She’d been outraged at the time. Now she had to force herself to remain calm as fury swirled in her breast.

  She couldn’t believe the fool hadn’t known that the body might never be found if it drifted out into the Gulf.

  As she’d feared, the body had never turned up. Only the stolen car with Johnny’s bloodstained wallet in the trunk. At least the kidnappers had left no traceable evidence in the car.

  After a court order had declared Johnny legally dead, based on the DNA evidence of his blood in the car, Serena’s son Brandon—Madison Yarbrough’s second son—was the sole heir, and Serena controlled the entire Yarbrough fortune.

  But now, in the space of an evening her plans were ruined. The evidence that Johnny was still alive was displayed right before her eyes. Almost as if he were taunting her.

  Then there was the woman who was obviously the model for the drawing. Sally was right; the resemblance was too close to be coincidence, no matter how much Paige Reynolds denied it. And Ser
ena hadn’t missed the way the woman’s face drained of color when she saw it.

  And if all that weren’t enough, she was flaunting Johnny’s mother’s ring. It was a cheap little ring, but unmistakable, with sapphires in the shape of the old anchor logo. Madison had given it to his first wife, then to his son after she died.

  One by one, Serena considered all the facts, like pieces of a puzzle and they all fitted into place.

  Johnny was alive. And, judging by the conversation she’d overheard between Paige Reynolds and Sally, he had a daughter.

  Six years old in May, the little blonde had said. That would put the child’s conception at about the time of Johnny’s rebellious summer bumming around the French Quarter, right after Serena had married his father.

  Serena drew on her cigarette. That would make Johnny’s child older than her son. Another heir to dilute the fortune that was rightfully hers. She still hated Madison for refusing to change his will, which named Johnny or his progeny as primary heir to the Yarbrough fortune. But she’d gotten rid of the barriers to Madison Yarbrough’s fortune once, and she could do it again.

  She’d taken care of that little problem and now she was in control. She planned to stay in control.

  She watched as the young woman worked her way through the crowd toward the door. She nodded in satisfaction.

  It was annoying that her stepson had cheated death. But now that Serena knew…

  Draining her champagne glass and dropping the half-smoked cigarette into it, Serena pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialed a number.

  “I have an urgent job for you,” she said quietly, stepping out onto the balcony for privacy. “Well, get out of bed and get down to the office. I have a test case for the new tracking technology.”

  As soon as she finished her call, she went looking for Sally. She needed every scrap of information Sally possessed on the artist and on Paige Reynolds.

  The promise little Sue Ann Lynch had made to herself the day she ran away from the shabby trailer park and changed her name still festered inside her.

  She would never be poor again.

  The money was hers. Right now three people stood in her way: Johnny, his child, and the child’s mother.

  They all had to die.

  DURING THE CAB RIDE HOME, Paige stared out the car window as the dark, colorful streets of New Orleans streaked by. A familiar ache started in the back of her throat, building until it felt like a pair of hands choking her.

  It had been seven years since Johnny had walked out of her apartment and her life, over three years since he’d been declared dead, and still she missed him.

  She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and played with the ends, her unseeing gaze on the streets outside.

  When she’d seen the sketch, for an instant she’d been plunged back into the past, to the time when she still believed Johnny loved her and would come back for her. When she’d been sure she would never end up alone and pregnant like her mother.

  The day she’d found out she was pregnant she’d vowed she would keep her daughter, no matter what she had to do.

  She knew the pain of abandonment—the hollow, terrifying fear of having no one. Katie would never spend one day frightened and alone, not if Paige were alive to prevent it. She would give her life to keep her daughter safe.

  Paige shook her head and tried to concentrate on the awful music from the cabbie’s radio, but her brain wouldn’t let go of the past. She recalled the day six years before when she’d happened to glance at the society page, the day she’d found out who Johnny really was.

  He was the son of shipping magnate, Madison Yarbrough, heir to a fortune so vast she couldn’t even imagine it. His family was the Yarbroughs.

  Staring at a photograph of Johnny and his father captioned “Son Follows In Father’s Footsteps,” Paige had finally seen her worst nightmare come true.

  He had never cared about her or intended to marry her. Their whole relationship had been a lie. He’d just been a rich kid slumming. She’d imagined all sorts of horrible reasons he hadn’t come back for her, but she’d never even considered the simplest one.

  He hadn’t wanted to.

  Then three years later, she’d seen his photograph in the paper again. This time it was the sensational story of his kidnapping played out on TV. She’d waited with the rest of the city, suffered along with his father, until the police found the bloodstained car and concluded that John Andrew Yarbrough was dead.

  Now her daughter was six years old, and Paige had struggled and sacrificed to create a good life for the two of them. A safe, steady life.

  No odd coincidence of a drawing with a familiar signature could change that. There had to be another explanation.

  Maybe someone had unearthed one of Johnny’s old sketches and either unconsciously or deliberately copied the style and the signature. That would explain the recent date.

  As bizarre as that idea was, it was easier for Paige to believe than the alternative…that Johnny wasn’t dead at all. That he was alive and well, living his privileged life and selling sketches of their intimate moments as a lark.

  She stirred as the cab stopped in front of her apartment.

  As she paid the driver, a car door opened at the curb and a small figure dressed in very long jeans and a very short top got out. It was Katie’s baby-sitter.

  The teenager’s painted eyes were wide under her short straight hair. “Ms. Reynolds, I was just—”

  Concern about Katie sharpened Paige’s voice. “Dawn? What’s going on here?” She looked toward her apartment. The front door was ajar.

  Dawn pouted. “I was just…saying good-night to my boyfriend.”

  Paige grabbed the girl’s arm. “Where is Katie?”

  Dawn looked at her with eyes wide. “She’s right inside. She’s asleep.”

  Paige tightened her grip on the girl’s arm. “You never, ever leave a child alone. Don’t you know that? Not for an instant.” She was so angry and worried that her voice shook.

  “Katie’s asleep, Ms. Reynolds,” Dawn said in a small voice. “She’s fine. I was only out here for a minute.”

  Rooting in her purse Paige found some bills. “Here. Have your boyfriend take you home.”

  As she ran toward the door, she called back to the girl. “I will be talking to your mother, Dawn.”

  Telling herself she was overreacting, but unable to shake her unease, Paige pushed the door open.

  The first thing she saw was the phone lying in the middle of the living room floor, its torn cord twisted and raw, like the innards of a dead snake. She stared at it for a second, her brain not processing what she was seeing.

  Katie!

  She ran through the tiny hallway to Katie’s room. “Katie?” she whispered.

  No answer.

  Paige pushed the door open. Dawn had assured her that Katie was sleeping, but something was wrong. The room felt odd—empty. She fumbled for the bedside lamp with a trembling hand.

  “Katie, sweetie. I’m home.”

  Light flooded the room. It looked just like it had earlier in the evening, except that the bedclothes were rumpled and her daughter was gone.

  “It’s okay. It’s been a weird evening,” she whispered, trying to calm her growing panic. Katie often slept in Paige’s room.

  “Katie!”

  She ran into her bedroom, throwing on every light switch she passed, but Katie wasn’t there.

  “Katie.” Her voice cracked. “Where are you?”

  She put her hand over her mouth, trying to hold in a scream.

  It’s okay. It’s probably nothing. But her heart knew her brain was lying.

  The bedroom phone had been ripped from the wall, too. She stared at it. It lay on the floor, ominous proof of a truth so awful, Paige couldn’t let herself believe it.

  Her breath stuck in her throat.

  She backed out of her bedroom and rushed into the little kitchen. The back door was open.

  “Oh, no,”
she whispered. “Oh, no.”

  “Katie!” Tears streaked down her face and tasted like blood in her mouth. Somehow her shaky legs carried her back to Katie’s bedroom.

  She stared at the bed. It was so awfully empty, a small hollow in the pillow the only sign her daughter had been there.

  She couldn’t keep trying to fool herself. She knew.

  Her daughter was gone.

  She touched the pillow, plumping it. She reached for the sheet, but her fingers couldn’t hold on to the material.

  “Oh, Katie.” She put her hands over her mouth. “Katie! Where are you?” she screamed into her hands.

  Her gaze searched the room as if she might find her daughter hiding behind a chair, or under the bed. As if the last few minutes were just a bad dream and Katie was playing a joke.

  There was a noise from somewhere in the room. It took a few seconds for the sound to penetrate Paige’s anguish. She lifted her head. What was it?

  The noise sounded again, a terrible, electronically cheerful chirp in the middle of Paige’s horror.

  “A cell phone?” she muttered. Was that a cell phone? She didn’t have a cell phone. It was here, somewhere, in Katie’s room.

  She rooted through the bedclothes, tossing pillows, pulling off the bedspread.

  There it was, lying like a big black bug in her daughter’s bed. She grabbed it, jabbing at buttons that seemed stuck or broken. Finally one gave.

  “Hello? Hello? Who is this?” she screamed, terror paralyzing her, darkening her vision.

  She listened, but there was no sound.

  “Please…who is this? Katie?” she cried.

  Still nothing but silence.

  “Talk to me!” she shouted, then shook the phone, desperation giving way to frustration. “Answer me! Where is my daughter?”

  “Now, now, Paige, there’s no need to shout. Your daughter is just fine,” an obviously disguised voice said.

  She almost dropped the phone. Relief burned through her like a firestorm. Her throat closed. “Who is this? Where is Katie?” she croaked.