Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (16 page)

“There are people who’ll fight it.”

“Makes no difference.” Fred sniffed appreciatively at his rose hip tea. The edges of his sarong had slipped apart and he sat with thighs naked. Incense smoke wafted about his grizzled head. “They can scream, protest. Lay their bodies before the bulldozers. But it’s hopeless. There are things people just can’t stop.”

“A cynical answer,” said Miranda.

“For cynical times.”

“Well, they can’t buy Rose Hill,” said Miranda, rising to her feet. “And if organized crime’s behind these purchases, you can bet the island will fight back. People here don’t take well to mobsters. They don’t take to outsiders, period.”

Fred gazed up at her with a smile. “But
you
are an outsider, aren’t you, Ms. Wood?”

“I’m not from this island. I came here a year ago.”

“Yet they accepted
you.
”

“No, they didn’t.” Miranda turned toward the door. She stood there for a moment, staring through the screen. Outside, the trees were swaying under a canopy of blue sky. “They never accepted me,” she said softly. “And you know what?” She let out a long sigh of resignation. “I’ve only now come to realize it. They never will.”

There was a third car parked in the driveway at Rose Hill.

They saw it as they walked up the last bend of the road—a late-model Saab with a gleaming burgundy finish. A glance through the car window revealed a spotless interior, not even a loose business card or candy wrapper on the leather upholstery.

The screen door squealed open and Miss St. John came out on the porch. “There you are,” she said. “We have a visitor. Jill Vickery.”

Of course, thought Miranda. Who else would manage to keep such an immaculate car?

Jill was standing amidst all the books, holding a box in her arms. She glanced at Miranda with a look of obvious surprise, but made no comment about her presence. “Sorry to pop in unannounced,” she said. “I had to get a few records. Phillip and I are meeting the accountant tomorrow. You know, working out any tax problems for the transfer of the
Herald.
”

Chase frowned. “You found the financial records here?”

“Just last month’s worth. I couldn’t find them back in the office, so I figured he’d brought them out here to work on. I was right.”

“Where were they?” asked Chase. “We’ve combed all through his files. I never saw them.”

“They were upstairs. The nightstand drawer.” How she knew where to look was something she didn’t bother to explain. She glanced around the front room. “You’ve certainly torn the place apart. What are you looking for? Hidden treasure?”

“Any and all files on Stone Coast Trust,” said Chase.

“Yes, Annie mentioned you were dogging that angle. Personally, I think it’s a dead end.” Coolly she turned to look at Miranda. “And how are things going for you?” It was merely a polite question, carrying neither warmth nor concern.

“Things are…difficult,” said Miranda.

“I can imagine. I hear you’re staying with Annie these days.”

“Only temporarily.”

Jill flashed her one of those ironic smiles. “It’s rather inconvenient, actually. The trial was going to be Annie’s story. And now you’re living with her. I’ll have to pull her off it. Objective reporting and all.”

“No one at the
Herald
could possibly be objective,” Chase pointed out.

“I suppose not.” Jill shifted the box in her arms. “Well, I’d better be going. Let you get on with your search.”

“Ms. Vickery?” called Miss St. John. “I wonder if you could shed some light on an item we found here.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a note, from someone named M.” Miss St. John handed her the slip of paper. “Miranda here didn’t write it. Do you know who did?”

Jill read the note without any apparent emotion, not even a twitch of her perfect eyebrow. Miranda thought,
If only I had an ounce of her style, her poise.

“It’s not dated. So…” Jill looked up. “I can think of several possibilities. None of them had that particular initial. But M could stand for a nickname. Or just the word
me.
”

“Several possibilities?”

“Yes.” Jill glanced uneasily at Miranda. “Richard, he…had his attractions. Especially for the female summer interns. There was that one we had last year. Before you were hired, Miranda. Her name was Chloe something or other. Couldn’t write worth a damn, but she was good decoration. And she picked up interviews no one else could get, which drove poor Annie up a wall.” Jill looked again at the note.

“This was typed on a manual typewriter. See? The
e
loop’s smudged, key needs to be cleaned. If I remember right, Chloe always worked on an old manual. The only one in the office who couldn’t compose on a computer keyboard.” She gave the note back to Miss St. John. “It could have been her.”

“Whatever happened to Chloe?” asked Chase.

“What you’d expect to happen. Some hot and heavy flirting. A few fireworks. And then, just another broken heart.”

Miranda felt her throat tighten, her face flush. None of them was looking directly at her, but she knew she was the focus of their attention, as surely as if they were staring. She went to the window and found herself gripping the curtain, fighting to keep her head erect, her spine straight. Another broken heart. It made her feel like some object on an assembly line, just another stupid, gullible woman. It’s what they thought of her.

It’s what she thought of herself.

Jill again shifted her box of papers. “I’d better get back to the office or the mice will play.” She went to the door, then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Chase. Annie just heard the news.”

“What news?” asked Chase.

“Tony Graffam’s back in town.”

Miranda didn’t react. She heard Jill go down the porch steps, heard the Saab’s engine roar to life, the tires crunch away across the gravel. She felt Chase and Miss St. John’s gaze on her back. They were watching her in silence, an unbearable, pitying silence.

She pushed open the screen door and fled from the cottage.

Halfway across the field Chase caught up to her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Miranda—”

“Leave me alone!”

“You can’t run away from it—”

“If only I could!” she cried. “Jill said it! I’m just another broken heart. Another dumb woman who got exactly what she deserved.”

“You didn’t deserve it.”

“Damn you, Chase, don’t feel sorry for me! I can’t stand that, either.” She broke free and started to turn away. He pulled her back. This time he held on, got a tight grip on each wrist. She found herself staring into his dark, inescapable eyes.

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” he shot back. “You don’t get my pity, Miranda. Because you’re too good for it. You’ve got more going for you than any woman I’ve met. Okay, you’re naive. And gullible. We all start out that way. You’ve learned from it, fine. You should. You want to kick yourself, and maybe it’s well deserved. But don’t overdo it. Because I think Richard fell just as hard for you as you fell for him.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m just telling you what I think.”

“Right.” Her laughter was self-mocking. “That I’m one notch above a bimbo?” Again she tried to pull free. Again he held her tight.

“No,” he said quietly. “What I’m saying is this. I know you’re not the first. I know Richard had a lot of women. I’ve met a few of them through the years. Some of them were gorgeous. Some of them were talented, even brilliant. But out of all those women—and they were, each and every one of them, exceptional—you’re the only one I could see him really falling for.”

“Out of all those
gorgeous
women?” She shook her head and laughed. “Why me?”

Quietly he said, “Because you’re the one
I’d
fall for.”

At once she went still. He stared down at her, his dark hair stirring in the wind, his face awash in sunlight. She heard her own quick breaths, heard her heartbeat pounding in her ears. He released her wrists. She didn’t move, even when his arms circled behind her, even as he drew her hard against him. She scarcely had the breath to whimper before he settled his mouth firmly on hers.

At the first touch of his lips she was lost. The sun seemed to spin overhead, a dizzying view of brightness against a field of blue. And then there was only him, all rough edges and shadows, his dark head blotting out the sky, his mouth stealing away her breath. She wavered for an instant between resistance and surrender. Then she found herself reaching up and around his neck, opening her lips to his eager assault, pressing more eagerly against the bite of his teeth. She drank him in, his taste, his warmth. Through the roaring in her ears she heard his low groans of satisfaction and need, ever more need. How quickly she had yielded, how easily she had fallen—the woman mastered first by one brother, and now the other.

The day’s unbearable brightness seemed to flood her eyes as she pulled away. Her cheeks were blazing. The buzz of insects in the field and the rustle of grass in the wind were almost lost in the harsh sound of her own breathing.

“I won’t be passed around, Chase,” she said. “I won’t.”

Then she turned and stalked across the field. She headed back to the cottage, her feet stirring the perfume of sun-warmed grass. She knew he was following somewhere behind, but this time he made no attempt to catch up. She walked alone, and the brightness of the afternoon, the dancing wildflowers, the floating haze of dandelion fuzz only seemed to emphasize her own wretchedness.

Miss St. John was standing on the porch. With scarcely a nod to the other woman, Miranda walked right past her and into the cottage. Inside, she went straight to the bookcase, grabbed another armful of books from the shelf and sat on the floor. She was single-mindedly flipping through the pages when she heard footsteps come up the porch.

“It’s not a good time for an argument, Chase,” she heard Miss St. John say.

“I’m not planning to argue.”

“You have that look in your eye. For heaven’s sake, cool down. Stop. Take a deep breath.”

“With all due respect, Miss St. John, you’re
not
my mother.”

“All right, I’m not your mother!” Miss St. John snapped. As she stomped away down the steps, she muttered, “But I can see when a man sorely needs my advice!”

The screen door slapped shut. Chase stood just inside the threshold, gazing at Miranda. “You took it the wrong way,” he said.

Miranda looked up at him. “Did I?”

“What happened between you and Richard is a separate issue. A dead issue. It has nothing to do with you and me.”

She snapped the book shut. “It has everything to do with you and me.”

“But you make it sound like I’m just—just picking up the affair where he left off.”

“Okay, maybe it’s not that bald. Maybe you’re not even aware you’re doing it.” She reached for another book and stubbornly focused on the pages as she flipped through it.

“But we both know Richard was the golden boy of the family. The one who had it all, inherited everything. You were the Tremain who didn’t even get a decent trust fund. Well, if you can’t inherit a newspaper or a fortune, at least you can inherit your brother’s cast-off mistress. Or, gee, maybe even his wife. Just think. Evelyn wouldn’t even have to go to the trouble of changing her last name.”

“Are you finished?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I can stand here and listen to that garbage any longer. First of all, I’m not in the least bit interested in my sister-in-law. I never was. When Richard married her, I had to stop myself from sending him my condolences. Second, I don’t give a damn who gets the
Herald.
I sure as hell never wanted the job. The paper was Richard’s baby, from the start. And third—” He paused and took a deep breath, as though drawing the courage to say what had to be said. “Third,” he said quietly, “I’m not a Tremain.”

She looked up at him sharply. “What are you saying? You’re Richard’s brother, aren’t you?”

“His half brother.”

“You mean…” She stared into those Gypsy eyes, saw herself reflected in irises dark as coals.

Chase nodded. “My father knew. I don’t think Mother ever told him, exactly. She didn’t have to. He could just look at me and see it.” He smiled, a bitter, ironic smile. “Funny that I myself never did. All the time I was growing up, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t match up to Richard. No matter how hard I tried, he was the one who got Dad’s attention. My mother tried to make up for it. She was my very best friend, right up until she died. And then it was just the three of us.” He sank into a chair and rubbed his forehead, as though trying to massage away the memories.

“When did you learn?” Miranda asked softly. “That he wasn’t your father?”

“Not until years later, when Dad was dying. He had one of those cliché deathbed confessions. Only he didn’t tell
me.
He told Richard. Even at the very end, Richard was the privileged one.” Wearily Chase leaned back, his head pressed against the cushions, his gaze focused on the ceiling. “Later they read the will. I couldn’t understand why I’d been essentially cut out. Oh, he left me enough to get me started in business. But that was it. I thought it had to do with my marriage, the fact Dad had opposed it from the start. I was hurt, but I accepted it. My wife didn’t. She got in a shouting match with Richard, started yelling that it wasn’t fair. Richard lost his cool and let it all out. The big secret. The fact his brother was a bastard.”

“Is that when you left the island?”

He nodded. “I came back once or twice, to humor my wife. After we got divorced it seemed like my last link to this place had been cut. So I stayed away. Until now.”

They fell silent. He seemed lost in bad memories, old hurts.
No wonder I could never find any hint of Richard in his face,
she thought.
He’s not a Tremain at all. He’s his own man, the sort of man Richard could never be.

The sort of man I could love.

He felt her studying him, sensed she was reaching out to him. Abruptly he rose to his feet and moved with studied indifference toward the screen door. There he stood looking out at the field. “Maybe you were right,” he said.