Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (45 page)
But Margaret shook her head. “My father-in-law was an honorable man. He was a fine man, a strong man, a man with ethics. He did not have a mistress, Miss Gallagher. I knew him.”
Jill stared. “But he died in’45. You must have been a child.”
“Yes, I was a child—I was ten or so when he died, but our families were close. He was a great man.”
“He had an affair with Kate, before he was even engaged to Anne.”
Margaret looked up, directly at Jill, her face stiff with tension. “Do you have a price? Is that what this about? What is happening is intolerable to me. I will write you a check,” she said. “Name your amount, Miss Gallagher, and then leave us be.”
Jill straightened, frozen inside. Alex, Thomas, and now the countess … Her mind raced and she immediately dismissed her suspicion that Margaret was in any way involved with the threats recently made against her. It was impossible. She finally said, “This isn’t about money. This is about a murder, this is about the truth.”
Margaret stood. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What will you do if you find out the truth? Write a book?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
Margaret regarded her with skepticism. “Don’t do this,” she said. “Hal wouldn’t want you to do this.”
Jill stared. It was a terribly low blow—it was a direct hit.
J
ill paused before sliding out of her rental car, a blue four-door Toyota. Alex was standing on the street in front of Lucinda’s gate, speaking to the other woman. His back was to her—he had yet to see her.
ill paused before sliding out of her rental car, a blue four-door Toyota. Alex was standing on the street in front of Lucinda’s gate, speaking to the other woman. His back was to her—he had yet to see her.
Jill slammed the door and locked it, aware of the mad pounding of her heart. She did not want to see him. And what were they talking about?
She trusted Lucinda and knew she would not say a word about their plans to depart for Yorkshire tomorrow morning. But what if she told him about what had happened last night at her flat? Doing so because she believed that telling Alex could only be helpful to Jill?
At that moment, he turned. Their gazes locked.
Jill did not move. As they stared at one another, she recalled everything she wished had never happened—the way he’d held her at Kate’s grave, the way he handled the Lamborghini with his strong hands, the way he handled everything—decisively and effectively. She recalled their single night of passion, and his sleeping on her couch the night Lady E. had been murdered.
Jill closed her eyes, in that moment wishing, desperately, that someone or something could give her the answers she wanted—not the answers she was afraid she had already found.
She reminded herself that she must not, for a minute, forget that he wanted her paid off. That was a fact that he had admitted to.
Alex said something to Lucinda and started purposefully toward Jill. His gaze was searching. “Hi.”
Jill nodded, trying to be cool, composed. Undoubtedly he could hear her deafening heartbeat. He had been furious with her last night; today, he seemed to be his usual self.
“Lucinda told me what happened last night.” His tone was sharp. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you call the police?”
Jill wet her lips. “It crossed my mind,” she said slowly, “but it also crossed my mind that you or someone in your family was giving me another warning.”
He stiffened. For a long moment he did not speak. “Let’s go inside. I want to talk to you about everything.”
“I think it was another warning, like poor Lady E.” Jill’s chin tilted up defensively.
Alex just stared at her. His eyes seemed very dark. “I hope that is not the case,” he finally said.
“Do you?” Jill asked, wondering if he was becoming angry, and if so, why? He was controlling his expression and she was finding it difficult to read.
His face had tightened. “Yes, damn it, I do.”
Jill shrugged. If only he were being absolutely honest with her. And out of the corner of her eye she saw movement on the porch. She turned, gasping, as Sir John settled himself by the front door, staring at her. “Sir John!” she cried, almost in disbelief.
She flung open her gate and rushed up the stone path, then slowed as she approached the front steps of the porch so she would not frighten him away. But Sir John did not move. Jill had never been happier to see anything or anyone. She sat down on one of the steps. “You’re okay,” she whispered, overcome with dazed relief.
To her amazement, he got up and came over to her, pressing his sleek, silvery body against her arm.
Immediately Jill ran her hand over his back. He arched beneath it. “You’re really okay,” she whispered again, tears blurring her vision.
She pulled the cat into her arms, hugging him, expecting him to protest. He did. With a soft sound he leaped away, but then sat down a few feet from her, delicately cleaning the fur by his shoulder.
As Jill wiped her eyes with her fingertips, she became aware of a shadow falling over her. She knew it belonged to Alex. She looked up.
He looked down. Then he extended his hand to her.
Jill stared at it. It was a broad hand with long, capable fingers; it was a strong hand. The symbolism was overwhelming. Jill hesitated.
“Jill.”
Jill put her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet. She tried to break free of him, but his grip on her hand tightened, and the next thing she
knew, he had pulled her hard against his body, wrapping his arms around her, crushing her to him. “I would never let anything happen to you,” he said harshly in her ear. “I don’t like this, Jill. I don’t like what’s happening to you—to us.”
knew, he had pulled her hard against his body, wrapping his arms around her, crushing her to him. “I would never let anything happen to you,” he said harshly in her ear. “I don’t like this, Jill. I don’t like what’s happening to you—to us.”
Jill was stiff as a board. She felt like she belonged there, in his arms, against his chest, thigh to thigh and heart to heart. Had Hal ever felt like this? Jill did not think so; she could not remember. Her body began to soften against his in spite of her doubts. Oh, God, she thought helplessly, what am I doing? What should I do? “There is no us,” she whispered.
“No?” he asked, looking down at her, holding her gaze.
“No,” she returned, as firmly as possible.
“Then what was that night about?”
He did not have to elaborate. Jill stepped back from him. “That was about sex.”
His nostrils flared. “Right,” he said, the one word heavy with disbelief and sarcasm.
“What are you doing here?” Jill asked.
He gripped her shoulders so their gazes could meet again. “I told you last night we’d talk today. Thank God I came over. You weren’t going to call me, were you?”
“No.”
She glimpsed anger again, flitting through his eyes. “Maybe you were right, not to call the police,” he said. His gaze was intense. “But you should have called me.”
Jill’s temples began a slow, dull throbbing. In his presence, like this, she was torn. And in that moment, she had to face what she didn’t want to face—a part of her was glad that he was there, just as a part of her had been glad that he had stayed the night Lady E. was murdered. “I’m scared,” she said unthinkingly. And it was too late to take it back.
“I know.” He touched her face. “Trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
An image of Lady E.’s headless, bloody body came to mind, followed by an image of her ransacked flat. Alex’s eyes were so blue, the color of a clear country sky, and filled with sincerity. Jill thought about Kate, desperate and terrified, begging for her life. And suddenly she remembered how Hal had felt as he lay dying in her arms, his life ebbing rapidly away, before her very eyes, with herself helpless to prevent it.
Jill closed her eyes. In that moment, she needed his strength and she knew it—but she didn’t want to need him. Especially because he might
be an illusion. But he was so goddamn strong. “Alex, I’m so confused,” she whispered.
be an illusion. But he was so goddamn strong. “Alex, I’m so confused,” she whispered.
“I know.” He pulled her back, into his arms, against his chest. He spoke to the top of her head. “Promise me, Jill, if something like this ever happens again, I’ll be the first to know,” he said.
“All right,” she said, not quite sure whether she meant it or not, her cheek against his shirt and jacket, her heart beating against his. Would it be so bad, she wondered, to find comfort with him again? Even if it was fleeting, even it if was brief?
He stroked her hair. “You made me so angry last night. I regret it now. I’m sorry, Jill, really sorry. But I don’t want my aunt and uncle hurt any more. How can I convince you to let this suspicion of yours about Edward go?”
She tensed again, afraid he was manipulating her, but his arms tightened around her and she closed her eyes, succumbing to his embrace. “I have to know who killed Kate.”
“I know you do.” He seemed to kiss her ear. Tiny jolts of pleasure shot through Jill. “I want to know, too. But they don’t need to know. The tabloids don’t need to know. And you’re making yourself ill. Jill—I think you should make an appointment with Dr. McFee.”
She finally looked up at him, trembling—but not with fear. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” His gaze held hers. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
Jill’s heart slammed to a halt. When it resumed its beat it did so slowly, firmly, resonating in her chest. Her gaze was riveted to Alex’s. And she recognized the look in his eyes.
Worse, she recognized the feeling in her own body, the urgent vibration of need. This could be a huge mistake, she thought. But she was now the first to admit to herself that, in spite of her fears, her doubts, and her suspicions, she was insanely attracted to him, enough so to throw caution to the winds. And right now, it did not seem possible that he’d had a hand in the threats against her, not in any way. Of course, how could she think clearly when his chest was crushing her breasts, his thighs molding her thighs? They had started something at Stainesmore that she had to continue. What if she could trust him? What if this was a beginning for them? She would never know if she did not take a risk.
Her hands slipped to his waist. It was hard and tight.
He kissed her. Interrupting her thoughts, framing her face with both hands. Jill had almost forgotten how exquisite kissing him was. Almost, but not quite.
The kiss became hungrier. There was only his mouth and hers, his body and hers.
She did not move, because she could not move. Eternity passed.
Jill’s hands slid into the thick, short hair at his nape. There was one place she wanted to be. And that was in his bed, beneath him, thighs spread, with him deep inside of her.
She wasn’t sure she had ever wanted anyone this way before.
Alex. Tall, lean, dark, cashmere sweaters and faded, tight jeans.
He was bending her over backward, his mouth demanding now, his tongue searching. One of his thighs had pushed between hers. She rode him.
Jill’s hands moved to his shoulders, but not to push him away. To hold him more tightly.
He broke the kiss. “Christ.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” Jill said hoarsely. “And we’ll worry about tomorrow then.”
J
ill was aware of him following her up the stairs, and she felt his gaze on her back. Her heart had the cadence of a jungle drum. Every nerve ending in her body was firing off neurons and transmitters in a rapid, mindless succession. She was beginning to feel dazed, and she couldn’t help thinking, perhaps foolishly, that she had missed him, and badly.
ill was aware of him following her up the stairs, and she felt his gaze on her back. Her heart had the cadence of a jungle drum. Every nerve ending in her body was firing off neurons and transmitters in a rapid, mindless succession. She was beginning to feel dazed, and she couldn’t help thinking, perhaps foolishly, that she had missed him, and badly.
In her doorway she hesitated, the bed looming before her in the room, acutely aware of him behind her. She was shaking. Without warning, his hands gripped her waist, turning her abruptly around, his mouth coming down hard on hers.
Jill couldn’t wait either, and she met his tongue, wrapping her legs around his hips. He thrust into her and pressed her against the wall. His erection—hot, hard, huge, straining his jeans—ground against her crotch. Jill clutched his shoulders, kissing him back, moving her hips against him.
He tore his mouth from hers, kissed and bit her jaw, her throat. Jill cried out.
He suddenly set her on her feet again, lifting her sweater up over her bra, and lifting the bra up too. His tongue slashed over her nipple. He palmed her. Hard, between her legs, where she felt damp with urgency.
Jill heard herself moan again, with abandon—she could hardly breathe—she was going to come. She reached for him, grabbed the bulge of his rock-hard penis. “Alex.”
But he was already pulling her jeans down her hips. He cupped her sex again, inserting a finger there.
An instant later they were on the floor. Alex kicked off his jeans and drove into her; Jill wrapped her legs around his waist and encouraged him to push faster, harder. He strained over her and began to whisper into her ear. Shock seized Jill, and she exploded.
He slid out, still fully distended, and rubbed the ripe tip of his penis over her wet pubis. Instantly Jill tightened. Their eyes met. In spite of his strained expression, he smiled briefly at her. “One more time,” he said roughly.
Jill leaned up on her elbows and nuzzled the length of his erection. Then, heart rioting, body aching, she slowly sucked him into her mouth—every possible inch.
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