A Precious Inheritance

It left her reeling.

Chase couldn’t help but notice how wide those green eyes had become. Innocent eyes, he would’ve said, if not for the fact that she’d spent the last twenty seconds practically screaming her crazy scenario at him.

And boy, a woman with a mouth that good was as far from innocent as he was.

He dragged in a breath, then quickly exhaled when he realized it was all her. Something vanilla, plus something else…soft and powdery, familiar yet unable to place.

Princess smelled amazing, and that pissed him off because the last thing he needed was a raging attraction to her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t do commitment or Perfects.

Control. He had to get control.

“Miss Partridge?” came a voice, and as one, they both sprung back and turned.

A uniformed man stood there, a cap tucked under his arm.

“Yes?” she said, her chin going up, eyebrows raised in an imperious “why are you interrupting me” expression.

“Miss Richardson said to inform you her car is ready for you. Where would you like to go?”

She spared Chase a haughty look. “JFK, thanks.” And without another word, she turned on her heel and followed the driver down the long corridor.

She had the rounded tones and patrician air that clenched every muscle in Chase’s body, sending it onto high alert. She even had the walk down pat, he realized, watching her hips sway beneath that tight black skirt, her precise footsteps in killer heels eating up the hall. Part hypnotic, part infuriating, that arrogant walk told him she knew exactly where his eyes were focused. He’d bet a thousand bucks a smug smile was plastered all over that beautiful face, too.

With hands on his hips he glared at her back until she turned the corner and finally disappeared.

She hadn’t declared her innocence or answered his questions. And now he had a name—Partridge. Which meant this was far from over.

Two

Chase checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes then stared out into the dark, leafy suburban street, shifting restlessly in the luxurious leather seat of his rental car as his thoughts tossed.

Vanessa Partridge. His gaze honed in on the apartment building three doors down, at the lights behind the drawn curtains on the second floor.

At first he’d thought there was something in that manuscript, something incriminating she wanted to remain private. But apart from a stack of hand-written notes and a bunch of chapters running low on toner, he’d come up empty.

He’d stared at those neat pages on his desk for so long he could’ve burned a hole in them. And eventually he returned to his original accusation—she was a Waverly plant.

He buttoned up his coat then swung open the car door, wincing as an unseasonably cold October breeze rushed in. A thousand questions burned, their missing endings gnawing away at him. Despite the information Chase had charmed out of Waverly’s staff, then had followed up online, nothing could fill in the gaps better than the woman herself. Yes, her story about her sister and Ann Richardson had proven correct, but the rest was woefully deficient…and he hated the imperfection those holes wrought.

Why would Vanessa Partridge resort to shill bidding? And why would the daughter of two highly respected Washington lawyers have such a blatant disregard for the law?

Chase shoved his hands in his pockets. If she was as innocent as she claimed, how could she afford to bid on that manuscript, given her single-parent status and teacher’s salary? Daddy’s money? So why not use that money for a house, a flashy car, a nanny?

Those questions had dogged his thoughts after he’d observed her leaving the nursery school where she worked, dressed in jeans and a battered bomber jacket, hair tied in a simple ponytail. He’d watched in fascination as she went through what was obviously the familiar process of carrying two babies outside, strapping them into her old BMW, throwing her bags into the trunk, then driving fifteen minutes to a double-story apartment block. One of many that lined an average street in the lower end of Silver Spring, Maryland.

Everything about Vanessa Partridge screamed respectability, from her old-money Washington-lawyer parents, to her centuries-old bloodline. But she also baffled him. Why would someone turn her back on a promising career in law, one where she could fall into the family practice straight after her bar exam? When he’d read that particular bit of information he’d known that a trip to Maryland was in the cards. He dealt in speculation every single waking moment: it’s what he did, first as the new guy at Rushford Investments, then as one of McCoy Jameson’s most sought-after portfolio managers. These days, he worked for himself and a few choice investors. He had a talent for making money and he’d made an obscene amount of it over the years, even through the turbulent time following the crash. He was pretty much free to please himself.

And right now, what pleased him was figuring out the puzzle that was Vanessa Partridge because everything about her just didn’t add up.

He stared up at the drawn curtains of Vanessa’s apartment.

If it somehow turned out he was wrong, he owed her an apology. Chase Harrington always admitted his mistakes. But the only way he’d get to the truth was by confronting her.

No, not confronting. He’d done that back in New York and look what had happened—she’d been all up in his face and then, wham! That moment when he’d suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to kiss her.

His breath puffed out, clouding in the cool night air. Dammit. She was a Perfect in every sense of the word, and not just by the standards of his narrow-minded hometown. She had the breeding, the money, the attitude…the looks. That skin, the hair. The mouth—that beautifully shaped, top-heavy mouth, coupled with those wide green eyes…

With a muffled curse he slammed his car door closed. Get a grip, Chase. He’d fought hard to keep his past in the past, even though it had molded him into the man he was today, guiding his decisions so he could get as far away as possible from his previous life. Far away from people like Vanessa Partridge.

She’d piqued his curiosity and raised too many flags. If she was a shill bidder, he had to report her.

And if she wasn’t?

His mind flashed back to earlier, when he’d watched her struggle to get her two children into the car.

Until he knew what her story was and how she was connected to his manuscript, he needed a cool head. Angry meant emotional, and that had the potential for mistakes. He’d learned that lesson from a very early age.

* * *

“Good girl, Heather. You ate all your dinner!” Vanessa gently wiped the drooly, smiling mouth of her eighteen-month-old daughter before turning to the little girl’s twin, who sat beside her in an identical high chair. “And how are you doing, Erin? Still painting?”

The chocolate-curled baby looked up from her pumpkin-smeared tray to grin. “Pain!” Then she slowly stuck her fingers in her mouth, her eyes twinkling in mischief.

Vanessa laughed, swiping away a fleck of food in the toddler’s hair. “That’s some mighty fine artwork you’ve got there. Edible, too. How avant-garde of you.”

Wanting in on the conversation, Heather clapped her hands and squealed, prompting her sister to follow suit. Pumpkin splattered Vanessa’s shirt, leaving orange smears on dark blue. Vanessa quickly wiped it off with a smile, even as her insides cramped with bittersweet regret.

She’d been back home for two days, back to her normal life and her job and still she couldn’t shake the failure of her New York trip.

I am very disappointed in you, Vanessa. If she closed her eyes, that imaginary voice even sounded like her father’s.

She cupped Heather’s warm cheek with her palm, her mouth grim.

Yes, she had friends, her girls, a job she loved. All those had satisfied her for nearly two years. A few times she’d thought of calling her parents, even apologizing, but she quickly nixed that idea. She had nothing to apologize for.

Then she’d heard about the auction and it was as if she’d been hit by a renewed purpose. Something had taken hold of her conscience and wouldn’t let go, a righteous emotion that had amplified day by day, night by night, until two weeks ago. She’d thought about it, analyzed it to death before allowing herself to hope, to plan, to follow up. Dylan may have left her—left her babies—with nothing to remember him by, but she was determined to right that wrong.

She’d failed.

Obviously, someone up there didn’t want her to have that manuscript.

She sighed, gently wiping pumpkin from Heather’s high chair. So many memories rolling through her head. So many mistakes.

Well, except two. Her gaze went to Erin and Heather, gleefully mucking about with their food, and her chest tightened to almost painful intensity. She’d go through her father’s horrible accusations, their awful row and her storming out all over again if it meant having these two gorgeous babies in her life. They were hers. All hers.

“Mum-mum-mum?” Heather said, huge brown eyes so like Dylan’s staring up at her.

Vanessa’s breath caught as she leaned in to kiss the soft, downy head. Lingering notes of baby shampoo mixed with pumpkin quickly chased away the regret and she smiled.

“I think it’s time for someone’s bath.”

“Baff!” Erin echoed with a final bang on her high chair.

With smooth efficiency, she wiped down the high chairs then unstrapped the girls. With one on each hip, she padded out of the kitchen, through the living room and down the short hall.

This apartment was perfect, although sharing her master bath would definitely lose its appeal once the girls got older. Eventually they’d have to find a bigger place, something with three bedrooms and at least two bathrooms.

Maybe fate was telling her she needed to use her money for more important things.

Shoving all thoughts of that auction from her mind, she concentrated on the familiar routine of bathing the girls, drying them, reading a bedtime story, then settling them down in their cribs. As usual, Erin was the first to fall asleep, her little breath coming in deep and even almost immediately. Heather was the restless one, unable to settle unless Vanessa was softly singing, her hand a reassuring pressure on her back.

She was halfway through the second song of her nightly Rascal Flatts repertoire when Heather finally stilled and her breathing changed.

With a soft sigh, Vanessa gently drew her hand away, tiptoed across the room and pulled the door to.

She was nearly to the kitchen when the phone rang.

She surged forward and grabbed the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”

“Evening, Vanessa. It’s Connor Jarvis from number fifteen.”

Her heart sank. Her elderly neighbor took his self-designated role as McKenzie Road’s protector of the street’s females seriously. While it was flattering most of the time, tonight was not the night. “Hi, Mr. Jarvis. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I know the Taylors below you are away for the month and, ahhh…” She waited patiently for Jarvis’s hacking cough to subside. Finally he wheezed, “So you know I told you about that guy loitering at number seven last night?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think he’s out in front of your place.”

“What?”

She walked swiftly over to the living room window, dipping down the blinds a bare inch and staring at the lamp-lit street.

“Outside?” she said. “Where?”

“He was at the curb a few minutes ago, looking up at your window. But now I can’t see him.” Jarvis paused again, coughing for long-drawn-out seconds.

“You sure it was a man?” Vanessa said, slowly scanning the shadows outside.

“Couldn’t miss it. Tall, broad. Dressed in a suit, for crying out loud. What kind of criminal wears a suit?”

“Ones who’re good at their job?”

Jarvis burst into wheezy laughter until Vanessa began to feel bad about her lame joke. Finally, he got it under control enough to say, “You want me to call the cops?”

Before she could answer, she caught movement in her yard. The security light came on a second later, bathing the would-be criminal in a harsh amber glow.

Vanessa sucked in a breath as her stomach bottomed out.

“You want me to call the cops?” Jarvis repeated.

“No. No, I…” She sighed. “I know him. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Jarvis. I’ll deal with it. You have a good night.”

She quickly hung up before the man had a chance to grill her further.

Vanessa paused in the middle of her living room, moments passing before she realized she had the tip of her thumb in her mouth, the nail flicking back and forth over her front tooth.

Fingers out of your mouth, Vanessa!

She winced. Even now, the mere memory of her father’s commanding bellow still had the power to make her jump.

Focus. Chase Harrington. Right.

She could ignore him.

Yeah, right. You think Mr. Million Dollars would stand for being ignored?

Her mind whirled with too many questions lacking answers. What on earth was he doing here? Lord, had he actually thought she’d been serious about her sarcastic Dylan’s “girlfriend” crack? So what did he want? She swallowed. And the big one—did he know about the girls?

She hesitated, uncertain and unprepared until the doorbell made the decision for her. In a flurry of irritation she raced down the steps and yanked the door open.

“Don’t touch that bell again!”

His hand hovered, then dropped as he stared at her through the security screen. He dominated the space on her porch—tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in an expensive suit, an equally fine winter coat only emphasizing his impressive frame. “Okay.”

“Are you stalking me, Mr. Harrington?” She crossed her arms against the night chill.

“No. I just want to talk to you.”

“If you’ve tracked me down to accuse me of something else—”

“That’s not it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Can we talk inside?”

“You could be a psychopath for all I know,” she retorted. Of course, she’d checked up on Mr. Million Dollars—have to stop calling him that!—days ago. And what she’d found gave no indication he was a criminal…at least, not on the record, anyway.

Across the street a light came on—Connor Jarvis’s—and she sighed. After a quick glance up the stairs, she unlatched the screen door. “Fine. Come in.”

He paused on the threshold. “I could be a psychopath.”

“Apparently you’re not, or so Google says.”

Surprise flashed across his face and she swallowed a satisfied smile, adding, “Silver Spring’s a bit far from One Madison Park just for a talk.”

Yes, I’ve been checking up on you. She let him digest that as she relatched the door.

She hadn’t forgotten their encounter, least of all that weird, tense moment just before Ann’s driver had inadvertently rescued her. She’d spent the last few days trying to forget it, steadfastly refusing to do what she normally did, which was scrutinize every single word, every action and reaction, then sort and define subtext and body language, keeping herself awake at night in the process.

She could practically hear her sister Juliet’s teasing laughter ringing in her ears. You always analyze things way too much, Ness. Does he like me? Do I like him? Should I hold his hand? Should I kiss him? And if I do, will it mean I’m too easy?

She’d interpreted Dylan’s interest—correctly, as it turned out—and followed up on it, which was how she’d ended up in his bed. And boy, had that turned out to be one colossal misjudgment on her part.

Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice, chère, her grandma used to say. And Partridges are smarter than that.

She finally turned to face him, the hall’s subdued lighting creating shadows and slashes of light across his face. Unfortunately, it was a very nice face and Vanessa could feel the unwanted flicker of attraction warm her insides.

He’s just a good-looking guy. Yet there was something else, something behind those carefully shuttered eyes, that called to her, something different.

Yeah, you always go for the brooding, intelligent, emotionally stunted ones, don’t you?

Vanessa clamped down hard on all emotion, instead letting righteous indignation flow freely. Chase Harrington here, in her home, did not bode well, of that she was certain.

Three

“Look, you’ve obviously been checking up on me, Mr. Harrington,” she began, arms crossed and eyes hard. “So you should know I was a legitimate bidder in that auction.”

“It’s Chase.”

Chase studied her as she stared at him expectantly, her legs planted wide and arms crossed in a classic defensive stance.

Chase tipped his head. “You’re swaying.”

Her cheeks flushed and she abruptly stilled. “Force of habit. So…you were telling me why you were here.”

Good question he’d yet to fully answer himself. Did rampant curiosity count or would that make him really sound like a stalker? “What you said at Waverly’s—the bit about you being Dunbar’s girlfriend. Was it true?”

She blinked, shock leaking out before she swiftly wiped her expression clean. “No. And anyway, what possible interest is my life to someone like—” she put her hand out, palm up, and swept him from head to toe “—you?”

That got his back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“That little…” He mimicked her gesture with a lot less finesse.

She pulled her back straight, chin tipping up. “I mean, you are obviously a rich man. Someone with connections and power and influence…”—did she just curl her lip?—“And I, on the other hand, am not.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Miss Partridge.”

She frowned and there was that look again, that irritating-as-all-hell flash of arrogance. It was an expression so effortlessly executed he wondered if she’d spent hours practicing in the mirror.

Chase gritted his teeth. Yeah, this was such a great idea.

As they silently glared at each other, a baby’s muffled cry drifted down the stairs, cutting through the charged air. Vanessa’s gaze snapped away, then she put a foot on the first step. “If that’s all you came to say…?”

“There’s more.”

Irritation flared in those wide green eyes, but she reined it in with practiced ease.

“Go,” he said, nodding up the stairs. “I’ll wait.”

With a frown and a grudging “fine,” she turned away.

Chase’s gaze followed her jeans-clad bottom as it swayed upward, one mesmerizing step at a time. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Bare feet… Nicely filled pair of denims…

Wait, what?

He shook his head then dug fingernails into his clenched palm for good measure. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out her rapid steps.

He’d managed to gain control when she returned fifteen minutes later, her hands brushing back a few stray hairs as she slowly descended.

“You have a baby,” he stated, feigning ignorance.

She crossed her arms. “Two girls. Twins. But considering you know where I live, I’m pretty sure you already know that.” When he slowly nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “Why the interest in me?”

“Why did you want Dunbar’s manuscript?”

“I told you why.” She cocked her hip, hands going to her waist as she effected a deliberately bored expression. “I hate waiting.”

Chase sighed. She was trying too hard and his patience was dwindling. But instead of plowing through her facade, he moved on. “So you’re a D. B. Dunbar fan.”

“Of his books, yes.”

He swiftly picked up on that correction with no outward indication. What did she think he’d meant?

Then she added, “So you must be quite a fan too.”

“Me? No.”

She frowned. “You’ve never read any of his books?” At his head shake, she said incredulously, “Charlie Jack? Calm Before the Storm? Justice Prevailed?”

“No.”

“You should. He is…was…” She paused, searching for the rights words before settling on, “Incredibly, amazingly talented. The world he painted just takes you to another place.” She smiled the smile of a true believer. “There are a finite number of words in the English language, yet when D. B. Dunbar arranged them he did it in such a way every page just sang. He was—” she hesitated a brief second, a flash of something behind her eyes “—a great writer.”

He’d bet a thousand bucks that wasn’t what she was originally going to say.

She brushed her hair back again, the other hand going to her back pocket. “So why did you buy the manuscript if you’re not a fan?”

“It’s a collector’s item,” he said neutrally. “A good investment that will only increase in value with the author dead.”

A flinch. Just a small one, barely noticeable. But he still caught it.

A thread of disquiet surged.

In New York she’d been as slick and icy as a January sidewalk. But here, on her own turf, not so Perfect. That is, if you didn’t count that haughty display earlier.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, recrossing her arms. “Why the interest in me?”

“Because I wanted to make sure you were on the level. And if you were, I owed you an apology.”

Her brow twisted into confusion. “A phone call would’ve sufficed.”

“Ah, but you could’ve hung up on me.”

“Most probably. So, Mr. Harrington—” she crossed her arms “—what did you find out about me?”

Oh, boy. Amazingly, he found himself tongue-tied, trapped beneath that challenging green gaze like a fifteen-year-old kid caught spying on the girls’ bathroom. He took a steadying breath, unable to shake the remnants of his past. “Your sister and Ann did go to college, your parents are hugely successful lawyers. You started out studying law but instead changed your major. But…”

“But what?” She lifted her brow questioningly. “You’ve come all this way, you might as well ask. Whether I’ll answer, though, is another thing.”

“You’re not exactly flush with cash, are you?”

“How could I afford to bid, you mean?” Her face tightened, shoulders straightening. “I have an inheritance from my maternal grandmother.”

Oh, this just gets better. Of course Vanessa Partridge has an inheritance. “But not enough to outbid me.”

Her mouth thinned. “No.”

Chase’s outward expression revealed nothing of the confusion warring inside. Her response didn’t feel rehearsed, and he’d seen some standout performances in his time. So, if he scratched shill bidder, what was left? She was more than just a rabid fan.

But how to approach it so she wouldn’t end up kicking him out?

Fresh out of inspiration, he glanced up at her brightly painted blue door. “So, what are your girls’ names?”

She hesitated then said slowly, “Erin and Heather.”

Chase’s eyebrows shot up. Score. “The characters in Dunbar’s manuscript.”

“What?”

She grabbed the stair railing, her eyes rounding.

He put out a steadying hand, but she waved it away with an “are you kidding me?” look. Suitably chastened, he watched her shake her head, her gaze on the floor.

“I skimmed through the manuscript,” he continued slowly. Her thick auburn ponytail slid over her shoulder as her chin dipped and she placed one hand on her hip. “About halfway in he introduces two characters called Megan and Tori. But in his notes, he renames them.”

Her head snapped up. “Did the notes explain why?”

“No.”

“So the published version will be—”

“Heather and Erin. Your daughters.” He paused, then added calmly, “And Dunbar’s.”

Silence fell, stretching interminably, punctuated only by the thick exhale of her breath. Shock? Anger? A prelude to tears? Whatever was going through her head, he knew one thing with unerring certainty: Vanessa Partridge wasn’t the type to cry in public. Her straightened shoulders and lifted chin just seconds later proved that thought.

“You’d better come up.”