Heir to Secret Memories

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 Serena 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.

“I told you, she’s fine.” The raspy whisper—Paige couldn’t tell if it were male or female—sounded impatient.

“Let me talk to her.”

“All in good time.”

“I have to talk to her!” She gripped the phone in both hands, hunched over it as if she could somehow get closer to Katie by doing so.

“All you have to do is listen.”

“But—”

“No! You will be allowed to talk to Katie when you obey. When you don’t obey…”

Paige’s heart turned to ice. Whoever was on the other end of the phone had kidnapped her daughter. They were threatening to hurt her. The flat, emotionless voice promised horrible, unthinkable things.

“O-okay,” she stammered. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt her. Please!”

“Now listen carefully. I will only say this once. Bring me Johnny Yarbrough.”

“What?” Paige’s hand tightened reflexively on the cell phone. Her head spun. She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Johnny? But he’s…he’s dead.”

“Do not insult me. You know where he is. Bring him to me and your daughter will be returned to you. Do anything other than exactly what I tell you and you will never see your child again.”

Paige’s mouth went dry and her heart squeezed with pain. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in years. I thought he was dead.” She took a sobbing breath. “I just want my baby back.”

“Then you know what you have to do.”

“You can’t do this! I’ll…I’ll go to the police.”

An ominous laugh crackled through the phone. “Don’t be stupid, Paige. If you go to the police, or tell anyone at all, I’ll know. And little girls are so very small and fragile.”

Paige could hardly force breath through her constricted throat. “No, wait. I’ll do it. Just don’t hurt her.”

How was she going to do this? She had no idea. She vowed to tear the city apart brick by brick if she had to, to save her child.

The voice went cold with impatience. “Whether she’s hurt is entirely up to you. I’ll talk with you again soon.”

“Please! Don’t hang up! I have to hear her voice. I have to know she’s all right.”

She heard a sigh on the other end of the line, then a curt command. Her heart beat faster. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

“Mom—”

The word was cut off short, but it was Katie. Paige wanted to scream into the phone, but Katie’s voice was small and scared, so she bent all her will to sounding calm.

“Katie? Hi, sweetie. I love you.”

“Mom, come get me—”

“Oh, Katie, I’m trying to. Be brave, honey.”

“Nice sentiment, Paige.”

Her throat ached with the need to cry. “Katie,” she mouthed soundlessly.

“But you don’t have time for sentiment. Your daughter’s time runs out when the cell phone battery runs out.”

“Wait! What do I do if I find him?”

“You don’t worry about that.”

“But how will I get in touch with…?” Paige realized she was speaking to a dead phone. She dropped it as if it were hot and stared at it, wringing her hands.

“Katie,” she whispered hoarsely, then forced herself to take a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this. Think.”

She paced back and forth clenching and unclenching her fists as she wrestled with the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She worked to gain control of her whirling thoughts.

The picture. The picture with Johnny’s signature on it. Paige felt a minuscule flutter of hope. She’d call Sally and find out about the picture.

Grabbing the cell phone, she punched buttons, but nothing happened. She looked at it. The little display screen was black. Not even the time or the signal showed. She shook it and punched buttons again.

What was wrong with the stupid phone? It was like the keys were stuck. She wanted to throw it, but instead she clutched it to her chest. It was her only link to her baby.

A vise of terror clamped around her heart. Katie was in danger and she didn’t know where she was, or how to get in touch with her.

Paige forced herself not to give in to terror and grief. She had to think. What could she do? She stared at the silent phone. She tried to remember everything the kidnapper had said, but her brain wouldn’t work right.

Oh God, she needed to hear Katie’s voice again. If she could just hear her, she could be sure she was all right.

Her tape recorder! She had a minirecorder that she used to dictate notes about her social work clients. She could record the calls. Maybe she could somehow use the information to find Katie.

She ran into her bedroom and grabbed the little tape recorder off her bedside table. Having it didn’t do much to calm her growing panic, though. It didn’t solve her biggest problem. She thought about the voice’s demand. She had to find Johnny Yarbrough.

How was she going to find a dead man?

Chapter Two

Paige stood in front of yet another tiny, musty shop. She’d been inside dozens of similar shops today, up and down the streets near the docks.

She’d taken a cab back to Sally’s place last night, but Sally hadn’t been available. She’d gone off with a gentleman friend, according to her housekeeper. But she’d left the drawing in case Paige came by.

Frustration and fear had Paige’s muscles wound as tight as springs. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t eaten. Now it was almost dark and she still hadn’t found the right shop.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could last. Nausea gnawed at her insides and she couldn’t stop trembling as she clutched the cell phone in one hand and the small, framed sketch in the other.

What if she did something wrong and those people hurt Katie? What if the artist wasn’t Johnny?

What if he was?

The cell phone rang.

Paige jumped and almost dropped it. She jabbed the one button that worked. “Katie?”

“It’s been sixteen hours, Paige. That battery won’t last forever.”

“Wait!” she cried, fumbling in her pocket for her tape recorder. The phone went dead.

Paige froze. Were they watching her? Had they seen her pull the tape recorder out of her pocket? She looked up and down the street, the hairs on her neck prickling, the weight on her chest making it hard to breathe.

She didn’t need the faceless voice to tell her how long it had been. She knew exactly, down to the second. It had taken all her will not to go to the police. It had taken all her strength to make it this far. The only thing that had kept her going was Katie.

This was for Katie.

Forcing her leaden limbs to work, she entered the shop.

The interior was dark after the bright sunlight outside. The odor of incense and mildew swirled around her. Exotic fabrics draped the walls and spilled over counters and chairs. On a shelf stood a number of apothecary bottles labeled with odd names like wolfsbane and maidenhair.

A table held an ominous collection of straw and rag dolls, some with long, pearl-tipped pins stuck in them.

On the main counter was a drawing held flat by a yardstick. Like the one in her hands, it was deceptively simple, no more than a few perfectly executed lines. An old pier with a seagull perched on a board was in the foreground, with a hint of mist-shrouded sea behind.

She peered closer, squinting in the dimness. The date was three months ago. Her heart sped up. The signature was the same.

Paige caught the edge of the counter as relief sent dizzying blood rushing to her head. Finally, she’d found the right place.

Beads clattered as a dark woman in a yellow turban stepped into the room. “Ah, c’est vous.”

Paige started. “What?”

“It is you. From the drawings.”

Paige studied the thin, brightly dressed woman. Her eyes, enormous and black in her dark face, reflected wisdom and sympathy, along with a hint of amusement. Maybe she would help her.

Paige held out the framed sketch. “I must find the artist.”

“Ah, everyone comes to Tante Yvette seeking the mysterious artist.”

“You mean other people have been asking about him?” Her fingers tightened around the cell phone in her pocket. “Who?”

“Two men,” the woman spat. “Rough. Stupid.”

“Did you tell them?”

The woman laughed and the sound echoed through the little shop like a wind chime. “It is not my place to tell secrets.”

“I have to find him. Please.” Paige heard the desperation in her voice, the rising panic.

The turbaned woman shook her head and waved a thin hand. A dozen or more bracelets jangled. “Perhaps he does not wish to be found.”

Despair clutched at Paige like punishing fingers. “Who is he? You have to tell me. My daughter….” She stopped.

If you tell anyone…your daughter is so small and fragile.

The jangling bracelets stilled. “Your daughter?”

Paige shook her head. “Never mind. I have to find the artist. It’s important.”

“Many things are important. For this artist, perhaps not being found is important.”

“Please don’t talk to me in riddles,” Paige begged. “If you won’t help me, just say so. I don’t have much time.” She thought of Katie, of what the kidnappers might be doing to her.

Tante Yvette stared at her intently. “Time? For what?”

Paige shook her head, but before she could speak, a noise outside startled her. She clutched the frame closer and didn’t breathe.

“You are afraid,” the woman said. “Tell Tante Yvette who frightens you.”

Paige shook her head. “I can’t. They—they’ll know.”

Tante Yvette looked thoughtful for a moment. “You are the girl in the picture, non?”

Paige looked down at the carefully drawn eyes, the exquisite perfection of the few lines that formed the shoulders, neck and hair. Then she stared at the signature and the date.

The answer was unbelievable, but for Katie’s sake she prayed it was true.

She met Tante Yvette’s gaze. “Yes.”

The older woman nodded. “Come with me.”

She led Paige behind the beaded curtain into an apartment that connected to another apartment, then another. As they encountered other people and stepped around furniture, Tante Yvette gestured or spoke in what was probably French. No one said a word to Paige.

Finally they walked through a crowded storeroom to a heavy door. “Go out this door and turn right. Stay behind the buildings. Go to the hotel and ask the old drunk.”

“But where are you sending me?”

“You want to find the artist?”

Paige nodded, her head pounding with exhaustion.

“You are the girl in the picture?”

She nodded again.

“Then go.”

Tante Yvette opened the door and Paige stepped out. She turned back. “Please be careful,” she whispered to the woman who was helping her. “They’re dangerous.”

Tante Yvette nodded. “Go.”

The alley was shadowed and dark, and held the stench of too many garbage bins. Paige walked quickly, swallowing the nausea that swirled in her empty stomach.

Any minute the phone would ring and the voice would tell her she’d lost her chance to ever see her daughter again.

She had no idea if she were doing the right thing. She certainly didn’t know why Tante Yvette had helped her. Or even if she had. She could be walking into a trap.

But nothing that happened to her could be worse than losing Katie. If there was any chance this alley would lead to Johnny, she had to take it.

Johnny. She shook her head. It was impossible. Beyond belief. But what if it was true? What if Johnny Yarbrough was still alive?

Exploring the answer to that question was more than Paige’s battered emotions could take. If this mysterious artist was Johnny, she was about to trade his life for her daughter’s.

For his daughter’s.

She couldn’t think about that. All she could think about was Katie.

Expecting any minute to feel a rough hand grabbing her, or to hear the cell phone ring, Paige continued down the dark, stinking alley.

Sitting on the front steps of the hotel was an old black man dressed in a dingy shirt and tie, wearing a jacket that left his bony wrists bare.