False Family

When he’d touched her, it hadn’t mattered who she was,

who her father was, or what hold she had over everyone in this place. All that mattered was silky skin, heat, enormous blue eyes and the fragrance that clung to her, which made him think of sunlight even in this storm.

When another flash of lightning ripped through the skies, bathing her in white light that succeeded only in defining everything right about her, he muttered, “Impulses can be dangerous things.” And he deliberately pushed his hands behind his back to kill his own impulses, then looked out at the storm that was building in force again.

“You don’t even know me,” she said softly.

He looked back at her, unsettled by how vulnerable she appeared in that moment. “I know you shouldn’t be here.”

Mary Anne Wilson fell in love with reading at ten years of age when she discovered Pride and Prejudice. A year later she knew she had to be a writer when she found herself writing a new ending for A Tale of Two Cities. A true romantic, she had Sydney Carton rescued, and he lived happily ever after.

Though she’s a native of Canada, she now lives in California with her husband and a six-toed black cat that believes he’s Hungarian and five timid Dobermans that welcome any and all strangers. And she’s writing happy endings for her own books.

False Family

Mary Anne Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PROLOGUE

December 21

The thunderstorm that tore through the San Francisco night was the perfect backdrop for murder.

Cold and violent, it blurred the flashing Christmas lights that adorned the businesses and homes in its torrential path, and it made the steep street outside the old Jenning’s Theater slick and dangerous.

Few people ventured out into the pouring rain. A single person, the Watcher, came up the street, staying close to the chipped brick and wooden walls of the closed businesses. An umbrella barely blocked the sting of the torrent.

The Watcher slipped into the doorway of a store sharing a wall with the theater and observed the street in both directions. Few cars drove by, and the ticket booth under the marquee that announced A Christmas Carol By Charles Dickens, December 10-30 was still shut.

As a bolt of lightning tore through the heavens, the flash of raw light exposed a woman in a dark raincoat, carrying a bright yellow umbrella as she hurried down the hill toward the theater. Once under the partial shelter of the theater portico, the woman slowed her pace and looked up.

Mallory King.

A riot of dark curls framed a delicate, heart-shaped face flushed from the effort of hurrying. With just a glance at the ticket booth, she veered to the left and into a side alley that led to the stage door. As she disappeared from sight, the Watcher sank back into the shadows.

She’d been easy enough to find. A bit-part actress who worked as a waitress in a restaurant three blocks down from the theater. A nothing person in the larger scheme, yet a person who could make another do desperate things. Killing someone was certainly desperate, but the only thing to do under the circumstances.

When Mallory King left the theater around eleven, she would head for the restaurant where she would work until 7:00 a.m. It was unsafe for any woman to walk on the streets of San Francisco, day or night. So it wouldn’t be surprising if Mallory King never made it to the restaurant tonight, if she became another accident statistic….

CHAPTER ONE

Magic and illusion ended when the lights came up and the curtains went down on a play. And the final curtain was coming down tonight for this play. It had been canceled with five days left on its run.

Poor box office and bad weather had combined to cut it short, and as Mallory King sat applying red lipstick in front of the makeup table in the long, narrow dressing room, she was mentally making a list of places she could go tomorrow to look for another job.

The door opened and a stagehand yelled, “One minute.”

Mallory quickly finished applying the lipstick, then sat back and looked at herself in the mottled mirrors. Her ebony hair had been gathered on top of her head in a riot of curls contained by a holly wreath, and her sapphire blue eyes had been highlighted by dark mascara. Deep blush brought out her high cheek line, and the gauzy, full-length white dress she wore was off the shoulder and nipped in tightly at her waist with a white satin band.

“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” she muttered at her reflection. That’s just what this job had become—a ghost—and she didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t get something else quickly. She couldn’t survive on what she made in tips at the restaurant.

She blotted her lips and stood as the door opened again. “You’re on,” the stagehand yelled into the room.

“I’m coming,” she called back as she tossed a tissue into the wastebasket. Turning, she hurried to the door and stepped into the hallway, turning left toward backstage. But as she rounded the corner near the stage door, she ran right into an immovable object, and felt hands clamp on her shoulders to keep her from stumbling backward. As she looked up, fully expecting to see one of the stagehands, she was shocked to find it was a man she’d never seen before.

He was tall, at least three inches over six feet, and he wore a dark, well-cut trench coat. His rain-dampened raven black hair was slicked back from a face that was far from traditionally handsome, but with a sensuality that struck her instantly, with a force that shook her. His features seemed to be all harsh planes and angles, his skin deeply tanned, his nose strong and his jaw clean-shaven.

But it was his eyes that riveted Mallory, making her next breath almost impossible. They were slightly slanted, as black as the night outside, with short, spiked lashes, and they were staring at her with an unsettling intensity.

It took her a moment to realize that he exuded an aura of danger, which defied reason since he’d kept her from falling. But it was there and almost tangible. She had to try twice before she forced words past the tightness in her throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“No damage done,” the man murmured in a low, rough voice as his hands released their hold on her. His dark eyes flicked over her in a heartbeat. “You look like a ghost.”

She nervously smoothed the fine, white material of her dress. “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”

He inclined his head slightly as his eyes narrowed. “My guess would have been the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he muttered, his expression tightening as he spoke.

This wasn’t any light banter, impersonal conversation between strangers. There was an edge to it that disturbed Mallory, almost as much as the man inches from her. Right then she heard the beginning strains of the musical piece that signaled her entrance, and the stranger was blocking her path to stage left. “For tonight, it’s Christmas Past,” she said. “That’s my cue. I need to—”

“Break a leg,” he murmured, then stood aside to let her pass.

Mallory ducked her head and hurried by him to her spot. The music swelled, and as the stagehand pulled the curtain back for her to step onto the stage, she could feel eyes on her. The stranger was watching her.

With a quick look back as she stepped forward, she saw the man had moved into the shadows near the prop room. But that didn’t diminish the intensity of his gaze on her. She’d never reacted like this to a man, attracted to him, yet aware of a danger that surrounded him. It had seemed like forever since she even looked at a man with anything more than passing interest.

When he nodded to her, she looked away. Then, as the actor playing Scrooge called, “Who goes there?” she took a shaky breath and stepped through the curtains into the light. In the next instant she was part of the fantasy she created on stage, a fantasy that didn’t have a place for a dark stranger who disturbed her and made her feel vulnerable.

At one minute to ten, the fantasy ended, and reality came back with a thud. Mallory had made her way back to the dressing room, which was crowded with the other female members of the cast. She had looked back over her shoulder more than once in the hallway, half expecting to see the stranger lingering in the shadows.

But he was nowhere in sight. And once inside, she stripped off her costume, put on her old terry-cloth robe and sat down in front of the mirrors. Methodically she began to spread cold cream on her face, and as she removed the last of the heavy stage makeup, lightning ripped through the night outside, its white glow flashing into the room through the bank of high windows, which were filmed with the grime of the city.

She tossed the last makeup-soiled cotton ball in the trash, then looked at her reflection in the mottled mirrors. She looked tired, her face pale in contrast to her dark hair, as she released her curls from the holly wreath. Her eyes were smudged with shadows from the sleeplessness she’d experienced over the past few days.

She grimaced, her natural ability to ignore the reality of the present and fantasize about a better future almost failing her right then. That little part of her life where she could make-believe and become someone else, that part that took her away from her job as a waitress and the empty apartment where she lived, had been taken from her until she could find another part in another play.

As she tossed the holly wreath into the prop box, she heard someone yell over the din, “King! Mallory King!”

She twisted to look back to the door and saw a stagehand waving in her direction. When he made eye contact with her, he called, “You’ve got a visitor!”

Mallory was surprised. She had never had anyone come backstage to see her after a play, and the house had been less than half-full during the performance. The applause at the curtain call had been more from politeness than enthusiasm. Then she remembered the man she’d run into, and for a second she thought he might have come back. But why would he?

She pointed to herself. “Me?”

The stagehand nodded, then ducked out and shut the door.

She stood and tugged her robe around her, knotting the tie at her waist as she made her way through the room. Nearing the door, she put the idea of the stranger out of her mind. It was crazy. When she opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, she spotted someone by the outside doors.

It was a woman. She recognized Elaine Bowers, her agent. Elaine, with her short, gray-blond hair curling slightly from the humidity. She was wearing a dark raincoat over a simple gray suit. “Mallory,” she said as she crossed to her.

Mallory slowly closed the door and watched the woman approach. One glance around the hallway and she knew that the dark-haired stranger wasn’t lingering in any of the nooks and crannies in the dingy space. She focused on the woman in front of her. Mallory knew she was one of her agent’s least lucrative clients, and she certainly didn’t warrant a personal visit on such a rainy night. “Elaine, what are you doing here?” Mallory asked.

The short, plump woman looked at her watch. “Looking for you.” She glanced up and down the hallway, grimacing at the faded walls and the low, moisture-stained ceiling. “Boy, I haven’t been in here in years. This old place was once the theater in the city. Can you believe it?”

“If you go out into the foyer and narrow your eyes, you can almost see how it must have looked years ago.”

“My imagination isn’t that good.”

“Right now, mine isn’t too good, either. I’ve been trying to imagine why you’re here, and I can’t come up with anything.”

“I was contacted by a Mr. Welting, an attorney who I’m supposed to meet here.” She took one last look over her shoulder, then moved a bit closer to Mallory. “I wanted to get here a few minutes before him so I could explain a bit to you before he showed up.”

Mallory tugged her robe more tightly around her. “Explain what to me?”

“This whole business is so rushed and odd,” she muttered with a shake of her head. “Mr. Welting contacted me just before five this afternoon. He’s an attorney for Saxon Mills.”

“Saxon Mills? Money, business, wine,” Mallory muttered. “What was his attorney doing contacting you?”

“Offering you a job.”

Mallory almost laughed. “A job for me? Well, I’m desperate, so if he wants me to crush grapes, tell him I’m willing.”

Elaine flicked that away with one hand and only the shadow of a smile. “No, he wants you for an acting job.”

“That’s even better. I’ll take it.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“They’re closing the play as of tonight, Elaine. I’m free and broke. I’ll take anything.”

“I thought they might have to close. With this lousy weather and the economy, it’s hard to keep small companies going.”

“And the restaurant’s cutting back, too. I’ve lost two of my shifts, so I need whatever I can get.”

“Then this’ll work out better than I thought. It’s good timing for everyone.”

“It is for me. Now, what’s the part and when do I start?”

“Tomorrow, actually, and it runs through New Year’s. You’re going in as a replacement for someone. One of Welting’s people saw you when you were working at the Garnet last month in the Simon play. He remembered you when this position came up, and Mr. Welting says that you’re just right for what they want.”

“What play is it?”

Elaine looked a bit embarrassed. The woman usually had an answer for every question. “I’m sorry. This all happened so fast I didn’t get that. But when the man gets here, you can get all the details. All I know is, it’s in the Napa Valley area, a dinner theater of sorts, and they’re doing a Christmas piece.”

Sara Springer, the actress who played Tiny Tim’s oldest sister, came out of the dressing room and met Mallory. “I’m going down the block to pick up some pizzas for everyone, sort of a holiday wake. Do you want some?”

“No thanks.”

“Do you mind if I use your umbrella to go? Mine blew inside-out on the way here.”

“No, go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Sara said before she went back into the dressing room.

Mallory turned back to Elaine. “It’s up in Napa?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Then I don’t see how I can do it. I’ve got the restaurant—what little time they’re giving me—and commuting would be too much. My car’s on its last legs, as it is, and that would kill it.”

“Actually, you’ll have to forget about the restaurant for a while and stay in Napa if you want this job.”

“I can’t afford to—”

“Listen, you’re being offered a per diem and three times scale. Mr. Welting said it was an emergency. They’re willing to pay what they need to get you to take over the part.”

Mallory did some fast figuring and realized that even though she didn’t celebrate Christmas or put any stock in it, she was getting a genuine holiday present with this job. She could last at least two months on that money, even without working at the restaurant. “I guess I can’t refuse. But I’ll have to contact the restaurant and see what I can work out with them.”

“Good.” Elaine looked very relieved. “I knew you’d do it.”

The stage door opened abruptly, and for a moment the storm invaded the narrow hallway with pouring rain and a cold wind that curled around Mallory’s bare legs. Then a man ducked inside, a blur of dark clothes and height. The stranger. He’d come back, and for a second her heart lurched with the idea that he was the attorney Elaine had told her about.

But as he turned and brushed at his raincoat, then skimmed off a dark fedora he was wearing, she knew how wrong she’d been. He might be tall, but he was totally bald and more slight, with a pallor to his complexion that was in sharp contrast to the black coat. He could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy, with a narrow, furrowed face that looked devoid of any tendency to humor.

He spotted Elaine and headed right for her. “Ms. Bowers,” he said in a clipped voice that was tinged by a nasal quality. “I am sorry for the slight delay.”

“No problem, Mr. Welting,” Elaine said as the man stopped in front of her. “It gave me a chance to fill Mallory in on what you need.”

“Excellent,” he murmured, turning to look at Mallory.

Pale blue eyes, under bushy gray brows, narrowed, as the man pointedly stared at her with no hint of apology. His gaze traveled over her in what would have been a suggestive way if there had been any sexual overtones to it. But there were none. His scrutiny was cold and calculating, and as emotion free as the stranger’s gaze had earlier been emotion laden.

“You will do just fine,” he finally murmured, then gave her an oddly formal partial bow. “I am Henry Welting, representing Mr. Saxon Mills. It is a pleasure meeting you, Ms. King.”

She wished she could say the same, but the man made her skin crawl. “Elaine was just explaining your job offer to me.”

“Did she outline the financial aspects of the offer?”

“We went through all of it,” Elaine said quickly.

“And it’s satisfactory?” he said, never looking away from Mallory.

“Yes, it’s satisfactory,” Mallory said.

“Good. I would hate to haggle over a few dollars.”

The pay wasn’t exactly a “few dollars” to Mallory, but to a man wearing obviously expensive, hand-tailored clothes, the money was probably a pittance. “She also mentioned a per diem.”

“Yes, of course. Since it’s not in this area, we thought it best to offer you that.” He stared at her without blinking as he lifted one eyebrow slightly. “Since you are basically alone in the world, we didn’t feel that there would be any problem with relocating for the two weeks. There won’t be, will there?”

She was taken aback by his statement about her personal life, but said simply, “No problem at all.”

“Then you accept the offer?”

She didn’t like this man, but she didn’t have to like him to do the job. “Yes, I’ll take the job.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Mr. Mills will be very pleased. The contracts will be at Ms. Bowers’s office tomorrow morning at nine for signatures.” He reached into the inside pocket of his trench coat with his free hand and took out an envelope that he offered to Mallory. “These are instructions to be followed to the letter.”

She took the thin envelope and glanced at her name typed neatly on the front. “And the script?” she asked, looking back at Mr. Welting.

“That will all be given to you when you report for work.”

“But, I—”

He kept speaking as if she hadn’t said a thing. “It is very important that you follow the instructions exactly. You are to report to Mr. Mills at his home at precisely six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

“His home?”

“Mr. Mills is taking care of this personally, and he seldom leaves his home anymore. When you meet with him, he will explain everything to you.”

“Is there anything else?”

He slipped his hat back on. “You are to discuss this with no one until you see Mr. Mills. Anything else you might need to know is in the envelope.” He stared at her for a long, awkward moment before he said, “What is it they say in the theater for good luck, Ms. King? Break a leg?”

It took Mallory aback to hear that phrase for the second time in the last few hours. “Thanks,” she murmured at the same time Sara came back out of the dressing room with another actress. Both were dressed in dark raincoats, and Sara was carrying Mallory’s umbrella. As she headed down the hallway, Sara accidentally bumped Mr. Welting on his arm.

The man jerked back and glared at her. “Sorry,” Sara muttered. Then with a “We’ll be right back” to Mallory, she and the other girl headed for the stage entrance.

As the two of them stepped out into the storm and the door shut behind them, Mr. Welting said, “I think that’s all that’s needed here. My driver is waiting for me.” He inclined his head to Mallory. “Thank you for agreeing to help Mr. Mills. I know he will be very appreciative of it.” He glanced at Elaine. “Thank you for taking care of this so expeditiously, Ms. Bowers.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

With a fleeting look back at Mallory, he turned and headed for the doors. Without glancing back, he pushed back the metal barrier and stepped out into the night. Then he was gone and the door closed with a creaking moan.

Mallory exhaled and leaned back against the wall as she stared at the door. “Boy, he’s strange. It’s a night for meeting strange people.”

“Forget about him. You don’t have to deal with him anymore. I’ll take care of any other business things that come up.”

Mallory looked back at Elaine. “It all seems so odd, doesn’t it?”

“Listen, I can understand if you’re a bit uneasy about this, but I can assure you, I checked this all out. Henry Welting does a number of things for Saxon Mills, both professionally and personally. He’s been on retainer for the man for over fifteen years. The offer’s very legitimate. I wouldn’t let you do it if I thought there was anything shady about it.”

“Sure, of course,” Mallory murmured, then looked back at the door as it flew open, and the girl who had left with Sara rushed back into the hallway. Her face was as white as a sheet, and rain dripped from her hair and her drenched clothes.

“Call an ambulance!” she gasped.

Mallory stood straight. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sara. She—” The girl was beginning to shake all over. “She…she was in front of me, crossing the street, and a car…it hit her.” She swiped at her face with a trembling hand. “I think she’s dead.”

December 22

The fury of the storm let up for little more than half a day before it came back again in earnest. At five the next afternoon, Mallory was driving north on an all-but-deserted two-lane road. Wind shook her small car, and rain beat relentlessly against the oxidized blue paint.

The rolling hills that formed the valley and were covered with vineyards on either side of the road were almost obliterated by the storm and the shadows of the coming night. Mallory sat forward, straining to make out the wooden road signs through the rain and the slapping of the windshield wipers.

The written directions she had been given were simple enough. They just hadn’t mentioned how to cope with what seemed like a hurricane.

Mallory gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her fingers ached, and no matter how intently she tried to focus her thoughts, she couldn’t forget the horror of last night. The moments after her friend’s accident had been filled with total confusion—flashing lights, sirens and Sara laying on the asphalt, her arms and legs askew at unnatural angles, her blood from a massive head wound mingling with the rain on the pavement.