Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (4 page)

Rhys looked at the hand still touching his arm; his eyes slowly moved upward until they locked with hers.

“So you’re a famous author?”

A smidgen of pride surfaced. She smiled up at him. “No. But I am known in some areas for my photography.” She dug in her leather backpack, found a business card and handed it to him.

He eyed the card. “Another Annie Leibovitz?”

“No—the only Whitney Sheffield,” she shot back, raising her chin in mock self-aggrandizement, hiding her surprise at his knowledge. Her name wasn’t as recognizable as her peer, but she did have her own unique style, which some people liked equally well, maybe even preferred.

“Well, what can I do to help you, the only Whitney Sheffield?” He gave a dazzling white smile, and they laughed together, a guarded rapport settling between them as he resumed his stance leaning against the doorjamb. His gaze drifted beyond her to the front of the store.

Whitney glanced in the same direction and saw two people dismounting a motorcycle. Rats! Just when she had him talking. Not wanting their conversation to be interrupted, she asked, “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“Sure,” he said, and before she knew it, he’d guided her by the arm through the office door. “Make yourself comfortable. This shouldn’t take long.” Exiting, he pulled the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

She whirled around, looking from the large picture window opposite the door to a gold-framed poster from an art gallery in Chicago on her right, then to a similar poster on her left. A battered oak desk took up most of the tiny room.

What the hell? Did he work here? Manage the store? Own the place? There was no one else around, so maybe the business was his front for selling drugs, just as she’d first suspected. But then why would he jeopardize his cover by bringing a stranger here?

Or was he that sure of himself now because, with Morgan gone, there was no longer a threat? Morgan had said she’d never told Gannon much about her family, but Whitney just wished Morgan had given her more information about him.

A knot of pain tightened in her chest. Did he even know Morgan was dead? Would he even care?

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked and quickly blotted out the thought. Good grief, what if he came in when she was all blubbery. If she didn’t get a grip, she’d never accomplish what she came here to do.

She listened for voices, but the hum of conversation was too far away, so she edged closer to the desk. She craned her neck to read the upside-down writing on the papers—to no avail.

Spotting a small bronze picture frame on her left, she reached for it, her stomach fluttering nervously. Just as her fingers touched metal, the door flew open. She yanked her hand back, nerves snapping like rubber bands.

Rhys stood in the doorway.

“Okay, that’s done,” he said as he barreled past her and rounded the desk. He motioned for her to sit, then dropped into a pockmarked brown leather office chair. His masculine presence loomed large in the room.

“Have a seat,” he urged, then leaned back, obviously comfortable in his surroundings.

Confused, she searched for words as she sat on the oak chair across from him. “What? What’s done?”

“The customer. But with luck there’ll be more. Now what can I do for you?”

Whitney focused on Rhys. “You work here?” she asked, stupid as the question was.

Rhys gave an easy hearty laugh. When the even white smile faded, he lifted his arms and laced his fingers behind his head, his biceps flexing with the movement.

“Yes. What did you think? That I was one of the bikers here yesterday?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks.

When she didn’t respond right away, a slow grin spread across his face. He bent forward, pulled a slim brown cigarette from his shirt pocket, tamped it against the desk, but didn’t light it. He leaned back in the chair again and waved a tanned hand in her direction.

“It’s my shop, so unless another customer comes in, my time is yours.”

Whoa
. She felt a tiny bit like Alice tumbling into the rabbit hole and finding everything skewed. She was here under false pretenses, and Gannon was ready and willing to help her. He was a drug addict who looked nothing like one—and on top of that, he was the owner of the store.

He seemed intelligent and articulate. Moreover, he wasn’t the twenty-year-old punk she’d expected. He had fine character lines that cut through dimpled cheeks and crinkled around penetrating blue eyes—and she couldn’t stop thinking he’d make a fantastic photographic subject.

The whole scenario was bizarre.

But if Morgan had told the truth, it was all a ruse. He was a con artist. A shape shifter. A man who could seduce wallpaper if he wanted.

Whitney stared out the window in the suddenly airless room, reminding herself that a shop, even a respectable shop, could easily be a front for a dealer.

The thought reviled her. How many innocent kids had ruined their lives so he could own this place? How many had he used? How many had overdosed and died like Morgan?

She felt as though her lungs had collapsed and she couldn’t draw a full breath. It was as though the oxygen had somehow been sucked from the room.

She fumbled in her backpack until she found a pen and notebook, then stared at the back of the bronze-framed photograph.

She had to ask.

CHAPTER FOUR

RHYS STARED across his desk into Whitney Sheffield’s translucent blue eyes—the most determined eyes he’d ever seen.

And he was as fascinated today as yesterday.

He recalled her touch, tentative, uneasy. But he liked that. Somehow it made her more real, less the high-society lady. The ice princess.

What he didn’t like was the physical reaction he’d had to her yesterday. He could chalk it up to the fact that he’d sworn off women for the past six months, but it was more than that. He’d met his share of desirable women in the past and had no trouble with self-control.

Not this time. The hormones he’d successfully ignored for months were raging like an adolescent’s.

He studied her face. Yeah, right now, Ms. Whitney Sheffield’s full pink lips and arresting smile sent his primitive instincts into overdrive. He searched for flaws. Something to remind him she was off limits in every  possible way.

He wasn’t too crazy about the way she pulled her long blond hair into that barrette in back. Her features were almost too fine, too perfect. And her smooth skin and the thick dark lashes that rimmed those clear blue eyes were…well…they just were.

Flaws? Hell, he couldn’t find one.

In addition, her statements about herself and her career held no guile or self-importance. The lady was convincing, and so was that Hassleblad. That caliber of camera wasn’t used for snapshots in a family album.

It’d surprised him when she’d asked him for an interview. He grinned at the thought. But why not? It might even be fun—if he was careful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had fun with a woman.

“Must be someone special in that picture,” Whitney said, waggling her pen toward it.

He glanced at the photo on his desk. “The love of my life—aside from motorcycles—which, I believe, is what you came here to talk about.”

The telephone rang.  Caller ID said it was the bank. Probably calling with questions about his loan application. He answered and covered the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry. This could take a while. Why don’t you grab a bite and come back later?”

She stared blankly at him.

“Say, around three?”

***

Dismissed like a door-to-door salesman! Whitney hauled back and kicked a clod of dirt on the road next to her car and watched it explode in a dry puff of dust. She scanned the street.

Okay, Sherlock. He’s not the only game in this so-called town. Who else can give you information about Gannon?

In five minutes she was strolling down the main street in Estrade, viewing it with a more discerning eye. The air was redolent with the scent of burning wood, and the acrid taste caught in the back of her throat.

The business area was only two blocks long, and the rest of the road zigzagged upward until it disappeared a short distance later around the side of the mountain. She was struck by the town’s eccentric architecture—an odd assortment of buildings that ranged from old tin-roofed mining-camp shacks to fairy-tale gingerbread houses. Several small homes had been converted into restaurants or stores.

Good. She’d have lunch and then hit a shop or two to see what she could uncover from some of the locals.

Tramping up the incline, Whitney assessed the town’s photographic potential. Above her, decrepit buildings clung to the rocky mountainside, and many bore signs that read Closed for the Season. Others looked abandoned, their windows crisscrossed with crude boards.

Estrade reminded her of an old deserted movie set she’d once visited. Despite that, it was rather picturesque, a statement about another era, another kind of life.

And Mabel’s Café, with its handwritten menu taped to the front door, looked as if it had come right out of
The Last Picture Show
.

She stepped up and peered through the yellowed glass on the door. Several small square tables with blue-and-white checkered tablecloths were bunched together in the center of the narrow room. Four or five booths hugged the red used-brick walls on either side, and plants clustered in corners and dangled overhead from hooks in the copper-tiled ceiling.

Deciding to go in, she reached for the knob and saw another pair of eyes peering at her from the opposite side of the door. She gasped and flinched sideways, nearly tumbling onto an iron bench.

The door creaked open and a wizened old man stood in the opening. “Didn’t mean ta scare ya, ma’am.” He smiled, and his eyes disappeared into deep folds in his round leathery face. “Just wanted to tell ya to c’mon in.” He extended a gnarled hand to help her up the step and inside.

The man was at least seventy, she figured, and from the looks of his grizzled face and dusty miner’s clothing, he hadn’t seen the inside of a shower for a long time.

“Can’t get better food than Mabel’s,” he said, sending an affable gaze over her attire. “No matter where yer from.”

So much for the jeans and blue denim shirt she’d worn to blend in.

“Thank you. I didn’t know if the restaurant was open.” She glanced about for a rest room as he led her farther inside.

“You know—” the man said, pausing to rub the silvery stubble on his chin “—no place is too busy now that the tourist season’s wound down.”

She followed him to the back of the café where an opening into the kitchen revealed a robust woman about his same age, standing next to a beige enameled stove that looked like one her great grandmother might’ve used.

“Mabel, whatcha got cookin’ for this young lady?”

When the woman turned from the concoction simmering on the stove, Whitney warmed at seeing a familiar face. Mabel — who bore a strong resemblance to the southern woman with a TV cooking show — was the same woman who’d given her a room at the inn last night. Mabel wiped her hands on her blue gingham apron as she came forward.

“Hello again,” Whitney said. “I’m really in need of a washroom. I mean, first, before I can think about food.”

The couple exchanged glances, then simultaneously cocked heads toward a door a few feet away. Whitney opened it and stepped into a well-used living room that she guessed was the owner’s quarters. Mabel followed.

“Over there.” Mabel pointed to a small door behind a threadbare brown-and-gold-plaid couch. Surveying the room, Whitney felt as if she’d been caught in a time warp and catapulted back into the fifties. Amazing! The whole town was a photographer’s paradise.

The elderly woman planted herself on the couch, arms folded across her chest, looking as if she planned on staying for the duration of Whitney’s visit to the washroom. And she did.

Heading back to the restaurant with Mabel nipping at her heels, Whitney said, “I’m going to be here for a day or two and I was hoping you could tell me a little about the town.” Last night she’d already told Mabel she was a photographer doing research, so her wanting to know more about the community shouldn’t come as any big surprise.

“The special’s vegetable beef soup,” the old man piped up from the kitchen as the two women returned. He held the pot lid aloft. “With barley. And it’s mighty good stuff.” He inhaled with great gusto before setting the lid back on the kettle.

“Charley! I don’t need any more of your help today,” Mabel reprimanded, then affectionately shooed him out of her way. She turned to Whitney. “What would you like, young lady? As Charley already said—” she scowled at the man from under silver brows “—vegetable beef is the soup of the day. Made it myself.”

Mabel lifted the cast-iron lid and stirred the heavy broth. The rich beefy aroma wafted through the air and Whitney’s stomach growled.

“Grilled cheese sandwich is good to go with it,” Mabel added before Whitney could answer.

“Sounds great to me.” Whitney claimed a weathered wood stool at the counter and smoothed back a few stray hairs. She’d had no dinner last night and no breakfast this morning. She was so hungry she could probably eat old car tires right now.

“Charley, set the lady up so she can eat,” Mabel ordered, winking at Whitney as she took a sandwich wrapped in cellophane from the fridge, then set a battle-scarred griddle on the stove top.

Charley placed a glass of water in front of Whitney.

“And so she can ask her questions,” Mabel finished.

Whitney smiled. “I met a man—Rhys Gannon. Can you tell me about him?”

Mabel frowned. “Why?”

“I’m a photographer doing research on motorcycles for a book. Since he’s in the business…I thought he might be able to help. And if I knew more about him, that might help, too.” She played with her water glass.

Mabel flipped the sandwich. “Townsfolk don’t cotton to talkin’ about their own to outsiders,” she said, her eyes fixed on the pan.

O-kaay. So much for questions about Gannon. If she pressed, she might seem to have ulterior motives. “Sure, I understand. I just wondered, that’s all.”

“In this town, we help each other out and keep our mouths shut. We’re family. How ’bout yourself? You got family somewhere?”

Now, that was a question she didn’t want to answer. “I’m not married,” she said quickly, then asked, “How about telling me a little about the town then? The history.”

Luckily both Mabel and Charlie were loquacious about the history of Estrade, and they never came back to the painful subject of Whitney’s background. The less she thought about it, the better.

Mabel and Charley weren’t married, Whitney learned, but Charley had been hanging around for more than thirty years mining for gold. Whitney guessed the old geezer had been trying to stake a claim on Mabel for a long time, too.

But nothing she’d learned had gotten her any closer to finding SaraJane. After lunch she visited a few shops, hoping to glean whatever information she could. But to her dismay, the people in the stores were as closed-mouthed as Mabel and Charley had been.

If Gannon was the man Morgan had said, he sure had the townspeople fooled. Or maybe they just didn’t give a damn.

***

“What would you suggest, Mr. Gannon?” Whitney cringed at how stilted her words sounded. She’d explained the book’s premise and asked for his thoughts on it, hoping it would make him more relaxed and get him talking. But all he did was sit there, arms crossed and one hand rubbing his chin. She was losing ground with him and for some strange reason seemed unable to string a sentence together without coming across like a stuffed shirt.

For the life of her, she couldn’t recapture their earlier rapport. Something must’ve happened in the couple of hours she’d been gone, and she felt as if he’d erected an impenetrable wall between them. On top of that, the picture on his desk had disappeared.

Guess he doesn’t want to talk about “the love of his life.”

Maybe she’d come on too strong. Been too pushy. She didn’t think so, but…

Just then Gannon leaned forward, one hand flat on the desk. “My friends call me Rhys.” His gaze flicked over her. “You can call me Rhys.”

The implication was there. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the familiarity. But, if it helped…

“Rhys,” she said without another second’s hesitation. She knew what she needed from the conversation, but she wanted him to suggest it. Still, she’d ask if she had to.

She leaned toward him, eyes meeting his “I realize I have a lot to learn. Especially now that I know the subject is even broader than I first envisioned. Since I’m at level zero, where do you think is the best place for me to start?”

Rhys was quiet. Thoughtful. An edgy silence hung in the air. He drummed his fingers on a stack of papers, a dull rat-a-tat sound that made her even more nervous.

She watched an odd play of emotions cross his face. Something had happened between the phone call this morning and now. And whatever it was had put him off.

“I have all the time in the world,” she said. “I mean, this is my job and I need to do the research.” She brightened. “I’m a quick study. And I’d be really grateful if you could give me a little time to observe and—”

“Sure,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. A suggestive grin emerged. “I could teach you some things—” he let the sentence hang for a beat “—about motorcycles.”

Her blood rushed. Arrogant bastard.

Or maybe he was trying to discourage her…suspected the real reason she was there.

Realizing she was still perched on the edge of the chair, she slid back, biting her tongue so she didn’t say something like what a dickhead he was and that she wouldn’t be even remotely interested if he was the last man standing. She ached to take him down a peg, but if she told him exactly what she thought of him, she’d never get him to talk about her niece.

“I’m sure you could,” she answered, reverting to the safety of a professional approach, hoping her voice didn’t reveal her uneasiness. “How and when would you like to start?”

He relaxed into the chair. “Let’s do it now.”

Her pulse quickened. She had a fleeting thought about simply telling him why she was there and offer him money to give up parental rights to his kid. But she had no idea what he’d do, and she couldn’t take the chance that he’d throw her out. Or make further demands. Or something worse…