Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (9 page)

Whitney automatically took them and started toward the dining room, wondering briefly why Gretta allowed her to help today when she hadn’t let her last night. She didn’t mind, though; in fact, it felt good to do something.

“I’m glad you’re joining us for breakfast,” Gretta said as Whitney nudged the swinging door with her hip.

“It smells wonderful,” Whitney said. “And you’re right—it is a good morning.”

Entering the dining room with the scones, Whitney again looked for her niece, her gaze falling on the Blaelows who sat at the table like a pair of matching Buddhas. Damn. She’d forgotten about the Blaelows.

Whitney managed a polite greeting, placed the baskets on the oak table and flew back into the kitchen.

“I’m not so sure about the good-morning part anymore.” She cocked her head toward the dining room.

Gretta laughed, eyes sparkling. “Change your mind about breakfast?”

“Nope, not a chance after sampling your cooking last night. I’ll be a regular from now on.” Whitney leaned over the countertop and whispered, “Not even the Blaelows will keep me away.”

Just then the back door banged open and the little girl bounded in, Johnny right on her heels. “Here, Grammy. We gots flowers.” Her small arms were filled with a combination of fall flowers, reeds and weeds, which she promptly dropped on a side table. She started pushing a chair toward the cupboard, completely oblivious to Whitney’s presence.

“Wait a minute, young lady.” Johnny held her back.

“Where d’you think you’re going with that?”

The child’s eyes widened as she pointed a chubby finger to an open shelf above the cookbooks. “Grammy’s vases are up there now.”

“Ah, right you are. Well, you just relax for a minute, young lady, and I’ll hand you one. Then we’ll put some water in the vase and you can arrange your flowers.” He grinned affectionately at his granddaughter.

The child responded with a nod, blond curls bouncing. Her bluer than blue eyes widened when she noticed Whitney standing next to Gretta.

“SaraJane, honey, this is Miss Sheffield.” Gretta crouched to the child’s level and gently brushed dried leaves and dirt from the knees of her denim coveralls.

Oh, Lord, the little girl looked so much like Morgan, Whitney’s breath caught. Her pain got all mixed up with an indescribable elation, and her heart literally seemed to swell in her chest. She blinked back the tears that came to her eyes.

“I’d like you to call me Whitney, SaraJane.” Her voice was a mere whisper.

The child stared up at Whitney curiously, her cheeks rosy from the brisk morning air.

“I got some flowers.” She pointed toward the table where she’d dumped the bouquet, but kept her gaze on Whitney.

“And they’re very beautiful.” Whitney bent low to talk to her. She was so tiny, or maybe she just seemed that way to Whitney. She’d never been around children much, except when Morgan was a baby, and a slight panic took hold of her.

Whitney had been ten when Morgan was born, and for the next seven years, she’d protected Morgan from her mother’s alcoholic tirades and abusive behavior—being more of a mother to Morgan than Kathryn Sheffield ever was. But that was thirteen years ago, and she hadn’t a clue what to do now.

“I’m sure your grandmother appreciates your help, too,” Whitney finally said.

SaraJane frowned thoughtfully and pressed her Kewpie-doll lips together. “What’s pre-she-ates?”

Oh, God, she was precious. So very precious. Whitney looked to Gretta.

“It means Grammy’s happy you helped,” Gretta said, coming to Whitney’s rescue.

Johnny reached for a vase, and after checking its size against the bouquet SaraJane had picked, he set it on the small table next to the flowers. “There you go, angel. You arrange them and I’ll fill it with water when you’re done.”

SaraJane quickly unzipped her pink corduroy jacket, shrugged it off and dashed to the alcove, where she hung the coat on a low hook. “Wanna help?” She looked up at Whitney before latching onto Whitney’s fingers with her tiny hand, urging her forward.

“You can do the big ones ’cause you’re big, and I’ll do the little ones, ’cause I’m little,” SaraJane said, her cheeks dimpling as she directed Whitney to the table.

SaraJane
was
an angel. An absolute angel.

Breakfast with the Blaelows was bearable because SaraJane sat on a booster seat beside Whitney and chattered through the whole meal. When everyone was finished, Whitney gave the departing couple her perfunctory regrets.

The Blaelows related their travel plans, saying after breakfast they were off to Disneyland, at which point SaraJane piped up with, “Poppy’s taking
me
there, too.” She poked a finger into her mouth and giggled.

For a child who’d been through a couple of years of uncertainty, she seemed completely unscathed, Whitney observed, watching SaraJane’s eyes round with excitement. No doubt it was Gretta and Johnny’s love and stability that had helped her through it.

“After Christmas,” SaraJane finished as she wriggled down from her chair. She skipped into the sitting room and picked up a stuffed bear from the floor. Clutching it to her chest, she plopped into a child-size rocking chair. Then she held the bear at arm’s length. “Pooh is going too,” she said matter-of-factly, before she brought it to her chest again and squeezed hard. “Aren’t you, Pooh Bear?”

In the next instant SaraJane was dragging out toys from a large wicker basket, completely absorbed in her task.

Fascinated, Whitney felt catapulted back in time, as if she were watching her little sister. Her heart ached with the terrible knowledge that Morgan would never see her daughter again.

And SaraJane would never know her mommy.

“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Whitney,” Carl Blaelow stuck out his hand. “Good luck on your book. We’ll look forward to seeing it and we’ll be sure to tell all our friends about it.” Helen giggled.

Whitney knew she should leave for the shop, as well. Though it was the last thing she felt like doing, she couldn’t stay with SaraJane the whole day, or she’d have everyone wondering.

What she wanted was to pluck the child up and whisk her away. But she’d only just met SaraJane. She had no bond with her as Rhys and the grandparents did. And most importantly, she couldn’t even prove a kinship with her niece.

Not yet.

She had to bide her time.

She bade the Blaelows goodbye, went to her room for her cameras and came back down. Just as her foot hit the bottom step, SaraJane appeared. She latched onto Whitney’s fingers and pulled her into the sunroom, where she had an assortment of dolls precariously perched on tiny chairs around a play table set with miniature cups and saucers.

“Would you like some tea?” SaraJane asked, enunciating each word as clearly as a three-year-old could. She proceeded to hoist herself onto one of the chairs, her feet barely touching the floor.

Watching the morning sun glint off her niece’s golden hair, Whitney took out her smaller camera and clicked off a couple of frames. “Can’t right now, sweetheart.”

SaraJane seemed oblivious to the camera, going about the business of offering tea to the Raggedy Ann doll sitting across from her.

“Maybe later, when I come back after work.” Kneeling beside her niece, Whitney fought a desperate urge to pull her close and hug her hard. Instead, she reached out to smooth a springy blond curl from the child’s face and squeeze her small hand.

Swallowing painfully, Whitney stood. On the way out she turned and blew SaraJane a kiss. When SaraJane blew a kiss back, as naturally as if they’d been doing it forever, Whitney was sure her heart had burst.

CHAPTER NINE

WHITNEY ENTERED THE SHOP and as she turned to close the door, a draft of wind pulled it shut with a bang. At the sound, Rhys’s voice boomed from the back office.

“Be with you in a minute.”

She picked her way through the aisles, glancing at the unopened boxes on the floor against the wall. A razor knife and price labeler lay on top. Yesterday Rhys had explained some of the jobs she could easily do, and she decided to go ahead.

She set her camera bag on the floor outside the office. Not much she could screw up labeling and stocking shelves. Anxious to get started, she slit open a box with the knife, reached inside and drew out a package of T-shirts.

The shirts, she’d noticed, were displayed on a side wall right above the bins that held the various sizes. Easy enough. She also noticed how precise and neat Rhys kept the store. Everything had its place.

Everything she learned about the man challenged Morgan’s description. He’d told her his interest was in building motorcycles, one-of-a-kind custom-made originals. And from the photographs he’d shown her, his work was truly artistic, like metal sculpture. Art was a medium to which Whitney could relate.

Rhys was a complicated man. And as much as she tried, she just couldn’t reconcile the picture Morgan had painted with the man she saw.
So far
. People weren’t always what they seemed and sometimes those who seemed the most together were monsters inside. Abusers with anger issues were the most dangerous. Syrup could drip from their tongue when contrite, but with the least provocation, they’d become a monster. Was that volatility what she’d sensed in Gannon?

“I said no!” Rhys’s voice boomed, startling Whitney.

“Either he comes through with the money or there’s no deal. It’s as simple as that.”

Whitney clutched the T-shirt close to her chest and inched nearer to the door.

“No. I don’t make second offers. Money is up-front. I’ll come through with the product on this end.”

Holding her breath, Whitney strained to hear more. But Rhys’s voice suddenly quieted, and she couldn’t make out the rest of the conversation.

I’ll come through with the product.
Did that mean what she thought it did?

How could she have forgotten? She was here to prove Rhys was an unfit parent? To prove he was a drug dealer, or at the very least, that he had unsavory connections—and that
she
should have custody of SaraJane.

She’d forgotten because, until now, until this minute, it had been easy to forget. He’d seemed so different. Yes, he was aloof sometimes, even a little secretive, but then why shouldn’t he be? What reason would he have for baring his soul to a total stranger?

According to Gretta, he’d undergone a major life change. If that was true, she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to talk about his past. And according to Gretta, he’d been trying to put it all behind him.

Weren’t his actions proof of that? He’d welcomed her to his shop, offered her work, given her his help in researching the book. He’d even found her a place to stay.

And because of it, she’d almost forgotten he was a man capable of despicable acts.

He’d been so gentle and loving with SaraJane. He’d been that way with her, too, patiently explaining, gently teasing when she didn’t remember names and types of bikes. But the conversation she’d just overheard was confrontational, not at all like his earlier behavior, giving rise to further suspicion.

Right now she was as confused about Rhys Gannon’s character as she was about her sister’s truthfulness.

The doubt was making her crazy. The impulsive part of her wanted to grab SaraJane and flee. And then she’d be a kidnapper. She had to wait it out. Do things the right way. If he was delivering a “product” she could still catch him in the act.

She went back to stacking the racks. A few minutes later she noticed Rhys’s backlit form in the doorway to his office.

“Well, whaddaya think?” he asked. His tone was a 180-degree turn from where it had been during the conversation she’d just overheard.

She swung around, her pulse banging in her throat. “Think about what?”

He walked over to stand beside her. “Your new career?” He gave her a 100 watt grin. “Think you’re gonna find the motorcycle business interesting enough for a book?”

Even though his spirit was playful, the subtext suggested she was very obviously not cut out for this line of work.

She raised her chin. “Of course. I never realized how interesting it was until I started doing research.” She met his gaze, then bent down for another package to place on the rack.

He came down next to her, reached into the box at the same time, then clamped his hand over hers, holding it there. His eyes were riveted on hers. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Her heart sped up. “Do what?”

“You don’t have to work here just to get information. I’d give it to you, anyway.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her mouth went dry. Was he talking about the book—or SaraJane? Still clutching the package, she rose to her feet. He rose with her.

Blindly, she punched the grommet and hung the bag on the metal hook in front of her, with no idea whether it actually belonged in that spot.

And until she knew differently, she’d play dumb. Take his words at face value
.
“But I want to. I want to do this. Really. The more I know, the better my photographs will be.”

***

Rhys was baffled by her persistence. He liked her tenacity, but it bothered him to have her working for him without pay—even if she didn’t need the money.

Not to mention, if she was just doing this as a lark, she could screw up his business more than it already was.

Still, she seemed sincere. The other day she’d listened to his instructions as if he’d recited a soliloquy from
Hamlet.
Then she’d forged ahead, working like a docker, slicing open boxes, removing heavy parts. She hadn’t hesitated to pitch in, even though it was a hard dirty job.

She might have been raised among the blue bloods, but she was different. Stephanie wouldn’t have lifted a finger. Her expertise was in using his money to co-ordinate charity balls and benefits that were really just social events for the rich. The thought still galled him. If only he had some of that cash now.

He picked up another packet, bumping shoulders with Whitney on the way down. He had an overwhelming urge to pull her close, to feel her body against his, to release that silky hair and press his face into it.

He took a step back to put some breathing distance between them. Off limits, buddy. Way off-limits. He stabbed his fingers through his hair.

“Just remember I can’t pay you,” he said bluntly, stupidly, because she didn’t need to get paid and he knew it.

But even as he said it, he wanted her to stay. He liked her presence. Liked the feel of her working beside him. He liked waking in the morning excited and revved with anticipation.

He hadn’t felt such a rush since he was twenty.

But he wasn’t twenty. A lot had happened since then, and there was more to come. Soon he’d be facing the most difficult task of his life. The last thing he needed was more complications—and a woman in his life was definitely a complication. Any kind of woman.

Then her eyes linked with his. Pale-blue eyes that sent him ambivalent messages. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. She felt the attraction, too. He could tell. And she was damned uneasy about it.

Which he found intriguing. Why would a woman of her age and her background feel nervous about being attracted to anyone? Especially someone she far out-classed? In her world she’d probably think nothing of taking the steps necessary to get what she wanted, when she wanted.

But she wasn’t in her world and maybe it threw her a little off center. Besides, she needed something from him—something important enough to overlook her discomfort.

She was dead serious about her photography. Her work came first. It was an admirable quality, and one he would do well to keep in mind.

He muttered some cockamamie instructions about the rest of the boxes and then stalked off to the safety of his office.

***

“What’s the problem?” Whitney asked. “If anybody comes in, I’ll help them. If I can’t, I’ll tell them to come back when you’ve returned from lunch.”

She was logical, he had to admit—and she was stubborn as hell. He’d learned that much about her in the past week.

“Things can happen. As you’ve seen, some of the people who come in aren’t the most, uh, socially adept. What’ll you do if one of the customers comes on to you? How would you handle it?”

He gave her a quick once-over. If he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, there wasn’t much hope with some of the yahoos who came into the shop. It was hard not to notice how her jeans fit that perfectly shaped bottom, or how her lips parted so invitingly when she spoke.

She smoothed the front of the long-sleeved, fitted Harley T-shirt she’d started wearing to “get the feel of being a biker babe,” and shook her head. Her exasperated expression and palms-up gesture told him she considered his question ridiculous.

“The same as I do when one of
my
customers comes on to me. I haven’t lived in a vacuum, Rhys. Nothing’s going to happen to the store in one hour. Nothing I can’t handle. Really.”

“Okay, okay,” he finally agreed. Because just then he realized it wasn’t the shop he was worried about; it was her. And she’d think that was absurd.

She was completely capable of taking care of herself, had done it for years, from what she’d told him. He grabbed his leather bomber jacket from the closet and hurried out the back door. The image of Whitney’s zealous smile still lingered as he swung a leg over the seat and took off, heading to the inn for lunch.

After a week together they’d fallen into a comfortable working routine, and he looked forward to each day with more enthusiasm than the one before.

Yet he hated the way she’d gotten under his skin. It scared him. Every time he’d thought she was like his ex or some other woman he’d known, she’d proved to be different.

But he wasn’t going to kid himself. She was here to do a job, and when it was done she’d leave and he’d be just another reference in her book. He had no illusions about anything further with her, not even when he visualized her long legs wrapped around him, hips moving rhythmically. His blood surged as he indulged in that speculation. Or was it fantasy?

Working with her had truly become exquisite torture. And he found it almost impossible to keep his lust to himself.

Some weird ego thing in him liked the way she got all flustered when she guessed what was on his mind. More and more he began to think about trying to make it happen. If he slept with her, just once, he might get it out of his system.

But she’d be gone in a week or so, anyway, and it’d be back to business as usual. Yeah, two different worlds. That was how things were and how they’d remain. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

***

Whitney waited for a moment to be sure Rhys was gone, then yanked open the top drawer of the filing cabinet.

With only an hour, she had to be quick.

Folders full of business papers. The same in the next drawer, and the third was locked. Nervous and unsure of what she was looking for, she rifled the files, checking names and dates.

Maybe something to indicate where SaraJane was born. Something to show Rhys’s past. Something to discredit him. Anything!

Guilt needled her as she pulled out a folder labeled “Bank Loan.” Rhys had trusted her to mind the store for him and she was repaying that trust by snooping through his files.

She felt sleazy, just as sleazy as she’d imagined him to be.

During the past week he’d bent over backward to teach her about the business. He hadn’t revealed himself, even once, to be anything other than a man trying to make a living while raising a child to whom he was devoted.

Whitney assuaged her guilt by remembering Morgan’s description of how he’d fooled her with his charm. Yet, as she held a file in her hand, her resolve weakened. God, she’d feel so violated if someone rummaged through
her
personal things. Especially if it was someone she trusted.

She stuffed the folder back and slammed the drawer shut. Hands on hips, she scanned the room, irritated with herself for not taking full advantage of the opportunity.

Some Mata Hari she was. How did people like that live with themselves? They had to do it, she supposed. For them, the stakes were high and worth the betrayal.

But wasn’t this the same? And wouldn’t waiting only prolong the outcome—and make it more difficult for everyone involved?

Just do it, Whitney, you coward. You made a promise. You can’t stop now.
She remembered the other promises she’d made to Morgan as a child. Promises she’d failed to keep and because of her failure Morgan had suffered… She cringed. Dammit. She
had
to follow through.