False Family
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Intensity vibrated in his deep voice, and Mallory knew that to say this man didn’t like Saxon Mills was akin to saying the Grand Canyon was a little hole in the ground. He obviously hated the old man. “Is that all?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.”
She hesitated, then quickly turned from Tony and made her escape. Even under the protection of the portico, the wind drove the rain along the ground, and the stinging mists whipped around her legs. She hurried to the stone stairs, but as she reached the bottom step, she was shocked to sense Tony near her.
He didn’t speak as he passed her and strode up the steps, taking them two at a time with his long stride. Mallory glanced back at the sports car to find its lights out and the motor off. She turned and hurried up after Tony, and when she caught up with him at the front doors, she looked up at him. His height was intimidating, and it made her feel at a distinct disadvantage.
“You don’t have to see me in,” she said as she tugged her coat more tightly around her.
“I know.” He reached for a door knocker that was fashioned like a gargoyle head, the perfect touch to go with this house. With just a fleeting glance at Mallory in the glow of the lanterns by the doors, he released the knocker and the metal struck the barrier with a resounding crack. Even before the sound died out completely, the door clicked, then opened.
The glow of interior lights spilled out into the night and a woman looked out. She was tall, almost six feet, and dressed in a high-necked gray dress that wasn’t quite a uniform, but was severely plain on her lanky frame. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back from a long face touched by fine lines and decided paleness. Sensible wire-rimmed glasses reflected back the low lights and effectively hid her eyes, but Mallory didn’t miss the way the woman’s lips thinned as she looked at her.
“Good evening,” she said with a nod to Mallory.
“Myra,” Tony said.
“Mr. Carella.” She inclined her head slightly, and the light shifted so Mallory got a glimpse of the woman’s eyes. Gray eyes, the color of fog, were framed by pale lashes and looked as drab as the woman herself. But the distaste in them as they studied Mallory was vivid enough. “You are with Mr. Carella?” she asked, and Mallory realized that the woman had a slight accent.
“No, I had a six o’clock appointment with Mr. Mills. I’m Mallory King.”
“When you were not here at the correct time, we thought you were not coming,” Myra murmured.
“I wouldn’t have made it without Mr. Carella’s help. My car’s down the road, stuck. I hope Mr. Mills will still see me.”
“Do come in while I go up and tell Mr. Mills you are here,” she said in her oddly annunciated English.
Mallory was thankful not to be sent away, and she turned to tell Tony goodbye for the second time. But he simply stepped past her and into the house. His coat brushed her arm, and the fleeting feeling of his body heat barely materialized before he was past her. A shiver came involuntarily, then she stepped inside, making sure to keep some space between herself and Tony.
In the glow of three massive chandeliers that illuminated a vast entry foyer, she got her first good look at Tony. In a long, dark overcoat parted to show a pale shirt and charcoal slacks, the man looked as big, dark and intense as she remembered from the theater. And the edge she felt then was still firmly in place. But now it seemed that it was touched by a certain nervousness that he hadn’t shown before.
She didn’t understand him—not why he was at the theater, on the road in the storm, or in this house with her—and she averted her eyes from him. She chose to look at the foyer, with its natural stone walls that soared up through three stories and had carvings of horses fashioned into the hard surfaces. As Myra closed the door and shut out the night, Mallory looked up at the heavily beamed ceiling, then down to the reflected light from the chandeliers on polished black marble floors.
A sweeping staircase to the right was framed by intricately carved banisters and turned posts twined with boughs of holly, and it led up to a second-floor balcony. Twenty-foot-high doorways, both right and left, arched over carved wooden doors, and the air was touched with the pungency of woodsmoke, lemon wax, pine and a lingering cool dampness. A Christmas tree decorated with crystal globes and golden garlands looked oddly formal sitting directly opposite the front doors. A simple star topped it, and white linen swaddled its trunk, spreading out onto the black marble.
“I will be right back,” Myra said as she went past Tony and Mallory and headed for the staircase. Her low-heeled shoes clicked against the hard floor.
When Myra reached the top of the stairs and went to the right through an arched opening, Mallory turned to Tony. “You didn’t have to come inside with me.”
“Of course I didn’t,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed on her. “Tell me, what do you think of all of this?”
She shrugged, wishing she could get out of her damp coat and away from him. He made it difficult to focus on anything when he was this close to her. “It’s incredible. I think I read in a magazine or something that Mr. Mills built it, but it looks as if it’s been around for centuries.”
“Some of it’s new, some of it’s old. This is part of the original house, probably built a hundred and fifty years ago by one of the area’s great vintners. Then Mills took over the estate about forty years ago and started tearing out vineyards to make room for expansion, from extra wings to stables and guest cottages. He even had stones from a quarry in Ireland shipped over for the newer construction. In all the time he’s been here, he’s never stopped construction.”
He looked around the area, his dark eyes roaming over the vast foyer. “He believes that if he quits building, he’ll die.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mallory knew her mouth must have dropped. “He really believes that?”
Tony cast her a slanted look. “I don’t think he really does, not anymore than I believe the place is haunted.”
“It’s haunted?”
“I’ve never actually seen a ghost, but there are stories about night wanderings and strange happenings.”
She looked for a hint of humor in his expression, but there was none, just that brooding sensuality that made her feel slightly off-balance. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
He motioned to the area with one hand. “Doesn’t this place conjure up ideas of strange things going bump in the night? Even the new parts—the south wing that’s being built right now—supposedly has had incidents that can’t be explained. A perfect atmosphere for hauntings, I’d say.”
The house definitely was different and a less-than-homey place. As she looked at Tony, she had the passing thought that he really looked as if he fit here, in a place of dark shadows and strange happenings. And his words were making her nerves even worse.
“That’s ridiculous,” she muttered to stave off the uneasiness that prickled at the back of her neck.
“You don’t believe in things you can’t see, that can’t be explained?”
She’d retreated into the world of make-believe for a lot of her life. That was probably why she went into acting, taking whatever parts she could just to be able to create illusions and magic on the stage. And it had helped her survive foster homes and loneliness after her mother died. But right now she wanted reality and facts. She wanted this job. A chill in the air brushed her face and made her shiver.
“What I believe is that I’m cold and damp and probably not going to get my meeting with Mr. Mills.”
A flash of movement at the top of the stairs drew her attention, and she glanced up to see Myra standing by the top newel post, fingering a holly leaf. For some reason she had the feeling that the woman had been there, just watching, choosing her time to move and draw the attention of the two of them.
“Mr. Mills will see you now in his suite.”
Mallory was relieved that the man wasn’t just turning her away. “That’s great.”
The woman flashed Tony a glance. “Perhaps you can tell William where Miss King’s car is, and he can take care of it?”
“Of course,” Tony said.
“And your luggage?”
“My car’s right out in front. Everything’s in the trunk. The key’s in the ignition.”
Mallory frowned at Tony as a part of the riddle of this man became clear to her. “Mr. Mills is the business associate you were talking about in the car, isn’t he?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You never said.”
“There’s a lot you didn’t say, too,” he murmured, a certain tightness touching his expression.
Strangely, she felt as if he had duped her someway, and she turned from him to go to the stairs. As she took the steps one by one, she could feel Tony watching her, the way she could at the theater, his eyes boring into her back.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she chanced a look back down into the foyer. But the space was empty. Tony had vanished as quietly and completely as if he had never been or as if he were a ghost. She could still feel the tingling in her wrist where he’d touched her in the car, and she shook her head as she turned to follow Myra through the arched doorway. The man certainly wasn’t a ghost.
As Mallory followed Myra into a broad hallway, she pushed the ideas of ghosts and hauntings out of her mind and focused on what lay ahead of her. The interview with Saxon Mills.
She went down the hallway, past closed doors on either side, which were heavy wooden barriers set into stone walls and were partially covered by faded tapestries. Thick Persian carpeting underfoot muffled any noises, and gas lanterns wired for electricity were spaced every twenty feet or so, casting a yellow glow over everything.
The chill Mallory had felt in the lower level was more pronounced up here, and the mustiness of age that had only been hinted at in the foyer was stronger. Mallory followed the housekeeper to the end of the corridor, where highly polished wooden doors barred the way. Without knocking, the woman pressed an ornate latch and opened the doors. With a glance back at Mallory, she motioned her to follow her inside.
Mallory stepped into a dimly lit room that matched the rest of the house perfectly. It looked as if it occupied one of the turrets, with a domed ceiling overhead, multi-angled stone walls and heavy plank flooring partially hidden by individual Persian carpets and runners. A massive fireplace set into the wall to the right had five-foot-tall marble horse statues at either side, rearing into the air.
The fire in the hearth radiated welcoming heat, and the dancing flames reflected off the polished surfaces of furniture that, even to Mallory’s untrained eye, were obviously priceless antiques. In the center of the room was a huge sleigh bed set on a marble platform that raised it ten inches above the floor.
Mallory turned to speak to Myra by the door, and came face-to-face with a man who she didn’t have to be told was Saxon Mills. Tall at about six feet, he had a wiry leanness to him, and thick, snow-white hair brushed back from an angular face. In a bloodred smoking jacket, dark slacks and leather slippers, he stared at Mallory with deep blue eyes partially shadowed by shaggy brows.
He didn’t speak as he came closer and slowly circled her, looking her up and down as if she were livestock to be bid on. When he came back to face her, he asked in a rough, well-used voice, “Your coat?”
Mallory quickly slipped off the damp coat, and the housekeeper came forward to take it from her.
“Myra, bring Miss King some hot tea,” the man said without looking away from Mallory. “And prepare dinner to be served at eight sharp. Tell the others to be punctual.”
Silently the housekeeper turned and slipped out of the room, and Mallory heard the door click shut after her. Thankful for the feeling of warmth from the fire at her back, she said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“You’re here,” he said quickly.
“Yes, I am.”
“I was sorry to hear of the accident last night at the theater.”
Obviously, Henry Welting had been near the theater when it happened, or perhaps this man had read it in the paper, the way Tony had. “It was pretty terrible.”
“The girl who was hurt, is she—?”
“Sara is still alive,” Mallory said quickly. “She’s holding her own, but she was badly hurt.”
“Good,” he murmured, dismissing that subject with a vague brush of his hand. “Now, something else. Myra tells me that you came here with Tony.”
“Yes, I did. My car went off the road and he came along, thank goodness.” She could sense tension in the man, and after what Tony had said about him, she wondered if the feelings were mutual. Business associates who hated each other? “He rescued me, gave me a ride here.”
“Henry Welting was supposed to make very sure that you didn’t discuss this meeting with anyone. I trust that you didn’t discuss it with Mr. Carella.”
What they had exchanged hardly qualified as a discussion. “Of course not. I just told him I had an appointment with you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Nothing more?”
“Not really.”
“What did you tell him?” he bit out.
For some reason she didn’t tell him about the meeting at the theater. She didn’t know why, but the words just never came. Instead she said simply, “He knows I’m an actress.”
“You told him why you were meeting with me?”
“No, I didn’t. I just said that I had to be here by six to see you. That’s it. I didn’t give him any details at all. I wasn’t about to. He’s a stranger. I didn’t even know he knew you until we got here.”
He was obviously relieved. “Henry was quite right. You’ll do perfectly.”
Mallory barely contained her own relief. “You still want me for the part?”
“Absolutely. Henry said that you agreed to the two-week run, so I think, all things considered, this will work out quite well.” He moved away from her to cross to a marble-topped table and two leather chairs positioned by the fireplace. “Come,” he said as he took one of the chairs. “Sit. We need to talk.”
She didn’t have to be coaxed to go closer to the warmth of the blaze in the hearth. She took the chair opposite Saxon Mills and watched him settle, resting his elbows on the padded arms.
As he steepled his fingertips, he peered at Mallory. “I have it on good authority that you are a very good actress. Are you also a quick study?”
“In fact, I am,” she said as she settled in the warm leather. “I never have trouble learning lines.”
“Good. There’s a lot of information you’ll have to remember to do this job correctly. And I expect a top-notch performance from you.”
“I’ll do my best, but I haven’t even seen the script yet.”
He flicked that away with the wave of one hand. “It’s not needed.”
“Excuse me?”
“There is no script. This is a rather…unique role—improvisation of sorts.”
“Mr. Mills, I don’t understand. Mr. Welting said you wanted me as a replacement for another actor. I assumed—”
He stared right at her, his cold blue gaze stopping her words. “Rule one, Miss King. Don’t assume anything if you work for me.”
Everything and everyone is expendable for Saxon Mills. Tony’s words echoed in Mallory’s mind, and she could feel the tension in her neck and shoulders coming back full force. She needed this job, no matter how uneasy this man made her. Tony worked with him, probably making lots of money, and he didn’t even like him. Pressing her fingers into the soft leather of the chair arms, she tried to keep her gaze level. “Of course. Why don’t you explain things to me.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “That’s exactly what I was about to do.”
She bit her lip, not trusting herself to say anything else, in case she said the wrong thing again.
“I don’t know how much you know about me, but you need a brief background. I am a self-made man. I was born in relative poverty, one of two sons of immigrants, and I promised myself I would never be poor again—no matter what it took. That’s how I’ve lived my life. I get what I want, and I won’t take no for an answer.” He tapped his forefingers together over and over again as he spoke. “This house is mine. There isn’t another like it anywhere. One of a kind. Very unique.”
So was the man speaking. “It’s a remarkable house.”
“That’s when you know you’re successful, Miss King, when you have something that no one else has, something that no amount of money can really duplicate. And it’s worth what it takes to get it.” He was silent for a moment, his blue eyes unblinking. “Do you understand that concept?” he finally asked. “Do you see the kind of man I am?”
No wonder Tony didn’t exactly like him. Saxon Mills was obsessed with Saxon Mills. “Yes, I think I do.”
He shifted the subject abruptly. “Henry told me that you’ve done a lot of stage work.”
“Mostly small theater.”
“Why do you work on stage?”
“I love live theater. You feel as if you’re really living the part when you hear reactions immediately.”
“Excellent. How do you feel about lies?”
She was beginning to feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland just after she fell down the rabbit hole. Nothing was making sense—from meeting Tony again on a rainy road in the storm, to sitting here opposite a man who wouldn’t have a problem taking the part of the Mad Hatter. “I don’t understand.”
“Lying, as in not telling the truth? Lying for a valid reason, without feeling remorse or regret?”
She shrugged. “I suppose acting is a lie. You take over a part, and you pretend that you’re another person for as long as the curtain’s up. You have to make people believe you’re that person.”
“Exactly,” he said with a sigh. “And that brings me to the reason you’re here. I have a part for you that’s one of a kind. It’s unique, and I’m sure it will be very demanding.”
“What exactly is the part?”
His hands dropped to the arms of the chair and his long fingers smoothed the leather. But his blue eyes never left her face. “Before I tell you, you have to agree that no one will know anything about it except you and me, and that it will go no further than this room and the two of us.”
Madness on top of madness. “If I’m on the stage—”
“You won’t be.”
She stared at him, her heart sinking. “You said I could have the part.”
“And you shall.”
“Mr. Mills, the request to come here was a bit odd, but I agreed to it because I was under the impression that this offer was legitimate. I’m serious about my career.”
“And you’re serious about getting more money for this job than any that you’ve had so far in your fledgling career.” He sat forward and she found herself pressing back into the chair to keep the distance between them intact. “Every job you’ve had, you’ve done for next to nothing. Most were insignificant roles, walk-ons at best, or parts in plays that were run on goodwill and the ridiculousness of people who would work for meals or the sound of applause.”
A feeling akin to hate rose in Mallory as she stared at the man. He had no qualms about cutting people down with words. She didn’t have a clue how she was going to walk away—would she find Tony and beg him to drive her out of here?—but she wasn’t going to stay in the room with this man. As she started to stand, he stopped her with a sharp command.
“Sit down. I’m only trying to reach an understanding with you. I guarantee you, Miss King, this is a legitimate offer. It’s a very sensitive issue, for reasons you’ll understand when I explain everything to you. Just give me your word that even if you walk out the door in the next five minutes, you won’t tell anyone what went on in here.” He drilled her with his eyes. “Anyone.”
She knew her position was tenuous at best. Her car was stuck, and this place was out in the middle of nowhere. And if she were honest, the last thing she wanted to do was get back in a car with a man who could upset her equilibrium with a single look. Leaving wasn’t a viable option at the moment.
“Okay,” she said. “I agree to that.”
“Excellent.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“I want you to play the part of my daughter for the next two weeks.”
Mallory sat very still, not sure she’d heard Saxon Mills correctly. “Excuse me?”
“I thought that was pretty straightforward,” the man said, his tone laced with barely concealed irritation. “I need someone to assume the role of my daughter for the next two weeks.”
“Mr. Mills, I—”
He held up one hand. “Call me Saxon. I don’t think Father or Dad would be terribly convincing at the first.”
“Are you doing an autobiographical play or something?”
That actually brought a smile to his face, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “No. This is no play. It’s my life.” He sank back farther in the chair and his eyes narrowed. “It’s a matter of life and death for me.” The words sounded melodramatic, but his face was contained, almost cool.
A knock sounded, and as the door began to open, Saxon leaned toward Mallory and whispered, “Say nothing of this in front of Myra.”
Mallory nodded and sank back in the chair. While the housekeeper laid a tea service out on the table, Saxon Mills spoke with her. The word mad came to mind, along with crazy and demented. Play his daughter? The idea was so absurd that Mallory almost laughed.
As Myra went to the hearth to stir the fire into new life, Saxon nudged a cup of tea across the table to Mallory. “Drink it while it’s hot. You’ll be glad for any warmth you can find in this house during weather like this.”
Mallory had totally forgotten about the storm and the dampness in her slacks and her sodden shoes. Myra moved quietly for being such a large woman. She silently crossed the room, and the door clicked shut behind her. Mallory reached for the tea and cautiously took a sip, letting the hot liquid slip down her throat and settle in her middle, easing her tension just a bit. But as soon as she looked at Saxon over the rim of her cup, her nerves tightened again.
The man was staring at her, but she had the idea that he wasn’t really seeing her. His gaze was slightly unfocused, as if he were lost in a place of his own making. “It’s quite remarkable,” he murmured softly.
“Excuse me, sir?” Mallory said as she lowered her cup, cradling it in her hands on her lap.
He flinched, then took a harsh breath and reached for his cup of tea. “We need to discuss this job.”
“Yes, we do. It’s all so rushed. I was only contacted last night by Mr. Welting. If I had more time, I could do a better job for you.”
“We only located you a few days ago, and we needed to be sure you were right for this part. As for doing a good job, being spontaneous will probably only enhance your talents.”
For a moment she thought he was trying to flatter her, but one look at his blue eyes and she knew he was just giving her an answer. “How can I pass for your daughter when anyone who knows you would know your daughter and know I’m obviously not her?”
“That’s the beauty of this idea. I don’t have a daughter. Everyone knows that. So you don’t have to be anyone but yourself. They won’t have a clue what to expect, because they won’t know you exist until I introduce you to them. As far as background goes, I’ve been briefed on yours, and it fits perfectly.”
She frowned. “You said they know you don’t have a daughter. Where am I suppose to have come from?”
He stood and crossed to a night table by the bed on the marble pedestal. Despite his age, he moved easily, Mallory thought, and when he came back to the table, he held out an eight-by-ten gold picture frame. “This should explain things a bit.”
She put her cup back on the table and took the heavy frame from him. A sepia-toned studio photo was set in it, an ethereal-looking picture of a delicately beautiful woman with feathery dark hair framing a heart-shaped face, large dark eyes and pouty lips. The image startled Mallory, and she blinked. Her memory had to be playing tricks on her.