NATCHEZ GOSSIP COLUMN Letter to Reader Title Page MEAGAN McKINNEY Dedication 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 Chapter Fifteen Epilogue Copyright

NATCHEZ GOSSIP COLUMN

Word has it that well-to-do Mark Griffin has returned home to reopen his family’s summer retreat, Blackbird Hall. Wonder how a certain bed-and-breakfast owner feels about the studly CEO popping back into her life. Rumor has it that these two shared one memorable summer eight years ago, and then Mark disappeared without a trace, leaving the proper country girl with a secret. Question is, what will Mark do once the unknown has been revealed?

Dear Reader,

Why not sit back and relax this summer with Silhouette Desire? As always, our six June Desire books feature strong heroes and spirited heroines who come together in a highly passionate, emotionally powerful and provocative read.

Anne McAllister kicks off June with a wonderful new MAN OF THE MONTH title, The Stardust Cowboy. Strong, silent Riley Stratton brings hope and love into the life of a single mother.

The fabulous miniseries FORTUNE’S CHILDREN THE BRIDES concludes with Undercover Groom by Merline Lovelace, in which a sexy secret agent rescues an amnesiac runaway bride. And Silhouette Books has more Fortunes to come, starting this August with a new twelve-book continuity series, THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS.

Meanwhile, Alexandra Sellers continues her exotic SONS OF THE DESERT series with Beloved Sheikh, in which a to-die-for sheikh rescues an American beauty-in-jeopardy. One Small Secret by Meagan McKinney is a reunion romance with a surprise for a former summer flame. Popular Joan Elliott Pickart begins her new miniseries, THE BACHELOR BET, with Taming Tall, Dark Brandon. And there’s a pretend marriage between an Alpha male hero and blue-blooded heroine in Suzanne Simms’s The Willful Wife.

So hit the beach this summer with any of these sensuous Silhouette Desire titles ... or take all six along!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian PO. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3

One Small Secret

Meagan McKinney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MEAGAN McKINNEY

is the author of over a dozen novels of hardcover and paperback historical and contemporary women’s fiction. In addition to romance, she likes to inject mystery and thriller elements into her work. Currently she lives in the Garden District of New Orleans with her two young sons, two very self-entitled cats and a crazy red mutt. Her favorite hobbies are traveling to the Arctic and, of course, reading!

To the patron saint of lost causes...

One

“We were told this place was private.” The man smirked slightly to the man standing next to him, then straightened his acid-green tie. “We don’t want to see nobody. That’s why we wanted to stay here.”

Honor Shaw looked at the man in the dark suit, not sure how she should react. She’d run a profitable bed and breakfast for eight years by always putting the guests first. But this guy, with his thick Brooklyn accent and malevolent stare, just didn’t seem the type to desire a long, hot weekend in the South’s premier antebellum tourist mecca. And he was demanding a lot.

She cleared her throat, then smiled. “I have five rooms here, sir, and certainly, I’m always glad to accommodate a private party, but I was told you and Mr.—” she took a quick glance at her reservation book but no names were listed yet “—ah, that you and your companion would only require two rooms.”

The man straightened his tie again but stayed silent.

“The spring is a very busy time here in Natchez,” she said apologetically. “The azaleas are blooming, and everyone in the world wants to come here and see our fine mansions.” She picked up the phone at the desk. “I’m really so sorry you’ve been disappointed, but perhaps I can call the Pilgrimage and see if someone at one of the private homes might let out a guest house.”

“No.”

Honor lowered her gaze to the hand that covered hers. A strange chill ran down her spine. Slowly she put down the receiver.

“We’ll stay here. We don’t want no private home-owner snooping around our stuff.”

She took a deep, calming breath. This was how it was when one dealt with the public. People could be polite and friendly or they could be difficult, neurotic and rude. Either way, she told herself, she was a pro. Though she’d only been on this earth twenty-seven years, she’d handled a lot in that short time, including the death of her mother and becoming a single parent. Honor Shaw, of the Shaws of Natchez, could certainly handle an unruly guest without chasing away business.

“I can assure you, we’ll do everything to make your stay as comfortable as possible. I have adjoining rooms in the attic, and that way you’ll hardly bump into any of our other guests. Have you much luggage?” She smiled and handed the man a pen and the register.

“No,” he answered.

“Well, Mr...Metz,” she read, then looked up, “I serve a big Southern breakfast on the veranda between eight and ten. Just let me get an impression of your credit card and I’ll show you gentlemen to your rooms.”

Metz whipped out a platinum card. Honor imprinted it and handed it back. Keys in hand, she nodded pleasantly. “This way.”

The two men followed her, their only luggage an awkward, oversize, black nylon duffle bag.

Once back at the desk, Honor looked at the register again. Larry Metz and Jack Kehher. Home address: Miami. She would never have guessed it. The two looked like they’d just stepped out of a New York Checker cab.

“Boo!”

Honor jumped, then turned around and hugged the eight-year-old girl who’d come up behind her. She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts, she hadn’t even noticed Lockey sneak up on her.

“What’re you doing, Mom?” Lockey asked as she plunked down her backpack onto the antique mahogany sideboard that served as the B&B’s reservation desk.

“Not much. How was school?” Honor swept her hand across Lockey’s brow. The girl smiled and hugged her again.

Everyone said mother and daughter were like clones, both blond, blue-eyed, petite. But Honor saw another in her daughter, especially when the child smiled. Lockey’s grin would start at the right corner and grow from there. After more than eight years away from that grin, Honor still remembered, and the memory of it could pierce her heart.

“Barton Phelps is still teasing me, even after Ms. Gibbons told him not to,” Lockey said with all the fabulous drama of a second-grader. “I hate him, Mommy. I really do. I’m sorry.”

Honor melted, as she always did with her daughter. “Look, it just sounds like Barton Phelps is a little boy with a crush on you, love. I’d just forget him. He’ll go away if you ignore him.”

Lockey looked at her mom in horror. “You mean he likes me? Yeeek!” She ran around the foyer, shaking her hands in disgust.

Honor laughed. But the fun was cut short the second Lockey ran into the black-suited form of Larry Metz and his companion, who appeared at the rear entrance.

Lockey took a step back as if by instinct. On the same impulse, Honor pulled her daughter to the reservation desk and stepped in front of her.

“Is everything to your liking, gentlemen?” she asked, again with her hosteler’s smile.

“We’re going out,” was all Metz offered, as he and Keliher made their way to the front door.

“Well, let me know if there’s anything you need. I’ll be happy to recommend homes to tour—” Honor’s words were cut short by the slam of the door.

Lockey went to her and put her arms around her waist. “Who were those men, Mommy?”

Honor shook her head. “Rude Yankees,” she answered with a laugh. “Never mind them. Let’s see what we have for a snack, and then I’ll need some help picking flowers for breakfast tomorrow. Are you ready?”

Lockey nodded.

Honor took her by the hand and headed for the kitchen. On the outside she was all mom, chocolate chip cookies and fussing over homework. On the inside she was worried.

She didn’t like Larry Metz and Jack Keliher. But her opinion was formed by more than just a vague feeling. She didn’t understand why two men in suits would check into a family bed and breakfast with an oddly large black duffle bag, then leave right afterward with their awkward luggage in tow, as if they were afraid to leave it in the room. Beside the contrast with innocent little Lockey when the child bumped into them, Metz and Keliher looked ridiculous lugging that duffle all the way through the lobby. The thing was big enough to be a body bag.

Honor shuddered. Her imagination was getting the best of her. It was their business what they did with their luggage.

They were probably just disappointed with their rooms and had decided to ditch the place without telling her. That was why they were leaving so soon, and with their bag.

With any other two guests, Honor might have been miffed that they hadn’t given her the chance to correct what was bothering them, but with these two, she found she couldn’t shake the feeling of relief. She didn’t want any shady characters at her B&B. She was a single mother, running a business from her home. Vulnerability was always an issue.

Honor’s relief at the thought that the men might have gone elsewhere only increased as she watched Lockey pull out her math workbook from her backpack.

But then her stomach plummeted when she looked out the kitchen window and saw the sheriff’s car pull into the back drive.

“Doug! Great to see you. What brings you to my quiet little place?” Honor extended her hand. Through the screen door she could see Lockey at the kitchen table starting her homework.

“I’ve come to see if you’ve done married yet, girl.” Doug ignored the outstretched hand and gave her a bear hug.

He was no longer a young man and he suffered from a too-large gut and not enough exercise, but Sheriff Doug Landry was one of the best. During the sixties, when racial fire was raging through Mississippi, he’d taken the townspeople by the throat and told them to get along—that no one under his jurisdiction, black or white, was going to suffer from a random act of hatred. And just as the town had done when the Northern Army had arrived, everyone decided their place was worth saving, so there were virtually no incidents in Natchez. Even now, it was a quiet little town, although tourism, drugs and gambling had arrived, as they seemed to have everywhere.

“Come and sit. Let me make you some coffee. Then you can quiz me on my love life, and I can quiz you on the reasons for this visit.” Honor raised an eyebrow.

Doug laughed.

She showed him to a floral-cushioned seat on the back veranda. He took off his hat and laid it on the white wicker table.

“Okay, shoot,” Honor said archly when the coffee was ready.

“Girl, why hasn’t some man snapped you up? With your looks and sense of humor, how could a man resist?”

Honor chuckled. “They’ve resisted all right. Besides, you know I’m looking for a man just like you, Doug, but unfortunately, Doris isn’t making any loaners.”

He coughed through his laughter. “And that wife of mine asks about you all the time. She’s going to be madder’n a snake if I tell her I left Shaw’s Retreat without a certified acceptance of a dinner invitation. How about Wednesday?”

“I’d love to come. Have Doris call and tell me what time, and I’m there.” She sat down in the wicker seat next to him. “Now, why the visit, Doug? Is something up?”

Doug wiped his brow with the white handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket. “I’m just paying a call to let you know not to be worried about all the cars and stuff that’ll be traveling down this road after tomorrow.”

“Down this road? But this is a dead-end street. What’s going on?”

“Seems your neighbor’s come back, girl.”

Honor shook her head, bewildered. Shaw’s Retreat was a fine Gothic house built in 1850 for Natchez’s first physician, her great-great-great-grandfather. Next door to the property was the old carriage house, which had been sold during the Depression. The carriage house was now home to a nice elderly widow.

“Mrs. Bennett’s been gone? I thought I just saw her,” she said.

“‘Fraid to tell you, girl, but it’s your other neighbor who’s come back.” He pointed to the property on the other side of the house. “Blackbird Hall’s comin’ back to life as of tomorrow.”

Suddenly she wanted to wring her hands and run away like a child. With heroic effort, she glanced casually at the huge acreage that sat on the other side of Shaw’s Retreat. The road ended at the gates of Blackbird Hall, but for years Honor had taken it for granted that the road ended at Shaw’s Retreat, because Blackbird Hall had been boarded up and closed down for as many years as...well, as Lockey had been..

“You’re a thousand miles away, girl.”

Honor shot her gaze back to the sheriff. “I just can’t believe, after all this time, we’re finally going to have a neighbor over there.”

“And what a neighbor. His damned sec‘etary called me and told me that they were sending in a fair army tomorrow morning, so the owner could have dinner there by tomorrow night. That’s when I told Doris I’d better get on out here and warn you ’bout the traffic.”

She did her best to smile. “I’m glad you did. I’d really be wondering what was going on.” Her gaze slid back to the grove of moss-covered live oak trees and the old iron gate that said, in hand-forged letters, Blackbird Hall. Numbly, she walked Doug back to his squad car. After more promises of dinner, he drove off, and she was left to stare again at the grove, the fence and the weed-choked drive that led to a house she knew only too well—because it haunted her dreams almost every night.

Suddenly she felt faint, but denial ran in her blood like an antidote.

Maybe the property had been sold without her knowing about it. It could be another person entirely who was going to show up tomorrow night.

That’s right, she told herself as she went back into the kitchen and grabbed her pruning shears. It might not be him at all.

“I’m done, Mommy. Can I help you with the garden now?”

As if in a daze, Honor looked over at her daughter. Lockey gave her that grin, that beautiful heartbreaking smile, and suddenly Honor knew she was deluding herself. It had only been a matter of time, and now time was up.

Of all the wicked ironies.

He was finally coming back.

Two

In misery, Honor watched the trucks and cars go back and forth from Blackbird Hall. Doug hadn’t been kidding. It looked as if they were preparing for the president himself to visit. The cleaning crew had arrived in two full-size buses, which were even now parked in front of Shaw’s Retreat as if the National Registry house were nothing but a bus depot. Five contractors’ vans were scattered along the road, nearly blocking passage, and men streamed back and forth carrying dropcloths and tool boxes.

“Who are those people, Mommy?”

Honor spun around and faced Lockey, her heart constricting. “They’re just fixing up the place for the owner.”

“The owner? I always thought we owned that place.” The little girl looked up at her, her eyes as large and blue as cornflowers.

“No, darling,” Honor said with a painful laugh. “But I can see how you’d think that. Blackbird Hall’s been locked up a long time. That’s why it’s taking so many people to put it right again.”

“Who’s going to live there?”

“A man. A very rich man.”

“Do you think he has any kids for me to play with?”

Honor felt a stabbing in her chest. “Maybe,” she said in a small voice. “I guess we won’t know for sure until he gets here.”

“What’s the man’s name, Mommy?”

“Does it really matter? We may never even see him. He has a dozen houses. He may come for the night and decide Blackbird Hall bores him.”

“But what’s his name?”

“If...if I recall, his name is Mark Gnffin.”

“Griffin.” Lockey stared down the road from where they stood on the front veranda. “Griffin,” she repeated.

Honor died a little bit mside.

Pulling herself together, she said, “Hey, let’s go to a movie. C‘mon. It’s Saturday. Vergie can watch out for the guests. All-these workmen are getting on my nerves.”

“Griffin. That’s the name those guys were talking about.”

“Those guys?”

“You know. The two guys in the attic. They kind of scare me, Mommy. They talk bad.”

“What were they talking about?” Honor tried to keep her voice even, but it was difficult. She hadn’t been able to hide her distaste when Metz and Keliher had arrived back at the house late last night, the strange black duffel bag still in tow. Now it seemed Lockey had had an encounter with them and formed the same aversion to them.

“I was on the stairs this morning with my dolls, and I heard them talking. Their door was a little bit open, but I think they thought it was closed, because they talked so loud.”

“So you heard them?”

“Yes.”

“You remember all our talks about eavesdropping—”

“I didn’t, Mommy, I promise! I was just sitting on the stairs!”

Honor took both her daughter’s hands in hers. “I know you understand, Lockey. That’s why I’m not mad. I want you to know this is a special case. Tell me what these men said. And why they scared you.”

“They said a lot of curse words, and they talked about how Mr. Griffin was a really rich guy with a lot of treasure in his house. They were watching the house from the attic window, and they said they were going to take Mr Griffin’s stuff, even though that’s not why their boss sent them here.”

Honor could hardly breathe. “Are you sure, honey?”

Lockey met her gaze and nodded resolutely. “I’m sure.”

Without pause, Honor went inside, grabbed her purse and headed for the car, all the while holding Lockey’s hand firmly in her own. She started the car, eased between the two buses and headed for the police station.

“But, Doug, you’ve heard what Lockey said. These guys must be crimmals. They’re going to ransack the Hall.” Honor stared at the police chief from across his desk.

“I hear you girl. I hear you. And I can go and question them, but all that’s going to do is tip them off. And if there hasn’t been a crime committed... well, not much more I can do ‘cept keep my eye on ’em.”

Doug leaned back in his oak swivel chair. He looked at Lockey and gave the child a big grin. “Lockey, darling, why don’t you go see if Acomb is at the front desk. I bet he’d find a nice snack for you. You appear to me to be a mite hungry.”

Lockey looked at her mother.

Honor nodded her consent.

When the girl was gone, Doug leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk, his face lined with concern. “Tell you what, we’ll come and watch the Retreat. You head home and tell those two when you see ‘em that something’s wrong with their rooms and they’ll have to find other ‘comodations. I don’t like you girls staying out there alone with a couple of hoodlums.” He leaned back in his chair once more.

“When they pack up and leave your place, I’ll take them to the station here and question them, check out their identification. That’s the best I can do until something’s been done wrong.”

Honor wondered if her blood pressure would ever be the same. “You’ll have a car outside while I tell them?”

“Yes, ma‘am. I’ll go with Acomb myself.”

“I’ll drop Lockey off with a friend first. Just in case there’s anything ugly. May I use your phone?”

Doug shoved it to her side of the desk. “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble. The child could just be imagining things. Or these guys might really know Griffin and want to rob the house, but until they do, there’s no crime, and hell, they might just move on once they know we got an eye on ‘em.”

Honor nodded, but still the sick feeling wouldn’t leave her stomach.

“Doug, Lockey did get Mr. Griffin’s name right. I don’t think she’s making up stories. And...and... well, I can’t help but think someone should warn Mr. Griffin that someone wants to rob him and Blackbird Hall.”

“Hell the guy ain’t even there yet.” He grunted. “But hey, I’ll go talk to the workmen, see if they can get a message to him.”

“Thanks,” she said as she dialed, relieved that she wouldn’t have to warn her neighbor of the would-be thieves. After all, if she and Mark met during his stay in Natchez, they were going to have enough to talk about.

“Vergie says they already checked out. They’re gone,” Honor said to Doug as she stood in the Retreat’s drive. The traffic on the dead-end road had diminished to one solitary van, and even those workmen were packing it up.

“I sent Acomb to talk to someone at the Hall. I don’t think Griffin’s arrived yet, but we’ll get the word to him eventually.” Doug sat in his squad car, putting down notes on his clipboard.

Honor sighed. “I wonder if maybe Lockey tipped them off somehow.”

Doug patted her arm. “Sometimes crooks just chicken out, darlin‘. If they’re gone, then I say good riddance. Go get your little girl back and have a peaceful night’s sleep.”

Sergeant Acomb, tall and gangly, walked up from the road after talking to the workmen. He nodded to the sheriff and slid into the passenger seat of the car.

“We’ve done all we could. You want me to send Acomb, here, over for night patrol? Don’t mind, if that’d set your mind at ease.” Doug looked at her questioningly.

Honor shrugged. Everything seemed like a nonevent now. Just an hour ago her life appeared to be careening back into Mark Griffin’s. Now, when Mark was finally going to arrive at the Hall, there would be no reason for them to see each other. Because she sure as hell wouldn’t seek him out. She’d tried for that whole first year to reach him in the corporate maze of Griffin Industries, but no matter how many phone calls she’d made to Zurich, no matter how many letters she’d sent, he’d never called back, never gotten in touch with her. By now he probably didn’t even remember her.

A strange knot of tears formed in her throat.

Quickly she said to Doug, “No, you guys go home to your families. This is over with. Thank heavens.” She waved them on, then disappeared into the house to get her car keys, so she could go pick up Lockey.

“G‘night, Mommy.”

“Good night, love,” Honor said, tucking Lockey into her bed.

“I’m glad those guys left.” Lockey peeked at her from beneath the pile of homemade quilts that had been sewn by Shaw women throughout the years.

Honor released a deep dramatic breath. “So am I!” she exclaimed, kissing Lockey on the nose.

“Mommy, remember when I told you they were using scary words?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I remember now why they scared me.”

“You do? What did they say?” Honor leaned down closer to her daughter for comfort.

“They said they were here to kill Mr. Griffin, not to rob him.”

Honor knew her face had frozen into a false mask of calm. “That’s terrible, honey. Is that really what they said?” Her mind raced, checklisting and crossing off dangers. Another bout of horror and panic threatened her, but she fought it back.

“Uh-huh.” Lockey stared at her. “They were just going to take his stuff because they figured nobody else would want it after Mr. Griffin was dead.”

“How awful.” Honor wondered if she were fooling her daughter or not with her false bravado.

“They scared me, Mommy. They’re going to bring a tiger here, and they said maybe the tiger would get him, too.”

“They won’t bring any tigers here, Lockey. Now I don’t want you to have nightmares. Those bad men will never come back here. I’ll make sure of that. And Doug will make sure of it, too.” Honor hugged her as if nothing could ever part them. “I promise you, they’ll never come back here.”

She finished tucking in her daughter, her mind racing all the while.

“It’s over now, honey, so go to sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” She kissed Lockey again, more for herself than for her daughter’s sake, and closed Lockey’s door.

After racing silently down the back stairs to the kitchen, Honor picked up the phone and called the sheriff at home.

“Doug, I just talked to Lockey, and she said that not only were those guys talking about robbing the Hall, they were talking about their real reason for being here—to kill Mark Griffin.”

“To kill him? Not in my county, they won’t,” Doug said angrily. He’d obviously been in the middle of dinner. Honor could hear him swallow.

“What should you do? Go over there?” she asked.

“First I’ll call Griffin Enterprises again and give them this news. But I’ll tell your, they’re very protective of his privacy. I doubt he’ll give permission for me to go over to the Hall and see him personally. They wouldn’t the last time.”

“But you don’t need permission. You’re the law!” she exclaimed.

“Mark Griffin isn’t the criminal here. He has a nght to privacy, even if it kills him.” Doug’s voice dropped to a grave whisper. “Which it may.”

Honor groaned. “Does this guy even get his messages? I can’t believe I’m in this predicament again.”

“What d‘you mean by ‘again,’ girl?” Doug questioned.

Caught off-guard, Honor quickly changed the subject. “Hey, I guess there’s not much else we can do. I was just upset hearing that those creeps staying in my own bed and breakfast were even worse than I imagined. Go on and finish your dinner, Doug. Tell Dons I’ll see her Wednesday. Bye.”

She put down the receiver. To calm herself, she made a cup of hot tea and took it to the back veranda.

The lights of Blackbird Hall shone through the forest of live oaks like a landing UFO. It didn’t seem natural to see them, when for years there had never been lights in that dark grove.

Sipping her tea, staring at the lights, she thought about Mark Griffin.

It wasn’t hard to picture him. Even after all these years, she could still see his eyes, still picture him standing in the candlelight of the parlor of Blackbird Hall with that grin on his face, that terrible, beautiful grin.

It didn’t seem right that she could sip her tea and watch those lights, when the very person who had lit them might even now be the object of a murder plot. Not when she could personally see to it that he was warned.

She was an ordinary citizen. She’d been rebuffed by Griffin Enterprises before. But this time, she wouldn’t go through the bureaucracy of Griffin Enterprises or even the Natchez Police Department. She didn’t need to have proof of a threat to be a Good Samaritan and go warn her neighbor about the men who had stayed at her bed and breakfast.

In truth, she was probably morally obligated to ring the bell at the Hall’s gates and tell the man that there had been a threat against him.

She could give him the information and then move on. He could do with it what he would; she would have no further obligation to see him.

But did she have the courage to do the right thing?

She closed her eyes. In truth, she wasn’t sure. Blackbird Hall was only a few steps away, but she could be opening a hornets’ nest if she were to see him again. There would be questions. God, would there be questions. Questions she just didn’t want to answer after all these years.

Yet, she couldn’t not warn him. If something happened, she would never forgive herself.

And then there was Lockey.

She didn’t know what she would say to Lockey if Mark Griffin were hurt because no one had warned him...how she would explain that she’d had the chance to help. To maybe even put things right, but...

As much as it frightened her, she knew she had to give it a try. Mark Griffin had to be warned, if only to keep her own conscience clear.

She shoved away her teacup and stood. Her housekeeper Vergie was in the next room. Lockey would be fine for a few minutes if she went next door. Trembling, she stepped down from the veranda and across the back lawn to the street, following it until it ended at the notorious gates.

For several seconds she stood there in the darkness, smelling the deep mossy smells of night.

Then, as if it were now or never, she pulled the bronze chain of the gate bell and listened to its raw echo through the shadows.

A light went on at the Hall.

She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. The alpaca sweater she wore was certainly warm enough to ward off the spring chill; her shivering had nothing to do with the temperature.

Just tell him and go home, she told herself as she saw the movement of someone coming toward her along the Hall’s cobblestone drive.

Just tell him what he needs to know, then get out of Dodge and pray he never comes for a visit at the Retreat. She shivered again as the night-cloaked figure became larger and more ominous.

“Rosie?” she gasped when she suddenly realized the figure coming down the lane was not human at all, but the leggy half-Irish wolfhound mutt she remembered from her last visit to the Hall years ago.

“Rosie, how are you, girl?” she cooed as she stuck her hand through the bars and scratched the dog behind her ear.

They stood almost eye to eye. She might have been afraid of a dog this size, but she remembered how gentle Rosie was, and the funny story of how the mutt had gotten her name. Mark had told her of rescuing a bag-of-bones puppy from a drainage ditch. The starving creature hardly looked like a dog, because most of her hair was missing from mange. He named her Rosie after the pathetic animal’s exposed raw skin. Even now, Honor smiled thinking about the silly wrestling matches between Rosie and Mark when Mark would resort to calling Rosie a “mange brain.

“So where’s your master, Rosie? Where is he?” she whispered, exciting the animal. Rosie barked and jumped up on the gate.

Suddenly Honor realized the gate was not locked. It sprang back under the weight of the dog, and in a second she found Rosie running around her like a Tasmanian devil.

She looked up the dark lane toward the house. Nothing moved.

A chill ran down her spine as her mind ran through the nefarious possibilities of why the gate was unlatched.

“Let’s go find Mark. Go find Mark,” she whispered to Rosie. The dog bolted up the drive toward the house.

Alone in the shadows, Honor slowly followed.

The front veranda was three times the size of the Retreat’s. She walked up the stairs, comforted by the flicker of two gas lanterns that flanked the door.

But she was not comforted by the fact that the front door stood ajar. Or by the fact that the lights that were on in the Hall were in rooms at the far end of the pitch-dark foyer.

Nervously she reviewed her options. But there was no turning back. She had to see him now. She had to know if he was all right, even if that meant summoning Doug. She hadn’t endured all these years by herself only to let Mark Griffin be murdered the day of his return.

“Who the hell are you?”

She froze at the harsh voice behind her. The anger m it terrified her; the familiarity of it melted her. She remembered that same voice laughing down by the creek; and then she remembered it slow and husky, just before he fell upon her in surrender.

She turned toward the veranda stairs.

Their eyes met in one violent second. Recognition was like lightning.

“Honor.”

Her name sounded so impossibly right on his lips, she could barely choke back the wanting and fear that built up inside her.

“Mark.”

It was too dark to make out details. But even so, she could see he’d hardly changed. He was the same dark and handsome, tall and commanding, man she remembered. He wore black trousers and a gray polo shirt. Even in the flickering light, she could tell that his eyes were still as vividly blue as she remembered them.

“What are you doing here?”

The full-blown animosity in his voice hurt her, though she supposed she should have expected it. She’d obviously shocked him by her abrupt appearance at the Hall. Clearly he wasn’t pleased to see her.

“Look,” she began to prattle, “I’m really sorry to just show up like this. I didn’t want to bother you, especially tonight, since it’s your first night back. But I’ve got something to say and—”

Before she could finish he interrupted her. “It’s been a hell of a long time.”

The moment was absurd. Almost a decade had passed since they’d been together, but suddenly it seemed as if she was a senior in high school again, nervous about making the acquaintance of the notorious rich boy staying at the mansion next door.

“It has been a long time,” was all she could say.

He stared at her for a long, sickening moment.

Finally, gathering herself, she said, “I really didn’t want to come here without calling first, but you don’t have a phone, and I’ve got something I need to tell you. A lot’s been happening over at the Retreat.”

He gestured toward the- darkened foyer. Impatiently he said, “I was just letting Rosie out for her run. I didn’t think I’d be entertaining the neighbors.”

She could feel herself dying inside. For years she had wondered if she and Mark would ever meet again. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought it would be like this, with her trembling at the threshold of his dark mansion, afraid of the terse, unsmiling man he’d become.

“This won’t take long. I promise.”

He didn’t bother to turn on the lights. He walked through the dark foyer, and she trailed behind, cowed by the enormous shadows of the antebellum bookcases and the clock against the wall.

He led her all the way to the back wing, where the kitchen opened up to the rear courtyard. Silently he motioned for her to sit down at the kitchen table.

Nervously, she looked around. The place had been cleaned until it shone. Somehow the sterility of the room cowed her more than the dark foyer had. At least in her kitchen there were crumbs and used dishes next to the sink. Here there was nothing but an original set of Audubon prints over the fireplace to give the modern stainless steel palace some warmth.

“The place looks great,” she began, taking a seat at the table. “I was really surprised to find you still owned it and...and were coming back.” She sounded like a fool. It was best for her to say her piece and get out. “But that’s not why I came here—”

“I just came back to donate the place to the Natchez Trust. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

It was a common practice in Natchez, where they had an embarrassment of riches in old antebellum mansions, for people to donate property to the Trust. Blackbird Hall was considered one of the America’s most-treasured properties, which was why it had been the perfect trophy house for the wealthy Griffin family. They owned properties all over the world, but Blackbird Hall had stood out as their little playhouse. Their Petit Trianon. It was also why Honor had never known the people who lived next door, until one summer, when the bored young man arrived to change her life forever.

She looked at him. In the fluorescent light, he seemed that much more real to her, that much more frightening. He’d developed just a few lines in the corners of his eyes. Some might call them laugh lines, but looking at him now, the way his face was frozen in that barren expression, she didn’t think he’d spent much time laughing.

“I won’t keep you. I just felt I had to tell you what’s been going on,” she blathered.

“Go ahead.” He sat across from her at the table, leaving lots of space between them. It was almost as if he wanted the distance, to better study her, to better intimidate her.

She took a deep breath. “I only came here to tell you that a couple of strange men were staying at the Retreat. Lockey overheard them talking about this place and...” She met his gaze. She didn’t know how to break it to him. “And she overheard them talking about killing you.”

He stared at her for a long moment. An eternity. Then without warning he asked, “Who’s Lockey?”

She’d expected shock, horror, even surprise, when she told him about the death threat. What she hadn’t counted on was this intense gaze and pointed, offthe-subject curiosity.

“Lockey’s my daughter,” she answered quietly, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “She’s really not an eavesdropper, but she did overhear these men who were staying in the attic rooms talk about the Hall. The sheriff took a report and called your company, but I didn’t know about the threat to your life until just now. I felt it would be better for me to come and tell you myself than have Doug call your company.”

He looked nonplussed. “I’ve got a cell phone here. They would have called if it was important.”

She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that. Once again, a year of unanswered phone calls and letters to Griffin Industries came back to haunt her. Sure. He got all his important messages. The little note about the illegitimate child just hadn’t been important enough to answer. So she had given up trying. Her embittered father had certainly encouraged her to quit. In the end, he’d wanted her to preserve some of the Shaw dignity. And there was none in leaving messages that were never returned.

She stood. It had been a waste of time to see him. There was relief in knowing it was futile. Now at least her conscience was clear.

“Well, I’ve done what I can. I’ll make a formal report to the sheriff, if you like. I was just so frightened when Lockey told me about the death threat that I felt compelled to come here and tell you personally.”

“I get death threats all the time. If they called me every time, I’d never get off the phone.”

She almost gasped. It didn’t seem possible, but this angry man hardly cared at all that two people had expressed the desire to see him dead. To be that jaded seemed foreign to her. But that was probably because she had so much at stake. She couldn’t take anything for granted. After all, she was a parent.

Her stomach gave a sick lurch.

Then again, so was he.

“I get crap like this all the time. Don’t give it another thought.” He stood, also.

Her exit was at hand. Disarmed of her information, she had no choice but to make small talk with the man or take her leave.

And suddenly she was very much aware that she was not prepared to talk to him tonight. If any sticky issues arose, she knew she would deal with them honestly and fully. But what if they didn’t arise? Would she still tell him?

She needed time to make up her mind about what she should do. Mark Griffin was rich and powerful. So much so that a year of calling Zurich, writing him letters and resorting to sheer prayer, had not landed him on her doorstep when she’d needed him. It seemed when he’d inherited the family business, he’d gone underground, and there had been no locating him.

But that was water under the bridge now. He was back, and she had a choice to make. She could tell him about their daughter and pray he wouldn’t do something that would forever change her and Lockey’s hard-won contentment, or she could decide that Mark was not father material. She could let him donate the Hall and go back to Zurich none the wiser. And her life—and her daughter‘s—wouldn’t change one iota.

But that decision would have to wait. Now wasn’t the time to spring a surprise on him. She didn’t want to watch him run away. Nor did she want to expose Lockey to the hurt and rejection she’d gone through herself. Mark Griffin was no longer the young man who’d won her over with his idealism and loneliness. Now he was a man, full-grown and immensely powerful. Mark had the money to change both their lives—and not necessarily for the better.

No, she had to have time to think. She had to do what was best for Lockey.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Well, I really should get back. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just worried.” She smiled. “But I don’t think it would be foolish to keep the front gate locked. I think you should be careful.”

He glanced around. “That’s why I came here. To get away from the need to be careful.”

She almost released a bitter smile. “Natchez is like any other place. Not without its perils.”

Their gazes met. The silence between them grew heavy.

“Well, again, please excuse my barging in here.”

“How long has it been since I saw you here, Honor?”

Each word seemed to slice at her She felt irrational tears come to her eyes. “Look, I really do have to get back.”

“Yes, I forgot about your daughter. Is there a husband waiting for you back at the Retreat, as well?”

She thought she heard something in his voice—maybe even a bitterness of his own—but she wondered if it was only her wishful thinking. Sometimes dreams could be so strong they impaired the judgment.

“Nope. Just me and Lockey.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded, then remembered the day when Mark got the call about his parents’ deaths in a bush plane off the coast of Africa. He’d been inconsolable. He flew off to the funeral, then to Zurich to be taught all the things about Griffin Industries his Wharton education had missed. She’d never seen him again, never heard from him again. It was as if he’d never existed, except for the one small thing he’d left behind with her.

“I’ve really got to go.” The unshed tears in her eyes were stinging like acid. One more minute and they would flood over, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to explain her feelings tonight.

Walking out of Blackbird Hall like Cinderella at midnight, she didn’t even notice he was following her.

“Honor.”

Her name on his lips made her halt.

“Honor, I came back here to donate the place to the Trust.”

“Yes, you told me that.” She didn’t turn around. Suddenly she was wildly grateful for the bad lighting in the foyer.

“I also came back here because I wanted to think. Maybe even...to remember.”

Her breath stopped.

“Things haven’t gone so well for me. I don’t know if you read the papers, but I—”

“Yes, I read about your girlfriend being killed in London. I’m truly sorry.” She couldn’t have missed the story. Ralia Pembroke, supermodel and acknowledged steady of millionaire Mark Griffin. The woman’s tall exoticism had made Honor die a little inside every time she saw a cosmetic commercial.

“But what the news didn’t tell you is that she was killed with my best friend, George, in that car accident on the bridge. And that they were both stark naked when the limo went over the rail.”

Honor paused. He was right; she hadn’t known anything about that.

Suddenly the bitterness she’d imagined in his voice was there for real. “I was thinking about giving her a ring, Honor. I knew she wasn’t right for me, but I still wanted something—something I knew I was missing. I just couldn’t get it from her. Afterward, I only knew one thing. I had to come here. I had to.”

She didn’t turn to look at him; she was too afraid of his expression and what it might do to her selfpossession.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands, knowing her composure was breaking like a dam. “Really,” she added, as she sped out the door and down the drive toward home, not once looking back.

Three

Mark watched her go, and all in all he thought he showed admirable restraint. He’d simply stood on the veranda; he’d said nothing; done nothing. When what he really wanted to do was pull her back, take her hand and force her to sit inside, so he could look at her again, close his eyes and listen to her voice. Remember.

She’d been here all the time. Honor Shaw. Somehow, he hadn’t imagined she would still be at the Retreat. He’d thought she would be in a tract house on the outskirts of town, nesting with her husband and two-point-three kids. All those long, bitter nights thinking about the man who’d gotten her—the nice average guy he’d pictured in his mind—had been nothing but a waste of energy. The guy had to have been a loser. If she was divorced now, it was her ex’s fault. No man in his right mind would let Honor Shaw slip away from him. He knew that only too well.

He reached out to stroke Rosie, who stood at his feet. The dog, as always, was a comfort to him. She went everywhere with him. Rosie had been in more private jets and boardrooms than most Homo sapiens. The people he dealt with accommodated him, but he knew everyone thought he was just another rich eccentric who had to be indulged when he brought in his wolfhound. They didn’t know that Rosie was more than a dog. They didn’t know she was his walking, breathing tie to one summer when love had come up to him, put her hands gently on his face and pulled him down for a kiss.

He felt the tightness in his chest and realized he’d been holding his breath ever since she’d fled. But he still couldn’t comprehend that Honor Shaw, from the small, nowhere town in Mississippi, was still here, as fixed in time as she was fixed in his mind.

Calling Rosie, he left the veranda and went inside to the parlor. He poured a scotch and sipped it. In the background, the CD player played a lush melancholy tune.

He almost wanted to laugh. What a reunion. Honor Shaw had come back to him. But only for fifteen quick minutes, long enough to tell him that two people wanted him dead.

He already knew that. Everyone wanted something from him. They either wanted to rob him or profit from him or kill him. The whole world was draining him of his very soul, and the one person he would gladly have given it up for had just come and gone like an instant message on his computer screen, and she wanted nothing from him.

He reached out to stroke Rosie’s head again. The dog yawned and thumped her wiry tail on the polished floor.

Rosie was still his, though. The memories were still his. Sure, they’d been tainted by reality. He’d thought he and Honor had had something special that summer; she obviously thought it had been nothing more than a fling. He’d left for Zurich; she’d started Old Miss and dived right into another relationship.

Okay, so maybe the guy had soured on her; maybe she was free now. But it didn’t change anything. She clearly hadn’t felt what he’d felt that summer. He’d never even heard from her after he left the Hall. There was no way he would resume any relationship with her, knowing he couldn’t hold her heart.

He looked into his scotch. A darkness seeped into him. No, Honor Shaw would have to feel as allconsumingly about him as he had about her for almost nine years now. He was known as cold, tough, an all-or-nothing corporate raider, and he wasn’t going to settle for anything less than a hundred percent Especially not from some girl in a backwater town who thought she could pick up and toss away a man’s heart like it was so much river rock. If he could even imagine tangling himself up with her again, the first and foremost thing would be to teach her a lesson about men like him. She didn’t know his kind; he’d bet on it. He hadn’t been this man the last time he’d come to Natchez.

But the world had changed him. She had changed him.

A shadowed smile tipped the corner of his lips. And maybe it was time to let her see that.

“You look terrible, girl,” Doug announced as he sat in the Retreat’s kitchen the next morning.

“That’s because I’m spending way too much time making police reports.” Honor poured him a cup of black coffee. Her eyes were red, her cheeks pale, but they had nothing to do with police. Rather, they were the result of staying up way too late and crying a river of tears.

“I got it all down, and if those two ever show their faces in Natchez, I’ll take ‘em in for questioning. No doubt about it.” Doug sipped his coffee.

She sat across from him. Hopelessness seemed to weigh on her shoulders, holding her down. “He says he gets people threatening to kill him all the time. He was really blasé about my news. I have to say, it kind of shocked me. I didn’t know him anymore. Not really.”

“Maybe that’s the price you pay for all that money.”

“It’s frightening—all that money.” She suddenly pictured Lockey in front of an exclusive Swiss boarding school, bodyguards in tow, and herself, the girl’s own mother, being exiled by Lockey’s powerful father, forced to wave at her only child from behind the black iron gates.

She shut her eyes to the vision. “As long as those two are gone and probably aren’t coming back, then I’m happy to get on with my life and forget about it.”

“I talked to Griffin this morning. Described the two. He thinks they might work for someone he knows. Zurich’s sending some infa‘mation.” He finished his coffee and stood.

“You know, girl, you might not do too badly to fix yourself up pretty and go be friendly with the neighbors. He don’t seem like a half-bad guy, if you don’t look at that big ol‘ net worth of his.”

Honor didn’t know if she wanted to faint or throw up. “He’s got issues, Doug. Big issues. I’m not sure if I can deal with him right now.”

“What kind of issues? What, with that girlfriend of his dying? Just makes him need some comfortin‘, is all.”

She cringed inside. “Look, what would a rich guy like him want with a woman like me, anyway?”

“Hell, you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever known, and when you get riled, it brings out the fight in you, just like it should. Then there’s that wicked wit you tote around, puttin‘ all the boys in place in this here redneck backwater. And I ain’t even talked about your damned good figure and that angel’s face. What man in his right mind wouldn’t want you?”

“Well, maybe he’s not in his right mind. Maybe that’s the problem,” she muttered.

“Eccentric. That’s what they call rich people who ain’t in their right mind. Eccentric. You see? You can forgive ‘em that and get on with things.”

She shook her head. “Maybe he’s not eccentric. Maybe he’s just plain, old-fashioned—”

“Crazy?”

Honor gasped at the unexpected voice. She looked up through the kitchen screen door to the back veranda. Griffin was standing at the top of the steps, obviously having heard most of Doug’s diatribe.

“Look here. Well, I do think I got to be going.” Doug fixed his police hat on his head. “Good morning to you, Mr. Griffin. Honor.” He nodded and walked out the door without even his usual thanks for the coffee.

Hiding her trembling hands under a dish towel, she went to the screen door. “I...I didn’t expect to see you here this morning. I know you’ve already talked to Doug.” She finally realized how rude she was being. “Why don’t you come in? I’ll be happy to make some more coffee....”

She opened the door.

Mark walked into her kitchen, as big as life.

She was swept up in the feeling that this wasn’t real. She’d imagined him walking into her kitchen for ages. Now that he was actually doing it, she felt unsure and out of sync.

“I was hoping you’d be home.” He looked at her but didn’t greet her with a smile. The desolate expression on his face was the same as she remembered from last night.

She was weakened just when she’d wanted to be strong. “Then come in and sit down. Here’s a cup.” She was grateful for the distraction.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She poured him a coffee and sat down as far away from him as she could politely manage.

His gaze swept the kitchen. “It hasn’t changed much since I last saw it. Your father should be here, though, cooking up eggs and bacon for the guests. He sure did like to cook, didn’t he? And he was good, too, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, he was.” She’d almost forgotten how much her father had liked Mark. He’d practically spent the entire summer at the Retreat, and her father had really taken to him. Joseph Shaw had thought it a damned shame the young man spent so much time alone, and when Mark had explained that he was used to it, because his parents were always away traveling, the old man had been saddened. He’d thought it a tragedy that one family could have so much, yet be blind to the only thing that mattered.

Joseph Shaw had taught her one fact: that only family mattered. Honor knew that was how she wanted to raise Lockey. To put family first. One of her nightmares was that Lockey would be acknowledged by a father too busy and important to spend time with her, and at the same time be depnved of her mother.

“I have to confess, I didn’t just come here to say hello and be neighborly. I was hoping you’d take a walk with me.”

She climbed out of her dark thoughts and met his gaze. “A walk? Where?”

“To the old creek in back of the Hall. Do you remember how much time we spent there? I was going down there to see it just now. I’ve pictured it a thousand times in my head, but I realized it wouldn’t be the same without you with me.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve got laundry.” She groaned inwardly. The label of hausfrau suddenly seemed written all over her in indelible ink. She knew she couldn’t compete with the glamorous Ralia Pembroke, but she certainly didn’t want to bore the man with all the grinding domestic duties of running a small B&B.

“I won’t keep you long.” He looked right into her eyes. “I thought I’d go look for the cannon.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.