“She was, so they say. Never the same after he was killed.” Nicholas took a sip of his beer and added almost absently, “Some people love only once, it’s the way they’re made.”
Adam didn’t reply, and after another moment of silence Nicholas pushed his barely touched glass away and slid from the booth. Pleasantly, he said, “Don’t drag me out of my warm bed again, Adam. I get cranky when I lose sleep.”
Just as pleasantly, Adam said, “I’ll remember that. Next time.”
Nicholas strode toward the door, the sea of mostly drunken men parting for him the way the Red Sea must have parted for Moses. Adam was amused by the comparison, for a less holy man than Nicholas would have been hard to imagine.
Not that he himself could afford to cast stones.
Amusement fading, Adam went back to using the base of his dewed glass to connect water rings. That occupied him for some minutes, and then he sighed and stopped. He wiped his damp fingers on his thigh and reached into the slightly open neckline of his white shirt, pulling out a small gold locket on a fine chain.
In the center of the elaborate designs on one side of the locket were the initials RG, and on the other side the initials TS.
Adam used a thumbnail to open the locket. Inside on the left was a silver St. Christopher medal, sized perfectly to fit as a photo would have. On the right side was a photo, protected by a tiny clear shield. A girl smiled radiantly. She was so hauntingly lovely that Adam’s breath caught even though he had seen the picture countless times before.
It was Rachel.
The tip of his thumb gently brushed across the picture, and then he closed the locket and dropped it back inside his shirt. On a long, rough sigh, he muttered, “Goddammit.”
• • •
Nicholas stood outside the bar for several minutes, his breath misting in the chilly night air. He gazed off in the direction of Mercy’s apartment, even took a step that way. But then he halted, swore, and reversed direction.
He called himself a damned fool all the way to his car.
FIVE
hat?” Cameron Grant stared at his niece across the dining table. “You’re going to keep the house? But I thought you were planning to go back to New York.”
“I was. I changed my mind.”
Rachel was still surprised at herself for the decision she had made sometime in the previous twenty-four hours. She couldn’t even say what had finally tipped the balance. All she knew was that the decision had been made, and that it felt right.
It was Wednesday evening, and Rachel had spent the day helping Darby with the furniture inventories.
Obviously trying not to sound as unhappy as he was, Cameron said, “So you’ll be keeping the breakfront and the Queen Anne chairs?”
Rachel smiled at him. “No, I promised them to you. They’re yours. As for the rest, I’m going to let Darby continue to inventory the entire house, room by room. It needs to be done, and since she’s started, she should finish.”
“What about the pieces you don’t plan to use, Rachel? Are you going to let her sell them to strangers?”
“All the extra stuff has been collecting dust for decades, giving no pleasure to anyone.” Rachel’s tone was reasonable. “There’s no good reason to keep what I won’t be using.”
“But, Rachel—”
“Don’t worry, Cam. If there are other pieces you can’t bear to see sold, we’ll work something out. But how much room do you have in that house of yours?” Cam had been staying here since shortly before his older brother had been killed, but home was a lovely old town house in San Francisco, currently being renovated. Since he was a moderately successful artist, he could live anywhere he chose, and the West Coast had been his home for more than twenty years.
“There’s enough room for a few more big pieces. But whether I can display things or have to put them into storage for the time being isn’t the point. I just can’t bear to see Grant family things going to strangers, Rachel, that’s all. One of us should keep them.”
A little weary of the argument, she said, “Hanging on to history isn’t always the best thing to do.”
He hesitated, then smiled and lifted his wineglass in a small salute to her. “So, you’ve decided to stay in Richmond. And—what? Take Duncan’s place at the bank?”
“I haven’t decided whether to keep my interests in the bank, but I certainly won’t be working there. I don’t have Dad’s gift.”
“You have your own. Some kind of fashion design, then?”
She told him briefly about Graham’s suggestion that she open a boutique selling her own designs. “The idea appeals to me. I think I’ll give it a shot.”
“That designer you work for is not going to like losing you.”
“He won’t be too upset. He liked my work, but there was some friction between us.”
The friction had consisted of Brian Todd’s unshakable belief that he was God’s gift to women of all ages, but Rachel didn’t feel any impulse to confide this to her uncle.
“Your dad always said you’d come back herd,” Cameron said.
Rachel was surprised. “He did? Was he—were he and Mom upset that I stayed in New York all those years?” Even though Graham had reassured her, it was something about which Rachel still felt profoundly upset.
Before Cameron could answer, Fiona came into the dining room with dessert and said sourly, “They missed you. Of course they were upset.”
“You were listening at the door,” Cameron accused.
The housekeeper snorted. “How else am I supposed to find out what goes on around here?”
Cameron had made several attempts to charm Fiona in the months he’d been living there, but she had resisted his blandishments. Since then, the two had observed a wary, occasionally bristly, understanding.
They didn’t like each other.
Rachel said, “Don’t you two get started. Fiona, I know Mom and Dad missed me. But they understood why I stayed away. Didn’t they?” Tell me they understood.
The housekeeper’s face softened almost imperceptibly. “Of course. And he’s right—about this, anyway. They knew you’d come back here to stay sooner or later.”
Almost to herself, Rachel murmured, “I thought there’d be time enough. That I’d come back one day, and everything would be the way it was before I left. But … the months turned into years. And time ran out.”
“They understood, Miss Rachel. Both of them. Your mother especially, I think.”
It was a reassurance Rachel needed, and even if she still didn’t quite believe it, the housekeeper’s words gave her the first really good night’s sleep she’d had since coming back home.
On Thursday morning, while Darby continued with the inventory, Rachel excused herself to drive into town. A visit to a real estate agency resulted in a list of several properties she wanted to have a look at, and though the agent had wanted to accompany her, Rachel preferred to be alone in the initial stages of choosing a location for her boutique.
It occurred to her only during the drive that “her boutique” had taken on the solidity of reality in her mind, so much so that she had a very clear idea of just what she wanted to do.
Like the decision to keep the house, the decision to open a boutique, once made, also felt very right. Whether the venture was a success or a failure, Rachel was looking forward to it—and it was exhilarating to find herself looking ahead rather than back.
She had spent too many years looking back.
The first address the agent had provided turned out to be totally unsuitable for what Rachel had in mind. The second one, however, had definite possibilities. It was a fairly small vacant store in a block-long area that already contained several small specialty stores, and foot traffic was brisk even on this weekday morning.
Standing on the sidewalk as she considered the store, Rachel didn’t notice a quiet black sedan pull up to the curb behind her, so it surprised her very much to hear Nicholas Ross’s harsh voice.
“Go
od morning, Rachel.”
She jumped, but only a little. The sheer size of him was overpowering as he reached her side and loomed over her, but she managed not to back away. “Hi, Nick.”
He had always made her feel wary. She hoped it didn’t show.
He nodded toward the For Lease sign in the dirty window. “Is that what interests you so much?”
Rachel hesitated, then nodded. “I’m thinking about opening a boutique here in Richmond. One-of-a-kind fashion designs.”
Nicholas frowned slightly. “I see. Then I take it you won’t be returning to New York.”
“No, not for good. I’ll have to go back there eventually, of course, and pack up my apartment.”
“What about the bank?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t decided about that yet. It’s why I haven’t come to talk to you. But you can be sure I won’t be trying to tell you how to run things, Nick, no matter what I decide to do. For all intents and purposes, it’s your bank now.”
His frown remained, and those pale eyes were unreadable as they gazed at the empty store before them. In an abrupt tone he said, “If you decide to keep your interest, you couldn’t go wrong asking Mercy to manage for you.”
Rachel was a little surprised. “I hadn’t thought about it. I guess I assumed she’d be working for you now that Dad’s gone.”
“No.” He looked down at her. “I’ve asked, but … Mercy knows I’ve never wanted an assistant. She’s an asset to the bank, though, and I’d hate to lose her. She has a rare understanding of finances. If you’re looking for someone to manage all your business interests, I’d put her at the top of a very short list.”
Curious, Rachel said, “Where would you put Graham?” She was aware the two men didn’t care for each other, but wasn’t sure of the cause. Distinctly different personalities, maybe?
“Graham Becket is a fine lawyer.”
She waited a moment, then said dryly, “And that says it all?”
Nicholas smiled, and it was not a charming thing. “I think so. I’d trust him with my legal affairs, but I’d want someone else giving me financial advice. It’s not his specialty.”
“I see. Well, thanks for the suggestion about Mercy. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Do that. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“No, thanks. I have a leased car I’m trying out.” She didn’t see any reason to confide in him about the possibly sabotaged brake line. “It’s over there. So thanks anyway.”
“Off to look at another store, or has this one caught your fancy?”
“This one’s a little small, but possible. I’ve just started looking, though, so no decision is imminent.”
“Glad to hear it.” He glanced around them. “You wouldn’t know to look at it, but this neighborhood isn’t the best. A higher crime rate than some of the worst parts of town.”
Rachel didn’t bother to tell him that she would have researched the crime rate as well as other important elements before making a decision. She merely said, “Well, maybe the third place will be the charm.”
“Where is it?”
“On Queen Street. The Realtor was enthusiastic.” “I imagine so. It’s pricey real estate. But a good location.” He took a step back and turned toward his car. “Let me know if I can do anything to help, Rachel. I’d be happy to.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
She watched as he got into his car with a grace uncommon in such a big, powerful man, and moments later the black sedan had purred its way out of sight.
She was still wary of Nick.
And she had a feeling it had definitely shown.
Shrugging off a lingering unease, Rachel used the key the agency had provided to go into the store, and spent another ten minutes or so checking it out.
Naturally, her thoroughness had nothing to do with Nick’s dismissal of the spot as a good prospect.
But she reached the same conclusion for different reasons, however reluctantly. The layout of the interior was wrong, would require considerable remodeling, and that was not something Rachel wanted to waste time with if at all possible.
So she got back into her car and drove to the next spot, on Queen Street. Nick had been right about this area as well; it was high-ticket real estate boasting some of the most exclusive stores in Richmond.
An area no more than two blocks long, it was designed with foot traffic in mind, with wide sidewalks and handy benches placed near the decorative and functional lampposts. Parking was handy without being intrusive, and a nearby police station was undoubtedly a deterrent to crime.
Rachel was impressed by the store she had come to see. It was slightly larger than she had planned, but temporary walls could take care of that until—hopefully—the need for expansion arose. Other than that she could see no structural problems. There was even a huge office space and storage area in the back, both of which would come in handy.
She was standing in the center of the front part of the store, jotting down a few ideas for colors and a decorating style, when a voice from the open door caught her by surprise.
“Rachel?”
Adam Delafield.
“Hello. What are you doing here?” After the first moment of surprise, her heart rate had returned to normal. Or almost.
“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He came in and crossed the space between them. “I was in a store across the street, and thought I saw you come in here.”
“I’m … thinking of starting a business. Fashions designed by me.”
“So you’re not going back to New York?”
Rachel realized it was a question she was going to hear a lot. “No. I don’t think so. I belong in Richmond.”
“Ghosts and all?”
Whether it was the cryptic note in his voice or simply the reminder, Rachel found the question a difficult one to answer casually, and confiding in this virtual stranger was impossible. So she tried to keep it light. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Don’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“You thought I was Thomas Sheridan.” There was something almost insolent in his voice.
“Yes, I did,” she admitted. “Thomas—alive and well. Not his spirit haunting me. I never believed that.”
Not for a moment. Right.
“In any case,” she added, making her tone brisk, “it’s a bright, sunny spring day, and there are certainly no ghosts lurking here.” She turned away from him and gestured to the space around them. “What do you think? A classy store selling unique designs? The label of Rachel Grant, a Richmond exclusive.”
“I think you’ll be a hit. A major hit.”
She looked at him, relieved that his voice was casual again but bothered by the intent way he looked at her. It made her feel self-conscious. No, more than that. It made her feel that no one else had ever really looked at her before. And that was disconcerting.
It was also a little scary.
She made a production of putting her notebook away in her shoulder bag. “Well, we’ll see. Who knows? Maybe I inherited a little of Dad’s business savvy.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it a bit.” He followed her from the store and stood just behind her as she locked up.
“I have two other places to check out,” she said as she turned to face him, “so—”
“Why don’t you let me buy you lunch? It’s after noon, and there’s a really good restaurant just down the block. Do you like Italian?”
“Yes, but—I really should take a look at the other stores.”
“You can do that just as well after lunch. And you have to eat.”
When Rachel hesitated just a moment too long, Adam nodded slightly and a wry expression crossed his face.
“Would it help if I promise not to ask any more dumb questions about ghosts?”
“Not dumb. Just …”
“Just not welcome. Especially from somebody who looks like me.” He smiled, but that intensity she had sensed earlier was still in hi
m, lurking just below the surface. “I understand. Have lunch with me, Rachel, please. I’d like to talk about a man I admired very much—to his daughter.”
That was an appeal Rachel could hardly refuse, especially since she wanted to hear more about her father’s relationship with this man. And he had a point. She had to eat.
“In that case, thanks. I’d love to have lunch with you.” “The restaurant is close enough to walk to. If you feel like it.”
“Sounds great.”
Adam offered his arm, and Rachel surprised herself by taking it. She was immediately aware of strength and leashed power, of hard muscles beneath her fingers, and other senses whispered to her of force and will. And darkness. He isn’t what he wants me to believe he is. Who he wants me to believe he is. That knowledge was so strong that Rachel almost pulled her hand away from him. But along with wariness and uneasiness was curiosity.
Who was he, really? And what did he want from her?
Despite Graham’s warning, Rachel didn’t believe it was her money Adam was after. She had never thought much about intuition, but hers was alive in her now, and it insisted there was much more to this—to him—than simple greed. She was sure of it.
And he looks like Thomas. That has to mean something.
Doesn’t it?
Nicholas Ross sat in his long black car and gazed down the block, watching Rachel and Adam stroll along the sidewalk toward him. As far as he could tell, they were pleased to be in each other’s company.
Then Rachel looked up at her companion and smiled that slow smile of hers, transforming her face into something radiant. Even at this distance, Nicholas could see Adam’s reaction, see his free hand reach to cover the one resting in the crook of his arm in a gesture any other man would recognize as possessive.
“Slow down,” Nicholas murmured. But nobody heard him, of course. And even if the right person had, Nicholas doubted his warning would make much of a difference.
He understood obsession.
He watched the couple until they disappeared into an Italian restaurant, the door of which was barely twenty feet from the hood of his car. Rachel hadn’t appeared to notice the car, and behind the tinted windows Nicholas knew he was virtually invisible.