Stone Cold

Andrea Kane

1

"A HOUSE?"

Lindsey Hall feathered her fingers through her hair, a puzzled expression on her face. "I don't understand. Why would Harlan Falkner leave me a house?"

"A mansion, not a house," Leland Masters corrected. He regarded her steadily, whatever he was thinking masked behind a professional veneer he'd perfected over forty years. One of Providence, Rhode Island's most prominent attorneys, he'd represented the Falkners' interests since Harlan made his first million, some thirty-five years ago. Now, it was his job to carry out his client's final wishes.

He folded his hands in front of him, a formidable presence in an equally formidable office - all gleaming mahogany and polished tile - an office that Harlan Falkner's money had helped pay for. "You're aware of your relationship to Mr. Falkner."

Lindsey's smile was tight-lipped. "My relationship? If you mean my blood ties, yes, I know Mr. Falkner fathered me. But as for a relationship, we had none. I never even met the man. He made no attempt to contact me, not in twenty-six years. So why would he suddenly leave me a portion of his estate?"

Another thoughtful stare. Yes, he could see the resemblance. The same unusual coloring: fine, tawny hair, its hues ranging from gold to light brown and, in contrast, startlingly dark eyes. The same refined manner and natural grace. And the bone structure was there, although Miss Hall was slender and delicate in contrast to Harlan's larger, more towering presence. She probably took after her mother on that score.

She hadn't been at the will reading. Then again, she hadn't been invited. It was better that way. The reaction from Harlan's children would have been explosive. As it was, it hadn't been pleasant. It had, however, been predictable. Until last week, they hadn't known Lindsey Hall existed.

They knew now.

"Miss Hall, I don't think Harlan's - your father's -  motives are the issue here. His provisions are. He left you the mansion in Newport, along with a sizable sum of money, to be used at your discretion."

"My discretion," she repeated, turning her palms up in noncomprehension. "What does that mean?"

"The mansion has been vacant for years. It needs to be restored. Harlan thought you might enjoy doing that. If so, a portion of your funds could be used to renovate the house in whatever manner you choose." Leland shrugged. "If not, you're welcome to sell it and keep the profit, along with the rest of the money he's left you. As I said, the choice is yours."

A flicker of anger flashed in her eyes, followed by a spark of curiosity. "Why was the mansion vacant?"

The attorney shrugged again. "It used to be a family vacation home. Circumstances changed. Lifestyles changed." He left it at that.

"I see." Obviously, she didn't see at all. Nor should she. But she changed the subject nonetheless. "What about Mr. Falkner's legitimate children? Wouldn't he leave the mansion to them?"

Leland had anticipated that question. "He thought you'd have a greater appreciation for it, based upon your career choice."

That was his second reference to her inclinations toward design, this one more pointed than the first.

It found its mark, and Lindsey Hall's delicate brows rose. "Are you saying Mr. Falkner was aware I'm an architect?"

"Mr. Falkner was aware of a great many things about you, Miss Hall. Your graduation with honors from Cooper Union, your unique contributions to the architectural firm you're currently working for in Connecticut, specifically the fine work you've done restoring classic old homes. Many things."

Lindsey's jaw dropped. "He kept tabs on me?"

"He kept abreast of your accomplishments."

She digested that with a jolt of surprise and an obvious swell of resentment. Based on her perception of things, Leland couldn't blame her. He could just imagine what she was thinking.

He didn't have to imagine long.

"Talk about too much, too little, too late," she commented bitterly. "Am I supposed to feel honored? Honored that Harlan Falkner followed my life like one of his high-yielding stocks - no, actually not as closely. In my case, no active participation was necessary. Not until now. Now, when he's gone and my existence can no longer tarnish his family's reputation, he's throwing me a bone? How gracious. It sounds like a payoff, Mr. Masters. A payoff from a man with a guilty conscience." She rose to her feet. "No mansion can compensate for Mr. Falkner's actions. Nor can money make up for what he did - not to me, but to my mother. I notice she's not mentioned in this will."

Leland tipped back his head, met Lindsey's angry gaze with a calm, steady stare. "No, she's not." He watched the controlled anger simmer in her eyes, and thought again how much like Harlan she looked and, perhaps, was. If she knew more, she might feel differently. But she didn't know more.

"Before you tell me to go to hell, I'd suggest you think this over," he advised quietly "Separate pride from pragmatism. Between the value of the mansion and the cash, we're talking about well over five million dollars. You can do a lot with that sum of money, Miss Hall, including anything you choose to do for your mother. She's past fifty now. She can't clean houses forever."

Lindsey opened her mouth, then pressed her lips together, a war taking place inside her. She was still gripped by questions and suppressed fury. She was also a realist - like her father. She knew Leland was right.

"Don't decide immediately," he suggested. "Take a day or two. Think it over - all of it."

"I'm going back to Connecticut tonight."

"Wait for morning." Leland reached into his desk, extracted a set of keys and a slip of paper with an address on it "I've made a reservation for you at a local hotel. Spend the night. Consider your options. In the meantime, use the rest of today to take a ride out to Newport. The mansion's less than an hour's drive from here. This is the address. Look it over. See what you think. Stop by my office tomorrow on your way home. You can give me your answer then." He paused, flourished a business card. "Here's my card. Call if you need anything."

Automatically, Lindsey took it, although she looked reluctant to do so.

"Looking costs you nothing other than time, Miss Hall. And a day might shed new perspective on what I know must be an emotional situation."

She nodded. "Very well." She turned to go.

"Oh, one more thing." Leland rummaged through the papers on his desk, extracted another business card. "Here."

"What's this?" She frowned, taking the card. Her frown deepened as she saw the name and phone number on it. "Nicholas Warner?"

"Yes, He's a major real estate developer in the Newport area, and a business associate of the Falkners."

"I know who he is, Mr. Masters. His name is in the newspapers almost as often as the Falkners'."

"True. In any case, he asked me to give you his number, just in case you decide to sell the house. He's very interested in buying it."

"Is he?" Lindsey's jaw tightened. "He didn't waste any time. Or is it just that he, like the Falkners, is so sure I'd prefer cash to property?"

Leland didn't respond, keeping his expression nondescript. "Whether or not you call him is up to you. As for the rest, give your inheritance some thought."

This time her nod was more definitive. "I intend to. She turned the keys over in her palm. "I'll ride out to Newport now. You'll have my decision by morning."

Leland watched her go, contemplating the ironies of life with bittersweet awareness. Then, he glanced down at the documents on his desk. "Well, Harlan," he murmured, "I did as you asked. I think you'd be pleased with the results."

2

Harlan Falkner must have known she'd fall in love with this place.

Lindsey came to the end of the winding gravel driveway, flipped off her windshield wipers, and turned off the engine. Hopping out of her modest Honda Civic, she stuffed her keys into her pocket strolling up the path and drinking in the structure before her with a combination of artistic appreciation and genuine awe.

It wasn't the most palatial estate she'd ever seen; certainly not glamorous enough to take its place on the Cliff Walk with the rest of Newport's historic mansions. Yet somehow that didn't matter. In fact, the manor's isolation and subtle grandeur gave it a distinctive flavor that enhanced rather than detracted from its beauty.

Set off by itself, the house stood amid acres of wooded land with the ocean as its backdrop. Gothic in design, it managed to combine the sophistication of a 19th-century mansion with the homeyness of a country cottage. Even the cold rain, gray skies, and restless ocean waters of the blustery May afternoon couldn't lessen its charm. It was lovely.

Lindsey pulled her windbreaker more closely around her, shivering a little as the rawness of the day penetrated her thin cotton sweater and jeans. This spring had been exceptionally cold and dismal. Not to mention that it was much chillier here by the ocean. She'd have to remember that and dress accordingly the next time she came - if there was a next time.

She climbed the five stone steps leading to the manor's front door and let herself in. The musty smells of long-time abandonment greeted her. That, and dust. It was everywhere, making her eyes water and her nose burn. She blinked away the tears that stung behind her lids, reaching over to test the light switch.

It worked.

The overhead chandelier came on. Its dozens of tiny bulbs were enough to illuminate not only the entranceway but a good portion of the main floor.

The rooms were huge, rich with mahogany floors and paneling. The walls were bare, but there were marks on the plaster indicating places where paintings had once hung. The moldings were exquisite, the lines classic and impeccable.

She turned slowly, admiring the grace and charm that no amount of dust could hide.

It was a crime that no one had cared for this beautiful home. Circumstances had changed, was Mr. Masters's explanation. Lifestyles had changed. That might explain why the Falkners no longer came here, but it didn't explain why they hadn't had the place kept up. Obviously, Mr. Masters didn't choose to provide details. Fine. But who could desert such a magnificent treasure?

The same man who'd deserted her mother.

Lindsey felt that familiar knot tighten her stomach. Five million dollars. To think what that kind of money would mean to her mother. Irene Hall had been cleaning houses for thirty years. She was worn out, partly from physical labor, partly from the emotional burden of raising a child alone and on a domestic's income.

It had improved a little these past few years. Lindsey was making enough money now to afford a decent two-bedroom apartment for her mother and herself. And her mother was only working three days a week now, instead of six. But even that was too much.

Today's announcement could change all that.

Lindsey approached the winding staircase, pausing to trail her fingers along the smooth surface of the banister, and gazed up toward the second story. Almost mechanically, she began to climb.

She couldn't help thinking how taken her mother would be by this house. Irene loved old manors. Many nights when Lindsey was sprawled out on the living room floor, working on architectural plans to restore an old mansion, her mother would sink into the sofa, exhausted from her day and yet fascinated by what Lindsey was doing. She'd watch, asking questions and expressing her admiration for the buildings' structure and design.

She'd adore this place. And if she could live here...   She could. If Lindsey kept it.

The battle that had been going on inside Lindsey's head since her meeting with Leland Masters roared back to life.

She wanted nothing from Harlan Falkner. Nothing.

Still, a little voice inside her contended, what would be gained by refusing her inheritance? What would she be proving by signing away her rights to this manor, along with the fortune that went with it? The man she'd be lashing out at was dead. He'd never feel the sting of her retaliatory gesture. So what point did it serve? How would it hurt him? More important, how would it help her - by salvaging her pride? Pride didn't pay the bills. Nor did it offer her mother a shred of what she'd been denied all these years. She was entitled to that money -  to that, and so much more.

True, Lindsey could sell the manor. That would solve her problem neatly. It would sever all ties to the Falkners, and leave her with a fortune in cash. She had a ready buyer. From what Mr. Masters said, Nicholas Warner was eager to take the place off her hands.

Why? Did he plan to restore it himself?

She shuddered in distaste. The man was a real estate developer, not to mention a big-time entrepreneur. The only thing he could want was to transform this magnificent dwelling into some ostentatious palace he'd then sell at a huge profit. Or worse, he could opt to turn it into a tourist attraction.

Odd that Harlan Falkner hadn't sold it to him already. He and Nicholas Warner were close business associates. Their respective fortunes had been co-invested time and again, the results of which were splashed across the pages of the business section. They shared the society pages, too, she reminded herself, traveling in the same circles, mingling with the same highly visible, affluent crowd. Nicholas Warner and Stuart Falkner, Harlan's son, had attended Harvard together. They were fast friends on the same fast track, chasing -  or being chased by - a parade of fast women.

The frivolity of it all made her sick.

Still, that didn't answer her question. Why hadn't Harlan Falkner sold this property to Nicholas Warner rather than keep it only to neglect it so shamefully?

Some piece of the puzzle was missing. But what?

Lindsey had just stepped across the threshold of what had to be the master bedroom, when she heard the front door open, then click quietly shut.

She froze, standing rigidly as footsteps moved across the front hall.

Abruptly, she realized how isolated this place was, how vulnerable she'd left herself, and how stupid she'd been to leave the front door unlocked. The summer season didn't begin till Memorial Day, maybe later, if the weather didn't improve. That was three weeks away. Which meant very few people were around. And in this isolated section of town, no one was around. Any troublemaker or criminal could walk in and...

Reason intruded, stifled that thought. This neck of the woods might be isolated, but it was hardly a haven for vagrants. Conversely, by virtue of its deserted state, it wouldn't attract thieves. So, whoever had just walked in must have a purpose. Plus, her already-existing presence was hardly a secret. The first floor lights were on. The door was ajar. Her car was in the driveway.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the stairway, loudly making her descent. "Hello?"

"Hello," a cultured baritone replied.

Definitely not a criminal.

She descended the rest of the way, her visitor revealed by bits and pieces as she did. He was a walking advertisement for J. Crew, she observed, seeing first his docksiders, then his khakis, and finally his navy crewneck sweater. His arms were folded across his chest, one broad shoulder propped lazily against the wall as he watched her approach. His features were patrician, his raven-black hair thick, glistening with droplets of rain, his eyes a probing dark blue.

That probing gaze took her in from head to toe. "I hope I didn't frighten you."

Lindsey walked across the foyer and shook her head, tilting it back so she could meet his gaze. "You didn't. Although I am a little surprised to see you. Mr. Masters mentioned that you were interested in the property. But he didn't say you were chomping at the bit to the point where you'd follow me out here."

His lips quirked. "You obviously know who I am."

"I read the newspapers, Mr. Warner. You photograph accurately."

"And here I thought my pictures didn't do me justice."

"Newspaper shots rarely do anyone justice. But I'm sure you didn't ride out here for reassurance of your good looks."

She hadn't meant to sound quite so harsh. Clearly, her curt retort startled him. His dark brows rose ever so slightly, though he seemed more puzzled than offended.

"It's obvious we started out on the wrong foot, although I'm not sure why," he stated bluntly. "If it's because I frightened you when I walked in, I'm sorry. If it's because you resent my driving out here to talk to you, I didn't. I drove out to look over the property. I had no idea you'd be here. Actually, I'd planned on calling your hotel later and making an appointment to see you before you left for Connecticut."

"I see." She couldn't get angry at that. It was too honest - something she hadn't expected.

He extended his hand. "Let's try again. You must be Lindsey Hall. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Nicholas Warner."

Lindsey acknowledged the formal introduction with a polite smile and a handshake. "What gave me away -  my Connecticut plates or my key in the front door?"

"Both. That and your striking resemblance to Harlan."

She'd noticed that, too, if only from photos. Still, her stomach tightened at hearing the observation spoken aloud, "I'll take your word for it. Mr. Falkner and I never met." The strain was back in her voice. But she couldn't help it. This subject was her Achilles' heel.

"I know," Nicholas Warner replied quietly. "Harlan regretted that."

"Did he?" Skepticism laced her tone.

"Yes."

She averted her gaze, stared into the empty mahogany living room. "You knew him well."

"Almost twenty years. He gave me my first break, backed the real estate investment that launched my career. He was a complex man, a brilliant businessman. He built his reputation deal by deal and dollar by dollar."

"And his wife? His children?" Lindsey forced her gaze back to his. "Where did they factor into things?"

Nicholas Warner studied her for a moment, that probing blue stare boring through her. "Stuart and Tracy meant everything to Harlan. They were his legacy, his reason for building an empire. As for his wife, Camille is a lovely, fragile woman, I'm sure you know about her situation. It's hardly a secret. If you've scoured the newspapers enough to spot my picture, then I'm sure you've read about Camille's difficulties."

Slowly, Lindsey nodded. "She's confined to some estate-like psychiatric facility."

"Rolling Hills. And, yes, she's been there for about seven years."

"That's quite a while. Does her family visit her?" Lindsey had no idea why she was asking these questions. Each detail she learned cut through her like a knife. But somehow she had to know.

"They visit frequently, yes." Nicholas's tone was cautious, as if he were sifting through his information and providing only those facts he felt Lindsey was entitled to. "Tracy lives in Boston. She runs a division of her father's company there. She drives down every chance she gets. Stuart goes more often, usually several times a week, since he lives right in Providence. Harlan used to go with him."

"Mr. Falkner's death must have come as a horrible blow to his wife."

"It did. As I said, Camille is fragile. Harlan was her world. His visits were her lifeline."

Lindsey  swallowed  hard, thinking of her own mother's reaction when she'd read of Harlan Falkner's death. Her lips had trembled, and her eyes had filled with tears - tears she'd made sure were gone by the time she folded and put down the newspaper. She'd dismissed the subject and pretended to go about her business, as if what she'd just read had been any upsetting but impersonal item. Lindsey hadn't been fooled. Late that night, she'd heard her mother's muffled sobs as she'd privately mourned a man she'd never really had but never stopped loving.

So, yes, Camille Falkner had undoubtedly been shattered by her husband's death. But at least she'd been allowed her grief. And at least she'd been bound to him, legally and emotionally, and, as a result, had lost something tangible. What had Irene Hall lost? A dream. A wisp of memory that was almost three decades old.

The injustice of it made Lindsey's heart wrench.

"He really did wish he'd known you, Lindsey," Nicholas murmured, watching her face. "Honestly."

Emotional shutters descended inside her. She didn't even know this man. She certainly wasn't going to bare her scars to him. "It wasn't me I was thinking of. In any case, I appreciate your candor, Mr. Warner. I hope my questions weren't intrusive."

"They weren't. And it's Nicholas." He reached out, touched the sleeve of her windbreaker. "It's only natural that you'd be curious about your... about Harlan. I'd be happy to fill in whatever blanks I can. Why don't we go somewhere and grab a cup of coffee? We can talk. I'll tell you if you're overstepping."

He certainly knew the right things to say. And the right times to say them.

Perhaps too well.

He'd gone from being pleasantly impersonal to warmly empathetic in a matter of minutes.

Lindsey had the uncomfortable feeling she was being manipulated.

And she could think of just one reason why.

"There's one blank you can fill in right away," she tested. "And that's your role as prospective buyer of this house. I've been racking my brain, and I've come up empty. Why didn't Mr. Falkner sell the manor to you before now? Clearly, he didn't want it. It's been vacant for years. So why wait?"

The barest hint of a pause. "That's easy. He wanted to give you first dibs."

"After he was dead."

"After it was too late for Stuart and Tracy to try talking him out of his decision. A will is binding. It made the choice of whether or not you owned the manor solely yours to make. If you sell, it won't be because you were deprived of the opportunity to own this place. It will be because you don't want it."

Another honest reply. Maybe she was being overly suspicious.

Maybe.

"Okay, suppose that's true," she conceded. "My next question is, why would you want to buy it? You're a successful real estate developer. You work on projects that yield huge profits. Why would you want a single, neglected Georgian manor? Restoring it would be a huge undertaking and a minimal profit-maker."

This time the pause was longer, more pronounced, and Lindsey had the feeling she was about to find out what it was about Nicholas Warner that made her so uneasy.

"Because I have plans for the land," he said at last. "Plans that could give lots of people a chance to wake up to a view of the ocean each day."

"The land?" Lindsey blinked. "Lots of people? I'm not following you."

"I'm not going to restore the manor, Lindsey. I'm going to build condos. A cluster of luxury townhouses nestled in the middle of the thirteen acres - "

"Condos?" Lindsey spat out the word as if it were poison. So that was it. He wanted to demolish something he knew she'd want to preserve.

She backed away, whatever camaraderie there had been developing between them blown to bits. "You want to destroy this magnificent manor so you can build some condos?"

"You make it sound as if I said prisons. I'm talking about tasteful structures of wood and cedar shakes, constructed so they blend in with the natural setting - "

"I don't care if you said miniature Taj Mahals." Lindsey's palm sliced the air, effectively cutting off whatever else he'd been about to say. "The answer is no. Absolutely no. You're not razing this beautiful house to the ground. You're not tearing down one brick, not one wooden tread. And you're definitely not replacing it with some garish, high-priced townhouses."

She flipped up the hood of her windbreaker, marched around him, and headed for the door. "You can keep your cup of coffee, Mr. Warner." She paused, facing him as she twisted the doorknob. "Oh, and thank you for making a difficult decision very easy. As of now, this manor is not for sale. Not at any price. I'm keeping it."

She stormed out of the house.

Nicholas listened to the crunching sound of tires on gravel, and then her car driving away. His smile faded, his lips tightening into a grim line.

Lindsey Hall was going to be a problem.

3

By the time Irene Hall got home from work the next night, Lindsey had just finished preparing a chicken casserole and popped it into the oven.

"Hi," she greeted her mother, tugging off her oven mitts and tossing them to the counter. She walked out of the tiny kitchen, giving her mother a tired smile.

Petite and slight of build, Irene appeared much younger than her fifty-one years - at least at first glance. It was only when one looked closer that one could see her chapped, overworked hands and the world-weariness in her eyes. Still, with her diminutive size, flaxen hair, and cornflower blue eyes, she looked all the world like a china doll - one that had been dragged around rather than allowed to sit on a shelf and be admired.

"You look exhausted," Lindsey said gently, walking over to give her mother a hug. "Sit down and relax. Dinner will be ready in less than an hour."

Irene smoothed a strand of pale hair off her forehead and studied her daughter, her fine features tightening with concern. "An hour" she repeated quietly. "Good. That gives us a chance to talk."

Lindsey averted her gaze. "There's not that much to talk about. I can recap the past day in about five minutes."

"I beg to differ with you. There's a lot to talk about. And I don't only mean the past day. I mean the past twenty-six years. This talk is long overdue." Irene's firm tone surprised Lindsey. Her mother was always soft-spoken and gentle, her personality as delicate as her appearance. Now she sounded adamant.

"Lindsey, I was here when Mr. Masters called and asked you to come to Providence. I might not be aware of the specifics, but I am aware of what, or rather who, prompted the call. I'm also aware that you purposely got back here this morning with just enough time to shower, change, and rush off to work. You didn't want to talk then, and you don't want to talk now. Well, that's not going to fly. Not this time. I realize you're trying to protect me. But I don't need protection. I'm not some fragile piece of glass that's going to shatter if you mention Harlan's name." She broke off, a troubled expression darting across her face. "Quite the opposite, in fact. We need to have this talk - for more reasons than one. I should have insisted on it years ago."

She pointed at the cozy alcove that was their living room. "So let's both sit. Tell me what Mr. Masters said. Obviously, Harlan made provisions that involve you. What are they?"

Lindsey shot her a startled look. "Why would you assume that? I never even met the man."

"I'm right, though, aren't I?" her mother returned, a statement rather than a question.

"Yes. You're right" Lindsey walked over and settled herself on the sofa, waiting for her mother to follow suit. "The whole situation is pretty cut and dried," she went on to report. "The official reading of the will took place days ago. This was a post-reading arrangement made in advance by Harlan Falkner." She inclined her head, gazed quizzically at her mother. "Did you know he had a manor in Newport?"

A nostalgic smile. "I remember it, yes."

"Well, he left it to me. That and a huge chunk of cash. That's what Mr. Masters announced at our meeting." A bitter edge crept into Lindsey's voice. "I guess it was Mr. Falkner's way of rewarding me - sort of a payoff for not causing a family scandal."

"Is that what you think?"

Lindsey gave an exasperated sigh, letting her head fell forward and massaging the back of her neck. "What else is there to think? I could have shown up on his doorstep years ago, DNA evidence in hand, and announced that he was my father. I didn't. I guess that impressed him. It certainly relieved him of a lot of embarrassment and explanations. According to Mr. Masters, he followed my life and my career. He knew I loved restoring old homes. So, he left me his. Along with a few million in gratitude. End of story."

Irene sank back against the cushions, her shoulders sagging with regret "This is my fault." "Your fault?"

"Yes. I thought that filling in the blanks would make things worse. I was wrong." She twisted around to face her daughter. "Lindsey, did you turn down the manor? Because if you did, it was for the wrong reasons."

"I don't understand."

"Did you turn down the manor?" Irene pressed.

"No. Ironically not. I accepted it. It was either that or see it torn down and replaced with condos." Briefly, Lindsey filled her mother in on her meeting with Nicholas Warner, told her what he'd intended. "I can't allow that. The house is for too beautiful to be destroyed. Oh, I realize that accepting it is hypocritical, given how I feel about Harlan Falkner, but I have no choice. I won't let it be torn down. Besides," she added quietly, watching her mother's face. "I have another reason for wanting to keep it. I want you to have it. I want you to make it your home."

Irene swallowed, her lips quivering a bit. "My home..."

"I don't know how well you remember the manor," Lindsey rushed on, determined not to let her mother refuse this well-deserved gift, "but it's elegant and homey all at once. The ocean is close enough to wake you in the morning and lull you to sleep at night. Right now, the house is barren, with no furniture or decorations to enhance its charm, but even so there's something so special about - "

"I remember every detail of the place," Irene interrupted quietly. "You were conceived there."

Lindsey went very still. "Oh," she said at last "I had no idea."

"You had no idea of many things." Irene replied. "All you know is that I was a maid in Harlan's house, that he slept with me, got me pregnant, then gave me enough money to take care of the problem and sent me off. That's all you ever wanted to know. But I should have insisted. I should have forced you to listen."

"To listen to what? The fact that you were in love with him? That you're still in love with him? Mom, I didn't need to hear that. I knew it."

"What you didn't know, what you never wanted to hear, is that Harlan was in love with me, too. Maybe not enough to turn his back on Camille, certainly not enough to alienate his children and blow his family to bits, but he did love me, Lindsey."

Lindsey spread her hands in a gesture of disbelief. "Then why didn't he come to you? Why didn't he offer you something, anything, besides enough cash for an abortion? Why didn't he - "

"He did."

A start of surprise. "What?"

Irene folded her hands in her lap, stared sadly down at them. "He came to me several times. First, when I announced I was going through with the pregnancy and having his child, not getting rid of it. Next, after you were born, to lay eyes on his daughter. And again, when you were about ten. Each time he offered me money, help, his influence in finding a better job. Anything. Anything but what I really wanted: him."

Irene wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Each time he came, I refused his offers and sent him away. I told him he'd given up any rights to you and certainly any rights to me. I was proud in those days. The way I saw it, either he loved me enough to leave his family and marry me, or I wanted nothing to do with him. I wouldn't take his money. And I wouldn't publicly acknowledge him as your father - although on his last visit, he pushed me to do that, and damn the consequences. But I refused, and not because I was trying to spare him or his family. You're the one I was worried about. It was hard enough for you as it was, being the child of a faceless, nameless man who'd abandoned me. But being Harlan Falkner's bastard? That would have ruined your life. I finally managed to convince him of that, and he went away for good. But it doesn't surprise me that he kept track of your life and followed your career. I'm not even shocked that he left you the Newport estate. I'm just glad you accepted it."

Lindsey glanced away, trying to process all her mother had just said, feeling equal amounts of pain and relief at the realization that Harlan Falkner wasn't the total monster she'd believed him to be.

It was true that she'd resisted any discussion of him. She hadn't wanted to hear anything personal about him, especially not the details of his relationship with her mother. It was too hurtful to think about how he'd used and abandoned Irene, how easily he'd cut her and his unborn child from his life. By knowing nothing more about him than that, other than what the media provided, Lindsey could reciprocate in kind. She could wipe him from her mind and her heart. He was genetically responsible for her conception. Period.

Until now. Her mother's explanation had just given Harlan Falkner dimension, made him a flesh-and-blood man - a man who'd taken steps to reach out to her mother and acknowledge his child.

"I realize this is the last thing you wanted to hear," Irene murmured. "You were more comfortable hating him."

"Okay, so he loved you. He offered you help. But ultimately you ended up raising me alone," Lindsey pointed out faintly, feeling vulnerable and hating the fact that she did.

"That's true. And I resented Harlan for that, at least, at the beginning. Actually longer. I resented him until a few years after the last time I sent him away. Then life stepped in. I got older. I gained perspective and set aside pride." Irene covered Lindsey's hand with her own. "Life's not black-and-white. In a perfect world, Harlan would have divorced Camille, married me, and the two of us would have raised you together. But he already had a family - including two small children he loved and was committed to. Stuart was only eight when you were conceived, and Tracy was five. What should he have done - deserted them? He was torn. And I wouldn't so much as entertain a compromise. I shut the door in his face - literally - not once, but three times. He had no choice but to accept my decision."

"There's always a choice, Mom." Lindsey ran a shaky hand through her hair. "But it doesn't matter anymore. He's dead. The what-ifs might as well die, too."

Irene cleared her throat, indicating that she thought Lindsey's suggestion was impossible, and that she realized Lindsey knew the same. "What about the manor?" she asked. "What arrangements have you made?"

"I told Mr. Masters I was keeping it. I have an appointment with him later this week to sign the necessary papers." Lindsey faced her mother, the enthusiasm that had accompanied her plans for Irene's move tempered by what she'd just learned. "You and Mr. Falkner... I didn't know it happened there. If I had the place not only restored but completely redone, would you be able to live there? Or are the memories too strong and too painful?"

A wistful smile touched Irene's lips. "I know you can't understand this, but when I think of my time with Harlan, I don't feel pain. I feel joy. We didn't have a sleazy affair. He didn't take advantage of me. I was a grown woman of twenty-four, trying to save up enough money to go back to school and make something of myself. I didn't plan on falling in love with my employer. He didn't plan on falling in love with me. It just happened. What's more, out of our relationship came the greatest treasure of my life - you. So, no, the memories wouldn't keep me away. But, my goodness, a house of that size... restoring it will cost a fortune. Not to mention keeping it up..."

"I have more than enough to do both, and then some. If you add up what Mr. Falkner left me, it's worth five million dollars. And you're the one who deserves to enjoy it." Lindsey's heart grew lighter as she spoke, delivering an announcement she'd dreamed of making for years. "You can stop working, Mom. Right away. The money will be transferred to my account by next week. Give notice to all the families you work for. Tell them you're going back to school - finally - after you take the summer off. For the next few months, you'll be a lady of leisure. Sleep late. Read the newspaper. Go to museums, restaurants, the theater. Take a trip. You always wanted to see Paris. Now you can."

Irene looked dazed, a glow of anticipation staining her cheeks.

"If Harlan Falkner cared for you as much as you say, he'd want you to have this," Lindsey added. It was speculation, meant as leverage. Still, she couldn't help but wonder if it was true. "Maybe that's why he left me the manor and the money to begin with. If he truly did keep track of my life, he knew how close you and I are. And he'd realize I'd share my inheritance with you. Wouldn't he?"

Before Irene could answer, the doorbell rang.

Squeezing her mother's hand, Lindsey rose. "I'll get that. You start making plans. Begin with the trip to Paris."

She went into the hall. "Who is it?" she called, simultaneously peering through the peephole.

"Stuart Falkner."

She stiffened. Her narrow field of view revealed an impeccable silk tie and white shirt. Great, Stuart Falkner. What did he want?

There was only one way to find out.

She flipped the latch and opened the door.

Just as she'd recognized Nicholas Warner from his photos, Lindsey did the same with Stuart Falkner. He was tall and lean, his toned physique the obvious result of work-outs at the gym. His suit was an expensive European cut whose fit screamed custom-tailored. And his light brown hair was cut short, brushed off a high forehead, which made his already aristocratic features seem even regal, his dark eyes even more intense.

Lindsey wished she didn't, but she saw the resemblance between them.

So did he. She read it in his expression as he studied her in amazement, assessed her from head to toe. "Lindsey Hall?"

One pale brow arched. "I think you've already guessed as much, but yes. What can I do for you, Mr. Falkner?"

He managed a wry grin. "That seems like a stupid formality, wouldn't you say?"

She couldn't dispute that. "I suppose so."

"Then let's get past it. As for what you can do for me, how about inviting me in?"

With an uncertain nod, Lindsey stepped aside. "Of course. Come in."

He stepped inside, looking off-balance and unused to being so. "This is bizarre," he blurted out. "I was half-prepared to find out you were a fraud. Not that my father makes mistakes like that. He doesn't. But one look at you . . ." He drew in his breath. "You're my father's child. My half-sister. And I never even knew you existed."

Lindsey hadn't expected this. She'd assumed Stuart had come to put her in her place, maybe to announce he meant to contest her inheritance, certainly to make sure she didn't intend to squeeze a dime more out of his family than was absolutely necessary. Emotions never factored into her thinking.

"On the other hand, you did know about me," Stuart added. "And about Tracy. Weren't you ever curious? Curious enough to look us up?"

Lindsey maintained her composure. "I didn't have to look you up. Anything I ever wanted to know I could read in the papers. Other than that..." She feathered her fingers through her hair. "It's complicated... Stuart."

"I'm sure it is." The scent of the casserole wafted out from the kitchen, and Stuart turned, sniffing. "I've interrupted your dinner. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's just a casserole. And it won't be ready for another twenty minutes." Lindsey gestured for him to go into the living room. "Have a seat. Our liquor cabinet is limited, but I could fix you a drink."

"Just some water would be great." He waited while Lindsey got two bottles from the kitchen fridge. He started following her into the living room, then halted when he saw Irene rise from the sofa. "This must be your mother."

Irene nodded, a kind of faraway sadness in her eyes. "Hello, Stuart. You've certainly grown since the last time I saw you. You were eight. You were just learning how to play lacrosse."

He smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Then again, how could Lindsey blame him? Irene was the "other woman" - a woman who'd slept with his father and given birth to his father's child, none of which Stuart had known about until a few days ago. "I haven't played lacrosse since college," he replied with forced cordiality. "But, yes, I did learn that summer. Forgive me, I don't remember you."

"I didn't expect you to." Putting an end to the tension, Irene headed toward the kitchen. "I'll check on the casserole. You and Lindsey stay in there and talk."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that." Stuart waited until she'd gone. Then, he turned to Lindsey. "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that this whole situation is damned uncomfortable, to say the least."

"I understand." Lindsey took a gulp of water and perched at the edge of the sofa cushion. "I doubt you came all this way just to introduce yourself."

"No, I didn't." He cleared his throat, lowered himself to the armchair. "I'm here about the manor."

"Just the manor, or the money, too?"

Stuart's bottle of water halted halfway to his lips. Slowly, he lowered his arm, turning to give Lindsey an incredulous look. "You think I want to challenge your claim?"

"Do you?"

He shook his head. "It's pretty obvious you're his child."

"Pretty obvious. To a man as prominent as you, that wouldn't be enough. You'd want definitely. You'd want proof."

"What I want is to keep this from becoming a field day for gossip columnists. I want my father's name protected."

"In other words, you'd prefer this stay quiet. My stepping forward with proof would support your father's belief that I'm his daughter, but tarnish his image."

"Something like that, yes." A pause. "Lindsey, I'll be blunt. I want to buy you out."

Lindsey swallowed hard, as the impact of what he was saying sank in. "You're not just talking about the manor. You're talking about buying my silence. Your plan is that my paternity stay our little secret."

Stuart shifted uncomfortably. “I'm sorry if that sounds cold or conniving, but I have to think of my family. So tell me, how much would it take?"

A cool stare. "I'm not for sale, Stuart. Not at any price. I'm afraid you've driven a long way for nothing." She came to her feet with an air of finality. "If it eases your mind, I don't intend to make any public statements. In fact, I plan to avoid the press altogether. I'm not interested in proclaiming my identity to the world. If people wonder why Harlan Falkner left part of his estate to me, that's their problem. However, if the truth does manage to leak out, I'm afraid that's your problem. I realize you have family to consider, especially your mother. But I have to think of my mother. She's been denied a great deal. I'm giving the manor to her as a gift. Your father... our father... wanted us to have it."

Lines of tension tightened Stuart's mouth, and he, too, stood. "You mean he wanted your mother to have it. Well, you're wrong. If that were the case, he would have transferred title to her years ago. The place has been vacant for ages. We never use it."

"Then you won't miss it." Lindsey set down her water with a thud. "I'm sure you think I'm being spiteful. I'm not. But, with all due respect, a scandal pales beside a lifelong injustice. You have a name, financial security, established family ties. You've never done without. Not a day in your life. I have. More important, my mother has. She's scrubbed floors for twenty-six years to make enough money to provide for the child your father helped create."

"I'm prepared to offer you millions. When you add that to the millions Father left you, you can buy your mother two mansions and a staff of servants for each, then hand her a pension the size of Connecticut. That's a great deal of financial security."

"You haven't been listening. This isn't only about money." Lindsey hesitated, choosing her words carefully. She wasn't about to divulge the intimate details of her conception. "My mother has a special fondness for that manor. Your father knew that. That's why he made it part of my inheritance. That, and the fact that he found out I love restoring old mansions." A sudden thought struck. "Are you aware that Nicholas Warner wants to buy the house and tear it down to build condos?"

A muscle in his jaw flexed. "I'm aware of it."

"Of course you are. And you'd sell it to him in a New York minute before you'd let me have it." She pressed her lips together. "Well, unfortunately, you don't have that option. I'm keeping the manor."

The finality of her words sliced the air, and Stuart made a frustrated sound, averting his gaze as he did. Lindsey could have sworn she saw a flash of panic there, but it was gone by the time he looked back at her. "I respect your feelings," he said evenly. "I'm asking you to respect mine. Your appointment with Leland isn't for three days. Use that time to think."

It was no surprise that Stuart knew her timetable for returning to Providence. Lindsey had the feeling the Falkners knew everything that concerned them. "I'll think over what you said. But, I'm giving you fair warning. I don't expect to change my mind."

"I hope you do - for everyone's sake."

4

Leland masters wasn't alone when Lindsey arrived at his office that Friday. Pacing near the windows was a tall, slender woman in her early thirties. Her chin-length blond hair was cut in a blunt, fashionable style, her slate gray eyes were highlighted with just the right amount of makeup, and she was wearing a suede suit that screamed money.

Tracy Falkner.

"So you're Lindsey."

It didn't take long for Lindsey to deduce her half-sister's state of mind. Tracy marched over, scrutinizing her as if she were a piece of jewelry being considered for purchase.

"Yes," Lindsey replied coolly. "And you're Tracy."

Mr. Masters rose from behind his desk. "I agreed to delay our appointment for five minutes," he informed Lindsey, silently conveying that their transaction, when it was held, would indeed be private. "But Tracy wanted to meet you."

"That's fine." Lindsey nodded.

Tracy smoothed a strand of hair off her forehead. "Stuart was right. You do resemble Father, in a fragile sort of way." She gave an offhanded shrug. "As for why I wanted to meet you, it was to stop this ridiculous idea you have of taking title to the Newport manor. You work in Connecticut. The commute would be impossible. You'd be gone fifteen hours a day. That would leave your mother virtually alone. The house is over ten thousand square feet, with thirty rooms. She'd get lost in it."

Pausing, Tracy walked over to the chair, pulled some papers out of a briefcase she'd placed there. "According to my private investigator, you owe two thousand five hundred thirty dollars in various loans," she announced, scanning the pages. "Your car still isn't paid off. Your mother earns a daily sum of one hundred twenty dollars - and that's if she doubles up and cleans two houses a day rather than one. As for you, your salary is laughable. You should be earning four times what you do. You would be, if you worked in Stamford or Greenwich, rather than that poky little town you live in. Actually, you have the talent but not the resources to start your own architectural firm."

Lindsey was shaking with anger. "You had me investigated?"

"Of course." Tracy sounded surprised she'd be asked. "Did you honestly think I'd just accept you as my sister, no questions asked?" She tossed the papers aside without waiting for an answer. "When Stuart came to see you, he didn't mention a figure. I will. Eight of them, in fact. How does ten million dollars sound to you? Enough to make you walk away?"

Leland Masters was on his feet. "Tracy, for heaven's sake..."

She waved away his protest. "I won't cut into your time, Leland. My business with Lindsey is almost over."

"Correction," Lindsey returned, so outraged she could scarcely think, much less speak. "Our business is over - now. I don't want your money. I don't want your approval. In fact, I want nothing from you. So, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting scheduled with Mr. Masters."

Tracy's jaw dropped. "You still intend to go through with this?"

"Without batting an eyelash."

Before Tracy could retaliate, Leland Masters intervened, his tone stiff. "It's time Miss Hall and I got started, Tracy. I'll be in touch later today."

Twin spots of red stained Tracy's cheeks, and Lindsey had the distinct feeling no one had ever refused her anything before now. "Fine. You can reach me at Stuart's house." An icy stare. "I'm not going back to Boston until this ludicrous situation is resolved."

She whisked out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Mr. Masters gave an awkward cough. "I apologize for that scene. Tracy is used to getting what she wants."

"So I gathered," Lindsey returned dryly. Her chin came up, and she met Mr. Masters's gaze. "I'm ready to sign those papers now."

Two hours later, Lindsey turned onto the private road leading to what was now her estate. She was still bristling from the altercation with Tracy, the drive to Newport having done nothing to quiet her outrage. Relax, she chided herself as she made her way down the winding driveway. There's a lot of work to do and no time to dwell on the tantrums of a spoiled snob.

She'd purposely chosen a Friday to take title and ride out to the manor. It gave her a whole weekend to spend taking notes, making detailed sketches, and placing the necessary phone calls to contractors. She'd already made a huge dent in the process. Her sketchbook was brimming with potential floor plans she'd burned the midnight oil drafting over the past three sleepless nights. Not only that, but her mother's European trip was booked, her itinerary set. She'd be leaving in ten days, and spending a month abroad - two weeks in Paris and a week each in Rome and London. If Lindsey had her way, Irene would get back to find her new home well on its way to completion.

As if on cue the manor came into view, and Lindsey felt a surge of anticipation as she studied it. The exterior was mostly stone and brick, needing only the most minor repairs to renew it. And the interior, a great portion of which was mahogany and oak, needed only a good cleaning and polishing to restore its natural beauty. After that came the redesigning, the minor structural changes, and the -

Abruptly, Lindsey's thoughts broke off, and she frowned as she spotted another car parked in front of the door - the open door. She didn't have to guess who the car belonged to. She recognized the silver BMW from when she'd stormed out of here the last time.

Nicholas Warner.

He appeared in the doorway as she turned off her ignition and climbed out of the driver's seat. "Hello again," he said, descending the steps, his navy sports coat and crisp open-necked shirt indicative of the fact that he was in the middle of a business day.

"What are you doing here?" Lindsey asked, her voice tight.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, his hooded gaze flickering over her, then settling on her lace.

She'd forgotten how intense those probing blue eyes were.

"Looking for some papers I had with me last time I was here. I have a key; I thought I'd mentioned that."

"Did you? I don't recall. But it won't matter after today. I'm having the locks changed." Lindsey wasn't feeling in a charitable mood - not after her earlier scene with Tracy.

Nicholas's brows rose. "Aren't you overreacting a bit?"

"Why? Because I want to make sure only my mother and I have access to our home?"

"No, because you're taking my head off. I'm a friend of the family, checking to see if I left my notebook here. You're acting like you just found a thief ransacking the place."

"Maybe that's the way I feel." Lindsey broke off, realizing she sounded irrational. True, she didn't like what Nicholas Warner stood for, whom he associated with, or what his plans had been for this manor. But that didn't justify venting the fury she was feeling toward the Falkners at him.

"I'm sorry" she said, feathering a hand through her hair. "I'm taking my foul mood out on you. It's been a rough couple of days."

"So I gathered. Is this all the result of your inheritance?"

She gave him a measured look. "More or less. Let's just say I'm making a tough transition." A wary pause. "I assume you know I took title to the manor today?"

"Now how would I know that?"

"Do I really need to answer that?"

A corner of Nicholas's mouth lifted. "Are you always so difficult?"

The blunt question caught Lindsey off guard and, despite her tension - or maybe because of it - she found herself giving a rueful laugh. "I never thought so. But when it comes to the Falkners, yes, I guess I am."

"Then let's not talk about the Falkners. Let's talk about something else - like that cup of coffee we never had." He slipped easily into the role of social orchestrator, studying her intently as he did. "I know a place that serves great cappuccino, iced or hot. And a great sandwich, too, if you happen to be hungry."

Which she was, Lindsey realized suddenly. She glanced at her watch, surprised to see that it was nearly one o'clock. As if to confirm that fact, her stomach gave a purposeful growl.

Nicholas chuckled. "Ah, I see I've struck a chord. I might not measure up to your principles, but I managed to appeal to your more basic instincts. Come." He gestured toward his car. "I'll feed you."

Lindsey hesitated, as uneasy as she'd been at their first meeting, and as uncertain of Nicholas's motives. True, she'd turned him down flat on his offer to buy the manor. That didn't mean he'd given up trying. This second conversation was no less highly-charged than the first, fluctuating from tense to friendly to adversarial, ricocheting from one to the other like a stray bullet. Okay, so part of the reason for that was her defensiveness toward him - who he was, his relationship to the Falkners. But part of it was also skepticism with regard to his sincerity. What exactly was he after? Had he really given up his notion of buying the house? He seemed genuine enough, as if his only goal was to make her transition easier. So was it just his natural magnetism speaking, or did he have a more backhanded agenda, like softening her up for the kill?

She stopped in her tracks, eyeing his car but not making a move toward it. "I really can't take the time for lunch. I have so much to do, so many details to work out. I've only got a few days."

"You can't work on an empty stomach," he reasoned, and Lindsey noticed he didn't ask for any specifics about her initial restoration plans. Could that be because he didn't expect them to happen?

It was time to check out her suspicions.

"True" she agreed. "But we can accomplish both - filling my stomach and letting me get started. I could stay here and work. In the meantime, you could ride into town, buy me a sandwich and a cappuccino, and bring them back. Now that would be a godsend."

Silence.

"Not what you had in mind, is it?" she asked, a caustic edge to her words.

“No," he returned flatly. "Its not."

"And why's that? Could it be because you want an hour to try winning me over again? Could you be looking for another chance to convince me to sell you the manor?"

Nicholas's jaw set.

Lindsey sighed, massaging her throbbing temples and feeling overwhelmingly weary. "Let's not play games, Nicholas. I'm not up for it. Just lay your cards on the table. I deal much better with honesty than with manipulation. Is all this about charming me into selling you the manor?"

"In part. Most of it is about charming you into bed."

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him in amazement, wondering if she could possibly have heard him right.

The watchful expression on his face told her she had.

"A bit too honest, huh?" he murmured. "I'm not surprised. I got the feeling you weren't exactly used to the direct approach."

For the life of her, Lindsey couldn't think of a thing to say.

"Are you offended, furious, or still convinced I'm playing games?"

Visualizing the number of women she'd seen draped on his arm in newspaper photos, Lindsey slowly shook her head. "None of the above. I'm just stunned. Then again, I shouldn't be. I might not be your usual type but, then again, maybe that's the appeal. A conquest from the other side of the tracks; variety is the spice of life, and all that. I guess it's ridiculous for me to be surprised. Picking up women is standard operating procedure for you."

For the first time he looked rankled, tiny sparks of anger darting in his eyes. "Thanks for the assessment. Do you know, for a woman who keeps herself at arm's length so no one will get too close, you have no trouble inserting yourself in other people's lives. You don't want to be judged, but you're pretty quick to judge others."

Lindsey was taken aback, not only by his annoyance but by his appraisal of her. It was true she kept herself at arm's length, but she normally wasn't intrusive or judgmental. Yet here she was being both. And as for the touchiness he'd picked up on... "What makes you think I'm concerned about being judged?"

"The fact that you're so incensed by the Falkners' reaction to you. The defensive way you're responding to the knowledge that you're Harlan's daughter. The way you're sheltering your mother like she's some eighteenth-century mistress who's being whispered about at quilting bees. This is the twenty-first century, Lindsey. No one cares that your mother had a child out of wedlock, or that that child happens to be Harlan Falkner's. The tabloids will have a field day, sure, but they have a field day with everything concerning the Falkners. It'll blow over. It always does."

Lindsey drew a slow breath and turned away, feeling unnerved and off-balance, and not totally certain why. "You're probably right. But I'm a lot more provincial than the crowd I assume you're used to. My values are different. So are my priorities. I'm not used to being the center of a scandal, or to subjecting my mother to one."

"I guessed as much."

Lindsey stared at the ground, pondering his original admission. "With regard to the manor, I'm not going to change my mind. It's not for sale."

"I guessed that, too. But I'm a good businessman. I had to try." A whisper of a pause. "As for the rest, don't be so shocked. Okay, so I'm frank. I don't like playing games any more than you do. Yes, I want you. That shouldn't come as a surprise. You're a beautiful woman - a very beautiful woman."

"Thanks - I think." She'd be lying if she denied being pleased by the compliment. It wasn't one she heard often. By her own choice, she didn't date much. She had neither the time nor the trust when it came to men. Being admired by a charismatic guy like Nicholas Warner felt surprisingly good.

Maybe too good.

"Just to clarify those values I mentioned, I don't jump into bed with a stranger, no matter how charming and well-known he might be," she announced, setting the record straight for both their sakes.

"At least you think I'm charming." He didn't sound put off by her clearly stated boundaries. To the contrary, he sounded warm, teasing, whatever anger he'd been feeling having dissipated. He took a step closer, until she could smell the woodsy scent of his cologne. "As for being a stranger, I'd like to change that. So, tell me, am I charming enough to have lunch with?"

"As long as lunch is served in a public place and I'm not dessert," she heard herself quip.

My God, she'd just agreed to have lunch with Nicholas Warner. She must have lost her mind letting him get to her like this. But the truth was, it was more than his compliment, more than the knowledge that he wanted her, more even than his natural charm. None of those things would have been enough to sway her. There was something surprisingly real and down-to-earth about Nicholas, neither of which she'd expected and both of which she found appealing.

Laughter rumbled in his chest. "Fair enough. A busy restaurant and seven-layer-cake for dessert. Got it." His hand curved around her elbow and he propelled her toward his car. "Let's go."

"Just for an hour," she qualified. "I need to call several contractors before they disappear for the weekend."

"I'll have you back by two." Nicholas opened the passenger door, waited politely while she slid in. Then, he walked around to the driver's side, reaching into his pocket for the ignition key as he did.

He cast a quick glance at the house.

One hour.

He had his work cut out for him.

5

ROLLING HILLS LOOKED MORE LIKE A COUNTRY CLUB than a sanitarium.

With lush, sweeping grounds, an eighteen-hole golf course, an indoor swimming pool, and an enormous clubhouse - with one large room dedicated to bridge players, another to social gatherers - Rolling Hills was a resort-lover's dream, the uniformed staff and heavily secured front gates being the only indicators that this was indeed a place of confinement.

Stuart Falkner took an absent bite of his turkey club, watching as the nurses escorted a new patient over to the group playing croquet. The RNs introduced her around, encouraging her to join in. She was about forty, Stuart noted, wearing the same dazed, jittery expression all patients wore when they first arrived at Rolling Hills.

This place worked wonders.

"Sweetheart? Are you all right? You've scarcely touched your sandwich."

Stuart turned, smiling at the fragile-looking woman sitting in the lawn chair beside him. She was over sixty now, but with her soft brown hair, artless gray eyes and flawless complexion, she looked like a young, uncertain girl. She still was uncertain, in so many ways. The memory lapses, the occasional periods of fading out and retreating to her own little world - all that was still there, though greatly diminished in frequency and severity. The doctors had cautioned that chunks of her memory might never return. To Stuart's way of thinking, that was just as well. Bringing certain things to the surface would cost her nothing but pain, and she'd had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. She'd come such a long way from the broken woman he'd brought here seven years ago. Thanks to the incomparable treatment at Rolling Hills, she hadn't had a drink in ages or swallowed any pills other than those prescribed by the doctors in order to ensure her continued mental health.

Yes, Camille's physical and mental state had been on an upswing - until two weeks ago when her husband died. True, she'd known he'd had a heart condition. She'd also known his strength wasn't what it used to be. Not to mention that she hadn't truly lived as his wife for years. None of that had mattered. She'd fallen apart.

Stuart had expected it. Besides his own sense of grief and guilt, he'd been sick with worry over his mother's reaction to losing her beloved Harlan. He knew he had to be the one to tell her, but he'd dreaded it.

The doctors had been on hand. He'd told her gently, with as few details as possible. It hadn't helped much. She'd gone to pieces right in front of him. She'd lived on sedatives for the first few days, with Stuart spending every waking moment by her bedside. She'd alternately wept, stared endlessly off into space, and murmured endearments to Harlan.

It took a full week before she finally started to come out of it. And now, these past few days, she'd been almost herself again. The worst of the setbacks were over, the doctors assured him. She was eating her meals again, sleeping without the aid of sedatives, even doing a little reading. Those were all good signs.

The best sign of all was seeing her sitting beside him, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.

"I'm fine, Mother," he assured her, covering her hand with his. "Just not terribly hungry. I ate a huge breakfast with Tracy."

Camille's face lit up. "Tracy's in town?"

"Um-hum. And she'll be over to visit with you later. This way we don't have to share you. I have you as a lunch companion, and Tracy gets to spend dinner with you."

"How lovely." Camille squeezed Stuart's hand. "You both take such good care of me. I'm very lucky. Of course, Harlan always took good care of me. He watched over me like a hawk and made sure that - " She broke off, her lips trembling as she did.

"I know." Stuart looped an arm around his mother's narrow shoulders. "And he's watching over you still. I'm sure of it. He knows you're in good hands. Tracy and I will be here for you no matter what."

"Especially you," she whispered. "You've never let me down."

"And I never will." For the umpteenth time, Stuart thanked the heavens that he'd managed to keep his mother from finding out about Lindsey Hall. If she had any idea Harlan's bastard daughter had inherited the house in Newport...

She didn't. And she wouldn't.

Besides, it would soon be a moot point. After Nicholas worked his magic, the house would be theirs again.

Stuart shifted in his seat. Judging from the fact that lunch trays were being collected, he guessed it was sometime around two.

He wondered how the lunch in Newport was going.

*   *   *

"I've got to get back." Lindsey glanced at her watch, frowning as she saw the time. "It's late."

"Ah, the contractors." Nicholas set down his cappuccino mug, leaning back in his chair and crossing one long leg over the other. "I wouldn't worry; many of them are reachable all weekend long. Depending on the size of your project, of course."

Lindsey met his gaze, resting her elbows lightly on the table where her own cappuccino sat, still half-full. "The size of my project," she repeated. "Meaning that huge condo projects take precedence over small restoration ones."

"No, that's not what I meant." A sigh. "Are we back to verbal warfare again? I thought we'd gotten past that by now."

Studying him thoughtfully, Lindsey replied, "I'm not sure we'll ever get past that. I like you, Nicholas, but the truth is I don't quite trust you."

He looked more intrigued than bothered. "Trust me about what? That I've really given up trying to buy the manor, or that I haven't given up trying to take you to bed?"

No longer shocked by his directness, she shrugged. "It's not as cut and dried as that. Let's just say I have the distinct feeling there's more to you than meets the eye. What you do say I believe is candid. It's what you don't say that worries me."

"So now it's not only honesty you require, it's openness. Fair enough." He signaled to the waitress, turning back to Lindsey as the young girl hurried over, took Nicholas's credit card, and vanished.

Waiting only until they were alone, Nicholas shifted forward, folding his hands and looking Lindsey straight in the eye. "Here's openness for you," he stated abruptly, the easy banter that had accompanied their meal replaced by a quiet intensity Lindsey could actually feel. "I really want that manor. I'm determined to build those condos. Newport is one of the East Coast's hottest vacation spots. There's a growing need for luxury housing, not for the year-rounders or the mansion-buyers, but for those who want low-maintenance retreats that are theirs, not rentals. This way, they can get the tax benefits of ownership and use the place whenever they want. The rest of the time they're free to leave their unit vacant or rent it out. The project is a gold mine. I want to be the one to supply it. Is it ego? You bet. A desire to make money? Sure. But it's also more. It's good for the economy. It's good for the job market. It's good for the vacationers who've been priced out of the Newport housing market until now. So there you have it - my cards on the table, faceup."

Lindsey swallowed, feeling Nicholas's blue eyes boring into her, gauging her reaction. She knew full well what that reaction was, and she made sure to hide it even as she berated herself for feeling it. In a word, she was deflated. "So this whole lunch was about - "

''No." He cut her off. "This whole lunch was about getting to know you. That's the second part of this full disclosure you were looking for. I want the manor, yes. But I also want you. Don't confuse the two. I planned to make one last pitch for the house whether or not you agreed to come out with me. Consider this that pitch."

It wasn't that she didn't believe him. It was just that the whole thing felt so sordid.

Then again, he wouldn't understand that. He was raised in a different world, by different rules.

"I wasn't so wrong in my judgment of you after all," she murmured.

Nicholas's hand shot out, captured hers. "To the contrary, you were very wrong. You assumed I was some vapid jet-setter who regards life as a big party and who roars through it without morals, scruples, or principles. None of that's true. Okay, I'm ambitious. That's not a crime. I'm also tenacious as hell when it comes to business. But I don't live in a vacuum, consumed only by my own needs and wants. Fine, I'm rich. I'm successful. But I'm not shallow. I'm not a spoiled brat who's used to getting whatever he wants and who'll manipulate things, and people, until he does." A small flicker of amusement. "Oh, and I also don't sleep with every woman you see me photographed with. I'm thirty-five, not eighteen. My hormones took a backseat in my decision-making a long time ago."

Lindsey wanted to yank away her hand almost as much as she wanted to leave it where it was, the heat of his palm burning through her.

What was there about this man that confused and affected her so?

"Fine," she said tersely. "I stand corrected. I shouldn't have judged you. But I'm not selling you the manor. From what I saw, there's a lot of undeveloped land near the coast. Build your condos there."

His brows drew together. "Why?" he demanded. "Just answer me that. Is it because you're resentful toward me, or the Falkners - or both?"

"None of the above." She gulped down the last of her cappuccino. "I've already told you. It's because I believe Harlan Falkner wanted my mother to have the manor. I told the same thing to Stuart when he came to my apartment. Call it sentiment; call it whatever you want. I'm not expecting you to understand. But that house is going to remain hers. And, Nicholas, I won't change my mind."

For one long, silent minute he scrutinized her face. Then, he nodded. "All right." He paused to sign the bill and rip off his copy. "Consider the subject dropped."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"No strings?"

He grinned. "Just one. Take a stroll with me. Along the Cliff Walk. Just the first half mile or so. We won't have time to cover more than that - this time. The view is incredible, especially now that the rain has finally stopped and the sun is out. I won't bring up the subject of the house," he added quickly. "And ..." He whipped out his cell phone in anticipation of her next objection. "I'll call the contractors myself, ask them to meet with you over the weekend. That will free up your afternoon."

"You'd do that?"

"Watch." He punched up a few numbers, and spoke to people whose names Lindsey recognized as among those she'd scribbled down to call. It was clear from Nicholas's tone that he had solid working relationships with these men, and that they were more than willing to do his bidding.

Ten minutes later, he pressed end and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Done," he announced. "I'll write down the particulars for you. Plan on a busy weekend."

Lindsey pursed her lips, a few doubts still nagging at her. "I assume these contractors won't be coached between now and then?"

He stiffened, annoyance and resentment tightening his features. "If you mean, will I call them later and tell them to turn down the jobs you offer, no. I also won't call and ask them to talk you out of keeping the place. In fact, I won't be calling them at all. Satisfied?"

She felt a stab of guilt. After all, he'd just done her an enormous favor. And she was repaying him with accusations. "Yes. I'm sorry for that question. It was rude and unwarranted. I appreciate what you just did. Your making those calls will set things in motion much faster than if I'd cold-called the contractors myself. Thanks."

His tension vanished, an inquisitive look taking its place. "Does that mean you'll take that walk with me? I could show you the view your mother will be able to enjoy in a few months."

"Can you spare the time away?" A challenging twinkle. "After all, you have a lot of research to do to site your condo development."

"Don't worry about my research. It's very thorough." Decisively, Nicholas pushed back his chair, extending his hand to her as he did. "As for my being able to spare the time away, that's one of the perks of being my own boss. I answer only to myself."

"All right." Lindsey placed her fingers in his, and she couldn't help but start at the rush of palpable energy that surged between them. She shot a quick glance at Nicholas, but his lids were hooded, his expression enigmatic. He looked pensive, as if he were in deep thought about something. Was that something her, and whatever was happening between them? Or was it the unexpected monkey wrench she'd thrown in his path - the task of having to check out new land for his project?

Either way, he'd made it clear he wanted her.

What was becoming less clear was what she wanted to do about that.

6

Lindsey's uneasiness was temporarily sidetracked by nature in all its magnificence.

She stood on the Cliff Walk, leaning up against the fence, taking in the spectacular view of the ocean and inhaling the salty air. She tilted her face up to the sun, shutting her eyes and letting the breeze waft through her hair.

"You were right," she informed Nicholas. "This is amazing."

"Um-hum." He joined her at the rail, gazing out across the water with a look of pleasure and pride. "And this is just the Memorial Boulevard section of the walk. The view gets better and better."

Lindsey's eyes opened, and she shaded them from the sun as she peered down the coast as far as she could see. "How long is the Cliff Walk?"

"It starts where we came in and runs south along the coast for about three-and-a-half miles. The terrain changes along the way. In some spots, navigating can get tricky."

"Really? It seems tame enough."

"Where we're standing now it does," he clarified. He pointed south as the paved footpath rounded the bend and disappeared from view. "It gets rougher as you go along. The hike becomes much less civilized and a lot more dangerous. You need good shoes and a good head on your shoulders. In some sections, the vegetation runs right up to the edge of the cliffs. The drops are steep. Wandering off the path without knowing what you're doing could be fatal."

Nicholas stared off in that direction, a fine but distinct tension coming over him. "I've seen a few close calls," he continued, his tone and expression grave. "People get careless. Or foolish. They put their lives at risk."

Lindsey shuddered at his somber words, the image they conveyed. "How horrible. Remind me to stay away from those sections."

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated. "I think that's obvious. I'm not big on risking my life. I'd assume most people feel the same way."

"They do. So they keep their wits about them. But that doesn't keep them from exploring."

"They're not dissuaded by the danger?"

"Actually, they're enticed by it." Nicholas's entire demeanor changed. He turned toward her, taking a step closer, those probing eyes fixed on her face, heated sparks glimmering in their depths. "The wilder sections of the Cliff Walk are exquisite, Lindsey. They take your breath away. They make you feel alive and vibrant. They ignite your senses. What would life be like without that kind of cutting edge excitement?" He reached out, brushed a strand of hair off her face, then let his knuckles trail lightly across her cheek.

A tiny shiver rippled through her. "I'm not an expert on cutting edge excitement."

"Then let me introduce you to it."

Lindsey was well aware they were no longer discussing the Cliff Walk and, instinctively, she stepped back, breaking the contact. "Another time," she replied, averting her head and taking in the jagged edges of the cliffs that sloped down to the beach. "Today's not the day."

"When is? Pick it and it's yours."

"I don't know," she returned pointedly. "I've learned to be cautious when dealing with unfamiliar and dangerous situations. Otherwise things get out of hand. And, as you just said, that can lead to disaster."

"In certain cases, yes. In others, where the stakes aren't as dire and the possibilities are limitless, the pleasure is well worth the risk." It was clear Nicholas had heard Lindsey's message loud and clear - and that he meant to ignore it.

She cleared her throat. "Is it always so quiet here?" she blurted, changing the subject abruptly.

"Nope." He shook his head. "That'll end in a few weeks when vacation season gets under way. Then this area will be crammed with walkers, joggers, sightseers - you name it." A knowing grin. "Why? Looking for safety in numbers? If so, you don't have to wait for Memorial Day to explore the Cliff Walk. There's a two-hour tour given here every morning. We can take it. Although, frankly, I'd rather be your private tour guide. We can explore on our own, going at whatever pace makes you comfortable."

"You don't let up, do you?"

"Not when I want something, no."

Lindsey blew out her breath. "It's a moot point anyway. I'll be tied up with contractors all weekend, remember?"

"I remember." Nicholas paused, staring out over the water again, his expression nondescript. "Once the renovations get started, you'll be overseeing them, I assume?"

"Of course. I oversee all my projects. And in this case I own the house I'm restoring. I'll be out here for as much of the work as possible."

"What about your mother? Will she be driving out with you?"

"No, she's leaving for Paris in ten days to start the trip of a lifetime. As for me, I've got almost a month of vacation time saved up. I plan to spend it out here."

"Really?" Nicholas propped his elbows nonchalantly on the fence. "Where will you be staying?"

Lindsey's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "We passed three or four inns on our way here. Any one of them will do."

"Not if you haven't made reservations by now, they won't. They'll all be booked for the summer."

She frowned. "I never thought of that. Fine, I'll stay outside Newport and drive in."

"You don't have to."

"Why? Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Um-hum." He gave her a lazy smile. "My first choice would be to ask you to stay with me. But I suppose that wouldn't fly."

"No," she retorted, shooting him a sideways look. "It wouldn't."

"I've got a huge place."

"One of many, I'm sure."

"This one's just a ten minute drive from the manor. Or, if you prefer, I've got a yacht right down there." He pointed. "We could use that."

"I get seasick. And I'm a lousy roommate. I snore."

Nicholas chuckled. "That I doubt. But, okay, I'll move on to my next suggestion - one I think you'll find more to your liking. You take my house. I'll take the yacht."

She gave an incredulous laugh. "Just like that."

"Just like that."

"That's a very selfless offer. Tell me, how often will you be dropping by, unannounced?"

"Never."

Her eyebrows rose. "Why don't I believe that?"

"Believe it. The house will be yours. No strings." Once again, Nicholas reached out, his knuckles brushing her cheek. Abruptly, he shifted, his thumb tracing the curve of her lips, first in one direction, then the other. The action caught her off guard, and Lindsey felt her body react before she could steel herself.

Nicholas felt it, too. "I'm not going to manipulate you into bed, Lindsey," he murmured, his gaze darkening as it followed the path of his caress.

This time Lindsey didn't pull away.

"If we make love, it will be because you want it as much as I do." He tipped up her chin, slid his palm around to cup the nape of her neck. "Do you believe me?"

Her nod was shaky.

"Good." He drew her close, lowered his head, and covered her mouth with his.

The kiss was electric, and Lindsey felt its effects like a jolt of adrenaline slamming through her system. Nicholas wasn't slow or tentative. His lips opened hers, and his tongue claimed hers in a hot, deep caress that told her exactly what he wanted. Her response came with a will all its own, her hands gripping his lapels as she leaned up, met his kiss head on. He didn't stop until she was kissing him back with the same intensity, until he knew it was her desire and not his seduction that was propelling her.

Then, he raised his head.

"Have dinner with me," he demanded, his eyes smoldering.

Lindsey swallowed, trying to steady her senses. "Just dinner," she qualified. "Then, I'm going back to my hotel - alone. I'm not ready for breakfast."

"Fair enough. I can wait."

She searched his face, trying to determine how seriously he was taking her. "I mean it, Nicholas," she said, forcing herself to be honest even if it meant coming across like a sheltered child. "Don't push me. As it is, I'm out of my league."

An odd expression crossed his face, and Lindsey got the feeling he was struggling with an unexpected conflict. "Funny, I was just thinking the same thing."

7

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE DIDN'T SELL? You spent the whole damned weekend with her!"

Stuart Falkner paced across Nicholas's office, regarding his friend with a mixture of incredulity and apprehension.

"Exactly what I said. She didn't sell." Nicholas leaned back in his leather desk chair, deceptively calm as he fiddled idly with a paper clip. "And I hardly spent the whole weekend with her. Most of the time, she was lining up contractors." He leveled a hard stare at Stuart. "I don't know why you're so stunned. You told me yourself she was dead set on keeping the manor for her mother."

"Yeah, but you were supposed to seduce that idea right out of her head."

"No, I was supposed to convince her to sell," Nicholas corrected, his tone as hard as his gaze. "I tried. It didn't work."

"How could that happen? Did you forget how important this is?"

"I didn't forget anything. Obviously, you overestimated my powers of persuasion. You also underestimated Lindsey's commitment to her mother. She wants that manor. If I look at it objectively, I can understand why. You should be able to, also. You're trying to protect your family. She's trying to protect hers. Unfortunately, those goals conflict. Someone has to lose."

"Well, that someone can't be me." Stuart stalked over to the sofa, and dropped onto the cushion. "My mother won't survive."

"Camille is stronger than you think. You just finished telling me she was well enough to leave Rolling Hills yesterday."

"That was for a drive. Not to hear news that would tear her apart. She can't handle this, Nick. You've got to do something." Stuart raked frustrated hands through his hair. "When's Lindsey heading back out to Newport?"

"Her workmen are starting next week. She'll be here then."

"Did you at least make plans to see her again? Maybe change her mind before it's too late?"

Nicholas stared at the paper clip he was holding. "Actually, she'll be staying at my place."

Stuart's head shot up. "What?"

"Don't get too excited- We won't be roommates. She'll be staying alone. I've been relegated to the yacht."

"Right." A flicker of hope registered in Stuart's eyes. "That arrangement will last about an hour. Especially after you show up on her - your - doorstep, and pull out all the stops. Taking her out to dinner is one thing. Arranging it so she's sleeping in your bed is another. Even a woman as virtuous as Lindsey Hall won't be able to resist your charms. Not under those circumstances. I don't care what our private investigator's report said about her girl-scout lifestyle. Good. Some cause for hope."

Nicholas didn't reply.

"Nick." Stuart gripped his knees, lines of tension tightening his mouth. "Don't let me down. I don't know how you got Lindsey to agree to stay at your place, and I don't care. It gives us another shot at making things right. Do this any way you have to. Get her into bed and keep her there long enough to delay the start of her renovations. Use that time to soften her resolve. Then, when she's feeling more compliant, persuade her to sell you the manor."

Slowly, Nicholas unfolded in the chair, leaned forward. "I'll take care of things at my end. Now let's talk about your end. Back off. Tell Tracy to back off. Neither of you has the slightest idea how to handle Lindsey. You think dangling dollar signs in front of her eyes will do the trick, and Tracy thinks she can browbeat Lindsey into giving up the house."

Stuart shifted slightly, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "What does that mean?"

"You know damned well what that means. First, you drive out to her apartment in Connecticut and try buying her off. Then, Tracy goes to Leland's office and lies in wait like some predator ready to strike, ripping into Lindsey and trying to shove ten million dollars down her throat."

"Lindsey told you all that?"

"Urn-hum. Friday. Over lunch, and not happily. What you did was stupid and counterproductive. Here's a news flash. Lindsey doesn't take well to being exploited. She's got every bit of Harlan's pride and backbone. She stands her ground. She's not impressed or scared off by the Falkner wealth and power. She wasn't raised on a diet of business hardball, but that doesn't mean she's a pushover. What Tracy pulled backfired completely. If she thought Lindsey would be intimidated by that verbal assault, she was wrong. All she succeeded in doing was pissing Lindsey off enough to intensify her resolve."

"I hear you." Stuart nodded, making a steeple with his fingers and resting his chin atop them. "And, yes, Tracy can be overbearing. Especially now, with this situation making her crazy. I'll talk to her. We'll both back off. But Nick, I want that manor."

Nicholas's brows rose. "You want it? I thought you wanted me to have it."

"That's what I meant." Stuart came to his feet. "The important thing is that Lindsey doesn't have it." He glanced at his watch. "I've got a meeting. Then, I've got to run out to Rolling Hills, do my daily damage control. I've got to make sure no word of this reaches my mother."

"Sounds good." Nicholas studied him thoughtfully, his expression neutral. "I have a phone call to make, anyway." He picked up the receiver, began punching in a number. "Send my regards to Camille."

"Will do. And, Nick - keep me posted."

Nicholas gave a terse nod. "When there's something to tell."

Preoccupied, Stuart left the office, headed straight for his Jaguar XKR convertible. He climbed in, turned over the motor, and pulled out of the parking lot. He'd go straight home. Tracy would be there, waiting for him. They had to think this through, revise their strategy. Buying Lindsey off hadn't worked. Neither had threatening her. And so far, Nick hadn't managed to charm her into selling.

They needed a new plan. And they needed it now.

Behind his desk, Nicholas waited for the sound of Stuart's Jag zooming out of the lot. Then, he finished pressing the digits of the private line, leaning back in his chair as the number rang through.

"Hello?"

"Leland, it's me," Nicholas said without preamble. "We need to talk."

8

A week later, Lindsey put her mother on the late night flight to Paris. After seeing the plane take off, she drove straight home from the airport, packed the last of her things, and turned in so she could get an early morning start. The contractors would be arriving at eight a.m. She wanted to beat them there.

The ringing of the telephone jolted her out of a deep sleep.

Her bedroom was pitch black. She blinked, trying to focus on the digits of the alarm clock as she groped for the phone. Three thirty-five. Who in God's name would be calling at this hour?

Abruptly, the cobwebs in her mind cleared, and her gut clenched. Her mother's flight. It had taken off six and a half hours ago. It couldn't have arrived yet. Oh, God, could something have happened?

She snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Sell it," a gravelly voice commanded.

"What?" Whatever Lindsey had expected, it hadn't been this. She sat bolt upright, her heart slamming against her ribs. "What did you say?"

"The manor," the gravelly voice continued. "Sell it. Cancel your plans. Forget about Newport tomorrow. Keep quiet about your bloodline. You'll get rich and stay healthy. Do yourself a favor - sell."

Click.

Lindsey stared at the receiver for a long moment. It was only when it began beeping stupidly at her and a computerized voice droned, "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up ..." that she reached over, put the phone back in its cradle. Her mind was reeling, and she leaned back against her headboard, waiting for her breathing to return to normal and her hands to stop shaking.

Part of her reaction was relief that her mother was fine. A middle-of-the-night call when her mother was on an overseas flight - Lindsey's imagination had run wild. On the other hand, her own well-being had just been threatened. And while she was sure it was all an ugly bluff, she still felt unnerved.

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, propping up her chin as she pondered what had just occurred.

Whoever was responsible for that call knew she was leaving for Newport in the morning. They were getting desperate. So they'd decided to go for the jugular and threaten her safety if she didn't sell the house.

She tossed off the blanket and got up, all semblance of sleep having vanished. She was unnerved, yes, but she was also furious. The voice at the other end of the phone had been unfamiliar - some dirtbag paid by the Falkners, no doubt. Which one of her loving stepsiblings was desperate enough to arrange for that call - Tracy or Stuart? Or was it both of them? Were they so intent on forcing her out of their lives that they'd resort to scare tactics to accomplish their goal? And did they honestly think she was stupid enough not to guess they were the ones behind the call? Who else knew she'd inherited the manor? Who else cared if she kept it? No one but the Falkners had an interest in the place.

Wrong. There was one more person. Nicholas Warner.

An uneasy shiver darted up Lindsay's spine, although her mind was already screaming its denial.

Or was it her hopes doing the screaming?

Nicholas had called her three times since she left Newport eight days ago. And not only to make arrangements for her stay at his house. They'd talked for almost an hour each time, about nothing and everything, until Irene had started giving her daughter knowing looks and leaving the room so she could have some privacy.

Lindsey wasn't sure she needed privacy. In fact, she wasn't sure what she was feeling when it came to Nicholas. Excitement. Attraction. Desire.

Not trust. Not yet.

Could he possibly be the one who'd arranged for that phone call? He hadn't brought up the manor since their lunch two Fridays ago, except to ask an occasional question about the contractors she'd hired. Not over the weekend, and not during any of their subsequent phone calls. Nor had he made a single attempt to convince her to sell him the manor for his condo development. Was he still hoping to accomplish that?

Even if he was, would he stoop to threatening her into selling?

No. She didn't believe it. She wouldn't believe it.

She walked across the room, turned on the light, and began packing some last minute things. Whoever had arranged for that call was going to be sadly disappointed. Their theatrics had failed. She was going ahead with her plans. In fact, since she was wide awake anyway, she'd leave for Newport immediately.

Nicholas stood in the doorway to his bedroom, staring at his bed and trying not to picture Lindsey lying naked on the sheets, her body intimately entangled with his. Unfortunately, it was an image that came to him a lot these days. And it was bad for his concentration. He had a job to do. Getting involved with Lindsey Hall was going to make it tougher for him to do it.

That wasn't going to stop him from accomplishing his goal.

He'd made a promise to Harlan - one he intended to keep.

Newport was exquisite at dawn.

Lindsey stopped her car at the entrance to the manor's driveway, easing her gear shift into park so she could turn and admire the view. The sun was just starting its shimmering ascent, and she rolled down her windows so she could truly drink it in. She gazed out toward the ocean, watching as slices of lemon and orange tinged the sky, glistened on the water.

Feeling a sense of peace that had eluded her since last night's phone call, she drew a slow, appreciative breath, letting her mind and body relax. She'd needed that tension release. She hadn't realized how much.

Leaving her windows down, she shifted back into drive, the ocean breeze rippling through her hair as she continued the rest of the way to the manor. She pulled around front and stopped.

The house looked regal at this time of day, the rays of the sun hovering over the manor like a golden crown.

The workmen wouldn't be here for two hours. That gave her tons of time to review her designs, to polish off the extra-large Styrofoam cup of coffee she'd picked up down the road, and to imagine her mother's face when she moved into her new home.

She let herself in, flipping on the lights and wandering through the hallway. It was odd to think she'd been conceived here, in one of the bedrooms upstairs, or maybe in the staff quarters behind the kitchen. Odder still, that that thought didn't bother her, but somehow gave her a sense of validation. After the history her mother had relayed of the love affair she'd shared with Harlan Falkner, Lindsey was having a harder and harder time viewing the man as an intangible entity, much less one to be despised. He'd obviously loved Irene enough to try to find some way to stay in her life and to offer something to their child.

If circumstances had been just a little different - if Harlan Falkner had been less integrally tied to his family and his high-visibility world - she might have gotten to know, or at least to meet, her father.

To Lindsey's surprise, tears stung at her eyes. She hadn't let herself walk down this road before, to contemplate these deeply personal might-have-been's. Not in any one of the handful of times she'd walked through the manor. Then again, she hadn't had any quiet time here, time to be alone with her thoughts.

She wished she knew more about Harlan Falkner. Not the business mogul, and not the fervent lover her mother described. But the man - the man who'd struggled between loyalties, who'd opted to leave her this manor with the full realization of what the consequences would be.

When had he made the decision? Before or after his wife's breakdown? Did Camille know about his affair with Irene? Was her drinking the result of that knowledge, or was it the other way around?

"A penny for your thoughts."

Lindsey whipped around, stunned to see Nicholas standing in the front hall. She'd never heard him come in. And the last thing she wanted was to have him see her in this vulnerable state. She wasn't ready for that.

Especially after the nagging question of who was behind last night's phone call...

"What are you doing here?" she managed, blinking the moisture from her lashes and trying to keep her voice steady.

He frowned, walking toward her. "You're crying. Why?"

She took an inadvertent step backward. "It's barely past six o'clock. Why are you out here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I couldn't sleep. I rode out early."

"I know. I called your apartment to see when you were leaving. I got the answering machine. So I drove out to surprise you. I planned to be waiting when you arrived. It never occurred to me you'd be here already." He reached her, his forefinger tipping up her chin. "Are you okay?"

"Did you think I wouldn't be?"

His frown deepened. "Lindsey, what is it? What's wrong?"

She searched his face. He looked tired, lines of weariness etched around his eyes. As for guilt, he was either the best actor she'd ever seen, or he had no idea what was bothering her.

With that in mind, she took the risk.

"I'm tired and on edge. I got a pretty upsetting phone call at three in the morning." Seeing no flicker of comprehension register on Nicholas's face, she continued. "I was warned to sell the manor and stay away. Oh, and to keep my parentage a secret. Or else."

Nicholas's eyes narrowed. "Or else what?"

"The caller wasn't specific. He just suggested I stay healthy by following his advice."

"Did you recognize the voice?"

Her gaze was steady. "No. Then again, rich, powerful people don't usually do their own dirty work. Do they?"

Her point got through, loud and clear, and Nicholas's jaw clenched. "You think I had something to do with it?"

"Did you?"

"No. Then again, if you have to ask me that, I doubt you'll believe me."

"Frankly, Nicholas, I don't know what to believe. It's hard for me to imagine your being that cruel. On the other hand, you told me yourself how much you wanted this manor."

"I also told you I'm not the self-indulgent hedonist you think I am. I don't always get what I want. When I don't, I live with it. I don't resort to the kind of tactics you're describing."

"How about your friend Stuart Falkner? Does he resort to those kind of tactics? Or what about his sister, Tracy?"

Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with her question. "I can't speak for Stuart. Or for Tracy. I can only speak for myself." He reached out, gripped Lindsey's shoulders, his probing stare boring through her. "Look at me," he commanded, waiting until she'd complied. "I realize we haven't known each other long. Whatever it is that's happening between us is happening fast. That scares you. Who I am, how I live, scares you. I can accept all that. But I can't accept suspicions like the ones you're battling now. Trust your gut, Lindsey. Do you honestly think I'd threaten you just to get this house?"

Lindsey released her breath on a sigh. "No. I don't." She felt frustrated, unsettled, and just plain drained. "But someone would. And I'm getting a little sick of this cat-and-mouse game. It's starting to get out of hand."

"I agree."

Something about Nicholas's tone struck her, a hard decisiveness that was new.

"Why is it I can't get past the feeling that you know a lot more than you're willing to say?" she asked. "Are you protecting someone - Stuart, for example?"

"Nothing like that," Nicholas weighed his words carefully. "Whatever I might or might not know has nothing to do with you, or with last night's phone call. Let's leave it at that."

Puzzled, Lindsey inclined her head, studied Nicholas's unreadable expression. She felt more curiosity than suspicion, an indication that, with or without any logical basis, she believed him. Whatever was troubling him clearly related to the Falkners, but in what way, she didn't know.

"You still think I'm lying," Nicholas stated, watching the speculative look on her face.

"Actually, no. I think you're telling the truth."

"Then what is it you're so deep in thought about?"

"I'm trying to fit together the pieces. How do you factor into the Falkners' lives? How close are you really, and what is it about them you're hiding?" She waved away the evasive reply she knew was coming. "Never mind." Just as quickly - before she had time to chicken out - she added, "Would you answer just one question for me - one that has nothing to do with your relationship with Stuart and Tracy?"

"All right," Nicholas agreed warily.

Now came the hard part. Lindsey wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "You told me you knew Harlan Falkner for twenty years, that he gave you your first business break. What about personally? How well did you know him?"

Nicholas never averted his gaze. "He was like a father to me. My own father died when I was in my teens. Harlan took over from there. He was both mentor and friend. Why are you asking? Is this about his commitment to his family again?"

"No, this is about my getting to know my father," Lindsey managed to say. "I never had the chance before. I wouldn't have taken it if I had. But now... I had a very enlightening talk with my mother. Things have changed."

"I see," Nicholas murmured. He studied her with a delving intensity that was unnerving. It was as if he could see inside her, read her thoughts, and her emotions.

Gently, he reached out, caressed her cheek, wiped away the fingering traces of moisture near her eyes. "So that's why you were crying." He didn't wait for a response. "I tell you what. The contractors won't be here for almost two hours. That pathetic Styrofoam cup of coffee I see sitting in the corner must be ice cold by now. I brought a whole thermos of it with me, hot and freshly brewed, along with a half-dozen of the best doughnuts you'll ever taste. Why don't we sit outside, eat some breakfast, and talk? This time we'll get past the superficial questions. This time we'll really talk about your father."

Over the next hour Nicholas talked, and Lindsey was a rapt audience. He told her about Harlan's driving ambition, his dry sense of humor, his mile-wide stubborn streak. He got into Harlan's commitment to the environment, his aversion to shellfish and his affinity for classical music. He spoke of a man who prided himself on his people skills, who pushed himself to excel at everything he tackled - from investments to golf - and who tried a dozen different methods to get over his chronic seasickness, all unsuccessfully.

"He couldn't even look at a boat," Nicholas chuckled. "Not even when it was docked. The mere sight of it rocking from side to side made him lose his lunch."

"So that's where I get it from," Lindsey noted aloud. "Oh, I'm not quite as bad as that. I'm fine on kayaks, rowboats, canoes, even an occasional sailboat. But anything bigger than that?" She shuddered. "I went out on a friend's yacht once. The minute we dropped anchor and the boat started bobbing around, my insides started churning. I dived into the ocean and alternately swam and treaded water until it was time to head back. I love the water, but only as a spectator, a paddler, or a swimmer. Not as a passenger on anything serious enough to have a motor."

Nicholas shot her a sympathetic look. "Hearing that, I'm glad you're staying at my house and I'm using the yacht. I guess I won't be offering you any moonlight cruises."

"Not unless you're dying to send our clothes to the cleaners."

"I see your point." A wicked grin. "On the other hand, that would mean having to take our clothes off. Maybe we should try out my yacht after all."

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

"Um-hum. But am I making headway?"

Averting her gaze, Lindsey wondered how the conversation had gone from teasing to intimate. "I don't know how to answer that."

"You just did."

Electricity crackled in the air.

Lindsey's cell phone rang.

She jumped, startled by the sound, and stared blankly down at her side where the phone lay. Recovering, she snatched it up. "I hope none of the contractors is canceling," she muttered, punching the talk button. "Hello?"

A slight pause, after which a male voice inquired, "Lindsey?"

"Yes?"

"This is Stuart Falkner. I need to speak with you. It's important. Can I buy you breakfast?"

Her gut tightened. "I've already eaten."

"I see. Lunch, then. Say, about noon? There's a great restaurant overlooking the Cliff Walk that..."

"That won't be possible. I've got contractors coming any minute. They'll be here all day. I can't get away." A heavy sigh. "I realize you're leery of me, and my motives. The truth is, Tracy and I feel very bad for the way we've treated you. We'd like to make amends. Plus, we really do have something important to discuss with you. Can you just break away for an hour?"

"So now it's you and Tracy." She wished she knew where Stuart's head really was, what he was and wasn't guilty of. "Honestly, Stuart, I really can't. I don't have time for lunch. I don't know my way around Newport, and I don't have time to ask directions - "

"I'll drive you," Nicholas interrupted.

Her head whipped around. "What?"

"Wherever it is Stuart wants to meet, I'll take you there."

"Is that Nick?" Stuart jumped in eagerly. "He knows where the restaurant is. He can join us."

Lindsey was on the verge of refusing when Nicholas plucked the phone from her hand. "Stuart? Where and when?" A pause. "We'll be there." He pressed end and handed Lindsey the phone.

Resentment simmered through her. "Why did you do that? I have no desire to meet with - "

"Because I want to find out if either of them had anything to do with that phone call you got last night,"

Nicholas broke in. "I can read them better than you can. Plus, I think you should hear what they have to say. We both should - for different reasons, maybe, but equally valid ones." He met and held her gaze, although he didn't elaborate on that statement. "The contractors I referred you to are all pros. They don't need you here every minute. Trust me. Let's have this lunch."

Her indignation slowly abated. "You have some kind of agenda, I wish I knew what it was."

"Trust me," he repeated.

Slowly, she nodded, wondering if she was going to regret this. "I do."

9

The restaurant was CHARMING, elegant in a Newport-vacationer kind of way. Lindsey was glad she'd stopped off at Nicholas's house long enough to drop off her bags, freshen up, and change out of her jeans and into a pair of linen slacks and a blazer before heading off to this farce of a meal.

Nicholas seemed to sense her tension, because he wrapped a steadying arm around her waist as he escorted her through the lounge and up to the reservations desk.

"Hello, Henry," he greeted the maitre d'.

"Mr. Warner, how are you?" Henry waited politely for Nicholas to respond before he plucked out two menus and gestured for them to follow him. "Mr. and Ms. Falkner are already here. I'll show you to your table."

They made their way to a quiet corner table near the open French doors that had a magnificent view of the ocean and plenty of privacy. Stuart and Tracy Falkner were seated there, drinking wine and having a heated discussion.

From the corner of his eye, Stuart spotted them, and cut short whatever he'd been saying. With a cordial smile he rose, his gaze lingering on Lindsey as if he still couldn't believe her resemblance to his family.

Tracy followed her brother's gaze, angling her head in their direction and watching them approach, her expression closed and emotionally contained. But the tight, arrogant set of her jaw told Lindsey that the restraint she was demonstrating was costing her, and that it was all an act.

Then again, this whole lunch was probably an act.

"Thanks for coming," Stuart said, addressing Lindsey but shooting a grateful look at Nicholas. "I know you're busy."

"Yes. Busy supervising the work you're doing on the family vacation house," Tracy added.

"I am." Ignoring the accusation lacing Tracy's tone, Lindsey slid into the chair Nicholas held out for her. "But whatever you needed to see me about sounded important. And Nicholas offered to drive me. So here I am." In response to the waiter's quiet request, she turned and ordered a glass of sparkling water.

"You don't drink either?" Tracy inquired, arching a brow. "I'm beginning to think you don't have any weaknesses."

Steadily, Lindsey met her gaze. "I have several. One is a bad temper - which I lose when my privacy is invaded, when I'm bribed, and when I'm patronized. By the way, I do drink - just not in the middle of a workday. I'm an architect, not a figurehead CEO. I do designs, not business lunches."

A tight smile curved Tracy's lips. "You certainly have the cutting Falkner tongue," she noted. "I'll try to remember that." At Stuart's warning glare, she continued, forcing out the words as if they pained her. "I apologize for the private investigator, for my brother's and my attempts to buy you off, and for that scene in Leland's office. I came off as a pushy bitch. The truth is, I'm just very protective of my family."

"Of which you're now a part," Stuart jumped in. He cleared his throat. "Why don't we order lunch? Then, we can talk."

"Good idea." Nicholas signaled the waiter, who was on his way over anyway. The round little man picked up his pace, hurrying over to place Lindsey's sparkling water and Nicholas's glass of merlot on the table. He then whipped out his pad, jotted down their order, and scurried off to the kitchen to have it filled.

"How's the construction going?" Stuart asked. "Has it started?"

"Barely," Lindsey replied. "I won't see major progress for a few days."

"What exactly have you planned to renovate?" Casually, Tracy set down her glass, inclining her head in question. "The place is in excellent condition. I'm sure it's dusty from lack of use, but I can't imagine it needing much more than a little sprucing up."

"It doesn't. What I'm doing is restoring the manor, making it consistent with its original Georgian style. As for major renovations, the only ones I've planned are to have the plumbing and electrical systems modernized. And I'm having a couple of structural changes done to make the house more suitable to my mother's lifestyle - taking down a few walls to enlarge certain rooms, adding some windows for sunlight. I'm also having landscaping done, creating a front and backyard garden. Gardening is a passion of my mother's - one she's never been able to indulge in, since we've always lived in an apartment. Now, she can plant and prune to her heart's content. The contractors will be digging around the foundation to waterproof it, anyway. I'll have the landscapers do their work after that."

"It sounds very ambitious," Stuart said with another of those practiced smiles. "No wonder you plan to spend every waking moment of your vacation there."

"I don't recall saying that," Lindsey replied slowly. "But, yes, I will be at the manor most of the time. More out of interest than to supervise. As Nicholas pointed out, the contractors he recommended are pros. They don't need overseeing. I'll probably drive out each morning, stay as long as I choose to, then drive back at night."

"At night?" Tracy asked. "Why?"

"Because I like to look over my projects when it's quiet and there are no distractions. That way, I can evaluate my ideas, see if they look as good in reality as they did on paper."

"Really?" Tracy's tone actually contained a tinge of admiration. "You're certainly dedicated. And thorough."

"You obviously know what you're doing." Stuart concluded.

"I should. I specialize in the restoration of historic homes." Lindsey paused, wondering where this in-depth discussion of her skills was leading. She was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "None of this is news to you. You know everything there is to know about me, thanks to your investigator."

"We know only facts. You're giving us nuances." Stuart cleared his throat again. "In any case, you're clearly top-notch in your field. Your mother must be very proud."

Warning bells sounded in Lindsey's head.

"She is." It didn't take a genius to guess that Stuart was steering the conversation in a specific direction. And whatever that direction was, it was the basis for this lunch.

Their food chose that inopportune moment to arrive, and everyone at the table fell silent until all the entrees had been served, the water glasses had been refilled, and the waiter was satisfied that he'd done all he could to make his renowned customers comfortable.

"That'll be all," Nicholas told him quietly.

"Very good, Mr. Warner." He took the hint and vanished.

"I hope you enjoy your salad, Lindsey," Stuart said, trying to dispel the tension. "The food here is quite good."

"I'm sure it is." She had no more desire to eat than she had to be here. But she dutifully tasted her chef's salad, chewing and swallowing automatically.

Another prolonged silence, presumably so they could savor their meal.

Lindsey's nerves were frayed to snapping, when Nicholas put down his fork and gazed steadily at Stuart. "You mentioned that this lunch was important," he prodded.

A slow nod. "It is."

'"Then let's get to its purpose," Lindsey demanded with quiet intensity. "We've had enough small talk and food:^”

Stuart dabbed at his mouth, then refolded his napkin on his lap, and leaned forward, angling his body toward Lindsey. "You're very direct. I appreciate that. So I will be, too, Tracy and I have been less than honest with you. It's time we cleared the air, laid all our cards on the table."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that, as you know, neither Tracy nor I knew of your existence before the will reading. What we didn't realize at that time is that our mother did. She knew that one of her maids, Irene Hall, was involved with our father. She knew that Irene became pregnant, and that it happened right here at our Newport manor. She knew that my father paid Irene Hall to disappear. Needless to say, that discovery took a huge toll on my parents' marriage and on my mother. The marriage recovered. My mother never really did - not completely. Not even after Father assured her the affair was over for good. She started drinking. She couldn't bear the sight of the manor, and that aversion got worse as the years passed and her emotional and physical state deteriorated. She tried to curb her reaction, for Tracy's and my sake. But eventually it became too much for her. We stopped visiting the summer house altogether. After that, Mother coped the only way she could - she blocked out all memory of anything relating to the affair."

"Blocked it out," Lindsey repeated woodenly. She wished she hadn't eaten. Her stomach was lurching, threatening to return its contents. "If your mother doesn't remember any of this, then who did you get your information from?"

"Mother's doctor. I went to him right after Leland told us about you. I wanted him to advise us how best to break the news to my mother. As it turned out, Dr. Barley already knew the whole story. It seems Mother confided in him. It was during one of those rare sessions when she experienced a flash of memory. When I divulged the situation to him - about you and Father's provisions for you - he told me he already knew. He cautioned me that my mother was protecting herself by forgetting, that it could be dangerous if she learned of these new developments. He believes it might push her over the edge. She's fragile. He wants to shield her. So do we."

A heartbeat of a pause. "I understand my mother is not your problem," Stuart clarified. "But your mother is. Dr. Farley went on to explain that he adamantly believes it would be psychologically harmful for Father's mistress to make her home in a place that can conjure up nothing but painful memories. He suggested we get rid of the house altogether, start anew - for everyone's sake."

Taking a deep swallow of water, Stuart leaned closer, determined to drive home his point. "I'm not trying to intimidate you, Lindsey, nor am I trying to buy you off. I'm simply asking you to do what's best. Sell Nicholas the manor. Let him raze it to the ground. Let the past be laid to rest. Who knows? Maybe we can start over. Maybe we can actually get to know each other, form some kind of relationship. Tracy and I are willing. But not with this albatross hanging around our necks."

If that wasn't emotional blackmail, Lindsey didn't know what was.

"This relationship we form - will you tell your mother about it?" she asked.

Silence.

"That's what I thought." Lindsey waved away whatever Stuart had been about to say. "Let's skip the mending fences. It's clearly never going to happen. I don't do clandestine relationships. And I certainly won't expose my mother to one."

"Fine," Tracy said a little too quickly. "What about the rest of what Stuart said - are you agreeable?"

Lindsey wasn't sure what she felt. Nor did she give herself time to consider it.

"Let's say I believe everything you just told me," she said. "You're desperate to protect your mother. Well, what happens if the press gets wind of my existence? What if they find out I'm Harlan Falkner's illegitimate daughter? It's more than likely, given the world's fascination with your family. The media will have a field day. News of my identity might even get through the fortress you've built around Rolling Hills. What will happen to your mother then?"

"She'll be reminded of a past she already knows but has buried in her subconscious." Stuart's comeback was so fast that it had to have been rehearsed. "Yes, it'll be difficult. But not nearly as devastating as what will happen to her if she's forced to learn that the manor harboring all her emotional ghosts is now home to Father's mistress and illegitimate child. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but let's face it, Lindsey, if you're nothing more than a news story, if the house is leveled, you'll be an upsetting but obscure memory, not a blatant slap in Mother's face. Now let's turn the tables. What happens to your mother if the press finds out about you? Let me assure you, her best bet is to be as far away from Newport as possible. Otherwise, she'll find herself directly in the line of fire."

Everything inside Lindsey went cold, and her suspicions over last night's phone call surged to the forefront. "Is that a threat? Because today seems to be a big day for my getting those."

Stuart frowned. "I specifically said this wasn't meant to intimidate you. It was meant to - "

"I'm not talking about now. I'm talking about last night. Somewhere around three a.m."

"You've lost me."

Nicholas spoke up for the first time since Stuart had begun his explanation. "Lindsey got a phone call in the middle of the night. She was warned to sell the manor, to stay away from Newport, and to keep her mouth shut about her blood ties to Harlan. She didn't recognize the voice." He took a sip of merlot, gazed steadily from Stuart to Tracy. "Neither of you knows anything about that phone call, do you?"

"What kind of question is that?" Stuart returned, a flush stealing up his neck.

"I think we're being accused of something, Stu." Tracy entered the conversation flippantly, taking another bite of her filet of sole as she did. "Our new stepsister doesn't trust us."

"Obviously, neither does our old friend." Stuart leveled an icy stare at Nicholas.

That stare didn't seem to phase Nicholas a bit. "I can't think of many people who would benefit from scaring the hell out of Lindsey. The three of us are definite choices. And I know I had nothing to do with it. I'm simply asking if either of you did."

"No," Stuart bit out.

"Tracy?"

She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "Three a.m.? I'm generally asleep around then. I save my threatening calls for morning."

"So you had nothing to do with it?"

"No, she didn't," Stuart answered for her. "Neither of us did."

"Interesting." Nicholas polished off his merlot. "That doesn't leave many suspects."

"It must have been a reporter. Word of Lindsey must have already leaked out." Stuart raked a hand through his hair. "Dammit."

"A reporter?" Lindsey echoed in disbelief. "Why would a reporter threaten me?"

"You're pathetically naive," Tracy announced, that arrogant glint back in her eyes. "A reporter would do that to get a reaction. A reaction would mean a story. Why else?"

Lindsey digested that bizarre possibility. A story? The idea had never occurred to her. But knowing the press's fixation with the Falkners, anything was possible.

She studied Tracy and Stuart's reactions, thinking how ironic the world they lived in was. They were more worried about bad publicity than they were about potential bodily harm being done to another person. Still, Lindsey couldn't help but note Stuart's very genuine concern. His values might all be screwed up, but she doubted he was behind that phone call. Not unless he was one hell of a fine actor.

As for Tracy, she was impossible to read. She looked upset, her jaw clenched tight and her expression icy. What that meant was anyone's guess.

There was no way to prove anything.

The whole scenario was just too sordid for Lindsey's tastes. She'd had enough.

Tossing down her napkin, she rose. "I think we've said all there is to say."

Stuart's head snapped up. "What about the manor? Will you think about what I've said, maybe change your mind? That phone call should have clinched it for you."

Her brows arched, "Why? You just said whoever called was probably with the press. Which would mean I'm not in any danger, right?"

"Not physically. But if that was the press, it's just the first of many crank reporters who'll be on your doorstep night and day when this story leaks out. Your life will never be your own."

Lindsey pressed her lips together. "I'll take that chance. As for our mothers, mine is like me. She's strong. She's been through too much not to be. She'd thumb her nose at the world and say keep the manor. And yours? My guess is our father thought his wife could handle this. Otherwise, he never would have left me the manor." She scooped up her purse. "Honestly, Stuart, I think you're overreacting. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, just to put your mind at ease. I'll give this Dr. Farley a call, explain my position, and hear what he has to say. If anything changes my decision, I'll let you know." She pushed back her chair and stood. "Tell him to expect my call. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back."

A quick glance at Nicholas. "I'll catch a cab."

"No need." He rose, his expression pensive. "I'll drive you."

"Nicholas, talk to her," Stuart hissed, as Nicholas went to follow Lindsey out.

Nicholas paused, his brooding stare shifting from Stuart to Tracy and back. "I intend to."

Stuart stared after Nicholas's retreating figure, muttering a curse under his breath. "We have a problem. Farley's never going to go along with this."

"We have a bigger problem " Tracy commented, resting her elbows on the table. "It seems our dear friend Nicholas has defected."

10

Lindsey was glad the contractors were experienced, because she was in no condition to supervise their work. In fact, she was in no condition to deal with anyone.

The drive back to the manor was silent, with Nicholas leveling frequent probing glances in her direction. She felt his scrutiny, knew he was eager to talk. But she had too much to digest before she did. So she averted her face, letting him know she wasn't ready to discuss what had happened at lunch. He respected her wishes, at least for the time being, and bit back his thoughts. He even went so far as to drive her around to the manor's front door, and yet make no move to accompany her inside. He said nothing when she thanked him for the ride, but he did stop her as she groped for the door handle, holding her arm long enough to say he'd call her later. She nodded, feeling his brooding stare as she jumped out and darted up the stairs and into the house. He gazed after her for a few long minutes before finally driving off.

She hung around long enough to chat with the project foreman, who was covered with plaster as he stood under the scaffolding positioned in the manor's two-story foyer, directing traffic as his workers tore down the wall that separated the front sitting room and the salon. The house was bustling, with the electrical contractor checking out the wiring he needed to reroute, and construction workers retrieving tools and equipment, or clustered around the walls designated to come down, breaking off chunks of plaster.

Seeing how smoothly everything was running, Lindsey left, driving directly to Nicholas's house. She felt unusually jumpy, and she kept looking in her rearview mirror to see if she was being followed. Nope. Only the steady flow of residential traffic. Too many spy movies, she chided herself wryly. And too little sleep.

Then again, that wasn't a surprise under the circumstances. After all, she wasn't used to receiving threatening phone calls and attempted payoffs. No wonder her nerves were shot.

She drove up Nicholas's driveway and around to the front of the house, reflexively checking over her shoulder as she got out of the car to see if she was being watched. Nothing and no one. She walked up the stairs and let herself in, leaning back wearily against the door. Time to think of something pleasant.

She forced herself to focus on her surroundings, taking her first really good look at Nicholas's home.

It was a class act, just like its owner, she mused. All subtle tones of brown and beige, and refined touches she suspected were a combination of Nicholas's tastes and a decorator's skills. The lower level, complete with a winding staircase, contained a massive great room, and an equally impressive dining room and kitchen. The upper level, as she'd seen earlier when she changed clothes for lunch, held the bedrooms. The house had an open, airy feel to it, its polished oak floors and marble fireplace adding an elegant touch to its clean-lined, uncluttered furnishings. Cozy accents like a thick-cushioned futon and twin leather recliners in the great room - not to mention an impressive sound system -  made the place feel lived-in, more like a retreat and less like the high-priced piece of real estate Lindsey's practiced eye told her it was.

She climbed the stairs, peeking into the huge master bedroom suite before turning in the opposite direction. When they'd dropped by earlier, Nicholas had urged her to make herself comfortable, to treat the place as if it were her own. Regardless, she wasn't about to use his room. Instead, she'd selected the second of the other three bedrooms - a sizable guest room done in shades of teal, with lots of windows and an adjoining bathroom. She went there now, cutting across the bedroom to hover in the bathroom doorway. The tub looked too inviting to resist, and she reached for her suitcase, tugging out what she needed and changing into a robe before heading off for a long, hot soak.

Five minutes later, she sank into the tub, letting the warm water envelop her, wash the tension from her muscles.

While she relaxed, she reviewed everything that had happened at lunch, more confused than ever by her half-siblings and their motives. Correction: not the motives themselves, but to what extremes those motives would drive them.

They wanted her gone. That much was as obvious now as it had been from day one. Were they behind that phone call she'd gotten? Was today's lunch simply a ploy to see if their scare tactics had worked? And, as a backup plan, had they elicited the help of a doctor to gain her compassion and send her packing?

It was sickening to think that anyone, even the Falkners, could convince a doctor to compromise his ethics and lie. Then again, they had untold wealth, power and influence. They probably contributed millions a year to Rolling Hills. That kind of money bought a lot of loyalty.

On the flip side, Stuart hadn't looked happy when she'd called his bluff, announced she'd be contacting Dr. Farley. So maybe the doctor wasn't involved. Maybe Stuart had made up the whole story.

She'd find out soon enough. She'd call Dr. Farley the minute she got out of the tub. If she jumped on this, Stuart wouldn't have time to prep the doctor for her call. She'd checkmate her half-brother, beat him at his own game.

That idea was scrapped a half-hour later when she phoned Rolling Hills, only to learn that Dr. Farley was off this week and wouldn't be available until Monday. Coincidence? Maybe.

Feeling restless and out of sorts, Lindsey pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, then glanced at the bedroom clock. Five-thirty. Most of the workers would be gone, but a few of them, including the foreman, would still be finishing up. She'd kill some time before heading over there.

She perched at the edge of a chair and wrote a postcard to her mother in Paris - a cheery note that didn't so much as hint at anything unpleasant. She stamped it and scooped up her purse. She'd drive to the post office and drop the postcard in its outside mailbox. After that, she'd grab a sandwich, stroll around the more touristy area of Newport, then drive back to the site and check out the day's work. By that time she'd have the solitude she needed to properly assess how things were going. Hopefully, she'd also have worked off her restlessness, and would feel renewed and calmer.

It was almost eight o'clock when she rounded the drive to the manor. Dusk was settling over the area, but the sky wasn't completely dark yet, and there was more than enough light for her to see her surroundings. The top of the driveway was devoid of trucks, and the house was quiet, a sign that all the workers had gone home.

Good. She'd look over the place, see where the restoration was heading and if it coincided with the finished product she visualized in her mind's eye.

Again, she paused when she got out of the car, glancing around to see if she was alone. But the sensation of being watched was no longer there. Thank heavens.

She let herself in, for once grateful that workers always seemed to leave a slew of lights on when they went home at day's end. In this case, walking into a brightly lit manor was a welcome relief. It made her feel less vulnerable. Just to be safe, however, she locked the door before strolling through the entranceway and across the main level.

To the layperson's eye, the place was in shambles. There was plaster dust everywhere, along with woodplanks, nails, and tools. She ignored the mess, stepping over everything and scanning the area, studying it through narrowed eyes. The work had progressed beautifully for day one. The kitchen had been ripped out and was down to bare studs. The plumbing fixtures in the downstairs bathrooms had been removed. And the wall separating the sitting room and salon was completely gone, the scaffolding having been moved to the other side of the house where the wall dividing the conservatory into two smaller greenhouse-type rooms was scheduled to be torn down first thing tomorrow.

Lindsey walked in that direction, imagining her mother's excitement when she saw the grand, fabulous conservatory that would soon be hers. She'd be in her glory. Starting this year, she'd be able to indulge in her beloved gardening even during New England's most brutal winters.

The door leading to the first greenhouse was shut, and there was no light peeking out from under it, almost as if the room had yet to be disturbed. That was odd. Usually, an experienced construction crew set up the next area in which they'd be working before they left, so everything would be ready to go when they arrived in the morning. She hoped the crew wasn't running behind schedule, although she saw no signs that they were. The sitting room wall was already down, and the scaffolding had been moved into its new position.

She eased open the door and peeked inside. Ah, false alarm. Everything was as it should be. All the necessary tools and drop cloths had been lined up neatly for tomorrow's leveling project. For whatever reason, someone had just thought to turn off the light and shut the door behind him.

She was just about to retrace her steps when she felt the vibrations above her, heard the sound of grating metal. Her head jerked up, and her eyes widened as she saw the oncoming disaster.

She turned and lunged into the hall, barely clearing the point of impact. Dropping into a squat, she curled close to the wall, covering her head for protection.

An instant later the entire scaffolding crashed to the floor.

Lindsey didn't move until the deafening noise had stopped. Then she rose, her legs shaking as she pivoted to survey the damage. The floor was a mass of wood and metal. A few seconds earlier and she'd have been part of that mangled heap. The whole structure would have caved in on her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, whether to shut out the sight or her thoughts, she wasn't sure.

Had this been an accident, or an attempt to hurt her? She'd never seen scaffolding give way like that, certainly not from the mere vibration of a door.

A door she'd been puzzled to find shut.

Sell the manor, her ominous phone caller had demanded. You'll get rich and stay healthy.

Dear God, had that actually been a threat on her life?

She had to get out of here.

The drive back to Nicholas's house was a blur. Lindsey's hand shook as she unlocked the door, and she double-bolted it behind her.

She went into the great room, dropped onto the futon. Maybe she should call the police. But what would she report? That she'd been the victim of a threatening phone call and a near-miss? One could be a crank, the other a construction accident.

No. There wasn't any proof. And they'd ask lots of questions - questions that would open up a big-time can of worms that would result in scandal and social embarrassment for the Falkners. She couldn't be responsible for that, not without hard evidence.

But in her gut she knew what had just happened was no accident. Skilled and experienced professionals such as the contractors she'd hired didn't make these mistakes. That scaffolding had to have been tampered with for it to collapse like that.

Which meant someone was setting a trap for the next person who touched the greenhouse door.

Tracy and Stuart both knew that someone was she.

Today at lunch, she'd specifically mentioned her intentions to go back to the manor tonight. Then she'd sensed that someone was following her. Had either one or both her half-siblings hired someone to keep track of her whereabouts and leave a surprise welcome for her when she dropped by the manor this evening?

If so, this was no longer a game of cat and mouse. This was a cold-blooded attempt to hurt her. To hurt her - or worse.

The phone in the kitchen rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Bolting to her feet, she whipped around and stared at the telephone, trying to decide whether or not to answer.

It continued to ring.

Sucking in her breath, she crossed over and lifted the receiver from its cradle. "Hello?" she said tentatively.

"Lindsey?" It was Nicholas's voice, and it was taut with strain. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Her voice sounded shaky, high and thin to her own ears. At the same time, she wondered how Nicholas knew she was in trouble. Had he found out about the accident already? "What have you heard?"

"Heard? Nothing. It just took you forever to answer the phone. I know you're not asleep; I saw you go inside a few minutes ago. And I know what kind of shape you were in this afternoon. Now you sound worse. What's going on?"

She blinked to clear her head. "What do you mean you saw me go inside a few minutes ago?"

A brief pause. "I'm parked down the street. I was waiting for you to get back. I need to talk to you. But I know I promised not to show up on the doorstep. So I waited to be invited in." Another pause. "Am I invited in?"

Lindsey felt tears of relief burn behind her eyes. "Yes. Please. Come in."

There was another hesitation, then a click and a hum as the connection was broken. By the time she replaced the receiver and started for the front hall, she heard Nicholas's BMW roar up the driveway. She unbolted the door and yanked it open.

Nicholas was striding up the walk. His gaze swept her as he mounted the steps, stepped inside the house.

"You're white as a ghost," he announced tersely. "You're also covered with plaster. And you've been crying. Sweetheart, what is it?"

Maybe it was the endearment. Maybe it was her frazzled state of mind. Either way, she didn't think. She simply went to him, seeking some measure of comfort. "I was at the manor. The scaffolding collapsed. It missed me by inches."

His fingers bit into her shoulders, his worried stare delved inside her. "Are you hurt?"

Mutely, she shook her head.

He gathered her close, his embrace tightening as if to offer her his strength. "Tell me what happened."

She was too strung out to censor her words. She simply poured out the entire story, omitting nothing. "I don't think it was an accident," she concluded.

"I agree. Accidents like that don't just happen."

Lindsey swallowed. "Stuart and Tracy both knew I was going back to the manor tonight. They were the only ones I told."

"Not quite." Nicholas drew back, tipping up her chin with his forefinger. "You also told me. I was at that lunch, too, remember? Which means I could just as easily have rigged the scaffolding as Tracy or Stuart. I could also have been part of their whole lunch setup. Don't forget, if you caved in to Stuart's wishes, you'd sell me the manor, and I'd get to build my condos there. I've been torturing myself about that since we left the restaurant, wondering if I was back on your list of suspects. I need an answer - now more than ever. Do you think I'm involved? Or do you know in your heart I'd never hurt you?"

She shook her head slowly, seeing the anguish on Nicholas's face and wanting to erase it. "I know you'd never hurt me," she replied softly. "This morning when I said I trusted you, I meant it. When I heard your voice on the phone just now, I almost wept with relief. All I wanted was to run to you - for help, for comfort. I don't know why, but - "

"Don't you?" His tone was husky now, his expression still intense, but in an entirely different way. "Funny, I know exactly why."

He cupped her face and slowly lowered his head, giving her more than enough time to pull away. She didn't. She rose up to meet him, tiny shivers rippling through her as his mouth covered hers. The kiss was deep and drugging, Nicholas's lips nudging hers apart, wasting no time on preliminaries, demanding what she was more than willing to give. Whatever reservations she harbored based on who he was, how he'd lived, none of them mattered now. All she wanted was to lose herself in this unnamed emotion that had been building between them from the moment they'd met. She was tired of fighting. She just wanted to feel.

Nicholas sensed the change in her instantly, knew she'd abandoned her emotional suit of armor. His fingers sifted through her hair, tightened around the nape of her neck and, with a discernible effort, he dragged his mouth away, raised his head. "Lindsey." His eyes were smoky with passion, his breathing unsteady. "You've got to want this. Really want this. Not only to escape. And not only for tonight. Once we're together - I don't plan to let you go."

"That's convenient," she murmured, a soft smile touching her lips. "Because I'm staying at your house." Her hands glided up his shirtfront, slid around his neck. "And tonight, so are you."

He caught her wrist, brought her palm to his lips. "You're sure?"

She knew exactly what he was asking. This wouldn't be a one-night stand. It would be a whole lot more. "Very."

Without another word, he scooped her into his arms and headed purposefully toward the stairs. Those he took two at a time, rounding the landing and veering toward the master bedroom. He laid her on his bed, following her down and capturing her mouth for another hungry, searching kiss. He paused only long enough to drag her T-shirt over her head and throw it carelessly to the carpeted floor.

"I've wanted this from the first moment I saw you," he muttered, burning a trail of kisses down her throat, his fingers shifting to unhook the front clasp of her bra. "Keeping my hands off you has been hell."

He pushed the scrap of silk aside, visually drinking her in for a brief minute before lowering his head, surrounding one taut nipple with his lips. Lindsey gasped at the jolt of pleasure that speared through her, arching reflexively closer. He anchored her with his arm, brought her more fully to his mouth, and began an unbearable rhythm that drove her wild. His tongue lashed across her nipple, his lips tugged and released, tugged and released, until Lindsey heard herself cry out, her loins clenching tighter with each pull of his lips.

"Nicholas." Blindly, she reached for him, yanking at his shirt until he sat up, tore it off and threw it aside, then drew her up and against him.

Lindsey's breath caught in her throat. The contact was excruciating, his bare skin against hers, and she rubbed herself against him, her nipples contracting further at the warm, abrasive feel of his chest hair rasping across her skin. Her head came up, and she stared at him in wonder, seeing the heat in his eyes, the muscle working violently in his jaw. He wanted her every bit as much as he'd said. And he was trying to slow down, for her sake.

His palm slid around the nape of her neck, and he brought her mouth back to his, kissing her deeply as he lowered her to the bed. He unzipped her jeans, hooked his fingers inside her panties, and pulled them both down and off, taking her socks and shoes with them. His hands skimmed up her legs, caressed her thighs, his palm covering the tawny nest between them. His fingers eased lower, slipping inside her and touching her in a way that nearly brought her off the bed.

Lindsey's heart was slamming against her ribs, her body drunk on sensation. Vaguely, she wondered if it was always this wonderful. She doubted it. There was something electric between her and Nicholas. Something that made her lose her mind.

Lose her mind... God, she was being careless.

That awareness triggered a semblance of reason, and she acted on it now, before reason slipped entirely away.

"Nicholas?" Even as she spoke, her hips were lifting, seeking more of his touch. His fingers responded to her unconscious plea, gliding in and out in a prolonged, tantalizing rhythm, his thumb caressing her just where she needed him most.

"You're perfect," he told her fiercely, those amazing eyes blazing with desire, sweat dotting his forehead as he watched her face.

"I... not yet... wait..." she managed, barely able to speak.

"I can't." He stopped only long enough to yank off the rest of his clothes. "I want to, but I can't." He settled himself between her legs, bracing his arms on either side of her head. "Next time, I'll go slower. This time - " He must have seen the reservation in her eyes, because, with a supreme effort, he stopped. "What is it?"

"I'm not taking anything."

A flash of self-deprecating amazement crossed his face. "Lindsey, I'm sorry. Damn, this isn't something I forget." Leaning past her, he hauled open his night table drawer, groped around until he found a box of condoms. He pulled one out, dealing with it with the expertise of a man who was used to doing so. Vaguely, she realized that the implications of that should bother her. They didn't. Somehow she knew what the two of them had together was different.

She studied his body as he loomed over her. He was all power and sheer masculine beauty, and her palms explored him, feeling the hot, hair-roughened texture of his chest, the corded muscles of his shoulders and arms.

He shuddered beneath her touch, moved urgently back into position. "I want you," he ground out, pressing her into the pillows. His chest was rising and falling with each breath, and he lifted her legs to hug his flanks. "I'm about to explode. That's how much I want you." He kissed her again, his tongue taking hers as his body began its penetration.

Her body was screaming for his. She wrapped her arms around his back, and her eyes slid shut as she felt him crowd into her. His hands gripped her bottom, angling her toward him and, with one hard thrust, he pushed all the way inside.

They both felt the resistance give, but Lindsey was so lost in sensation she scarcely winced.

Nicholas was another story. He froze. "Lindsey?"

"Don't stop," she protested weakly. Her nails dug into his back, and she urged him on, shifting to ease his way inside her.

His breath emerged in a hiss, but he fought the instinctive motion of his hips, which were already propelling him deeper. He turned his lips into her hair, his words a harsh rasp of sound. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Later," she whispered. "Please."

Nicholas sucked in his breath, the muscles in his arms bulging with the strain of holding back.

"Please," she repeated. "I'm dying. Make love to me."

It was enough.

"I'll go slowly if it kills me," he vowed in a voice that was thick with passion. He circled his hips against hers, giving her a taste of what was to be. "Which it might."

He withdrew, pressed forward one tantalizing inch at a time. But Lindsey would have none of it. She wanted the pleasure that hovered just out of reach, and she wanted it now.

Instinct guided her. She arched when he pushed, forced their bodies into a deeper joining. She knew the instant Nicholas's control snapped, because a hard tremor racked his body, dragging her name from his lips. His fingers bit into her thighs and his strokes became fast, deep, driving him farther and farther into her clinging passage.

Lindsey couldn't breathe, the pleasure was so intense.

She just clung to him, matched his rhythm, and felt her body coil tighter and tighter as it escalated toward an unknown pinnacle of sensation.

She found that pinnacle, and she heard herself cry out Nicholas's name as her body unraveled in a series of pulsing contractions too exquisite to bear.

Nicholas went rigid, pushing into each rhythmic spasm, letting her body milk his until holding back became an impossibility.

He came powerfully, his orgasm as overwhelming as hers, and he threw back his head, grinding out her name through clenched teeth as he gave in to the sensation.

He collapsed on top of her, too exhausted to move, blanketing her with his weight for long, languorous minutes.

At last, he managed to lift himself away, rolling onto his back and pulling her against him. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, unsteady.

She nodded, even that gesture almost too difficult to muster. "Very okay."

His lips brushed her hair. "Why?"

"Which why? Why was I a virgin? Or why didn't I tell you?"

"Both."

Lindsey swallowed. This wasn't easy to talk about. Her mother's life, the way it had impacted her own, the decisions she'd subsequently made - she wasn't sure anyone who hadn't experienced her background could understand. But she had to try. Nicholas deserved an answer.

"Why was I a virgin? An emotional reason, not a moral one. After seeing what my mother went through - letting her involvement with a man ruin her life - let's say I've always kept men at arm's length. Until now. Why didn't I tell you? I guess it never occurred to me that it would make a difference. Does it?"

"Yes," Nicholas returned fervently. "I said I'd never hurt you. I did."

She smiled, propping herself on one elbow and gazing at him. "I forgive you. You were wonderful."

"So were you." He drew her mouth down to his, kissed her tenderly. "I meant it, Lindsey. I don't intend to let you go."

"I don't want to go," she heard herself say.

An odd expression crossed his face. "I never expected this. But I'm beginning to think Harlan did. In fact, I think he was counting on it."

Lindsey blinked. "You think he wanted us together?"

"The more I consider it - yes, that's exactly what I think. Now that I remember some of the comments he made, some of the conversations we had with Leland... I never gave them much thought before, but now that I do, it makes sense. Your father was a brilliant, tactical man. He never did anything that wasn't part of some bigger plan. My guess is, you and I are part of that plan."

She tucked the sheet around her, sat up. "You'd better explain."

"Yes, I'd better." Nicholas pushed himself to a sitting position, and drew Lindsey around to face him. "I wasn't ready to talk about this yet. But, under the circumstances - what's happening between us, that supposed accident at the manor - my subtle poking around is no longer enough. Not when I believe the threats on your life and Harlan's concerns are related."

Lindsey gave an exasperated shrug. "Nicholas, you're talking in riddles."

"Not anymore. It's time I filled in the blanks. You wanted to know my agenda? Well, here it is."

11

Lindsey watched Nicholas's expression, knowing in her heart that what she was about to hear was going to greatly impact her frame of reference, if not her life.

She wasn't wrong.

"I told you how I felt about Harlan," Nicholas began. "He was like a father to me. We were very close, closer in some ways than he was with Stuart or Tracy. Oh, he was crazy about his kids. But neither of them thought quite the way he did. Our minds were very much in sync. Between that and the fact that he needed an impartial ear, he opened up to me about several things. One of those things was his children." Nicholas frowned, staring off into space. "Harlan had a heart condition, a bad one. The last year of his life, it deteriorated to the point where even his medication didn't help. He knew he was living on borrowed time. Unfortunately, so did Stuart and Tracy."

"Why unfortunately?" Lindsey asked, puzzled. "I'd think they'd want to know so they could spend as much time with him as possible." Time I never had, she added silently to herself.

"They did. Stuart was glued to his father's side, and Tracy came in from Boston for half a week at a time. But it wasn't the gentle time of closure it should have been. The three of them argued, constantly. The doctor cautioned Harlan to keep calm, but something about his kids was eating him up inside. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he wouldn't. Not until the end. The week before he died, he called me into his office, said he was changing the allocation of his estate."

"The manor," Lindsey murmured. "He was leaving it to me."

"That would be my guess. He said Stuart and Tracy knew nothing about these changes, just as they knew nothing about your existence. But he was worried. And not only about their reaction when they found out about you and the steps he'd taken to provide for you. He was worried that they were involved in something unethical, maybe even illegal, under the guise of protecting the family. Whatever that something was, it wasn't tied to his businesses. He'd checked that out himself, and then had Leland and a staff of financial experts do the same. All his companies and the individual departments were operating on the up-and-up. All his assets were intact. Which made him worry all the more."

"Why? What else could they harm?"

"You. You and your mother. Harlan was determined to provide for you, but he was worried sick about how that would factor into whatever Tracy and Stuart were up to. He begged me to get to the bottom of this, to find out what they were doing, to protect them from themselves. More important, he wanted me to protect you. He asked that of both Leland and me. No matter what, he wanted you kept safe."

Lindsey tasted salt, and realized she was crying. "I... I didn't realize."

"I know you didn't. That's why I told you how sorry Harlan was that he'd never known you. It was one of the greatest sorrows of his life. He loved you, Lindsey, whether or not you believe it."

"I'm beginning to." Lindsey wet her lips, stared at the sheets. "You said my father opened up to you about a lot of things. Obviously, that includes his children - all his children. Does it also include my mother?"

"To some degree, yes," Nicholas caught her chin between his fingers, gently lifted her gaze to meet his. "I don't know details. Harlan kept those to himself. But I do know he was tormented with guilt. He believed he should have found a way to help Irene, and to be there for you. He talked about your future, and how he wanted to make it secure and happy. But his hands were tied. Camille was sick. She was drinking herself into oblivion. More and more so as the years progressed."

Painful memories darkened Nicholas's eyes. "Sixteen years ago, right after Stuart and I finished our freshman year at Harvard, we drove down to spend a week or two at the Newport manor. A few days into our vacation, Harlan showed up. He looked terrible, almost haunted. Later, I found out he'd just come from visiting your mother."

Slowly, Lindsey nodded. "When she opened up to me about how things had really been between them, my mother said that my father had tried several times to get through to her. The last time was when I was about ten. She sent him away - again."

"Well, it tore him up pretty badly. He barely spoke to Stuart or me, just wandered around the house looking miserable. We realized he wanted to be alone. So we packed up to leave. We were about to head out, when Camille exploded in. She'd followed Harlan to the house. Apparently, she thought he had arranged some kind of rendezvous with Irene. I'm not sure what made her think that; she was irrational by that time. She went a little crazy, shattering crystal and sobbing accusations. She downed half a bottle of vodka, then took off. Stuart jumped in one car, Harlan and I in another. We split up so we'd have a better chance of finding her. Stuart got to her first. He found her car at the entrance to the Cliff Walk. By the time Harlan and I showed up, she was staggering around on that rough section I pointed out to you. She nearly fell and killed herself. If Stuart hadn't grabbed her when he did ... I shudder to think what would have happened."

"So that's why you got that strange look on your face when you showed me the wilder portions of the Cliff Walk," Lindsey murmured.

"Exactly. And it wasn't the only near-miss Camille had there. There was another one, about nine years later. That time it was a blatant suicide attempt. I don't know what prompted it, or why Camille was there in the first place. The doctors felt that the amount of pills and alcohol she was consuming by then made her delusional. Stuart was terrified she'd try again - and succeed. He and Harlan did some research. They found Rolling Hills. Camille was admitted a few weeks later."

Lindsey swallowed. The situation was tragic. And what she was about to ask would probably sound horribly insensitive. Still, she had to know.

"Nicholas, from the way you describe Camille's condition, it was much worse than I imagined."

"That's because Harlan managed to keep most of it from the media. If he hadn't, the whole sordid story would have been splashed on page one of every tabloid in America."

"I understand. He was devoted to his family." Lindsey searched Nicholas's face. "Is it possible that's the only reason he stayed with her - out of duty?"

Nicholas didn't look offended by her question. On the contrary, he looked as if he'd expected it. "It's more than possible. At the time when Harlan was involved with your mother, his children were young. He would never have traumatized them with a divorce. But later? When they were grown? If he'd met Irene then, things might have been different. He might have taken the risk - if Camille's mental state hadn't been so fragile. Regardless, if you're asking if he was happy, the answer is no. He was committed to Camille's well-being, but he wasn't a husband, not in any real sense. Does that help?"

"I don't know." Lindsey ran a hand through her hair. "If he was still in love with my mother, then, yes, it helps."

A brief hesitation. "He never said it aloud, but my guess is, he was. The way he spoke of her - not the words, but the tone - the pride he took in your accomplishments ... as I said, I can't be sure, but I suspect his feelings were still there."

Lindsey's mind was reeling. "You said he asked you to look out for me."

"Not just to look out for you. To make things right. To stay close by as you made your adjustment, to talk to you about him, to help you with your inheritance. At that point, I suggested that Leland, as Harlan's legal adviser, would make a better choice. But Harlan nixed that idea, saying your inheritance and how it should be handled was right up my alley. I guessed that meant it included real estate. So I agreed. Still, when I met with him and Leland, I thought it was strange how involved in your life they wanted me to be. Now I'm not so sure it was as strange as it seemed."

"You think they were playing matchmaker?" Lindsey asked incredulously.

A slow smile curved Nicholas's lips, and he reached out, traced the curve of her bare shoulder. "Pretty good matchmaking, wouldn't you say?" His knuckles caressed her cheek. "Yeah, I have a hunch that's what they were doing. But we'll have to get confirmation from Leland."

Lindsey's brows drew together. "How much does Mr. Masters know?"

"Everything. He's been working with me to figure out what Stuart and Tracy are up to. Whatever it is, they're desperate to make you go away."

"Desperate enough to kill me?"

Nicholas's smile faded, and he gave a troubled shrug. "I don't know. Stuart was pressuring the hell out of me to seduce you into selling me the manor - to the point of being irrational. So, yes, I think he's out of control. But to rig a scaffolding to fall on you? That's another story. I've known Stuart for twenty years. Yeah, he'd do just about anything for his family, especially Camille. But violence? I never would have believed it."

"Unless whatever he's involved in is serious, maybe criminal - and I'm a threat to it."

"Right. Or unless it's Tracy who's behind this."

Lindsey drew a slow breath. "You think she's more capable of violence than her brother?"

"I think she's harder and colder than her brother. Other than that . . ." Nicholas shrugged again. "I don't know her as well as I know Stuart." His jaw tightened. "But I intend to get at the truth."

"How?"

"It's time to pull out the stops and back those two into a corner. You and I will head out to the manor first thing tomorrow for cleanup and questions. I'll call Stuart and Tracy, presumably so they can ward off the press. They'll come tearing over. I'll leak enough of what I know - what their father suspected - to knock them off-balance. Then I'll issue an ultimatum. That'll do it."

"I'm sure it will," Lindsey agreed. "Okay, so that's tomorrow. What do we do in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, I stick to you like glue, from now until whenever we resolve this insanity."

"Like glue, huh?" Lindsey attempted a smile. "That could be interesting, especially since my plans for the rest of the night involved staying in bed."

"How convenient," Nicholas's eyes turned that heated shade of dark blue, and he tugged the sheet away from Lindsey's body, eased her onto her back. He groped for the box of condoms, tossing the entire box on top of his night table. "I guess I'll be confined to bed, too. After all, I did promise to take excellent care of you, to stay close by while you adjusted to your new life."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, drew him closer. "I like the sound of that."

"Me, too." He tunneled his fingers through her hair, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her deeply, reluctantly pulling away while he still had the presence of mind to do so. "Give me a minute."

"Okay - one minute."

He took less, returning to cover her body with his. "Better?"

"M-m-m... much."

"Good. Now, tell me when you feel adjusted." He settled himself between her thighs, pressed slowly forward. "Fully adjusted."

Lindsey's breath caught, and she arched to bring him more fully inside her. "That might take a while."

He shuddered, his chuckle emerging as a hoarse groan. "Somehow I doubt it. But we'll test your adaptation in every way possible - just to make absolutely sure."

The man stood outside the heavy oak door, bracing himself for the less-than-chipper reception he was about to get. He didn't have the news she wanted. This conversation wasn't going to be pleasant.

Sucking in his breath, he pushed open the door and stepped into the room. "Ms. Falkner."

Her head snapped up the minute he walked in, and she put down her fountain pen, rose from behind her desk. "Mike. Finally." She raised her chin, scrutinizing him intently. "Well? I've been on pins and needles all night. Is it done?"

He shifted, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yes and no. I rigged the thing like you asked ."

"And did she show up?"

"Yup. Around eight o'clock. She went in by herself. Everything went just like you said it would. Except that she's quicker than we thought. She got out of the way before the thing collapsed."

"Damn." A frown. "We were supposed to be rid of her - permanently."

"That we might be," the man said brightly. "She drove away from that place like a bat out of hell."

"Did she drive all the way back to Connecticut?"

"No. At least not yet. She drove to Warner's house."

"Then maybe you should have taken care of her there."

"I thought of it. But I didn't know if you wanted me to be that obvious. Right now, there's still no proof anyone's trying to hurt her. If I break in and attack her outright, the whole accident theory goes out the window. Besides, she's not alone. Warner's with her."

Her eyes glittered bitterly. "Comforting her, no doubt. As only Nicholas Warner can." A contemplative pause. "Fine. Maybe we can use this new attachment she and Nicholas have for each other to our advantage. A few subtle moves, an unfortunate accident, and Lindsey Hall will be wiped from our lives for good."

12

It was eight a.m., and the construction crew had already begun its cleanup when Stuart Falkner's car came racing up the driveway. He jumped out, strode up to the front door and into the manor. A few paces in, he stopped, taking in the whole scene at once.

Nicholas tapped Lindsey on the shoulder to let her know her half-brother had arrived. She nodded, not bothering to turn around - yet. They'd agreed that Nicholas should take the lead in dealing with Stuart.

Stiffly, Nicholas walked over. "Stuart," he acknowledged. "Where's Tracy?"

"H-m-m?" With an effort, Stuart tore his stare away from what was left of the scaffolding. "Oh - she must be tied up with something. I couldn't reach her last night or this morning." His gaze wandered back to the huge pile of wood planks being removed from the floor. "You weren't exaggerating," he muttered. "Christ, the whole damned thing crashed down."

"It sure did," Nicholas agreed. "It missed Lindsey by inches."

Stuart dragged a hand through his hair, his entire body tensing as Lindsey broke away from the clean-up crew and came over to join them.

"Hello, Stuart."

"Lindsey." His forehead creased. "Nick said you were here when this happened. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine" She gave him a tight smile. "Just scared out of my wits. I got lucky. I managed to jump out of the way in time."

"How could something like this have happened?" Stuart demanded.

"I don't know." Lindsey kept her tone calm, detached, playing out her part as she and Nicholas had planned. "It just did. In any case, let's get to the purpose of your visit - you know, the real reason you came tearing out here. You can relax. Nicholas is the only one I told about the accident. So, as long as you took care of any press leaks, your family won't be subjected to ugly publicity. Okay? Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a cleanup to supervise so my construction schedule stays on track." She turned.

"Your construction schedule? You're still going on with this?" Stuart blurted out. "You almost got killed, and you're sticking to your plan to keep the place?"

"After I renovate it, yes," Lindsey supplied. "Why wouldn't I? After all, what happened was an accident. And accidents do happen, even with a top-notch construction team like the one Nicholas provided." She gave an offhanded shrug. "Anyway, it's back to work for me. I'll catch you later." She headed back to the hallway just outside the greenhouse.

"I don't believe this." Staring after her, Stuart gave a hard shake of his head. "There really is no getting through to her, is there?"

"Nope. But you're another story. I'm about to get through to you, loud and clear." Nicholas angled himself so his back was to the room and he was facing Stuart. Making no further attempts to mask his anger, he backed Stuart against the front door, planting his hand on the door jamb as if to keep him from bolting. "Now," he said' his voice low and taut, just loud enough for Stuart to hear over the construction din, "you and I are going to have an enlightening talk."

Stuart studied him warily. "About?"

"About what happened here. About the fact that I'm not nearly as trusting as Lindsey. About the fact that I have a lot more years' experience with construction sites than she does, and that I know damned well the collapse of that scaffolding was no accident. Someone rigged it So, I'll ask you bluntly: was it you, or Tracy, or both of you, who were responsible?"

Chips of ice glittered in Stuart's eyes. "That's a pretty ugly accusation."

''With a great deal of justification." Nicholas bit out the words, ripping into Stuart before he could counterattack. "Let's call it like it is. I know you. I know Tracy. I know how badly you want Lindsey out of your lives. I thought I knew the lengths you'd go to to accomplish that. Obviously, I underestimated how over the edge you really are. You'd actually kill to protect whatever the hell it is you're protecting. And I know you're protecting something, Stuart. I just don't know what – yet. But I will. Because this time you've gone too far. Consequently, you've got a helluva lot more to deal with than Lindsey. You've got me. I've just become your worst nightmare. Because I know things about your family - things I heard directly from Harlan - that will blow apart the whole damned fortress you've built around the Falkner name."

Alternate surges of shock and fear flashed across Stuart's face. "What things? What are you talking about? And what the hell is the matter with you, threatening me like this?"

"Nothing's the matter with me. It's you and your sister who've snapped. As for specifics, we'll get to those later. For now, just give what I've said some good, hard thought. Find Tracy and talk it over with her. Then decide how much you're willing to risk. Because I'm not bluffing, Stuart. I'll find your secret. And I'll destroy you both. You can bet your sorry ass on it."

Stuart blanched, realizing Nicholas was not only dead serious, but in possession of what could be a lethal weapon. "Nick, for God's sake, think about what you're saying. You're like family. My father treated you like a son. "

"Yeah, he did. That's part of why I'm doing this. For Harlan."

"That's crazy. My father would never want you to hurt - " Stuart broke off, his gaze narrowing suspiciously. "Part of why you're doing this," he repeated. "What's the other part?"

"Lindsey," Nicholas stated flatly. "I'm in love with her. I plan to protect her - for my sake, and for Harlan's. Just as he asked me to."

That reality struck like a blow, and all the color drained from Stuart's face. "My father told you about Lindsey? He asked you to watch over her?"

"Uh-huh. He thought she might get hurt. He also thought you were up to something - something ugly. Obviously, his instincts were right." Nicholas's eyes blazed. "I've been digging around subtly, out of deference to Harlan and his feelings for you. But I'm through with discretion. I'm going for the jugular. I'll smoke out your sordid little secret if I have to start the fire myself. I know just where to go for help. Like you, I have the phone numbers of every tabloid in the country. And I'll use them."

With that, Nicholas leaned past Stuart to shove open the door. "This conversation is over. Go find your sister and tell her the way things are. Decide how you want to play this. It's over, any way you look at it. Whether it ends quietly or in a full-blown scandal complete with an expose and pictures is up to you. When you're ready to talk, give me a call." A muscle worked in his jaw. "Now get out."

For a long moment, Stuart just stayed frozen in place, stunned with disbelief. Then he turned and stalked off.

Nicholas didn't budge until Stuart's Jag had disappeared from view. Then, he retraced his steps, came up behind Lindsey.

"It's done," he murmured, wrapping a protective arm around her waist.

Her nod was tight. "The proverbial trap is set."

"Yup. Bait and all."

She turned, gazed up at him. "And now?"

"Now, we wait."

*       *       *

The waiting was over by nightfall.

Nicholas's cell phone rang just as he and Lindsey were munching on the sandwiches they'd picked up on the ride home.

Lindsey's eyes widened, and slowly she lowered her turkey sandwich to the plate.

"Good," Nicholas muttered. "Maybe now we can get to the bottom of this." He punched the talk button. "Yes?"

"It's me," Stuart said without preamble.

"Where's Tracy?"

"She's not here. It doesn't matter. I need to see you." A pause. "Alone."

Nicholas wasn't surprised. He and Lindsey had discussed the probability that he'd have to meet Stuart without her. If the man planned on spilling his guts, he'd never do it with Lindsey there. "When?"

"Now."

"I'm not driving out to Providence."

"You don't have to. I'm still in Newport. Meet me at your yacht. We can talk there."

"Fine. Give me twenty minutes."

Nicholas punched end and put down the phone. "He's scared to death," he informed Lindsey, shoving back his chair and standing. "Whatever he's got to say, it's bad."

She rose as well, reminding herself to stay calm. "He wouldn't hurt you, would he?"

"No." Nicholas shook his head. "He'd have nothing to gain. He knows this thing has spun way out of control, that too many people are on to him. Besides, he realizes you're aware of everything I'm doing – where I'm heading and why. What he wants is a painless way to get out of this. Whatever 'this' is. That's what I'm going to find out."

Lindsey nodded. "Be careful."

"I will." Nicholas reached over, pulled her against him, and kissed her. "I love you, you know."

"I know," she replied, her voice breaking. "I love you, too."

His thumbs caressed her cheeks. "Once this ordeal is over, we've got plans to make. Surprisingly, this self-indulgent hedonist is turning out to be a very traditional guy."

"Is he?" A soft smile touched her lips. "Then, happily, I stand corrected."

Mike was half-asleep in the driver's seat of his car when he heard Nicholas Warner's BMW rev to life. He ducked down as the car rolled down the driveway and turned on to the road, zipping off to parts unknown.

He grabbed his cell phone and dialed.

"Ms. Falkner, it's me. Warner just drove off in his Beamer. By himself. Yeah, I'm sure. She's still in the house. How do you want me to play this?" He frowned, listening. "Okay. I'll give it fifteen minutes. Then, I'll start the ball rolling. I'll meet you at the Cliff Walk. Fine, I'll wait for you there." He hung up, glancing at his watch. Eight-twenty.

The minutes ticked by.

At eight thirty-five, he turned over his motor and drove up to Nicholas Warner's house.

Lindsey was pacing around the great room when the doorbell rang. She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound. Drawing a calming breath, she walked through the hall to the front door.

"Who is it?" she asked, peering through the peephole.

"Ms. Hall?" Mike answered in a crisp, professional voice. "My name is Mike Carl." He held up his ID, leaving it against the peephole long enough for her to verify its authenticity. "As you can see, I work at Rolling Hills Medical Facility. I'm a private investigator hired to pose as an orderly there. It's urgent that I speak with you."

"About?"

"You. And Mr. Warner. Both of you are in danger."

Lindsey yanked open the door. "In danger? How?"

Mike frowned. "I'm not free to discuss the particulars. Suffice it to say, this investigation you're pursuing - you're in over your heads. I need to ask you and Mr. Warner a few questions."

A tight knot of panic began forming in Lindsey's stomach. "Right now, Mr. Warner is... out."

Mike's frown deepened. "We'll need to find him right away."

"I'll give you his cell phone number."

"No," Mike gave an adamant shake of his head. "I don't want to call him. There's a chance he's with one of the individuals I'm investigating. Tipping that person off could be dangerous. I've got to get to him in person. Do you know where he is?"

Lindsey nodded.

"Good. Then grab a sweater and come with me. I want you out of here anyway. It isn't safe for you to stay in this house alone."

For a brief instant, Lindsey paused, her natural sense of caution surfacing. "May I see your credentials again?"

"Of course." He offered her the proof she sought.

It was enough.

She grabbed her sweater, purse, and keys and followed him out. "He's at his yacht," she said quietly. "He's meeting Stuart Falkner there."

Mike's jaw tightened. "We'd better hurry."

13

Stuart was on deck, nursing a Makers Mark, when Nicholas arrived.

"Hope you don't mind," he commented, holding up his glass as Nicholas climbed on board. "I helped myself."

"No. My guess is, you need it." Nicholas propped his elbow on the railing. "Okay, I'm listening."

In one gulp, Stuart polished off his drink. "Can we go below? I'd like to keep this conversation private." When Nicholas hesitated, Stuart gave an odd laugh. "For God's sake, Nick, I'm not going to shoot you. I don't cause destruction, I clean up after it."

Slowly, Nicholas nodded. "Fine."

He gestured for Stuart to precede him, then followed down the stairs. Stuart paused to refresh his drink, then the two men settled themselves in the den off the main cabin.

"Do you remember seven years ago, the night my mother tried to kill herself?" Stuart began, staring broodingly into his glass.

"I remember."

"I don't suppose my father mentioned what prompted her suicide attempt."

"No, Stuart. Harlan didn't gossip to me about Camille."

"Right. Well, he obviously confided in you about Lindsey. Did he also talk about her mother? Did he tell you how crazy about her he was, that he was like a love-struck fool who would have taken off at a moment's notice to be with her if it weren't for his kids?"

Nicholas steepled his fingers together, rested his chin on them. "No. But it doesn't surprise me. I guessed Harlan was in love with Irene Hall. Are you saying he planned to leave Camille for her?"

"Bingo. Oh, he waited until Tracy and I were well-established adults. By that time, his heart condition was critical. I guess those two things combined made him reassess his priorities. He decided to go for it. So he broke the news to Mother, thinking she was strong enough to handle it. She wasn't. His plan was to ride out to Newport, get the summer place ready for Irene, then drive to Connecticut and surprise her. Hell, after all those years, he probably would have begged her if that's what it took. But Mother went crazy. Even I couldn't calm her down. She followed Father out here. I'm not sure what was said between them, but it had to be ugly. By the time I got here, my father was gone and my mother was wrecking the place, guzzling vodka like it was going out of style. I tried to take the bottle. She freaked. She ran out the door, jumped in her car, and sped wildly down the driveway, zigzagging from side to side like a ricocheting bullet. The only problem was, the groundskeeper was out there. He didn't stand a chance. She plowed him down like a weed."

Nicholas's head came up. "She killed him?"

"Instantly. I'm not even sure she realized what she'd done - at least not then. She kept going. She was so drunk, it's a miracle she made it to the Cliff Walk. But she did. You know what happened next. You also know that after the suicide attempt we had her committed to Rolling Hills. What you don't know is that I buried the groundskeeper, wiped that part out as if it had never happened. It was easy enough. The poor old guy was nearing seventy. He lived alone - no family, no friends, no questions."

"Who knew about this? Obviously not Harlan."

"No. Only Tracy and me. She helped me bury the body where no one would find it." Stuart's gaze met Nicholas's. "It's under some shrubbery in the back of the manor."

Nicholas's breath expelled in a hiss. "So that's why you wanted me to build those condos. To destroy any trace of ..." He tasted bile. "All this to cover up Camille's crime? She's ill, Stuart. She's institutionalized. No one would expect her to stand trial."

"Maybe not a court trial. What about a public one? Do you have any idea what the media would do with that story? Do you realize how they'd destroy her - or whatever's left of her?"

"What I realize is how screwed up your values are," Nicholas shot back. "We're talking about a man's life, not a nasty little indiscretion you want to smother." He found himself wondering if he'd ever really known Stuart at all. "Be that as it may, your story still doesn't fit. All that happened seven years ago. In your own sick way, you took care of the groundskeeper. Your family skeleton was safe. So what happened? Why did Harlan sense you were acting strange a few weeks before his death?"

"Because, unbeknown to him, I found out about Lindsey, and the inheritance he'd left her. I was shuffling through some papers on his desk, looking for a particular contract. And what did I find? A memo to Leland listing the provisions he was making for a bastard daughter I never knew existed. I saw red. Then, I panicked. If Lindsey moved into that house, worse, if she renovated it, she might find the body. As it turned out, my fears were justified. Her contractors are digging around the house, so the landscapers can put in a goddamned garden for her mother."

Fury glinted in Nicholas's eyes. "So you are responsible for trying to kill Lindsey. You made the phone calls, rigged the scaffolding - "

"No," Stuart denied instantly. "I didn't do any of that. Oh, I'd do just about anything to make Lindsey walk away from that house. Anything short of what you're accusing me of. I didn't threaten her, Nick. And I didn't try to kill her. I swear." He leaned forward, gripping his glass tightly between his palms. "I'm begging you not to leak this story. It wouldn't serve any purpose, other than to destroy my mother."

Nicholas still wasn't convinced. "Harlan specifically told me you didn't know about Lindsey."

"That's what he believed - until the end. The day before he died, he confronted me head-on about how strangely I'd been acting. He accused me of hiding something from him - pretty outrageous, wouldn't you say, considering what he was hiding? He pushed me too far. I lost my temper. I blurted out the whole truth. We had a huge blowup. Things got out of hand." Stuart squeezed his eyes shut, looking positively green. "That's when he had the massive heart attack. I never expected it to be fatal. I - "

"Christ." Nicholas rose, dragging both hands through his hair.

"There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't already said to myself," Stuart said woodenly. "I killed my father. It's because of me that he's dead." He opened his eyes, determination glittering through the moisture that had gathered in them. "Which makes it twice as crucial for me to protect the rest of my family. It's the only way I can make amends."

"That's a lot to make amends for, Stuart," Nicholas said in a tight voice. "Being an accessory to your mother's manslaughter and instigating your father's fatal heart attack."

"I know. I live with that guilt every day."

"Are you sure that's all you live with? After all, what's one more fatality after two others?"

Stuart winced. "I told you, I had nothing to do with what's been happening to Lindsey."

"And Tracy? What about her?"

"She's as innocent as I am."

Nicholas inclined his head. "Really? Then why isn't she here to make that claim herself?"

"Because she's at Rolling Hills making sure Mother's okay." A bitter stare. "Just in case you decided to jump the gun and call the tabloids."

"Or maybe she didn't want to be here because she's afraid I'd see through her and realize she's behind the attempt on Lindsey's life."

Tension crackled in the air.

Stuart's cell phone rang.

He snatched it up. "What?" he snapped into the receiver. A long pause. "What do you mean, gone? Gone where?" He listened, shaking his head adamantly as he did. "That's impossible. She hasn't driven in years. She's not mentally focused enough to get behind the wheel." Abruptly, he stopped shaking his head, the color draining from his face. "They're sure? How long has she been missing? Who? Who the hell is he?" Silence. "Pictures of... shit - " A sharp inhale. "I'm on my way."

He hung up, staring dazedly at Nicholas. "That was Tracy. My mother's disappeared from Rolling Hills. Security said she took a car, registered to some orderly named Mike Carl. He's missing, too."

"Do they think he kidnapped Camille?" Nicholas demanded.

"What? No. She was alone in the car. Driving. She was headed east. That's the direction of the Cliff Walk. Tracy called the police, just in case she plans to do something crazy. But it doesn't sound that way. The guard who saw her drive off said she seemed totally rational. Which, under the circumstances, can only mean ... Christ - " Stuart broke off. "I've got to get out there." He took a step toward the door, then halted, gazing back at Nicholas like a condemned man who realized he had no choice but to divulge a chilling - and damning - piece of information.

A sickening premonition settled in Nicholas's gut. "There's more. What is it?"

"When they searched this Mike Carl's room, they found a book on home construction, some Post-its and a couple of photos. The book was dog-eared on some pages that had pictures of scaffolding. The Post-its are scribbled bits of information, and the photos are of a woman. Security didn't think anything of the stuff. But Tracy demanded to see every last scrap of it. She said the Post-its are in Mother's handwriting - including the one that was slapped on the book instructing Mike Carl to read the dog-eared pages. The other Post-its list dates, times, and the addresses of the manor, your place in Newport, and Irene Hall's apartment in Connecticut. As for the photos - Nick, they're of Lindsey."

"What?"

Stuart looked positively stricken. "I don't want to think about how all this fits together. But you'd better get to Lindsey."

Nicholas had already grabbed his cell phone, and was punching up his home number. He gripped the phone until his knuckles turned white, counting the rings and praying.

No answer.

He pressed end, and tried Lindsey's cell number.

Nothing.

"She's not picking up," he said in a strangled tone. "Something's wrong." He strode past Stuart, heading for the main deck. "Let's go," he ordered. "This Mike Carl must have Lindsey. And if he's working for Camille, if they're taking Lindsey to the Cliff Walk..."

He didn't finish his sentence.

He didn't have to.

*        *       *

Stuart's cell phone rang a minute after they screeched away from the docks. He propped it in its cradle, so he and Nicholas could listen together.

"Yeah?"

"It's me." Tracy sounded like a frightened child. "I'm about a half-mile from the Cliff Walk."

"We're even closer. I was at the yacht when you reached me. Nick's with me. I've got you on speaker. What's going on?"

"The police just called. They spotted two cars near the exact entrance to the Cliff Walk I suggested - that rough section Mother's always headed to in the past. One of the cars is Mike Carl's. The other's a rental, but he's the one who rented it. I guess he left his own car at Rolling Hills for Mother to use. Both cars are empty. But the police found a woman's sweater in the rental."

"What color is the sweater?" Nicholas demanded.

"Light blue with pearl buttons."

"That's Lindsey's." Nicholas's jaw clenched. "Your mother's definitely not out there to kill herself, Tracy. Not this time. This time she has a different target in mind." He slammed his fist against his leg, glaring from the cell phone to Stuart. "God help the two of you if she succeeds."

14

Lindsey leaned back against a tree, staring out toward the water, grateful that the night was overcast and she couldn't make out the outline of the cliffs. She didn't want to see the jagged drop to the ocean below. Not when she was horrifyingly certain that was where she was headed.

Even so, her memory was excellent. And her imagination was hideously keen.

She winced as the ropes Mike Carl had bound her wrists and ankles with bit into her skin. Her leg muscles ached from her holding them so stiffly, and they screamed for her to shift position. But she didn't dare. Not when one wrong move could mean either losing her balance and toppling to her death, or being shot down by Mike Carl, whose pistol had been aimed at her head since he'd hauled her out of the car a half-hour ago.

"Are you going to tell me who you really are and why you want me dead?" Lindsey asked, turning to peer at her captor, who was squinting into the darkness, obviously searching for someone.

"Huh?" His head came up, and he scanned the area behind them intently, as if he'd heard a welcome sound. "You know who I am," he replied, his gaze fixed on a spot off to their right. "Everything I told you was true. Oh, except the part about being a PI. I made that up. I'm really a regular orderly, although I'd be a helluva good detective. I did a great job with you, didn't I?"

"Exactly what is it you did?" Lindsey asked, picking up on a faint plodding sound and wondering if it was the wind or the arrival of whomever Mike Carl was expecting. "Other than kidnap me and drag me to the edge of a cliff?"

"I did all of it. I made that threatening phone call to you in Connecticut. I rigged the scaffolding. I tailed you around Newport. And now this. I did the whole she-bang."

"Why? Or should I ask, for whom? Who put you up to this? Who is it we're waiting for?"

"That would be me."

Lindsey twisted around as the acknowledger to her question walked out of the shadows.

Recognition was instant, even though the ethereal-looking woman who joined them hadn't been publicly photographed in years. One didn't forget those aristocratic features and china-doll looks.

Camille Falkner.

Lindsey was so stunned, she could barely speak. "Mrs. Falkner?"

"None other." She loosened the scarf around her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. "Fine work, Mike," she commended, reaching into her pocket to pull out a folded slip of paper. "Here's a check for ten thousand dollars made out to cash. Take it, and run along. Just leave me your car. I'll park it in the lot at Rolling Hills. You can pick it up tomorrow. Oh, and I'd appreciate your pistol. I doubt I'll be needing it, but one never knows."

"Sure thing, Ms. Falkner." Beaming, he took his check and handed her the gun. With a quick glance at Lindsey, he took off.

"Now then - we're alone." Camille's hand was steady as she aimed the pistol at Lindsey. She walked over, taking Lindsey's chin between her fingers and angling her face so she could study it. "You have Harlan's coloring and your mother's bone structure," she pronounced, releasing Lindsey's face. "A striking combination. No wonder Nicholas Warner is so enchanted. He never could resist a pretty face." Anger glistened in her eyes. "I suppose the same applies to Harlan, or you wouldn't have been conceived, would you?"

Lindsey swallowed. This woman might be unbalanced, but she was completely aware of what she was doing.

"Do you intend to kill me?" she asked Camille. "Is that why you had me brought here?"

Camille sighed. "I'm afraid so. I hoped it wouldn't come to this. In fact, I actually tried to forget your existence over the past years. Of course, Harlan made that impossible with his fixation on you and Irene. He even tried to leave me for her, did you know that? I made quick work of that plan. Anyway, things seemed to be under control. Harlan was my husband, even if we weren't able to live together. Mike kept tabs on his loyalties and reported back to me at Rolling Hills. Harlan didn't go to Irene - not once. I was satisfied."

Her expression hardened, and her fingers tightened on the pistol. "Then, my beloved Harlan died. I thought nothing could be more painful than that - until Mike showed up in my room to break the shocking news to me that you'd been left a sizable inheritance, including my summer house. That wouldn't do. Not at all. Truthfully, I didn't originally plan to kill you. Not in cold blood. My plan was to make you vanish from our lives. But you refused to do that. I tried everything from threats to an ugly construction accident. Nothing worked. Which leaves only one alternative."

Lindsey fought back her fear, twisting her hands wildly in an effort to free them. But what good would that do? Even if by some miracle she managed to free her hands and feet, Camille had a gun. She'd shoot her down in a heartbeat.

Reason. She had to try reason.

"You're talking about murder, Mrs. Falkner. Surely you don't think you can get away with that?"

"Of course I can," Camille replied calmly. "I've killed before. I ran over our groundskeeper the night Harlan announced his plans to leave me. Stuart thinks I've wiped the incident from my mind, but I remember it quite dearly." A smile curved her lips. "Being an unstable alcoholic has some wonderful advantages. No one ever expects you to be lucid. You can get away with anything - even murder. Especially if you're a Falkner. Besides, it will be days before your body is found, and even longer before it's identified. At first, everyone will assume you went back to Connecticut. Once they realize you're at the bottom of the Cliff Walk, they'll think you went for a stroll and had a terrible accident. Tragic, but true."

“What if I put up a struggle?" Lindsey tried. "Even bound, I can manage that. You'd have to shoot me, which means the police will find a bullet hole in my body and realize my death was a homicide, not an accident."

"True," Camille conceded. "And they'll be looking for suspects. But I'll never be one of them. I'm an inmate at a medical institution, confined to the grounds -  remember?"

Lindsey stared at her in amazement. "Your children think you're emotionally frail. The fact is, you have nerves of steel. What's more, you know exactly what you're doing."

"That's true." Camille frowned. "As for Stuart and Tracy, I've hated misleading them. Unfortunately, it was the only way for me to have free rein to do what I needed to do. If I hadn't created the illusion of being unfocused and unstable, Rolling Hills would have kept a much tighter leash on me. So would my children, given that they love me and would want to protect me. I needed to work closely with Mike, to have him do my legwork for me. It all played out beautifully. Someday I'll tell Tracy and Stuart the truth. They'll understand. They'll more than understand - they'll applaud my actions. They want you gone every bit as much as I do." Abruptly, she reached out and grabbed Lindsey's arm, yanking her forward with a surprising amount of strength. "Now then, I need you to take a few more little hops. Then I'll give you one hard push. Gravity will do the rest."

"No." Lindsey began struggling, her survival instinct taking over, no matter what the cost. She twisted her body fiercely from side to side, praying that her defensive motions would force Camille into using both hands, and that she'd lose her grip on the pistol. Even if that plan failed, Lindsey wouldn't give in. Let the woman shoot her. The thought of dying that way was far less gruesome than the thought of plunging to her death. And if the bullet that killed her was traced to Mike Carl's gun, there'd be a better chance of Camille being found out.

"Let go of me!" Lindsey elbowed Camille hard enough to shove her aside.

The motion caught Camille off guard, but she recovered quickly and without dropping the pistol. Steadying herself a few feet from the edge of the cliff, she grabbed Lindsey's arm again, her nails digging into her flesh. "Damn you," she bit out. "You're going over that cliff. You're going to be erased the way you should have been twenty-six years - "

"Mother!" Stuart's shout broke through the trees, and he rushed forward, stopping fifty feet away. "Don't do this. Let her go."

Camille started, her brows drawing together in puzzlement as she angled herself toward her son. "Stuart? How did you find me?"

"Let Lindsey go," Stuart repeated. "Please. Before it's too late."

"You know I can't do that, sweetheart. She should never have been born in the first place."

"You can't erase that." It was Tracy who spoke, coming up behind her brother. "Mother, listen to me. I don't want her in our lives either. But this isn't the answer. The police are here. They've surrounded the area, I've begged them to hold their fire, but if you don't back off, they're going to sacrifice your life to save Lindsey's. Is that what you want?"

"The police?" Camille's puzzlement turned to shock. "You called the police? Why?"

"Because we were worried about you," Stuart replied. He was aware that Lindsey was taking advantage of the distraction he was providing, moving subtly away from the edge of the cliff while Camille spoke to him and Tracy. He kept talking, giving Lindsey time to put distance between herself and his mother. "You disappeared from Rolling Hills. We thought you might hurt yourself." A quick sidelong glance at a spot diagonally behind Camille, where Nicholas was closing in. "Mother, listen to me. You're not thinking clearly. Everyone understands that. So just put down the gun and everything will be all right."

Camille was opening her mouth to refuse when Nicholas lunged from behind. He grabbed her, knocking the gun to the ground with one sharp blow, and locking his arm around her waist to keep her from retrieving it. She whimpered, her head snapping around so she could see who her captor was, struggling against him even as she did.

"Nicholas, get your hands off of me!" she commanded.

"Don't tempt me, Camille," Nicholas ground out, glaring pointedly at the cliff's edge, sparks of rage blazing in his eyes. He looked furious enough to kill.

"Nick, please - don't hurt her," Stuart begged. He made his way over, even as the police began to close in. "Please."

"We'll take it from here, Mr. Warner," one of the officers assured him, his gun poised and ready.

Nicholas didn't need a second invitation. He handed Camille over to the cop, then went to Lindsey, who'd sunk down on the grass, shaking. "Are you okay?" he muttered, squatting down beside her.

She didn't trust herself to speak. She just nodded, then rested her head against him as he untied the ropes at her ankles and wrists.

"It's over," Nicholas told her, bringing each wrist to his lips. "The whole nightmare is over." He looked up, watching as the cops handcuffed Camille and led her away, Stuart and Tracy flanking her like devoted soldiers.

"We'll need Ms. Hall to answer some questions," another officer informed Nicholas.

"In the morning," Nicholas replied firmly. "Right now, she needs some rest."

"Yeah, okay, but first thing tomorrow."

'I'll be at the station at nine," Lindsey promised in a shaky whisper.

"We both will," Nicholas amended. He stood, swinging Lindsey into his arms and heading away from the Cliff Walk. "Come on," he murmured gently, pressing his lips into her hair. "It's time to go home and make those plans I was talking about."

15

"That three a.m. phone call made to your apartment was traced to Mike Carl's home phone," Leland Masters informed Lindsey, propping his elbows on his desk. "The police called me with that information today."

"Not a surprise," Lindsey murmured. She and Nicholas had dropped by Leland's office to tie up loose ends and to touch base on the legal status of the Falkners. After that, they were driving up to the Cape for a much-needed weekend away.

"Also with regard to Mike Carl, the police discovered he had a criminal record. Breaking and entering, as well as assault."

Nicholas frowned. "How did that manage to stay hidden? Wouldn't Rolling Hills have uncovered it in his background check?"

"If he'd had one, yes. Apparently, Mike Carl's association with Camille predated her stay at Rolling Hills. He worked at a local clinic, and supplied her with extra pills when she needed them. Once she was committed, she panicked, and wanted Carl close at hand, both to smuggle her pills, if need be, and to appease her paranoia by checking on Harlan's actions. She got Rolling Hills to bypass the background check. She provided Carl with a personal reference, said she knew him and his family. Based on her recommendation, he was hired, and assigned to the group of rooms that included Camille's. That gave them ample opportunity to touch base. She worked the whole thing out quite nicely. Right down to having damning information to blackmail Mike Carl with, if need be."

"And here we thought Camille was spaced out, oblivious to everything," Nicholas muttered. "She's like a barracuda."

"A very sick one," Leland reminded him. "Very sick. She was desperate to hold on to Harlan, even in death."

"I assume you'll be her defense attorney," Lindsey said. "And Stuart and Tracy's, too."

"Actually, no. I handle their business, and their trust and estate work. I've recommended a top-notch criminal attorney, I'll confer with him as needed." Sighing, Leland made a steeple with his fingers, and rested his chin atop them. "Stuart and Tracy are pleading guilty as accessories to vehicular homicide in the death of their groundskeeper. With any luck, their sentences will be kept to a minimum. As for Camille ... I realize her crimes against you were premeditated, Lindsey, but she's insane, nonetheless. A high-security institution is the best place for her, not a prison. I'm sure the courts will agree with that." He gazed at Lindsey. "Does my sympathy for them anger you? Because if it's any consolation, their lives will never be the same. This scandal will haunt them forever."

"No, it doesn't anger me," Lindsey replied. "The Falkners are your clients, and your friends. They have been for years."

"And Harlan would want it this way," Leland added quietly.

"I'm sure he would."

Nicholas reached over, took Lindsey's hand. "Speaking of what Harlan would want, Lindsey and I have some news."

"Oh?" Leland's brows lifted.

"We're getting married. Right after Lindsey's mother gets home from Europe." Nicholas's lips twitched. "Surprised?"

"No. But very pleased" Leland rose, extended his hand first to Lindsey, then to Nicholas. "This is welcome news indeed." He smiled - a broad, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "It seems Harlan was right. Then again, he usually was."

Lindsey leaned forward in her chair. "So Nicholas wasn't imagining things. My father did do a little matchmaking."

"No, he did a lot of matchmaking," Leland confirmed. "He was absolutely sure you two belonged together." Wistfulness softened his smile. "He was also determined to give you the future he wanted desperately for your mother, but could never give her - the opportunity to spend your life with the one you love."

Feeling Nicholas's fingers tighten around hers, Lindsey smiled through her tears. "Well, he succeeded. He did more than succeed. He brought Nicholas into my life. He also brought me closure, a sense of peace, and the joy of knowing I had a father - a real father. I only wish I could tell him - " She broke off, emotion clogging her throat.

Leland watched as Nicholas stood, drew Lindsey into his arms, and held her there, all the love in the world shining in his eyes.

"He knows, Lindsey," Leland replied with absolute certainty. "Believe me, he knows."

About the Author

Andrea Kane marked her debut in the world of romantic suspense with her New York Times - bestselling blockbuster thriller, Run for Your Life. Prior to that, she was the bestselling author of fourteen historical romances, including the highly acclaimed two-book series, The Gold Coin and The Silver Coin. She lives in New Jersey with her husband and daughter. Visit her Web site at www.andreakane.com.