Pull Of The Moon. Sylvie Kurtz

      She yanked her arm to free her elbow from the hand he’d clamped around it and frowned at him when he didn’t immediately let go. “I’d say a refresher course is in order.”

      “Pardon me?”

      “Manners. Last time your style was in, men wore mammoth skins and carried clubs.”

      He jerked her arm down as if to plant her in place and gave a sharp growl. “Stay here and don’t move.”

      Movements tight and controlled, he spun on his heel and headed into the bowels of the house.

      “Sure thing, Mr. Galloway. I’ll be right here when you come back to apologize.”

      NICK FOUGHT HIS TEMPER all the way to Rita’s sitting room on the second floor. He hated that the mere sight of the intruder had saturated him with a sense of fullness the way food, water and air never could, just because she looked like Valentina would, and part of him was still searching for his childhood friend.

      A mask. A fraud. Just another scam artist out to separate Rita from her fortune. How could his brain let itself get fooled so easily?

      Valentina was dead.

      The woman’s pale blue eyes had met his straight and clear, dancing with eager life and a streak of stubborn resistance. She’d done her homework, all right. Hair the color of moonlight. Natural, not bottle-bought like so many others. He’d noted things about her he hadn’t wanted to notice—like the gingery smell of her skin, like the crescent scar at her temple, like the heat of certainty that she belonged in this house.

      He liked even less the twitch in his chest that had been much too close to panic. Just the thought of her now shocked him all over again.

      Valentina. When would she stop haunting him?

      And pseudo-Valentinas, would they ever stop showing up on Moongate’s doorstep preying on Rita’s hopes?

      He hung on to his control long enough to stop and knock on Rita’s door rather than barrel right through.

      Rita looked up, a flush creeping over her too-pale skin, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Her hands folded over the age-progressed image of Valentina that had arrived in that morning’s mail. His heart sank. Why did she insist on torturing herself like this every October?

      “Did you forget something, Nicolas?” Though still regal in bearing, she seemed to have shrunk in the past few years, as if the burden of hope was finally getting too much to bear. He wanted to ease her pain, but she wouldn’t buy any of his proofs—the blood, the DNA, even the conviction.

      Hand still on the brass doorknob, he squeezed it with all his might to keep his irritation out of his voice. “There’s a woman downstairs who claims you’re expecting her.”

      “From Edmund’s television station?”

      He nodded.

      “Yes, she’s the coordinating producer who’ll help me air Valentina’s story.” Rita’s spine straightened and her chin jutted out as if she were readying for a fight. That wasn’t how he wanted things to stand between them.

      How could Edmund Meadows have let his niece talk him into this folly? “I wish you’d talked to me.”

      “Why? So you could tell me I was a doddering old fool?”

      “She’ll hurt you. Like all the others.” Nick had gotten good at sniffing out frauds. He knew this woman’s type. The kick in the gut he’d gotten when he’d seen her outside determined to get in only proved she was nothing more than another opportunist.

      He jerked his chin at the photo beneath Rita’s hand. She’d be embarrassed if he told her he knew about her nightly supplications with God in the tower room. But if he told her, then he’d have to admit his own guilt, and he couldn’t bear the look of disappointment in her eyes. “She looks just like the picture.”

      Rita’s gaze went wide and a little desperate. Her hands flattened over the photo, covering it completely. “She works for the station.”

      “This pretender’s good. I’ll give her that.” Patient and resourceful. Hitting just the right notes to instantly win Rita’s confidence. The worst kind of con artist. He should know; that same blood ran through his veins. “She could’ve been using her job to dig deeper into your past.”

      “You’re reaching, Nicolas.” Rita searched through the Notes section of her red leather agenda and tapped a paragraph on the page. “Valerie Zea has worked at WMOD for six-and-a-half years. She started as an intern right after college and has moved up to coordinating producer. She took a year off after her father died, but came back. Last year she won an Emmy for a segment she produced on a private investigator who specializes in missing children. Simon Higgins, the executive producer, tells me she’s the best person for the job.”

      Was Higgins in on this farce? What would he gain by it? Time to run some background checks and stop this before the situation got out of control. “I’m trying to protect you from another fraud.”

      “I understand.” Rita glanced at her notes. “She’s requested access to the archives for research, and I’ve agreed to let her sort through my collection.”

      A growl formed at the base of Nick’s throat, but he swallowed it back. “You’re inviting trouble, and you hired me to keep you out of trouble.”

      “You do your job well, Nicolas. This time, though, you’re wrong.”

      “Rita—”

      Rita closed her agenda with a snap. “She’ll want to interview you and Holly, as well.”

      Something in Nick froze. “No, that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to put my mother through public humiliation again.”

      Rita’s lips quivered into a tremulous smile. “It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary. I have to do something. Someone knows where my baby is. I just want to bring her home.”

      And like that, a mountain of shame swamped him. Rita had exhausted every possible avenue to find Valentina—the police, private detectives, offering exorbitant rewards for information and promising no questions asked if only her daughter was returned. She’d followed every lead, no matter how thin. Once, on another anniversary, she’d even admitted she’d take a body just to know for sure what had happened to her precious daughter.

      “Rita,” he started, but had no idea what to say to ease her grief and make her see that her desperation would only add to her pain.

      Her pale blue eyes turned to him. “I know you think I’m a fool, but I don’t care. I know Valentina is alive.” She banged her chest with a fist. “I can feel her in my heart.”

      How could he argue with that? Which didn’t mean he had to set her free with the wolves. “Okay, but I’m not leaving you alone with her.”

      Rita stood, tucked her agenda against her chest, blood-red against her ice-blue blouse. “Don’t you have a meeting with Emma Hanley and Carter Stokke about the Valentina Pond project?”

      Another scam as far as he was concerned, but Rita’s friend, Emma, had made a killing on Phase One, and Rita thought that, if she got in on Phase Two, it would add value to the acreage she owned on the back side of the pond. So he’d run the numbers for her and give her the black-and-white proof of his initial gut feeling. “It’ll wait. You’re more important.”

      She rounded her desk and squeezed him into a quick hug. “Thank you, Nicolas, for indulging me.”

      Stepping back, he nodded. She was no more than a small and fragile bird in his arms. “I’ll go get her. We’ll meet you in the library.”

      Nick’s steps ate up the Oriental runner lining the hallway. Cripes, he didn’t need this.

      Loyalty to Rita as much as love for this place kept him rooted at Moongate. Though he was raised at the mansion, he didn’t mistake