A Precious Inheritance. Paula Roe

flinch. Just a small one, barely noticeable. But he still caught it.

      A thread of disquiet surged.

      In New York she’d been as slick and icy as a January sidewalk. But here, on her own turf, not so Perfect. That is, if you didn’t count that haughty display earlier.

      “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, recrossing her arms. “Why the interest in me?”

      “Because I wanted to make sure you were on the level. And if you were, I owed you an apology.”

      Her brow twisted into confusion. “A phone call would’ve sufficed.”

      “Ah, but you could’ve hung up on me.”

      “Most probably. So, Mr. Harrington—” she crossed her arms “—what did you find out about me?”

      Oh, boy. Amazingly, he found himself tongue-tied, trapped beneath that challenging green gaze like a fifteen-year-old kid caught spying on the girls’ bathroom. He took a steadying breath, unable to shake the remnants of his past. “Your sister and Ann did go to college, your parents are hugely successful lawyers. You started out studying law but instead changed your major. But…”

      “But what?” She lifted her brow questioningly. “You’ve come all this way, you might as well ask. Whether I’ll answer, though, is another thing.”

      “You’re not exactly flush with cash, are you?”

      “How could I afford to bid, you mean?” Her face tightened, shoulders straightening. “I have an inheritance from my maternal grandmother.”

      Oh, this just gets better. Of course Vanessa Partridge has an inheritance. “But not enough to outbid me.”

      Her mouth thinned. “No.”

      Chase’s outward expression revealed nothing of the confusion warring inside. Her response didn’t feel rehearsed, and he’d seen some standout performances in his time. So, if he scratched shill bidder, what was left? She was more than just a rabid fan.

      But how to approach it so she wouldn’t end up kicking him out?

      Fresh out of inspiration, he glanced up at her brightly painted blue door. “So, what are your girls’ names?”

      She hesitated then said slowly, “Erin and Heather.”

      Chase’s eyebrows shot up. Score. “The characters in Dunbar’s manuscript.”

      “What?”

      She grabbed the stair railing, her eyes rounding.

      He put out a steadying hand, but she waved it away with an “are you kidding me?” look. Suitably chastened, he watched her shake her head, her gaze on the floor.

      “I skimmed through the manuscript,” he continued slowly. Her thick auburn ponytail slid over her shoulder as her chin dipped and she placed one hand on her hip. “About halfway in he introduces two characters called Megan and Tori. But in his notes, he renames them.”

      Her head snapped up. “Did the notes explain why?”

      “No.”

      “So the published version will be—”

      “Heather and Erin. Your daughters.” He paused, then added calmly, “And Dunbar’s.”

      Silence fell, stretching interminably, punctuated only by the thick exhale of her breath. Shock? Anger? A prelude to tears? Whatever was going through her head, he knew one thing with unerring certainty: Vanessa Partridge wasn’t the type to cry in public. Her straightened shoulders and lifted chin just seconds later proved that thought.

      “You’d better come up.”

      His brow lifted. “You sure?”

      With a swift nod, she turned and went back up the stairs.

      Refusing to focus on her rear end, Chase finally reached the top and followed her inside. He took in the short horizontal hallway and a glimpse of a bedroom to the right before she pointed in the opposite direction and said, “Take a seat.”

      He did as she asked and walked into her living room.

      Stacks of books, their spines creased and worn, lined the far wall of the cozy room, spreading out under the large window to his left, before a small television and DVD player filled the remaining gap. A high shelf housed a multitude of keepsakes—a candle holder, an oddly-shaped clay sculpture and a dozen tiny origami figures. Magazines cluttered the coffee table, along with a stack of colored paper and a jar of chunky crayons. A playpen sat center, bracketed by a corner lounge chair.

      So, was this the real Vanessa Partridge?

      He gave her apartment another once-over. Why would someone with silver-spoon parents be living in a rental and working as an underpaid preschool teacher?

      * * *

      Vanessa closed the door behind them, her mind a whirling mass of chaos and confusion. Why? Why had Dylan…?

      That phone call.

      “I have to talk to you.” That was it. One scratchy, tinny message he’d left on her voice mail. She’d assumed he’d meant “right away” and gone from hopefully optimistic to raging fury after three hours and five messages and he still hadn’t shown up. Then she’d turned on the TV and discovered Dylan was not only half a world away, but he’d died in a plane crash.

      She slowly walked into her living room. Never had she felt the sting of bewilderment so keenly than at this exact moment. Yes, she’d been dumb enough to get involved with a guy incapable of loving her the way she should be loved, and that awful, gut-gouging hope when she’d played his last message over and over had been her own personal torture device for days.

      But this? This was off the charts.

      She’d had no one to confide in after the accident, which had magnified her isolation a thousandfold. When the news had run the D.B. Dunbar stories 24/7 for weeks, interviewing his neighbors, his editor, his assistant, all she could do was stare at the screen with a mix of frustration and anger. Starting her new life and new job had been hard, but they’d been minor traumas compared to the ever-constant ripples that being D. B. Dunbar’s secret girlfriend had wrought.

      And Chase Harrington was the only other person alive who knew the truth.

      Well, more than most. She shot him a panicky glance.

      “So what—” she began.

      A soft muffle interrupted them and their eyes met. Vanessa turned and started down the hall until Chase’s hand on her wrist pulled her up short.

      “Wait.” She stared at him, then at his warm fingers encircling her wrist. He let her go. “Just talk to her from outside the door. Don’t go in there and don’t turn on any lights.”

      She frowned. “Why…”

      The cries grew louder and Chase added, “Can you just try it?”

      Vanessa glared at him then silently went down the hall to the door slightly ajar. “It’s okay, Heather,” she began softly.

      “Higher. More singsongy.”

      Of all the— She gritted her teeth and did as he instructed. “Mommy’s heeeere. Just go back to sleep, sweetie.”

      She paused, letting Heather mutter again before adding gently, “Time for sleepy, sweetie. Baaaaaack tooooo sleeeeeep.”

      She held her breath, waiting. After a second or two of baby mumbles, silence fell.

      No. Way. She slowly turned to Chase, staring at him incredulously. “How did you know that?”

      He shrugged. “I spent a lot of time with kids when I was younger. It seemed to work for them.”

      When a sudden wail pierced the air, Chase added wryly, “But obviously not for Heather.”