Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (11 page)

“YOU BE THE MOMMY,” SaraJane said, directing Whitney to a spot at the small play table. “And I’ll be your little girl.”

An overwhelming surge of affection infused Whitney as she watched SaraJane place the tiny teacups on their equally tiny saucers. Her niece wore a pink corduroy jumper—a color that had always looked so pretty on Morgan—a white shirt and white tights.

Someday,
she thought as she sat in the tot-size chair.
Someday I’ll tell you all about your mommy.

SaraJane skipped to the play stove in the corner of the sunroom and Whitney cleared her throat. “Um…excuse me. Shouldn’t
I
be doing the cooking if I’m the mommy?”

SaraJane turned, and standing with one hand on her hip and a tiny spatula in the other, said proudly, “I can do it all by myself.” Then she held out the spatula. “But you can help.”

She looked like a little doll. Her eyes were large and her blond hair sprayed from a ponytail on the top of her head, golden tendrils spilling around her chubby pink cheeks.

Whitney tried to envision Rhys doing so delicate a task as brushing his daughter’s hair and decided he probably left those things to Gretta. Though, somehow, it wouldn’t surprise her if Rhys did do it himself.

SaraJane skipped to Whitney’s side and tugged her hand, urging her off the chair and toward the stove. “I can show you how to do it,” she said, enunciating each word crisply and clearly.

“Okay. What do I do?” Whitney asked, kneeling next to the little girl.

“First,” SaraJane said, pressing her lips together, “you gotta have these.” She pushed a square pot holder into each of Whitney’s hands, then concentrating heavily, arranged them to cover Whitney’s palms.

“Then you gotta open the oven door and take the cookies out.” Her expression grew serious. “But you gotta be very careful ’cause it’s hot.” She dimpled. “Put them right here.” She patted the tabletop next to the stove. “Then you take the spatula and scoop the cookies off an’ put them on the plate.”

SaraJane clapped her hands and giggled impishly. “And then—” she drew out the words “—we eat them.” Her bubbly laughter sparkled through the room.

Whitney peeked in the window of the miniature oven door before she opened it. “Hmmm, real cookies?”

SaraJane pursed her lips. A frown creased her smooth forehead in a way that sent a pang directly to Whitney’s heart. At times the little girl reminded Whitney so much of Morgan as a child it was utterly painful to watch.

“Well, Grammy helped, too,” SaraJane said, ducking her chin.

Whitney burst into laughter.
Sweet innocence.
So much like her mother before life and its adversities destroyed her. “That’s wonderful!” Whitney said, reaching to open the oven and remove the cookies. “We all helped. That’s called teamwork.”

When SaraJane grabbed another spatula and joined Whitney scooping the cookies off the sheet, Whitney added, “And I think we make a terrific team.”

Whitney brushed cookie crumbs from her black shirt and leggings and watched SaraJane carry the small plastic plate to the table, taking slow deliberate steps so she wouldn’t spill anything.

Just as carefully, SaraJane set the plate on the table, then, eyes wide, looked up at Whitney. “See, I told you I could do it all by myself.” As SaraJane spoke, her gaze lifted beyond Whitney to the doorway. Her face lit with recognition.

“Poppy, Poppy!” she squealed, completely forgetting the tea party. She flew toward Rhys, who leaned casually against the doorjamb, watching them.

He whisked the little girl into his arms and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “Are you two spoiling your appetites before dinner?” he asked sternly.

Whitney couldn’t help noticing the differences between them. SaraJane’s hair was soft and golden, her complexion the proverbial peaches-and-cream. Rhys’s hair was thick and black as midnight, his skin, olive, and while both had blue eyes, Rhys’s were much darker.

“I want to eat here at Grammy’s.”

Rhys drew back. “You mean you’re tired of my cooking?” He chuckled and tucked a finger under SaraJane’s chin.

“Grammy’s food is gooder. I want to eat at Grammy’s.” The child wriggled to get down and Rhys gently obliged, smiling as she skipped back to the tea-party table. His eyes caught Whitney’s.

“Can’t say I blame her. My cooking stinks and even
I
know it.” He shook his head. “But to be told by a three-year-old—now that really hurts.”

His playfulness threw Whitney off guard, and when SaraJane came back and ordered them both to sit at the table and eat cookies, Whitney obeyed. Rhys followed suit. As they did so, SaraJane ran out of the room calling, “Grammy, Grammy, we’re gonna eat here!”

Several silent moments passed and Whiney shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Rhys seemed to be doing the same. Finally she plucked a cookie from the plate and bit off a chunk, more than she wanted. Anything to take her mind off Rhys’s presence and the sense of intimacy she felt sitting here with him.

Rhys gave Whitney a quirky grin, then leaned against the back of the pint-size chair, an arm slung over the one next to him, and in a remarkably good Bogart imitation said, “Sweetheart, I think we’ve just been had.” His expression was amused. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

In mid-swallow, she laughed, surprised by his droll humor. As she sucked in air, part of the cookie lodged in her wind-pipe. She coughed, delicately at first, then spasmodically.

Then, suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Within a millisecond, Rhys leaped to his feet, rounded the table and hoisted her from the chair, his arms around her chest ready to administer the Heimlich maneuver.

“Wait,” Whitney gasped, then coughed to clear her throat. She raised an arm. “I’m okay. Really.”

But as she stood there with Rhys’s arms wrapped around her ribcage, feeling his taut muscles molded against her, her legs started to quiver. His head rested against hers, and his warm breath fanned her cheek. She felt the tension in his arms under her breasts and unconsciously relaxed against him. An unequivocal shiver of desire rippled through her.

“You sure?” He breathed the words next to her ear.

Hell no. She was suddenly hot, sweaty hot, and with her insides pulsating as they were, she couldn’t have torn herself away if she wanted.

“I’m an expert at this,” he said softly. And at that moment she had no doubts whatsoever that he told the truth.

***

“I’m gonna help Grammy with the cake,” SaraJane announced with authority after dinner and slid from her booster seat at the long dining table. Johnny had excused himself moments before to help in the kitchen, leaving Whitney and Rhys to stare uneasily at each other across the massive expanse of oak.

All through the meal Whitney’d been preoccupied with thoughts of Rhys and how wonderful it felt to have his arms around her. How many times since she’d come to Estrade had she imagined what that would be like? Now she knew—and, God help her, she was as sure as daylight would come that Rhys knew what she’d been thinking, too.

The way her body had fired up, she might as well have stamped “NAKED LUST” across her forehead.

His eyes locked with hers, his expression pensive, yet filled with invitation. Was he weighing the same thoughts?
Of course he is.
She could practically feel the sexual energy coming at her in waves.

She adjusted her barrette, then snatched up her glass, gulping down the cool water, hoping it might douse her internal fire. She
couldn’t
be attracted to him. She
couldn’t
actually like him. Because if she did… Well, there were just too many reasons why she couldn’t. Shouldn’t.

And just as many why she did.

Rhys and his parents had welcomed her into their lives with barely a question asked. And every time she saw Rhys with SaraJane, she saw nothing but love and tenderness in his eyes. And every time, she wondered if Morgan might have lied.

But what about Albert’s findings, and that biker who’d given Rhys a bundle of money? What was that all about? Reminded that she hadn’t heard from Albert for a while, she resolved to call him later, even though she realized that no contact meant no new information. And he did have other cases to attend to; she had to remember that.

There was only one thing she knew for sure. If Rhys was a drug dealer, that was unforgivable. A man who destroyed innocent lives without remorse was the most despicable of all.

Yet she’d seen no concrete proof, no proof of a single thing Morgan had said. Whatever the truth, it was her sister’s secret, and she’d taken it with her.

Whitney lowered her water glass, deliberately looking away to avoid his gaze.

“I’m going to be gone for a few days,” Rhys said.“You might want to take a break, too.”

Take a break?
She stared blankly. What did he mean?

“I’ve got to go to Phoenix on business, and as long as I’m there, I thought I’d take in a bike show, talk to other dealers, make a few contacts.” He plucked a ripe olive from the bowl in front of him. “Pop’s going to mind the shop, so you could take a breather and do whatever photographers do when they’ve got some spare time.”

He was leaving? Going away?
“What about SaraJane? Are you taking her along?”

“Mom’ll look after her,” Rhys answered as if Whitney had every right to know his plans. He smiled reassuringly. “No need to worry.”

Did he want her to leave, too? Was he suggesting that? “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

Rhys cut her off with the wave of a hand. “It’s okay. Really.”

Whitney gave a wan smile. “Oh.” She shrugged, her thoughts scrambling. “Well, I don’t need to go anywhere. I guess I can just stay here. What was that you said about a show?”

“Bike show. Biggest thing this side of Daytona and Sturgis.”

She had no idea what he was talking about and apparently her bewildered expression clued him in.

“The two biggest annual motorcycle events in the nation. Daytona Beach in March—that’s the traditional kickoff for the racing season—and Sturgis, South Dakota, in August. Both are major bikers’ rallies. People come from everywhere. Thousands.” He paused, blinking thoughtfully.

“Come to think of it, you oughtta go to some of those rallies for photographs if you want the real biker scene. The event in Phoenix is different, more like an auto or home show where vendors come in and set up their booths. But it’s interesting, too.”

He studied her for a moment, then his eyes lit as if inspiration had just struck. “You know…you could go with me.” He leaned forward. “Yeah. It’d be an experience for you. Lots of local color for your photographs.”

Not sure she heard him correctly, Whitney’s pulse raced.“That…sounds wonderful!” she gushed, ready to laugh excitedly, but caught herself. Good grief. The least she could do was maintain some semblance of professionalism. “I mean, it does sound like a wonderful opportunity for some in-depth research.”

After giving her some more information, Rhys said he could get her a room at the same hotel. That way, she could follow him around, meet the dealers and wholesalers and learn about the business from another perspective.

“If you’re interested in getting that involved, that is.” He gave her another quick grin and reached out an arm, catching SaraJane on the fly from the kitchen. He swept her up onto his lap.

“Hey, kiddo. Did you help Grammy with that dessert? I don’t see anything coming out.” SaraJane snuggled into his chest for a hug, then abruptly sat up, swinging her tiny pink-and-white tennis shoes back and forth.

“Maybe I should go and see about dessert, too,” Whitney offered, rising, her mind filled with the potential implied by this trip with Rhys. It could be an unparalleled opportunity to get information—nearly three hours in the car each way. She’d be sure to find out where SaraJane had been born—and then get Albert on it.

Except, right now, watching SaraJane on her father’s lap, seeing the love light in his eyes, the unadulterated affection, she wasn’t sure she wanted to discover anything that might destroy the picture.

Gretta returned with dessert—a light lemon cake—before Whitney could help, and Johnny came back from the foyer. SaraJane wriggled off Rhys’s lap and scooted back onto her booster seat with Johnny’s help. Rhys gave Whitney a conspiratorial smile.

“Think about it. I’m leaving on Thursday.”

***

Whitney debated her wardrobe options for the trip to Phoenix. Three days altogether. Definitely not a black-tie affair, Rhys had said teasingly when she’d accepted his invitation and asked what to take along in the way of clothes.

Tossing a couple of pairs of jeans and leggings into her bag, she decided they’d just have to do, especially since it was all she’d brought to Estrade—and there weren’t any shops in town to buy more.

A shiver of anticipation coursed through her. SaraJane would be safe with her grandparents, giving Whitney the opportunity to ask Rhys some leading questions. Not only that, she could photograph to her heart’s content.

But, as filled with excitement as she was, she again reminded herself of her goal. And why going with Rhys to Phoenix was a good thing. Besides having the opportunity to find out more about Rhys and her niece, she’d be working on the book, taking photographs. It was her livelihood, what she enjoyed doing. Nothing wrong with that, she rationalized.