Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (12 page)

She surveyed her load—one suitcase and her cameras. That was it. Oh, there was another thing. She plucked up the notebook she’d been using as a diary to chronicle her daily conversations with Rhys. Anything he said might give another clue about where SaraJane was born so she could set Albert on the right course.

During the time Whitney and Rhys had spent together at the shop, Rhys had opened up a little. He’d told Whitney his parents had worked all their lives to save enough money to move from the city and that they’d come to Estrade more than twenty years ago because Johnny had visited the ghost town once and discovered property in the area was inexpensive. Rhys had revealed the fact that he’d worked in Chicago after college, but kept the rest of his past to himself.

She’d spoken to Albert as often as possible, trying to put the pieces together. Albert was due to get the vital stat information from Chicago any day now, and maybe that would help. There were gaps in Rhys’s life between his living in Chicago and Los Angeles, and another gap between Los Angeles and Estrade. Blocks of time unaccounted for that neither she nor Albert could figure out.

Something important seemed to be missing—and whatever that something was, it could be the key to gaining custody of SaraJane. But whether it was or wasn’t, she felt an utterly compelling need to know.

Again and again, she ran through the chronological sequence and always came up with something different. Rhys had grown up in Chicago, graduated from college and earned an MBA, but she had no idea where or when. She guessed that because of his age, he’d graduated sometime in the early eighties.

His marriage, she had to assume, took place in Chicago, because that was where he’d lived and worked until he left for Los Angeles. Albert’s findings had him in L.A. about four years ago, and the bank-loan application she’d seen indicated he’d last worked in Chicago five years ago. The application, she’d discovered, was incomplete, and his activities during the period were visibly missing.

As much as she would have liked to ignore it, she couldn’t. Rhys was hiding something. And because of that, Morgan’s words kept pounding in her brain.
He’ll say and do anything to get what he wants. It doesn’t matter who he hurts in the process.

The fact that her own judgment had failed her in the past made her even more cautious. She had to keep her guard up…couldn’t make the same mistakes again. Not when her niece’s future was at stake.

She closed the notebook with a clap, then crossed to the window, where she knelt on the padded seat and parted the curtain to see if Rhys had arrived yet. A moment later, she saw him pull into the drive.

After parking, he opened the back door and tenderly drew a blanket around his sleepy-eyed little girl. He zipped up her jacket and tightened the hood before he gathered her in his arms to come in.

How ironic. From everything she’d seen and learned about Rhys’s character so far, proving him unfit was the last thing she’d be able to do. Sometimes she even questioned whether it would be the
right
thing to do.

In the end, she’d still need to prove to a court that SaraJane would be better off with her.

It was a question she asked herself all the time. She’d failed the one person she cared about most. What made her think she’d do anything differently with SaraJane?

She had no qualifications for motherhood. No experience. And she certainly had no close-knit family to offer love and support. All she had was her own overwhelming love for her sister’s child, and a promise to keep.

Slowly she released the curtain, resolving not to worry about any of this right now. The time she’d spent with SaraJane was precious and she wanted it to continue.

But for now, she needed to be content with the status quo. Only not
too
content. She had to stop allowing her thoughts to drift to what it might be like to stay on in Estrade with Rhys and SaraJane.

A major fantasy, that. And it had the added appeal of conveniently resolving an ugly situation. If she could somehow forget about Rhys’s past and what he’d done to Morgan—

God, her head ached with conflicting thoughts. She scrubbed a hand over her face. It really was a fantasy. One that was all mixed up with her teenaged hopes and dreams—unrealistic hopes and dreams.

And self-pity was as unproductive as dreams were futile.

On that note, she locked her suitcase, then hoisted the camera bag over her shoulder. A sharp rap sounded on the door. She opened it and found Rhys on the other side.

“I came up to see if I could help.” He thrust out a hand for the suitcase. “I’ll carry that.”

She handed him the bag, her hand touching his as she did. The mere contact sent her pulses racing. Dang. She felt as if her nerves were exposed on the outside of her skin, tingling wherever he accidently touched her. Or even breathed on her.

Worse yet, she liked it. She liked the way her stomach lurched when he was close, the way her heart raced until she had to catch her breath, the way his masculine scent sent her blood rushing through her veins.

Her responses when she thought about Rhys were exactly the way she’d always imagined being in love would feel. And now that she felt it, whatever “it” was, she was truly baffled.

The whole scenario was wrong
and
contrary to her better judgment. Most importantly, in every possible way she could imagine…he was the wrong man for her.

***

Rhys descended the stairs two at a time. He was crazy to invite her along. It was like passing a gourmet meal under a starving man’s nose and telling him he couldn’t eat.

Fortunately Whitney was in control—as always.

On the outside.

To keep her professional cool, her guard was always up. She’d keep him at a distance. Yeah, but he saw that banked fire—so sizzling, so combustible, so ready to burst into flame. And man, oh, man, he couldn’t deny he wanted to be the one to ignite it.

But he knew better. The women that seemed to appeal to him were the worst in the world for him. He’d tried before and all it had gotten him was an ulcer and a divorce. Hell, as if once wasn’t enough he’d even tried it again, although he’d been smart enough not to get married a second time. And he’d learned a lot from that experience.

He’d learned he couldn’t be something he wasn’t. It was as plain as that. The old adage about making silk stockings out of pig’s hair, or whatever that saying was, more than applied to him.

Downstairs he loaded Whitney’s luggage into the Jeep, with her cameras close at hand. If he knew anything at all about the woman, it was that she never missed a photo opportunity. Her camera was like an appendage.

Finished, Rhys bounded inside for breakfast with Whitney and SaraJane. As he entered the sunroom, he saw the two of them with their heads close together in quiet conspiracy.

Watching them warmed him inside. Seeing them together, they could easily be mistaken for mother and daughter, their rapport so easy and natural.

His stomach bottomed out and for one anxious moment, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. SaraJane was bonding with Whitney. Which couldn’t be good in the long run. Soon Whitney’d go back to her jet-set life and forget all about them.

SaraJane had been abandoned once. He couldn’t let it happen again. Still, he wanted his little girl to have all the love she deserved—even if only for a brief while.

Rhys waved them into the kitchen, smiling proudly as SaraJane placed her tiny fingers in Whitney’s hand. It was odd, but he liked the fact that SaraJane and Whitney resembled each other.

He’d decided quite some time ago that Whitney’s beauty was a bonus, the frosting on a very substantial cake. If SaraJane grew up to be half as pretty and half as smart, she’d be one lucky little girl.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“YOU’LL LOVE IT. I guarantee you’ll think it’s the most beautiful bike you’ve ever seen. One of a kind.” They rounded the corner and Rhys drove the Jeep into a gas station to fill up. “When it’s done, you can photograph to your heart’s content.”

“But wouldn’t it be good to get some photos of the work in progress?” According to Rhys, the motorcycle he was building would be the quintessential custom vehicle. But he refused to let her see it until he’d completed it.

“Even then, I’d need to talk with the buyer before I gave any kind of go-ahead for photographs.”

Whitney leaned over the seat and poked her head out the window on the driver’s side while Rhys pumped gas. “I don’t understand. Why would you need to talk to anyone? It’s your business. It’s your inventory until it’s done, isn’t it?”

The wind caught Rhys’s dark hair, giving him a tousled little-boy look. He raised the collar on his leather jacket and cast an indulgent look in her direction.

“Maybe you can operate a photography business that way, but I can’t. If I didn’t get money up front, I’d be working at too much of a risk. The potential buyer might never show.”

He stuffed the pump handle back into its slot, waited for the receipt to pop out, and then slid into the driver’s seat again. “Frames, engines, parts, whatever, have to be ordered. It’s expensive, and I don’t have the extra bucks lying around to do it. A custom bike can go for thirty grand or more.”

Checking the mirrors, he headed onto the Black Canyon Highway, the road from Estrade to Phoenix. “Usually I receive half the payment on signing the contract and the remainder at completion. In this instance,” he said, “the buyer paid the total cost on signing.” His lips thinned.

“Money is the real reason for this trip.” He engaged the cruise control and leaned back. “I have an appointment with the bank tomorrow morning.” He glanced at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “So you’ll be on your own for a while with all those biker dudes.”

Whitney could tell from his taut expression that his concerns went deep, that his attempt to lighten the mood must be for her benefit. From what he’d said earlier, he’d had more than enough money when he bought the business, but then it had disappeared for some mysterious reason. And he hadn’t shared that reason with her.

“I think I’ll be able to hold my own,” she teased, responding to his need to keep the conversation light. “I’ve really come a long way, you know.” She gave a flippant wave of her hand. “In fact, I’ve found that I’m rather attracted to the dangerous type.”

Rhys glanced at Whitney, eyebrows bunched, then brought his gaze back to the road.

He was quiet for the longest time, then he said, “Not to change the subject from your recently acquired attraction for the Hell’s Angels, but we should probably discuss the plan of action for the next few days? You know, like food, shelter, the basic necessities of life?”

A grin spread across Whitney’s face. “I thought I was being very basic.”

He nodded, a fleeting moment of surprise registering before it disappeared. “You were that. And if there’s anything I can do to help out, let me know.” He waggled his eyebrows and sent her a patently lewd look. “I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

She laughed, pretending to take it as a joke, but wished it wasn’t. “Okay, back to the food and shelter part. What did you have in mind?”

Rhys laughed, too, and for the rest of the trip, they talked about other thing and the miles passed quickly. Whitney remembered it from her previous drive north to Estrade…a long stretch of desert, the winding mountains roads, lots of boulders and saguaro cactus, eventually giving way to red rock vistas and tall pines. Desolate…with town names like Black Canyon City and XXX that evoked images of a wild and wooly west, hard-driven miners seeking their fortune, young families eking out a living on barren ranches exposed to the harsh elements, yet hoping for a better way of life. She’d vowed to come back someday for photographs.

During the trip Rhys had regaled her with motorcycle stories galore, and then he’d insisted they play a word game his parents had always played when he and his sister were children.

Before she knew it, they were parked in front of the Cimarron Hotel in downtown Phoenix. Rhys glanced at her.

“The hotel might not be what you’re used to, but it’s close to the convention center. And it’s cheap.”

“Seems fine to me,” Whitney said, giving the place a once-over. “Besides, I’m here to take photographs.”

Rhys nodded, his expression skeptical. “Right.”

They checked in, and once alone in her room, Whitney glanced around. The room was clean, but small. Really small. And dark.

Her heart raced. Her skin grew clammy. She took a deep breath, but couldn’t fill her lungs. She lunged for the window and yanked the drapes aside, her chest heaving. Light from a setting sun filter in, and as her breathing eased, she glanced around. The room wasn’t as small as it had seemed. And if she kept the lights on…

Her anxiety quelled, Whitney pulled back the bedcover, then threw herself on top—for about two seconds. She sprang up, got a drink and turned on the television. Nervous energy jangled through her like electricity. Like she’d had six cups of espresso.

What was she so keyed up about? Was it being here with Rhys?

It took less than a minute to unpack and only a fraction longer to make a phone call. “Albert, it’s me.” She ran a wet washcloth over her sweaty arms while she stalked back and forth with the phone between her shoulder and ear. “What’s happening?”

“Not much. Just got home and—”

“Albert, I mean what’s happening with the search? Any luck? Anything at all?”

“Wait a sec. I’ll be right back.”

She heard the sound of ice clinking in a glass.

“There,” he said. “Just needed a relaxer after a day of hard work.”

“Okay. Now can you please tell me if you found anything new on the birth certificate.”

“Well, yeah. It’s odd, Whitney. Very odd.”

“Albert!” she said, her patience wearing thin. “Please. Just the facts.”

Albert sighed dramatically, expressing his annoyance. He loved to draw things out, even the smallest event. “I have to tell you, Whitney. It’s very odd,” he repeated. “I didn’t find your niece’s birth certificate but I did find Gannon’s.”

She released an exasperated breath. Big deal. What did that prove? She already knew who Rhys’s parents were; it didn’t have any bearing on the situation.

“And?”

“Two of them,” Albert said.

“Two? Two of what?”

“Two birth certificates for Rhys Gannon.”