When he’d touched her, it hadn’t mattered who she was,

who her father was, or what hold she had over everyone in this place. All that mattered was silky skin, heat, enormous blue eyes and the fragrance that clung to her, which made him think of sunlight even in this storm.

When another flash of lightning ripped through the skies, bathing her in white light that succeeded only in defining everything right about her, he muttered, “Impulses can be dangerous things.” And he deliberately pushed his hands behind his back to kill his own impulses, then looked out at the storm that was building in force again.

“You don’t even know me,” she said softly.

He looked back at her, unsettled by how vulnerable she appeared in that moment. “I know you shouldn’t be here.”

Mary Anne Wilson fell in love with reading at ten years of age when she discovered Pride and Prejudice. A year later she knew she had to be a writer when she found herself writing a new ending for A Tale of Two Cities. A true romantic, she had Sydney Carton rescued, and he lived happily ever after.

Though she’s a native of Canada, she now lives in California with her husband and a six-toed black cat that believes he’s Hungarian and five timid Dobermans that welcome any and all strangers. And she’s writing happy endings for her own books.

False Family
Mary Anne Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PROLOGUE

December 21

The thunderstorm that tore through the San Francisco night was the perfect backdrop for murder.

Cold and violent, it blurred the flashing Christmas lights that adorned the businesses and homes in its torrential path, and it made the steep street outside the old Jenning’s Theater slick and dangerous.

Few people ventured out into the pouring rain. A single person, the Watcher, came up the street, staying close to the chipped brick and wooden walls of the closed businesses. An umbrella barely blocked the sting of the torrent.

The Watcher slipped into the doorway of a store sharing a wall with the theater and observed the street in both directions. Few cars drove by, and the ticket booth under the marquee that announced A Christmas Carol By Charles Dickens, December 10-30 was still shut.

As a bolt of lightning tore through the heavens, the flash of raw light exposed a woman in a dark raincoat, carrying a bright yellow umbrella as she hurried down the hill toward the theater. Once under the partial shelter of the theater portico, the woman slowed her pace and looked up.

Mallory King.

A riot of dark curls framed a delicate, heart-shaped face flushed from the effort of hurrying. With just a glance at the ticket booth, she veered to the left and into a side alley that led to the stage door. As she disappeared from sight, the Watcher sank back into the shadows.

She’d been easy enough to find. A bit-part actress who worked as a waitress in a restaurant three blocks down from the theater. A nothing person in the larger scheme, yet a person who could make another do desperate things. Killing someone was certainly desperate, but the only thing to do under the circumstances.

When Mallory King left the theater around eleven, she would head for the restaurant where she would work until 7:00 a.m. It was unsafe for any woman to walk on the streets of San Francisco, day or night. So it wouldn’t be surprising if Mallory King never made it to the restaurant tonight, if she became another accident statistic….

CHAPTER ONE

Magic and illusion ended when the lights came up and the curtains went down on a play. And the final curtain was coming down tonight for this play. It had been canceled with five days left on its run.

Poor box office and bad weather had combined to cut it short, and as Mallory King sat applying red lipstick in front of the makeup table in the long, narrow dressing room, she was mentally making a list of places she could go tomorrow to look for another job.

The door opened and a stagehand yelled, “One minute.”

Mallory quickly finished applying the lipstick, then sat back and looked at herself in the mottled mirrors. Her ebony hair had been gathered on top of her head in a riot of curls contained by a holly wreath, and her sapphire blue eyes had been highlighted by dark mascara. Deep blush brought out her high cheek line, and the gauzy, full-length white dress she wore was off the shoulder and nipped in tightly at her waist with a white satin band.

“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” she muttered at her reflection. That’s just what this job had become—a ghost—and she didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t get something else quickly. She couldn’t survive on what she made in tips at the restaurant.

She blotted her lips and stood as the door opened again. “You’re on,” the stagehand yelled into the room.

“I’m coming,” she called back as she tossed a tissue into the wastebasket. Turning, she hurried to the door and stepped into the hallway, turning left toward backstage. But as she rounded the corner near the stage door, she ran right into an immovable object, and felt hands clamp on her shoulders to keep her from stumbling backward. As she looked up, fully expecting to see one of the stagehands, she was shocked to find it was a man she’d never seen before.

He was tall, at least three inches over six feet, and he wore a dark, well-cut trench coat. His rain-dampened raven black hair was slicked back from a face that was far from traditionally handsome, but with a sensuality that struck her instantly, with a force that shook her. His features seemed to be all harsh planes and angles, his skin deeply tanned, his nose strong and his jaw clean-shaven.

But it was his eyes that riveted Mallory, making her next breath almost impossible. They were slightly slanted, as black as the night outside, with short, spiked lashes, and they were staring at her with an unsettling intensity.

It took her a moment to realize that he exuded an aura of danger, which defied reason since he’d kept her from falling. But it was there and almost tangible. She had to try twice before she forced words past the tightness in her throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“No damage done,” the man murmured in a low, rough voice as his hands released their hold on her. His dark eyes flicked over her in a heartbeat. “You look like a ghost.”

She nervously smoothed the fine, white material of her dress. “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”

He inclined his head slightly as his eyes narrowed. “My guess would have been the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he muttered, his expression tightening as he spoke.

This wasn’t any light banter, impersonal conversation between strangers. There was an edge to it that disturbed Mallory, almost as much as the man inches from her. Right then she heard the beginning strains of the musical piece that signaled her entrance, and the stranger was blocking her path to stage left. “For tonight, it’s Christmas Past,” she said. “That’s my cue. I need to—”

“Break a leg,” he murmured, then stood aside to let her pass.

Mallory ducked her head and hurried by him to her spot. The music swelled, and as the stagehand pulled the curtain back for her to step onto the stage, she could feel eyes on her. The stranger was watching her.

With a quick look back as she stepped forward, she saw the man had moved into the shadows near the prop room. But that didn’t diminish the intensity of his gaze on her. She’d never reacted like this to a man, attracted to him, yet aware of a danger that surrounded him. It had seemed like forever since she even looked at a man with anything more than passing interest.

When he nodded to her, she looked away. Then, as the actor playing Scrooge called, “Who goes there?” she took a shaky breath and stepped through the curtains into the light. In the next instant she was part of the fantasy she created on stage, a fantasy that didn’t have a place for a dark stranger who disturbed her and made her feel vulnerable.

At one minute to ten, the fantasy ended, and reality came back with a thud. Mallory had made her way back to the dressing room, which was crowded with the other female members of the cast. She had looked back over her shoulder more than once in the hallway, half expecting to see the stranger lingering in the shadows.

But he was nowhere in sight. And once inside, she stripped off her costume, put on her old terry-cloth robe and sat down in front of the mirrors. Methodically she began to spread cold cream on her face, and as she removed the last of the heavy stage makeup, lightning ripped through the night outside, its white glow flashing into the room through the bank of high windows, which were filmed with the grime of the city.

She tossed the last makeup-soiled cotton ball in the trash, then looked at her reflection in the mottled mirrors. She looked tired, her face pale in contrast to her dark hair, as she released her curls from the holly wreath. Her eyes were smudged with shadows from the sleeplessness she’d experienced over the past few days.

She grimaced, her natural ability to ignore the reality of the present and fantasize about a better future almost failing her right then. That little part of her life where she could make-believe and become someone else, that part that took her away from her job as a waitress and the empty apartment where she lived, had been taken from her until she could find another part in another play.

As she tossed the holly wreath into the prop box, she heard someone yell over the din, “King! Mallory King!”

She twisted to look back to the door and saw a stagehand waving in her direction. When he made eye contact with her, he called, “You’ve got a visitor!”

Mallory was surprised. She had never had anyone come backstage to see her after a play, and the house had been less than half-full during the performance. The applause at the curtain call had been more from politeness than enthusiasm. Then she remembered the man she’d run into, and for a second she thought he might have come back. But why would he?

She pointed to herself. “Me?”

The stagehand nodded, then ducked out and shut the door.

She stood and tugged her robe around her, knotting the tie at her waist as she made her way through the room. Nearing the door, she put the idea of the stranger out of her mind. It was crazy. When she opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, she spotted someone by the outside doors.

It was a woman. She recognized Elaine Bowers, her agent. Elaine, with her short, gray-blond hair curling slightly from the humidity. She was wearing a dark raincoat over a simple gray suit. “Mallory,” she said as she crossed to her.

Mallory slowly closed the door and watched the woman approach. One glance around the hallway and she knew that the dark-haired stranger wasn’t lingering in any of the nooks and crannies in the dingy space. She focused on the woman in front of her. Mallory knew she was one of her agent’s least lucrative clients, and she certainly didn’t warrant a personal visit on such a rainy night. “Elaine, what are you doing here?” Mallory asked.

The short, plump woman looked at her watch. “Looking for you.” She glanced up and down the hallway, grimacing at the faded walls and the low, moisture-stained ceiling. “Boy, I haven’t been in here in years. This old place was once the theater in the city. Can you believe it?”

“If you go out into the foyer and narrow your eyes, you can almost see how it must have looked years ago.”

“My imagination isn’t that good.”

“Right now, mine isn’t too good, either. I’ve been trying to imagine why you’re here, and I can’t come up with anything.”

“I was contacted by a Mr. Welting, an attorney who I’m supposed to meet here.” She took one last look over her shoulder, then moved a bit closer to Mallory. “I wanted to get here a few minutes before him so I could explain a bit to you before he showed up.”

Mallory tugged her robe more tightly around her. “Explain what to me?”

“This whole business is so rushed and odd,” she muttered with a shake of her head. “Mr. Welting contacted me just before five this afternoon. He’s an attorney for Saxon Mills.”

“Saxon Mills? Money, business, wine,” Mallory muttered. “What was his attorney doing contacting you?”

“Offering you a job.”

Mallory almost laughed. “A job for me? Well, I’m desperate, so if he wants me to crush grapes, tell him I’m willing.”

Elaine flicked that away with one hand and only the shadow of a smile. “No, he wants you for an acting job.”

“That’s even better. I’ll take it.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“They’re closing the play as of tonight, Elaine. I’m free and broke. I’ll take anything.”

“I thought they might have to close. With this lousy weather and the economy, it’s hard to keep small companies going.”

“And the restaurant’s cutting back, too. I’ve lost two of my shifts, so I need whatever I can get.”

“Then this’ll work out better than I thought. It’s good timing for everyone.”

“It is for me. Now, what’s the part and when do I start?”

“Tomorrow, actually, and it runs through New Year’s. You’re going in as a replacement for someone. One of Welting’s people saw you when you were working at the Garnet last month in the Simon play. He remembered you when this position came up, and Mr. Welting says that you’re just right for what they want.”

“What play is it?”

Elaine looked a bit embarrassed. The woman usually had an answer for every question. “I’m sorry. This all happened so fast I didn’t get that. But when the man gets here, you can get all the details. All I know is, it’s in the Napa Valley area, a dinner theater of sorts, and they’re doing a Christmas piece.”

Sara Springer, the actress who played Tiny Tim’s oldest sister, came out of the dressing room and met Mallory. “I’m going down the block to pick up some pizzas for everyone, sort of a holiday wake. Do you want some?”

“No thanks.”

“Do you mind if I use your umbrella to go? Mine blew inside-out on the way here.”

“No, go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Sara said before she went back into the dressing room.

Mallory turned back to Elaine. “It’s up in Napa?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Then I don’t see how I can do it. I’ve got the restaurant—what little time they’re giving me—and commuting would be too much. My car’s on its last legs, as it is, and that would kill it.”

“Actually, you’ll have to forget about the restaurant for a while and stay in Napa if you want this job.”

“I can’t afford to—”

“Listen, you’re being offered a per diem and three times scale. Mr. Welting said it was an emergency. They’re willing to pay what they need to get you to take over the part.”

Mallory did some fast figuring and realized that even though she didn’t celebrate Christmas or put any stock in it, she was getting a genuine holiday present with this job. She could last at least two months on that money, even without working at the restaurant. “I guess I can’t refuse. But I’ll have to contact the restaurant and see what I can work out with them.”

“Good.” Elaine looked very relieved. “I knew you’d do it.”

The stage door opened abruptly, and for a moment the storm invaded the narrow hallway with pouring rain and a cold wind that curled around Mallory’s bare legs. Then a man ducked inside, a blur of dark clothes and height. The stranger. He’d come back, and for a second her heart lurched with the idea that he was the attorney Elaine had told her about.

But as he turned and brushed at his raincoat, then skimmed off a dark fedora he was wearing, she knew how wrong she’d been. He might be tall, but he was totally bald and more slight, with a pallor to his complexion that was in sharp contrast to the black coat. He could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy, with a narrow, furrowed face that looked devoid of any tendency to humor.

He spotted Elaine and headed right for her. “Ms. Bowers,” he said in a clipped voice that was tinged by a nasal quality. “I am sorry for the slight delay.”

“No problem, Mr. Welting,” Elaine said as the man stopped in front of her. “It gave me a chance to fill Mallory in on what you need.”

“Excellent,” he murmured, turning to look at Mallory.

Pale blue eyes, under bushy gray brows, narrowed, as the man pointedly stared at her with no hint of apology. His gaze traveled over her in what would have been a suggestive way if there had been any sexual overtones to it. But there were none. His scrutiny was cold and calculating, and as emotion free as the stranger’s gaze had earlier been emotion laden.

“You will do just fine,” he finally murmured, then gave her an oddly formal partial bow. “I am Henry Welting, representing Mr. Saxon Mills. It is a pleasure meeting you, Ms. King.”

She wished she could say the same, but the man made her skin crawl. “Elaine was just explaining your job offer to me.”

“Did she outline the financial aspects of the offer?”

“We went through all of it,” Elaine said quickly.

“And it’s satisfactory?” he said, never looking away from Mallory.

“Yes, it’s satisfactory,” Mallory said.

“Good. I would hate to haggle over a few dollars.”

The pay wasn’t exactly a “few dollars” to Mallory, but to a man wearing obviously expensive, hand-tailored clothes, the money was probably a pittance. “She also mentioned a per diem.”

“Yes, of course. Since it’s not in this area, we thought it best to offer you that.” He stared at her without blinking as he lifted one eyebrow slightly. “Since you are basically alone in the world, we didn’t feel that there would be any problem with relocating for the two weeks. There won’t be, will there?”

She was taken aback by his statement about her personal life, but said simply, “No problem at all.”

“Then you accept the offer?”

She didn’t like this man, but she didn’t have to like him to do the job. “Yes, I’ll take the job.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Mr. Mills will be very pleased. The contracts will be at Ms. Bowers’s office tomorrow morning at nine for signatures.” He reached into the inside pocket of his trench coat with his free hand and took out an envelope that he offered to Mallory. “These are instructions to be followed to the letter.”

She took the thin envelope and glanced at her name typed neatly on the front. “And the script?” she asked, looking back at Mr. Welting.

“That will all be given to you when you report for work.”

“But, I—”

He kept speaking as if she hadn’t said a thing. “It is very important that you follow the instructions exactly. You are to report to Mr. Mills at his home at precisely six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

“His home?”

“Mr. Mills is taking care of this personally, and he seldom leaves his home anymore. When you meet with him, he will explain everything to you.”

“Is there anything else?”

He slipped his hat back on. “You are to discuss this with no one until you see Mr. Mills. Anything else you might need to know is in the envelope.” He stared at her for a long, awkward moment before he said, “What is it they say in the theater for good luck, Ms. King? Break a leg?”

It took Mallory aback to hear that phrase for the second time in the last few hours. “Thanks,” she murmured at the same time Sara came back out of the dressing room with another actress. Both were dressed in dark raincoats, and Sara was carrying Mallory’s umbrella. As she headed down the hallway, Sara accidentally bumped Mr. Welting on his arm.

The man jerked back and glared at her. “Sorry,” Sara muttered. Then with a “We’ll be right back” to Mallory, she and the other girl headed for the stage entrance.

As the two of them stepped out into the storm and the door shut behind them, Mr. Welting said, “I think that’s all that’s needed here. My driver is waiting for me.” He inclined his head to Mallory. “Thank you for agreeing to help Mr. Mills. I know he will be very appreciative of it.” He glanced at Elaine. “Thank you for taking care of this so expeditiously, Ms. Bowers.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

With a fleeting look back at Mallory, he turned and headed for the doors. Without glancing back, he pushed back the metal barrier and stepped out into the night. Then he was gone and the door closed with a creaking moan.

Mallory exhaled and leaned back against the wall as she stared at the door. “Boy, he’s strange. It’s a night for meeting strange people.”

“Forget about him. You don’t have to deal with him anymore. I’ll take care of any other business things that come up.”

Mallory looked back at Elaine. “It all seems so odd, doesn’t it?”

“Listen, I can understand if you’re a bit uneasy about this, but I can assure you, I checked this all out. Henry Welting does a number of things for Saxon Mills, both professionally and personally. He’s been on retainer for the man for over fifteen years. The offer’s very legitimate. I wouldn’t let you do it if I thought there was anything shady about it.”

“Sure, of course,” Mallory murmured, then looked back at the door as it flew open, and the girl who had left with Sara rushed back into the hallway. Her face was as white as a sheet, and rain dripped from her hair and her drenched clothes.

“Call an ambulance!” she gasped.

Mallory stood straight. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sara. She—” The girl was beginning to shake all over. “She…she was in front of me, crossing the street, and a car…it hit her.” She swiped at her face with a trembling hand. “I think she’s dead.”

December 22

The fury of the storm let up for little more than half a day before it came back again in earnest. At five the next afternoon, Mallory was driving north on an all-but-deserted two-lane road. Wind shook her small car, and rain beat relentlessly against the oxidized blue paint.

The rolling hills that formed the valley and were covered with vineyards on either side of the road were almost obliterated by the storm and the shadows of the coming night. Mallory sat forward, straining to make out the wooden road signs through the rain and the slapping of the windshield wipers.

The written directions she had been given were simple enough. They just hadn’t mentioned how to cope with what seemed like a hurricane.

Mallory gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her fingers ached, and no matter how intently she tried to focus her thoughts, she couldn’t forget the horror of last night. The moments after her friend’s accident had been filled with total confusion—flashing lights, sirens and Sara laying on the asphalt, her arms and legs askew at unnatural angles, her blood from a massive head wound mingling with the rain on the pavement.

No one had seen the car until it ran Sara down, and no one knew what happened to it afterward. Hit-and-run. And it had left Sara alive…but just barely. When she’d been taken to the hospital, they’d found compound fractures of her forearm and thigh. By far the most serious injury had been the head wound. She’d undergone emergency surgery in the small hours of the morning to relieve pressure on her brain and the doctors were guardedly optimistic.

Mallory had stayed until morning, when Sara’s parents arrived. They had been devastated, and when Mallory was leaving, they were sitting on either side of their unconscious daughter, holding her hands, talking softly to her, encouraging her to come back to them.

For one fleeting moment, Mallory had almost felt envious of poor Sara. Mallory had never known her father. He’d walked out on her mother before Mallory had been born. And the memories of her mother were vague, distorted remembrances of a five-year-old child. Dark hair, a soft voice, eyes touched with a sadness that never quite disappeared. Nothing substantial.

And Mallory knew if she was in the bed instead of Sara, no one would be crying for her. She had no one. Henry Welting had said she was “basically alone,” but the reality was, she was completely alone. Just as alone as she was on this road right now. She couldn’t see any lights, and only a handful of cars had passed her since she left Napa.

Her headlights cut into the darkness and rain, and she caught a glimpse of a sign ahead. As she slowed, she could barely make out dark lettering on an old-fashioned wooden road sign—Reece Place. With a sigh of relief, she made the left turn onto an even-narrower road that angled upward. A canopy of ancient trees on either side bent under the force of the wind and rain.

The road curved to the left and Mallory shifted to a lower gear to negotiate it, but even so, she felt the tires on the car spin for a second before they caught traction again. Yet before she could get the car fully under control, the road cut sharply to the right and as the car went into the curve, Mallory knew she wasn’t going to make it.

In that split second, the car began to drift sideways on the slick pavement. Mallory felt the loss of control, the futility of pressing on the brakes and turning the wheel. She felt the stunning terror of knowing she could die. She felt sadness for what might have been, a sadness she had never let herself feel before.

Then the impact came. The car hit something solid, stopping with a bone-jarring suddenness, and the seat belt bit into her shoulder as Mallory felt her head jerk sideways.

Then it was all over. With the engine dead, the car tilted to the right, sinking slowly into the soft shoulder of the road. Finally it settled, and Mallory was thankful to be alive. The windshield wipers kept trying to clear the glass of the sheeting rain. The headlights were at a skewed angle, shooting up into the night, and the strength of the storm made the car shudder.

She slowly released her grip on the steering wheel, fumbled with the safety belt, then sank back into the seat. Looking to her right, she could make out the dark smear of grass and leaves pressed against the window. She might have survived, but the car wasn’t going anywhere. She glanced at the dash clock. She had twenty minutes to get to Saxon Mills’s house. There was no way she could make it.

“Merry Christmas to me,” she muttered, feeling as if this gift of a job had been snatched right out of her grasp.

She closed her eyes, trying to figure out what to do. She didn’t have any idea how far she’d have to walk through the storm to get to Mills Way. But if she sat here and waited for help, there was no guarantee anyone would come along tonight.

She looked out at the night and faced her options. She could feel the wind pushing at the car, and the rain seemed to be even heavier now. She turned off the headlights, then switched the key to the accessory position and flipped on the radio.

The strains of country music filled the confines of the small car, and for a while Mallory waited. But when the weather forecast came on, she reached to turn up the volume.

“And now for the Bay Area forecast. After a long drought that has forced water rationing for the past two years, the city is being deluged by a storm coming from the north, bringing torrential rain, winds gusting to forty miles an hour and temperatures in the midforties. Flooding has been reported in the low areas of the city, and mud slides have closed several roads leading into the valleys to the east and into Mill Valley to the north. With only scattered gaps in the weather front, the forecast is for a cold and very wet holiday season.”

Mallory reached for the radio button and turned it off. A miserable twenty-four hours was getting worse by the minute. Sara’s accident, the restaurant giving her no guarantee she could get her old job when she got back in two weeks, and now the job with Saxon Mills, which was dissolving right before her eyes.

She glanced at the dash clock. She had fifteen minutes to get to the meeting. Fifteen minutes. She sat forward and snapped on the headlights again. She could barely make out the fact that she was half on and half off the road. That road lead to Mills Way, and Mills Way led to Saxon Mills’s house. In the next second, she made up her mind.

She wasn’t going to let the Mills job go that easily. She had a raincoat, an umbrella and shoes that wouldn’t be any worse if they got wet. No, the umbrella was gone. She could remember it lying on the road near Sara, torn and flattened. She pushed that thought out of her mind.

She had a hood on her raincoat, and it didn’t matter what she looked like for the interview. Saxon Mills would just have to understand. As long as she made it. She turned the key, leaving it in the ignition, then tugged her hood up over her hair. Hesitating for only a moment as wind again shook the car, she faced the fact that walking was her only chance of salvaging anything with Saxon Mills.

She took her wallet out of her purse, shoved the purse under the front seat and tucked the wallet in her coat pocket. Then she pushed the door open against the wind and scrambled out. Her feet struck the edge of the pavement, and she levered herself up, ignoring the rain stinging her face until she was on her feet. Then the force of the wind snatched the door out of her grasp and slammed it with a resounding crack.

As Mallory turned, her feet slipped on the slick ground and she grabbed at the car to steady herself. She turned her back against the wind to look up the road ahead of her, then started off. But she hadn’t taken more than two steps on the asphalt when she heard the roar of an engine behind her.

Filled with relief that someone had come, she spun around, and the hood of her coat was wrenched off her hair by the wind. As the headlights blinded her, and the squeal of brakes filled the air along with the scent of burning rubber, the relief was changed to fear in a single heartbeat. The car was coming right at her.

CHAPTER TWO

Everything happened so quickly. There were blinding lights, the squeal of brakes and horror surging within her. As if the world had been reduced to slow motion, Mallory saw the headlights dip down from the force of the brakes grabbing the pavement, then, miraculously, the car stopped, inches from the back of her car, not from her.

She heard the engine throbbing, and the smell of burned rubber was in the air. Relief swelled up inside her as she realized the driver hadn’t been heading for her. The things that had happened in the last twenty-four hours had left her nerves raw.

Mallory gulped air into her tight lungs and rubbed her trembling hands on her raincoat, almost giddy from relief. As she fumbled with her hood, trying to tug it back over her now-soaked hair, she heard a car door slam and saw movement. A hulking shadow emerged from the idling car, then came toward her.

The driver cut in front of the headlights, and Mallory could make out a tall man in a dark coat, carrying an umbrella. He strode directly for her. Nerves that were painfully jittery tingled as she was struck by how vulnerable she was on a dark, deserted road, at night, alone, with no protection at all.

By the time the idea of getting back in her car and locking the door had formed, the man was right in front of her. She pushed her hands into her pockets and curled them into tight fists to stop their trembling, while she carefully watched the stranger silhouetted in the headlights.

“What in the hell’s going on?” The voice that came out of the stormy night was rough, deep and angry. “I didn’t see you until I was almost on you!”

“I missed the curve, and the car…it went out of control. That’s where it ended up.”

“Did you hit something?” he asked, his body partially blocking the lights. The darkness seemed to surround the man, and the driving rain blurred everything.

“I lost control, and the car fishtailed. It sank in the mud on the shoulder.” She found herself talking quickly, as nervousness grew in her. “It’s stuck, and I thought I might just as well walk for help than sit here in the storm. I didn’t think anyone would be coming this way.”

“Where did you think you were walking to on this road?”

“I was looking for Mills Way.”

He took a step closer to her, and she had to fight the urge to match that step backward to keep what buffer she could between them. “Mills Way?”

Cold rain found its way under her collar and trickled down her back, sending a chill through her. “Yes, I’m supposed to be meeting someone who lives on that road.”

“Saxon Mills.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement.

“How did—?”

“There’s only one house on that road.” The man shifted, and the headlights shone directly on her once again. Although she couldn’t see his eyes or even his expression, she knew he was staring at her…hard. She had a flashing memory of the man at the theater the night before and how thankful she’d been that she hadn’t met him on a dark, deserted road.

The chill in her deepened. Her thoughts were going off on tangents that made no sense, and she narrowed her eyes against the glare. “I just want to get to that road.”

“I could have killed you,” he finally muttered.

Mallory felt her chest tighten, the memory of Sara lying on the rainy street so vivid that she ached. She’d been through too much, and her imagination was running wild in the most horrible way tonight. She pushed her hands deeper into her pockets and hunched her shoulders a bit as the rain beat down. “It’s my fault. I never thought—”

“You should have put on your hazard lights. Anyone coming around that curve could plow right into your car.”

“I didn’t think about that, either.” The temperature felt as if it had dropped ten degrees in the last few minutes. “I just need to get to Saxon Mills’s home. Is there any way you could take me to a pay phone or to a house where I could call from?”

She didn’t expect him to say, “I can take you all the way to Mills’s estate.”

As soon as he agreed, Mallory realized it hadn’t been the smartest thing to say to a total stranger—offering to get into his car and drive off into the night. She tried to backtrack a bit. “It might be better if I stay with my car, and you can call a garage to come and pull me out of the mud.”

“You can do that, but I’m afraid this isn’t the city. There’s no garage that would be open now. But if you want to wait here, I’ll call when I get to a phone and maybe you’ll get lucky. If not, lock the doors and someone will be here in the morning.”

Mallory had taken care of herself since she was barely a teenager, and maybe she hadn’t made the best decisions in the world, but she had often survived on her instinct. And right now her instinct for survival told her to take the ride, thank the man, get to Mills’s house and try to salvage the job if she could. “I don’t want to wait here all night,” she admitted. “I’ll take the ride.”

“Then put on your emergency lights and let’s get going.”

Mallory didn’t have to be told twice. She went to her car, opened the door, reached inside, pushed the button for the emergency lights, and they began to flash brilliant yellow into the rain and night. She closed the door, and as she turned, she stumbled on the slippery ground.

The man had her by the upper arm in the next second, his strong fingers pressing through the cotton of her soaked raincoat and steadying her. Mallory felt as if one of the bolts of lightning had shot through her at the contact, then he was urging her toward his car. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, close to her side.

By moving quickly ahead of him, she broke the contact. Keeping her head down to watch her footing on the rain-soaked road, she got to the car and could make out the dark shape of a low sports car with an engine that purred with a throaty idle. An expensive car.

Mallory circled to the passenger side, but before she could open the door, the man was there, reaching around her to pull the handle up. He was so close that Mallory felt his heat, and she inhaled the mingled scent of rain, mellow after-shave and a certain maleness. Then the door was open, and Mallory quickly got into the brown leather interior lit softly by dome and side lights.

She saw a dash that glowed with red-and-green gages, and instruments that would make a jet plane look simple. As the door closed, the interior lights went out. Mallory settled in the bucket seat and pushed the hood from her wet hair and swiped at the hair clinging to her face, then turned as the driver’s door opened.

The interior lights flashed on again as the stranger easily maneuvered his rangy frame behind the leather-covered steering wheel. As he turned to push the umbrella into the area behind the front seats, Mallory got a clear look at him and she felt her breath catch.

The man from the theater, as dark as the night itself, and as disturbing as the storm that crashed around them outside. “You,” she breathed.

He looked right at her as he ran a hand over his damp black hair, slicking it back from his roughly handsome face. “The Ghost of Christmas Past,” he murmured, his dark eyes unblinking and intense in their scrutiny.

“How could…?” She touched her tongue to her lips. She could sense that aura of danger he had exuded last night at the theater, and that sensuality, as well, and she felt uncomfortable in these closed quarters. “How could you be here?”

The wind caught the door and slammed it shut, cutting off the lights inside, but it did nothing to diminish the impact of finding herself in this man’s car. He turned to settle behind the wheel. “I drove and didn’t go into a ditch.”

“I’m not in a ditch,” she said, hating the way her breathing tightened and her heartbeat refused to settle into a normal rhythm. She was totally alone with this man, and every nerve in her body was on edge.

“You’re stuck,” he pointed out as he put the car in gear, the windshield wipers swiping at the sheeting rain. The car moved to the left and headed up the road.

“What were you doing at the theater?” she asked.

“I like live theater.”

She hadn’t had any sense that he belonged at the theater when she’d run into him. “You’re connected with the theater?”

“No, I got lost going to the men’s room.” He maneuvered a sharp corner, then headed uphill. “I hear the play closed, that what I saw was the last performance.”

“Yes, it was.” She stared at him as she nervously fingered the wet fabric of her coat. She could see little of him beyond a blurred profile touched by the low lights from the dash. “It just isn’t a good time for small theater companies right now.”

“Since it’s already closed, I guess the bad publicity about the accident won’t hurt it.”

“Excuse me?”

“The hit-and-run victim outside the theater. I understood that she was a cast member.”

The words were said evenly and without emotion, but they set Mallory’s stomach into knots. “She was.”

“She died?”

“No, she’s still alive.” Mallory closed her eyes for a moment, then exhaled and looked back at the man. “How did you know about all that?”

“The newspaper.”

She hadn’t even thought about the accident making the news. “The car never stopped. It’s so senseless. If she hadn’t gone out just then, or if it hadn’t been raining…”

“Life boils down to chance, doesn’t it?”

“A lot of times it does.” She forced her hands to stop clenching and pressed them on the damp fabric of her coat by her thighs. “What are you doing out here in this storm?”

“Chance,” he said softly. “The same as getting lost on the way to the rest room and meeting a ghost.”

She nibbled on her lip as tension grew in her neck and shoulders. “That’s no answer.”

He ignored her statement and asked, “Is Saxon Mills expecting you?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to be there at six.”

“You’re going to be late.”

She glanced at the digital clock in the dash, surprised to see that it was only five minutes to six. It seemed as if she had been on the road with this man for an eternity, but it had been less than ten minutes.

“If I get there close to six, I think it will be all right,” she said, hoping it was true.

“Seeing him is pretty important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is, and I really appreciate you giving me a ride,” she said, realizing she should have said those words a lot sooner. But surprise had robbed her of logical thinking for a few moments.

Right then, the man turned onto a narrow lane. As Mallory looked ahead of them, a cracking bolt of lightning lit the sky, exposing trees pressing on both sides and rain that ran down the pavement like a river. Then the light was gone, thunder pealed, and the only glow in the blackness came from the headlights of the sports car.

“You’re going there for the holidays?”

“Not entirely.”

“Business, too?”

Another bolt of lightning tore through the night, and thunder followed close on its heels. “It’s getting closer,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“The lightning. When you see lightning, you start counting one thousand one, one thousand two. And whatever number you get up to before you hear the thunder, that’s how many miles you are from the strike point of the lightning. That last lightning struck only a mile or so from here.”

“Is that a scientific fact, or an old wives’ tale?”

“I think it’s scientific.”

“Or maybe it was created to take people’s attention off the storm.”

She glanced at him again. “A diversion?”

“Yes, sort of like you’re doing right now when I asked you that question.”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were seeing Saxon Mills on business and I was given the theory behind calculating the distance of lightning when it strikes.”

“I’m going there to see Mr. Mills,” she said. “That’s it. Period.”

“I was just trying to figure out what’s so important that you were willing to go out on a night like this.”

The more he prodded at her for details, the more she dug in her heels. She wasn’t about to tell him exactly what she was doing on a road in this storm with his car hurtling toward her. “I didn’t expect the storm to keep up so long.” She laughed, a forced sound at best. “Besides, everyone knows we’re in a drought situation in California. Now they’re saying there’s no end in sight to the storm.”

“Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

“Mallory King. Who are you?” She deliberately said the question echoing his abruptly blunt tone.

“Anthony Carella. Where are you from?”

“The city.” She felt annoyance at the man’s curt tone of interrogation and repeated his words back to him. “Where are you from?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Why were you at the theater in San Francisco?”

He was silent for a moment as he downshifted, slowing the car to a crawl. Then he glanced at her, his look lost in the shadows. He was silent for a long moment, then he turned back to the road ahead of them. “All right. I get the idea.”

“What idea?”

“I tend to interrogate people. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

And you never answered my question about the theater, she thought, but didn’t ask it again. “What are you—a lawyer?”

“No. Just a businessman.”

She sat back in the seat. “Are you going somewhere for the holidays, or are you going somewhere on business?”

She could see him shrug, the movement sharp in the shadows. “Both. I’m going to see an associate of mine, and it happens to be the holidays.” He cast her a fleeting glance as he slowed the car a bit more. “To answer your earlier question, I heard from a reliable source that I’d find the play interesting.”

“You like Dickens?”

“I like interesting things,” he murmured.

Mallory looked ahead of them and saw they were at the end of the road, facing a pair of massive stone pillars caught in the watery glow of the headlights. Imposing iron gates were open, and the car drove through onto a rough, cobbled drive that wound to the right. Wind shook the low car as it climbed upward. Then, as it crested the rise, two bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, one right on top of the other.

The eerie blue-white light exposed the scene in front of Mallory for no more than a split second, yet the images seemed to burn into her brain.

On a hill that rose out of a sea of rain-beaten grass dotted by trees that were almost bent to the ground by the wind, stood a looming structure that for all the world looked like a medieval castle. Corner turrets rose high into the turbulent night sky, and narrow windows glowed faintly gold from the interior lights. The drive wound up toward a jutting portico supported by huge pillars, and low lights lined sweeping steps that climbed to the entrance.

“This is Saxon Mills’s home?” she breathed as thunder rumbled.

“You sound surprised.”

She sat forward as they approached it, straining to make out more details, but unable to see little more now than the hulking shape and the dim glow of light at the windows and stairs. “I am, and I’m impressed. I’ve heard about the man being eccentric, but this looks like a castle.”

“I think the resemblance to a castle is more than coincidental.” As they neared the portico, the headlights swept in front of them, exposing rough stone walls that shimmered with rain. “If you know Saxon Mills at all, you know he gets some sort of a rush out of taking on the mantle. Actually, I don’t believe he’d mind if you chose to worship him.”

Mallory looked at the man. “Mr. Carella—”

“Tony,” he said, correcting her. “I don’t go along with formal royalty in this country.”

“It sounds as if you don’t like Saxon Mills very much.”

He eased the car under the portico and stopped at the foot of the stairs, which led up to twenty-foot doors set in the heavy stone walls. The wind drove rain under the protection of the overhang, but the heaviest part of the downpour was blocked. “Whether I like him or not isn’t important. I know what he is. That’s the bottom line.”

“He’s an eccentric millionaire,” she said.

“A billionaire, and he’s much more than eccentric.”

“Whatever,” she murmured, glancing at the dash clock. “I’m already fifteen minutes late. Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.” She turned to get out, but before she could touch the handle, Tony stopped her.

His fingers circled her wrist, cool and firm. The shock of his touch when he’d gripped her arm earlier was nothing compared to this. Skin-on-skin contact jolted her, and his fingers were tight, hovering just this side of inflicting pain. She sat very still and darted him a cautious look.

Even with the shimmering light of the house lamps coming through the rain-streaked windows, Tony was in the shadows, the glow not penetrating the darkness that seemed to surround him. When she tugged at the confines of his hold, she was freed, but she knew it was only because he allowed her to break the contact. If this had been a match of strength, she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance.

“What is it?” she asked, forcing herself not to rub at her wrist, which still tingled from the contact.

“Don’t you want to know about Saxon Mills?”

Even though his eyes were hidden by shadows, Mallory could feel the intensity of his gaze on her. “You told me, he’s an eccentric billionaire. What more is there to know?”

His hand gripped the top of the steering wheel so tightly that Mallory thought he would snap it. “That’s a PR release, not the facts. The old man’s known publicly for what he’s made work in this world. But privately he’s known for destroying anything that gets in his way or doesn’t measure up to his standards. Everything and everyone is expendable for Saxon Mills. Everyone.”

Intensity vibrated in his deep voice, and Mallory knew that to say this man didn’t like Saxon Mills was akin to saying the Grand Canyon was a little hole in the ground. He obviously hated the old man. “Is that all?” she asked.

“Yes, it is.”

She hesitated, then quickly turned from Tony and made her escape. Even under the protection of the portico, the wind drove the rain along the ground, and the stinging mists whipped around her legs. She hurried to the stone stairs, but as she reached the bottom step, she was shocked to sense Tony near her.

He didn’t speak as he passed her and strode up the steps, taking them two at a time with his long stride. Mallory glanced back at the sports car to find its lights out and the motor off. She turned and hurried up after Tony, and when she caught up with him at the front doors, she looked up at him. His height was intimidating, and it made her feel at a distinct disadvantage.

“You don’t have to see me in,” she said as she tugged her coat more tightly around her.

“I know.” He reached for a door knocker that was fashioned like a gargoyle head, the perfect touch to go with this house. With just a fleeting glance at Mallory in the glow of the lanterns by the doors, he released the knocker and the metal struck the barrier with a resounding crack. Even before the sound died out completely, the door clicked, then opened.

The glow of interior lights spilled out into the night and a woman looked out. She was tall, almost six feet, and dressed in a high-necked gray dress that wasn’t quite a uniform, but was severely plain on her lanky frame. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back from a long face touched by fine lines and decided paleness. Sensible wire-rimmed glasses reflected back the low lights and effectively hid her eyes, but Mallory didn’t miss the way the woman’s lips thinned as she looked at her.

“Good evening,” she said with a nod to Mallory.

“Myra,” Tony said.

“Mr. Carella.” She inclined her head slightly, and the light shifted so Mallory got a glimpse of the woman’s eyes. Gray eyes, the color of fog, were framed by pale lashes and looked as drab as the woman herself. But the distaste in them as they studied Mallory was vivid enough. “You are with Mr. Carella?” she asked, and Mallory realized that the woman had a slight accent.

“No, I had a six o’clock appointment with Mr. Mills. I’m Mallory King.”

“When you were not here at the correct time, we thought you were not coming,” Myra murmured.

“I wouldn’t have made it without Mr. Carella’s help. My car’s down the road, stuck. I hope Mr. Mills will still see me.”

“Do come in while I go up and tell Mr. Mills you are here,” she said in her oddly annunciated English.

Mallory was thankful not to be sent away, and she turned to tell Tony goodbye for the second time. But he simply stepped past her and into the house. His coat brushed her arm, and the fleeting feeling of his body heat barely materialized before he was past her. A shiver came involuntarily, then she stepped inside, making sure to keep some space between herself and Tony.

In the glow of three massive chandeliers that illuminated a vast entry foyer, she got her first good look at Tony. In a long, dark overcoat parted to show a pale shirt and charcoal slacks, the man looked as big, dark and intense as she remembered from the theater. And the edge she felt then was still firmly in place. But now it seemed that it was touched by a certain nervousness that he hadn’t shown before.

She didn’t understand him—not why he was at the theater, on the road in the storm, or in this house with her—and she averted her eyes from him. She chose to look at the foyer, with its natural stone walls that soared up through three stories and had carvings of horses fashioned into the hard surfaces. As Myra closed the door and shut out the night, Mallory looked up at the heavily beamed ceiling, then down to the reflected light from the chandeliers on polished black marble floors.

A sweeping staircase to the right was framed by intricately carved banisters and turned posts twined with boughs of holly, and it led up to a second-floor balcony. Twenty-foot-high doorways, both right and left, arched over carved wooden doors, and the air was touched with the pungency of woodsmoke, lemon wax, pine and a lingering cool dampness. A Christmas tree decorated with crystal globes and golden garlands looked oddly formal sitting directly opposite the front doors. A simple star topped it, and white linen swaddled its trunk, spreading out onto the black marble.

“I will be right back,” Myra said as she went past Tony and Mallory and headed for the staircase. Her low-heeled shoes clicked against the hard floor.

When Myra reached the top of the stairs and went to the right through an arched opening, Mallory turned to Tony. “You didn’t have to come inside with me.”

“Of course I didn’t,” he said as his dark eyes narrowed on her. “Tell me, what do you think of all of this?”

She shrugged, wishing she could get out of her damp coat and away from him. He made it difficult to focus on anything when he was this close to her. “It’s incredible. I think I read in a magazine or something that Mr. Mills built it, but it looks as if it’s been around for centuries.”

“Some of it’s new, some of it’s old. This is part of the original house, probably built a hundred and fifty years ago by one of the area’s great vintners. Then Mills took over the estate about forty years ago and started tearing out vineyards to make room for expansion, from extra wings to stables and guest cottages. He even had stones from a quarry in Ireland shipped over for the newer construction. In all the time he’s been here, he’s never stopped construction.”

He looked around the area, his dark eyes roaming over the vast foyer. “He believes that if he quits building, he’ll die.”

CHAPTER THREE

Mallory knew her mouth must have dropped. “He really believes that?”

Tony cast her a slanted look. “I don’t think he really does, not anymore than I believe the place is haunted.”

“It’s haunted?”

“I’ve never actually seen a ghost, but there are stories about night wanderings and strange happenings.”

She looked for a hint of humor in his expression, but there was none, just that brooding sensuality that made her feel slightly off-balance. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

He motioned to the area with one hand. “Doesn’t this place conjure up ideas of strange things going bump in the night? Even the new parts—the south wing that’s being built right now—supposedly has had incidents that can’t be explained. A perfect atmosphere for hauntings, I’d say.”

The house definitely was different and a less-than-homey place. As she looked at Tony, she had the passing thought that he really looked as if he fit here, in a place of dark shadows and strange happenings. And his words were making her nerves even worse.

“That’s ridiculous,” she muttered to stave off the uneasiness that prickled at the back of her neck.

“You don’t believe in things you can’t see, that can’t be explained?”

She’d retreated into the world of make-believe for a lot of her life. That was probably why she went into acting, taking whatever parts she could just to be able to create illusions and magic on the stage. And it had helped her survive foster homes and loneliness after her mother died. But right now she wanted reality and facts. She wanted this job. A chill in the air brushed her face and made her shiver.

“What I believe is that I’m cold and damp and probably not going to get my meeting with Mr. Mills.”

A flash of movement at the top of the stairs drew her attention, and she glanced up to see Myra standing by the top newel post, fingering a holly leaf. For some reason she had the feeling that the woman had been there, just watching, choosing her time to move and draw the attention of the two of them.

“Mr. Mills will see you now in his suite.”

Mallory was relieved that the man wasn’t just turning her away. “That’s great.”

The woman flashed Tony a glance. “Perhaps you can tell William where Miss King’s car is, and he can take care of it?”

“Of course,” Tony said.

“And your luggage?”

“My car’s right out in front. Everything’s in the trunk. The key’s in the ignition.”

Mallory frowned at Tony as a part of the riddle of this man became clear to her. “Mr. Mills is the business associate you were talking about in the car, isn’t he?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“You never said.”

“There’s a lot you didn’t say, too,” he murmured, a certain tightness touching his expression.

Strangely, she felt as if he had duped her someway, and she turned from him to go to the stairs. As she took the steps one by one, she could feel Tony watching her, the way she could at the theater, his eyes boring into her back.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she chanced a look back down into the foyer. But the space was empty. Tony had vanished as quietly and completely as if he had never been or as if he were a ghost. She could still feel the tingling in her wrist where he’d touched her in the car, and she shook her head as she turned to follow Myra through the arched doorway. The man certainly wasn’t a ghost.

As Mallory followed Myra into a broad hallway, she pushed the ideas of ghosts and hauntings out of her mind and focused on what lay ahead of her. The interview with Saxon Mills.

She went down the hallway, past closed doors on either side, which were heavy wooden barriers set into stone walls and were partially covered by faded tapestries. Thick Persian carpeting underfoot muffled any noises, and gas lanterns wired for electricity were spaced every twenty feet or so, casting a yellow glow over everything.

The chill Mallory had felt in the lower level was more pronounced up here, and the mustiness of age that had only been hinted at in the foyer was stronger. Mallory followed the housekeeper to the end of the corridor, where highly polished wooden doors barred the way. Without knocking, the woman pressed an ornate latch and opened the doors. With a glance back at Mallory, she motioned her to follow her inside.

Mallory stepped into a dimly lit room that matched the rest of the house perfectly. It looked as if it occupied one of the turrets, with a domed ceiling overhead, multi-angled stone walls and heavy plank flooring partially hidden by individual Persian carpets and runners. A massive fireplace set into the wall to the right had five-foot-tall marble horse statues at either side, rearing into the air.

The fire in the hearth radiated welcoming heat, and the dancing flames reflected off the polished surfaces of furniture that, even to Mallory’s untrained eye, were obviously priceless antiques. In the center of the room was a huge sleigh bed set on a marble platform that raised it ten inches above the floor.

Mallory turned to speak to Myra by the door, and came face-to-face with a man who she didn’t have to be told was Saxon Mills. Tall at about six feet, he had a wiry leanness to him, and thick, snow-white hair brushed back from an angular face. In a bloodred smoking jacket, dark slacks and leather slippers, he stared at Mallory with deep blue eyes partially shadowed by shaggy brows.

He didn’t speak as he came closer and slowly circled her, looking her up and down as if she were livestock to be bid on. When he came back to face her, he asked in a rough, well-used voice, “Your coat?”

Mallory quickly slipped off the damp coat, and the housekeeper came forward to take it from her.

“Myra, bring Miss King some hot tea,” the man said without looking away from Mallory. “And prepare dinner to be served at eight sharp. Tell the others to be punctual.”

Silently the housekeeper turned and slipped out of the room, and Mallory heard the door click shut after her. Thankful for the feeling of warmth from the fire at her back, she said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“You’re here,” he said quickly.

“Yes, I am.”

“I was sorry to hear of the accident last night at the theater.”

Obviously, Henry Welting had been near the theater when it happened, or perhaps this man had read it in the paper, the way Tony had. “It was pretty terrible.”

“The girl who was hurt, is she—?”

“Sara is still alive,” Mallory said quickly. “She’s holding her own, but she was badly hurt.”

“Good,” he murmured, dismissing that subject with a vague brush of his hand. “Now, something else. Myra tells me that you came here with Tony.”

“Yes, I did. My car went off the road and he came along, thank goodness.” She could sense tension in the man, and after what Tony had said about him, she wondered if the feelings were mutual. Business associates who hated each other? “He rescued me, gave me a ride here.”

“Henry Welting was supposed to make very sure that you didn’t discuss this meeting with anyone. I trust that you didn’t discuss it with Mr. Carella.”

What they had exchanged hardly qualified as a discussion. “Of course not. I just told him I had an appointment with you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Nothing more?”

“Not really.”

“What did you tell him?” he bit out.

For some reason she didn’t tell him about the meeting at the theater. She didn’t know why, but the words just never came. Instead she said simply, “He knows I’m an actress.”

“You told him why you were meeting with me?”

“No, I didn’t. I just said that I had to be here by six to see you. That’s it. I didn’t give him any details at all. I wasn’t about to. He’s a stranger. I didn’t even know he knew you until we got here.”

He was obviously relieved. “Henry was quite right. You’ll do perfectly.”

Mallory barely contained her own relief. “You still want me for the part?”

“Absolutely. Henry said that you agreed to the two-week run, so I think, all things considered, this will work out quite well.” He moved away from her to cross to a marble-topped table and two leather chairs positioned by the fireplace. “Come,” he said as he took one of the chairs. “Sit. We need to talk.”

She didn’t have to be coaxed to go closer to the warmth of the blaze in the hearth. She took the chair opposite Saxon Mills and watched him settle, resting his elbows on the padded arms.

As he steepled his fingertips, he peered at Mallory. “I have it on good authority that you are a very good actress. Are you also a quick study?”

“In fact, I am,” she said as she settled in the warm leather. “I never have trouble learning lines.”

“Good. There’s a lot of information you’ll have to remember to do this job correctly. And I expect a top-notch performance from you.”

“I’ll do my best, but I haven’t even seen the script yet.”

He flicked that away with the wave of one hand. “It’s not needed.”

“Excuse me?”

“There is no script. This is a rather…unique role—improvisation of sorts.”

“Mr. Mills, I don’t understand. Mr. Welting said you wanted me as a replacement for another actor. I assumed—”

He stared right at her, his cold blue gaze stopping her words. “Rule one, Miss King. Don’t assume anything if you work for me.”

Everything and everyone is expendable for Saxon Mills. Tony’s words echoed in Mallory’s mind, and she could feel the tension in her neck and shoulders coming back full force. She needed this job, no matter how uneasy this man made her. Tony worked with him, probably making lots of money, and he didn’t even like him. Pressing her fingers into the soft leather of the chair arms, she tried to keep her gaze level. “Of course. Why don’t you explain things to me.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “That’s exactly what I was about to do.”

She bit her lip, not trusting herself to say anything else, in case she said the wrong thing again.

“I don’t know how much you know about me, but you need a brief background. I am a self-made man. I was born in relative poverty, one of two sons of immigrants, and I promised myself I would never be poor again—no matter what it took. That’s how I’ve lived my life. I get what I want, and I won’t take no for an answer.” He tapped his forefingers together over and over again as he spoke. “This house is mine. There isn’t another like it anywhere. One of a kind. Very unique.”

So was the man speaking. “It’s a remarkable house.”

“That’s when you know you’re successful, Miss King, when you have something that no one else has, something that no amount of money can really duplicate. And it’s worth what it takes to get it.” He was silent for a moment, his blue eyes unblinking. “Do you understand that concept?” he finally asked. “Do you see the kind of man I am?”

No wonder Tony didn’t exactly like him. Saxon Mills was obsessed with Saxon Mills. “Yes, I think I do.”

He shifted the subject abruptly. “Henry told me that you’ve done a lot of stage work.”

“Mostly small theater.”

“Why do you work on stage?”

“I love live theater. You feel as if you’re really living the part when you hear reactions immediately.”

“Excellent. How do you feel about lies?”

She was beginning to feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland just after she fell down the rabbit hole. Nothing was making sense—from meeting Tony again on a rainy road in the storm, to sitting here opposite a man who wouldn’t have a problem taking the part of the Mad Hatter. “I don’t understand.”

“Lying, as in not telling the truth? Lying for a valid reason, without feeling remorse or regret?”

She shrugged. “I suppose acting is a lie. You take over a part, and you pretend that you’re another person for as long as the curtain’s up. You have to make people believe you’re that person.”

“Exactly,” he said with a sigh. “And that brings me to the reason you’re here. I have a part for you that’s one of a kind. It’s unique, and I’m sure it will be very demanding.”

“What exactly is the part?”

His hands dropped to the arms of the chair and his long fingers smoothed the leather. But his blue eyes never left her face. “Before I tell you, you have to agree that no one will know anything about it except you and me, and that it will go no further than this room and the two of us.”

Madness on top of madness. “If I’m on the stage—”

“You won’t be.”

She stared at him, her heart sinking. “You said I could have the part.”

“And you shall.”

“Mr. Mills, the request to come here was a bit odd, but I agreed to it because I was under the impression that this offer was legitimate. I’m serious about my career.”

“And you’re serious about getting more money for this job than any that you’ve had so far in your fledgling career.” He sat forward and she found herself pressing back into the chair to keep the distance between them intact. “Every job you’ve had, you’ve done for next to nothing. Most were insignificant roles, walk-ons at best, or parts in plays that were run on goodwill and the ridiculousness of people who would work for meals or the sound of applause.”

A feeling akin to hate rose in Mallory as she stared at the man. He had no qualms about cutting people down with words. She didn’t have a clue how she was going to walk away—would she find Tony and beg him to drive her out of here?—but she wasn’t going to stay in the room with this man. As she started to stand, he stopped her with a sharp command.

“Sit down. I’m only trying to reach an understanding with you. I guarantee you, Miss King, this is a legitimate offer. It’s a very sensitive issue, for reasons you’ll understand when I explain everything to you. Just give me your word that even if you walk out the door in the next five minutes, you won’t tell anyone what went on in here.” He drilled her with his eyes. “Anyone.”

She knew her position was tenuous at best. Her car was stuck, and this place was out in the middle of nowhere. And if she were honest, the last thing she wanted to do was get back in a car with a man who could upset her equilibrium with a single look. Leaving wasn’t a viable option at the moment.

“Okay,” she said. “I agree to that.”

“Excellent.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“I want you to play the part of my daughter for the next two weeks.”

Mallory sat very still, not sure she’d heard Saxon Mills correctly. “Excuse me?”

“I thought that was pretty straightforward,” the man said, his tone laced with barely concealed irritation. “I need someone to assume the role of my daughter for the next two weeks.”

“Mr. Mills, I—”

He held up one hand. “Call me Saxon. I don’t think Father or Dad would be terribly convincing at the first.”

“Are you doing an autobiographical play or something?”

That actually brought a smile to his face, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “No. This is no play. It’s my life.” He sank back farther in the chair and his eyes narrowed. “It’s a matter of life and death for me.” The words sounded melodramatic, but his face was contained, almost cool.

A knock sounded, and as the door began to open, Saxon leaned toward Mallory and whispered, “Say nothing of this in front of Myra.”

Mallory nodded and sank back in the chair. While the housekeeper laid a tea service out on the table, Saxon Mills spoke with her. The word mad came to mind, along with crazy and demented. Play his daughter? The idea was so absurd that Mallory almost laughed.

As Myra went to the hearth to stir the fire into new life, Saxon nudged a cup of tea across the table to Mallory. “Drink it while it’s hot. You’ll be glad for any warmth you can find in this house during weather like this.”

Mallory had totally forgotten about the storm and the dampness in her slacks and her sodden shoes. Myra moved quietly for being such a large woman. She silently crossed the room, and the door clicked shut behind her. Mallory reached for the tea and cautiously took a sip, letting the hot liquid slip down her throat and settle in her middle, easing her tension just a bit. But as soon as she looked at Saxon over the rim of her cup, her nerves tightened again.

The man was staring at her, but she had the idea that he wasn’t really seeing her. His gaze was slightly unfocused, as if he were lost in a place of his own making. “It’s quite remarkable,” he murmured softly.

“Excuse me, sir?” Mallory said as she lowered her cup, cradling it in her hands on her lap.

He flinched, then took a harsh breath and reached for his cup of tea. “We need to discuss this job.”

“Yes, we do. It’s all so rushed. I was only contacted last night by Mr. Welting. If I had more time, I could do a better job for you.”

“We only located you a few days ago, and we needed to be sure you were right for this part. As for doing a good job, being spontaneous will probably only enhance your talents.”

For a moment she thought he was trying to flatter her, but one look at his blue eyes and she knew he was just giving her an answer. “How can I pass for your daughter when anyone who knows you would know your daughter and know I’m obviously not her?”

“That’s the beauty of this idea. I don’t have a daughter. Everyone knows that. So you don’t have to be anyone but yourself. They won’t have a clue what to expect, because they won’t know you exist until I introduce you to them. As far as background goes, I’ve been briefed on yours, and it fits perfectly.”

She frowned. “You said they know you don’t have a daughter. Where am I suppose to have come from?”

He stood and crossed to a night table by the bed on the marble pedestal. Despite his age, he moved easily, Mallory thought, and when he came back to the table, he held out an eight-by-ten gold picture frame. “This should explain things a bit.”

She put her cup back on the table and took the heavy frame from him. A sepia-toned studio photo was set in it, an ethereal-looking picture of a delicately beautiful woman with feathery dark hair framing a heart-shaped face, large dark eyes and pouty lips. The image startled Mallory, and she blinked. Her memory had to be playing tricks on her.

“Who is this?” she asked as Saxon took his chair again.

He sank back, watching Mallory. “My Kate,” he said with a sigh. “And you look a lot like her, Mallory. A lot.”

She looked at the picture again, hating the way the memories of a five-year-old child were overlapping with it. But when she really looked at the picture, she knew her mind had played tricks on her. This woman wasn’t really like the mother she remembered. This woman, maybe in her early twenties, looked delighted with life and was openly flirting with the camera.

Mallory had no memory of her mother smiling or being happy. What memories remained were scattered and few, of a sad, bitter woman beaten by life. A woman who had died too young.

“Kate?” she asked, looking at him instead of the picture.

“She’s a woman I knew almost thirty years ago. I was mad for her, but we were both too stubborn, too volatile, probably more in lust than in love. It just burned out after six months, and she left to get on with her life.”

His tone was unemotional, as if the memory of the incident with the woman had little lasting effect on him. Yet he’d kept her picture all these years.

“Henry Welting was astounded when he saw you. You look so much like Kate did at one time. It would be very easy for anyone who’s seen Kate’s picture to believe you could be a child from our affair, that Kate was your mother.”

Bitterness burned at the back of Mallory’s throat. She quickly put the picture down flat on the table, and Saxon sat forward to reach for it. Without a glance at it, he turned it facedown on the table in front of him.

“Did you have a child with her?” Mallory asked, her voice sounding tight in her own ears.

“I have no children. But you’re a good enough actress to make people believe it could be true.”

“What happened to…to this Kate?”

He didn’t blink. “She died years ago in Europe.”

Again no emotion. And that made Mallory feel even more edgy. It didn’t help that the storm went unabated, crashing around the stone walls and tearing at the night outside with lightning. “Who’s this charade for?”

His expression tightened. “My family, Mr. Carella, the staff. Everyone who’s in this house for the holidays.”

She wondered if this was all some horrible practical joke the man was setting up. “Why would you want to deceive these people?”

“That’s something that’s complicated and personal, but I can give you a general idea. I have little family, just a niece and nephew. My only brother’s children. Warren has been gone ten years, but he left his son, Lawrence, who’s thirty-two. He calls himself a writer, but from what I can see, all he writes is IOUs and bums around being ‘creative’ while others pay for it.

“He sees me as the way to finance his dilettante life-style. Then there’s Joyce, his sister. She’s married to Gene Something-or-other. I believe he’s husband number three. I can’t think of why he married her except he’s a patient sort who’s willing to wait until she gets her hands on my money.”

He sighed. “I’m fed up with them, but one or both of them will be my heirs. I’ve never been married, so, as shabby as they are, they’re the only blood relations I have.”

“What good would it do to pretend you have a daughter for two weeks?”

He steepled his fingers again and began to tap his forefingers together. “Maybe no good at all. Or maybe a lot of good. Maybe if they think you’re my direct heir, they’ll get on with their lives without waiting for me to die so they can celebrate. Maybe it would help me sift out the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”

Mallory had little experience with family in her life, but it seemed that Saxon Mills didn’t have a great deal more, despite all his wealth. “I’m sure they aren’t just sitting around waiting for you to die.”

“Of course they are,” he said without rancor. “So are Myra and William.”

She frowned. “William?”

“Myra’s son, a stupid man who seems to think the way to do anything in this world is through brute force.”

“Why would they want you gone?”

“Myra’s been with me for years, and I’m sure she thinks she and William will make out quite well when I’m gone.”

Mallory watched the man and knew she wouldn’t make a bet on his generosity to anyone. “What about Mr. Carella?”

“Tony’s a bit different, more dangerous. He’s greedy like the others, but he’s got brains. He’ll do whatever he needs to do to get what he wants, and he doesn’t worry about the consequences.”

The words sounded strangely similar to what Tony had said about Saxon. “What does he want?”

“He’s been involved in some of my businesses for ten years, and he’s here to talk me into letting him buy me out.” He exhaled. “Or maybe he wants me to put him in my will so he gets control of my shares when I die. One way or the other, he wants control of the businesses, come hell or high water.”

She was uneasy about underestimating Tony, about thinking he could be easily deceived. The man could look at someone as if he could see into their soul, and if she was going to lie to him, she’d have to be very convincing. “Can he get control?”

“He’s got the brains and a strong instinct of when to go for the kill, but he’s up against me. He only gets it if I say he does.”

She could tell this man enjoyed that power. “So, you’ll tell all of them you found an heir and they’re out of luck?” she asked, her tea growing tepid as she listened with morbid fascination to the man’s twisted plans.

“Exactly. I want to throw a monkey wrench into their plans and get them off my back. If they think I found a long-lost daughter, the product of my foolish liaison years ago, maybe they’ll leave me alone for a while.” He paused, then added, “Maybe it will bring out the true colors in all of them. All the better for me to make a decision.”

Mallory sat forward. In a distorted way, this meeting was like a scenario that had gone through her mind over and over again through the years. The moment in which she would find the man who’d walked out on her mother, that he would admit he was her father and would hold out his arms to welcome her into his family.

That was fantasy, a self-delusional lie. Yet she couldn’t help but think that if Saxon Mills really was her father, she would be just as apt to walk out and keep going. He clearly liked people to dance to his tune. He played with people, manipulating them for his own purposes. He didn’t even come close to any idea she had of what a father should be.

“That’s the bare bones of the plan,” Saxon said. “Now, tell me what you think about it.”

“I don’t know what to think. I suppose you must feel your reasons are compelling for you to go to all this trouble.”

“Yes, they are compelling. Will you do it?”

The fire crackled and popped, and Mallory could hear the storm beating against the windows behind the heavy velvet drapes, but she never took her eyes off Saxon Mills. No matter what his motives were for this deception, the role was simple. She knew she could do it. She didn’t have to like him, or even approve of what he was doing. All she had to do was keep up her part of the agreement and leave in two weeks with enough money to keep her going for a while.

“Well?” he prodded, and she could hear the tinge of impatience in his voice.

She made an instant decision. “I’ll do it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Excellent,” Saxon murmured, then levered himself out of his chair and crossed to the bed. “Remember, outside the walls of this room, you are in character, and you stay that way. No talking about any of this, not even to me, unless we’re in here.” He looked back at her, his hand hovering over the raised nightstand. “You’re my daughter. I’m your father…unless we’re in here. Understood?”

“Yes.”

He pressed a button on the nightstand, then turned back to Mallory. “I’ll have Myra take you to your room now.”

She stood. “Don’t you need to tell me more about all these people I’m supposed to be deceiving?”

“Why? You just came here tonight and found out you’re my daughter. You wouldn’t know much about me, and even less about my family and acquaintances.”

“What if they ask questions about my life? What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them the truth as much as you can. Tell them you work as a waitress, that you live alone, that you don’t have any other family.”

She knew her jaw must have dropped a bit. “You had me checked out, didn’t you?”

“I had to. I know your mother died from pneumonia when you were five, and you were in various foster homes until you were old enough to escape the system and go out on your own. You have two years of college as a drama major, and you’ve worked as a waitress to help support yourself so you can act.” He ticked off her life with an ease that shocked her. “You’ve had roommates, but you’ve lived alone for the past six months. You’re twenty-eight years old.”

“All right. I get the idea.” She looked at the photo that was still facedown on the table. “What about her…Kate? What do I tell them about her, since she’s supposed to have been my mother?”

“Tell them the truth about your mother, except for the fact that your mother wasn’t Kate. Tell them what you remember, what she was like, and leave it at that. And she died in Europe.”

“My mother never even made it out of California as far as I know, let alone Europe.”

He waved that aside with a sharp jab of his hand. “Then don’t talk about her death. As a rule of thumb, stick to the truth as much as possible, and when you need to add details for authenticity, play it by ear. Your own clothes will be fine most of the time, but there are a few things in your room for you to wear when you need to be more formal. There are riding clothes, just in case you want to ride when this storm is gone.”

It was a bit unnerving to think someone had purchased clothes for her, but she knew that her casual jeans and sweaters weren’t exactly a full wardrobe. “How do you want me to play this part?”

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