Rachel Bailey - Return of the Secret Heir

He removed the pieces of her trouser suit one at a time, forcing himself to go slowly, savoring the sight of each new glimpse of flesh. He’d always loved her lush, rounded body, but now, with her belly ripening, she was so beautiful that a ball of emotion lodged in his throat.

He skimmed his hands from her hips down, taking her panties with them, and as she stepped from them, she steadied herself with hands on his shoulders. The touch burned through his shirt.

“Princess,” he rasped. He splayed hands across her hips and drew her closer, and when her body was pressed against his, her nails dug into his shoulders, driving him a little crazier.

He laid her back on the bed, then toed off his shoes, stripped off his clothes and found a condom in record time, but even those seconds away from her felt like torture.

He covered her with his body, bracing his forearms on the cool sheets either side of her shoulders. The press of their bodies, the touch of skin, was heavenly. Despite the insistent protests of his body, he wanted to linger, simply feeling their bodies touching chests to toes.

Until she ground up against him.

Then all bets were off. He entered the slick heat of her and a tremor ripped through his body.

Pia.

He began moving in long, slow glides and her hands fisted in the sheets. The feel of her enveloping him like a glove made it almost impossible to hold on, to not end this too soon like an inexperienced teenager. In some ways, the intensity of this time being their last, made it feel like their first time-desperate to touch, to make memories out of sensation.

Her hands left the sheets to hold him low on his hips, pulling him closer, meeting each stroke. Her skin was like fire on his-how could he ever want more than this? He snaked a hand down between them to find the place she ached most.

She broke, and hearing his name on her lips, the spasms of her body, took him from the edge of ecstasy all the way over and into free fall.

Pia sat at her desk on her final day at the firm before she took leave, her chest cramping tight. How had things come to this? Security guards had to sneak her out of JT’s apartment building this morning and bring her in. She was pregnant and single. She was holding on to her career by only the most tenuous of threads. She should be basking in the hope and optimism of impending motherhood. Instead, her life was in shambles.

She’d handed some of her work over yesterday, and only had a few things to tidy up this morning before she could leave. Including a few boxes of Warner Bramson’s papers that she needed to pass onto Arthur now that he would be assisting Linda Adams on the case. She knelt down beside one, and flicked through the pages. It was the rest of the paperwork from Warner’s locked office cupboard. The boxes she’d already sorted had mainly been financial accounts for both his families, old reports on long-past ventures, and notes on potential business moves. There were only these two boxes left to sift through-a task she didn’t regret handing over after already sorting through twenty-three similar boxes before she fell pregnant. She picked up a wad of papers from the first box to straighten them and moved to put them back in when she saw the word Hartley. Her heart jumped into her throat as the pages in her hand spilled across the floor.

The piece of paper was old and yellowed and filled her entire vision.

The child, James Theodore Hartley, is now three years old and living in Kentucky. His mother is working as a waitress at a local diner. When questioned about the boy’s father, she became agitated and reported that he was dead. I believe the chances that she’ll reappear and make claims are slim.

It was a short, one-page report, with an out-of-focus photo of JT as a small boy stapled to the back.

She quickly flicked to the next page in the pile. Another report, this time of a four-year-old JT. Pulse thundering, she searched the scattered pages on the floor and found the two reports before these. Further into the box were years’ worth of updates, until just last year.

Her skin iced over as she realized the implications. If Warner had known about JT, then JT couldn’t make a claim under New York law-Warner had left him out of the will on purpose, not because he hadn’t known of his existence. JT’s claim against Warner Bramson’s will was over. She closed her eyes and sat back on her heels. JT would be crushed. Devastated. Everything he’d been working toward, gone in a matter of minutes.

Her insides constricted, as if even her body was rebelling against what she had to do. She’d give anything not to have to tell him this; never in her career had conveying information felt so wrong. One thing she knew: She had to tell him in person, somewhere private.

But before she could leave the office, Ryder and Seth needed to know-should she let Linda Adams tell them? She’d called the brothers two days ago to give them advance warning of the claim being lodged, but that wasn’t something she was doing in a strictly professional capacity-she’d come by the information privately and was passing it on as a courtesy. This, however, was information regarding the estate. The information that would end JT’s claim.

No, if anyone was going to deliver this information to Warner Bramson’s sons, she wanted it to be her.

She slipped into Linda’s office and showed her the documents.

“Would you mind if I was the one to ring the beneficiaries and tell them?” Pia asked.

“Sure,” Linda said with a quick nod. “One less thing for me to do after you go.”

Back in her own office, Pia asked her secretary to organize a conference call with Ryder and Seth immediately and sat at her desk to read through the private investigator reports until the call was ready. They charted JT’s passage through childhood-the progression of towns, starting to get into trouble with the police in a couple of places before they moved on. And all the while, his rich, powerful, rotten father was watching from afar, doing nothing.

The buzz from her phone told her the call was ready. She locked down the dangerous cocktail of emotions swirling through her body and took a breath. After greeting JT’s brothers, she said, “I have news about the claim.”

“I hope it’s good news,” Ryder said. “The media photographers are annoying Macy.”

Pia closed her eyes and plunged in. “I’ve uncovered evidence that Warner knew of JT Hartley’s existence.”

Two sharply indrawn breaths came down the line.

“What kind of evidence?” Seth asked.

She looked at the papers covering her desk. “Private investigator reports. They were filed once a year, and cover from when he was a baby until last year.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ryder said.

Everything inside her braced-as if this were her own dream she was shattering, not JT’s-and she forced the words out through numb lips. “You realize what this means?”

“His claim is over,” Ryder said bluntly. “Good work.”

“Thank you, Pia,” Seth said. “And I appreciate that you’ve done this under difficult circumstances.”

She knew what Seth was referring to-there was no way they would have missed the juicy tidbits of gossip about her living with JT-but she didn’t, couldn’t reply. Not when her body was heavy with the knowledge she was destroying JT’s claim for his rightful inheritance.

She said goodbye, rang off and on autopilot, called Arthur in to give him the boxes. Then she told Linda Adams the calls had been made and handed her the final case notes, cleared out her top drawer, bid her secretary farewell for the next few months and picked up the phone.

JT answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?” he asked.

His voice flowed over her like a soothing balm, but she was about to shatter everything he was working toward. Would he change toward her? Shoot the messenger?