Paula Roe - A Precious Inheritance

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

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

“No.”

“So the published version will be—”

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

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

“You’d better come up.”

His brow lifted. “You sure?”

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

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

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

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

So, was this the real Vanessa Partridge?

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

* * *

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

That phone call.

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

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

But this? This was off the charts.

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

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

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

“So what—” she began.

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

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

She frowned. “Why…”

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

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

“Higher. More singsongy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vanessa shot Chase a look then went swiftly into the girls’ room. The soft glow of the night-light spread across the walls and ceiling, highlighting Heather in the cot, flat on her back with eyes screwed up, ready to throw herself into her usual crying jag. Vanessa began the routine: a low gentle croon, slowly flipping her to her side, then rubbing her back, all the while scanning the mattress then the pillow.

Aha! She grabbed the pacifier and wrapped Heather’s fingers around the plastic handle. Almost instantly, Heather shoved the rubber nipple in her mouth and started to grumble, sucking furiously.

So very angry. Vanessa smiled. Erin couldn’t care less, she was so laid-back. But Heather—her fierce little warrior girl—couldn’t sleep without one.

With a quick check on the still-sound-asleep Erin, Vanessa made a silent exit, shaking her head as she padded back to the living room.

Chase was standing in the middle of her space, hands behind his back and legs apart. It was such a typically male stance, one that indicated control and command, that she felt her defenses go on full alert.

“Heather only wakes up when she loses her pacifier,” she said, trying to ignore the authority he radiated.

“Ahhh.”

“Erin could sleep through a bomb blast.”

He gave her a wry smile and for just one second, Vanessa wondered what it’d be like if he put everything into it. Devastating, most probably.

“You have kids?” she began.

“No. Look, I should apologize and—”

“Would you like a—” she said simultaneously. They both stopped, waited a second, then started again.

“…go.”

“…drink?”

Again, silence descended, but this time, Chase’s mouth curved and suddenly all Vanessa could hear was her heartbeat as it picked up the pace.

Mr. Million-Dollar Smile. Wow.

“I—I have coffee,” she said faintly, hating the way she stumbled over those three simple words. She quickly attempted to drag back the tattered remnants of composure, but his smile told her she was fooling no one with her straight back and square shoulders.

In fact, that smile only brought out a dimple. A dimple, for heaven’s sakes! As if he didn’t have enough money and looks in his corner already.

Well, deduct a few points for arrogance.

“Vanessa, let’s be honest here. I know why you were bidding on that manuscript.”

And a few more for impropriety.

He had no idea what the real story was and she had half a mind to tell him where to go. She even drew herself up, bolstering her mental strength while the cutting words formed on her tongue.

Yet as he silently stood there, waiting for her response with a look of—was that sympathy?—on his face, she chickened out at the last minute.

“Mr. Harrington—”

“Chase.”

“Chase,” she repeated, trying to ignore the intimacy of his name on her lips. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. I don’t discuss my personal life with complete strangers—even if that stranger probably hired someone to dig into my background.”