JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

His dark eyes, more black than brown, warmed. His harshly cut masculine lips curved in a coaxing smile. “I need you.”

Although she might be in her eighth decade, Eleanor was a long way from dead. Was there a woman with blood still stirring in her veins who could resist that blatantly seductive smile?

Before she could accuse him of pulling out all the stops to win his way, the library door opened and Clara burst into the room. An overpowering scent of orrisroot and clove emanated from the silver pomme d’ambre she wore around her neck.

“Eleanor, dear.” Moving with the force of a bulldozer, she practically knocked both men over as she rushed to the side of the sofa. “I’ve been absolutely frantic ever since your two bodyguards banished me from the room.”

She shot a blistering glare first at Averill, then another directly at Zach, who merely stared back. The only sign of his annoyance were his lips, which tightened into a grim line.

Eleanor’s slender hand disappeared between the woman’s two pink pudgy ones. “I’m fine, Clara. Really,” she insisted. “It was merely a flutter. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Of course not,” Clara Kowalski agreed heartily. “Don’t you worry, dear. I have just the tonic you need in the greenhouse.”

She smiled reassuringly. “A little extract of hawthorn, followed by some pipsissewa tea. That will definitely do the trick.”

“I believe you’ve done enough tricks for today, Mrs. Kowalski,” Averill said.

Crimson flooded the elderly woman’s face, clashing with her lavender turban. “I am not a magician, Doctor. I do not do tricks.”

“Oh, no?” Zach countered, scowling at the Ouija board. “Looks like just another fun evening at home with Hecate.”

“Zachary,” Eleanor murmured her disapproval. “You mustn’t talk that way. Clara’s my friend. And she’s been very helpful. We almost had a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough?” He didn’t conceal his scorn concerning Clara Kowalski’s alleged psychic powers.

“We nearly made contact with Rosa, Anna’s departed nanny.” Clara’s eyes, nearly hidden by folds of pink fat, dared him to challenge her claim.

“Clara’s guide said Rosa was willing to talk to us,” Eleanor said.

“Ah, yes, the infamous guide,” Zach agreed. “What was the guy’s name again? Jaws?”

“Jarlath!” Clara snapped.

“That’s right.” Zach nodded. “Summer sales could be stronger this season. How about asking old Jarlath to see what he can do about bringing more shoppers into the stores?”

“Jarlath does not control things,” Clara replied waspishly. “He is a spiritual guide, not a fortune-teller.”

“Sounds a helluva lot like voodoo to me.” Zach turned back to Eleanor, his exasperation obvious. “Dammit, Eleanor—”

“Don’t you see, Zachary,” she interrupted earnestly, “Rosa can tell us what happened to Anna.”

The two men exchanged weary, resigned looks. Zach raked his hand through his jet hair and cursed softly in the Acadian French, that during his childhood years, had been the only language spoken in his bayou home.

“Eleanor,” Averill said softly. Gently. “It’s been twenty-four years since Robbie and Melanie were...” He paused, selecting his words carefully. “Since Anna disappeared,” he said, instead. “Don’t you think it’s time you gave it up?”

“I promised Robbie I’d find Anna. Since I never broke a promise to my son while he was alive, I’ll be damned if I start with this one.”

“I’m only suggesting a few days in the hospital,” Averill said. “For tests. And some well-deserved rest. After all, you need to be in tip-top shape to keep up your search. If that’s what you insist on doing.”

“It is.” But Eleanor’s determined expression wavered. Her gaze went to the table, where they’d been so close to contacting the nanny.

“It won’t hurt to have a checkup before we leave for the Paris shows next month,” Zachary pointed out with the unwavering logic she’d always admired.

In so many ways Zach reminded Eleanor of her dear James. Granted, their backgrounds were vastly different. But even discounting her late husband’s family wealth, both James Lord and Zachary Deveraux were quintessential self-made men.

Zachary had been her personal discovery. Eleanor had watched his meteoric progress with a certain secret pride. And although he didn’t yet know it, she was grooming him to take over the reins of the Lord’s chain when she retired.

Upon her death, this man she’d come to think of as a son would receive enough of the family stock to ensure control of The Lord’s Group. But included in her will was a provision for Anna to receive the bulk of Eleanor’s personal estate.

“All right. Three days,” Eleanor said finally, ignoring Clara’s frustrated huff. “Then if you won’t release me, I’m checking myself out.”

Although Eleanor knew Zach was more than capable of handling business, she insisted on remaining a vital part of Lord’s. She’d seen too many of her male colleagues retire, only to drop dead of a heart attack six months later. Eleanor had no intention of joining their ranks.

“Three days,” Averill agreed. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“And I want Clara to have a bed in my room.”

“Impossible,” Zach ground out before Averill could respond. His rugged face could have been chiseled from granite. “There’s no way you’re going to get any rest with Sybil the Soothsayer hovering over you like one of Macbeth’s damned witches.”

Clara’s scowl darkened. She crossed her arms over her abundant bosom and glared at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a very negative aura, Mr. Deveraux?”

“All the time,” he snapped.

“Eleanor—” Averill deftly entered the debate “—Zach’s right. You need rest. Time away from all this.” He waved his hand, encompassing the accumulation of mystical accoutrements that had taken over the house.

Eleanor held her ground. “Those are my terms, Averill. Take them or leave them.”

Professional demeanor was abandoned as he allowed his frustration to show. “There are times when I can’t decide whether you are the most obstinate woman I’ve ever met or simply crazy,” he muttered, picking up the receiver to make the arrangements.

If she was insulted, Eleanor didn’t reveal it. “That’s precisely the reason I’m going to find Anna.”

Chapter Five

Two days later, Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe burst into Eleanor’s hospital room. She was fashionably thin and sported a sleek blond hairdo that was as much a signature of her British Ascot class as her accent. Although she was in her midforties, her complexion, thanks to a benevolent British climate and the clever hand of her plastic surgeon, was as smooth and unlined as that of a girl in her twenties.

“Dear, dear Aunt Eleanor,” she greeted the older woman with a brush of powdered cheek. “I rushed over from London on the Concorde as soon as I heard! Honestly, I don’t understand how you could have let that horrid old witch get you so upset!”

“Clara doesn’t upset me, Miranda,” Eleanor said mildly.

“She gave you a heart attack.”

“It was a flutter. And Clara had nothing to do with it.”

Miranda took a cigarette from her Gucci bag and was prepared to light it when she caught sight of the No Smoking—Oxygen in Use sign posted beside Eleanor’s hospital bed.

“Those things already killed your mother,” Eleanor pointed out knowingly.

“Living like some over-the-hill party girl, squandering her inheritance from my father, instead of putting it somewhere safe such as blue-chip stocks or bonds, is what killed my mother,” Miranda said. “Why, if it weren’t for all the money she threw away on those damned gigolos, I wouldn’t be fighting to keep the wolves away from the door.”