JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

She was engaged in an argument with another woman whom Zach recognized as Eleanor’s niece. Eleanor kept a crystal-framed photo of Miranda Lord, smiling up at her first husband, the dashing, unfaithful Brazilian polo player, on her desk.

Deciding he’d better intervene before the two women started pulling hair, Zach cursed and pushed himself to his feet.

Clara’s pudgy face was as crimson as today’s turban, while equally bright color stained Miranda’s cheekbones.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, from behind Miranda’s shoulder, “but you ladies are drawing a crowd.”

Miranda spun around. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

Her green eyes were flashing like emeralds and her complexion reminded him of the Devonshire cream he’d sampled the time Eleanor, intent on teaching him manners, had taken him to afternoon tea at the Biltmore.

“If you do not mind, Mr. Deveraux,” Clara said, giving him her usual glare, “we are having a discussion.”

“Sounded more like an argument to me.”

“Mr. Deveraux?” One perfectly shaped blond brow lifted. The fury faded from her bright eyes, replaced by blatant feminine interest. “You’re Aunt Eleanor’s famous Zachary?”

Miranda Lord was reminiscent of an F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine. One of those bright, shining people, like Daisy from The Great Gatsby. Zach felt a burst of masculine pride that she knew of him. “Not all that famous.”

“On the contrary.” Her lips curved, and he was reminded of a cat regarding a succulent saucer of cream. “You’re practically all Auntie talks about. And although I knew you were a change from those old fogies who usually sit on the board, I don’t know why she never mentioned how—” she allowed her eyes to sweep slowly over him “—substantial you are.”

When her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on his thighs, Zach knew he was being expertly, seductively summed up.

Her openly predatory gaze returned to his face. “I’m so sorry,” she cooed. “All this has been so upsetting that I’ve completely forgotten my manners.” She held out a slim, perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Miranda Lord. Soon to be the former Lady, or Mrs. Martin-the-bastard-Smythe.” Her silvery, breathless voice, a voice Judy Holliday had invented and Marilyn Monroe had perfected, carried an unmistakable British upper class tinge.

“I heard about your divorce.” Her hand felt soft and smooth. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t be,” Miranda insisted. “Personally, I look on divorce as not so much of an ending, as a new beginning.”

She gave him a suggestive smile before turning back to Clara. “My aunt wishes to see you. Oh, and she wants you to bring your tarot cards.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Clara huffed. Gathering up her immense shoulder bag, she waddled from the bustling cafeteria.

“Do you suppose,” Miranda suggested, “that if we threw water on Clara, she might melt?”

Zach threw back his head and laughed. A rich, booming release of sound that eased the tension. “It’s definitely worth a try.”

“Why don’t we discuss the logistics? Over coffee.” She glanced disparagingly around the room. “I’m absolutely exhausted from traveling. But I doubt the chef at this bleak establishment knows how to brew a proper pot of tea.”

“No problem. I know just the place.”

Placing a palm at her elbow, he led her out of the hospital.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the Biltmore’s La Sala lounge. The lounge, with its wealth of polished stonework, luxuriant greenery and comfortable, overstuffed sofas and armchairs, was the most gracious in the city.

“I really am so horribly worried about Aunt Eleanor,” Miranda said over porcelain cups of impeccably brewed Earl Grey tea. Her heady, exotic scent bloomed in the warmth of the room, mingling with the aroma of cedar from the fireplace.

“Join the club,” Zach said. “If it’s any consolation, there’s no sign of senile dementia.”

“You actually considered that possibility?”

“Of course. Your aunt’s a logical, pragmatic wom-an—”

“Except when it comes to her darling Anna.”

“Except when it comes to Anna,” Zach agreed. “But although she’s admittedly driven and obsessive when it comes to finding her granddaughter, it’s only been these last few months that she’s decided to try the spirit world.”

“That is so bizarre,” Miranda murmured. “I had my barrister retain a private detective when Clara moved into the house with Aunt Eleanor.” She frowned. “Did you know she’s a widow? Three times over? And that all her husbands have been wealthy?”

“I had her checked out, too.” Zach knew Eleanor would hit the roof if she found out about his investigation, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to protect her. “One of her neighbors insists Clara poisoned her husbands with her herbs.”

“How horrible!”

“It would be if it was true. But the police lieutenant I spoke with said that same neighbor calls up after ‘Crime Stoppers’ reports on the news to say she’s seen the criminal lurking around her neighborhood. He also assured me that there was no evidence of foul play in any of Clara’s husbands’ deaths.”

“Are you telling me you believe she’s innocent?”

Zach shrugged. “At the moment, I can only conclude that Clara Kowalski simply seems to have better luck with her plants than with her husbands. But I’m keeping an eye on her.”

Miranda leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. “You’ve no idea how that relieves my mind, Zachary. To know that someone besides me cares what happens to Aunt Eleanor.”

Sitting back again, she spread some frothy cream atop a scone, added a dab of dark red currant jam and took a bite. “Sublime,” she said on a soft, pleased sigh. “You have marvelous tastes in restaurants, Mr. Deveraux.”

Her lips left a red mark like a crescent moon on the scone; a dab of cream remained at the corner of her mouth. When she licked it away, Zach felt his body harden.

“Thanks.” He took a long swallow of tea and wished it was Scotch.

“From your disapproval of Auntie’s foray into the spirit realm, I take it you don’t believe in things that go bump in the night?”

“No. Although I grew up surrounded by voodoo, I’ve never bought into the spirit world.”

“Voodoo?” Miranda leaned forward, every muscle in her body taut with interest. Once again she reminded Zach of Fitzgerald’s Daisy. Her voice suggested moonlight and starshine and champagne; her eyes were dazzling jewels.

“I grew up in Louisiana,” Zach revealed. “While it’s not nearly as prevalent as it once was, voodoo still lives on in local superstitions and medicines.”

“Louisiana,” Miranda mused reflectively. Zach watched the wheels turning inside that gorgeous blond head. “But of course,” she said, clapping her hands. “That explains the accent I keep hearing. You’re a Cajun!”

She was looking at him with the overt fascination one might give to a newly discovered species of animal. “Is it true what they say about your people?”

“What do they say?”

Zach braced himself for the usual stereotypical description of fire-eating swamp dwellers who communicated in an archaic French only they could understand and who had yet to join the nineteenth century, let alone the twentieth.

“That your motto is Laissez les bons temps rouler?”

“Let the good times roll?” Zach smiled. “Absolutely.” He tried to remember the last time in his own life recently that the bons temps had roulered and came up blank.

“I’m so relieved.” Her silky voice caressed, like sensually delicate fingers, making Zach consider suggesting they walk to the lobby check-in and get a room.