longer. Like everything else in her life, pregnancy and motherhood had changed that. Grace had changed it. Now her sixth sense, if that was even what she should call it, neither rested nor would be ignored, as if the hormones raging through her body had kicked on a switch she didn’t know how to turn off.
And her extra sense warned her that there was something wrong with Griffen Monarch. Something terribly wrong.
Madeline chastised herself. Maybe she was the one with the problem as her husband and Adam Monarch, her father-in-law, insisted; maybe all those hormones were affecting her judgment, her sense of reality and balance.
She swept her gaze over Griffen, guilt pinching at her. His own mother was dead three years now, the victim of an “accidental” overdose of sleeping pills and booze. Madeline knew it couldn’t have been easy for him, growing up with a grandfather obsessed with having a female heir, a grandmother driven to the point of near madness by seven late-term miscarriages and a father who hadn’t the understanding or the patience for the needs of a young child. Then, as if those things hadn’t been enough, she had been introduced into the mix.
And now he had a sibling to deal with, a sibling who had stolen whatever attention and affection this austere household had to offer.
Poor child, Madeline thought, mustering resolve if not warmth. She would try harder. She would be a good stepmother to the boy. She would learn to care for him.
Madeline smiled and motioned him into the room. “Come in, Griffen. But quietly. Grace is sleeping.”
He nodded, and without a word to her, tiptoed into the room. He crossed to stand beside her and gazed silently at his half sister.
Madeline studied him a moment, then returned her gaze to Grace. In the past eighteen months, Madeline had come to understand just how deeply troubled a family she had married into. In fact, she had begun to fear that marrying Pierce Monarch had been another of her mistakes. He was not the man she had thought him to be—he was withdrawn, inflexible and, she had discovered, mean-spirited. So mean-spirited that she had wondered how she could not have seen it before.
Madeline frowned. She wasn’t being truthful with herself. She knew why she hadn’t seen it. She had been blinded by the Monarch name. By their wealth, their status in Chicago. She had been awed by Monarch Design and Retail, the jewelry-design firm started in 1887 by Anna and Marcus Monarch with the money they had inherited from their parents. Within a matter of only a few years, the brother and sister team had created a firm whose works rivaled Tiffany’s in beauty, quality and originality.
Madeline recalled the many times previous to meeting Pierce Monarch that she had wandered through the Michigan Avenue Monarch’s, aching to possess one of the impossibly extravagant, utterly fabulous pieces, a brooch or necklace or ring. Just one piece, she had wished. Any one at all.
Her wish had come true.
Oh, yes, she had been blinded by all that the Monarchs had and were. After all, she was a woman with no family and no pedigree, a woman Pierce had plucked off the sales floor of Marshall Field’s and transported here, to the old stone mansion in the heart of the city’s Gold Coast, to what she had thought of as a dream come true.
But the dream had the qualities of a nightmare.
She shook her head. That was over now. Here was Grace, a savior of sorts for the Monarch clan; already Madeline felt a lightening in the atmosphere of the house, a celebratory mood that affected all, even the household staff.
“Baby Grace is so pretty.”
Startled out of her thoughts, Madeline looked down at the boy, her heart melting at his awed expression. Rather than being jealous of his new sister, he seemed fascinated by her. He seemed to adore her.
How could she think such awful things about her stepson when he looked at Grace that way?
Madeline smiled. “I think so, too.”
“Grandfather Monarch says baby Grace has the gift.”
Madeline’s smile froze. “The gift?” she repeated.
He nodded. “The one the Monarch girls get. The one my great-great-grandfather Marcus saw in his sister and used to make our fortune. That’s why Grace is so special. That’s why we must always keep her close to the family.”
Although only parroting words he had obviously heard many times before, something almost fevered in his expression chilled her. “Grace is special because she is, Griffen. Not because of some…gift. Besides, just because only the girls in the family have been the artists so far doesn’t mean that someday one of the boys won’t be.” She smiled and tapped him on the end of his nose with her index finger. “Maybe you.”
“No.” He frowned and shook his head, looking adult and annoyed with her stupidity. “Grandfather says only the girls. That’s the way it’s always been. It’s why Grace is so important.”
Only the girls. Madeline shuddered and rubbed her arms. “Honey, Grace is just a baby. She might not have this…gift.”
“She has it. Grandfather says so.”
She frowned. “And your grandfather knows everything?”
“He’s the smartest person in the whole world. I’m going to be just like him when I grow up.” Griffen moved his gaze back to Grace. “Can I touch her?”
Madeline hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Only lightly. Like this.” She demonstrated, ever so gently stroking Grace’s silky dark hair.
Griffen watched carefully, then mimicked her actions. After a moment, he drew his hand away. “She’s so soft,” he said, looking up at Madeline in surprise. “How come?”
“Because she’s brand-new.” She nudged the cradle and it swayed. “When she gets a little bigger, I’ll let you hold her.”
Again he mimicked Madeline’s actions, nudging the cradle, making it swing. “How much bigger?”
“A little bigger. Newborns are very delicate. They can be easily hurt.”
For several minutes, they said nothing, just stood side by side, rocking the cradle and gazing at Grace. Then Griffen looked up at Madeline once again. “I’m going to marry her when I grow up.”
“Who, honey?”
“Baby Grace.”
Madeline laughed softly and ruffled his dark hair. “You can’t, sweetheart. She’s your sister.”
Griffen said nothing. One moment became several, then he narrowed his eyes, the intensity in them taking her aback. “I will,” he said softly, fiercely. “I will if I want.”
Madeline’s vision blurred, then cleared. She saw a dark, white forest and blood spilling across a gleaming floor. She heard a silent scream for help, and saw small arms flailing against larger ones.
A squeak of terror slipped past Madeline’s lips. She blinked, and she was once again in her daughter’s sunny nursery, once again staring into her stepson’s cold, angry eyes.
Fear choked her. She fought it off, fought off the premonition and its chilling image. Drawing herself
