Chapter Eleven
Prologue
Sawyer Abbott stared into the eyes of the beautiful young woman he’d found peering in the French doors to the library of his home, as he struggled to process what she’d just told him. “I think…” she’d said, “I mean…I believe I could be…your sister, Abigail.”
Sister. For so long the word had signified grief and regret and terrible guilt. But connecting any of those to this vibrant young woman with long dark hair and lively dark eyes was difficult. Although those physical characteristics would qualify her.
“I wasn’t snooping, I swear,” she went on hastily. “I was just hoping for a glimpse of one of you, some sign of a friendly face so that this wouldn’t be so…scary.”
He wanted to reply, but shock held back the words.
“I’m…China Grant, by the way. I mean…that’s been my name. But…maybe not who I really am.”
She shifted her weight and smiled a little nervously, pointing to a square box on the ground. It was the utilitarian kind, intended to hold office documents or personal papers for storage. “I, ah…there are some things in my box,” she said rapidly, “that make me think it could be me. I was adopted as a toddler and I always knew that, but I was told I came to my family through my mother’s doctor. They adopted my sister the same way. When our father died just a month ago, we were cleaning out the house and found these boxes with our names on them, and the things that must have belonged to us when we moved in. I know that probably sounds suspicious…”
She kept talking, and he finally raised a hand to stop her. She sighed, as though grateful. “Sorry,” she went on. “There’s just so much to say.”
His brain a muddle of confusion, his emotions taking him places he wasn’t sure he had the courage to explore, he nodded in agreement. If she was Abby, there was twenty-five years’ worth of things to say.
He pushed the French doors open. “Let’s go inside. Our company’s yearly staff meeting is under way here right now, but this room’s pretty quiet.”
She walked in, holding on to her box, and stopped in the middle of the room. “My goodness,” she whispered. He was used to the room, but the dark wood and leather and floor-to-ceiling shelves of books did have an awesome elegance.
He pointed her to the leather sofa and noticed a mild tremor in his hand. That tremor was beginning to take over his body.
“Wait right here,” he said. “I’ll get my brothers.”
She put the box down on the coffee table and asked hopefully, “Is my mother at home?” Then she added with a little apologetic inclination of her head, “I mean, if she is my mother.”
Her mother. That possibility was mind-bending after all these years. Chloe would be beside herself with shock and excitement. It was probably a good thing she wasn’t here until they could conclude whether or not this woman was Abby.
“She’s in Paris at the moment,” Sawyer replied. “Her aunt is very ill and she’s caring for her.”
“I see.” Clearly disappointed, she sat.
“Can I get you something?” he asked, touched by her quiet grace. “Coffee? Soft drink?”
“No, thank you.” She wore a white sweater and joined her hands on the knees of her white slacks. “I don’t think I could swallow. I’ll just sit right here and wait for you.”
Sawyer hurried down the hallway and through the quiet kitchen. Catering staff were handling this last day of the meeting. Through the window he could see them setting up under one of several pavilions on the lawn.
His breath came quickly as he ran upstairs, the expansion of his lungs making his broken ribs hurt. Imagining now that his near-fatal waterskiing accident had occurred less than twenty-four hours ago was hard. He should slow down, but he couldn’t. Abigail was home—maybe.
He rapped on his elder brother’s bedroom door. Killian opened it, a shushing finger to his lips. “Cordie’s still asleep.” He pulled on a blue cotton sweater, then took a good look into Sawyer’s eyes. Killian’s were blue under dark blond hair slightly disheveled by the sweater. “What?” he asked anxiously.
Sawyer pointed downstairs. “There’s a young woman in the library.” He was breathless.
“Yeah?”
“She says she thinks she’s Abby.”
“What?” Killian demanded.
Sawyer told him about the box.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. I thought the three of us should talk to her together.”
Killian went into CEO mode. He lived his life with the same methodical organization he used to lead the Abbott Mills Corporation. Sawyer headed up the family’s charitable foundation, and Campbell, their younger brother, managed the estate. “Is Campbell downstairs?” Killian tugged his sweater into place over stone-colored slacks.
“He was still sleeping when I left the boathouse.” Sawyer and his younger brother had slept there because of the crowd at the house. “I’m going for him right now.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you in the library in ten minutes.”
Sawyer rushed down the stairs and toward the back door, a hand to his screaming ribs. He was halfway across the back lawn when Campbell appeared on the trail, walking toward the house in jeans and a black Abbott Mills T-shirt. He ran a hand through his dark hair, yawning.
“Hi,” he said when he spotted Sawyer. “I heard you get up and leave, and thought that meant you were coming back with doughnuts. Where are—?” He stopped when his dark eyes settled on Sawyer’s face. “What happened?” he asked urgently.
“We have a visitor,” Sawyer replied, taking Campbell’s arm and hurrying him toward the house, “who thinks she’s Abby.”
Campbell froze in the middle of the trail, though the late-June Long Island morning was already growing warm. “What? What makes you think she’s telling the truth?”
“I have no idea if she is or not,” Sawyer admitted, drawing him forcefully along. “I just thought we should all talk to her. I left her in the library and Killian’s going to meet us there.”
“All right, all right. I’m coming.” Campbell yanked free of him. “She’s probably pocketing our first editions as we speak. Why on earth would Abby just show up after all this time? She’s got to be some larcenous babe after part of the Abbott fortune.”
Somehow, Sawyer didn’t think so. “Don’t make judgments before
