had the rounded tones and patrician air that clenched every muscle in Chase’s body, sending it onto high alert. She even had the walk down pat, he realized, watching her hips sway beneath that tight black skirt, her precise footsteps in killer heels eating up the hall. Part hypnotic, part infuriating, that arrogant walk told him she knew exactly where his eyes were focused. He’d bet a thousand bucks a smug smile was plastered all over that beautiful face, too.
With hands on his hips he glared at her back until she turned the corner and finally disappeared.
She hadn’t declared her innocence or answered his questions. And now he had a name—Partridge. Which meant this was far from over.
Two
Chase checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes then stared out into the dark, leafy suburban street, shifting restlessly in the luxurious leather seat of his rental car as his thoughts tossed.
Vanessa Partridge. His gaze honed in on the apartment building three doors down, at the lights behind the drawn curtains on the second floor.
At first he’d thought there was something in that manuscript, something incriminating she wanted to remain private. But apart from a stack of hand-written notes and a bunch of chapters running low on toner, he’d come up empty.
He’d stared at those neat pages on his desk for so long he could’ve burned a hole in them. And eventually he returned to his original accusation—she was a Waverly plant.
He buttoned up his coat then swung open the car door, wincing as an unseasonably cold October breeze rushed in. A thousand questions burned, their missing endings gnawing away at him. Despite the information Chase had charmed out of Waverly’s staff, then had followed up online, nothing could fill in the gaps better than the woman herself. Yes, her story about her sister and Ann Richardson had proven correct, but the rest was woefully deficient…and he hated the imperfection those holes wrought.
Why would Vanessa Partridge resort to shill bidding? And why would the daughter of two highly respected Washington lawyers have such a blatant disregard for the law?
Chase shoved his hands in his pockets. If she was as innocent as she claimed, how could she afford to bid on that manuscript, given her single-parent status and teacher’s salary? Daddy’s money? So why not use that money for a house, a flashy car, a nanny?
Those questions had dogged his thoughts after he’d observed her leaving the nursery school where she worked, dressed in jeans and a battered bomber jacket, hair tied in a simple ponytail. He’d watched in fascination as she went through what was obviously the familiar process of carrying two babies outside, strapping them into her old BMW, throwing her bags into the trunk, then driving fifteen minutes to a double-story apartment block. One of many that lined an average street in the lower end of Silver Spring, Maryland.
Everything about Vanessa Partridge screamed respectability, from her old-money Washington-lawyer parents, to her centuries-old bloodline. But she also baffled him. Why would someone turn her back on a promising career in law, one where she could fall into the family practice straight after her bar exam? When he’d read that particular bit of information he’d known that a trip to Maryland was in the cards. He dealt in speculation every single waking moment: it’s what he did, first as the new guy at Rushford Investments, then as one of McCoy Jameson’s most sought-after portfolio managers. These days, he worked for himself and a few choice investors. He had a talent for making money and he’d made an obscene amount of it over the years, even through the turbulent time following the crash. He was pretty much free to please himself.
And right now, what pleased him was figuring out the puzzle that was Vanessa Partridge because everything about her just didn’t add up.
He stared up at the drawn curtains of Vanessa’s apartment.
If it somehow turned out he was wrong, he owed her an apology. Chase Harrington always admitted his mistakes. But the only way he’d get to the truth was by confronting her.
No, not confronting. He’d done that back in New York and look what had happened—she’d been all up in his face and then, wham! That moment when he’d suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to kiss her.
His breath puffed out, clouding in the cool night air. Dammit. She was a Perfect in every sense of the word, and not just by the standards of his narrow-minded hometown. She had the breeding, the money, the attitude…the looks. That skin, the hair. The mouth—that beautifully shaped, top-heavy mouth, coupled with those wide green eyes…
With a muffled curse he slammed his car door closed. Get a grip, Chase. He’d fought hard to keep his past in the past, even though it had molded him into the man he was today, guiding his decisions so he could get as far away as possible from his previous life. Far away from people like Vanessa Partridge.
She’d piqued his curiosity and raised too many flags. If she was a shill bidder, he had to report her.
And if she wasn’t?
His mind flashed back to earlier, when he’d watched her struggle to get her two children into the car.
Until he knew what her story was and how she was connected to his manuscript, he needed a cool head. Angry meant emotional, and that had the potential for mistakes. He’d learned that lesson from a very early age.
* * *
“Good girl, Heather. You ate all your dinner!” Vanessa gently wiped the drooly, smiling mouth of her eighteen-month-old daughter before turning to the little girl’s twin, who sat beside her in an identical high chair. “And how are you doing, Erin? Still painting?”
The chocolate-curled baby looked up from her pumpkin-smeared tray to grin. “Pain!” Then she slowly stuck her fingers in her mouth, her eyes twinkling in mischief.
Vanessa laughed, swiping away a fleck of food in the toddler’s hair. “That’s some mighty fine artwork you’ve got there. Edible, too. How avant-garde of you.”
Wanting in on the conversation, Heather clapped her hands and squealed, prompting her sister to follow suit. Pumpkin splattered Vanessa’s shirt, leaving orange smears on dark blue. Vanessa quickly wiped it off with a smile, even as her insides cramped with bittersweet regret.
She’d been back home for two days, back to her normal life and her job and still she couldn’t shake the failure of her New York trip.
I am very disappointed in you, Vanessa. If she closed her eyes, that imaginary voice even sounded like her father’s.
She cupped Heather’s warm cheek with her palm, her mouth grim.
Yes, she had friends, her girls, a job she loved. All those had satisfied her for nearly two years. A few times she’d thought of calling her parents, even apologizing, but she quickly nixed that idea. She had nothing to apologize for.
Then she’d heard about the auction and it was as if she’d been hit by a renewed purpose. Something had taken hold of her conscience and wouldn’t let go, a righteous emotion that had amplified day by day, night by night, until two weeks ago. She’d thought about it, analyzed it to death before allowing herself to hope, to plan, to follow up. Dylan may have left her—left her babies—with nothing to remember him by, but she was determined to right that wrong.
She’d failed.
Obviously,
