Pull Of The Moon. Sylvie Kurtz
and made her want to cry.
“It’s time for you to leave now.” Nick straightened, yawning a canyon of space between them, and Valerie ran her hands over her arms to keep warm.
Heavy boots tromped on the floor, heading their way. A stout man with a white lion’s mane poking out from a well-worn khaki fishing hat stepped into the hall. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Took me a while, but I’ve got the gentleman under control like you asked. He’s in the car with the doors locked.” He grinned, showing off square, white teeth. “Chomp is watching over him. He won’t go anywhere he ain’t supposed to go.”
“Thanks, Lionel.”
“My pleasure.” Lionel doffed his fishing hat and swept it in front of him, showing Valerie the way to the front door. “I’ll escort you out now, ma’am. Chomp, he don’t take too kindly to strangers.”
She pointed toward the library. “My things.”
Nick nodded his permission, and she held her breath until she reached the library. She shook her head as if the simple gesture could release her from the grip of Nick’s presence still clinging to her skin. The way he’d short-cir-cuited her usually ordered thinking wasn’t normal. Especially when it came to work.
You only have to deal with him for a couple of days, Valerie. And she’d be too busy with all the details; she’d forget he was even around.
She slipped Valentina’s photograph out of her portfolio, took one last look at the woman who could be her twin and tucked it back into Rita’s agenda. As sick as she was, Rita would need the comfort of her daughter’s picture. “Definitely spooky, though.”
But Valerie Grace Zea was born on May 13, not October 31. She was six months older than Valentina. She owned a baby album filled with pictures that featured Marissa and Ludlow Zea cradling her in the home where she’d spent all of her life, until four years ago when she’d bought her own little shoe box of a house just a mile from her parents’.
Her memory was crowded with snapshots of her life in Florida. No mansion. No fog-shrouded landscape. No Rita Meadows.
A creak made her look up and sweep the room with a glance.
Nothing there to warrant the itch between her shoulder blades, but she couldn’t help trying to roll away the feeling of being watched. Portfolio clutched to her chest, she hurried back into the hall where Nick’s long shadow loomed, waiting for her.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” She adjusted her purse over her shoulder and yearned for a cup of coffee. “To look through the archives.”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven it is.” She slanted her head and gave him her most serious look. “I’ll do a good job.”
His mouth flattened. “Valentina needs to be buried, not revived.”
“To bury her, you have to find her. Someone out there knows where she is, and airing those segments could bring you the information you need for closure.”
“Don’t you think that if anyone knew where she was, they’d have said something by now? Claiming the one-million-dollar reward is much easier than pretending to be a dead child all grown-up.”
“So we’re back to that, huh?” Actions spoke more clearly than words. In the end, he’d see she was true to her word.
His voice, low and rough, rumbled with warning. “Secrets are called that for a reason, Val. And sometimes people want to keep their secrets buried.”
Oh, yeah? What’s yours? “I’m not her. But I’m not one of your pretenders, either. I’m just a woman trying to do her job.” Why was it so important that he believe her?
A terrifying flicker of a smile sprang to his lips. “Make sure that’s all you do.”
NICK STOOD TO ONE SIDE of the window, surveying the scene below him. Valerie walked with both a dancer’s grace and a sprinter’s efficiency. Although she couldn’t see him standing in the shadows of the third-floor tower room, she paused before entering the car and looked up. Not at Lionel and the barely controlled Doberman the caretaker held by the studded collar on the doorstep. But at him. Their gazes met across the barrier of glass and shadows, and she seemed to shiver before she disappeared into the safety of the car.
Good. She should be afraid. Fear would keep her from following through on her plan to blind Rita with her likeness to Valentina.
He wouldn’t be as easy to fool.
He’d already paid a hefty price for his mistake. He picked up the floppy-eared dog that had been Valentina’s favorite and buried his nose in the fur that had long ago lost its little-girl smell. In its place came the remembered sweet-and-spicy ginger scent Valerie wore. He hurled the dog back to the storage chest and scraped a hand over his face. His weakness had cost him his best friend and the only person who’d understood him.
Protecting Rita, protecting Valentina’s memory were the most important things in his life. A man had to take care of his own.
He followed the track of the car down the driveway until the fog devoured it. This woman was good. Better than the rest, judging by the instant connection she’d made with Rita.
It’s her, Nicolas. I can feel it. Rita’s words echoed in his empty soul. She’d been ready to open her arms, her home and her heart to the charlatan. That’s why she didn’t come before. She doesn’t know.
He couldn’t bear the toll the inevitable pain would cost Rita. It’s not her, Rita. It can’t be.
His gaze zoomed in on the golden pine of the floor, and that horrible night sucked him back into its darkness. Rita had had the floor sanded and refinished, but Nick could still see the dark stain spreading.
The blood, he’d never stop seeing all that blood.
Or her eyes. Those half-closed, dead eyes.
His fault that she was gone.
Yet there was something about Valerie that seemed to reach back too far to be faked. His chin dropped to his chest and his eyes closed. How could she possibly have learned the quirks that were Valentina’s? Little things like the half dimple that creased her right cheek when she smiled. The way her fingers played unconsciously with the hem of her blazer when she was nervous. How many sweaters had Valentina unraveled with that nasty habit? The way she tilted her head and looked at him with implicit trust. He’d never been able to scare Valentina, except with ghost stories, and then she’d looped her arms around his neck, pressed her cheek against his. Are they gone, Nick? Are the ghosts gone?
And he really didn’t like the way looking at her kicked up his blood.
Could Rita be right? Could Valentina have finally come home? Or was Valerie pulling the ultimate con by pretending she wasn’t Valentina, but seeding all the right clues?
No, Valentina was dead. He had proof—the DNA, the blanket, the deathbed confession of Rita’s former chauffeur. For crying out loud, there was even a guy in prison, serving time for the kidnapping.
And the blood. All that blood.
He rubbed his eyes to blot out the sight.
Damn Valerie for showing up.
And damn him for doubting what his own eyes showed him.
Nick stalked away from the window and marched to Rita’s office. He ripped the phone from the cradle and dialed the P.I. he had on retainer.
Joe Aveni might as well have called himself Joe Average. Brown hair, brown eyes in an unmemorable face. Under the layer of fat he cultivated, he hid hard muscles he exercised five days a week. He dressed forgettably and appeared no threat to either males or females. All of which rendered him incredibly efficient at cajoling information from even the most unwilling of sources. No would-be Valentina had ever been able to stand up to his scrutiny.