Claiming Her Billion-Dollar Birthright / Falling For His Proper Mistress. Maureen Child
and stepmother, Angela. Walter Prentice loathed scandal. He’d raised his children to believe that family business was private and that getting one’s name in the paper was not something to be desired. Now, Erica thought, ancient dirty laundry would be spread out for the world to read about and enjoy and she and her family would be the punch line to mean-spirited jokes told at cocktail parties.
Oh, God, this just couldn’t be happening.
“Iced tea for the lady,” the waiter was saying as he divested his tray of drinks, “and coffee for the gentleman. Have you decided on lunch?”
“No,” Christian said. “We need a few minutes.”
“Take your time,” the young man told him, then gave them each a smile and left them alone with their menus.
Erica didn’t even glance at hers. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be hungry again. She grabbed her tea, took a long drink to ease the dryness in her throat and then set the glass down. Keeping her voice low enough that Christian was forced to lean across the table to hear her over the discordant hum of traffic, she said, “I don’t know what this is about, or what you’re up to, but …”
“If you’ll hear me out, I’ll try to explain.”
He looked as if he wished he were anywhere but there and Erica knew exactly how he felt. She wanted nothing more than to jump up, vault over the iron railing separating the café tables from the sidewalk and disappear into the crowds. But since that wasn’t going to happen, she told herself to remain calm and listen to him. Once he was finished saying his piece, she’d simply walk away and put this hideous conversation out of her mind forever.
He threw a quick glance at the table closest to them as if to assure himself he wouldn’t be overheard, then he looked back to Erica. His dark chocolate eyes shone with determination as he said quietly, “I realize this is a shock—”
“It would be if it were true,” she allowed.
“It is true, Ms. Prentice.” His voice dropped another notch. “Would I be here if this were all some elaborate joke?”
“Maybe,” she said. “For all I know this is some sort of extortion attempt or something.”
Now those dark eyes of his fired with indignation. “I’m an attorney. I’m here at the behest of my late employer. It was his final wish that I come to you personally to deliver this news.”
Erica nodded, seeing the insult her jibe had delivered and said, “Fine. It’s not a joke. But it is a mistake. Believe me when I tell you, I’m the daughter of Walter Prentice.”
“No,” he said tightly. “You’re not. I have documentation to back me up.”
She took a breath of the cold, clear air, hoping it would brace her for what was coming. If this was a mistake, she’d find out soon enough. If it was all true, she needed to see proof. “Show me.”
He delved into his briefcase and handed her a smaller manila envelope than the one he’d shown her earlier at her office. Warily, she took it, her fingers barely touching it, as if she half expected the thing to blow up in her hands. But it didn’t and she opened the clasp and slid free the three sheets of paper inside.
The first document was a letter. Written to Don Jarrod and signed by … Erica’s mother. Her heart lodged in her throat as she stared at the elegant handwriting. Her mother had died in childbirth, so Erica had always felt cheated out of a relationship with the woman her brothers remembered so clearly. Danielle Prentice had kept a journal though, one that had been passed on to Erica when she was sixteen. She’d spent hours reading those pages, getting to know the mother she’d never known. So she recognized that beautiful, familiar handwriting and it was almost as if her mother were there with them at the table.
The note was brief, but Erica felt the grief in the words written there.
My dear Don,
I wanted you to know that I don’t regret our time together. Though what we shared was never meant to last, I will always remember you with affection. That said, you must see that you can never acknowledge our child. Walter has forgiven me and has promised to love this child as he has our sons. And so I ask that you stay away and let us rebuild our lives. It’s best for all of us.
Love,
Danielle
Shock faded into stunned, reluctant acceptance as Erica’s eyes misted over with tears. Not once in her journals had Danielle ever even hinted at the affair she had had with Don Jarrod. Yet these few, simple words were impossible to deny even as the page before her blurred and she blinked frantically to clear her vision. Slowly she traced the tip of one finger across the faded ink, as if she could actually touch her mother. Though a ball of ice had settled in the pit of her stomach, she realized that this letter explained so much.
Walter had never been an overly affectionate father, even with Erica’s older brothers. But with her, Walter had been even more … distant. Now at least, she knew why. She wasn’t his child. She was, instead, a constant reminder of his wife’s infidelity. Oh, God.
Christian was sitting there across from her and not speaking, and for that she was grateful. If he tried to say something kind or sweet or sympathetic, she’d lose what little control she was desperately clinging to.
She lifted her gaze to look at him and said in a last-ditch attempt to avoid the inevitable, “How do I know my mother actually wrote this letter? For all I know you’ve had it forged for your own reasons.”
“And what could those be?” Christian asked. “What possible reason could the Jarrod family have for lying about this?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted as she frantically tried to come up with something, anything that might explain all of this away. Her family wasn’t a close one, but they were all she had. If she accepted this as truth, wouldn’t that mean she would lose them all?
“Look at the other two papers,” he urged, taking a sip of his coffee.
She didn’t want to, but didn’t know how to avoid it. Pretending this day had never happened, that Christian Hanford had never appeared at her office, wouldn’t work. Hiding her head in the sand wouldn’t change anything. If this were actually true, then she had to know. And if it were all some elaborate lie, then she had to know that, too.
Nodding to herself, she looked at the next paper and froze in place. It was a letter from her father to Donald Jarrod and it managed, in a few short lines, to completely disintegrate the last of her doubts.
Jarrod,
My wife is dead, delivering your daughter. This letter is as close as you’ll ever get to the child, make no mistake. If you try to get around me, I’ll see to it that you regret it.
Walter Prentice
“Oh, my God.” Erica slumped against her chair and looked at Christian.
“I’m sorry this is so hard.” His voice was without inflection, but she thought she caught the sheen of sincerity in his dark brown eyes. Still, his being sorry didn’t change anything.
“I don’t even know what to say,” she whispered, staring at her father’s handwriting. She’d have known that scrawl anywhere. She knew it was genuine because as her older brothers had long said, what forger could ever reproduce such hideous writing?
God. Her brothers.
Half brothers.
Did they all know? Had they been lying to her, too, all these years? Was nothing in her life what she’d thought it was? If she wasn’t Erica Prentice, then just who was she?
“Ms. Prentice … Erica,” Christian said, “I know you’re having a hard time with this.”
“I don’t think you could have the slightest idea,” she told him.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But I do know that your biological father regretted never