Chasing Memories: The Forevermore Series, Book 2 (2 page)

Chapter Two

Lucas stood in the library in his grandmother’s spacious Victorian-Italianate home and stared out the window while the detective on the other end of the line droned on. Cars zipped by on the street below, and the iconic Fisherman’s Wharf sign stood proud in the distance. Down the hall, the last of their guests gathered in Grams’s parlor to pay their respects.

God.
A part of him still couldn’t believe she was gone. Countless times over the last week he’d found himself picking up the phone to give her a call. And then he’d remember finding her lying on the edge of the road.

“We’re continuing our investigation.” Detective Harte’s dry, almost whiney voice at the other end of the phone drew Lucas from his morose thoughts. “So far, there’s nothing to indicate foul play.”

No.
He didn’t believe it for a minute. “What about the woman who’d been driving the car? She has a drug problem. The media reported she’d been high on cocaine when she crashed Grams’s car.”

“Not true, Mr. Morgan. The toxicology reports for Ms. Leone came back negative. She wasn’t under the influence of any drugs or alcohol the night the accident occurred, and it’s highly unlikely she’d been driving your grandmother’s car.”

Bullshit.
“I pulled her from the driver’s seat.”

“Yes, but we have a statement from one of your grandmother’s employees who saw her get into the car that evening. Ms. Young had been at the wheel. Now, I can’t say they didn’t switch at some point in time, but it’s doubtful.”

A witness saw Grams behind the wheel that night?
What the hell?
The press had reported a witness confirmed India had been driving. “Who?”

“Who what?”

“Which employee gave you the statement?” Lucas asked.

“Let me sift through my notes.”

A brief pause followed, then the detective spoke. “Audrey Soto.”

Grams’s receptionist.
She’d been a trusted employee for years, and wouldn’t have lied. If Audrey had seen Grams at the wheel it must be true. Once again the media had made a mistake. Not surprising given what they’d said about him over the years, but if Grams had been driving, then how the hell had India Leone wound up in the driver’s seat? None of it made any sense.

“I’ll get in touch when we have more information.”

“Thank you, Detective Harte.”

Lucas disconnected the call and placed the phone back in its holder, then strode to the bar at the far end of the room and poured a generous glass of Glenlivit. He needed it after today.

Aunt Susan was hysterical during the service this morning. No surprise there. She had a tendency to be a bit of a drama queen at times. Amanda arrived late to the church. Her plane had been delayed due to the weather.

And his father… Lucas’s hand shook as he tipped the glass to his lips and took a healthy swallow. Seeing him again, after all these years… To say he’d been shocked would be an understatement. More like getting sucker punched in the gut. It left him dazed and confused, and angry as hell.
No.
He wouldn’t think about it. Couldn’t. At least Edward hadn’t come here after the service. A small mercy he could be thankful for.

Lucas paced over to the settee sitting in front of the massive stone fireplace. He lowered himself down on the plush, red velvet cushion and brought the glass to his lips once again. How many times over the years had he sat in this very spot with Grams at his side, him sipping a glass of scotch as he did now, and her, a goblet of Pinot Noir? They’d talk for hours, about everything under the sun. He missed those conversations. If only he’d found time to see her over the last few months. Instead, he’d let work stand in his way. Now…

The image of her broken body lying on the side of the road stormed into his mind. He shuddered. Now, it was too late. Never again would he see her smiling face, hear her bold, hearty laugh, or feel the warmth and security of her hugs. His gut twisted.

“Lucas?” a feminine voice called.

Grams?
He jerked his head toward the sound. A tall, slim woman with wide blue eyes and a mass of wild blonde curls stood in the open doorway. Not Grams.
Shit.
He needed to get a grip, and fast. But Lord, Amanda sounded so much like his grandmother, and for a minute he’d believed it to be her.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
“Yes?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay before Mother and I head out.”

He nodded. “I’m fine. Have the last of the guests left?”

“Yes.” She rushed over and threw her arms around him.

Lucas stiffened, then forced himself to relax. Amanda might be his cousin, but they’d never been close over the years. He hadn’t been close to Aunt Susan, either. Grams had been the glue that held them all together.

“I miss Grams. So much.”

He did too. More than he’d ever dreamed possible. His hands started to shake. He wanted to kill the son of a bitch responsible for her death. If not India Leone, then who? He wanted answers and would damned well get them.

Wrapping his arms around Amanda, he tried to comfort her the best he could. She eased away from him a few moments later, offered him a watery smile and wiped the tears from her pale face.

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

“Mr. Morgan.”

Lucas turned toward the door. Evelyn’s housekeeper, a widow in her mid-fifties, came toward them. “What is it, Mrs. Scofield?”

“You have a phone call. Mr. Brett Walker.”

“Thank you. I’ll take it in here.” The housekeeper nodded and then turned to leave and Lucas walked over to the antique mahogany desk at the far end of the room to answer.

“Business can wait.” Amanda’s voice shook. “We just buried Grams this morning, for goodness’ sakes.”

Maybe, but he wanted the distraction. “Hello, Brett. What’s going on?”

“Sorry to bother you, especially today.”

“No bother.” Having Brett at his side for the past week had kept Lucas sane. Hiring him had been one of his best business moves. Brett knew him well enough from their college days to take care of the mundane details with the Acquati property renovations in Miami Beach. Hell, Lucas would never have considered opening the second hotel without him. “Always contact me with problems. What’s wrong?”

“The interior designer we hired for the Miami property renovations walked off the job today.”

Lucas stiffened. “What?”

“He said you don’t understand his vision and you are stifling his creativity. He can’t work with someone who won’t allow him to express himself freely.”

He slammed the tumbler down on the hard surface. The impact jarred the remaining liquid and it spilled onto the gleaming wood. He swore. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. I wish it was.”

Shit.
This is what happened when you mixed business with pleasure. Why had he let Rihanna talk him into hiring her whack-job of a brother, Bartholomew, to do the renovations? Bart’s credentials had been impressive, but when push came to shove, the man had no idea how to create the high-end Miami Beach experience Lucas was looking for.
What the hell were you thinking?
He hadn’t. That was the problem.

Mark my words, Lucas. One of these days your womanizing ways are going to get you into trouble. Smarten up and start using the brain God gave you instead of letting another part of your anatomy dictate your actions.
Evelyn’s words made him laugh now. A loud, belly-deep hoot. Lord, it felt good to release some of the tension inside.

“Lucas? Are you okay?” Amanda glanced over at him, an inquiring expression on her face.

His breaths came in short sharp gasps and he doubled over, clutched his stomach and roared. Now that he’d started to laugh, he couldn’t stop. Grams’s image flashed into his mind, her short, stalky frame rooted in front of his younger self. She’d craned her neck and glared up at him, pointing and waving a finger in his face until she’d finished her tirade.

Rihanna, with her smoking-hot body and sexy purr had been a decision he’d made with that part of his anatomy you didn’t use to think. Now he was paying the price for his indiscretion. Finding a new interior designer meant starting over from scratch and would delay the scheduled renovations to the property and postpone the grand reopening planned for early next year.

“Lucas? Are you still there?” Brett asked.

He sobered. “Yes. We’ll need to find someone new immediately.”

“I’ll take care of it right away.”

“Thank you.” Lucas cut the connection and returned his attention to Amanda. “Did you have something you’d like to discuss with me?”

“I wondered if you’d learned anything more about the night of Grams’s accident.”

Amanda had been visiting friends in Australia for the last two weeks and didn’t know what had happened. There’d been little information to share when he’d finally gotten hold of her and no time to fill her in after she’d arrived this morning. “No. The woman who was in the car with Grams is having trouble remembering. Her doctor says she has retrograde amnesia.”

“What the heck is retrograde amnesia? She doesn’t remember who she is?”

Lucas shook his head. “She remembers who she is, and everything about her life up until a few weeks before the accident.”

Amanda arched up a brow. “So she can’t tell us why she was traveling with Grams the night of the accident, or how Grams suffered the internal injuries she died from?”

Internal injuries
. Three cracked ribs, a punctured lung and a ruptured spleen. His hands clenched into tight fists. He sucked in a deep breath, blew it out, and made a concerted effort to relax. “Correct.”

“It seems a little too convenient if you ask me.”

He agreed with Amanda’s assessment. It seemed more likely the woman was hiding something. But what? Better yet, why?

“So, who is this woman?”

“Her name is India Leone.”

Amanda gasped. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Why?”

“Grams hired India Leone to renovate the Young building.”

Evelyn mentioned hiring an interior designer a few months ago. She’d wanted to update the old brownstone she’d converted to house her real estate agency. Nothing had been done since she’d purchased the property twenty-five years ago.

“…that evening.”

Lucas blinked. “Huh?”

Amanda crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes. “Are you even listening to me, or is your mind still on business?”

“No. I’m listening. Go ahead.”

“What I don’t understand is why India would have been with Grams.”

He must have missed something else. What she’d said didn’t make sense. “Why? As an employee India would—”

Amanda shook her head. “That’s my point. India wasn’t her employee.”

Lucas blew out a breath. It had already been a hell of a day and he didn’t have the energy for this conversation. “But you told me Grams hired India.”

“I know. I know, but she fired her two days before the accident occurred.”

Chapter Three

India grabbed the remote control from the coffee table in the living room at her parents’ home in Leone Estates, the Sonoma, California. The vineyard had been in her father’s family for three generations. With an unsteady hand, she clicked off the television. She couldn’t bear listening to yet another reporter speculate on what happened the night of her accident.

She pounded her fists on the smooth, glossy surface of the table. Why couldn’t she remember anything? It had been a little over a week, and not one memory had returned. Not one single flicker of remembrance.

And the media… They’d been having a field day at her expense. The local San Francisco channels reported updates most days this week. On her. They rarely talked about Evelyn, sometimes didn’t even mention her name when the story ran, and how pathetic was that? Now, the news had traveled to Los Angeles.

Why she’d been shocked, she couldn’t say. She should have known they’d get wind of the story somehow. Hollywood loved a good scandal, and it was only a matter of time before some industrious reporter made the connection between India Leone and India Miller, the famous child television star and daughter of legendary actress, Margret Miller.

Her TV career ended ten years ago and she’d worked hard to overcome her troubled youth and live a normal, ordinary life. She’d succeeded until now, but the past had a way of kicking you in the teeth when you were down.

The tabloids featured images of a strung-out sixteen-year-old India being checked into rehab next to a picture of her present-day self, lying unconscious in a hospital bed with headlines in bold print claiming she’d graduated from cocaine to crack. Accompanying articles implied she’d been driving Evelyn’s car, high as a kite, and her recklessness took Evelyn’s life. Under the threat of a lawsuit, the rags ran retractions and the nurse who’d allowed the reporter to snap the pictures at the hospital had been fired, but the damage was done.

The part about her using again was an absolute lie. She’d been clean for ten years now, thank you very much, but the truth didn’t seem to matter. The truth didn’t sell papers.

Her tirade yesterday afternoon hadn’t helped. One of those industrious reporters had found out where she lived and showed up on her doorstep firing off questions regarding her involvement in Evelyn’s death. She’d been upset, of course, so instead of remaining calm, she yelled at him to leave, then slammed the door in his face. Unfortunately, a cameraman captured the exchange on tape. A hysterical India appeared on the news a few hours later fueling the speculation put forth by the tabloids she’d relapsed and was using drugs once again, hence her retreat to the vineyard.

Still, it was hard to refute what the scandal sheets said when she couldn’t remember the events leading up to the accident. While drugs hadn’t played a part in what happened, she worried something she’d done might have. The last time she’d lost her memory…
No.
This car accident had nothing to do with what happened before.

“India,” a male voice rumbled.

The sudden intrusion brought her back to the present. She jerked her head toward the sound. A tall, lanky man with chestnut-brown hair and gray eyes stood in the arched opening at the front of the room. “What are you doing here, Victor? And how did you get in?” Damn it. Victor had been another reason she’d fled to the vineyard. He’d come to see her in the hospital every day, had showed up at her apartment when she’d come home, and his phone calls… She’d stopped answering them.

He rushed over to the sofa, pulled her to her feet and dragged her into his arms. “India, I was so worried when I went to your home and you weren’t there. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

She wriggled free from his embrace. “We’re not together anymore and—” He reached out and grasped her hand in his. She pulled it away.

“Darling, we’ve been through this. I didn’t cheat on you. It was all a huge misunderstanding, and we’ve kissed and made up.”

She didn’t remember them getting back together. “No.” What she did remember was arriving at his place and him freaking out when he’d opened the door and found her on the other side, then a disheveled, half-dressed woman came sauntering out of his bedroom.

Victor stared down at her, a wealth of compassion in his gray eyes. “My client spilled hot coffee all over herself after our workout. It burned her stomach and thighs and she went into the bedroom to change. She’d stripped off her shorts and T-shirt, then realized her duffle bag, with her street clothes in it, was back in the living room where she’d dropped it after she arrived. She came out to get it thinking I was still in the kitchen. That’s when you walked in, but you know this. You apologized for believing the worst, and we’re back together now.”

Had everything happened the way Victor said?

“I’d never do anything to hurt you, India. You’ve got to believe me.”

Sincerity rang true in every word he spoke. Yet a sense of unease settled over her. Maybe disquiet or plain old nervous tension was a better way to describe the unsettled emotions swirling around inside.

If only she could remember. Then, and only then could she lay all this speculation about Victor and Evelyn to rest and find peace. Her hands started to shake again and she clasped them together to stop the shudders. “Even if what you’re saying is true—”

“Baby, I swear. Please come home with me and we’ll work through all of this together.”

Go home with him? Her heart started to race, perspiration beaded on her brow and her breaths came in short, sharp gasps. “No, Victor.” The room started to spin. “It’s over between us, and I want you to leave.”

“India, baby.” He tried to pull her into his arms.

She jerked away. “Leave, Victor. Leave now.”

“My daughter has asked you to leave, Mr. Shea.”

Thank you, Dad!

“I’ll show you out.” David gestured to the door and a reluctant Victor followed.

Alone now, India dropped down on the cool, soft leather sofa. Closing her eyes, she made a concerted effort to steady her breathing. After a while the nausea and dizziness subsided.

One thing was certain. She needed to get away from Victor, and the press. Away from the chaos and uncertainty that had become her life. If she didn’t leave San Francisco, and fast, she’d go stark raving mad.