Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (8 page)

If she was going to win Rhys’s trust, she needed to know everything she could about the man.

If Rhys didn’t have the baby in Estrade, if he’d left her with friends or relatives or, God forbid, had her adopted, they had to have some clue about where else to look.

By the time Albert finished, Whitney learned that Rhys and Morgan—if the girl named Isabelle was Morgan, which Whitney believed—had lived like nomads, moving from place to place, operating a small-time drug business. She learned Morgan was a recreational-drug user, but Rhys, as Albert so aptly put it, was “into the stuff big time.”

Albert went on, telling her that even though the drug business was good, the profits went to support Gannon’s habit. When money got tight, he found a couple of johns and made money pimping his girlfriend.

Whitney stifled the ache in her chest. She’d known Morgan lived on the streets from the last time she’d found her, but the rest was too terrible to imagine. But apparently, to Whitney’s relief, when Morgan became pregnant, she stopped using drugs and alcohol altogether. And according to Albert’s source, Morgan desperately wanted to live a normal life and pleaded with Rhys to change his life, too. When he refused, she left him and disappeared.

“I haven’t been able to pick up her trail from that point on,” Albert said. “Though she must’ve gotten in touch with him or he wouldn’t have known where to get the baby.”

Unable to speak around the lump in her throat, Whitney barely heard Albert’s voice droning in the background. Hearing descriptions of Morgan’s life with Rhys sickened her, reminded her how she’d let her little sister down. God help her, she was as much to blame as her parents. And she could never make up for it.

“Thanks, Albert,” she said. “You’ve done enough for now.” She had other questions, but first needed to sort out what she knew for sure from what she only thought she knew.

Albert had located Rhys because he’d left a forwarding address to General Delivery in Estrade. If Albert had found him, why couldn’t Morgan have found him, too? Had Morgan even tried to get her baby back? And why had she kept the child a secret from Whitney until right before she died?

Seeing the headlights of a car, Whitney peeked through the curtains. A forest-green Jeep drove up near where Gretta and Johnny stood with their grandchild. They watched expectantly as the car came to a stop, and when the door opened, the child rushed headlong into the arms of…Rhys Gannon?

What on earth?
Why is he here?
Fear raced through Whitney. Had he found her out? Or was he just paying Gretta and Johnny a visit? They were acquaintances, after all.

Rhys swung the child around, and as he did, the hood on the little sweatshirt fell back, exposing a profusion of golden curls.

Whitney’s adrenaline surged. She pressed her forehead against the window, straining to see more.

Rhys’s whole face lit up. His mouth split in an affectionate smile as they all talked back and forth. And then, with the little girl still in his arms, Rhys leaned over and hugged both Gretta and Johnny.

“Oh…my…God.” Whitney mouthed as the phone slipped from her fingers and she watched in stunned silence the scene playing out before her.

“Whitney, you there? Hello? Whitney? Hellloo?”

Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t speak and she couldn’t hear over the thundering in her ears as she watched Rhys Gannon gently place the little girl in a car seat in the back of the Jeep. He strapped her in, then kissed the top of her head.

Before Whitney could gather her wits, Rhys shut the back door, climbed into the Jeep and drove off.

“Whitney?” Albert continued. “You there? Whitney?”

“CAN I HELP?” Whitney fought the urge to fire off a multitude of questions. It took every ounce of her willpower to blunt the excitement of her discovery.

Both Gretta and Johnny waved her off. “Nope,” Johnny said. “Guests aren’t allowed to help. You just set yourself somewhere and relax till dinner’s ready. Cocktails will be in the parlor.”

Whitney stared at her host. No wonder Johnny had looked so familiar. It was obvious now. How in the world had she missed it?

If the little girl was Gretta and Johnny’s granddaughter, then Rhys was their son. She should’ve noticed it early on, great observer of people that she was.

Both men were tall, with similar builds, although Johnny didn’t possess Rhys’s muscularity. And deep lines had settled around Johnny’s mouth and eyes. Oddly, they enhanced his strong features and showed he was a happy man. She could see Rhys in another thirty years aging in much the same manner.

In an instant the pieces had fallen into place. And then she had even more questions. Her head began to throb as she tried to sort it all out.

How could such lovely people as Gretta and Johnny have a son with Rhys’s reputation? How could parents of their caliber have an offspring who went so bad? God, she would’ve given her inheritance for such caring parents, and to think that Rhys had done anything hurtful to them was horrifying beyond belief. Her heart went out to them.

But the most important thing was that she’d found her niece. It was, in fact, the
only
thing that mattered.

The thought of SaraJane sent another swift jolt of excitement coursing through her. She’d actually found her niece! The beautiful little girl she’d been watching was SaraJane. Morgan’s child. Whitney’s own flesh and blood.

Tears sprang to her eyes and reeling from her discovery, Whitney headed for the sitting room and sat in one of the two matching paisley chairs, sinking deep into the down-filled cushion.
Right here under my nose the whole time.
It boggled her mind.

Just then Johnny entered the room with a man and woman at his side. “Whitney Sheffield, Mr. and Mrs. Blaelow,” Johnny announced.

“Carl and Helen,” the portly man said as Whitney stood up to shake hands. “Just call us Carl and Helen.” The man’s grin spread all over his face. Whitney felt an instant letdown, realizing she couldn’t ask questions with strangers in the room.

A dull ache began to throb behind her eyes and at the base of her skull. She rubbed the back of her head, still thinking about the complexities of this new situation.

“Nice to meet you both,” she responded numbly, and received a dead-fish handshake from Helen and a pumper from Carl.

Johnny excused himself for a moment, and she vaguely heard Carl rattling on about his and Helen’s trip.

“Chardonnay?” Johnny entered wielding a large tray of hors d’oeuvres and wine, which he placed on the library table. “Or a merlot?”

“Actually, I think I need to take a couple of aspirin,” she said, rising. “Maybe I’ll skip the appetizers and rest for a bit. I’ll come back later for dinner.”

Climbing the stairs, she knew it wasn’t likely she could rest. There were too many questions bombarding her.

She needed answers. Lots of answers. Learning that Gretta and Johnny were Rhys’s parents had thrown her for a loop. If Rhys was such an abominable person, why hadn’t Gretta and Johnny tried to get custody of SaraJane?

If he was the degenerate Morgan made him out to be, why didn’t Gretta and Johnny see it? Had he fooled everyone?

Mercifully, the aspirin kicked in and she dropped into a deep sleep not long after her head hit the pillow. The next thing she heard was a soft rapping on her door, and when she finally pried her eyes open, she saw moonlight slanting through the lace curtains.

Groggy, she rolled off the bed and shuffled to the door without turning on the lamp. Gretta stood in the dimly lit hallway, a silver dinner tray in her hands.

“When you didn’t come back, we figured you needed the rest, but you can’t go without dinner entirely.”

Whitney opened the door wide, inviting her in. “What time is it?” She stretched her arms over her head. “Did I sleep long?”

“It’s nine.” Gretta set the tray on the table beside the bay window and then, reaching up, turned on the Tiffany-style floor lamp next to it. The light shone through the soft rose-and-green glass shade. Removing the covers from the plates of food, Gretta urged Whitney to sit. “Feeling better?”

Whitney rubbed her temples with two fingers. “Yes, the headache’s gone.” She was thankful for that and also for the food Gretta had brought up. “I’m starving and it smells wonderful, Gretta. Thank you. I’m sorry I missed dinner. I was looking forward to it.”

“There’ll be other nights and other dinners,” Gretta said matter-of-factly, taking the plates from the tray as she spoke. “The important thing is that you’re feeling better. Besides, you didn’t miss anything since the food’s right here.” She sighed. “And, well, let’s just say you didn’t miss any stimulating conversation.”

Whitney watched Gretta shift the table arrangement to accommodate the plates. Her eyes, Whitney noticed, were the same cobalt blue as Rhys’s and rimmed with the same dark lashes.

Gretta sent Whitney a concerned look and gently touched her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay, dear? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine. Really.” Whitney motioned for Gretta to sit across from her. “Just tired, I guess.” She glanced from her food to Gretta, observing the resemblance to Rhys and trying to see a bit of SaraJane there.

If Rhys was thirty-five or thereabouts, Gretta had to be at the least…fifty-five, but she did appear a bit older. Even so, she was a handsome woman, and it was evident where Rhys got his good looks.

“I—I saw Rhys pick up your granddaughter tonight.”

Gretta beamed at the mention of the child and nodded.

“He drops her off in the morning and comes to get her after he closes the shop. It works out well.”

“I was…surprised to see him.” She kept her eyes on her food. “When he told me about the inn, he didn’t mention your, uh, relationship.”

Gretta frowned briefly, then her eyes filled with tenderness. “Well, I can understand that. He’s had a lot on his mind. Especially since—” She stopped short. “Well, he’s a bit guarded because he’s been through so many changes in the past year, and he’s trying very hard to hold things together.”

A thin tight smile flitted across Gretta’s face, as if she’d said too much, especially to someone she barely knew.

“Your granddaughter is beautiful,” Whitney said, desperate for more information.

Gretta rose from her chair. “SaraJane is the light of our lives. And Rhys adores her.”

“That’s easy to see. She’s a lucky little girl to have grandparents like you and Johnny to take care of her. It’s hard when parents work.” Whitney hoped she’d stay and talk about SaraJane or Rhys, or both.

But the older woman started for the door. “Unfortunately Rhys doesn’t have any other option. SaraJane’s mother abandoned her when she was an infant.” She raised her chin. “But we all try very hard to make up for it. We give her all the love we can.”

A hard knot formed in Whitney’s stomach. Gretta believed SaraJane was abandoned by her mother? How absurd. Morgan’s very last thoughts, her last words, concerned her daughter.

“Abandoned? Are you sure?” Whitney blurted.

The woman’s expression questioned Whitney’s meaning.

“I mean, it’s hard to believe anyone could abandon a helpless child.”

Gretta reached for the doorknob. Thoughtful, she rubbed the brass with her thumb, then eased open the door. “It is, isn’t it?” She sighed deeply and brought her gaze to Whitney’s. “That’s something I’ll never understand.”

“Oh, don’t go.” Whitney stood. “Have some tea?”

Gretta’s expression warmed at the suggestion. “Thank you, dear. I’d love to, but I have to finish preparations for morning.” She indicated that Whitney should sit. “You just enjoy your meal—then try to get some more rest. You really don’t look well.”

Damn tough to do, Whitney thought dejectedly after Gretta left. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, she stabbed a spinach leaf in the center of the stoneware salad bowl with her fork. Rhys had lied to them about SaraJane’s mother abandoning her.

But then, what else could he say without incriminating himself? He’d deceived his own parents to get them to do what he wanted. It was despicable. And he was setting them up for a world of hurt. How could he do that to them?

But wasn’t she about to do the same? She couldn’t take custody of SaraJane and not hurt them in the process. It was obvious, even if she told them about Rhys, that they wouldn’t believe it. What parent would?

Gretta had alluded to changes in Rhys’s life in the past year. She’d said he was trying to hold things together. But why? What did it all mean?

Was it possible that Rhys had undergone some life-changing metamorphosis, and that he’d actually come here with SaraJane to start a new life? Could the man Morgan had described truly change? If so, how would it affect her own bid to gain custody?

The image of Rhys with SaraJane in his arms flashed in Whitney’s head. A loving father who, as Gretta said, considered his daughter the light of his life.

Even as Whitney undressed and went to bed, she couldn’t stop thinking of Rhys as he’d looked holding SaraJane. She snuggled under the puffy down-filled comforter, more confused than she’d been in a long time, again welcoming the respite of sleep.

Throughout the night, the dream came in fits and starts, like a photographic collage. Rhys was there, and then Whitney was there and in his arms, and they whirled in slow motion, body to body, gaze to gaze, his face so close, his breath so hot. Teasing, tantalizing, lips closer and closer until his full sensuous mouth connected with hers, and she could feel his hands as they caressed, explored, touching her everywhere. A deep ache of desire throbbed inside, and she begged him to make love to her.

Whitney bolted upright, her heart pounding, her skin feverish and damp with sweat. Dazed, she fought to clear her head.

Rhys Gannon was the man who’d fathered her sister’s child, then kidnapped her baby, leaving Morgan sick and alone. Ultimately, that was how Morgan had died. Alone. Without the man she’d once loved. Without her family. Without her child.

A murderer. A kidnapper. How could she think of Rhys in any other way? Even in her dreams.

A thud, like the sound of a car door, brought her fully awake. Oh, jeez. Was it morning already?

She darted from the bed to the window, hoping it was Rhys and SaraJane. She couldn’t wait to talk to her niece and had already decided not to go to the shop until later, but she needed to do it without arousing suspicion.

She peered outside. Her stomach dropped to her toes.
Rhys.

She wouldn’t approach him now. Instead, she’d wait till he left, then call the shop to let him know she had a few things to do and that she’d be there in an hour or so.

The landline phone rang, jarring her. Who’d call her so early? Who even knew she was here? Finally, reluctantly, she plucked the receiver from the cradle.

“Still asleep?” Rhys’s husky voice was unmistakable.

“No.” And why was he calling? Had Gretta told him about their conversation last night? “Is something wrong?”

“Nope,” he answered cheerfully. “I’m at the inn, so I was just checking to see if you wanted to hitch a ride with me—since we’re going to the same place and all.” A moment of silence fell before he added, “And we’re both coming back to the same place.”

Her heart tripped involuntarily at his thoughtfulness. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I have a couple of things to do before I can get there this morning.” It wasn’t a total lie. She did have things to do. “I’ll be there in an hour, how’s that?”

“Works for me.” Whitney heard a child’s giggle in the background. “Wait just a second, angel,” she heard Rhys say softly away from the receiver. She clutched the phone, listening.

“Here, punkin face, let me help you get that off.” Another pause. “Sorry, Whitney. Yeah, whenever is fine. Just thought I’d check.”

She thanked him again for offering and said she’d see him later. When she heard the car pull away, she quickly showered, threw on a pair of jeans and a white cotton T-shirt with a denim shirt over it and dashed downstairs.

Gretta was in the kitchen by the butcher-block island, intent on arranging hot scones in baskets lined with floral-printed linen napkins. Whitney glanced around, searching for SaraJane. Where was she?

Her stomach cramped, her anxiety building. She couldn’t simply start asking questions about the child. Gretta was too smart not to suspect something.

She sauntered toward Gretta. This was a working kitchen, but cozy, the kind photographed for country-home-decorating magazines. Copper pots and pans dangled from hooks overhead, cookbooks lined the shelves next to the refrigerator, and several crockery pitchers with an assortment of wooden spoons and wire whips were strategically placed near the white enameled stove.

The scents of homemade bread and fresh-brewed coffee completed the scene. “Good morning,” Gretta said, handing Whitney two brimming baskets.