Treasured Past

Copyright © 2000 by Linda Hill

Bella Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
First edition 2000 Naiad Press.

First Bella Books edition 2004

Second Bella Books edition 2010
Editor: Lila
Empson

Cover Designer: Bonnie
Liss

ISBN 10: 1-59493-003-1

ISBN 13:978-1-59493-003-4

For my family—

Kate, Molly, and Maggie

Acknowledgments

Thanks to the members of my family, who continue to grow and scatter throughout the country. No matter how far away, they remain close in my heart.

Special thanks and much love to Barb and Ann, who have supported me in so many different ways over the years. Life is very full, indeed.

CHAPTER ONE

I could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline curling up my spine as the auctioneer turned to his left.

“The next item up for bid.” He paused as he peered over the glasses that slipped low on the bridge of his nose. He appeared to be having trouble focusing on the sheet of paper he held in one hand. “Item six-seventeen. Early American barrister bookcase by
Stickley
. Circa nineteen-twenty.”

I tried not to smile and tip my hand. Not that anyone was paying attention, of course. I knew that. But it didn’t matter. It was all part of the game.

“Shall we start the bidding at one hundred dollars?” He snapped the eyeglasses from his nose and scanned the crowd from right to left.

I waited impatiently, not taking a breath. It was part of my strategy. Be patient. Don’t bid too quickly. Don’t let the competition know that you’re interested.

“One hundred dollars? Anyone?” He was frowning now.

Dammit
.
If I didn’t bid now, he could pull it off the block. I raised my bid card, just enough so that he could see me.

“I have one hundred. Do I have one-fifty?” I didn’t even have a chance to breathe before he was looking back at me. “I have one-fifty. Do I have two?”

Again the rush shot through me. The bidding was on. I set my jaw and raised my bid card.

“Two hundred. Do I have two-fifty?”

Back and forth. Back and forth. I could barely nod my head before he was looking at me again, waiting for my acceptance.

“Do I have five hundred?”

Dammit
.
I felt a frown pulling between my eyebrows. Who in the hell was bidding against me, anyway? I didn’t want to go past six hundred dollars. It didn’t matter that the bookcase was worth twice that amount. It was the principle. The real thrill came from picking something up for far less than it was worth. If I paid full price, somehow I never loved it once I got it home.

My nod was firm.

“Five hundred. Do I have five-fifty?”

I turned my head and followed his gaze, my eyes narrowing as I tried to find my competitor. My focus lapsed, and I almost laughed. I should have known. It was
her
Not that I knew who
she
was. Only that I always seemed to run into her at these places and that we always seemed to be interested in the same items.

I watched her closely, willing her to look my way and take my challenge. She was raising a thin arm and nodding at the auctioneer.

“Do I have six hundred?”

Gritting my teeth, I raised my bid card without removing my gaze from the woman. She looked older than usual tonight, almost dowdy. Her dark hair was pulled tight behind her head and pinned up somehow. She wore a simple, short-sleeve blouse over a peasant skirt. Even from a distance, I could see her jaw working as she contemplated whether or not to raise the bid.

If she could read the thoughts that I was throwing her way, then she knew that I was daring her to do it. She knew that I would outbid her. I nearly always did.

In one motion, she made a curt nod toward the auctioneer before her eyes were on mine, her light gray eyes throwing the challenge back my way.

“Do I have seven hundred?”

Her face softened as we continued to stare. She looked tired. Dark circles lingered under those eyes.

“Six-fifty going once.” I could hear the auctioneer’s voice above the humming in my ears.

“Six-fifty going twice.”

She was almost smiling. I was sure that I could see relief spreading over her and a smile creeping to her lips.

It’s your last chance. Bid! Bid now!

I could hear my inner voice screaming, but I ignored it.

“Sold to bidder number two-seventeen.” The sound of the gavel dropping shook me, and I glanced briefly in the direction of the noise. When I glanced back, the woman was no longer looking my way. Instead she was reviewing the list of items up for bid. I stared for a while, willing her to look my way, but got nothing in return.

I was disgusted with myself. How could I have let such a gorgeous piece like that go? And for what? I stared back at the woman again. It meant nothing to her. There was no excitement on her face, no thrill of victory. Not so much as a smile or a nod or a thank-you thrown my way.

My enthusiasm was gone. I said a few excuse-me’s and made it to the nearest exit, dumping my bid card in the trash can as I passed.

CHAPTER TWO

There were times when I wished that I’d never given up my own practice, and this was one of them. It was five-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and I should have been almost home by now, getting ready for the weekend. Instead, I was sitting behind my desk, fingers drumming on my desk pad, while I waited. And waited. I was supposed to be going to my parents’ house for some sort of fund-raising dinner for their favorite charity of the month. If I didn’t leave soon I wouldn’t have time to go home and change. And at this rate, I knew I wouldn’t have time to pick up Beth.

At four-forty-five, Donald Gold had stuck his head in my office to tell me that he needed to speak with me before the day was over. In my mind, the day had been over half an hour ago. But Donald was a partner in the firm, and I knew I had no choice but to wait.

I rubbed one hand across my brow before I pushed myself away from the mahogany desk and practically leapt from the overstuffed leather chair. Everything about my office was lavish and
over priced
, from the furniture to the law books that lined each wall to the thick carpet that now muffled the sound of my footsteps as I approached the single vertical window that adorned one corner of the office.

From the thirty-seventh floor I had a bird’s-eye view of the snarling traffic below. The expressway was a parking lot in both directions. The on-ramps to
Storrow
Drive and the Mass Pike were choked with merging vehicles.

Now I was frowning. I didn’t have to deal with the downtown traffic when I’d had my own practice. My old office had been in a relatively quiet Cambridge neighborhood, just a few miles from my home in Newton.

Now I was laughing at myself. I may have been only a few blocks from home back then, but I never left the office until late in the evening. By contrast, in my new position with Brown,
Benning
, and Gold, I never hung around much after five o’clock. The differences in my life were measurable, in more ways than one.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Donald’s voice startled me. He was pulling out a chair from the round conference table and motioning me to join him. “This takeover business with
McGrue
and Son is coming to a boil.” He rubbed tanned, speckled hands together as his eyes gleamed. “It won’t be much longer now.” I tried to ignore the glee in his voice. Tried not to think about how John
McGrue
would be feeling this weekend, knowing that the company he’d built for himself and his family for thirty years was about to be taken over by a large corporate giant.

Donald was patting the table. “Sit down. Join me.”

I did as I was told, wishing fervently that I was outside in the traffic instead.

“You used to practice family law. Is that right?” I nodded. “Twelve years.”

I was expecting him to tell me that I should go back to family law. That I was a lousy litigator and that it was clear that I didn’t give a hoot about the corporate clients that lined the pockets of our firm. I was wrong.

“You handled divorce cases?”

My internal warning lights were flashing. I nodded slowly.

“Good.” Donald wasted no time. “I want you to represent my son in his divorce.” He folded his hands together.

“With all due respect, sir —” He raised his hand in a no-argument salute.

“This isn’t an option, Kate.” He dropped his voice down and leaned forward, voice full of gravity. “I expect that the divorce might get a bit sticky, and I need this handled by someone internally. Someone that has my best interest at heart.” He was staring into my eyes, not dropping his gaze.

“With all due respect, sir” — I cleared my throat — “I was never a particularly good divorce attorney.”

“Of course you were.” His grin had a hint of evil. “You just usually found yourself representing the wrong client.”

I could feel my face grow hot. In the majority of the divorce cases I’d handled in the past, my clients were lesbians who had found themselves in the unfortunate state of holy matrimony. The fact that nearly all of their husbands were bitter, resentful, and in denial about their soon-to-be ex-wives made my job difficult and painful.