Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (2 page)

Emily
handed him a hammer and he worked the claw against the metal braces, loosening them one at a time. One, two, three. His heart soared. He thought of the Roman legions, the ships of ancient Egypt. Antony and Cleopatra at the helm, then the lovers being driven into a tomb.

He could feel antiquity at his fingertips as the last brace came loose. He handed the brace and the hammer to
Emily, and lifted the wooden lid.

The container was filled with Styrofoam peanuts
as was usual. Emily showed him a plastic bag she was holding open. He nodded and began to scoop the peanuts into the bag. One handful. Two. Three. When he’d emptied half the crate, he stopped.

The dagger should
have been in the middle of the crate encased in bubble wrap for additional protection. He shot a frown of concern to George. His brow was always furrowed but just now, the creases were deeper.

Perhaps the packers weren’t exact. The dagger must be somewhere. He scooped out more peanuts. More. More. He could see the bottom of the box. Surely he hadn’t missed it.

Emily handed the peanut bag to Toby and began frantically searching her clipboard. “The bill of lading is right here,” she whispered, showing it to Sir Neville.

He scanned it. Everything looked intact.

And then his heart stopped as he realized what had happened. The troubled excavation, the rivals, the publicity. Spasms of confusion and panic and embarrassment reverberated up his legs, into his torso, through his chest.

Merciful heavens, w
as he having a heart attack?

The crowd began to murmur as h
e reached for the side of the box to steady himself. He gasped for air.

George rushed to his side.
“Sir, are you all right?”

Sir Neville reached out for
the man’s hand and whispered in his ear. “Call Scotland Yard. The dagger has been stolen.”

George’s eyes went wide with shock, but he knew it was true. “Take care of the crowd,” he said to
Emily and began to lead Sir Neville out of the room.

She nodded and turned to the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it seems there’s been a slight mishap.”

As
Emily’s voice rang in Sir Neville’s ears and his head spun wildly with bewildered dismay, another thought stuck him.

By the time they had crossed the Great Court he knew, in addition to the police, he
had to make another call to an old friend. To his friend’s son, actually.

Wade Parker.

Miranda Steele leaned against the boards of the high-domed skating rink in Marietta, Georgia, watching a young fourteen-year-old girl go round and round on the ice, her skates making measured slicing noises.

T
he girl wore a simple lime green skirt over a black leotard and had her long dark hair—which was now streaked with golden highlights—pulled back in a ponytail. With one leg extended behind her, she glided along gracefully, her breath soft wisps in the cold air.

Wendy Van Aarle had come a
long way since Miranda had first met her. But then so had she. And though she shivered in her lightweight coat and work clothes, Miranda couldn’t suppress the warm glow in her heart as she overheard remarks of approval from some of the parents who were watching. Why shouldn’t she be proud?

She’d once thought Wendy was her daughter.

Movement caught her eye and Miranda turned and smiled at the figure coming toward her from the spot along the rail where she’d been shouting coaching advice.

Another girl of the same age, dressed in solid black skinny jeans
, ankle-high boots and a dark suede jacket. Her thick, almost black hair hung in soft waves to her shoulders, and she had a teal angora scarf around her neck that brought out the color of her eyes.

She walked with a slight limp from her injury eight months ago. Wounds she’d received the same time Miranda got hers. They were both on the tail end of recovery. Physically anyway.

As she neared, Miranda’s heart went from a warm glow to a tight clench—an almost painful mixture of joy and anxiety—as the pretty young girl who was really her daughter reached her side.

“Hello, Mother.” She smiled
back and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“It’s good to see you, Mackenzie.” Miranda let herself embrace the girl a moment, then let her go. It had been over eight months
since she’d discovered this girl was her daughter—almost as long as she’d carried her. But the fact that she’d found her after searching for thirteen years still made her head spin. And their relationship was still…gelling.

“I’m so glad you could come.”

“I decided it was about time.” Miranda hadn’t been to the rink in months, but today she’d ditched work early to come here. She nodded toward the ice. “Wendy’s doing great.”

Mackenzie smiled sweetly. “She needs to work on her
crossovers and her sit spins really need improvement.” Same move Mackenzie had had trouble with even when she was in her prime.

“Do you have to be so critical?
Wendy hasn’t been skating as long as you.” Mackenzie had started when she was five or so, Miranda had been told.

“
We’ve got to get her ready for the Atlanta Open. It’s a tough competition.” She drew in a mature breath, as if she were reining herself in. The people who had raised Mackenzie had ensured she had good manners. “But you’re right. She’s really come a long way.”

“Under your expertise.”

She nodded, a tinge of sadness on her face. The memory of what had stalled her skating career and changed the direction of her young life was still fresh for both of them. “Mother…”

“What?”

“Do you remember…I don’t know how to say this.”

Miranda watched her pretty face, the brows twisted with teenage stress. Probably something about a boy. Miranda had been dreading the time when either Wendy or Mackenzie might ask her for advice on the opposite sex. There wasn’t much help she could give them in that department.

But she straightened her shoulders like a good mother and said, “Just spit it out. We don’t have to hold things back from each other after what we’ve been through.”

“I’m glad you said that.” She picked at one of her fingernails. “Do you remember the first time you came to see me?”

Miranda frowned with apprehension. Why would she want to talk about that? The day Miranda had gotten into the Chatham mansion by posing as a skating coach? The day they’d both screamed at each other? The day Mackenzie had denied with all her being she was related to the likes of Miranda Steele?

“Sure, I do
,” she said, trying not to show the tension in her throat.

Mackenzie rubbed her arm and stared at the ice. “Do you remember what you told me that day?”

Primarily that Miranda was her mother. “I…guess I said a lot of things.” That day was horrible. She’d been doing her best to forget it. “What are you getting at, Mackenzie?”

The girl inhaled and put her hand to her
lips. “You told me…about my father.”

Miranda sucked in the cold air so hard she thought she might choke. She’d forgotten the little detail that had slipped out when she’d been too angry to think straight.
The girl had challenged her. And in trying to keep her safe from untold harm, she’d had a choice of telling Mackenzie her father was a crazed psycho or a rapist.

She’d opted for the truth.
Or rather, she’d blurted it out. “I was raped,” she had said.

She’d give anything to have that moment back. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. A lot.”

“I…wish you wouldn
’t.” It wasn’t something a young girl should think about at all.

“I’ve been wondering…what it means. I mean, how it’s going to affect me.”

Affect her? Miranda’s mind raced. Mackenzie had been a little snot when she’d first met her.

But
the girl was different now. She’d had a real change of heart after coming close to death. Was she worried she’d turn into the nasty little shrew once again? Whether she’d become a criminal herself when she grew up? Disease?

Maybe all of it.
But none of that would happen. Miranda knew it in her bones. Her daughter was a good kid. She had been raised by one of the best families in Atlanta. She’d turn out to be a model citizen.

What could she tell her?
Memories of a dark snowy alley outside Chicago came back to her. Struggling. The sense of being held down against her will. Her skin meeting the frozen air as her clothes were ripped off of her. The smell of wool and aftershave.

“It’s probably best not to dwell on it
,” she blurted out, rubbing her arms against the cold of the ice rink. Not a satisfying answer, she supposed, but avoidance was the only way Miranda could deal with it after all these years.

“You don’t understand. I want you to find him.”

“What?” Miranda gasped. The girl’s words made her feel lightheaded. She must have misheard her.

“You’re a private investigator. I want to hire you to find my father.”

Now Miranda laughed out loud. “I’m a PI, not a magician.”

“So?”

She let out an exasperated breath. “I—I never saw my attacker. He wore a mask that night. I didn’t report it. There’s no record of it.

Mackenzie turned to her, her deep blue eyes moist with tears. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

Miranda couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have come here today. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. On many levels.”

“I see.”

She watched the girl fight for control. Whether of her temper or her disappointment, Miranda wasn’t sure.

At last she shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how painful for you this would be. I—I wasn’t thinking. I sorry.” And she turned and hurried away to the restrooms.

Miranda didn’t follow her. She wouldn’t know what else to say to her. But she had a feeling if Mackenzie had as much determination about finding her father as she’d had about ice skating, this wouldn’t be the end of it.

###

When at last Miranda reached the drive of the southern castle in Mockingbird Hills that was now her home, she decided she made a lousy mother. She should have been comforting. She should have soothed Mackenzie’s concerns with some wise, maternal words. The kind that could make even the worst problem seem small.

Trouble was, she didn’t have words like that. Not for her daughter. Not for herself.

She’d have to leave that job to Colby Chatham. But Miranda had a feeling Mackenzie’s adoptive mother wouldn’t be hearing about her desire to find her biological father any time soon.

Better to leave it that way and not get involved
. After all, what could Mackenzie do? There was no way to find the man who’d attacked her mother on a dark Chicago street fourteen years ago and caused her conception.

Best to let sleeping rap
ists lie.

She turned off the car and
stared at the shadows of the oak trees dancing across the stone balustrade that bordered the ten-bedroom estate. The Parker mansion had been in the family for generations but it had been Parker’s real estate mogul father who had remodeled the place and turned it into a comfortable dwelling for his family.

And now it was her abode.

She’d always felt it was too much house and too much ritz to suit her. But after her encounter with Mackenzie, it felt like welcoming arms. Maybe that was because of the arms that were waiting for her inside.

Parker’s.

Suddenly eager to feel them around her, she got out of the car and went inside.

The massive entrance hall was quiet as a church, its crystal chandeliers glittering mutely off the mirrors and edges of the classy furniture below and making the marble tile of the floor gleam.

There was no scent of anything yummy being cooked up. She wondered if Parker wanted to dine out tonight when her gaze traveled over the tall oil paintings on the high walls to the ornate mahogany staircase.

Parker appeared at the top, still in the deep blue suit and blood red silk tie he’d worn to work.

He began to descend, the usual debonair saunter in his stride, and she took in the form of the agile body beneath that suit that made her heart race. As he went, he pushed back a stray strand of his neatly styled salt and pepper hair that fell just over his ears. He caught her gaze with his gunmetal gray eyes, and she drank in that to-die-for face that every woman in Atlanta lusted over.

Her heart soared.

How did an ordinary former construction worker who’d never had a lot of money wind up with the likes of him? All she knew was she was the luckiest girl in the world to be married to this man. Not because of his wealth or his impossible good looks or even his unmatched investigative skills.

Because of his heart of gold.