Return of the Secret Heir (3 page)

Involved? That's where she thought he was going with this? He sobered. “Oh, princess, it'd be a cold day in hell before we got involved again.”

Her body stiffened. “Then don't kiss me.”

“I like kissing you.” In truth, he'd like to do a whole lot more. For fourteen years, his memories of making love to Pia had been enveloped in a golden glow, no matter how hard he tried to stamp them out. He knew it was because she'd been his first love, but knowing wasn't enough to fix the problem.

Now they'd stumbled across each other, maybe they should make love one more time—put their past into
context and take the romantic luster from his memories. He could
prove
to himself she was just like any other woman. He could move on.

Although that didn't seem like a plan she'd agree to from the annoyance on her face.

“I need a glass of water,” she said and walked away.

The curtains twitched and he looked up to find a large white cat with black patches gazing at him with feline disdain. Seemed he was striking out with all the residents of the apartment tonight.

He followed her into an adjacent kitchen of steel and chrome with white benches, and waited to see if she'd offer him a glass as well. He wouldn't be surprised either way because adult Pia was a mass of mixed signals—reluctant to meet him and not letting him sit down in her living room, but kissing him like the world was about to end.

The ingrained hostess training that all the Baxter girls had been given won out—she poured him a glass from a jug in the fridge.

“Or would you like something stronger?” she asked.

“Water's good.” He accepted the glass, took a drink, then put it on the counter. He gazed at Pia as she sipped hers and shook his head. “Look at us, standing in your kitchen, drinking water.
JT and Pia fourteen years later.
”

It wasn't how he'd imagined their future back then. Factor in a brood of kids, a house with a yard, Pia a famous fashion designer and it'd be closer to the truth. Of course it probably would never have gotten that far—at the first sign of trouble she'd abandoned him, ripping his heart from his chest in the process, so better it had happened when it did than once they had a mortgage and three or four children. He'd never forget that when the going had gotten tough, she'd cut and run without a backward glance at him.

He'd dodged a bullet that day and he'd made damn sure
never to get himself in the firing line again. He would never open himself to a woman—especially not this one.

Pia put her glass in the sink, then without meeting his eyes, she asked, “When did you start believing Warner was your father?”

JT leaned back on the counter behind him and sank his hands into his pockets. Probably much better to talk about this than where his mind had been going. “When his death appeared in the papers.”

“Your mother told you?” Genuine interest and concern filled her eyes. Pia and his mother had been close—she said she'd been able to talk to his mother in a way she never could with her own. And his mother, who'd always wanted a daughter, had been thrilled when she'd thought she was getting Pia for a daughter-in-law. From the little his mother told him, they still met occasionally for lunch, but details had been kept from him; he knew it was to protect him and had left it at that.

He dipped his chin in a short nod. “She'd been scared of him.”

Pia flinched. “She was hiding?”

He clenched his fists in his pockets. As a child, he'd thought his mother liked moving around, but in his teens he'd begun to suspect she was running from someone or something. Seemed he'd been right. “She was in the Bramson Holdings secretarial pool. They had an affair. He thought it was merely convenient. She was in love.”

“Oh, poor Theresa.” Pia's eyes glistened with the sympathy his mother deserved. This was the first time he'd repeated what his mother had told him—besides the few dry details to his attorney—and it felt good to have someone react the same way.

“She fell pregnant, and when she told him, he said he was already engaged and nothing would get in the way of
that wedding.” His jaw hardened, making it difficult to get the words out. “He told her to get an abortion.”

Her face paled. “She didn't want one?”

“Apparently not, but Warner told her there
would be consequences
if she didn't.” His throat was suddenly dry, and Pia pressed his glass of water into his hands. He frowned—he hadn't noticed her pick it up—but took the glass and drank deeply.

When he handed the empty glass back, Pia asked gently, “Did she talk to Warner?”

He shook his head. “She went home, packed and ran.”

“That's why you were always changing schools.” Pia moved closer, laid a hand on his arm, bringing all her softness and warmth to him. And without thinking, he took what she offered, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close.

“You know, she never let on that she was scared—she made it feel like we were exploring new places all the time.” He still couldn't believe his mother had been able to keep up that cover story to her own son for so long. He absently ran his thumb in circles on Pia's hip.

“So why were you so close to Manhattan when we met?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper. “You'd lived all over the country—why come close to Warner again?”

He shrugged. “She said she thought I was old enough to be safe. But I think she might have been homesick, and a small town in New Jersey was as close as she dared come.” He looked down at her beside him, looked into her eyes.

She interlaced their fingers. “I truly hope for the sake of your challenge that he didn't know you were his son, JT.”

He stilled. That was the information he'd wanted. Bramson's heirs had no evidence that Warner knew he
had another son—if they'd been able to prove Warner knew about him and deliberately left him out of the will, JT's case would never even make it to court. His only chance was to claim that Warner was unaware of his existence and so leaving him out had been an accident of fate.

He should leave—he had Pia's vow that she wouldn't work against him, and he had the information he'd wanted. There was no other reason to stay. Yet his feet stayed firmly planted on her kitchen floor.

They stood in silence for long moments, JT's thoughts drifting from his father to the warm body pressed against him. He'd know the feel of her blindfolded.

“Assuming Warner was your father,” she said carefully, and he almost smiled at her attempt to stay in her impartial role, “it's impossible to justify that all the time your mother was struggling, your father was a billionaire.”

He'd spent several weeks being consumed by anger over that exact point. His mother had worked a succession of menial jobs to pay the rent, to ensure he had clothes to wear to school, never having new things herself, never feeling safe. All while Warner Bramson's wife
and
his long-term mistress lived the high life, not needing to work, yet having jewels, the latest fashions, luxuries beyond belief. The injustice of it ate into his gut.

He set his shoulders. “That's why I have to challenge. For her.”

“But you're doing well now? Surely she's stable?”

Of course she was stable now. It'd been soon after Pia had abandoned him that he and his mother's boss had bought a rundown house together—because he was in real estate, Old Jack had been the eyes and the money, and JT had been the brawn and the spare time. He'd fixed up the place under Old Jack's directions and they'd given it to his
mother. He'd always suspected Old Jack was sweet on his mother, but being an employee, she'd been off limits.

Then they'd bought another run-down house and sold the finished product, then another. They'd avoided the real estate crash through Old Jack's foresight and continued. He'd ended up in property development more by a random chain of events than design, but it was a good career built on solid, secure investments.

His mother now lived in the most expensive house he could talk her into, and had a regular monthly income that saw her well taken care of. But that wasn't the point.

“This isn't about the money,” he said, wanting Pia to understand this if nothing else. “The injustice of her life needs to be redressed. She lost so much for me to have life, the least I can do is see her receive what she deserves.” She needed to be acknowledged by the family whose patriarch had dismissed her like a dirty rag.

Pia disentangled herself from him, leaned back on the opposite counter and trained her steady analytical gaze on him. “You need to understand that just because you think you have the high moral ground here doesn't mean you can win.”

Oh, he'd win. He may be illegitimate, but he was the eldest of Warner Bramson's sons. The only time he'd ever lost a fight was when Pia had left him. And soon he'd rectify that, too. Now he'd seen her again, tasted her, he'd have her back in his bed one final time before this was over.

P
ia watched JT leaning back against a countertop in her kitchen and her heart ached for him. She didn't doubt the story—she'd wanted Warner Bramson's account because she'd suspected as much. But she hadn't heard the details before, hadn't known Theresa had been told to get an abortion. She shuddered.

JT had never had much of a family—he was an only child with a single mother. Now he'd discovered who his biological father was and had two newfound half brothers, but they didn't want him. Were actually working to keep him locked out. He wouldn't have expected to be welcomed into the family fold, but still the rejection had to hurt the lost boy deep inside him.

Once upon a time, they'd almost made a family together—JT and her, and their baby. They'd had such magnificent plans for their future, but she and JT had been apart for the fourteen years since then, and their baby had
never drawn breath. The heavy emptiness of grief for that little life descended over her shoulders, pressing down.

“Do you ever think about our baby?” she whispered, leaning back against the kitchen counter across from him.

His eyes widened for a second and dark pain swam in their depths. She guessed this wasn't a topic he usually talked about either. Perhaps she shouldn't have brought it up—it was too intimate, they didn't have that kind of relationship anymore.

He cleared his throat and jerked his head in a nod. “All the time.”

A little part of the wall she'd erected around her heart crumbled at his admission. That wall had been protecting her from the unbearable feelings of loss since the terrible day their baby died when she'd fallen from her bedroom window on her way to meet JT.

She'd been twenty weeks pregnant and had just told her parents. Their solution was to move her away for the rest of the pregnancy and then adopt the baby out. Frantic, she'd rung JT and they'd made a rushed plan to run far away that night. She'd packed a few things together, and on the climb out the second-story window—a climb she'd done hundreds of times before—she fell. Her parents rushed her to the hospital, but no one had been able to save her baby.

Afterward she'd pushed JT away—she'd had no choice. But having him here, their both feeling the same loss, made it a little safer to say the words she couldn't say to anyone else.

“I've often wondered if I think about her so much because there was no closure. No body, no grave.” Her gaze drifted to her bedroom door, where her memory box was concealed at the back of the cupboard. “There was never a chance to grieve properly. My parents wanted the whole episode swept under the carpet.”

His eyes flashed fire at the mention of her parents. “They shouldn't have done that,” he said, then his voice softened. “There might not have been a body or grave, but there
is
something.”

Something?
Her heart missed a beat. “What do you mean?”

JT opened his mouth, then hesitated, as if engaging in an internal debate. Then, holding her gaze, he nodded, decision made. “Grab a coat. I'll show you.”

“On your bike?” she said skeptically, looking out the window at the silver machine he'd ridden over.

He followed her line of vision and frowned. “Good point. I don't have a second helmet. We'll take your car.”

As he took a step toward the door, she held up a hand. This was going too fast; she couldn't think straight. “Hang on. I haven't agreed to go anywhere with you.”

With an alluring blend of sincerity in his eyes and a commanding set to his mouth, he reached out and took her hand, holding it loosely in his. “It's something you'll want to see, Pia.”

Her hand warmed from his and she sighed. After that kiss, her ground rule of keeping their distance was pretty much blown out of the water. And if he knew of something that related to their baby, then she wanted to see it.

She withdrew her hand and folded her arms under her breasts—keeping the temptation to touch him again at bay. “Where are we going?”

“I think it'd be better if I just show you.”

The JT she'd known was always teasing and playing games like this, but his expression was earnest, so she let it go. “Okay.”

She grabbed her bag and picked up her keys from the kitchen bench. JT had thrown his jacket on and held up the long mocha coat that had been beside his on the coat stand.
“Thank you,” she said as she slipped her arms through the sleeves, shivering as his hands brushed the hair at the base of her neck before he released the coat.

He held his hand out for the car keys. She looked from his empty hand up to his eyes. “You think I'll let you drive my car? Remember I've seen you drive.”

“Not since I was seventeen,” he said, clearly unconcerned by her reluctance. “Besides you don't know where we're going.”

“You could simply tell me,” she pointed out.

“I could,” he said, but his crooked smile clearly said
I won't
.

Shaking her head at how comfortable he seemed to be making himself in her life again, she handed over her keys. It was only one night, and then they'd go their separate ways. And in the meantime, she really wanted to see what his
something
was.

They climbed into her Mercedes Cabriolet and he drove them out of town, her Nina Simone CD providing background music. As the New York streetlights flashed by, she lost track of time and distance, absorbed in thoughts of their baby and what could have been. Perhaps they would have married and been raising Brianna together, living in a sweet little house with a garden out front. He'd greet her each night with the passion of—

No. She bit down on her trembling bottom lip. That was a fantasy. Their relationship would have self-destructed long ago.
She
would have self-destructed if she'd stayed with JT. Her hands gripped each other as if for dear life.

“You all right, princess?”

She jumped as his words cut into her thoughts. “You agreed not to call me that.”

“You're right. I'm sorry.” But he didn't look sorry. In
fact he looked more like the young JT as his green eyes took on a twinkle.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as he expertly handled her car, his powerful arms turning the wheel to hug the corners. There was something about his profile, the shadow of the day's beard on his cheeks, that screamed “danger.” And she knew exactly what that danger was—not him; no, he would never hurt her. It was in what he unleashed in her. All the bad traits, all the selfish, worst aspects of herself were magnified and harder to resist when he was nearby. It wasn't how she wanted to live. It wasn't the person she wanted to
be.

When they were young, all he had to do was hold out an apple and she'd reach for the forbidden fruit, no questions, no self-control. Her parents had warned her that she was out of control, but she hadn't listened. Her teachers had told her that her grades were dropping, but she'd much rather dream about JT than listen in class.

It had only been when her recklessness had cost her baby the ultimate price that she'd finally taken stock. The sole method available to pull back from the brink of self-destruction was to cut herself off from JT—to tear from her heart the almost-physical connection they had. Added to the grief of losing her daughter, she'd thought at the time the pain might kill her.

Over the years she'd found it grew easier to bury her wayward side. She'd gone to law school as her parents wanted and become a responsible adult. She dated several men—even became engaged to two—but there had always been something missing, so she'd ultimately broken things off with them. She might not be willing to touch the fire of a man like JT again, but she couldn't live a lie and marry a man she felt nothing for beyond affection and friendship.

One day she'd find the perfect man—one about whom
she could feel passionate, but who brought out the
good
aspects in her. Surely such a man existed?

Suddenly a familiar sign on the roadside caught her attention and she blinked and looked through the window at the scenery, her heart quickening with a strange mixture of dread and lightness. They were in New Jersey. In fact, they were on the outskirts of their hometown.

She turned in her seat to face JT. “We're going to Pine Shores?”

“Yes,” he said, giving nothing else away.

They drove through the town, past the school where they'd met, past the road to his old house, past the diner where he'd taken her on dates, and then out the other side. He slowed at a turnoff to the secluded stretch of beach the locals called Bride's Beach where the two of them had spent a lot of time together. Where they'd first made love.

He pulled up in the empty, unlit car park and switched off the engine. The silence was heavy as they both looked out through the windscreen at the dark trees that separated them from the beach. A tight band pressed around her chest, making it difficult for her lungs to draw air.

Then he disengaged his seat belt. “Come on,” he said.

She climbed out of the car and followed him as he walked down the path that led to the water, then turned left onto a barely visible track winding through the trees. Moonlight shone through trees with leaves that fluttered in the light breeze. The way was as familiar now as it had been then—indelibly etched into her consciousness. She used to sneak out her window at night and meet JT around the block, and he'd bring her down here on the back of his bike. They'd lie together, nestled in the trees that met the sand, looking out over the beach and water, sometimes talking, sometimes making love, always holding each other. In colder months, they'd bring blankets.

It was the spot where they'd conceived their baby.

Digging her nails into her palms, she looked out to see the view of the moonlight on the water, the shadows of the trees over the sand. The same haunting view that regularly featured in her dreams.

Ahead, JT crouched down and began clearing away a buildup of leaves and twigs from something, so she crouched beside him for a better look.

Her heart leaped into her throat. It was a beautifully carved wooden cross. “You made this?” she asked.

“I had to do something,” he said, voice rough. He cleared the last bit of debris and sat back on his haunches. “I usually bring flowers when I come.” He looked around as if hoping some of the trees would magically sprout flowers he could use.

She reached over to touch the cross and realized there were words carved on the front. She looked closer and saw “Brianna Hartley, Beloved.”

Her eyes filled with tears and JT reached for her hand, squeezing tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered, searching his eyes. And she saw something there that rocked her to her core. Fourteen years ago she'd been so grief-stricken, so
young
that she simply hadn't had the emotional capacity to understand JT's grief.

She'd known he loved their unborn daughter, but stupidly, she'd seen something different between mother-love—having the physical connection to their baby—and JT's father-love.

Yet she could see now, in the depths of his haunted green eyes, that he'd suffered a grief as powerful as her own, that Brianna had been as much his baby as hers, that the pain of losing her was his as well.

And while her family had been pushing her to move on,
to pretend it hadn't happened, JT had made this simple, beautiful memorial. The craftsmanship was exquisite—made from one piece of wood, carved and polished with love.

Even after the way she'd shut him out, he'd shown her this, shared it with her as a gift, his solace to her. Her vision blurred and she was helpless to stop hot tears spilling down her face.

Silently, gently, JT wiped her cheeks with his thumbs, whispering soothing sounds and words, which only made her cry more. His arms came around her, wrapping her in his safe embrace and she leaned into his strength, needing it now more than anything. His black jacket was rough beneath her grip, his scent familiar, his body warm.

After endless minutes, her tears eased, but she couldn't let him go. The comfort of the only other person who understood her pain was something she couldn't yet step away from. His hands made long, reassuring strokes down her back, his breath warm near her ear.

She looked up, seeking his gaze and whispered, “I wish—”

“I know,” he said, placing a finger over her lips to silence the futile yearnings, then pressed his lips to her cheek. The touch of his mouth was so soft that she leaned further into him, needing the human contact, his living touch. She turned her face and sought his lips, and his hands cupped her face as he kissed her tenderly, no more than butterfly kisses that made her ache inside.

As his mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, she wound her arms around his waist, surrendering herself to him, needing to block out all else.

Yet, as hard as she tried, she couldn't block it out. It was too much—seeing JT again this morning, opening the memory box for the first time in years, the cross for
Briana, being with JT in the same place they used to come as teenagers. Too much to all happen in half a day. She didn't have anything left to give, any defenses remaining.

JT slowed the trail of kisses, then looked down at her. “Is something wrong?”

“We've been here before, JT,” she said, laying a staying hand on his chest. “This isn't good for either of us—”

“Pia,” he said softly. “You're overthinking. If you want to stop, we'll stop. But all that's happening here is two people who have gone through a harrowing experience together, reaching out to each other for what comfort they can find.” He placed an exquisite kiss on her lips. “Let me comfort you, princess.”

If he'd tried to convince her with sensuality, she could have resisted. But the tenderness in his voice almost brought tears to her eyes once more.