Legacy of Lies (21 page)

Exhaling a long sigh, he managed to tuck her beneath the sheets. He bent and touched his lips to hers.

Then, leaving her to sleep, he went into the living room, picked up the receiver of her Mickey Mouse phone and placed a call to Eleanor.

When Alex awoke several hours later, she found herself in the capable hands of the private nurse Zach and Eleanor had hired. When she tried to assure the blond Amazon that she could take care of herself, Inga Nusland simply folded her muscular arms over her ample chest and refused to budge.

By the third day of sinfully hedonistic pampering, during which time the phlegmatic Inga proved herself to be not
only a capable nurse but a marvelous cook and baker, Alex decided that perhaps there was something to be said for relaxation, after all.

“W
hen are you going to admit she's Anna?” Eleanor demanded.

Zach had come to Santa Barbara to fill the older woman in on Alexandra's recuperation. Although he hadn't returned to that cheerful little bungalow, Inga gave him daily updates, and he'd spoken with her doctor.

“There's still no proof,” Zach pointed out as he did every time they had this conversation.

Sometimes, and this was one of them, he almost wished he'd never met Alexandra Lyons, hadn't played Sir Galahad in that long-ago Mardi Gras. But dammit, he had, and now, thanks to him, they were both suffering.

Once, when he was a boy, he'd come across a wild owl struggling impotently to fly with a broken wing. He'd wrapped the crippled bird in his shirt, taken it home, then spent the next two weeks feeding it field mice and night-crawlers, only to have the ungrateful owl nearly bite off the end of his finger.

No good deed ever goes unpunished,
his
grand-mère
had
proclaimed. At the time, Zach hadn't known how prophetic her words would prove to be.

“Surely you can see the resemblance?” Eleanor pressed.

“I'll agree she looks a lot like you as a young woman. But that doesn't mean she's your granddaughter. After all, Miranda's your niece, and there's no Lord family resemblance there.”

Eleanor scowled at the memory of her niece's call the night before, when she'd asked for a little loan to cover her losses in Monte Carlo. She'd also requested Eleanor not mention the call to Zach, which was bothersome because Eleanor had tried to stay out of the disaster that was Zach and Miranda's marriage.

They were both adults, she'd told herself innumerable times. What they did, or with whom, was their own business. So long as it didn't impact adversely on Lord's.

“Miranda inherited her looks from her mother's gene pool.”

Along with, Eleanor worried, her behavior. After marrying Lawrence Lord, Sylvie, the viscount's tennis-playing daughter had proved to be not so genteel, after all. The sad truth was that Sylvie had been a gin-guzzling nymphomaniac.

Zach wished he hadn't brought Miranda up. He didn't want to talk about his wife. He also didn't want to admit that during these months working closely with Alex, he'd noticed things about her that defied any rational explanation.

She possessed certain gestures that he'd witnessed innumerable times in Eleanor herself, along with a stubborn intelligence he couldn't help but admire, even as it frustrated him whenever they found themselves on opposite sides of an issue. Like that damn factory ultimatum.

“Are you planning to share your suspicions with Alex?”

Eleanor sighed. “No. Not yet.” From the deep furrows on her brow, Zach suspected she was recalling another time she'd felt so sure she'd found Anna. “Not until after we launch the Blue Bayou collection. But what would be wrong with seeing if we could strike a chord in her memory?”

“Eleanor—”

Eleanor ignored his planned protest. “The poor girl's been working so hard she made herself sick. Even after the doctor pronounces her recovered, she'll still need her rest.”

“You're suggesting she recuperate here. In Santa Barbara.” It was not a question.

Eleanor's forehead smoothed. “Here,” she confirmed. “In the home where she and her father and grandfather were all born.”

There was so much to prepare; Eleanor wanted things absolutely perfect when Anna finally returned home.

 

After ten days of antibiotics, supplemented by biscuits slathered with butter and marmalade, apple strudel, and steaming stews and chicken pies topped with fat, fluffy dumplings, Alex proclaimed herself ready to go back to work.

Her doctor confirmed her self-diagnosis, with the caveat that she begin with a few hours each day, taking time to work herself back to full throttle.

“You're still too pale,” Eleanor complained during a visit to Venice. Although she'd gained back several much needed pounds, Alex's complexion continued to lack its normal healthy hue.

“I'll be fine.”

“Of course you will. But we need you well rested, Alexandra. The Chicago debut of the Alexandra Lyons collection is only a month away,” she reminded her. “And
there's no better place to finish your recuperation than my house.”

“You want me to come to Santa Barbara? To stay with you?”

“I'd love to have you as a houseguest.”

“But I can't leave town. Zach and I still haven't worked out the problem with the music.” She was insisting on live musicians while he argued for a less expensive audio tape, which she in turn countered would sound like elevator music.

“That can wait.” Eleanor brushed off Alex's worries. “Zach will solve your little impasse. Believe me, dear, he always accomplishes everything he sets out to achieve. Besides, you couldn't have your meeting now, anyway. He's out of town.”

“Oh?” Alex said with careful casualness. Against all common sense, she'd been hoping Zach might visit her. He hadn't.

“He's in Toronto. We're entering into negotiations to open our first Lord's in Canada. But right now things are hush-hush.”

“I won't tell a soul,” Alex promised, vaguely surprised Eleanor had shared confidential business information with her.

“Why, I never thought you would, dear,” Eleanor answered mildly. “Now, let me help you pack.”

One thing she'd learned during their months together was that like so many other rich, powerful women, Eleanor Lord was more than a little accustomed to getting her way. Rather than stand up to the silken bulldozer currently plucking clothes from her closet, Alex decided to simply relax and go with the flow.

 

Miranda was furious. And when Miranda was furious, she paced. Zach stood in front of the upstairs bedroom win
dow, looking out over Eleanor's Santa Barbara estate and tried to ignore the furious energy radiating from his wife's every pore.

“I cannot believe she's invited that bloody little impostor into this house!” She was clenching and unclenching her fists, twisting her rings on her long aristocratic fingers, an outward sign of her tumultuous thoughts.

Miranda was not about to be cut out of her inheritance by any calculating con artist. How dare Alexandra Lyons endanger her happiness, her comfort, her entire livelihood this way! The threat she represented hovered over Miranda like a thick, suffocating cloud of noxious smog.

“Your aunt doesn't believe she's an impostor.”

He shouldn't be here, Zach told himself. He should be at his office in L.A. Someone had begun quietly buying up outstanding shares of Lord's stock, and as hard as he'd tried, he had not been able to work his way through the maze of holding companies designed to keep the buyer's identity a secret.

But Eleanor had insisted he be on hand for Alex's arrival, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was curious to see how she'd react to the house.

Miranda continued to wear a path across the needlepoint cabbage-rose rug. Her furious, restless strides reminded Zach of a tigress that hadn't been fed for a week.

“You realize, of course, that the old woman's gone absolutely batty.” She stopped long enough to light a cigarette. Puffs of blue smoke rose to the beamed ceiling as if from a smoldering volcano.

“You're exaggerating again.”

“The hell I am. Any qualified psychiatrist would declare her incompetent.”

He spun around. “I'm warning you, Miranda, if you try it, I'll block you at every turn.”

Miranda took in his glittering dark eyes, his threatening stance, the tautly reigned-in violence simmering just beneath the surface. There was a looming menace about him that was palpable. And extremely exciting.

It had been a long time since she'd managed to garner a reaction other than his usual cold disdain. A rush of sexual anticipation rushed through her loins, making her momentarily forget her fury concerning Eleanor's newest protégée.

“Do you know, darling,” she said slowly, switching gears with a blink of her gleaming emerald eyes, “that you are frightfully sexy when you're angry?” Deliberately, with regained control, she approached on a slow, hip-swiveling feline glide he'd once found incredible appealing. Now he just found her obvious seduction attempt depressing.

“It isn't going to work.”

She placed her hand against his chest. “Are you so sure about that?” She began toying with the buttons of his shirt. “Do you realize how long it's been since we made love?”

“Made love?” He plucked her hand away. “Is that what you call it?”

“Of course.” Refusing to give up, she twined her arms around his neck. “We used to be so good together, Zachary. Remember?” Taking the fact that he hadn't moved away as a sign of encouragement, she pressed her body against his taut, unresisting one.

“Remember that lovely evening in the limousine in London? Remember how we spent the remainder of the night, steeped in sex and sin?” Her voice was a velvety purr; her teeth nipped at his earlobe. “Remember how you told me you'd never met a woman who made you feel the way I did?” She paused and assumed a tragic look. “When did everything go so wrong?”

“How about when you stole those earrings on our honeymoon?”

She sighed prettily. “You never will let me live that down, will you?” Moisture shone in her green eyes. “Perhaps, if we tried again. Perhaps, if I could believe that you truly loved me, no matter what my faults, I could be strong enough to get help for my sickness.” On cue, tears began to stream down her face.

She was a remarkable actress, Zach mused distantly. He'd give her that. If he didn't know her so well, he'd actually believe that she regretted the chasm that had grown between them. A gulf as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon.

She went up on her toes and brushed her parted lips against his. “Please, Zachary. Can't we try to put the pieces together again? So we can have a wonderful, heavenly life together?”

She was definitely pulling out all the stops. Her fingers were caressing the back of his neck, her voice was a soft breeze against his mouth and her pelvis was moving seductively against his groin.

She was also out of luck. He didn't need to look down to know that his body was steadfastly refusing to respond.

“And I suppose all I have to do to achieve such Nirvana is help you gain Eleanor's power of attorney and lock her away in some home for addled old ladies.”

“Well, you can't deny that she is old,” Miranda said. “And even you must admit this latest idea about that little slut of a Hollywood dress designer being her long-lost Anna is proof that she's not completely in her right mind.”

“Alexandra Lyons is not a slut.” Fed up, he shoved Miranda away with an unexpected force that had her tottling on her high heels. “She just happens to be an ex
tremely talented woman who's overcome a lot of hard knocks by integrity and tenacity and working damn hard.”

“So.” Miranda's seductive expression turned hard and cold, making her look every bit her age, which just happened to be ten years older than that printed on her California driver's license. “I was right about her all along.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Furious at himself for rising to her bait, Zach turned his back to her, jammed his hands into his pockets and resumed staring out the window.

She thought about the photographs Mickey O'Rourke had given her. Incriminating photos of Zach carrying Alexandra into her house. Photos that, from the intense, concerned expression the camera lens had frozen on her husband's face, suggested their relationship was much more than a mere business alliance.

Miranda hadn't confronted her husband with the damning evidence. Not yet. Although patience had never been her long suit, she was willing, when necessary, to bide her time. But if the conniving little tart thought she could steal both Miranda's husband and her inheritance, she was going to be in for a very rude awakening!

“I've wondered why you've been so indulgent with Auntie's delusion this time.” She was practically biting the words off, one at a time and spitting them at him like stones. “Tell me, Zachary, is she any good in bed?”

“I wouldn't know.”

A breath hissed from between Miranda's glossy lips. “Liar,” she taunted. “I'll bet you know very well. I'll bet the little chit's been spreading her legs for you for months. All the better to convince you to go along with her little scheme to inherit the Lord millions.”

His hands curled into fists. “I'm warning you, Miranda—”

“No, darling,” she said, her voice a silken threat, “I'm warning you. If you so much as look at that girl again, let alone fuck her, I'll sell my shares of Lord's stock to Nelson Montague so fast yours and Auntie's heads will spin.”

“Nelson Montague?”

“Didn't I mention that I'd run into him in Monte Carlo last month?” She examined her polished nails, dragging the moment out for as long as possible. “He was playing baccarat—winning wonderfully, by the way—and I was doing miserably at roulette.”

Her eyes gleamed coldly, like green neon. “Well, generous man that he was, he gave me part of his winnings so I wouldn't have to go over my credit limit.” She smiled. “We had a wonderful time.”

“I'm so happy for you both,” Zach said dryly. “And I suppose sometime during this fun-filled evening he offered to buy your shares.”

“No.”

“No?” She was enjoying herself immensely, Zach realized grimly, tempted to wring her neck for the way she was dragging this out.

“Actually, it was the next morning, after breakfast, that he brought up the stock.” That her eyes gleamed with memories of whatever orgy she and Montague had indulged in didn't faze him. She had long ago lost the power to make him jealous.