Sylvie Kurtz - Pull Of The Moon

Rita looked up, a flush creeping over her too-pale skin, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Her hands folded over the age-progressed image of Valentina that had arrived in that morning’s mail. His heart sank. Why did she insist on torturing herself like this every October?

“Did you forget something, Nicolas?” Though still regal in bearing, she seemed to have shrunk in the past few years, as if the burden of hope was finally getting too much to bear. He wanted to ease her pain, but she wouldn’t buy any of his proofs—the blood, the DNA, even the conviction.

Hand still on the brass doorknob, he squeezed it with all his might to keep his irritation out of his voice. “There’s a woman downstairs who claims you’re expecting her.”

“From Edmund’s television station?”

He nodded.

“Yes, she’s the coordinating producer who’ll help me air Valentina’s story.” Rita’s spine straightened and her chin jutted out as if she were readying for a fight. That wasn’t how he wanted things to stand between them.

How could Edmund Meadows have let his niece talk him into this folly? “I wish you’d talked to me.”

“Why? So you could tell me I was a doddering old fool?”

“She’ll hurt you. Like all the others.” Nick had gotten good at sniffing out frauds. He knew this woman’s type. The kick in the gut he’d gotten when he’d seen her outside determined to get in only proved she was nothing more than another opportunist.

He jerked his chin at the photo beneath Rita’s hand. She’d be embarrassed if he told her he knew about her nightly supplications with God in the tower room. But if he told her, then he’d have to admit his own guilt, and he couldn’t bear the look of disappointment in her eyes. “She looks just like the picture.”

Rita’s gaze went wide and a little desperate. Her hands flattened over the photo, covering it completely. “She works for the station.”

“This pretender’s good. I’ll give her that.” Patient and resourceful. Hitting just the right notes to instantly win Rita’s confidence. The worst kind of con artist. He should know; that same blood ran through his veins. “She could’ve been using her job to dig deeper into your past.”

“You’re reaching, Nicolas.” Rita searched through the Notes section of her red leather agenda and tapped a paragraph on the page. “Valerie Zea has worked at WMOD for six-and-a-half years. She started as an intern right after college and has moved up to coordinating producer. She took a year off after her father died, but came back. Last year she won an Emmy for a segment she produced on a private investigator who specializes in missing children. Simon Higgins, the executive producer, tells me she’s the best person for the job.”

Was Higgins in on this farce? What would he gain by it? Time to run some background checks and stop this before the situation got out of control. “I’m trying to protect you from another fraud.”

“I understand.” Rita glanced at her notes. “She’s requested access to the archives for research, and I’ve agreed to let her sort through my collection.”

A growl formed at the base of Nick’s throat, but he swallowed it back. “You’re inviting trouble, and you hired me to keep you out of trouble.”

“You do your job well, Nicolas. This time, though, you’re wrong.”

“Rita—”

Rita closed her agenda with a snap. “She’ll want to interview you and Holly, as well.”

Something in Nick froze. “No, that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to put my mother through public humiliation again.”

Rita’s lips quivered into a tremulous smile. “It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary. I have to do something. Someone knows where my baby is. I just want to bring her home.”

And like that, a mountain of shame swamped him. Rita had exhausted every possible avenue to find Valentina—the police, private detectives, offering exorbitant rewards for information and promising no questions asked if only her daughter was returned. She’d followed every lead, no matter how thin. Once, on another anniversary, she’d even admitted she’d take a body just to know for sure what had happened to her precious daughter.

“Rita,” he started, but had no idea what to say to ease her grief and make her see that her desperation would only add to her pain.

Her pale blue eyes turned to him. “I know you think I’m a fool, but I don’t care. I know Valentina is alive.” She banged her chest with a fist. “I can feel her in my heart.”

How could he argue with that? Which didn’t mean he had to set her free with the wolves. “Okay, but I’m not leaving you alone with her.”

Rita stood, tucked her agenda against her chest, blood-red against her ice-blue blouse. “Don’t you have a meeting with Emma Hanley and Carter Stokke about the Valentina Pond project?”

Another scam as far as he was concerned, but Rita’s friend, Emma, had made a killing on Phase One, and Rita thought that, if she got in on Phase Two, it would add value to the acreage she owned on the back side of the pond. So he’d run the numbers for her and give her the black-and-white proof of his initial gut feeling. “It’ll wait. You’re more important.”

She rounded her desk and squeezed him into a quick hug. “Thank you, Nicolas, for indulging me.”

Stepping back, he nodded. She was no more than a small and fragile bird in his arms. “I’ll go get her. We’ll meet you in the library.”

Nick’s steps ate up the Oriental runner lining the hallway. Cripes, he didn’t need this.

Loyalty to Rita as much as love for this place kept him rooted at Moongate. Though he was raised at the mansion, he didn’t mistake himself for something he wasn’t. And although Rita treated him like a son, he was ultra-aware he wasn’t family. He was CEO of Meadows Investments. Nothing more. He understood that his value here was in his achievements. Which was why he’d worked at building an identity for himself outside the mansion walls with the soccer and the tutoring and the carpentry. Yet he was determined not to let Rita down, to prove she could count on him to watch out for her best interests—just as she’d once watched over him and his mother when they were helpless.

Mostly, he needed to prove that his will was stronger than the tainted blood that ran through his veins.

He wouldn’t let anyone con Rita out of a single penny. He knew all the tricks. After all, he’d learned from a master.

No pseudo-Valentina with dreams of easy riches was going to get the best of him, no matter how realistic her mask.

Valerie waited, as ordered, in the foyer. Not because she was afraid of Nicolas Galloway, even though his dark look and sharp bite were enough to intimidate anyone, but because there was no point in stirring up trouble until she absolutely needed to.

Save your spit for the important stuff, kiddo, Higgins had told her early in her career. Learn to pick your fights.

She was expected at Moongate. After all, Rita Meadows had requested the interview. She would allow Valerie to do her job.

The station could always send someone else, Valerie supposed. Bailey, for example. But there wasn’t enough time. Not if the package was going to air in time for the anniversary as Ms. Meadows wanted. And in a time crunch, Valerie could get things done that would send Bailey in a tizzy.

Valerie glanced at her watch, then sipped the last cold drop of the French vanilla coffee, clinging to her otherwise empty cup, and wished for more. Her restless feet paced the foyer, and her gaze speared into the hall, anticipating Nicolas Galloway’s return.

The slow bong of a grandfather clock reverberated from somewhere far inside and echoed in the chambers of her head. The baneful peal shot her back to the middle of the night when she’d woken up a prisoner in her tangled sheets, bitter terror clinging to her skin along with the sweat. She had an overpowering urge to rub the hairs writhing on the back of her neck, to run.

It’s just a house. And she wasn’t stressed. Tired because of the early flight, maybe, but not stressed. So there was no reason for her to think of the dream.

But the hall boring into the dark heart of the house had the cold breath of a mausoleum. The smell of dusty funeral roses drifting from it plucked at her memory. “One too many creepy black-and-white movie, Valerie.”

She toyed with the empty coffee cup, looking for a place to dispose of it. What was taking Nicolas Galloway so long? How long did it take to say, Hey, the person you’re expecting is here?

Faraway giggles echoed somewhere over her shoulder. Well, it was about time. Valerie turned toward the stairs and the foyer shifted before her, setting off a jerky projector-like run of memories she had no right to own.

As if the outside fog had crept inside, the edges of the room blurred. The cream paint on the walls darkened to caramel. A cut glass vase filled with pumpkin-colored mums appeared on the small marble-topped table. A gilded mirror reflected the bouquet, making it pop. A red kick ball sailed in from the open front door, bounced with a wet thwack on the polished pine floor and right into the vase, knocking it to the floor. Water, broken flowers and jagged pieces of glass spread over the floor like some sort of modern art mosaic. Two sets of children’s hands reached for the shards.

“It’s okay. Here. Nobody’ll know.”

One pulled open the drawer of the decorative table and hid the broken glass inside. The other gathered the flowers.

“Shh, don’t tell.”

Valerie shook her head and the smoky scene vanished. The table and mirror were still there, but the bouquet and vase were gone. She looked down at her coffee cup. “Wow, that was some potent stuff.”

Before she could stop herself, she stepped to the table and opened the drawer. Empty. “What, you expected to find broken glass?”

With a half laugh that rebounded against the ceiling of the foyer, she closed the drawer. She stopped midslide when the chandelier’s light caught the glint of something shiny trapped in the seams.

She ran a finger along the inside edge and gasped an “Ouch” when something pricked her skin. On the tip of her index finger stood a splinter of clear glass. She drew it out and sucked on the bead of blood left behind.

Doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. Could be from anything—a mirror, a lightbulb or a glass. Pocketing the bloody splinter, she willed her racing heart to slow. She left her hand balled inside the pocket of her blazer to dampen its shaking.

“Obviously, you’ve had too much coffee.” She shouldn’t have stopped for that last large cup. Bad for her nerves. Bad for her heart. Hadn’t the doctor warned her just last month to cut back to stop the palpitations?

She’d probably read about the vase incident during her research and it had stuck in her mind. Wouldn’t be the first time. This feeling of déjà vu happened to her more often than she liked to admit. She’d read something, see a photograph, and then, once she got on location, she’d have that feeling of having been there before.

But never this real. A tight feeling coiled in her gut.

“Get a grip.” Nothing to get spooked about. One of her high school teachers had called this ability of hers to recall almost everything she’d ever seen eidetic memory and seemed fascinated by it. Of course, that was after he’d accused her of cheating on a test, and she’d had to prove to him that everything on the page had come straight from her brain and not Mark Peach’s paper.