Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (13 page)

“WHAT…? I DON’T UNDERSTAND, Albert. Are you telling me there are
two
people with Rhys’s name?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, so? There’s probably someone around with my name, too. What’s the point?” Waiting for an answer, she heard him clear his throat.

“Hell, I dunno, Whit. I couldn’t get anything on the other guy, though, because I didn’t have the information I needed to get it…his parents’ names or the date of birth.”

“What difference does it make? What’s important is what’s on SaraJane’s birth certificate. Whitney paced the room, hugging the phone to her ear. Stopping at the window, she regarded the mountains encircling the city. SaraJane…who was safe with her grandparents in Estrade. Thank heaven.

Almost as she thought it, she said, “The other name could be his father’s. Rhys told me he was named after his dad. Johnny is probably his dad’s middle name or something.”

It didn’t really matter. Albert was supposed to find her niece’s birth certificate. Not see how many people had the same name as Rhys.

She sensed Albert’s frustration…felt her own. “Weren’t you pursuing some other avenues, as well?”

“Yeah.” He raised his voice a little. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll wait to hear,” she said, suppressing her annoyance. Albert seemed to be going around in circles and she had to wonder if they’d ever get the information they needed.

The next morning Whitney awakened early, still as tense as she’d been the night before. She and Rhys had decided over a quickie dinner at a Mexican restaurant around the corner from the hotel that they’d go their separate ways in the morning and then get together for lunch. Rhys had a 9 a.m. appointment at the bank; Whitney would see the exhibits and take photographs.

They’d talked mostly business during dinner, and she’d been extra-careful not to let her guard down. After talking with Albert, she’d thought a lot about everything and had realized she didn’t want to hear anything bad about Rhys. And she didn’t want anyone hurt.

In the short time she’d been in Estrade, she’d come to understand what it felt like to belong somewhere. She felt the Gannons’ family bond, even if she wasn’t truly a part of it.

It was the same with SaraJane—the little girl had become a part of her.

Talking with Rhys last night she’d realized how badly she wanted Rhys to get the financing he needed…how much she hoped he’d succeed…and how much she wished his past with Morgan would go away.

No, it wasn’t rational. It had nothing to do with logic and reason. It had to do with gut feelings and need and emotions that had been locked away for years.

Too much to think about. She showered and dressed quickly in jeans and the black leather vest Rhys had snatched off a rack for her on their way out of the shop.

“In case you want to blend in,” he’d said with a wicked grin. “Or break out for a while.”

She wasn’t sure what he’d meant, except that maybe she was too proper for his kind of crowd. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. He seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

Armed with her cameras, lenses and film, she headed to the convention center, intending to photograph anything and everything about motorcycles. Last night she’d been totally fascinated watching the mélange of people who strolled in and out of the restaurant. Today she planned to take advantage of the local color, capturing whatever she could on film.

And for the rest of the morning, that was exactly what she did.

Finally, when she noticed it was almost time to meet Rhys, she slipped into the showroom to wait.

As she stood at the door scanning the bright colors and gleaming metal, her excitement mounting, she felt like a kid who’d just been given an all-day pass to Disneyland.

Motorcycles of every shape and form, old and new, filled the huge coliseum. A cacophony of engine noise bounced off the domed ceiling as dealers demonstrated their wares.

The energy around her was contagious, and she took photo after photo. In addition to the dealer exhibits, there were motorcycles of all kinds—the classics, choppers, futuristic customs and manufacturers’ test vehicles…in abundance.

And so were the faithful throng. A photographer’s paradise.

Intent on her work, Whitney panned through the crowds—until she landed on a pair of ebony eyes studying her from across the room. Her blood froze in her veins. It was the man who’d come to Rhys’s shop last week.

Even without the mirrored sunglasses, she recognized him immediately. She lowered the camera. He looked different standing there among the crowd. He looked…normal.

How odd. Two weeks ago she’d been skittish, almost fearful, not only of him, but of Rhys and this whole bikers’ world. Now she might not have even picked him out of the crowd if his gaze hadn’t met hers through the lens.

The mirrored aviator sunglasses hung on the neck of his black T-shirt; his raven-dark hair was still drawn into a ponytail. But he was minus the long leather coat, and without it, his appearance wasn’t nearly as intimidating.

She raised the camera again. When his image zoomed in without any action on her part, she lowered the camera and smiled at the man standing directly in front of her.

“Hello again,” she said.

“Hello.” He had sharp features, and his complexion was ruddy, as if he’d had an adolescent bout with acne.

“Rhys asked me to find you and give you a message.”

“Rhys?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “He says he’s sorry, but he can’t meet you for lunch. His business took longer than he expected, and he has some loose ends to tie up. So he asked me to take his place, show you around and answer questions.”

Words dried on her tongue. She didn’t want a replacement to show her around. She wanted Rhys.

“If you want me to,” he added. He shifted his weight to stand with feet apart, arms crossed over his chest.

“Rhys said he’d call you later, arrange to join you for dinner.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she finally answered, shaking her head. “I guess I’m just surprised that he sent someone in his place.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said dryly. “But I think you’ll find me as knowledgeable as Rhys. After all, I taught him everything he knows about motorcycles.”

That piqued her interest. Had this man known Rhys for a long time? Would he be able to fill in the blanks?

“Another expert—how lucky can one woman get.” She gave him her best smile and stuck out a hand.

“Whitney Sheffield.”

“I remember,” he said, smiling. “Luther Castelagno. Most call me Luth.” He returned the handshake, saying Rhys had told him about the book…and that he was at her service. “Rhys made it perfectly clear what my duties are—and what they aren’t.”

His dark eyes conveyed a meaning she didn’t want to acknowledge.

As the two of them toured the building, she discovered Luth and Rhys had been childhood friends in Chicago and Luth’s family had owned a custom “chopper” shop, which was how Rhys had learned the business.

Surprisingly, she found Luth as charming as Rhys, and it was easy to picture the two of them together as boys, though she couldn’t imagine Rhys as the skinny runt Luth had described.

“He’s my buddy,” Luth said when they stopped for sandwiches at a small take-out place set up just outside the convention room. “Smart, good-looking, successful—everything I’m not.”

He grinned sardonically, but his words were filled with admiration, and Whitney sensed the strong bond between the two men.

“He is all that, isn’t he,” Whitney agreed. “He’s been incredibly helpful to me,” she said. “And he’s so good with SaraJane.”

Luth raised a brow. Then eyed her with approval. “I’m thinking maybe you like him as much as he likes you.”

Whitney swallowed the last bite of her hoagie and gave a strangled cough. But when they returned to the floor to finish their tour, her spirits soared. In the past two weeks she’d tried not to read anything into Rhys’s actions—although she did know he’d have no problem with a one-night stand. Or a two-week stand, or however long she was in Estrade.

But there was no question that he’d ever be interested in anything more. He’d made that abundantly clear—in more ways than one.

Still, just knowing Rhys liked her made her feel a little like skipping down the street, and she couldn’t keep a silly smile off her face no matter how many times she tried. Later, as she and Luth stood by the elevator doors, Luth said out of the blue, “It’s been good for Rhys having you around to take his mind off the kid.”

Whitney did a double take.

“Well…maybe. But from what I’ve seen, SaraJane is an angel. I can’t imagine Rhys needing a break from
her.
”

Luth nodded. Just then the elevator doors flew open, and he placed a hand on her elbow to guide her in. “Oh, right. SaraJane
is
an angel,” he said. “I meant the boy.”

The doors slid noiselessly shut as he waved her off, saying, “Thanks for a nice afternoon. See you at dinner.”

Whitney stood with her mouth agape.
The boy?

“What floor?”

“Oh…uh, five,” Whitney said, only vaguely aware of the two women next to her.

“How did you get
that
hotty interested?” one woman asked, chomping a wad of gum in Whitney’s ear. She snorted a laugh.

Whitney shifted her stance. The two women, in slinky form-fitting dresses with cutouts in strategic places, were already dressed for the banquet this evening. Their comments and laughter dissipated as she stepped from the elevator and dashed blindly down the hall to her room, slamming the door behind her. Luth’s words still rang in her head.

The boy.
Did he mean Rhys had a son?

Rhys had never mentioned anything about a son.

Flinging off her vest and white turtleneck sweater, she dropped onto the edge of the bed, unable to dislodge the thought. That had to be what Luth meant. Good Lord, why had Rhys never mentioned it?

Gretta and Johnny hadn’t breathed a word, either. What was the big secret? Frowning, trying to make sense of it, she yanked off her boots, then stripped off her jeans.
The photo.
She remembered—maybe “the boy” was his sister’s son, Rhys’s nephew. And maybe Rhys was concerned for some reason. That made sense.

Well, maybe she’d just ask him about it. That was what she’d do tonight. She’d come right out and ask him.

She glanced at the clock. Of course, it was possible Rhys wouldn’t make dinner, either, since he’d canceled the afternoon’s plans. Maybe she’d better call him to find out.

Going to the hotel phone, she noticed the red message light flashing. She pressed the button and heard Rhys’s voice.

“Sorry about this afternoon,” he said. “Meet you in the bar at six and we’ll have a drink before the banquet. Ciao.”

At the sound of his sexy voice, a familiar desire curled in her stomach. She pushed the message button again and listened, melting a little more with each word.

As the message ended for the second time, she checked the time again. Not even five-thirty; she had more than half an hour. After a desperately needed shower, she rummaged through her suitcase. Not much of a decision here.

Disgruntled, she tossed most of the clothing aside. She hated the chore of shopping for clothes and generally picked a plain classic style that she could mix and match, and saved time so she could do other, more important things.

Now, however, she wished she’d been a little more interested. She pulled out the only halfway-dressy outfit she’d brought, a black Lycra-knit tunic top with a white underblouse and matching leggings. She dressed quickly, finishing with black suede ankle boots with two-inch heels. Brushing her hair smooth and back from her face, she secured it with a black barrette and took one last glance in the mirror.

She frowned at her image. Compared to the women in the elevator, she looked like a schoolmarm.

Lord, now she was reduced to comparing herself to motorcycle molls. She’d never worried about what she wore, not even to the most fashionable restaurants. Why was she so concerned now?

She snatched up her purse and flung open the door, stopping in her tracks as a group of laughing people made their way past. All the women were dressed in daring little sexy outfits. Even the men, some of whom she recognized from earlier at the show, wore their finery. It wasn’t black-tie, but they were definitely more dressed up than she was.

Adding to her dismay, Rhys stood at the end of the hall with Luth and a woman who was wearing an outfit Cher might have envied. The silver lamé dress clung to the woman’s body like a second skin, outlining every taut curvy muscle.

And Rhys had never looked sexier. Dressed in a casual black suit with an open collar white shirt, a black-and-silver belt, his hair combed straight back, he looked movie-star dangerous.

Rooted to the spot, Whitney watched as Rhys and Luth exchanged some papers, a handshake and then headed in different directions. The woman went with Luth, but not before Whitney noticed Rhys’s appreciative glance as she walked away.