Return of the Secret Heir (12 page)

Pia looked down at their tangled fingers. “When I go back to work after the leave, I'll keep my head down and work like crazy. It won't be in the time frame I'd hoped, but I'll still make partner.”

Seeing the determination in her eyes, his chest swelled with pride. “Good for you.”

Winston came running into the room and skidded to a halt on the tiled floor. He looked around, then vanished down a hallway, investigating his new environment. Pia smiled, glad at least one of them could treat this as an adventure.

She turned back to JT, the man who'd rescued her
tonight, and gave him a smile, too. “So how was your day?”

“Better than yours,” he said with a trace of humor in his eyes. “Thankfully I'm my own boss.”

“I'm beginning to see the advantages of that arrangement.” JT had more responsibility riding on his shoulders, sure, but because the company's fate came down to him, the thrill of success must be more satisfying. A definite advantage that being in business had over her line of work and for one liberated minute, she envied him.

“Did you hear from Bramson's sons?” JT asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Pia hesitated. The speculation was that she would be feeding JT information about the case. So should she be wary of doing exactly that now? Though, the only contact she'd had with Warner Bramson's other sons was yesterday when she'd given
them
an advantage she'd gained from knowing JT. And she'd warned JT that morning she'd be calling them, so it was only fair to tell him she'd done that.

She nodded. “I rang them yesterday morning and gave them a heads-up so they could get any extra measures in place to screen the media interest if they needed.”

There were more questions in his eyes, but he refrained from asking them, and she appreciated it.

“You know, I think we both need a night off,” he said, standing and resting his hands low on his hips.

She thought of the paparazzi that had been hovering outside her apartment and she shivered. “We can't go out.”

“Then we'll make do with what we have here.” He seemed unconcerned by the prospect of being cooped up in his own place, but then, this room was almost bigger than her entire apartment.

She looked around speculatively. “What
do
we have here?”

“A penthouse suite designed to my specifications,” he said with a crooked grin.

The man who dealt in property every day had created his own apartment? Suddenly she was very interested to see what he'd designed. “Okay, show me what you've got.”

Eyes flashing with the challenge and innuendo, he reached out a hand and helped her up. Twenty minutes later, after she'd seen the theater room, the conservatory, the million-dollar views of the night skyline and the spa room, he guided her through another doorway.

“This is the library.” And sure enough, the walls were lined with shelves of books on three sides, but the fourth side had something altogether different. A motorbike mounted on the wall. A familiar bike.

“That's it,” she breathed. The bike he'd built when they were teenagers. The one he'd whipped her away on regularly. The one they'd ridden to the beach where she'd given JT her virginity.

It was cleaner than she'd ever seen it, the chrome gleaming, the tires jet-black. She reached out and touched the spokes of the front wheel. It was like JT—the same as before but different.

“Yep, that's it,” he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

She stepped back to better see the entire bike at once, and found JT behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she leaned into his solid, warm chest. “I can't believe you've kept it all these years.”

She felt him shrug broad shoulders. “It reminds me of where I came from. Reminds me never to take what I have now for granted.”

Very sensible. Not at all where
her
thoughts had roamed. “It reminds me of riding on the back of it,” she said, her voice rougher around the edges than she would have liked. She remembered being pressed against him, her thighs
tightly wrapped around his hips, breasts pushed into his back, arms clinging to his torso. A flash of heat spread across her skin.

He ran a blunt fingertip from her shoulder down her arm. “It took us to some great places.”

“
You
took us to some great places.”

“I didn't care where I was,” he said softly, turning her to face him, “as long as you were there with me.”

Looking into his vivid green eyes, she was flooded by the feelings, the yearnings, of her sixteen-year-old self. “I loved you so much back then,” she whispered.

He looked away, up at the bike, and said fiercely, “You were my whole world.”

Her heart felt as if it were tearing in two for everything they'd lost, and tears filled her eyes even as she tried to blink the dampness away. “I miss that feeling.”

“I think it's something only the young can feel,” he said, gaze still on the bike. “When you're still full of naïveté and optimism.”

The words themselves were heartrending, but his tone was so melancholy that she could barely stand it. And the worst part was, she believed him. Nothing in her life had ever come close to the teenaged passion she'd had for this man.

“So we'll never have it again with anyone else?” she asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

His gaze fell back to her, eyes burning with intense, unreadable emotion. “I know I won't.”

JT watched emotions tumble over each other on Pia's face. Then her bottom lip quivered as she drew in a breath. “Can we try and reclaim it—just for one night?”

Last night had been torture—and it had only been a single night apart. He'd gone for a late-night ride to release some of the tension, but then he'd realized his
bike had been his first response when Pia had left him fourteen years ago. Annoyed with himself, he'd turned for home. This was
nothing
like then. He'd been a teenager desperately in love.

This time he was a man who simply missed spending his nights with one particular woman.
Missed them beyond measure.
And didn't that just reinforce what she'd said at the restaurant?

He cleared his throat. “You said we needed to be careful about falling into a marriage by default, and you were right.”

“It's only one night,” she said quietly, tentatively, as if she knew he'd say no. “One last time.”

He watched her sensual mouth as she spoke and his skin tightened. It was as if he was addicted and another night with her would be his fix. And that would mean starting the withdrawal from scratch again once it was over. He'd made it through the first night; theoretically, it should be easier from here—it'd be madness to put himself back on the starting blocks.

Although with her in his arms, her darkened violet eyes looking up at him, his body burning with need for her, he shuddered with the effort of not pulling her close. “We're playing with fire—you told me so yourself. How would it be any easier to stop tomorrow than it is now?”

Her forehead puckered and her tongue touched her top lip as she considered. “I don't know if it's the right thing or the wrong thing. But after the paparazzi, the mad scramble leaving my apartment, feeling that everything is unraveling no matter what I do…”

He threaded his fingers through the luscious firefall of her hair and unable to resist, he feathered a kiss over her forehead. “What about the dangers?”

“I know, I know,” she said, her eyes tortured. “But, JT, I
need you to hold me tonight.” She laid a hand on his chest and it seared even through his shirt.

It's only one night. One last time.

The words were like a drumbeat in his head. He dragged in a sharp breath and made a silent vow to make it special.

A
s JT lowered his head and took her mouth, desire ripped through him like a flash fire. Sensations threatened to overwhelm—he locked his muscles and stilled, attempting to wrest back control, but she writhed impatiently against him.

“Please, JT,” she said, her voice almost a whimper.

Of its own volition, his body loosened and he pulled her close—he'd never been able to deny her much of anything. Withstanding demands and playing his own game was pretty much his business model, and it came easy to him. With everyone except Pia—he'd never had any defenses against Pia saying please.

He wrapped her left leg around his hips. Pressing her against the wall, he lifted her other knee so she could link her ankles behind him. The core of her pressed over his erection and he shuddered—even through their clothes, he could feel the siren's call of heat.

With her shoulders braced on the wall behind her, her breasts were laid out before him like a banquet. He traced fingertips down the sides and underneath their fullness, then up to lightly graze their peaks through the fabric of her clothes. A rosy bloom crept up her neck to her cheeks as her breathing grew labored.

Her eyelids fluttered closed. “How far to your room?”

He drew in a sharp breath, forcing his brain to work. “Down the hall.”

“Too far.” She began to unbutton his shirt.

She was right—the bed seemed continents away with her fingers fluttering against the sensitized skin of his chest as she worked to remove the shirt. But hadn't he just vowed to make this special for her?

“I'll walk quickly,” he said and pulled her against him. He strode down the long hallway, Pia kissing and nipping at his neck the whole way, testing his resolve not to take her before they reached the master bedroom.

They made it to his bed and she released her legs but he held her high against him for extra moments, savoring the warm, silken feel of her. Then he let her slide slowly down, until her feet reached the floor, and he caught her mouth in a hungry kiss.

He'd dreamed of this moment—over the years and even recently. Sharing
her
bed had been one thing, but having her in his apartment, beside
his
bed, brought out something deep down inside of him. Something proud and primal.
Mine.

His legs shook with the power of the thought, and he sank to the side of the bed, pulling her to stand in the V of his thighs. He looked up into her passion-darkened gaze. He'd never wanted her more than he did in this moment.

He removed the pieces of her trouser suit one at a time, forcing himself to go slowly, savoring the sight of each
new glimpse of flesh. He'd always loved her lush, rounded body, but now, with her belly ripening, she was so beautiful that a ball of emotion lodged in his throat.

He skimmed his hands from her hips down, taking her panties with them, and as she stepped from them, she steadied herself with hands on his shoulders. The touch burned through his shirt.

“Princess,” he rasped. He splayed hands across her hips and drew her closer, and when her body was pressed against his, her nails dug into his shoulders, driving him a little crazier.

He laid her back on the bed, then toed off his shoes, stripped off his clothes and found a condom in record time, but even those seconds away from her felt like torture.

He covered her with his body, bracing his forearms on the cool sheets either side of her shoulders. The press of their bodies, the touch of skin, was heavenly. Despite the insistent protests of his body, he wanted to linger, simply feeling their bodies touching chests to toes.

Until she ground up against him.

Then all bets were off. He entered the slick heat of her and a tremor ripped through his body.

Pia.

He began moving in long, slow glides and her hands fisted in the sheets. The feel of her enveloping him like a glove made it almost impossible to hold on, to not end this too soon like an inexperienced teenager. In some ways, the intensity of this time being their last, made it feel like their first time—desperate to touch, to make memories out of sensation.

Her hands left the sheets to hold him low on his hips, pulling him closer, meeting each stroke. Her skin was like fire on his—how could he ever want more than this? He
snaked a hand down between them to find the place she ached most.

She broke, and hearing his name on her lips, the spasms of her body, took him from the edge of ecstasy all the way over and into free fall.

 

Pia sat at her desk on her final day at the firm before she took leave, her chest cramping tight. How had things come to this? Security guards had to sneak her out of JT's apartment building this morning and bring her in. She was pregnant and single. She was holding on to her career by only the most tenuous of threads. She should be basking in the hope and optimism of impending motherhood. Instead, her life was in shambles.

She'd handed some of her work over yesterday, and only had a few things to tidy up this morning before she could leave. Including a few boxes of Warner Bramson's papers that she needed to pass onto Arthur now that he would be assisting Linda Adams on the case. She knelt down beside one, and flicked through the pages. It was the rest of the paperwork from Warner's locked office cupboard. The boxes she'd already sorted had mainly been financial accounts for both his families, old reports on long-past ventures, and notes on potential business moves. There were only these two boxes left to sift through—a task she didn't regret handing over after already sorting through twenty-three similar boxes before she fell pregnant. She picked up a wad of papers from the first box to straighten them and moved to put them back in when she saw the word
Hartley
. Her heart jumped into her throat as the pages in her hand spilled across the floor.

The piece of paper was old and yellowed and filled her entire vision.

The child, James Theodore Hartley, is now three years
old and living in Kentucky. His mother is working as a waitress at a local diner. When questioned about the boy's father, she became agitated and reported that he was dead. I believe the chances that she'll reappear and make claims are slim.

It was a short, one-page report, with an out-of-focus photo of JT as a small boy stapled to the back.

She quickly flicked to the next page in the pile. Another report, this time of a four-year-old JT. Pulse thundering, she searched the scattered pages on the floor and found the two reports before these. Further into the box were years' worth of updates, until just last year.

Her skin iced over as she realized the implications. If Warner had known about JT, then JT couldn't make a claim under New York law—Warner had left him out of the will on purpose, not because he hadn't known of his existence. JT's claim against Warner Bramson's will was over. She closed her eyes and sat back on her heels. JT would be crushed. Devastated. Everything he'd been working toward, gone in a matter of minutes.

Her insides constricted, as if even her body was rebelling against what she had to do. She'd give anything not to have to tell him this; never in her career had conveying information felt so
wrong
. One thing she knew: She had to tell him in person, somewhere private.

But before she could leave the office, Ryder and Seth needed to know—should she let Linda Adams tell them? She'd called the brothers two days ago to give them advance warning of the claim being lodged, but that wasn't something she was doing in a strictly professional capacity—she'd come by the information privately and was passing it on as a courtesy. This, however, was information regarding the estate.
The information that would end JT's claim.

No, if anyone was going to deliver this information to Warner Bramson's sons, she wanted it to be her.

She slipped into Linda's office and showed her the documents.

“Would you mind if I was the one to ring the beneficiaries and tell them?” Pia asked.

“Sure,” Linda said with a quick nod. “One less thing for me to do after you go.”

Back in her own office, Pia asked her secretary to organize a conference call with Ryder and Seth immediately and sat at her desk to read through the private investigator reports until the call was ready. They charted JT's passage through childhood—the progression of towns, starting to get into trouble with the police in a couple of places before they moved on. And all the while, his rich, powerful,
rotten
father was watching from afar, doing
nothing
.

The buzz from her phone told her the call was ready. She locked down the dangerous cocktail of emotions swirling through her body and took a breath. After greeting JT's brothers, she said, “I have news about the claim.”

“I hope it's good news,” Ryder said. “The media photographers are annoying Macy.”

Pia closed her eyes and plunged in. “I've uncovered evidence that Warner knew of JT Hartley's existence.”

Two sharply indrawn breaths came down the line.

“What kind of evidence?” Seth asked.

She looked at the papers covering her desk. “Private investigator reports. They were filed once a year, and cover from when he was a baby until last year.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Ryder said.

Everything inside her braced—as if this were her own dream she was shattering, not JT's—and she forced the
words out through numb lips. “You realize what this means?”

“His claim is over,” Ryder said bluntly. “Good work.”

“Thank you, Pia,” Seth said. “And I appreciate that you've done this under difficult circumstances.”

She knew what Seth was referring to—there was no way they would have missed the juicy tidbits of gossip about her living with JT—but she didn't, couldn't reply. Not when her body was heavy with the knowledge she was destroying JT's claim for his rightful inheritance.

She said goodbye, rang off and on autopilot, called Arthur in to give him the boxes. Then she told Linda Adams the calls had been made and handed her the final case notes, cleared out her top drawer, bid her secretary farewell for the next few months and picked up the phone.

JT answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?” he asked.

His voice flowed over her like a soothing balm, but she was about to shatter everything he was working toward. Would he change toward her? Shoot the messenger?

She swallowed. “I'm fine, but I have something to tell you. How soon can you meet me at your place?”

“I'll leave now and meet you there,” he said without hesitation.

With a sick feeling in her belly, she hung up and went to meet the security in the foyer to take her to JT's apartment.

 

JT arrived home in record time, body tense about what Pia would have to tell him. He'd immediately ruled out a miscarriage because she would have called him to the hospital or to wherever she was. But that still left a whole raft of possibilities: Maybe she'd had word from Dr. Crosby that one of the tests had found something wrong with their child. The media had pushed her too far and she
was leaving town. As he considered each possibility, more jumped into his mind.

When he opened the door to her ten minutes later, he had trouble not leaping on her. “Are you all right?” he asked, taking her briefcase. “The baby?”

“We're both safe. The news is about you.” She said the words slowly, watching him intently as she did. “How about we sit down?”

“How about you tell me here,” he said, putting her briefcase on the tiles and folding his arms over his chest. If the news was about him, he wasn't prepared to waste time getting comfortable.

She nodded, her face pale. “I found something in Warner's paperwork today.”

The air surrounding them seemed to still as he did the math—the news was about him plus a discovery in Warner's paperwork. “He had papers about me.” He heard his voice as if from a distance, flat and hard.

Pia's tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Private investigator reports.”

“How many?” he asked as the room began to slowly revolve around them. Everything he knew about his life was changing, he could feel it deep in his bones.

“Starting when you were a baby—” she hesitated, swallowed “—filed every year, up until last year.”

“He was still having me followed last year?” Bitter rage rose and filled his chest to bursting point. That man had deliberately cut him and his mother off from financial support when he was alive
and
when he was dead, yet he'd paid some investigator to stalk them? His lungs labored but he still couldn't get enough air.

Soft fingers intertwined with his and tugged him deeper into the apartment. He sank down into the couch and felt her sit beside him.

“I'm sorry about the claim,” she whispered, her voice gentle.

He frowned as the cogs in his brain turned to process her words. The claim. It had no legal standing and was over. That hardly rated right now. This slimy man who'd sired him had had him followed his entire life. Knew exactly what circumstances he and his mother lived in.
Warner Bramson had known that the woman he'd impregnated was struggling.
And he'd done nothing but use it as entertainment. Bile ate into his gut. He wished to hell Warner Bramson was still alive so he could confront him face to face. Or maybe fist to face.

“I've changed my mind,” he said through a jaw clenched tight. “I wouldn't take a cent of that man's tainted money.”

“JT—”

He cut her off and steered the subject away—his rage was too raw for her to take the brunt on that topic. “I assume you've told his sons?” he said, moderating his voice as much as he could.

“I rang Ryder and Seth, then came home here to tell you.”

He stood and stalked to the floor-to-ceiling window. His body trembled with the need to do something. To ride until he ran out of gas. To find a gym with a punching bag. But they weren't options he could take up while Pia was here. He wouldn't walk out on her. Calling on every ounce of his self-discipline, he reined in his anger and focused on Pia. This was no picnic in the park for her either and he wouldn't lose sight of that. He turned to find her behind him, waiting, her arms wrapped around herself.