The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) (3 page)

“Of course I didn't. I went there to check out
McClintock. I had just found out about him. My father—”

Tyler paused. It had been several years now since he'd learned the truth, but it still caught him by surprise to think that Jim Balfour was merely his adopted father. It still disappointed him, too. Jim Balfour was a great man, quiet and introverted, but more decent and loyal than anyone Tyler had ever met. Anderson McClintock, on the other hand, had been something completely different. Fiery, self-indulgent, opinionated, arrogant. The classic rich SOB.

He started over. “The man I considered my father, Jim Balfour, decided that I ought to know. My mother had just died. She was the one who had been determined to keep it all a secret. I think she was ashamed. She and Anderson hadn't ever married.” He forked another clump of grass. “Although, when I did my research, I discovered that she was probably the only woman in Virginia he
didn't
marry.”

Merle smiled. “That's overstating it, but not by much.”

“Whatever. So I went to Heyday to get a look at the guy. I didn't announce myself, obviously. I wanted anonymity, in case I—”

“Hated him?”

Tyler chuckled softly. “Now
that's
an overstatement. You can't hate a total stranger. And frankly I don't waste energy hating anybody. I like to keep things simple, that's all. The whole thing—second father, second family, second set of entanglements—
sounded far too complicated. I thought it quite likely I wouldn't want to get involved.”

Merle had an infuriatingly unconvinced expression on his face, as if he didn't believe a word Tyler was saying. Well, too bad. Ten years ago Tyler had learned to keep a safe distance from messy emotional situations, and once he learned a lesson, he never forgot it.

“Must have come as a shock, then,” Merle observed dryly, “when Anderson put you in his will. Inheriting almost a full third of Heyday, just like his other sons. Your brothers, who were, of course, just as shocked as you were, I'm sure. Kind of hard to keep your distance from that.”

Tyler put his napkin on the table and gave up all pretence of eating. “Look, Merle, I don't mean to be rude, but maybe we should get to the point. You didn't come here to talk about the complexities of life as Anderson McClintock's secret baby.”

Merle tilted his head. “No. You're right. I didn't.”

“So let me tell you what I think this is all about. You obviously heard I'm writing a book on the Heyday Eight. You knew I'd be interested—more than interested—to learn there are new developments in that situation. A blackmailer operating nearly three years after the girls were put out of business is definitely great copy.”

Merle smiled wryly. “I hadn't thought of it quite like that, but—” He nodded. “Yes. I was hoping your curiosity would be piqued. I'm checkmated here, Tyler. If I don't pay him, he'll smear me, I'll be ruined,
and the police won't ever expose him. They won't even have enough incentive to try very hard. But you might. Naming the blackmailer. Having an arrest. That would make even better
copy,
right?”

“Right.”

Merle sighed heavily, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Then you'll find out who this guy is? You'll come back to Heyday?”

Come back to Heyday.

Tyler thought of the silly little city, where everything, even the co-ed prostitutes, had a circus theme. He thought of the old bastard Anderson McClintock, now dead, who had run the city like a feudal overlord. He thought of his brothers, Kieran and Bryce, whom Tyler had met, but had deliberately avoided getting close to.

Obviously, now that he'd committed to writing this book, he was going to have to return to Heyday sooner or later. He was a good reporter, and he wouldn't leave all those stones unturned.

But he remembered the Heyday residents, who hated his guts. He particularly remembered Mallory Rackham Platt, the sexy young woman who had run the Ringmaster Café, where the girls had concocted the Heyday Eight and had gathered to make their dates and count their profits.

Mallory, who had let Tyler spend so many hours there, chatting her up and complimenting her coffee, never guessing that he was gathering notes for his exposé.

Mallory, beautiful and ridiculously naive, unaware of what was going on under her nose. Mallory, whose husband had been one of the Heyday Eight's best customers. Mallory, who had tossed a plate of French fries, complete with ketchup, into Tyler's face when she found out who he really was.

Mallory, who for some strange reason was the only person in ten years to put Tyler's disciplined objectivity and emotional distance in jeopardy.

“All right,” he said, ignoring the wriggle of doubt. “I'll come back to Heyday.”

M
INDY
R
ACKHAM'S
turquoise bikini was the most fantastic article of clothing she had ever owned. She had maxed out her MasterCard to buy it. She had almost been able to hear Mallory's shocked disapproval as she signed the charge slip.

But the minute she saw Freddy's face, she knew it had all been worth it.

“Wow,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her. “You're absolute dynamite today, lady. You've just guaranteed Dad the vote of every male under ninety.”

She nuzzled into his shoulder happily. He was wearing his own swim trunks, and his strong, bronze, beautifully shaped torso was pretty marvelous, too. He might have been a statue of a god, except that his skin was velvety warm from the sun.

His curly blond hair was wet, dangling adorably into his forehead, and he smelled of suntan oil and cocktails. Of course, he'd already been at this party for hours. She'd had to work half a day, so she'd had to arrive alone.

That was one of the main reasons she'd indulged in this designer swimsuit and cover-up. She knew she
was probably the only nine-to-five working gal here. Every other female was either the wife of a rich man, or the daughter of one—or a self-made woman who wouldn't stoop to punching clocks or filing papers.

If the women here had jobs, they were high-powered positions with glassy offices, six-figure salaries and secretaries of their own. They were public-relations specialists and college professors and museum curators. They were speechwriters, magazine editors, airline pilots and congresswomen.

Mindy Rackham, low-level secretary at the corporate offices of a snack-cracker company, already felt inferior enough without having to arrive at this elite affair looking shabby and off-the-rack.

Freddy kissed the top of her head, and a honeyed calm slid down, from the contact point of his lips all the way to her pink-painted toes.
Much better.
With Frederick Earnshaw's arms around her, how could any woman feel insecure? She could already feel the jealous eyes of the other women boring a hole into her bare back.

Everyone knew Freddy was the hunkiest guy in Richmond. And the sweetest. And the richest.

He could have had any girl he wanted. So why on earth, they whispered to each other, had he chosen little Mindy Rackham, a nobody from nowhere? From Heyday, which was actually even worse. When Freddy introduced her to people, they always seemed surprised that she could speak in complete sentences and didn't have hayseeds falling from her hair.

The truth was, she didn't understand it herself. Which was why she dreamed every night that Freddy took back his ring, and every morning awakened, heart pounding, with tears in her eyes, thanking God that it had only been a nightmare.

“Come on, honey, let's get you a Coke, and there's somebody I want you to meet.”

Freddy put his warm hand against the small of her back and guided her toward the others. The Olympic-size pool was as turquoise as her bikini, and shimmered under the beautiful afternoon sun. The people who stood around it were tall and elegant, murmuring to one another in low, laughing tones, making a collective sound that Mindy had come to associate with money.

White-coated waiters braided through them with trays of cocktails, and constantly refilled the beautiful tables piled high with pyramids of fruit and clear crystal vases of orchids.

For a minute, Mindy was afraid her feet wouldn't move, but somehow she forced herself to be steered into the crowd. She couldn't ever admit to Freddy that she was afraid. A politician's wife had to be good with people. Outgoing, glib and graceful.

He had told her that when he asked her to marry him. He loved her, he'd said, but he couldn't ask her to share his life without being completely honest about the responsibilities that came with the job.

Completely honest…

Her face had burned as if someone had lit a fire
under her skin when he'd said that. She'd almost told him the truth right then. But of course she had chickened out, as always.

How could she take the piece of heaven he'd just handed her, and give it back? How could she resist the joyous security of being the cherished fiancée of Mr. Frederick Earnshaw—and go back to being poor little screwed-up Mindy, who had no future and way too much past?

“Jill, I'd like you to meet Mindy. Mindy, this is Jill Sheridan-Riley.
Judge
Sheridan-Riley,” he added with a teasing smile at the other woman.

Mindy smiled, too, without the teasing, and held out her hand, trying to remember, among all the things she needed to remember, that she had to shake firmly enough to look confident, but not so tightly as to seem absurd.

How could Freddy feel comfortable calling such an imposing woman “Jill”? She must be almost six feet tall, six feet of elegant, dramatic bones—collarbones, jawbones, wrist bones, cheekbones—every inch of her was jutting and determined. Dark hair and dark, intelligent eyes. Not yet forty. Still beautiful, but an uncompromising, unconventional beauty.

Judge Sheridan-Riley was one of those women who always made Mindy feel ridiculous, as if being short and blond was a character flaw. As if wearing lip gloss was a sign of weakness. Jill Sheridan-Riley hadn't spent two hours getting ready this morning. She hadn't needed to. She'd been born ready.

“Hi, Mindy,” Jill said. Her voice was dark, too, thick and elegant, but it held a surprising warmth. “I've been telling Freddy that if he didn't introduce you soon I'd hold him in contempt.” She laughed and patted Freddy's arm. “I've been dying for a chance to say that.”

She turned back to Mindy with twinkling eyes. “I've only been a judge about a week.”

Her laughter was infectious, and as Mindy chuckled she felt the knot in her stomach relax a millimeter. Maybe she could do this after all.

But just then, in the depths of the clever turquoise macramé drawstring purse Mindy had purchased to match her bikini, her cell phone began to ring.

Freddy shot a quick glance at her, and, her cheeks heating up, she shrugged helplessly.
Dumb, dumb.
She should have put it on mute.

She squeezed her hand over the purse, hoping to muffle the sound, but Freddy shook his head. “Go ahead, answer it,” he said in an understanding voice. “It might be Mallory. It might be about your mother.”

She nodded gratefully. He was such a special guy. He always seemed concerned about her mother's health. He didn't even seem to mind that his new fiancée came with so much baggage.

She excused herself from the other two as she dug out the small, silver phone. The caller ID showed that he'd been right. It was Mallory.

Mindy found a quiet corner, between an untended
bar and a trash can, the least picturesque square foot of the entire party. She clicked the green answer button.

“Hi, Mallory,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“Mom's fine,” Mallory said. That was the first sentence of every conversation they had. “I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

Mal sounded a little edgy, Mindy thought. Her own guilty conscience pictured the overpriced bikini. But there was no way Mallory could know about that. Mindy had bought it with her own credit card, and she'd pay for it with her own paycheck. Somehow.

“Okay. What's up?”

“I just—” Mallory stopped. She sounded uncertain, which was unlike her. She was the big sister. Now that their mother was…sick…Mallory was the boss, and the job suited her. Just like Mom, Mallory had always been completely sure of herself and her decisions. Of all the Rackham women, only Mindy was tormented with self-doubt.

“I just wondered,” Mallory said slowly, “if you've thought any more about when you're going to tell Freddy.”

God, that again? At a time like this? They'd just had this conversation three days ago, and Mindy had promised to think about it, to look for the perfect moment. They both knew she was going to have to tell him. Even in Mindy's most selfish dreams, she didn't imagine that she had the right to marry
him without telling him the truth. It was just a matter of when.

“Mal, it's a little awkward to discuss this right now. I'm at a party. With Freddy. It's a political thing.”

“Oh. Oh…well.”

“What's wrong?” Mindy could tell that Mallory was upset. “Can't we talk about this later?” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “You know this kind of thing intimidates me, Mal. But I'm doing pretty well, I think. I just can't let myself get upset now.”

“Yes, of course, later is fine.” Mallory's voice resumed its normal, brisk, cheerful tones. “I'm sorry. I didn't remember that the party was today. Good for you, honey. I'm really proud of you for deciding to go after all.”

Mindy remembered sheepishly that she'd told Mallory she might plead a headache, or the flu, and skip the party. She was so afraid of letting Freddy down. She was so afraid that someday, at one of these functions, the mist would fall from his eyes and he'd see her as she really was.

Too young, too gauche, too shy. Pretty enough to be a trophy wife, but not worthy in any other way.

In the end, a liability.

“Thanks,” she said self-consciously. “Well, I guess I'd better go see what Freddy's up to.”

“Of course.” Mallory was back in cheerleader mode. “I'll bet you look like a million bucks, kiddo. Now you go out there and just be yourself. Show them
how sweet and smart you are. Before this party is over, they'll all love you just as much as Freddy does.”

As Mindy put her phone away, she watched Freddy and his friend the judge, who had been joined by three other suave people with drinks in their hands and clever laughter on their lips. She tried to convince herself that Mallory was right. They would love her, too…love her just as much as Freddy did.

But that was the question, really, wasn't it? How much did Freddy love her? When the time came, would it be enough?

 

F
ORGET
F
RIDAY THE THIRTEENTH
, Mallory thought as she opened the last of the day's mail. Thursday the twenty-second was every bit as evil.

So far her day had consisted of two obnoxious publisher's reps, one carton of damaged books, three hefty returns, one irate mother who apparently didn't know that a CD called
All Night Long
might contain sexual content, and a call from Valley Pride Property Management Inc., notifying her that they planned to raise her rent.

But she could handle all that. She'd been a bookseller for almost two years now, and she could count on one hand the days that hadn't included similar frustrations.

In fact, ever since last week's call from the blackmailer, she'd decided that, as long as she didn't hear from
him,
every day was a good day.

But the piece of mail she held in her hand clearly
hadn't come from any blackmailer. This new insult was even more personal. It shouldn't really upset her at all—she'd been half expecting it for weeks. And yet, strangely, it did, if only because it reminded her what a fool she'd once been.

She slid her forefinger under the flap of the big, showy, pink-flowered envelope, already sure what it was. It was a supertacky wedding invitation—the kind Mallory would never encourage Mindy to select—and it was addressed in an almost illegible curlicue calligraphy.

Which meant that her ex-husband Dan and his pretty fiancée, Jeannie, who was nineteen but clearly had the taste of a middle-schooler, were actually getting married.

And they wanted Mallory to show up and watch.

The arrogant bastard.
Mallory tossed the invitation, which was embossed with silver wedding bells that looked like scratch-off squares on lottery tickets, onto the counter. She'd show up, all right. She'd sit in the front, and when they asked if anyone knew any reason why these two should not be joined together, she'd stand up and say,
I
do! Dan Platt is a hard-core sleazeball, she'd say, and even this ditzy little airhead deserves better.

Out of nowhere, a new suspicion skittered across her mind. Her blackmailer with the metallic voice couldn't have been Dan, could it? When they'd been married, Dan had never had enough money. And he had always resented the way her family spoiled Mindy. He'd called her “the little princess.”

And, since he was one of the Heyday Eight's customers, he might have known about Mindy's involvement.

But this was ridiculous. Dan was definitely a jerk, but he wasn't a blackmailer. She was just getting paranoid. She'd noticed it the very first day. Every male customer—or female customer, for that matter, if she had a deep voice—made her nervous. Everyone from the postman to the sales reps, from the mayor to the cop who patrolled Hippodrome Circle looked suspicious.

Was it you,
she'd ask mentally?
Or you? Or you?

“Mallory, stop daydreaming and get me a copy of
The Great Gatsby.
” Aurora York was suddenly standing in front of the counter, the blue feather on her pill-box hat trembling, which always meant Aurora was in a temper. “I need to show that fool Verna Myers something.”

Mallory smiled at her favorite customer, glad to have something fun to take her mind off the annoyances of the day. And any meeting of Aurora's book club, Bookish Old Broads Incorporated, or Bobbies, as they called themselves, was bound to be fun.

The group met here every Thursday at six, for cookies and coffee and spirited debate. Last Thursday, Verna Myers, who worshipped at F. Scott Fitzgerald's literary feet, had been so enraged when Aurora criticized
Tender is the Night
that she had stood up, sputtering indignantly, and yanked the feather right out of Aurora's hat.

A hush had fallen over the entire bookstore. No one, but no one, touched Aurora's feathers. Wally said later that he'd been expecting a catfight. But Aurora was a lady. Instead of scratching Verna's eyes out, she had merely taken her copy of
Tender is the Night,
torn out a page from the middle, and used it to wipe the cookie crumbs from her mouth.