Читать книгу Heir to Secret Memories - Mallory Kane - Страница 12

Paige stood in front of yet another tiny, musty shop. She’d been inside dozens of similar shops today, up and down the streets near the docks.

She’d taken a cab back to Sally’s place last night, but Sally hadn’t been available. She’d gone off with a gentleman friend, according to her housekeeper. But she’d left the drawing in case Paige came by.

Frustration and fear had Paige’s muscles wound as tight as springs. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t eaten. Now it was almost dark and she still hadn’t found the right shop.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could last. Nausea gnawed at her insides and she couldn’t stop trembling as she clutched the cell phone in one hand and the small, framed sketch in the other.

What if she did something wrong and those people hurt Katie? What if the artist wasn’t Johnny?

What if he was?

The cell phone rang.

Paige jumped and almost dropped it. She jabbed the one button that worked. “Katie?”

“It’s been sixteen hours, Paige. That battery won’t last forever.”

“Wait!” she cried, fumbling in her pocket for her tape recorder. The phone went dead.

Paige froze. Were they watching her? Had they seen her pull the tape recorder out of her pocket? She looked up and down the street, the hairs on her neck prickling, the weight on her chest making it hard to breathe.

She didn’t need the faceless voice to tell her how long it had been. She knew exactly, down to the second. It had taken all her will not to go to the police. It had taken all her strength to make it this far. The only thing that had kept her going was Katie.

This was for Katie.

Forcing her leaden limbs to work, she entered the shop.

The interior was dark after the bright sunlight outside. The odor of incense and mildew swirled around her. Exotic fabrics draped the walls and spilled over counters and chairs. On a shelf stood a number of apothecary bottles labeled with odd names like wolfsbane and maidenhair.

A table held an ominous collection of straw and rag dolls, some with long, pearl-tipped pins stuck in them.

On the main counter was a drawing held flat by a yardstick. Like the one in her hands, it was deceptively simple, no more than a few perfectly executed lines. An old pier with a seagull perched on a board was in the foreground, with a hint of mist-shrouded sea behind.

She peered closer, squinting in the dimness. The date was three months ago. Her heart sped up. The signature was the same.

Paige caught the edge of the counter as relief sent dizzying blood rushing to her head. Finally, she’d found the right place.

Beads clattered as a dark woman in a yellow turban stepped into the room. “Ah, c’est vous.”

Paige started. “What?”

“It is you. From the drawings.”

Paige studied the thin, brightly dressed woman. Her eyes, enormous and black in her dark face, reflected wisdom and sympathy, along with a hint of amusement. Maybe she would help her.

Paige held out the framed sketch. “I must find the artist.”

“Ah, everyone comes to Tante Yvette seeking the mysterious artist.”

“You mean other people have been asking about him?” Her fingers tightened around the cell phone in her pocket. “Who?”

“Two men,” the woman spat. “Rough. Stupid.”

“Did you tell them?”

The woman laughed and the sound echoed through the little shop like a wind chime. “It is not my place to tell secrets.”

“I have to find him. Please.” Paige heard the desperation in her voice, the rising panic.

The turbaned woman shook her head and waved a thin hand. A dozen or more bracelets jangled. “Perhaps he does not wish to be found.”

Despair clutched at Paige like punishing fingers. “Who is he? You have to tell me. My daughter….” She stopped.

If you tell anyone…your daughter is so small and fragile.

The jangling bracelets stilled. “Your daughter?”

Paige shook her head. “Never mind. I have to find the artist. It’s important.”

“Many things are important. For this artist, perhaps not being found is important.”

“Please don’t talk to me in riddles,” Paige begged. “If you won’t help me, just say so. I don’t have much time.” She thought of Katie, of what the kidnappers might be doing to her.

Tante Yvette stared at her intently. “Time? For what?”

Paige shook her head, but before she could speak, a noise outside startled her. She clutched the frame closer and didn’t breathe.

“You are afraid,” the woman said. “Tell Tante Yvette who frightens you.”

Paige shook her head. “I can’t. They—they’ll know.”

Tante Yvette looked thoughtful for a moment. “You are the girl in the picture, non?”

Paige looked down at the carefully drawn eyes, the exquisite perfection of the few lines that formed the shoulders, neck and hair. Then she stared at the signature and the date.

The answer was unbelievable, but for Katie’s sake she prayed it was true.

She met Tante Yvette’s gaze. “Yes.”

The older woman nodded. “Come with me.”

She led Paige behind the beaded curtain into an apartment that connected to another apartment, then another. As they encountered other people and stepped around furniture, Tante Yvette gestured or spoke in what was probably French. No one said a word to Paige.

Finally they walked through a crowded storeroom to a heavy door. “Go out this door and turn right. Stay behind the buildings. Go to the hotel and ask the old drunk.”

“But where are you sending me?”

“You want to find the artist?”

Paige nodded, her head pounding with exhaustion.

“You are the girl in the picture?”

She nodded again.

“Then go.”

Tante Yvette opened the door and Paige stepped out. She turned back. “Please be careful,” she whispered to the woman who was helping her. “They’re dangerous.”

Tante Yvette nodded. “Go.”

The alley was shadowed and dark, and held the stench of too many garbage bins. Paige walked quickly, swallowing the nausea that swirled in her empty stomach.

Any minute the phone would ring and the voice would tell her she’d lost her chance to ever see her daughter again.

She had no idea if she were doing the right thing. She certainly didn’t know why Tante Yvette had helped her. Or even if she had. She could be walking into a trap.

But nothing that happened to her could be worse than losing Katie. If there was any chance this alley would lead to Johnny, she had to take it.

Johnny. She shook her head. It was impossible. Beyond belief. But what if it was true? What if Johnny Yarbrough was still alive?

Exploring the answer to that question was more than Paige’s battered emotions could take. If this mysterious artist was Johnny, she was about to trade his life for her daughter’s.

For his daughter’s.

She couldn’t think about that. All she could think about was Katie.

Expecting any minute to feel a rough hand grabbing her, or to hear the cell phone ring, Paige continued down the dark, stinking alley.

Sitting on the front steps of the hotel was an old black man dressed in a dingy shirt and tie, wearing a jacket that left his bony wrists bare.

Paige walked cautiously up to him, glancing around.

The old man studied her through rheumy eyes.

She held out the picture. “Do you know where he is?”

“You’re the girl,” the old man said.

She nodded. “Yes. I’m the girl.”

“So his past has come to meet him.” The old man yawned and pulled a bottle out of his pocket, then took a long swig. “I reckon Jay wouldn’t have put that picture out there ’less he was looking for an answer.”

“Jay? His name is Jay?” She thought of the monogram with its three initials and the signature on the drawing.

JAY.

He nodded and stood, wiping his mouth. “Down at the end of the hall. Don’t you do him bad, you understand?”

Paige found herself answering reflexively. “No, sir.”

The old man chuckled and walked away.

She ran up the steps into a hall lit by dim bulbs that made pale circles of light on the floor. Paige walked down the empty corridor; her sneakers were soundless on the hardwood.

The last door was room twelve. She shifted the picture to her right hand and wiped her left one on her jeans. Behind this scarred wooden door might be the man who had left her alone, who had broken her heart.

The one man who could save her daughter.

She was trembling so much that she could hardly make a fist to knock.

She lifted her hand.

JAY WELLCOME JERKED at the sound of the rapping on his door. The charcoal broke in his suddenly tense fingers. Nobody ever knocked on his door except the landlord, and today was not the first of the month.

He set the sketchbook aside and stood. A glance told him the window opposite the door was unlocked. It had been almost three years since he’d woken up wounded and alone, with no idea of who he was or what had happened to him. And still he remained always aware of everything around him.

He waited, wondering when whoever had failed to kill him before would try again.

Satisfied that his escape route through the window and out to his deceptively battered car was clear, he pulled a T-shirt over his head, brushed his hair back with a quick gesture, and stepped over to the door.

He listened for a second, but didn’t hear anything. Cautiously, balanced on the balls of his feet, poised for fight or flight, he opened the door.

And found himself staring at the girl who haunted his dreams.

He almost ran; almost slammed the door. He wasn’t ready for this.

He’d let Tante Yvette and Old Mose talk him into putting the sketches out there. He’d been skeptical, torn between a yearning to pull himself out of the dead zone where he’d existed nameless and lost for so long, and the fear of being found. He’d spent the past three years working on the oil rigs, and always, always, looking over his shoulder.

He really hadn’t expected a response. He hadn’t expected to sell a drawing. And he certainly hadn’t expected this.

He stood there clutching the doorknob, staring at her.

Although the resemblance was obvious, she was older than the girl in his dreams. She was a woman. A beautiful woman.

The wheat-colored hair he remembered as short and shaggy was long, smooth, and woven into some kind of intricate braid that hung down her back.

She was smaller than he’d thought she’d be. The top of her head barely reached his chin.

The girl in his dreams was thin. This woman had curves where a woman should have curves. The eyes were the same though. Familiar gold-flecked green eyes that seemed sunken and sad in a face that was no longer round and blushing with youth. It was pale.

He realized it was getting paler.

She whispered a name.

He stiffened. He was being way too careless. The shock of seeing her had caught him off guard. Straightening, he took a step backward and tried to make sense of her words.

“What did you say?” he snapped.

She clutched a small, framed picture to her chest. If possible, her face lost even more color. She looked as if she were seeing a ghost.

“Johnny? What happened to you?”

Johnny? The name meant nothing to him. Did she know him?

Without thinking about the possible consequences he reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her inside the room. With a lightning-fast glance into the hall, he pushed the door shut.

She backed away from him, up against the heavy wooden door. “What are you doing?”

Jay studied her. Her pale face showed a strength of character, a wisdom that wasn’t in the young innocent face he’d drawn.

The eyes though, were hauntingly familiar. The only difference was these eyes were filled with terror, and they hadn’t left his face since he’d opened the door.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Shock darkened her gaze and lifted her delicate brows for an instant. Then she seemed to shrink, and something changed in her. A tension, or anticipation, drained out of her, leaving her seeming even smaller. Her enormous green-and-gold eyes closed and she shook her head slowly, once.

When she looked at him again, her expression was carefully blank, although the rigid set of her spine had not relaxed at all.

“I almost didn’t recognize you either,” she said tightly, “but it’s impossible to forget those sapphire-colored eyes of yours.”

Johnny stared at her, panic shearing his breath as he wondered if he should be relieved or worried that someone had finally recognized him.

Paige swallowed hard, hanging on to control with as much force as she hung on to the picture. He was so different. This was not the boy she had fallen in love with. This wasn’t the frustrated young artist who was so intimidated by his father he couldn’t even bring a girlfriend home to meet him without getting permission first.

This was a man.

A strong, hard-eyed, capable man with calluses on his artist’s fingers and a scar that parted his hair and lent a cynical lift to one dark eyebrow.

Paige’s gaze traveled over shoulders that she was sure had not been this broad, down the front of his T-shirt to the faded jeans that molded over long powerful thighs, then back up to his face.

It could be someone else’s face, harsh, scored by years and darkened by the sun. But there was no mistaking the eyes. They were the same brilliant blue eyes that had regarded her so tenderly as he told her how much he loved her. Now they blazed with startling intensity in his tanned face.

She wasn’t sure what was going on behind those familiar eyes. He watched her warily, all senses alert, like a cat watches an unknown threat. His taut, muscled body was perfectly balanced, his hands loose but open and ready at his sides, his gaze never leaving her face.

“It’s Paige,” she ventured, wanting to cry because she had to remind the only man she’d ever loved of her name. She tried a smile. “Paige Reynolds.”

He frowned. He frightened her, this familiar stranger who stood in a dingy, sordid hotel room and acted like he’d never seen her before today, but whom she knew without a doubt was the father of her daughter.

Katie! Searing loss and chilling fear met with stormy force inside her. Her head reeled and she swayed.

“Are you all right?” Johnny asked, reaching toward her.

She pressed her lips together to gain control of her emotions.

Hold on. This is for Katie’s sake.

She nodded stiffly.

“Good.” His voice was cold. “Now what are you doing here, and what did you call me?”

Paige lifted her chin. “I called you Johnny. Johnny Yarbrough. It’s your name.”

He didn’t move a muscle, but she felt his increased tension like an aura surrounding him. She saw the vein that beat in his temple, saw the infinitesimal tightening of his wide, generous mouth.

“Johnny Yarbrough,” he repeated, his voice no more than a croaking whisper. His lips barely moved. “Yarbrough.” His mouth closed grimly and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He winced, touching the side of his head.

Paige stared at him. He was acting so strange. “Actually,” she said wryly, “I guess that would be John Andrew Yarbrough. You never told me who you really were.”

His eyes never left her face, but she had the sense he wasn’t looking at her at all. His fingers slipped through his sun-kissed brown hair, and then went back to his temple.

“Johnny?”

He shook his head, looking confused.

“I don’t understand. What’s the matter with you? You act like you—”

The truth hit her like a wrecking ball. In one explosive instant, everything Paige had pinned her hopes on crashed down around her.

As unbelievable as it was, it explained everything. Why no one had ever found a body. Why he’d never returned to his rightful place in his father’s business. Why he looked so bewildered.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, stunned.

Her daughter’s life was at stake, and the only man who could save her didn’t know who he was. Telling him he had a daughter would mean nothing to him.

“You don’t remember.” Her numb lips formed the words, hoping he would deny them, but knowing he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

He sent her a terrible, haunted glance, then turned away.

She stared at his bowed back, watched his bicep flex as he massaged his temple.

Her brain rejected the idea. It couldn’t be true. She couldn’t allow it to be true.

“I need your help.” She took a step toward him. “Look at me,” she pleaded. “Look at this.”

He angled his head, and the muscles in his back rippled the white cotton of his T-shirt. Then he half turned, his long lashes shadowing his eyes.

She held up the drawing. “You drew me. We were together here, in New Orleans, seven years ago. You can’t tell me you don’t remember that.”

He faced her, his jaw set, his eyes bleak. He shrugged. “I don’t remember that.”

“You have to. If you don’t remember me, surely you remember being kidnapped?”

His eyes narrowed. He took a step toward her. “I was kidnapped?”

Paige gasped and forced down the panic that bubbled up into her throat. “Of course. Three years ago. It was all over the news. The ransom note demanded two million dollars. After weeks and weeks, your wallet covered with your blood was found in a stolen car out by Chef Menteur Highway. You were—presumed dead.” She couldn’t believe he didn’t remember anything.

“Your father begged the kidnappers not to harm you. He offered twice the ransom if they’d just let you go.” Paige stopped to take a shaky breath.

“Your father gave them the money. Nobody understood why they killed…” Her voice died on the word and she stared at his familiar, alien face.

There was pain there, and a kind of bewildered disbelief. But she also saw a spark of interest, and something that almost broke her heart. For one naked second, she saw hope reflected in his eyes.

He wasn’t lying. He really didn’t remember.

Oh, Johnny. What did they do to you?

She caught herself and shook her head. She didn’t have time for sentiment or pity. She had to save her child. It was her only reason for being here. Her only reason for living now.

Once she’d thought she knew him better than she knew herself. She’d have staked her life on his honesty. But he’d promised her he was coming back for her and he hadn’t.

He’d lied to her then. Was he lying now?

But why would he be here in this seedy hotel instead of living the wealthy life he was born to? Why would he draw her picture then deny he knew her?

“Do you expect me to believe you don’t remember any of that?” Her gaze fell on the scar that started at his hairline and furrowed along a couple of inches, like a carefully combed part.

At the same time he lifted his hand and touched it. “All I know is somebody tried to kill me. Who kidnapped me?”

“I don’t know.” She swallowed, “We weren’t together then. We last saw each other seven years ago.”

He reached out and took the picture from her hands and looked at it, then at her, searching her eyes as if he hoped to find the answers he sought there.

“How long did we know each other?”

She shrugged and twisted the ends of her braid, painfully aware of the time ticking by. “About six weeks.”

Long enough to create a beautiful child who was out there, held captive by dangerous strangers. What if they hurt her?

“We knew each other for six weeks seven years ago,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “So why do you haunt my dreams?”

“Why do I what?”

He tossed the picture on the bed, on top of other similar sketches. A few were of her.

He looked up, and for a second the caution and doubt in his face changed to a yearning so strong, Paige felt its pull like a fishing line, reeling her in. Then he blinked and it was gone.

“So you knew me once,” he said quietly, a bitter longing rising up like bile inside him as he stared at the drawings, those pathetic attempts to capture the visions that streaked through his brain when the headaches hit him.

He looked at the woman whose face haunted him. “I assume you traced me through that picture to Tante Yvette. She sent you here?”

She nodded.

Tante Yvette had trusted her. The strange dark woman claimed to know things, to be able to read minds. He hoped she was right this time.

He studied the lovely, hauntingly familiar face of Paige Reynolds for a moment. The glint of panic in her golden-green eyes and the tension in her shoulders told him she was a hairsbreadth from losing control.

But as familiar as she was, he didn’t know her and his small store of memories made it hard for him to trust anyone, even someone Tante Yvette believed.

“What do you want from me?” he asked coldly.

He winced at the unguarded hope that flared in her green eyes. “They’ve got my daughter,” she whispered, clenching her fists.

He hadn’t expected that. “Your daughter? Who does?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But they told me to find you.”

At her words, Jay tensed. Almost unconsciously he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, alert, prepared for anything.

“Were you followed?” he snapped.

Her brow furrowed briefly. She looked down at her fist, clenched in her jacket pocket, then over her shoulder at the door. “Yes.”

He heard a noise behind her. “Look out!”

Wood splintered and the door flew open, hurling her into his arms. The breath hissed out of her and she squealed in pain. He tossed her back toward the bed, hoping to get her out of harm’s way, as the two men attacked him.

He struggled, fighting dirty, aiming for the groin, the kidneys, the nose, any vulnerable spot. He’d learned how to fight the hard way out on the oil rigs.

One man was beefier, thicker than the other. Jay concentrated on his face.

He punched, felt something crunch, then drove an elbow behind him into the smaller man’s solar plexus.

A fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled. The small man pinned his arms behind him and Beefy reared back a fist, prepared to punch him in the stomach.

Jay used the momentum of the small man’s grip to lift his feet. He drove them into Beefy’s stomach, pushing himself backward at the same time.

Beefy fell. The smaller man huffed as Jay’s weight pinned him against the wall. Jay turned, jerking his arms clear, then smashed the guy’s nose with his forearm.

When he looked back at Beefy, the big man was trying to regain his feet. Jay kicked him solidly in the groin.

Both men were down for the moment. The smaller man’s nose was pouring blood. Beefy was doubled over with pain. But they’d recover fast.

Jay wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, barely noting his own blood as he rushed around the bed.

He bent over the woman. She was unconscious, or nearly so. When he slid one hand under her back and the other under her knees, she whimpered.

“Sorry,” he whispered, afraid she was injured but knowing he didn’t have time to find out. He hefted her, absently noting how small she was, and took her out through the French doors. He kneed the doors closed and glanced inside. The two men were beginning to stir.

Hurrying to the old sedan he kept in tiptop shape for just this purpose, he opened the passenger door and carefully set her inside. He quickly and awkwardly fastened her seat belt, then ran around the car, got in, grabbed the keys from under the mat, cranked it and took off.