The Missing Heir

No, mine, she thought. I wished for a friend and maybe, just maybe, here he is. On this strange island that seemed like another world, Russ was the known, the familiar. She might not decide to confide in him, but at least she now had someone she felt she could talk to if needed.

Russ took another swallow of coffee, trying not to watch Mari. Which was difficult because he enjoyed looking at her so much. Why the devil did her hair have to be molten gold and her eyes like fine sherry? Spying was bad enough, and it was ten times worse because he liked the way she smiled, the way she talked with her hands, the way she moved. Hell, even the way she sipped her coffee. No man in his right mind could avoid being attracted to her.

He couldn’t afford to be, yet at the same time he needed to learn more about her in order to protect Joe Haskell. Since the old man was tough, he’d probably pull through this latest cardiac setback, but he didn’t need any extra stress—such as an impostor on his doorstep.

“Like to go riding around the island?” Russ asked. “I’ll return the favor and find you a mount this time.”

“Oh, yes!”

Damn, how could she seem so open and straightforward? The likelihood of a greedy, scheming heart beating under that attractive exterior was almost a sure bet, no matter how cleverly she concealed it. He knew all about pretty women and how they could fool a man—his ex-wife had taught him well.

Mari didn’t have Denise’s sophistication, nor did she wear designer originals. No doubt because she couldn’t afford them. It’d been obvious that the Crowley ranch house could use some updating. Money was at the bottom of every scheme. He hadn’t met her uncle, the man who’d contacted Joe in the first place, but it stood to reason that Mari had to be in on anything her uncle might be trying to promote.

Russ wished he didn’t feel this odd bond between Mari and himself. It must be because of the horses. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough. They might be kindred spirits where horses were concerned, but just because she loved them didn’t make her honest—and one Denise in a lifetime was more than enough.

Get to know Mari, yes, but hands off, Simon.

No romancing, no matter how appealing you find her.

“We’ll ride first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “Right now I’m on my way to take a look at one of my Blues who’s off his feed.”

“Mind if I tag along? I know you told me Lucy is a Blue, but I’d like to see another.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t trust my judgment?”

She slanted him a look. “When diagnosing horse ailments or in telling a Blue from a dapple-gray?”

“I can tell vet-visit-serious from layman-treatable. As for Blues—hey, lady, I’m the local expert, as you’re about to find out. Be careful or you’ll hear more about the breed than you care to know.”

Damn, she was easy to be with. This was only the second time they’d met and he felt as if they’d known each other for years. Had to be the horse connection.

“What’s his name?”

It took him a beat to realize she meant the ailing Blue. “Lancelot—the drivers call him Lance.”

“Do you name them all after King Arthur’s knights?”

“Used every one of them.”

“I suppose you’ll rename Lucy something like Elaine the Fair.”

He shook his head. “Not when she already knows the name you gave her.”

Her smile of approval warmed him.

After they’d been to the stable and found Lance already improving, Russ said, “I’ll walk you back to—where you’re staying.” He’d nearly said Haskell’s and hoped she hadn’t picked up on the hesitation. But why should she suspect Russ Simon was a spy?

He knew some considered spying to be exciting and glamorous. Not him. He hated anything that wasn’t aboveboard.

Mari looked away from him. “I’m not ready to go there just yet. I think I’ll wander around and look at the shops for a while.”

It was his cue to tell her he’d see her tomorrow and bow out, but instead he found himself saying, “Why not let an insider help you avoid the worst of the tourist traps?”

She hesitated a moment before replying, “Well, if you insist.”

As they started back toward the main street, he said, “I’ll buy you the very finest of Mackinac Island’s famous fudge. This way.”

“Why is it famous?”

“Ms. Crowley, you mean to tell me you never heard of Mackinac Island fudge?”

“Mr. Simon, this is a long way from Nevada.”

Yes, he thought, just as a Crowley is a long way from being a Haskell.

Without letting her have a taste in the shop, he carried the white bag of fudge down to the park next to Lake Huron and steered her toward a bench, saying, “Your first bite needs to be savored while at rest so you can concentrate on the remarkable flavor.” Only after they sat side by side did he open the bag, break off a piece and raise it to her lips.

When she opened her mouth, his fingers brushed her lower lip as he slid the chocolate inside. He drew his hand back quickly, disturbed by the tingle that ran through him from the brief contact.

Mari did her best to ignore the frisson his touch sent zinging along her nerves. She concentrated instead on the candy. “Umm, yes, it certainly does taste like fudge,” she said.

He laughed. “One for your side.”

She grinned, enjoying how relaxed she felt with him. “We’re counting? I’ll have to remember that. Actually, it’s excellent fudge.”

He dropped the bag onto her lap, saying, “Souvenir T-shirts next?”

Mari shook her head. Even if she’d wanted one, she couldn’t afford to spend the money she had with her unnecessarily. Though she’d recently gotten a credit card strictly for emergencies, Stan didn’t have any. When Mari was ten, Aunt Blanche had cut up the one she shared with Uncle Stan. Her words echoed down the years: Gamblers got no business with that plastic. You go getting us any more in debt and we’ll lose the ranch.

Her uncle was no longer a high roller. Unless—and the thought chilled Mari—unless this entire Haskell business was no more than a scheme of his. A gamble. She shivered.

“Cold?” Russ asked.

“No.” And, no, too, to that disquieting notion about Stan. Her uncle loved her; he wouldn’t do anything like that to her. He might have been a gambler at one time, but he’d never been under-handed.

“The lake breeze isn’t exactly warm,” Russ said.

“I should be getting back,” she told him. There might be word by now about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She ought return to the cottage and find out.

“I’ll walk you—” he began.

“No!” Realizing she’d blurted the word, she added, “I mean, I’d like to be by myself for a while. Thanks for the fudge. I’ll meet you in the morning—where? Here in the park?”

His gaze was frankly assessing, but he didn’t comment other than to say, “Remember where the stable was? I’ll have our horses ready there. Nine?”

“Okay. See you then.” The bag of fudge clutched in her hand, Mari strode away from the park, aware she was all but running, which was foolish. Still, she couldn’t seem to slow down.

Running away from Russ when what she really wanted was to be with him? Yes, but did she want to share her story with him? She could hardly go on meeting him without admitting she was staying at the Haskell cottage. And why would she be doing that when the owner was in a New York hospital? If she was a family friend, wouldn’t Russ expect her to be in New York at Mr. Haskell’s bedside?