A Precious Inheritance

He’d read more than he cared to about Waverly’s these past months. Movie stars, scandals, a missing golden statue. Crazy stuff that belonged in bestselling fiction, not real life. Sometimes he found it hard to believe he actually moved in some of the same social circles.

But he knew firsthand how dark the flipside could be, especially when money was involved. Take Ann Richardson—a driven, charismatic woman who’d dragged the Waverly name through the tabloids, thanks to her alleged affair with Dalton Rothschild.

He scowled. There was something about Rothschild that rubbed him the wrong way… Oh, he had bags of charm and was a talented businessman, but Chase had never liked the way he seemed to seek the spotlight for every charity event, every donation he made. Too overdone, Chase had always thought.

While he suffered a few more handshakes, his gaze returned to the two women, noting the familiar way they chatted, the hand Ann placed on the redhead’s arm, the smiles. Then they bent their heads and a quick volley of words flew, in between a few surreptitious looks that could only mean they were exchanging something private.

A sliver of doubt took hold.

Chase pulled out his phone and on the pretext of checking his calls, studied the women more closely.

To a casual observer, the redhead’s appearance was impeccable. But Chase was looking for flaws and pretty soon his keen eyes found them. A loose thread on her cuff, sharp creases on her jacket—both pointed to lots of wardrobe storage. Then there was her bag, which showed faint wear along the leather handles.

He hesitated at her legs, appreciating the lean calves for a moment until he dragged his gaze down. Impossibly high shoes, shiny and obviously expensive. And vaguely familiar.

His thoughtful frown cleared. Yeah, that fashion designer he’d dated a few years back had had a thing for shoes and she’d had the exact same style in five different colors. If these were real, they were at least three years old. If they were fake, it only created more questions.

The redhead slowly shifted her weight from one leg to the other and winced, a dead giveaway that her feet were killing her. So, a woman not used to wearing fancy shoes. A woman—he quickly realized—who definitely did not have half a million to spare.

All those little anomalies exploded into full-blown suspicion. He’d seen more than his fair share of underhand deals not to realize something was off.

Anger flared, making his gut tighten. Coincidence? No way. Things always happened for a reason, not because of some cosmic karma. The redhead was up to something. Her conflicting appearance, her link to Ann Richardson, combined with Richardson’s tainted reputation…

Anger and distaste swelled up inside. If Richardson had resorted to shill bidding then Chase was not going to let her get away with it.

* * *

Lost, lost, lost. Vanessa’s red-heeled Louboutins tattooed out that one word as she clacked down Waverly’s polished hall, her throat thick with disappointment.

Her failure had been briefly overshadowed by seeing Ann Richardson, her sister’s college roommate, and for a few minutes she was simply Juliet’s sister, exchanging friendly chatter and playing catch-up.

“Juliet’s in Washington for a few weeks, you know,” Vanessa had said. “You should give her a call and we could do lunch sometime. That is,” she amended, belatedly recalling the recent sensational headlines, “if you’re not too busy.”

Ann smiled. “I’m always busy. But it is tempting. A chance to get away from the city would be welcome.”

Vanessa knew how she felt.

They chatted about the auction for a few minutes, then Vanessa’s family, until she regretfully mentioned her flight and Ann offered the use of her car. She wanted to refuse, but the truth was a chauffeured ride would provide more privacy than a New York cabdriver.

Privacy to wallow in her failure.

Gone, gone, gone, her heels continued to tap out on the white marbled floor.

She’d bid as high as she could, but her grandmother’s considerable trust fund just wasn’t enough. Sorry, Meme. She sighed as she tied her coat belt with a swift tug. I know you’d think I was crazy for wanting something from that man. But you always said a family legacy was one of the most important gifts you can give your children.

And all she’d gotten for her trouble was a bunch of aching muscles from pulling her shoulders straight, a painful reward for donning that familiar air of cool world-weariness designed to keep any curious onlookers at bay.

She kept up the brisk pace, her face still tight as she passed by an ornate mirror.

It had been so long since she’d needed her game face, but old ways died hard. Well, of course they did. It’s been drummed into you since you were five years old. And for twenty-two more she’d lived it with outward acceptance. “You are a Partridge,” was her father’s favorite lecture. “Your forefathers were one of the founding families of this great city of Washington. You do not show weakness or vulnerability and you never, ever do anything to taint the noble legacy of those ancestors.”

She grabbed the door handle as emotion tumbled inside. Well, she’d well and truly tainted that legacy; she’d not only thrown away a career in law for a teaching degree, then quit the position her father had arranged at the exclusively private Winchester Prep: she’d ended up unwed and pregnant. In the eyes of the great Allen Partridge, that was a bigger offense than her teaching job at Bright Stars Nursery School. She’d felt his scorn and disappointment for days under his roof until she’d finally decided to move.

“Excuse me.” A large male hand suddenly slapped on the door, shoving it closed and breaking her thoughts.

“What do you think you’re…?” She whirled, but the rest of her sentence petered off as she stared up into a pair of angry blue eyes. Nice face. Very nice face. No, wait! It was Mr. Million Dollars, the smug suit who’d won what should have been hers. “…doing?” she finished in irritation.

She put her weight on the back foot, creating distance even as her fingers tightened on her handbag.

Animosity seeped from every pore of his sharply dressed body, broad shoulders straight, cool arrogance lining an impressively striking face. Tanned skin, chiseled jaw. Her inner artist paused to admire the view. Classically handsome, really…

“Who are you?” he barked.

She blinked, the spell broken. “None of your business. Who are you?”

“Someone who can make a lot of trouble for you. How do you know Ann Richardson?”

Vanessa shoved her handbag strap up her shoulder. “Again, none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

The man refused to budge, preferring instead to stare her down.

Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.

She raised one condescending eyebrow then slowly crossed her arms. “Do I need to call security?”

“Oh, go right ahead. I’m sure they’ll be interested in your story.”

What? Confusion spiked, followed quickly by a thread of worry. She drew in a sharp breath. “Look, I don’t know who you think I am or what I’ve—”

He snorted. “Cut the crap. I know exactly what you’ve been doing. The question is, do you want to come clean or should I do it for you?”

The cold steel in his voice matched his eyes, slicing through her tough protective shell in one swift movement.

“Come clean?” she said faintly.

“Yeah. And I’m sure I could wrangle a few reporters interested enough to run a story.”

Shock stole her voice, her breath. How could he know? No one knew. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers tightening around her woolen collar.

Yet as he stood there, bristling and combative as he invaded her personal space, a thought began to grow inside, pushing past her outrage and fear. What was it her father always said? “Until there’s irrefutable evidence, never admit to anything.”

Wow, it did help to have a defense lawyer in the family.

A shot of resolve forced her hand into a tight fist by her side. Quickly she called on every tired muscle to straighten her already ramrod back as she inhaled, filling her lungs with self-assurance.

“And what story would that be?” she said calmly, pinning him with her direct gaze.

His murmur of disbelief annoyed the hell out of her. “Shill bidding.”