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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      LAURA carefully replaced the receiver of the phone. She wanted to slam it down after first yelling at Maria Brodie to stop calling her every day in her attempts to micromanage everything. But discretion being the better part of business life, she had kept her voice calm, sharing none of her frustration with the woman on the other end of the line. Proud of her self-control, she waited until the connection had been cut before giving a discreet “Eeeek!”

      The woman drove her crazy!

      Not for the first time since Hugo Atkins had died, Laura wished he was still running the gallery and the one she could escalate problems to. But the buck stopped with her these days. Inheriting the small art gallery in Miragansett turned out to be a mixed blessing. Normally she loved her calling, even when dealing with difficult artists like Maria Brodie. Actually if Laura and Maria’s conversation had centered around Maria’s work, it would have been easier to deal with.

      Instead they were involved in an ongoing battle to determine how many of Maria’s son’s paintings would be displayed in a public retrospective Laura had agreed to host at the gallery next month. They were in the final stages of planning, only two weeks left before the night of the opening. Laura wished Maria would let her do what she did well and go back to her painting.

      She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. She was getting a headache as she often did after dealing with the temperamental artist. Some of it was pure guilt. Keeping a life-changing secret wasn’t easy. At one point, Laura had expected Maria to become her mother-in-law. Now she wondered if they could have been so related and not end up killing each other one day. It was hard enough dealing with her since Jordan died. Her own emotions were in turmoil. The hurt and grief was gradually easing. Dealing with Maria kept everything to the forefront. She hoped time would heal the relationship. Once the show was over, there’d be little necessity of daily checkups by Maria. Come on July!

      “Laura, I need you out here right away!” her assistant called from the gallery.

      Heather was usually a calm and collected young woman. What caused that note of panic in her voice?

      Was there an emergency? Laura rose and dashed across her small, cluttered office. Off-limits to all but closest friends or business associates, the office reflected none of the serenity and beauty of the displays in the gallery. Stacks of papers cluttered the desk. A utilitarian file cabinet sat against one wall. The furnishings were functional and serviceable, nothing fancy. Hugo had left all that to the showrooms of the gallery.

      She opened the door and stepped into another world. Paintings graced the walls, discreetly illuminated by full spectrum, high tech lights. Thick carpeting muffled most sounds. Scattered artfully on free-standing pedestals were sculptures of renown. She offered metal, stone and glass objets d’art, as well as the paintings for which the gallery was known. Hugo had built the business in the historic Cape Cod town to cater to locals and tourists alike. Laura was carrying on in his footsteps.

      Heather stood across the room talking to a tall man whose back was toward Laura. He wore a business suit, unusual during the casual summer months. The expression on her assistant’s face was indescribable. When she spotted Laura, relief became evident. The man turned.

      Laura stopped—stunned. Her heart caught in her throat. It was impossible. Before her stood Jordan Brodie! A thrill of gladness swept through her for a split second.

      Then the truth hit her. This couldn’t be Jordan—she’d attended his funeral three months ago.

      “Laura Parkerson?” the man asked. The voice wasn’t Jordan’s. It sounded different, more clipped, not as lazy and teasing. The expression on his face was mingled: wariness and cynicism. Yet he looked exactly like Jordan.

      “Yes?”

      “You own this gallery?” he asked.

      “I do.”

      “I thought it belonged to Hugo Atkins.”

      “It did. He died a couple of years ago. Now it’s mine.” No need to go into the details of her inheritance. She’d worked for Hugo for several years, learned so much from him. She missed him every day. He knew she loved the place as much as he had and, with no children to inherit, he’d made Laura his heir.

      “He’s Jordan’s brother,” Heather said needlessly. “His twin brother.”

      “I didn’t know—” Laura started to say. She closed her mouth. Why should she be surprised to discover her former fiancé’s brother was a twin. It was not the first thing Jordan had kept from her. Once again the sadness of her loss swept through her. She’d loved him. To her Jordan had hung the moon. Until that fateful day. She rubbed her chest, the ache as fresh as it had been three months ago when she’d learned of Jordan’s betrayal and death.

      “What can I do for you?” Seeing him was like seeing a slightly skewed version of Jordan. This man was the same size and shape, but there was an electricity about him that never came from Jordan. An assurance that came from a quiet selfconfidence, not arrogance from bravado and posturing. Jordan had been as charming as could be, which allowed him to get away with things other men couldn’t. And allowed him to sweep her off her feet. She’d never felt so special as when she’d been with Jordan Brodie.

      “I’m Jed Brodie. I’ve come to pick up my brother’s paintings. I understand you have some of them,” he said.

      “I do. I just got off the phone with your mother, as a matter of fact. We’re working on the scheduling of a retrospective for his work next month. What do you mean you’ve come to pick up the paintings? I’ll be framing them here. Is that a problem?”

      “I need to get the paintings appraised for tax purposes. And if they’re worth anything, decide if I want to sell them now or later.” He glanced at his watch impatiently.

      “Sell them?” Laura felt like a parrot. But she didn’t understand. Was he expecting some kind of windfall from Jordan’s body of work? “Your mother said she didn’t want the paintings sold. She wants to show them to the community as a memorial to Jordan.” The problem was Maria wanted

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