LITMIR.BIZ

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goal of finding closure for her past. She needed to know who was responsible for blowing apart her family. For ending her mother’s life.

      And until she knew whom she could trust, she had to maintain a laser focus. Keeping him off-balance would help. “Who was the child in the picture?”

      She nodded toward the metal frame he’d placed facedown on the desk. The Ward Benally in that picture seemed so different from the one before her. Against the surreal backdrop of a snowcapped-mountain range, he and the young child—maybe a four-year-old—leaned forward in a wooden sled. Snow wicked off in a wave to the side of the sled. Ward’s blue eyes, somehow visible, were soft. Filled with joy. His protective arm was around the child, who was dressed in a puffy pink jacket and snow pants. Laughter was present on her little face.

      “That’s my stepdaughter.” His smile faded, his face somber.

      Mission accomplished in knocking him off-balance. So why did she feel so bad? “But you’re not married.”

      “Not any longer.” Tight voice. Tight response.

      Off-balance indeed. A moment of guilt passed through her. The glimmer of pain in his words stung.

      That shouldn’t have mattered to her, but given their undeniable chemistry, it did. “I’m sorry.”

      He nodded toward the door again, not budging from his position. He obviously wanted to ensure she walked out first. “I need to get to work. As soon as I escort you from the building, I can do that.”

      She really should make tracks and get out with whatever info she’d gained. She’s was risking too much by staying here, drawn in by Ward Benally’s allure.

      Striding through the door, she tried to ignore the sensation of his eyes on her. One breath at a time. She forced her heart rate to slow in time with her steps. She kept her gaze forward, off the window view of Alaska—icy water, snow and mountains. All so familiar. She wondered how the memories of this place had become dulled during her years away in the isolated little Canadian village, where her “adoptive” parents lived, a close-knit community that had become her world after the plane crash.

      “Benally,” a deep voice rumbled down the corridor.

      Her father’s voice.

      Brea froze.

      Ice crackled through her veins at this next surprise. Nothing she’d planned from this data-gathering mission had gone as expected. But this next hiccup truly rattled her to the core.

      She should have thought of the possibility of seeing her father when she came here. Should have been prepared. She was working on talking with her family, trying not to close doors until she figured out whom she could trust. But she usually had more time to prepare herself.

      Was that Ward’s hand on her back?

      Her brain scrambled with too much to process at once. Her vision cleared, and she saw the conference room was half full—her father, his new wife and a slew of Mikkelson and Steele relatives, along with investor Birch Montoya and environmental scientist Royce Miller, husband to Brea’s twin sister, Naomi.

      Brea stumbled. Air sucked from her lungs again.

      Even though she’d come back to Alaska last fall—albeit in disguise—it was still like a sucker punch coming face-to-face with Naomi. Seeing all her siblings was tough. But Naomi? They’d shared more than similar looks. They’d shared a bond.

      Or so she’d thought.

      When Brea had come to this office before, she’d half expected Naomi to recognize her even while she posed as Milla Jones. She’d chosen the fake identity to infiltrate the company and find out what had happened all those years ago. But when her initial snooping had been uncovered, things had gotten complicated. She’d just wanted to know who she could trust, to get answers about the past and gain vengeance for her mother.

      And yes, maybe she’d had the tiniest hope that she could have her family back.

      But Naomi hadn’t even recognized her. There hadn’t been a single spark of recognition. Even knowing it was irrational to expect Naomi to know her—even in disguise, even after all this time—that total loss of connection had still hurt.

      Her father stepped from the doorway, into the corridor, the others still hanging back in the conference room, behind the glass window. “Good afternoon, Brea,” her lumbering father said in that voice that sounded like he’d gargled rocks over the years. “I didn’t know you were here.”

      Somehow he managed to look exactly like she remembered him from before the plane crash. Broad-chested. His eyes the unflinching blue of the Atlantic Ocean. Hair still dark and thick, although flecked with gray these days. As he looked at her now, she saw hope cross his angular jaw as his mouth relaxed into a small, nearly imperceptible smile.

      That sure seemed to be the comment of the day. “I came by to speak with Ward.”

      Her father’s eyebrows met, creasing his forehead. “What about?”

      Her heart hammered again as she looked at Ward with panic. Was he going to rat her out? She wouldn’t blame him. And she hated how easily she’d just lied. And lied poorly, for that matter. Could her inability to think quickly have had something to do with the distracting touch of Ward’s hand on her back?

      Just as she opened her mouth to spin out a better version of her fib, a breathless woman rushed up the hallway, toward them, pushing a stroller. It took Brea a moment to place her as Isabeau Mikkelson, wife of Trystan, mother of little Everett, and a media consultant.

      The frazzled redhead thrust a binder toward Jack. “Here are the printouts of the guest list for the engagement party for Delaney and Birch, so you and Jeannie can work with them on the seating chart.” She rushed to add, “And I locked down the vintage roulette wheel for the casino theme.”

      Smoothing her shoulder-length hair, Isabeau smiled gently. A calming soul. One of the people Brea instinctively felt to be genuine. Besides, Isabeau wasn’t connected to the Mikkelsons by blood. And Brea had to admit, that lack of connection made Isabeau intriguing as a potential information source. There was that old saying that those on the margins could see the center best. And damn, did Brea need a better vantage point.

      Jack nodded. “Seating chart. Casino theme. Got it.”

      His words blurred together as Brea studied her family through the hall window. They were scattered around the conference room, some speaking in pairs, others clustered behind Jack.

      Brea’s gaze skirted to her baby sister, Delaney, a slender woman with dark wavy hair, standing quietly. Dressed in a simple red sweater dress and knee-high cognac-colored boots, Delaney visibly brightened as she leaned forward to look at the paper Isabeau handed to Jack Steele.

      Brea swallowed hard. Memories of playing dress up with her sisters, decades ago, scrolled through her mind. Days of making bridal veils from towels with her sisters. They’d dreamed of planning those real family events together.

      Her life was such a jumble.

      Brea remembered her family, her childhood. But in the years that had passed since the crash, it felt like those memories had become unreliable. Thanks to the lies and betrayal of her “adoptive” parents, she questioned what was real...and what she wanted to believe.

      There was so little she knew for certain. Such as how her mother had a special seal hunting knife called an ulu that she’d used to cut their pizza. Her mother’s impossibly strong and reassuring “I love you” as the plane had plummeted.

      Everything else? Up for debate and analysis.

      The caress of Ward’s hand on the small of her back pulled Brea back to the present. She looked at him, startled, curious.

      His smile gave her only a moment’s warning before he announced, “I guess this is as good a time as any to let them know our little secret.”

      Panic sent her heart racing. Had he seen her take off the

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