A Precious Inheritance - Paula Roe

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      With a deliberately bored shrug, she slid her glasses on. “I hate waiting. Especially for a D. B. Dunbar.”

      He crossed his arms, his expression part skeptical, part disgusted. “You couldn’t wait six months.”

      “That’s right.”

      “Bull.”

      The stress of the past few years, the tense auction, missing her babies and the frantic craziness of New York had done their damage, steadily chipping away at her control. And now this… this… arrogant SOB in her face. She’d had enough.

      Resentment surged through her veins, heating her face and pulling her shoulders back. She shoved her glasses on her head then tipped her chin up, giving him her haughtiest death stare.

      “You know what? You got me. You want to know who I am?” When she took an aggressive step forward, surprise flashed across his face, and empowered, she took another. “I was Dunbar’s secret girlfriend, he left me with nothing and I was bidding on that manuscript so I could wait a few months, then flog it off for a nice little profit when his book came out. That sound about right to you?”

      She punctuated every word with a pointing finger, until finally she paused, a bare inch away from poking that finger into his broad chest.

      His eyes were a sharp, clear blue, the kind of blue reserved for movie stars and rock gods. Yet strangely, it reminded her of a perfect Colorado winter, the morning after the first snowfall.

      Contact lenses, probably. His whole persona screamed money and entitlement, and with that, ego and vanity came hand in hand. Yet as she paused, breath pumping from her lungs and fists now on hips, his gaze flicked to her mouth.

      The moment flared, so sudden and intense that Vanessa sucked in a gasp. Her anger shorted out as awareness flooded in, infinite possibilities and anticipation threading through the air, binding them.

      It left her reeling.

      Chase couldn’t help but notice how wide those green eyes had become. Innocent eyes, he would’ve said, if not for the fact that she’d spent the last twenty seconds practically screaming her crazy scenario at him.

      And boy, a woman with a mouth that good was as far from innocent as he was.

      He dragged in a breath, then quickly exhaled when he realized it was all her. Something vanilla, plus something else…soft and powdery, familiar yet unable to place.

      Princess smelled amazing, and that pissed him off because the last thing he needed was a raging attraction to her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t do commitment or Perfects.

      Control. He had to get control.

      “Miss Partridge?” came a voice, and as one, they both sprung back and turned.

      A uniformed man stood there, a cap tucked under his arm.

      “Yes?” she said, her chin going up, eyebrows raised in an imperious “why are you interrupting me” expression.

      “Miss Richardson said to inform you her car is ready for you. Where would you like to go?”

      She spared Chase a haughty look. “JFK, thanks.” And without another word, she turned on her heel and followed the driver down the long corridor.

      She had the rounded tones and patrician air that clenched every muscle in Chase’s body, sending it onto high alert. She even had the walk down pat, he realized, watching her hips sway beneath that tight black skirt, her precise footsteps in killer heels eating up the hall. Part hypnotic, part infuriating, that arrogant walk told him she knew exactly where his eyes were focused. He’d bet a thousand bucks a smug smile was plastered all over that beautiful face, too.

      With hands on his hips he glared at her back until she turned the corner and finally disappeared.

      She hadn’t declared her innocence or answered his questions. And now he had a name—Partridge. Which meant this was far from over.

      Two

      Chase checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes then stared out into the dark, leafy suburban street, shifting restlessly in the luxurious leather seat of his rental car as his thoughts tossed.

      Vanessa Partridge. His gaze honed in on the apartment building three doors down, at the lights behind the drawn curtains on the second floor.

      At first he’d thought there was something in that manuscript, something incriminating she wanted to remain private. But apart from a stack of hand-written notes and a bunch of chapters running low on toner, he’d come up empty.

      He’d stared at those neat pages on his desk for so long he could’ve burned a hole in them. And eventually he returned to his original accusation—she was a Waverly plant.

      He buttoned up his coat then swung open the car door, wincing as an unseasonably cold October breeze rushed in. A thousand questions burned, their missing endings gnawing away at him. Despite the information Chase had charmed out of Waverly’s staff, then had followed up online, nothing could fill in the gaps better than the woman herself. Yes, her story about her sister and Ann Richardson had proven correct, but the rest was woefully deficient…and he hated the imperfection those holes wrought.

      Why would Vanessa Partridge resort to shill bidding? And why would the daughter of two highly respected Washington lawyers have such a blatant disregard for the law?

      Chase shoved his hands in his pockets. If she was as innocent as she claimed, how could she afford to bid on that manuscript, given her single-parent status and teacher’s salary? Daddy’s money? So why not use that money for a house, a flashy car, a nanny?

      Those questions had dogged his thoughts after he’d observed her leaving the nursery school where she worked, dressed in jeans and a battered bomber jacket, hair tied in a simple ponytail. He’d watched in fascination as she went through what was obviously the familiar process of carrying two babies outside, strapping them into her old BMW, throwing her bags into the trunk, then driving fifteen minutes to a double-story apartment block. One of many that lined an average street in the lower end of Silver Spring, Maryland.

      Everything about Vanessa Partridge screamed respectability, from her old-money Washington-lawyer parents, to her centuries-old bloodline. But she also baffled him. Why would someone turn her back on a promising career in law, one where she could fall into the family practice straight after her bar exam? When he’d read that particular bit of information he’d known that a trip to Maryland was in the cards. He dealt in speculation every single waking moment: it’s what he did, first as the new guy at Rushford Investments, then as one of McCoy Jameson’s most sought-after portfolio managers. These days, he worked for himself and a few choice investors. He had a talent for making money and he’d made an obscene amount of it over the years, even through the turbulent time following the crash. He was pretty much free to please himself.

      And right now, what pleased him was figuring out the puzzle that was Vanessa Partridge because everything about her just didn’t add up.

      He stared up at the drawn curtains of Vanessa’s apartment.

      If it somehow turned out he was wrong, he owed her an apology. Chase Harrington always admitted his mistakes. But the only way he’d get to the truth was by confronting her.

      No, not confronting. He’d done that back in New York and look what had happened—she’d been all up in his face and then, wham! That moment when he’d suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to kiss her.

      His breath puffed out, clouding in the cool night air. Dammit. She was a Perfect in every sense of the word, and not just by the standards of his narrow-minded hometown. She had the breeding, the money, the attitude…the looks. That skin, the hair. The mouth—that beautifully shaped, top-heavy mouth, coupled with those wide green eyes…

      With a muffled curse he slammed his car door closed. Get a grip, Chase. He’d fought hard to keep his past in the past, even though it had molded him into

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