Heiress (3 of 4 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Heiress by Janet Dailey. Copyright 1987 by Janbill Ltd.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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Chapter 1 (CONT'D)



Now, standing next to his solidness, Abbie recalled the way she used to say that everything about this man was square: his jaw, chin, shoulders--and his attitude. Yet Ben had been the steadying influence in her life. It was to him she'd gone as a child with all her questions and problems.

A solemn man who seldom smiled, he studied her briefly, reading her body language the way she'd seen him do so many times with a young Arabian colt in training. "What is wrong?" His voice carried the guttural accent and the lyrical rhythm of his native Poland.

"A moment ago, there was a woman standing near the family marker. Did you see her?"

"No," he replied, automatically glancing in the direction of the monument. "Who was she?"

"I don't know," Abbie replied, frowning as she again skimmed the faces of the people milling about. She knew she hadn't imagined the woman. Absently she ran a hand across her waist, discreetly smoothing the black Chanel dress, the crepe de Chine soft and silky to the touch. Determined to find the woman, she turned back to Ben and said, "Stay close to Momma for me, Ben."

"I will."

But Abbie didn't wait to hear his reply as she moved out among the graveside gathering, pausing to speak with this person, accepting the press of hands in sympathy from another, nodding smiling faintly, murmuring appropriate responses--all the while looking for the woman she'd seen so briefly.

Just as she was about to decide the woman had left the cemetery, Abbie saw her standing on the fringe of the crowd. Again she felt unnerved by the striking resemblance between them. Next to her stood the gray-haired Mary Jo Anderson, her father's longtime legal secretary, who had more or less run his limited law practice single-handedly over the years. Shocked and confused, Abbie stared at the two of them. What was Mary Jo doing with her? Did she know her?

Fingers closed around her arm as a man's deep voice came from somewhere close by. "Miss Lawson? Are you all right?"

"What?" Turning, she looked blankly at the tall, dark-haired man now beside her gripping her arm.

"I said, are you all right?" His mouth quirked slightly, lifting one corner of his dark mustache in a faint smile that was both patient and gentle, but his narrowed eyes were sharp in their study of her.

"I'm. . . fine," she said, mentally trying to shake off her abstraction as she stared at his rough-hewn features, conscious that there was something vaguely familiar about him.

Remembering the woman, she glanced back over her shoulder to locate her. The man curved a supporting arm around the back of her waist. "You'd better sit down." He started guiding her in the opposite direction.

Abbie stiffened in resistance. "I told you I'm fine." But she was propelled along by his momentum to a nearby folding chair. There she took a determined stand and blocked his attempt to seat her. "I feel fine," she insisted again.

Eyeing her skeptically, he cocked his head to one side and let his hands fall away from her. "You don't look fine. As a matter of fact, Miss Lawson, a minute ago, you looked like hell."

It was his bluntness more than the sight of Mary Jo Anderson walking away from the gravesite alone that caused Abbie to center her whole attention on him. She thought she had learned to hide her feelings over the years. Perhaps she hadn't--or maybe he was just more observant than most.

Either way, Abbie tried to cover her previous reaction. "It was probably the heat."

"It is hot," he acknowledged with a faint nod of his head, but Abbie suspected that he didn't think the stifling afternoon heat was to blame. As his gaze moved lazily over her face, its look still sharp and inspecting, the action reinforced the feeling that she'd met him somewhere before--and he'd been just as thorough in his study of her that time, too.

"I am all right, though. Thanks anyway for your concern. . ." She paused, unable to supply his name.

"Wilder. MacCrea Wilder." The name didn't ring any familiar note with her and he seemed to sense that. "We met briefly this past spring, in your father's office."

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