Zach sat in a corner of the hospital cafeteria, drinking coffee from a brown-and-white cardboard cup and eating a ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwich. The coffee tasted like battery acid, the cheese was processed, the dark rye bread stale.
His mind was not on his unsavory meal. It was on what he was going to do about Eleanor. Every morning, when he went to work, he was in charge of millions of dollars and thousands of Lord’s employees. He was intelligent, capable and clever. So why the hell couldn’t he figure out what to do about Eleanor’s unwavering efforts to locate her missing granddaughter? A granddaughter who’d likely been dead for twenty-four years.
Zach polished off the thick, unappetizing coffee and lost in thought, began methodically tearing the cardboard cup to pieces. On some level, he was vaguely aware of a growing commotion nearby. But since this was a hospital and there was always some tragedy occurring, he paid the raised voices no heed.
Last year Eleanor had been convinced she’d discovered Anna. The woman, a blackjack dealer in a Las Vegas casino, had been an obvious impostor. It was also obvious she’d been put up to the charade by her boyfriend, a low-level gangster.
But when Zach had argued that the things the woman professed to remember about the Montecito house and the family could be found in newspaper morgues and style magazines, Eleanor, her steely logic fogged by unrelenting desire, had refused to listen.
Ignoring Zach’s protests, Eleanor had moved the woman and her boyfriend into her home, treating them like family. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was too good for her darling “Anna.” On one memorable day, Zach had arrived in Santa Barbara with the quarterly reports just as Eleanor and “Anna” returned home laden down with resort clothes, dresses, and elegant evening gowns—suitable for all the parties Anna would be attending, Eleanor had pointed out. Later that same afternoon, a red Corvette from a local Chevrolet dealer had been delivered.
Although Zach detested anything resembling a lie, he had reminded himself that what Eleanor was seeking was family. That being the case, did it really matter all that much if this newly discovered family member was not really tied by blood?
It did.
Six weeks after their arrival at Eleanor’s door, the unsavory pair absconded with all the gifts Eleanor had bestowed upon the woman she’d believed to be her granddaughter, along with several thousand dollars from the household expenses checking account, a tea set crafted by Paul Revere that had been in the family for two hundred years, and a stunning diamond-and-pearl necklace set in platinum that James had given Eleanor on the occasion of their son Robert’s birth.
Had it not been for the necklace, Eleanor, horribly embarrassed by her uncharacteristic mistake in judgment, undoubtedly would have let the matter go. But the sentimental value of that jewelry overrode any fear of public humiliation.
She’d pressed charges, and two weeks later, the couple was discovered celebrating their good fortune in Cancun. Well aware that what he was doing was bribery, Zach traveled to Mexico with an attaché case filled with American dollars to grease the normally slow-moving machinery of Mexican justice.
He was successful. The fugitives were extradited to California, charged and convicted.
Although still slightly bothered by the way he’d skated along the razor’s edge of principle—bribery and veiled threats were not his usual method of doing business—Zach did not for a single moment regret his actions.
The son of an impoverished Louisiana trapper and sugarcane farmer, Zach had come up the hard way and was immensely proud of his white-collar status. He also understood that it was not that great a distance between wearing a starched shirt and suit in his executive suite to his early days laboring in a sweat-stained T-shirt on the loading dock of the New Orleans Lord’s.
Eleanor Lord had offered Zach wealth, security and the opportunity to prove himself. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
The voices in the cafeteria grew louder, infiltrating their way into his thoughts. When he recognized Clara’s voice, he looked over to see what the witch was up to now.
She was engaged in an argument with another woman whom Zach recognized as Eleanor’s niece. Eleanor kept a crystal-framed photo of Miranda Lord, smiling up at her first husband, the dashing, unfaithful Brazilian polo player, on her desk.
Deciding he’d better intervene before the two women started pulling hair, Zach cursed and pushed himself to his feet.
Clara’s pudgy face was as crimson as today’s turban, while equally bright color stained Miranda’s cheekbones.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, from behind Miranda’s shoulder, “but you ladies are drawing a crowd.”
Miranda spun around. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”
Her green eyes were flashing like emeralds and her complexion reminded him of the Devonshire cream he’d sampled the time Eleanor, intent on teaching him manners, had taken him to afternoon tea at the Biltmore.
“If you do not mind, Mr. Deveraux,” Clara said, giving him her usual glare, “we are having a discussion.”
“Sounded more like an argument to me.”
“Mr. Deveraux?” One perfectly shaped blond brow lifted. The fury faded from her bright eyes, replaced by blatant feminine interest. “You’re Aunt Eleanor’s famous Zachary?”
Miranda Lord was reminiscent of an F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine. One of those bright, shining people, like Daisy from The Great Gatsby. Zach felt a burst of masculine pride that she knew of him. “Not all that famous.”
“On the contrary.” Her lips curved, and he was reminded of a cat regarding a succulent saucer of cream. “You’re practically all Auntie talks about. And although I knew you were a change from those old fogies who usually sit on the board, I don’t know why she never mentioned how—” she allowed her eyes to sweep slowly over him “—substantial you are.”
When her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on his thighs, Zach knew he was being expertly, seductively summed up.
Her openly predatory gaze returned to his face. “I’m so sorry,” she cooed. “All this has been so upsetting that I’ve completely forgotten my manners.” She held out a slim, perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Miranda Lord. Soon to be the former Lady, or Mrs. Martin-the-bastard-Smythe.” Her silvery, breathless voice, a voice Judy Holliday had invented and Marilyn Monroe had perfected, carried an unmistakable British upper class tinge.
“I heard about your divorce.” Her hand felt soft and smooth. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t be,” Miranda insisted. “Personally, I look on divorce as not so much of an ending, as a new beginning.”
She gave him a suggestive smile before turning back to Clara. “My aunt wishes to see you. Oh, and she wants you to bring your tarot cards.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Clara huffed. Gathering up her immense shoulder bag, she waddled from the bustling cafeteria.
“Do you suppose,” Miranda suggested, “that if we threw water on Clara, she might melt?”
Zach threw back his head and laughed. A rich, booming release of sound that eased the tension. “It’s definitely worth a try.”
“Why don’t we discuss the logistics? Over coffee.” She glanced disparagingly around the room. “I’m absolutely exhausted from traveling. But I doubt the chef at this bleak establishment knows how to brew a proper pot of tea.”
“No problem. I know just the place.”
Placing a palm at her elbow, he led her out of the hospital.
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the Biltmore’s La Sala lounge. The lounge, with its wealth of polished stonework, luxuriant greenery and comfortable, overstuffed sofas and armchairs, was the most gracious in the city.
“I