The Third Heiress by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page B

this been Hal’s?
    For one moment Jill was confused, until she recalled the several times they had visited museums in New York together. Hal had always enjoyed pointing out the details of late nineteenth and turn-of-the-century life—which he had seemed quite knowledgeable about. Of course this was his. He had undoubtedly admired the photography.
    Jill looked more closely at the photo, trying to see what it was that had drawn him to it, but for her, it was merely an old photograph of two young women. She shrugged to herself and laid the framed photo down on the bed. But she was thinking now that something was odd. Hal had not collected old photographs. He had been too intense about his own work. Chills seemed to cover her arms.
    Jill hesitated, then picked up the silver frame again. Unsure of what compelled her, she turned it over and she gasped. There was handwriting on the back of it.
    Curious, Jill took a closer look. Her eyes widened as she read aloud, “Kate Gallagher and Anne Bensonhurst, the summer of 1906.” The handwriting was Hal’s.
    There was no mistake about it.
    Jill was frozen. She did not know what to think. But her last name was Gallagher—and Hal’s last dying word to her had been “Kate.”
    She stared at the photo, trembling.
    This was, undoubtedly, the oddest coincidence, nothing more. Jill reminded herself that Hal had loved her, had told her so before he died, and that this photograph had nothing to do with that woman named Kate, who was probably his lawyer or some such thing. Jill turned the photograph back over. Who were these women and why had Hal cared enough about their photograph to write on the back of it, to keep it?
    She was grim, and in spite of her reassurances to herself, she was concerned. Oddly enough, she felt uneasy, and she was wishing that she had never come into his room.
    Still, Jill continued to stare at the picture. Both women were dark-haired and fair-skinned. Of course, back in those days, women did not take sun. One of the women was neither plain nor pretty; in spite of having classic features, she somehow disappeared beside her companion, whose looks were bold and striking. It was this other young woman who suddenly commanded Jill’s complete attention.
    Jill could not look away. She was mesmerized. There was something compelling about her. Something so very unusual. She was beautiful, but not classically. Her nose was straight and Roman, her jaw too wide, her cheekbones very high—and there was a definite mole on her right cheek. Jill did not think it was her looks that were so commanding. Perhaps it was her eyes. They were dark and bright with intelligence, with vitality, with joy, Jill thought, and Jill received the distinct feeling that this woman had secrets she wished to teasingly share.
    The woman with the mole stared back at Jill, smiling ever so slightly, Jill now saw, and her eyes were daring Jill to … to what?
    “Just what do you think you are doing in here?” a harsh voice demanded from behind her.
    Jill cried out, dropping the photograph.
    “I asked you what you were doing in here,” Alex Preston said from the doorway. And he flicked on the rest of the lights.

Two
    J ill’s palm rested on her wildly racing heart. “Your frightened me,” she said.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to find anyone in here.” Alex entered the room. His expression was difficult to read now, but there had been no mistaking it a moment ago. “What are you doing in here?” His blue stare was extremely, uncomfortably direct.
    Jill hesitated. “I couldn’t sleep.”
    His gaze did not waver. “This is Hal’s room. How did you find it?”
    Jill flushed. “By chance. I’m sorry if my prowling around has offended you.”
    “You’re a guest here—not a prisoner. But this is a family home.” His meaning was clear—she could have disturbed the family.
    “I knew Hal’s room was on the second floor,” Jill continued uneasily. “When I couldn’t fall asleep, I