Read Online Dangerous Inheritance by Barbara Warren - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Warren
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crystal bases. A group of photographs was arranged on the chest of drawers, and she paused to look at them. One caught her attention, her father, her mother and her, the only photo of her father she had seen in this house. A picture flashed through her mind of the three of them in a park where there were swings and a slide.
They had been there the day of her mother’s murder.
Macy strained to recall more, but the memory had faded. She slumped down on the bed, burning with frustration. These brief flashes, just enough to give her a glimpse into her past, were tearing her apart.
Blinking back tears, she got up and turned to check the closet, not really expecting much, but at least she could look. She slid open the doors and discovered clothing for both a man and a woman hanging there, as if waiting for the people who owned them to come back.
Macy wiped her eyes. For seventeen years those forlorn-looking garments had been hidden behind the sliding wooden doors. Clothing her father and mother had worn. Her heart burned. She would never see her parents again, and she didn’t even have memories of them to comfort her.
She reached a trembling hand to remove a pale green dress of a soft, thin material from a padded hanger. Macy buried her face in its folds, and for a moment, the fragrance of lilacs seemed to hang in the air. She had a vivid memory of her mother wearing this dress, a memory of sunshine and laughter...and love.
Macy sank into a wicker rocker, holding the garment in her lap, struggling to remember more, but the memory was already dying. Finally, limp and dejected, she went downstairs, taking the dress with her. Halfway down she jerked to a stop.
The front door stood wide-open.
She had shut and locked that door, so how could it be open now, and who was here? Macy crept down the last few steps, trying to be as quiet as possible. The air crackled with tension. She paused on the bottom step, listening.
Silence.
But the house didn’t feel empty—no sound, no movement, just a sense of not being alone. Macy tiptoed to the living room doorway and glanced inside, but no one was there. A search of the other downstairs rooms revealed nothing out of the ordinary and no intruder. So who had unlocked the door? And where was the person now?
She finished searching the rooms, ending in the foyer again. A picture lay on the mahogany table. A picture of her father in prison clothes. Her eyes were drawn to a sheet of paper lying beside it and the words written there.
Steve Douglas got what he deserved. If you stay here, you’ll deserve what you get, too.
Macy caught her breath, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. That picture hadn’t been there when she came downstairs. She would have seen it. She stood rigid, straining to hear something. The house felt empty now, but she couldn’t be sure. She inched away from the picture, heart pounding. Still holding her mother’s dress, she backed toward the front door. The person who had left that picture could still be hiding here, waiting to attack as soon as she turned to run. She needed to get out of this house. Get to someplace safe. Macy slid one foot behind her, moving slowly.
Quietly.
She bumped against something solid...and alive. Arms closed around her. A warm breath tickled her hair. A deep baritone voice said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
The pressure in her chest eased. She twisted around, coming face-to-face with Nick. His arms still held her close to him and a mischievous grin curved his lips. Suddenly his expression changed, his eyes narrowing.
“What’s wrong, Macy?”
“Someone was here.” She managed to get the words out, past a throat gone dry and gritty, as if she had swallowed sand.
“Where? Inside the house?”
She nodded, and he gently moved her aside. “Stay here. I’ll take a look.”
Macy caught his arm. “I think whoever it was is gone, but he left me a present.”
She indicated the picture and note, watching as
They had been there the day of her mother’s murder.
Macy strained to recall more, but the memory had faded. She slumped down on the bed, burning with frustration. These brief flashes, just enough to give her a glimpse into her past, were tearing her apart.
Blinking back tears, she got up and turned to check the closet, not really expecting much, but at least she could look. She slid open the doors and discovered clothing for both a man and a woman hanging there, as if waiting for the people who owned them to come back.
Macy wiped her eyes. For seventeen years those forlorn-looking garments had been hidden behind the sliding wooden doors. Clothing her father and mother had worn. Her heart burned. She would never see her parents again, and she didn’t even have memories of them to comfort her.
She reached a trembling hand to remove a pale green dress of a soft, thin material from a padded hanger. Macy buried her face in its folds, and for a moment, the fragrance of lilacs seemed to hang in the air. She had a vivid memory of her mother wearing this dress, a memory of sunshine and laughter...and love.
Macy sank into a wicker rocker, holding the garment in her lap, struggling to remember more, but the memory was already dying. Finally, limp and dejected, she went downstairs, taking the dress with her. Halfway down she jerked to a stop.
The front door stood wide-open.
She had shut and locked that door, so how could it be open now, and who was here? Macy crept down the last few steps, trying to be as quiet as possible. The air crackled with tension. She paused on the bottom step, listening.
Silence.
But the house didn’t feel empty—no sound, no movement, just a sense of not being alone. Macy tiptoed to the living room doorway and glanced inside, but no one was there. A search of the other downstairs rooms revealed nothing out of the ordinary and no intruder. So who had unlocked the door? And where was the person now?
She finished searching the rooms, ending in the foyer again. A picture lay on the mahogany table. A picture of her father in prison clothes. Her eyes were drawn to a sheet of paper lying beside it and the words written there.
Steve Douglas got what he deserved. If you stay here, you’ll deserve what you get, too.
Macy caught her breath, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. That picture hadn’t been there when she came downstairs. She would have seen it. She stood rigid, straining to hear something. The house felt empty now, but she couldn’t be sure. She inched away from the picture, heart pounding. Still holding her mother’s dress, she backed toward the front door. The person who had left that picture could still be hiding here, waiting to attack as soon as she turned to run. She needed to get out of this house. Get to someplace safe. Macy slid one foot behind her, moving slowly.
Quietly.
She bumped against something solid...and alive. Arms closed around her. A warm breath tickled her hair. A deep baritone voice said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
The pressure in her chest eased. She twisted around, coming face-to-face with Nick. His arms still held her close to him and a mischievous grin curved his lips. Suddenly his expression changed, his eyes narrowing.
“What’s wrong, Macy?”
“Someone was here.” She managed to get the words out, past a throat gone dry and gritty, as if she had swallowed sand.
“Where? Inside the house?”
She nodded, and he gently moved her aside. “Stay here. I’ll take a look.”
Macy caught his arm. “I think whoever it was is gone, but he left me a present.”
She indicated the picture and note, watching as
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