The Rags-To-Riches Wife Read online

  Lily didn’t wait for the minister to finish, she simply turned and fled.

  Jack Cartwright stared in disbelief. There she was—the mystery woman from the ball. He’d begun to think he’d dreamed that night, that there had been no beautiful redhead, that there had been no passionate hours spent in his hotel room, that there had been no woman with ghost-blue eyes and skin as soft as silk. But she hadn’t been a dream. She was real. And she was getting away.

  “Jack, where are you going?” his mother demanded in hushed tones as she clutched the sleeve of his jacket. “The reverend’s not finished the service.”

  Beneath the net veil of Sandra Cartwright’s hat, Jack noted the disapproval in his mother’s eyes. It couldn’t be helped, he told himself as he spied the redhead in the dark coat walking briskly toward the cemetery gates. “I’m sorry. I have to go. There’s someone I have to see.”

  “But, Jack—”

  Ignoring his mother’s protest and the questioning look his father cast his way, Jack began to maneuver his way toward the rear of the crowd. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me,” he repeated in a low voice as he shouldered his way past friends, business associates and acquaintances.

  “…and may perpetual light shine upon them.”

  Moments later, a chorus of “Amen” rang out and then the crowd began to surge forward while he continued in the opposite direction. “Sorry. Pardon me,” he said as he bumped elbows and dodged hat brims. After he’d finally made his way to the edge of the moving throng, he rushed down a grassy slope toward the cemetery’s entrance where she had exited. When he reached the wrought-iron gates at the entrance, he searched the street in both directions. But he was too late. She was gone, vanished—just as she had vanished from his bed that winter night while he had slept.

  Dammit.

  He jammed his fingers through his hair. She’d gotten away—again. And he still didn’t even know her name, let alone how to find her.

  “Jack? Jack Cartwright, is that you?”

  Jack recognized the husky purr of Delia Forrester behind him. Gritting his teeth, he turned to face Frank Forrester’s trophy wife. He didn’t like the woman, hadn’t liked her from the moment the seventy-year-old Frank had shown up at the Eastwick Country Club and introduced the statuesque blonde as his new bride. He considered himself broad-minded enough not to prejudge Delia because of the thirty-year age difference between her and Frank, Jack admitted. After all, he’d witnessed the success of Stuart and Vanessa Thorpe’s May-December marriage during the last years of Stuart’s life. Nor did he pay heed to the rumors about Delia spending Frank’s money as though it was water. What he did hold against Delia was the fact that the woman had come on to him—and she’d done it practically under her husband’s nose. He didn’t trust Delia and, for the life of him, he didn’t understand why Frank did. “Hello, Delia,” he said and cast another glance down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of his mystery woman again.

  “I thought that was you I saw leaving the service in such a hurry.” She looked down the street in the direction where his attention was focused. “Looking for someone?”

  “I thought I saw someone I knew and I was hoping I’d be able to catch her.”

  “What’s her name?” she asked and placed a hand on her hip, drawing attention to the way the shiny black all-weather coat had been cinched at the waist. He couldn’t help wondering how the woman walked in the killer heels she had on. She tossed her platinum-blond hair back in a way he suspected was supposed to draw his interest, and stared at him out of brown eyes that were dry and clear, not a bit of smudged mascara in sight. She licked her lips, making the blood-red lipstick glisten. “Maybe I know her.”

  Jack considered that for a moment and couldn’t help noting the marked contrasts between his mystery redhead and Delia. The chances of Delia knowing his mystery woman were slim to none. “I doubt it. She doesn’t move in your circles.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll be sorry to have missed you. I know I would.”

  Choosing to ignore the overture, Jack asked, “Where’s Frank?”

  She sighed. “He’s waiting in the car. You know how weak he’s been since his heart attack and since it looked like it might rain, I didn’t think it would be a good idea for him to be out in this damp air.”

  “How considerate of you.”

  “I was trying to be,” she said, a wounded look in her eyes.

  Regretting his sharp tone, Jack told himself he wasn’t being fair. Maybe he had misjudged the woman, he reasoned. After all, from all accounts Delia had seemed to pay considerable attention to Frank since his heart attack. “You were right to have Frank wait in the car. The damp air probably isn’t good for him.”

  “That’s what I told Frank. Unfortunately, being an invalid isn’t easy for him. It’s not easy for me either.” She lowered her gaze a moment, then looked back up at him. “Frank’s not the man he was before his heart attack. There’s so many things that he can’t do now.”

  “Then I guess he’s lucky to have you to help him,” Jack told her and decided he hadn’t misjudged Delia after all.

  “That’s what Frank says, too. And I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. But every now and then it feels so overwhelming,” she continued and took a step closer. “It makes me wish I had someone thatI could lean on, someone who would take care ofmy needs for a change.”

  “Maybe you should get a nurse to help you with Frank,” Jack suggested, ignoring the obvious invitation. He took a step back. “I’m sure Frank’s doctor could recommend someone.”

  Temper flashed in Delia’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly Jack wondered if he’d imagined it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly trust Frank’s care to anyone else—not after that close call he had. Why, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened and I lost my Frank.”

  “Somehow I think you’d manage. But hopefully you won’t have to because Frank will be with us for a long, long time.”

  “Of course he will,” she said. “But enough talk about Frank and my problems. What I want to know is if the rumors are true? Are you really planning to run for the state senate?”

  Jack frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Never mind where I heard it. Is it true?”

  He supposed it had been foolish of him to think that word wouldn’t get out, Jack told himself. He had been approached by a group of business leaders and asked to run for the soon-to-be-vacated seat. As yet, he hadn’t made up his mind. He still wasn’t sure he was ready to take on the demanding task of a campaign and life in the public eye—which was why he hadn’t wanted the news to get out. “I haven’t decided whether to run or not,” he answered honestly. “But I am considering it.”

  Delia brought her hands together. “Oh, but you have to run, Jack. You’d make such a wonderful senator. Everyone thinks so,” she said with a smile. “And of course you know you can count on my support.”

  “Thanks,” he told her.

  “You must let me host a party for you.”

  “I appreciate that, but, as I said, I haven’t decided to run yet,” he told her just as thunder boomed overhead. Grateful for the interruption, he noted the crowd beginning to disperse as the sky darkened and rain scented the air. “I should go pay my respects to Abby and Luke before the rain hits. Give my best to Frank.”

  Delia turned up the collar of her coat and glanced at the threatening skies. “You might want to wait until you get to Abby’s.” She paused. “You are going to Abby’s house, aren’t you?”

  “For what?”

  “The after-service reception. At a time like this, Abby needs the support of all of her friends. I’m bringing a layer cake.”

  “I see,” he said, surprised. He wouldn’t have pegged Delia as a friend of Abby’s. After all, everyone in Eastwick knew that Abby was part of the Debs Club—the name the members of the country club had given the group of women who met regularly for lunch at the club. As far as he knew, Delia wasn’t a part of that circle.
/>   As though reading his thoughts, Delia said, “Just because I’m not part of the Debs Club doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad for Abby. I do. After all, I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I lost both of mine when I was a teenager.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said when he saw tears filling her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s all right,” she said and dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I don’t like to talk about it.” She sniffed and shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of her coat. “I’d better go. Frank’s waiting for me. But you should go to the Talbots. Maybe your lady friend will be there.”

  She wasn’t there, Jack decided after spending the better part of an hour moving from room to room in Abby and Luke Talbot’s home. She wasn’t there, but practically everyone else was. Half the members of the Eastwick Country Club were there. So were most of the politicians, the newspaper editor and the entire board of Eastwick Cares. As he scanned the room in search of his mystery woman, he noted Luke Talbot excusing himself from a group and disappearing down the hall. He couldn’t help but note the way Abby’s eyes followed her husband.

  A hand came down on his shoulder. “Jack, my boy, I’ve been looking for you.”

  Turning, Jack stared at his father. At sixty-eight, John was the picture of health. He kept his six-foot frame just under two hundred pounds. The tan he’d acquired from his weekly round of golf at the country club accented his silver hair and gray eyes. He suspected his father’s recent retirement from the law firm accounted for his relaxed demeanor. “Hey, Dad.”

  “You looked like you were in a bit of a hurry when you left the funeral service. Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  His father eyed him skeptically. “You sure there’s no problem at the office? Because if there is, you know I’ll be happy to help out.”

  “Relax, Dad,” Jack told him, knowing that his father had not found it easy to turn over the reins of the law firm he’d founded, even though he had wanted the freedom of retirement. “Everything at the office is fine. I just saw a friend at the service that I’d been trying to reach for a while.”

  His father arched his eyebrow. “Did you catch up with her?”

  “I never said it was a woman. But no, I missed her.” Not wanting to give his father the chance to question him further about whoshe was, he said, “You said you were looking for me. Did you need something?”

  “Your mother wanted me to tell you that she brought a spinach quiche. It’s one of her new recipes and she wants you to be sure to try it. It’s in the dining room.”

  Jack grimaced. His mother was a lousy cook. When he’d been growing up, the lady had managed to burn, undercook and virtually ruin more meals than his stomach cared to remember. Unfortunately, she loved to cook and neither he nor his two sisters nor his father had ever had the heart to tell her how truly awful she was at it. Thankfully, their housekeeper Alice did most of the cooking. But his mother continued to astound them with new recipes. “Is it as bad as her liver mousse?”

  “Nothing’s as bad as her liver mousse,” his father said dryly. “Come on, she’s looking this way.”

  Jack followed his father into the dining room and was directed toward the quiche. Reluctantly he placed a serving on his plate. Looking up at his father, he asked, “Aren’t you having any?”

  His father smiled. “I had some last night. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I hope my stomach will forgive me,” Jack muttered and shoveled a bite of the quiche into his mouth. The egg-and-spinach mixture seem to expand inside his mouth and he forced himself to swallow it.

  “Here,” his father said and handed him a glass of water.

  Jack washed it down, then shuddered. While his father chuckled, Jack took the remainder of the serving and dumped it in the trash. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, he told his father, “You’re a better man than I am. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “It’s called love, son. Mark my words. Someday you’re liable to find yourself eating something that tastes like dirt. But you’ll do it with a smile because it makes the woman you love happy.”

  “Hopefully I’ll marry someone who can cook.”

  His father shrugged. “Maybe you will. But then, I never married your mother for her cooking ability.”

  No, Jack thought. His parents had married for love. It was something that had always amazed him, how after forty years of marriage they were still in love with one another. He, on the other hand, had had numerous relationships in his thirty-three years and had even gotten engaged a few years ago until he and his bride-to-be had realized they were better off as friends than as husband and wife. But he had never come close to experiencing with anyone the kind of connection his parents shared.

  Suddenly he recalled a slim redhead with ghost-blue eyes. He had felt something with her that night, something strong and powerful, something that went beyond the physical attraction and incredible sex. It was as though some invisible force had drawn him to her that night. And obviously, she’d felt it, too.

  “Jack?”

  “Sorry, Dad,” he said, shaking off the memory. “What was that?”

  “I said Tom Carlton asked me if you’d give any more thought to running for Petersen’s seat in the senate when he retires.”

  “I’m considering it. But I just don’t know if I’m right for the job.”

  “I don’t see why you wouldn’t be,” his father told him. “You’re a fine attorney, son. You’re smart and savvy enough to work with those politicians and get things accomplished. Most importantly, you’re honest and you care about people. Just look at what you’ve been able to do since you joined the board of Eastwick Cares. Everyone’s raved about the program to battle illiteracy.”

  “It was a joint effort. There are a lot of good people on that board and working for Eastwick Cares.”

  “Bunny, God rest her soul, told your mother it was your idea.”

  It was true, but he and the other members had all contributed to making the program happen. “Even if it was, sitting on the board of a non-profit agency and sitting on Capitol Hill are two different things. I’m not sure I want to make that kind of commitment and jump into the political fish bowl.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to decide soon. Petersen has just over a year left to serve before he retires and people are already lining up to toss their hat into the ring for his seat. Running a campaign is expensive and the sooner Carlton and his group know who their candidate is, the better.”

  “I told Carlton I’d give him my answer by the end of the month.” And Jack knew he would have to make a decision soon.

  His father slapped him on the back. “Whatever you decide, your mother and I are behind you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate that.”

  His father nodded. “I better go find your mother.”

  “And I need to get back to the office.”

  “Make sure you call your mother and tell her something nice about that quiche.”

  “I will,” Jack promised and as his father went in search of his mother, he headed for the door. In the foyer, he retrieved his gray raincoat from the closet and stepped outside onto the veranda.

  The rain that had threatened earlier was now coming down steadily. Too bad his umbrella was sitting in the car, he thought, as he slipped on his raincoat. After turning up the collar, he slipped his hands into the pockets and his fingers brushed a piece of paper. Frowning, Jack pulled out a buff-colored sheet of paper that had been folded in half. He unfolded it and began to read the unsigned message typed in large bold letters:

  WHAT WOULD THE GOOD CITIZENS OF EASTWICK THINK IF THEY FOUND OUT THAT THEIR CANDIDATE FOR THE SENATE WAS ABOUT TO BECOME AN UNWED FATHER?

  UNLESS YOU WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW YOUR DIRTY LITTLE SECRET, YOU’LL PLACE $50,000 IN SMALL BILLS IN A SHOPPING BAG AND LEAVE IT IN EASTWICK PARK UNDER THE BENCH ACROSS FROM THE FOUNTAIN BY NOON TOMORROW. IF YOU FAIL TO DELIVER THE MONEY OR NOTIFY THE AUTHORIT
IES, YOU CAN FORGET THE SENATE NOMINATION.

  Two

  Stunned, Jack didn’t notice that the rain was coming down harder. He didn’t notice that the pink-and-white blossoms from the mountain laurels lay scattered beneath the shrubs or that the branches of the white oak bowed beneath the weight of the downpour. He didn’t even notice that on the other side of the door was a house filled with people. His entire focus was on the note he held in his hands. He reread it, and, as he did so, shock gave way to anger.

  He was being blackmailed!

  Or at least that’s what the person who’d written the note had intended. Turning the sheet of paper over, he studied it, looked for something that might indicate who the author was. But he found nothing.

  It didn’t matter who had written it, he told himself as he crushed the note in his fist. Whoever had done so had made two very big mistakes. The first mistake was thinking that he would ever succumb to extortion and the second mistake was the allegation itself. The charge was flat-out ridiculous. He hadn’t fathered any child and no one was expecting his baby. Aside from the fact that he wasn’t involved with anyone, he hadn’t even been with a woman since last year. Not since…Jack went still.