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False Family
Mary Anne Wilson
Mistletoe and murder…It seemed simple. An eccentric billionaire who didn't trust his heirs had asked Mallory King to pose as his long-lost daughter over the holidays. But she didn't expect the lethal intentions of his greedy relatives–or expect to meet a man like darkly compelling Tony Carella, whose eyes followed her everywhere she went….Tony didn't like gold diggers, and he thought Mallory was bamboozling his elderly business partner. In order to uncover the truth about this mysterious woman, he needed to get close to her, but he never expected to fall under her spell. He was willing to go to any lengths to get Mallory out of the way…including seduction. But murder…?
When he’d touched her, it hadn’t mattered who she was,
who her father was, or what hold she had over everyone in this place. All that mattered was silky skin, heat, enormous blue eyes and the fragrance that clung to her, which made him think of sunlight even in this storm.
When another flash of lightning ripped through the skies, bathing her in white light that succeeded only in defining everything right about her, he muttered, “Impulses can be dangerous things.” And he deliberately pushed his hands behind his back to kill his own impulses, then looked out at the storm that was building in force again.
“You don’t even know me,” she said softly.
He looked back at her, unsettled by how vulnerable she appeared in that moment. “I know you shouldn’t be here.”
Mary Anne Wilson fell in love with reading at ten years of age when she discovered Pride and Prejudice. A year later she knew she had to be a writer when she found herself writing a new ending for A Tale of Two Cities. A true romantic, she had Sydney Carton rescued, and he lived happily ever after.
Though she’s a native of Canada, she now lives in California with her husband and a six-toed black cat that believes he’s Hungarian and five timid Dobermans that welcome any and all strangers. And she’s writing happy endings for her own books.
False Family
Mary Anne Wilson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE (#uf21ca5de-755d-5932-a029-442c77193cb9)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue8d5ac9d-2602-5512-a22e-69240a32d8f6)
CHAPTER TWO (#u9ea2e401-6d79-5877-8565-09b553cb3b05)
CHAPTER THREE (#ua68cb351-942b-5417-9e99-d529b119a7cb)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u077a7579-eccc-5b6f-8377-104c2a522545)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
December 21
The thunderstorm that tore through the San Francisco night was the perfect backdrop for murder.
Cold and violent, it blurred the flashing Christmas lights that adorned the businesses and homes in its torrential path, and it made the steep street outside the old Jenning’s Theater slick and dangerous.
Few people ventured out into the pouring rain. A single person, the Watcher, came up the street, staying close to the chipped brick and wooden walls of the closed businesses. An umbrella barely blocked the sting of the torrent.
The Watcher slipped into the doorway of a store sharing a wall with the theater and observed the street in both directions. Few cars drove by, and the ticket booth under the marquee that announced A Christmas Carol By Charles Dickens, December 10-30 was still shut.
As a bolt of lightning tore through the heavens, the flash of raw light exposed a woman in a dark raincoat, carrying a bright yellow umbrella as she hurried down the hill toward the theater. Once under the partial shelter of the theater portico, the woman slowed her pace and looked up.
Mallory King.
A riot of dark curls framed a delicate, heart-shaped face flushed from the effort of hurrying. With just a glance at the ticket booth, she veered to the left and into a side alley that led to the stage door. As she disappeared from sight, the Watcher sank back into the shadows.
She’d been easy enough to find. A bit-part actress who worked as a waitress in a restaurant three blocks down from the theater. A nothing person in the larger scheme, yet a person who could make another do desperate things. Killing someone was certainly desperate, but the only thing to do under the circumstances.
When Mallory King left the theater around eleven, she would head for the restaurant where she would work until 7:00 a.m. It was unsafe for any woman to walk on the streets of San Francisco, day or night. So it wouldn’t be surprising if Mallory King never made it to the restaurant tonight, if she became another accident statistic….
CHAPTER ONE
Magic and illusion ended when the lights came up and the curtains went down on a play. And the final curtain was coming down tonight for this play. It had been canceled with five days left on its run.
Poor box office and bad weather had combined to cut it short, and as Mallory King sat applying red lipstick in front of the makeup table in the long, narrow dressing room, she was mentally making a list of places she could go tomorrow to look for another job.
The door opened and a stagehand yelled, “One minute.”
Mallory quickly finished applying the lipstick, then sat back and looked at herself in the mottled mirrors. Her ebony hair had been gathered on top of her head in a riot of curls contained by a holly wreath, and her sapphire blue eyes had been highlighted by dark mascara. Deep blush brought out her high cheek line, and the gauzy, full-length white dress she wore was off the shoulder and nipped in tightly at her waist with a white satin band.
“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” she muttered at her reflection. That’s just what this job had become—a ghost—and she didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t get something else quickly. She couldn’t survive on what she made in tips at the restaurant.
She blotted her lips and stood as the door opened again. “You’re on,” the stagehand yelled into the room.
“I’m coming,” she called back as she tossed a tissue into the wastebasket. Turning, she hurried to the door and stepped into the hallway, turning left toward backstage. But as she rounded the corner near the stage door, she ran right into an immovable object, and felt hands clamp on her shoulders to keep her from stumbling backward. As she looked up, fully expecting to see one of the stagehands, she was shocked to find it was a man she’d never seen before.
He was tall, at least three inches over six feet, and he wore a dark, well-cut trench coat. His rain-dampened raven black hair was slicked back from a face that was far from traditionally handsome, but with a sensuality that struck her instantly, with a force that shook her. His features seemed to be all harsh planes and angles, his skin deeply tanned, his nose strong and his jaw clean-shaven.
But it was his eyes that riveted Mallory, making her next breath almost impossible. They were slightly slanted, as black as the night outside, with short, spiked lashes, and they were staring at her with an unsettling intensity.
It took her a moment to realize that he exuded an aura of danger, which defied reason since he’d kept her from falling. But it was there and almost tangible. She had to try twice before she forced words past the tightness in her throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No damage done,” the man murmured in a low, rough voice as his hands released their hold on her. His dark eyes flicked over her in a heartbeat. “You look like a ghost.”
She nervously smoothed the fine, white material of her dress. “The Ghost of Christmas Past.”
He inclined his head slightly as his eyes narrowed. “My guess would have been the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he muttered, his expression tightening as he spoke.
This wasn’t any light banter, impersonal conversation between strangers. There was an edge to it that disturbed Mallory, almost as much as the man inches from her. Right then she heard the beginning strains of the musical piece that signaled her entrance, and the stranger was blocking her path to stage left. “For tonight, it’s Christmas Past,” she said. “That’s my cue. I need to—”
“Break a leg,” he murmured, then stood aside to let her pass.
Mallory ducked her head and hurried by him to her spot. The music swelled, and as the stagehand pulled the curtain back for her to step onto the stage, she could feel eyes on her. The stranger was watching her.
With a quick look back as she stepped forward, she saw the man had moved into the shadows near the prop room. But that didn’t diminish the intensity of his gaze on her. She’d never reacted like this to a man, attracted to him, yet aware of a danger that surrounded him. It had seemed like forever since she even looked at a man with anything more than passing interest.
When he nodded to her, she looked away. Then, as the actor playing Scrooge called, “Who goes there?” she took a shaky breath and stepped through the curtains into the light. In the next instant she was part of the fantasy she created on stage, a fantasy that didn’t have a place for a dark stranger who disturbed her and made her feel vulnerable.
At one minute to ten, the fantasy ended, and reality came back with a thud. Mallory had made her way back to the dressing room, which was crowded with the other female members of the cast. She had looked back over her shoulder more than once in the hallway, half expecting to see the stranger lingering in the shadows.
But he was nowhere in sight. And once inside, she stripped off her costume, put on her old terry-cloth robe and sat down in front of the mirrors. Methodically she began to spread cold cream on her face, and as she removed the last of the heavy stage makeup, lightning ripped through the night outside, its white glow flashing into the room through the bank of high windows, which were filmed with the grime of the city.
She tossed the last makeup-soiled cotton ball in the trash, then looked at her reflection in the mottled mirrors. She looked tired, her face pale in contrast to her dark hair, as she released her curls from the holly wreath. Her eyes were smudged with shadows from the sleeplessness she’d experienced over the past few days.
She grimaced, her natural ability to ignore the reality of the present and fantasize about a better future almost failing her right then. That little part of her life where she could make-believe and become someone else, that part that took her away from her job as a waitress and the empty apartment where she lived, had been taken from her until she could find another part in another play.
As she tossed the holly wreath into the prop box, she heard someone yell over the din, “King! Mallory King!”
She twisted to look back to the door and saw a stagehand waving in her direction. When he made eye contact with her, he called, “You’ve got a visitor!”
Mallory was surprised. She had never had anyone come backstage to see her after a play, and the house had been less than half-full during the performance. The applause at the curtain call had been more from politeness than enthusiasm. Then she remembered the man she’d run into, and for a second she thought he might have come back. But why would he?
She pointed to herself. “Me?”
The stagehand nodded, then ducked out and shut the door.
She stood and tugged her robe around her, knotting the tie at her waist as she made her way through the room. Nearing the door, she put the idea of the stranger out of her mind. It was crazy. When she opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, she spotted someone by the outside doors.
It was a woman. She recognized Elaine Bowers, her agent. Elaine, with her short, gray-blond hair curling slightly from the humidity. She was wearing a dark raincoat over a simple gray suit. “Mallory,” she said as she crossed to her.
Mallory slowly closed the door and watched the woman approach. One glance around the hallway and she knew that the dark-haired stranger wasn’t lingering in any of the nooks and crannies in the dingy space. She focused on the woman in front of her. Mallory knew she was one of her agent’s least lucrative clients, and she certainly didn’t warrant a personal visit on such a rainy night. “Elaine, what are you doing here?” Mallory asked.
The short, plump woman looked at her watch. “Looking for you.” She glanced up and down the hallway, grimacing at the faded walls and the low, moisture-stained ceiling. “Boy, I haven’t been in here in years. This old place was once the theater in the city. Can you believe it?”
“If you go out into the foyer and narrow your eyes, you can almost see how it must have looked years ago.”
“My imagination isn’t that good.”
“Right now, mine isn’t too good, either. I’ve been trying to imagine why you’re here, and I can’t come up with anything.”
“I was contacted by a Mr. Welting, an attorney who I’m supposed to meet here.” She took one last look over her shoulder, then moved a bit closer to Mallory. “I wanted to get here a few minutes before him so I could explain a bit to you before he showed up.”
Mallory tugged her robe more tightly around her. “Explain what to me?”
“This whole business is so rushed and odd,” she muttered with a shake of her head. “Mr. Welting contacted me just before five this afternoon. He’s an attorney for Saxon Mills.”
“Saxon Mills? Money, business, wine,” Mallory muttered. “What was his attorney doing contacting you?”
“Offering you a job.”
Mallory almost laughed. “A job for me? Well, I’m desperate, so if he wants me to crush grapes, tell him I’m willing.”
Elaine flicked that away with one hand and only the shadow of a smile. “No, he wants you for an acting job.”
“That’s even better. I’ll take it.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“They’re closing the play as of tonight, Elaine. I’m free and broke. I’ll take anything.”
“I thought they might have to close. With this lousy weather and the economy, it’s hard to keep small companies going.”
“And the restaurant’s cutting back, too. I’ve lost two of my shifts, so I need whatever I can get.”
“Then this’ll work out better than I thought. It’s good timing for everyone.”
“It is for me. Now, what’s the part and when do I start?”
“Tomorrow, actually, and it runs through New Year’s. You’re going in as a replacement for someone. One of Welting’s people saw you when you were working at the Garnet last month in the Simon play. He remembered you when this position came up, and Mr. Welting says that you’re just right for what they want.”
“What play is it?”
Elaine looked a bit embarrassed. The woman usually had an answer for every question. “I’m sorry. This all happened so fast I didn’t get that. But when the man gets here, you can get all the details. All I know is, it’s in the Napa Valley area, a dinner theater of sorts, and they’re doing a Christmas piece.”
Sara Springer, the actress who played Tiny Tim’s oldest sister, came out of the dressing room and met Mallory. “I’m going down the block to pick up some pizzas for everyone, sort of a holiday wake. Do you want some?”
“No thanks.”
“Do you mind if I use your umbrella to go? Mine blew inside-out on the way here.”
“No, go ahead.”
“Thanks,” Sara said before she went back into the dressing room.
Mallory turned back to Elaine. “It’s up in Napa?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Then I don’t see how I can do it. I’ve got the restaurant—what little time they’re giving me—and commuting would be too much. My car’s on its last legs, as it is, and that would kill it.”
“Actually, you’ll have to forget about the restaurant for a while and stay in Napa if you want this job.”
