Rafe slammed his feet to the floor, uttering an exclamation of self-disgust. Was this what Jimmy had felt? This overriding, uncanny desire? This lure that had to be followed, this hunger that had to be appeased?
He groaned aloud. Jimmy had been younger. Easily led, easily tricked. And by God, Rafe determined, he wasn’t Jimmy. He’d seen the world in all its facets; he knew the harlots and the whores, the ladies and the thieves. The world had molded him, touched him with its many cultures, given him a wisdom about human nature that defied country and custom.
But tonight he might as well have been as raw and naive as Jimmy. He had ached, yearned to reach for her, touch her, hold her, caress her—and forget everything. And if he had touched her, she would have surrendered to his hold. Or would it have been he who surrendered, to practiced wiles, to a known beauty?
Rafe raised his hands to his temples. What was she, then, a lady or an elegant tramp? And in that moment he knew the truth. He had touched her but done no more because though she might have gone to him for the moment, she would have run in time. And he still had enough of his wits about him to know that he had to treat her carefully, building her trust, until she decided to talk.
Rafe started suddenly, aware that there was a hesitant tapping at his door. He stood, crossed the room and threw it open. Before him stood a slight woman with silver-dusted chestnut hair and enormous blue eyes. She appeared to be no more than a very attractive forty, but Rafe knew her to be a year or two over fifty.
“Myrna!” he exclaimed, startled at her presence. He moved, inviting her in. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Myrna smiled wanly and moved restlessly into the room, wandering to the window to stare blankly out at the darkness before turning back to Rafe.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be disturbing you. I hope you don’t mind—I planned on spending the night. I came around eight. You were out.”
“I just got back and—”
“Yes, yes, Maggie went up to her room hours ago—I told her to.”
Maggie was his housekeeper.
“Myrna, you know you’re always welcome,” Rafe told his stepmother gently.
Her smile became a little less hesitant. “You mean that, don’t you, Rafe?” she said a little wonderingly. “I’ve—I’ve been very blessed to have you.”
Touched, and slightly embarrassed, Rafe grinned ruefully. “I don’t know about that, Myrna.” He continued quickly, “But what’s wrong? You seem upset.”
“Upset” was an understatement, but Rafe was at a loss for a better word. Myrna had been upset for the past two years, and Rafe sure as hell couldn’t blame her. She’d lost her husband to heart failure and her son to mysterious circumstances within a month.
“I, uh, I am upset, Rafe,” Myrna murmured. Then she smiled and crossed the room, staring up at the oil painting of the Highland Queen. She turned back to him suddenly and chuckled girlishly.
“I was awfully afraid that I’d…interrupt you. I take it you were out with some exquisitely beautiful woman?”
Everything in his body tensed, but Rafe was careful not to let emotion show in his face. He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest, and grinned in return.
“Yep,” he answered, and she nodded, pleased.
“Well, I’m glad you’re alone now.”
Rafe walked around his desk, indicating that she should sit on the soft white leather sofa across the room. “I think you need a drink, Myrna. Bourbon okay? I can call Maggie and have her make us some tea if you’d rather—”
“Oh, heavens no! Maggie played nursemaid to me long enough tonight!” Myrna protested. “I’d love a good shot of bourbon. A manly drink, isn’t it?”
Rafe grimaced. “I don’t know about that. It does seem to go down smoothly.”
He poured them each a shot, then took a seat beside her. She gulped down hers with a toss of the glass, shuddered, then faced him squarely.
“I saw her picture, Rafe. That model who disappeared. She’s back with Galliard Fashions.”
Rafe drained his glass quickly, dismayed that Myrna already knew that Tara Hill had emerged from obscurity.
He set his glass on the coffee table and faced his stepmother squarely. “I know,” he told her honestly.
“Oh, Rafe!” She clutched his hand, and her fingers were shaking. “I know that you did everything you could, that you searched and searched, that you left your profession behind you, that you did everything already. But I have to know! I just have to know what really happened. If Jimmy is—”
“Myrna, Myrna,” Rafe said softly, clasping her fingers tightly, wrenched anew by the bright tears he saw hovering in her eyes. “I’m going to find out,” he promised.
She nodded, looking down to her lap. “You’re not even my blood, and I’ve asked you to give up everything—”
Rafe shook his head impatiently. “I gave up working because Dad died and someone had to run his empire. I might have been a wanderer, but he always knew I’d come back when I was needed. And Jimmy was my brother, Myrna. My little brother. I promise you—I’d never be able to rest if I didn’t follow every damn possibility.”
She was still looking at her hands, and nodded miserably.
Rafe stood. He’d been fifteen years old when his father had married Myrna; her son, Jimmy, had been only seven at the time. But a tie had formed between them instantly, and in the years that followed, the stepbrothers had become closer than those bonded by blood.
“One more shot of bourbon, Myrna,” Rafe said. “Then off to bed with you. You could use some sleep.” He brought her a second drink and watched while she swallowed it. Then he helped her to rise and led her to the door. He kissed her forehead. “Get to bed.”
She lifted her huge blue eyes to him, eyes that still brimmed with tears. “You’ve been the very best
