And if she wasn’t?
His mind flashed back to earlier, when he’d watched her struggle to get her two children into the car.
Until he knew what her story was and how she was connected to his manuscript, he needed a cool head. Angry meant emotional, and that had the potential for mistakes. He’d learned that lesson from a very early age.
* * *
“Good girl, Heather. You ate all your dinner!” Vanessa gently wiped the drooly, smiling mouth of her eighteen-month-old daughter before turning to the little girl’s twin, who sat beside her in an identical high chair. “And how are you doing, Erin? Still painting?”
The chocolate-curled baby looked up from her pumpkin-smeared tray to grin. “Pain!” Then she slowly stuck her fingers in her mouth, her eyes twinkling in mischief.
Vanessa laughed, swiping away a fleck of food in the toddler’s hair. “That’s some mighty fine artwork you’ve got there. Edible, too. How avant-garde of you.”
Wanting in on the conversation, Heather clapped her hands and squealed, prompting her sister to follow suit. Pumpkin splattered Vanessa’s shirt, leaving orange smears on dark blue. Vanessa quickly wiped it off with a smile, even as her insides cramped with bittersweet regret.
She’d been back home for two days, back to her normal life and her job and still she couldn’t shake the failure of her New York trip.
I am very disappointed in you, Vanessa. If she closed her eyes, that imaginary voice even sounded like her father’s.
She cupped Heather’s warm cheek with her palm, her mouth grim.
Yes, she had friends, her girls, a job she loved. All those had satisfied her for nearly two years. A few times she’d thought of calling her parents, even apologizing, but she quickly nixed that idea. She had nothing to apologize for.
Then she’d heard about the auction and it was as if she’d been hit by a renewed purpose. Something had taken hold of her conscience and wouldn’t let go, a righteous emotion that had amplified day by day, night by night, until two weeks ago. She’d thought about it, analyzed it to death before allowing herself to hope, to plan, to follow up. Dylan may have left her—left her babies—with nothing to remember him by, but she was determined to right that wrong.
She’d failed.
Obviously, someone up there didn’t want her to have that manuscript.
She sighed, gently wiping pumpkin from Heather’s high chair. So many memories rolling through her head. So many mistakes.
Well, except two. Her gaze went to Erin and Heather, gleefully mucking about with their food, and her chest tightened to almost painful intensity. She’d go through her father’s horrible accusations, their awful row and her storming out all over again if it meant having these two gorgeous babies in her life. They were hers. All hers.
“Mum-mum-mum?” Heather said, huge brown eyes so like Dylan’s staring up at her.
Vanessa’s breath caught as she leaned in to kiss the soft, downy head. Lingering notes of baby shampoo mixed with pumpkin quickly chased away the regret and she smiled.
“I think it’s time for someone’s bath.”
“Baff!” Erin echoed with a final bang on her high chair.
With smooth efficiency, she wiped down the high chairs then unstrapped the girls. With one on each hip, she padded out of the kitchen, through the living room and down the short hall.
This apartment was perfect, although sharing her master bath would definitely lose its appeal once the girls got older. Eventually they’d have to find a bigger place, something with three bedrooms and at least two bathrooms.
Maybe fate was telling her she needed to use her money for more important things.
Shoving all thoughts of that auction from her mind, she concentrated on the familiar routine of bathing the girls, drying them, reading a bedtime story, then settling them down in their cribs. As usual, Erin was the first to fall asleep, her little breath coming in deep and even almost immediately. Heather was the restless one, unable to settle unless Vanessa was softly singing, her hand a reassuring pressure on her back.
She was halfway through the second song of her nightly Rascal Flatts repertoire when Heather finally stilled and her breathing changed.
With a soft sigh, Vanessa gently drew her hand away, tiptoed across the room and pulled the door to.
She was nearly to the kitchen when the phone rang.
She surged forward and grabbed the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”
“Evening, Vanessa. It’s Connor Jarvis from number fifteen.”
Her heart sank. Her elderly neighbor took his self-designated role as McKenzie Road’s protector of the street’s females seriously. While it was flattering most of the time, tonight was not the night. “Hi, Mr. Jarvis. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I know the Taylors below you are away for the month and, ahhh…” She waited patiently for Jarvis’s hacking cough to subside. Finally he wheezed, “So you know I told you about that guy loitering at number seven last night?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think he’s out in front of your place.”
“What?”
She walked swiftly over to the living room window, dipping down the blinds a bare inch and staring at the lamp-lit street.
“Outside?” she said. “Where?”
“He was at the curb a few minutes ago, looking up at your window. But now I can’t see him.” Jarvis paused again, coughing for long-drawn-out seconds.
“You sure it was a man?” Vanessa said, slowly scanning the shadows outside.
“Couldn’t miss it. Tall, broad. Dressed in a suit, for crying out loud. What kind of criminal wears a suit?”
“Ones who’re good at their job?”
Jarvis burst into wheezy laughter until Vanessa began to feel bad about her lame joke. Finally, he got it under control enough to say, “You want me to call the cops?”
Before she could answer, she caught movement in her yard. The security light came on a second later, bathing the would-be criminal in a harsh amber glow.
Vanessa sucked in a breath as her stomach bottomed out.
“You want me to call the cops?” Jarvis repeated.
“No. No, I…” She sighed. “I know him. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Jarvis. I’ll deal with it. You have a good night.”
She quickly hung up before the man had a chance to grill her further.
Vanessa paused in the middle of her living room, moments passing before she realized she had the tip of her thumb in her mouth, the nail flicking back and forth over her front tooth.
Fingers out of your mouth, Vanessa!
She winced. Even now, the mere memory of her father’s commanding bellow still had the power to make her jump.
Focus. Chase Harrington. Right.
She could ignore him.
Yeah, right. You think Mr. Million Dollars would stand for being ignored?
Her mind whirled with too many questions lacking answers. What on earth was he doing here? Lord, had he actually thought she’d been serious about her sarcastic Dylan’s “girlfriend” crack? So what did he want? She swallowed. And the big one—did he know about the girls?
She hesitated, uncertain and unprepared until the doorbell