Royal Heir

“Explain.”

“Well, just that so many odd and terrible things have happened today. First the blowout on the freeway—”

He sat forward, hands gripped together between his knees, eyes burning. “Yes. Tell me about that.”

She shrugged. “What’s to tell? The tire blew.”

“How fast were you driving?”

“Well, the freeway was crowded. I’d just slowed down to about fifty when the right front tire blew.”

“Which lane were you in?”

“Far left. It was hairy for a few minutes but I managed to get the car across three lanes to the shoulder. I was kind of shaken up. A guy behind me stopped. He insisted on taking off the old tire and putting on the spare. He wasn’t very proficient. And he was dressed in a suit. The drizzle made it nasty out there and I let him help me.”

“It strikes me that you’re the kind of woman who changes her own tire,” Will said.

“Yes,” she said. She thought for a moment. “He was so insistent,” she said. “He had an accent I couldn’t place. I thought maybe it was a matter of honor for him. I asked him where he was from, but he didn’t seem to understand me. In the end it was just easier…or so I thought at first…but he was an absolute klutz and I was late and then Leo was gone—”

He was at her side. Taking her hands, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. She hadn’t known she was shaking until she felt his warm, solid embrace.

It was tempting to lean, tempting to give him her burdens. Tempting to depend on him. Taking a step away, she took a deep breath and did none of those things.

“What did the guy on the freeway look like?”

Biting her lip in concentration, she forced his image into her mind. “Medium build. Dark hair and eyes. A little bit of a tan which I noticed because you don’t see that very often in San Francisco in April. Dark suit.” She shrugged and added, “Kind of average.”

“Sounds pretty much like the guy who shot at you just now, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. It could have been the same man. Of course, her description was so vague it could have fit lots of people. Besides, it was dark and her shooter hadn’t spoken this time. She’d made all the racket.

“Show me your flat tire,” Will said.

She started to ask why and let it go. She couldn’t see what the tire would tell him, but she was beginning to trust his instincts. Taking a flashlight off the kitchen counter, she took him through the empty garage to the driveway where she’d parked the car and opened the trunk. Will took the flashlight from her and examined the tire. She’d been in such a hurry that she’d just thrown it in without cinching it down. The panic of the moments when she realized she was going to be late picking up Leo at the airport came rushing back.

“Look,” Will said, focusing the light on the tire. “See this hole? That’s the entry wound, so to speak. The shredded rubber on the opposite side is where it exited. If the traffic hadn’t slowed…if you’d been racing along at seventy you would have lost control for sure.”

She stared at the hole, refusing to believe what her eyes told her.

“Someone shot your tire,” he said.

The concrete beneath Julia’s feet seemed to rumble.

“That’s why the guy who stopped behind you didn’t want you fooling with the tire,” Will added. “You weren’t supposed to survive this attack.”

“But he must have known I’d see the tire later—”

“You’re forgetting the attempt to run you down in the parking garage and then the ‘burglar’ in your house, lying in wait for you with a gun—the tire would have disappeared, Julia.”

She stared at the hole, jumping when Will slammed the trunk. Looking up and down the empty street, he took her arm. “Go back in the house, please,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “First, leave me your keys so I can move the car into the garage. Lock all the doors. I’ll be in right after you.”

She did as he asked without argument.

An entry wound, Will had called it.

A place where a bullet had pierced the tire before exploding out the other side. Shot with the hope that the car would pile into others, causing a catastrophic wreck, killing who knew how many people. Killing her.

What in the world was going on?

A SLY SMILE played across Will’s lips as his attempt to hack into the company’s computer system went through without a hitch. He knew he owed his luck to Brian Wainwright’s tendency to procrastinate, a tendency that had driven Will crazy for years.

But not tonight.

“Thanks, Brian, you lazy SOB,” he whispered.

As he printed out his address book, he caught the sound of the running shower. Despite the late hour—it was closing in on midnight—Julia had announced her decision to bathe with a defiant look on her pretty face. He wasn’t sure to what he should attribute that look. His presence in her home? The intruder, the attempts on her life, the kidnapping of Leo?

The woman had had quite a day.

And she was taking him on faith. Worrisome.

He’d refused her attempts to bathe and bandage his arm. He couldn’t afford the time. It seemed as though they were standing still, that Leo was moving farther and farther away.

But he hadn’t refused the offer of a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. After polishing off the last of both, he unwound Julia’s white wool scarf from his arm, glancing around what was to have been his son’s room. Julia hadn’t gotten too far on the decorating. Blue walls, a blue synthetic oriental-type rug, one side of the room taken up with a single bed, a desk and the computer equipment. A box against the other wall held a crib yet to be assembled. Another box held a high chair. She’d cleared off the top of a dresser and stacked disposable diapers and baby-related items like baby oil and wiping cloths, a brand-new package of pacifiers, bibs, swabs.

It jarred him to think that these things were meant for his son.

He dumped the scarf in the garbage. The bleeding had stopped. Of course, the sleeve of the suit and the shirt beneath were torn and stained. Along with his muddy pants and wacky hair, he must present quite an attractive package.

She walked into the room just as he lifted the paper from her printer.

“Did you find your aunt’s phone number?”

“Yes,” he said, turning to face her. No femme fatale outfit for Julia Sheridan, he saw. She had changed into gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt, both on the baggy side. Her brown hair was wet and shiny, caught in a ponytail, her skin rosy. She looked sixteen. Way too young and innocent to be in the same room with him.

She handed him the phone, but he shook his head. “I don’t want the cops listening in,” he said as he folded the pages and stuck them in a pocket. “May I use your cell phone?”

She left the room without comment and he followed her into the kitchen. She’d started a pot of coffee and he poured himself a cup as she dug her cell phone from her handbag.

His aunt didn’t answer. He left a phone number but not his name. In fact, he didn’t identify himself at all, just urged her to return his call at the first opportunity, day or night.

“Does she have a cell phone? Is there another number you could call?”

“She has one but she doesn’t leave it on. Uses it to make calls but hates being a ‘slave’ to it. Besides, odds are at this time of the night she was there, listening to my message.”

“Why wouldn’t she answer you?”

“You’re forgetting the last news she had about me was that I perished in a boating accident. Even if she hears this message, she’ll be wary that it’s me. If she doesn’t call soon, I’ll call her back.”