from the back cover:
	When Jill Gallagher's fiancé is tragically killed, she brings his body home to his aristocratic English family. Once there, she enters a world of hostility, suspicion, and closely guarded secrets. Then she finds an old photograph of an American heiress named Kate Gallagher who looks remarkably like herself—and who disappeared nearly a century ago. What legacy of scandal has she unearthed? Who is so desperate to stop her? And can she trust the enigmatic man who may be her greatest ally...or her most dangerous foe? The Third Heiress is Brenda Joyce at her most powerful and suspenseful best.

"Sexual intrigue, betrayals, and century-old cover-ups...A page-turner." —Publishers Weekly "Bestselling author Brenda Joyce mixes intrigue and romance into a page-turning tale you'll be loath to put down." —Playgirl "Joyce brings her first hardcover romantic suspense novel to an exciting conclusion." —Booklist "Brenda Joyce has crafted a genealogical thriller of family secrets and obsessions that is sure to keep you up, reading into the night!" —Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel "A tense and atmospheric thriller. The Third Heiress adds gothic and ghostly overtones to a story of one woman's obsessive quest for truth and justice." —Romantic Times "Brenda Joyce has combined modern romance with semi-time travel, historical romance and a mystery all in one intriguing story. A must read!" —Affaire de Coeur

Chapter 1 Who was Kate? Jill inhaled. Tears slipped from beneath her closed lids. Hal was dead and she was standing by the carousel at Baggage Claim in Heathrow Airport. It was almost impossible to believe where she was and, more importantly, why she was there. Jill was numb. Exhaustion, most of it emotional, some of it due to jet lag, did not help. Hal was dead, and she was bringing his body home to his family. The emptiness inside her, the pain, the grief, was astonishing in its intensity, and it was overwhelming. Hal was dead. Gone, forever. She would never see him again. And she had killed him. It was the worst she could have imagined, a nightmare come true. She did not know if she could stand the pain and the confusion-and herself-much longer. She did not know if she could stand the darkness much longer. I love you . . . Kate. Hal's voice, his dying words, pierced through her thoughts, her mind. It was a haunting litany she could not shake. Who was Kate? Jill jerked. The baggage from the British Airways flight was beginning to come down the ramp, thumping onto the carousel, going round and round, like her own spinning thoughts. Hal's image as he died under the ministrations of a team of paramedics there on the side of the highway was engraved upon her mind. As were his last, haunting words, echoing cruelly, again and again. Words she never wanted to forget-words she never wanted to remember. "I love you . …Kate." Jill hugged herself, cold and shivering. The luggage circling in front of her blurred. Jill knew, she absolutely knew, that he had been telling her, Jill, that he loved her as he died. He had loved her-the way she had loved him. Jill had not a doubt. And she knew she must seize on to and cherish this belief. But dear God, his death, and her hand in it, his speaking of this other woman, Kate, it was all horrible enough without their having had that last and final, irreversible, unforgettable exchange. If only he hadn't told her he had been having second thoughts about their future. He'd been having doubts about them, about her. Jill choked on a sob. She was in the throes of guilt and pain, grief and confusion. Jill closed her eyes. She must not think about that conversation, it was unbearable. Everything was unbearable. Hal had been taken away from her. Just like her parents. Her love, her life, had been destroyed-a second time. Suddenly Jill's world became too painful to bear. Blackness gathered before her eyes. Jill fought the urge to pass out, to faint. She must stop thinking, she told herself desperately, aware of tears streaming down her face, aware of the crowded terminal coming into and then out of focus. She fought for equilibrium as she swayed, her knees weak and buckling. She had to get her luggage. She had to get out of there-she had to get air. She must concentrate on the details of survival-and on meeting Hal's family, dear God. Hal's sister, Lauren, was picking her up at the airport. And in that moment, Jill's mind went suddenly, frighteningly, blank. For one instant, she was utterly confused. She was panic-stricken. She did not know where she was, or why. She did not know who she was. The crowd moving around her, the interior of the terminal, became more than a sea of shadows and faces. She could not identify anything or anyone. Even the letters on the signs became gibberish she could not read. But everywhere there were pairs of eyes. Turning her way, wide and accusing, myriad hostile stares. Why was everyone looking at her as if they wished she were dead? Jill was ready to turn and run, but run where? Dead. In the next moment, her mind snapped to, the shadows became walls and doorways, gates and railings, the shapes became people, the eyes, faces, and she knew everything and it was so much worse. People were staring at her, but she was crying helplessly, and she was at Heathrow, bringing Hal's body home to his family-tomorrow was the funeral. Did everyone present know that she had killed the man of her dreams? Jill wished she hadn't remembered anything. There had been bliss in the memory loss. It had been like that ever since Hal had died-not knowing what to do, moments of terrible confusion, followed by other moments of sheer memory loss and then absolute, horrific recognition. Shock, a doctor had said. She would be in shock for the next few days, maybe even the next few weeks. He had encouraged her to rest at home and continue taking the medication he had prescribed. Jill had thrown the antidepressants down the toilet after the first night. She had loved Hal so much and she would not sell her feelings short by trying to blunt or ignore them with Xanax. She would grieve for him the way that she had loved him, completely, irrevocably. Jill removed her sunglasses to wipe her eyes with a tissue before replacing them. Her luggage. She had to find her single duffel bag and get out of there while she remained on her feet and in one piece. The one thing she must now do, Jill decided, was try not to think. Her thoughts were her own worst enemy. Jill glanced down at her feet, to find her carry-on and leopard-print vinyl tote there, along with her oversized black blazer. She turned her gaze to the carousel. To her surprise, most of the bags had been claimed. It seemed like only seconds ago she had been surrounded by the hundreds of passengers from her flight-now only a dozen people or so were waiting for their bags. Jill inhaled desperately. Had she blacked out? Somehow, she seemed to have lost time as well as her memory. She wondered how she was going to survive, not just the next few days, but the next few weeks, months, years. Don't think! Jill told herself frantically. She must not go where her thoughts would lead. Suddenly Jill saw her black nylon duffel bag. It was already moving past her. Jill ran after it with desperation, gripping the handle and swinging it off of the carousel. The effort cost her dearly, and she stood there for a moment, panting. She had never experienced this kind of monumental exhaustion before. When she had regained her breath, she glanced around at the milling crowd. Now where did she go? Now what did she do? How did she find Lauren, whom she had only glimpsed in a photograph? Jill was frozen, against her own admonitions helplessly thinking of the time Hal had so fondly and proudly showed her photos of his family. Hal had spoken often, not just of his sister, but also of his older brother, Thomas, his parents, and his American cousin. His family was, by his accounts, extremely close-knit. His love for them had been so obvious. He had glowed when he had told her tales of growing up as a child, most of them describing the summers in Stainesmore at the old family estate in the north, where as children they fished and hunted and explored the nearby haunted manor. But there had been Christmas holidays at St. Moritz, Easter in St. Tropez, and those years at Eton, playing hooky and running wild in London's West End, chasing "birds" as he called the girls, and sneaking into clubs. Then there had been his football years at Cambridge. And always, since he was a small boy, there had been his first love, his true love, his photography. Jill knew she was crying again. He had held her close on so many nights, telling her how his family would adore her-and that they would welcome her with open arms, as if she were one of them. He had been eager to bring her home, he could not wait for her to meet them. Until that unbelievable and final conversation of theirs in the car, when he had told her he wasn't sure he really wanted to get married after all, that he wanted to go home for a while, alone. Jill knew she must not cry again, but the tears would not stop. Shaking and weak and afraid of blacking out another time, Jill picked up her bags and started walking slowly with the crowd. She must forget about their last conversation. It was the icing on the cake, incapacitating her with bewilderment and confusion. In time, they would have worked things out. Hal would not have walked out on her. Jill knew she had to believe that. Jill followed the crowd through a barricade where Customs officials watched them go by, relieved at least that for the moment her tears had ceased. She was about to meet Lauren and the rest of Hal's family, and never in a million years would she have dreamed that it would be this way, with her bringing Hal's body home for the funeral. She wanted, desperately, to be in control of her physical functions. She did not want to black out in front of them. She paused as she reached a circular area where a crowd was waiting for the arriving passengers, some of them drivers holding up signs with names written boldly upon them. And Jill's gaze immediately settled on a tawny-haired woman about her own age. Jill recognized the other woman instantly. Even if Jill had not seen photographs of Lauren, she would have recognized her because she looked so much like Hal. Her shoulder-length hair was the same dark blond, spiked with lighter strands of gold, and her features were also classic. Like Hal, she was tall and slim. Lauren had that very same look of casual elegance and worry-free wealth that had nothing to do with the designer pants suit she wore but everything to do with her actual heritage-it was an aura only those born to old money can have. Jill faltered, unable to continue forward. Suddenly she was deathly afraid to meet the other woman. Lauren had spotted her, too. She was also motionless, and she was staring. Like Jill, she wore dark glasses. But hers were tortoise shell and oversized, matching her beige Armani suit and Hermes scarf perfectly. She did not smile at Jill. Her face was stiff and set in an expression of . . . what? Self-control? Suffering? Distaste? Jill could not tell. But she was taken aback and dismayed. Gripping both her canvas duffel bag and her carry-on, as well as her leopard-print vinyl tote, aware now of wearing faded Levi's and a White T-shirt, Jill walked slowly toward Hal's sister. "Lauren Sheldon?" She could not meet her gaze even through the dark glasses that they both wore. Lauren nodded, a single jerk of her head, turning her face aside. Jill swallowed the lump that was choking her. "I'm Jill Gallagher." Lauren had folded her arms across her chest. Her shoulder bag seemed to be dark brown alligator. A gold and diamond Piaget watch glinted from beneath the cuff of her suit jacket. "I have a driver outside. We've already picked up the coffin. Because of the Easter holiday, we couldn't find you a decent room and you'll be staying at the house." She turned and began walking rapidly out of the airport. For one moment Jill stared after her, trembling, in disbelief. The woman had not said hello, or asked her how her flight was. Hal had said that Lauren was kind and compassionate and more than friendly. This woman was cold and aloof, and not even civil. But what did she expect? She had been at the wheel, and now Hal was dead. Lauren must hate her-the entire Sheldon family must hate her. She hated herself. Far more ill than before, filled now with an accompanying dread, Jill followed Lauren out of the terminal, her mind going blank again. Jill shifted so that she could see the highway behind her. She was in the backseat of a chauffeured Rolls-Royce, as was Lauren. Both women had taken to the farthest and opposite corners of the spacious sedan. The hearse was behind them. Jill watched it make a left turn. She continued to watch the long black sedan as it disappeared from sight. It was taking Hal's body to the funeral home, while she and Lauren were going to the Sheldons' house in London. Jill did not want to be separated from the hearse. She almost felt like banging on the door, demanding to be let out. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and her sense of loss was, amazingly, worse. It was insane. Jill continued to stare after the disappearing hearse. She bit down hard on her lip, determined not to make a sound. She was shaking uncontrollably and afraid she might once again escape her grief by blacking out. Jill forced herself to settle back in her seat and breathe deeply, her eyes closed, continuing to shake as she fought for equilibrium. She was not even going to make it through the next twenty-four hours if she did not somehow come to grips with herself and Hal's death. When she had regained a small amount of her composure, she glanced at Lauren. In the thirty minutes since they had left the airport, Hal's sister had not said a single word. She sat with her back toward Jill, her shoulders rigid, staring out of her driver's side window. She had not removed her sunglasses, but then, neither had Jill. They were like two hostile zombies, Jill thought grimly. So much for kindness. They could comfort one another. After all, they had both loved Hal. But Jill did not feel up to making the first overture, not yet, and she was too aware of her role in his death. Tears burned her eyes. The funeral was tomorrow. She was booked to return home the following night. She hated the thought of leaving him behind, an entire ocean between them, yet on the other hand, if the Sheldons were all as compassionate as Lauren, it was for the best. She opened her carry-on, a huge fake Louis Vuitton bag that she had bought for fifteen dollars from a street vendor, and searched for and found a Kleenex. She dabbed at her eyes. Lauren hated her. Jill was certain of it. She could actually feel the other woman's simmering resentment. Jill did not blame her. When Jill tucked he tissue back in her bag she looked up and found Lauren watching her, facing her directly for the first time. Jill did not think. Impulsively she said, low, "I'm sorry." Lauren said, "We're all sorry."Jill bit her lip. "It was an accident." Lauren continued to face her. Jill could not see her eyes through the opaque sunglasses she wore. "Why did you come?" Jill was startled. "I had to bring him home. He spoke of you-all of you-so often." She could not continue. Lauren looked away. Another silence fell. "I loved him, too," Jill heard herself say. Lauren turned to her. "He should be alive. A few days ago he was alive. I can't believe he's gone." Her words were angry and had she pointed her finger at Jill, the blame she felt could not have been more obvious. "Neither can I," Jill whispered miserably. It was true. In the middle of the night she would wake up, expecting to find the solid warmth of Hal's body beside her. The coldness of her bed was a shock-as was the sudden recollection of his death. There was nothing worse, Jill had realized, than the oblivion of sleep followed by the absolute cognition of consciousness. "If only," Jill whispered, more to herself than to Lauren, "we hadn't gone away that weekend." But they had. And she could not change the past few days, she could only have regrets. She would have regrets for the rest of her life-regrets and guilt. Had he really been thinking of breaking up with her? "Hal should have come home months ago," Lauren said tersely, interrupting Jill's thoughts. "He was scheduled to come home in February-for my birthday." "He liked New York," Jill managed, avoiding her eyes. Lauren removed her glasses, revealing red-rimmed eyes that were the exact same amber shade as Hal's. "He was homesick. The last few times we spoke, he told me so." Jill was motionless. What else had he told his younger sister, whom he was so close to? Jill thought she would die if Lauren knew about Hal's sudden change of heart about their future. Then, angrily, she reminded herself that it had not been a change of heart. Nothing had been set in stone. Everything would have worked out, sooner rather than later. Lauren also remained unmoving. Finally she said, "He mentioned you." Jill jerked, eyes wide, staring now at Lauren as if she were a Martian. He had mentioned her? "What do you mean, he mentioned me?" "Just that," Lauren said, putting her glasses back on. She glanced out of her window as the silver-gray Rolls sped along. "He mentioned that he was dating you." Jill stared, stunned. They had not been dating. They had been discussing marriage-they had been on the verge of becoming engaged. She was speechless. "How long were the two of you seeing one another?" Lauren asked bluntly. Jill looked at her, the other woman becoming hazy and blurred. "Eight months. We met eight months ago." She was gripping the sensuous leather seat with desperation. "That isn't a very long time," Lauren said after a pause. "It was long enough to fall head over heels in love and to be thinking about . . ." Jill stopped herself short. Lauren removed her eyeglasses again. "To be thinking about what?" she demanded. Jill wet her lips. She hesitated. Everything raced through her mind-his ambivalence, her guilt, a woman named Kate. "The future," she whispered. Lauren just stared-as if she had two heads. "He should have come home a long time ago," Lauren said finally. "He did not belong in New York." Jill did not know how to respond. Hal had not told his sister about the extent of his relationship with her. Why? It hurt. God, it hurt, the way thinking about their last conversation hurt-the way he had hurt her by even having doubts about their future as man and wife. She lay back against the seat, severely exhausted. It hurt almost as much as his death hurt. She needed to find a sanctuary and bury her head under a pillow and sleep. But then she would wake up and remember everything and it would be so awful . . . The Rolls-Royce stopped. Instantly Jill's tension increased. The Sheldon family home was now the last place she wished to be, because if Lauren's reception was any indication of the way Hal's family would greet her, then she was not ready to meet them, not now, not ever. They were on a busy, two-way street in the midst of London, Jill realized. The driver was waiting to make a right-hand turn across the lane of oncoming traffic. Tall iron gates were open, but the road they wished to turn onto was barred by a mechanical barricade and a uniformed security guard. Jill wet her lips. Past the barricade, she glimpsed a shady, tree-lined street of huge stone mansions. The Rolls crossed the road, the barrier was lifted without their even slowing, the officer on duty inside of a small security booth waving them on. Jill craned her neck as the Rolls rolled up the asphalt street, viewing palatial home after palatial home. A park seemed to be behind the homes on her right. Jill wanted to ask where they were. She did not. The Rolls turned into a circular driveway on one of the street's largest mansions and halted in the graveled drive before the house. Jill thought she could feel her blood pressure rocketing. "We're here." Lauren stepped out of the car without waiting for the chauffeur to assist her. Jill could not move as quickly. The gentleman opened the door for her and Jill stumbled out. It had started to drizzle. Jill did not move. The fine mist settling on her hair and shoulders, she stared at the house where Hal had been raised as Lauren hurried up the wide and imposing front steps. Two sitting lions, carved in stone, guarded those front steps. For one moment, Jill was completely taken aback. Hal had talked about his family's London home with pride. Hal had mentioned, oh-so-casually, that the house, built around the turn of the century, had about twenty-five rooms and one of London's most spectacular rose gardens. It was not the family's original London home, which had been built in Georgian times and was part of the National Trust. Jill had vaguely gathered that Uxbridge Hall, which was somewhere just outside of central London, was open to the public, although the family kept private apartments there as well. Jill stared up at the city dwelling. She had expected opulence, yet she was taken aback now that she was actually confronted with the reality and the extent of it. The house was built of a medium-hued sand-colored stone and was three stories high-but the first two floors clearly had double ceilings. Thick columns supported a temple pediment over the oversized front door, and the numerous arched windows also boasted smaller pediments and intricate stone engravings. There were iron balconies on the second floor and the high, sloping roofs sported a jumble of chimneys. The stonework itself was amazing. Painstaking detail had gone into every cornice and molding. The house was surrounded by manicured lawns and blooming rose gardens; a wrought-iron fence circled the perimeter of the entire property, undoubtedly to keep the public out. "God," Jill heard herself say. In spite of all the conversations she'd had with Hal, she could hardly believe that he had been raised in this house. And this was just their city home, not even their ancestral home, which Jill suspected was even larger and grander. She was suddenly aware of how small and shabby her own studio in the Village was. She suddenly wished she were not wearing her oldest, favorite, and most faded Levi's. If Lauren heard her, she gave no sign, for she was already pushing open the heavy front door. "I shall bring your bags, madam," the driver said behind her. Jill hoped she smiled at him, thought she failed, and slowly followed in Lauren's wake. She found herself in a large entry hall with high ceilings and polished beige and white marble floors. Works of art hung on the walls, and the bench, marble-topped table, and mirror were all exquisitely gilded. Jill was grim. She was acutely aware of not belonging there. Jill glanced down at her worn Levi's, and the black blazer she had put on in the air-conditioned car. The jacket was actually a man's sports jacket, but she had loved it upon sight and had bought it in a thrift store for herself. She was wearing Cole-Haan loafers, but they were very old, as soft as butter, and severely scuffed. Of course, she could only wear soft, broken-in shoes when she was not dancing because of the pain and damage her profession caused her feet. She hesitated, afraid now to follow Lauren, feeling horribly out of place, wishing she had worn a suit like Lauren's. She didn't even remember dressing for the trip abroad. She had not a clue about what was in her duffel bag. If she was lucky, KC, her best friend and neighbor, had helped her pack, but Jill didn't remember even speaking to KC in the past few days. Suddenly she was worried about her cat, Ezekial. She would have to call KC immediately and make sure she was taking care of the tom. Jill's gaze settled on a painting that took up an entire wall. It had to be a masterpiece, and it was depicting some kind of mythological scene that she was not familiar with. She swallowed, telling herself to take deep, steady breaths. She would meet his family, be polite. Surely they would be civil in return-unlike Lauren. In a few moments she would be shown to her room. It could not be too soon. If only she were staying in a hotel. Her anxiety had gotten to the point where she was ready to make a mad dash back out the front door. Jill glanced over her shoulder. The front door was solidly closed. Her panic began mounting slowly, steadily. Jill told herself that everything would be all right. To keep breathing deeply. Hal's image, as he lay dying in her arms, his face starkly white, his mouth spouting blood, filled her mind. Footsteps sounded. Jill tried to still her trembling hands and smile as Lauren reappeared. She had removed her jacket, revealing a beige silk T-shirt that probably cost more than all of the clothing upon Jill's body. "Come," she said. Jill followed, filled with trepidation. Lauren led her into a large living room, far more lavish than the foyer. But Jill hardly glimpsed the faded but stunning Oriental rugs and the antique furnishings or the Matisse hanging on one wall. Three men were standing in the center of the room, one elderly and white-haired, the two other men younger, in their thirties, one golden and tanned, the other dark-haired and olive-skinned. Each man was holding a drink. Lauren stopped, as did Jill. The three men turned. As one, they all stared at Jill. Three pairs of penetrating eyes. Three pairs of accusing gazes. This was Hal's family. Jill knew she was facing William, Hal's elderly father, and his older brother, Thomas, and his cousin, Alex. She did not know whom each of the younger men was, although she suspected Thomas was the blond. But at that moment, she could take it no more. For their stares did not relent. Their hostility was unmistakable. But then, she had been the one driving . . . "Some time to think . . . I love you . . . Kate." Jill tried to clear her head. She could not. Lauren was saying something, but her tone was as cold, as unfriendly, as the regards leveled at her. Those accusing, cold, hostile stares . . . Jill watched the figures before her begin to waver and blur. Hal's ghostly white face, the blood . . . She had been driving . . . The room had dimmed, and now it lightened, and then dimmed again. And then absolute darkness came. It was a blessing. She heard voices first. Voices she did not recognize, male voices speaking words she could not comprehend. Jill drifted, oddly light-headed and at peace. And then, as she became more conscious, she realized she had fainted. With that realization came the piercing comprehension that something was terribly wrong. And then her peace was shattered. By the stabbing, gut-wrenching realization that she had fainted because Hal was dead. "What was Hal thinking?" a deep, sandy voice said. It was patrician, British, and very angry. Jill stiffened. She had been about to open her eyes, remembering where she was now, but she kept them screwed shut. "Hal was doing what he had to do-following his own drummer-that was Hal." Another voice, this one less hostile, but curt nonetheless. The speaker had an American accent. He must be the cousin, Alex. "He should never have started up with her in the first place," the first voice said with the same deep pitch of anger. "He was asking for trouble. Bloody, bloody hell." Jill didn't understand. What were they talking about? Were they talking about her? "And look at what has happened," Lauren said very clearly, anguished. "Now he's dead. Because of her!" Jill stiffened. They all blamed her for the accident. Her stomach roiled with sickening force. "Enough of this arguing, all of you," a third, older voice said. It was weary and it obviously belonged to William, Hal's father. "We are in a difficult time and . . ." He stopped abruptly, his voice breaking, unable to continue. Jill's heart broke again, for him and for herself. "Uncle William, sit down. Let me refill that." "Thank you," William whispered, choked. Jill wished she were anywhere but there, with the Sheldons in their living room. She should not be there. This was too personal, too intimate. "She has nerve," the first voice cut in with its gravelly tone. It was not a compliment. "I wonder just what she knows, exactly, and why she is here." It had to be Thomas speaking. "Your father is right. Let's not make this worse, and accusations are pointless now, without hard facts." The American was speaking again. Alex. "Accusations," Thomas repeated harshly. "Don't tell me not to accuse her, Alex, on several counts. Damn it." "I'm not telling you what to do. But Uncle William is right. This is a tough time, not the time to be rash." Someone was leaning over her. Jill tensed, afraid to be discovered pretending to still be passed out. "Miss Gallagher?" It was Alex speaking again. Jill was distressed. She opened her eyes, tears burning her lids, despising them all now, her instincts trying to scream some kind of warning at her. Her gaze instantly met his. His eyes were surprisingly blue, his skin swarthy, his hair short, black, and curly. They stared at one another. He soon straightened to his full height-and he was tall, perhaps six feet or more. "She's conscious." Alex continued to stare down at her. His gaze was piercing, and suddenly Jill was afraid that he knew she had been conscious for some time now-and eavesdropping on them all. Jill started to sit up, but immediately was overcome with dizziness again. Lauren looked down at her. "You fainted. Perhaps you should lie still for another moment or two." "This has never happened before," Jill said hoarsely, embarrassed and wanting nothing more than to recover her strength and flee the room, and all of them. She had fainted-and that was not the same as those blackouts. "I didn't eat." How inane that comment sounded. Her gaze shifted to the three men as she tried to sit up, this time successfully. They were all gazing at her. She could identify them now. William was tall but paunchy and tired-looking, with a full head of white hair, and he was, she thought, well into his seventies, but still attractive for his age. In his double-breasted, navy blue blazer, his tan slacks and signet ring, he looked exactly the way she had expected a wealthy, blue-blooded aristocrat to look. Thomas was his heir. He was the oldest of the siblings. Hal had mentioned more than once that his brother, whom he had adored, was an incorrigible playboy with the kind of looks and charm few women seemed capable of resisting. Jill had avoided looking his way until now, but she would have to be blind not to notice that he was every bit as drop-dead good-looking as Hal had said. His dark blond hair was sun-streaked, he was tanned, and he had the kind of muscular but not bulky body that obviously worked out vigorously at the gym. His features were more than classic, they were strong and male-the high cheekbones and strong jaw giving way to a surprisingly full and sensual mouth. He was wearing a black Polo shirt and tan trousers, a gold Rolex, Gucci loafers. Jill had expected handsome and she had expected chic. He looked like a jet-setter and a full-time playboy. Jill bet he had a dissipated lifestyle. Jill also knew that Thomas was divorced, and that his two small sons lived most of the year with their mother. Jill realized she was staring, worse, that he knew it, for his gaze had locked with hers. She flushed. The look he sent her was cold and cutting. His message could not be louder-Jill had no doubt that he found her entirely lacking, at least in appearance. Clearly he disapproved of her faded jeans and "boyfriend" jacket, if not of herself. Clearly, like Lauren, he blamed her for Hal's death. She should have realized that this would be her reception. Maybe she was a fool for having come. But how could she not attend Hal's funeral? "Introductions are in order," Alex said, cutting into her thoughts. Jill met his eyes again as he stepped forward. The heat remained in her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said, more to him, but really for everyone's benefit. His nod was curt; his gaze shifted. Clearly he was as unsympathetic as everyone else. "Stress, shock, it happens." He was matter-of-fact. Jill found herself regarding him. Hal had said his cousin was originally from Brooklyn, but what else had he said? He'd talked less about Alex than Lauren and Thomas. Jill thought she recalled something about Alex having lived in London for a number of years and his working in the family company. Hal had said he was brilliant, she remembered that-he had gone to Princeton on an athletic scholarship if her memory now served her. She realized she was staring. His regard had darkened-as if he knew she was studying him, and Jill averted her gaze, managing to stand up. She folded her arms tightly around herself. Was this what it felt like to be tossed into a den of hungry wolves? She intended to beg to go to her room as soon as the introductions were dispensed with. "My uncle, the earl of Collinsworth, my cousins, Thomas Sheldon, and Lauren Sheldon-Wellsely," he said flatly. "And I am Alex Preston." Jill stiffened, aware of what he was doing and incredulous that he would deliberately put her in her place as an American commoner among British aristocracy. His gaze held hers. She was not mistaking his intentional put-down. Jill was thoroughly taken aback. Hal had said his family would greet her with open arms. That they would love her as if she were another daughter. But when Hal had said that, he had been alive. Had he really believed that? Jill looked past Lauren and nodded warily at the other two men, who continued to regard her just as Alex continued to stare. Thomas broke the brief silence. "You're the dancer," he said flatly,

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