“Now, wait a minute,” she said, holding up a hand in protest. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been doing my homework.”
“Prying, you mean.”
He switched on the radio. A commercial for cellular phones blasted through the speakers. Nick found another station. Soft rock of some sort. An old Billy Joel tune. “Call it what you will, but I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on down here.”
“Me, too,” she admitted though she was a little disconcerted to think that Nick might know more about her life than she did. “You’re sure about the will?”
“As sure as I am about anything. I’ve got a private investigator working for me.”
“So?”
“He’s got connections, or so he says. The upshot of the will is that everyone else gets a pittance, but the baby is the primary beneficiary.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Seems your father always wanted a namesake. The will originally stated that a male heir would inherit most of everything and since Rory is severely handicapped, the onus was on you to produce a son.”
“Even though his last name isn’t Amhurst.”
“Hence the James Amhurst Cahill.”
“I can’t believe that. It’s . . . it’s so archaic. So . . . so . . . sick.” But then she remembered the man who was her father. Somehow, it fit.
“It’s the old man’s money, he can do with it what he wants,” Nick pointed out as Marla watched a jet slice across the sky.
“But James is barely nine weeks old.”
“And damned lucky to be a male.”
“Or cursed.” She didn’t like the feeling that had been with her since seeing her father lying in his bed, a shell of the man he’d once been, a skeleton filled with hate and suspicion. So where was the doting father who gave out stock certificates and expensive rings like candy? Where was the man who raised her and nurtured her and looked forward to her bringing him grandchildren . . . ?
“Who is Kylie?” Nick asked suddenly.
“I wish I knew. But I know I’ve heard the name before . . . seen or heard it somewhere. I just can’t remember where.”
He tapped his fingers on the gearshift as he thought. His eyes narrowed on the road and he said, “Maybe you do have a sister after all. A half-sister.”
“It’s a possibility I suppose,” she agreed as he’d echoed her own suspicions. “But why doesn’t anyone know about her?”
“Because it was his nasty little secret. It could be that it’s all twisted in his mind and he’s confusing you with her.”
“Maybe,” she allowed though the idea seemed far-fetched and disjointed. But why else would he call her by another name? “Or maybe I am Kylie. How would I know?” She offered him a lift of one brow.
“Then where’s Marla, and why does everyone think you’re Conrad’s princess of a daughter?”
“Not everyone does,” she pointed out, watching as fence posts and grassy fields gave way to houses dotting the landscape, flying by in a blur as the truck roared down the narrow road. “Cissy doesn’t. Conrad doesn’t. I’m not even sure if I do. What about you?” She twisted her head to stare directly at him. “You knew her. Very well from the sounds of it.” His fingers curled over the wheel. “Do you think I’m Marla?” she asked. His lips thinned. The skin stretched tight over his cheekbones.
“Yes.”
“Why? My face has changed a lot. I’ve been through hell in that wreck, then had plastic surgery. You haven’t seen me in what—over a dozen years?”
The veins in the back of his hands stood out. His knuckles turned white. “That’s true.”
“Then how would you know?”
When he didn’t answer, she touched his arm. “How, Nick?”