Whisper a Warning

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 1998 by Christine Bush

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477832264

  ISBN-10: 1477832262

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful children, who constantly enrich my life: Abigail, Susannah, Maureen, Jacqueline and David. May you have love and laughter, health and happiness all of your days.

  This title was previously published by Avalon Books; this version has been reproduced from the Avalon book archive files.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter One

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Willow slammed the office phone into its cradle with gusto, then stood up and did a victory dance in the middle of the real estate office. Her exuberance didn’t startle anyone. She plopped back into the chair, green eyes sparkling, and met the kindly brown eyes of the older man who sat behind her, tucked into the corner of the crammed room.

  “Hey, Mr. Reynolds,” she chirped, “it’s the rock star from New York! He’s going to see the White property at one this afternoon! 1.2 million dollars, here we go!”

  “Go get ’em, Wilhemina Blake!” Mr. Reynolds said with an amused smile. “We could use a little cash influx into this place. Maybe we’ll splurge. Since I’m making the coffee these days, I could go for a new coffeemaker. One of those newfangled Swedish jobs . . . this one is the pits.”

  He shrugged his shoulders at the aged coffeemaker that sat on the shelf beside him, pushing up his half-glasses at the same time, enjoying teasing Willow.

  Willow pulled her five-foot, nine-inch frame out of the chair and stepped back to the gentle man who was her boss and the broker of the small real estate company. She bent over and kissed the top of his balding head, making him blush.

  “Gee, Willow,” he stammered, suddenly shuffling papers on his desk. “You’re too much!”

  “You’re too much, Mr. Reynolds. But I’ll tell you what. When I clinch this deal, you and Mrs. Reynolds are going to take that second honeymoon trip to Sweden. You can pick up the coffeemaker while you’re there.”

  He was laughing now. “Willow, the day you gave up coffee making and got your real estate license was a day for the record books. I’m better at taking care of the paperwork, and watching you guys sell! I’m also better at making coffee,” he chided.

  “True, all true,” Willow conceded. “Mildred,” she said to the quiet woman who sat at the next desk. “What kind of trouble are you up to today?”

  Mildred looked up from her typewriter and blushed. She was ten years older than Willow’s twenty-six years, and was almost the exact opposite of Willow’s flamboyant style. Her straight brown hair was pulled back into a wooden barrette at the nape of her neck, and her face was scrubbed clean of any makeup or pretense. Her “good sense’’ white blouse was tied sedately in a bow at her neck.

  “Showing houses,” she spoke in her soft, airy voice. “All day. I’ve got an appointment at eleven o’clock.”

  The reference to time made Willow glance at the clock.

  “Oh, gosh!” Willow blurted, jumping to her feet. “I’m due at the bank. I’m going to try to convince those financial felons to reconsider the rehab loan they turned down. These clients deserve that loan. It’s just not fair. I’m going to put my two cents in to help them. It’s the principle of the thing.”

  Mr. Reynolds sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Life just isn’t fair, is it? I wish I could help you. I wish I had the money to spare, Wilhelmina.”

  “Don’t waste a thought on it, Mr. R. The medical bills for Mrs. Reynolds are the important thing for you to worry about. We’re going to keep breaking those sales records, and sooner or later, we’ll all be able to make things more fair. Okay?”

  “Okay, kiddo. Good luck at the bank, and good luck with the rock star. You will be back in time to meet with Manxo Manxo, right? I have to admit he intimidates me. It’s like he’s from another planet.”

  “Just sing him a few Frank Sinatra tunes if he beats me here. That will keep him quiet. Or ask him about politics. Now that ought to be a conversation.”

  “I have a feeling you’d better just be back in time.”

  “Gotcha.”

  When Mr. Reynolds had hired her a few short years before, he had seen something special in the tall lanky blond who had been valiantly trying to bluff her way into a job with absolutely no skills at all. She had been young, alone, and determined to support herself when she had arrived in town. He had instantly respected her spunk and drive. He hired her as his part-time receptionist on the spot. She had never let him down.

  She had learned every facet of the real estate field, and when she had decided to earn her real estate license, he had been proud and supportive. And she had proved him right.

  She packed her briefcase to make the short trip to the bank, taking a moment to check herself in her compact mirror. Today, her short blond hair was brushed back in a sophisticated style. Stately pearl earrings matched the band of pearls around her neck. She wore a touch of artistically applied makeup. She stared at herself for a moment, then nodded her head. She looked just right for the bank.

  Tall and slim, she was wearing a pair of flowing wide-legged trousers, in a soft yellow rayon material, topped with a matching tunic. It was belted at the waist, and ended gently, far above her knees.

  With her short blond hair and emerald green eyes, she looked like a breath of summer day, an exquisite burst of sunshine.

  With a deep sigh, and a wave to Mr. Reynolds who was still on the phone, she stepped out into the June sunshine to face the bank. She flung her briefcase unceremoniously into her car, parked at the curb, a bright yellow convertible Miata, and folded her tall frame into the driver’s seat.

  The engine roared to life, and she pulled out into the traffic, heading for the bank. She was probably going to lose, she knew, but she would go down fighting. It was, as Mr. Reynolds had so perceptively understood, the principle of the thing.

  June was supposed to be a beautiful month. It once had meant flowers, sunshine, and sweet-smelling women in airy dresses. But not anymore. Rockford Farquahar Harrison III sat leaning on his elbows, sitting at his well-polished cherry wood desk. The desk had a shine so bright he could almost see his reflection in it. Amazing, he thought, that he was sitting here just evaluating the shine from his desk.

  He looked out the tall graceful windows of the law office, which once had been the mansion home of one of Ryerstown’s founding citizens. He had a first-floor, co
rner office. Good light exposure. Beautiful hardwood floors peeked out from the edges of the tasteful Oriental carpet. The furniture was exquisite. The obligatory rows of legal books lined the walls behind his desk. He couldn’t have cared less.

  It was a lawyer’s dream come true, this expansive, well-appointed office in this solid, trustworthy law firm owned by his uncle. A new town. A fresh start. He should feel happy; he should feel thankful, he chided himself. He wished he had been full of the usual optimism that had been a trademark in his early life.

  But the fact was, he didn’t feel anything. That youthful optimism had evaporated, gone like a puff of smoke, with one brutal gunshot. In its wake, it had left . . . nothing. He felt empty, drained, and tired of the phony smiling face he had worn for the past two weeks since he had arrived in town.

  He felt like he was letting his sister Georgina down, letting himself down. But he seemed powerless to change it.

  George was always consoling him, telling him to relax, just do his best, and let time take its course. But then, George had more patience and optimism than just about any living creature he had ever met.

  “It is just grief,” George said. “Put things in their right perspective, and you’ll be able to find joy in life again.”

  He wasn’t even that greedy. He’d settle for peace, or just a little happiness. He’d be delighted with a little hope, or enthusiasm.

  But for now, he just had his work, so he stopped looking out the tall windows of the office, ignoring the busy small-town main street that paraded by, and turned his attention back to the legal work at his fingertips. Deftly pressing buttons on his desk equipment, he quickly dictated a few letters, then relayed the rough draft of a simple will for one of the firm’s elderly clients. It was not mind-boggling stuff, certainly not the kind of law that he was used to practicing, but it kept him busy and held his attention; at least for a while.

  But then, he was suddenly distracted by a distinctive flash of yellow from the sidewalk across the street. He raised his eyes and stared.

  She was tall. Slim. She was very blond, with hair as short as her legs were long. She was wearing some kind of pants, mysterious, flowing things that alternately billowed and clung to her legs as she moved. He liked the way she walked, with long, deliberate steps, and an athletic, swingy gait. She wore a loose-fitting top of the same yellow color, and the effect was breathtaking. Eye-catching.

  He found himself smiling for the first time in months as he watched her climb into a sports car at the curb. A vision of yellow gold. Even the car matched! He was still staring openmouthed as the flash of yellow darted down the street. She was gone.

  He felt a funny kind of loss, like a kid who was promised an ice cream sundae, and then didn’t get it. He finally let his breath out, amazed that he had held it so long. His mind started ticking . . . who was she? Where did she come from? How would he find her again?

  Within a minute or two, he had calmed himself down. The golden woman was gone, and he probably would never see her again, so that was that. But his strong reaction had produced one happy realization . . . he sure wasn’t dead yet.

  It was almost noon when Willow emerged from the bank. Perhaps it would be accurate to say that Willow exploded from the bank. She was in a rage. She stomped her feet all the way to her convertible.

  “Of all the cruel, unfeeling people I have seen—” She flung her briefcase into the car, and this time, didn’t hesitate the second it would take to open the door. She climbed right over the side of the car and plopped herself into the driver’s seat.

  “It’s not fair . . . it’s not right. . . it makes me so darn mad.”

  With the last three syllables, she pounded on the steering wheel, finally stopping because her hand felt burnt from the hot steering wheel that had been exposed to the sun.

  She had failed at the bank. Logically, she had known before she had gone that she was chasing a rainbow, fighting a lost cause, but deep in her heart, she had hoped for a miracle. But when a bank didn’t want to lend money, they simply didn’t lend it. They could come up with a multitude of legal reasons to justify their decisions. Banks were like that. Powerful. And discriminatory. Just hiding their prejudices under a lot of financial jargon.

  She took a deep breath, and focused on the car. The engine sprang to life, and she roared out of the parking lot, heading back toward the main street of town and her real estate office. Not only had they turned down her appeal, they had kept her waiting an extra forty minutes, so that now she was rushing against the clock for her afternoon appointment for the White property.

  She pulled up to the curb, thankful that her usual space was available. This time, she was calm enough to open the car door, and exited the vehicle with a lot more decorum than when she had entered. Decorum. She tended to forget about that when she was mad. Wait until Mr. Reynolds heard about her behavior at the bank!

  She opened the heavy door, and found the office was empty, except for Mr. Reynolds, who was sitting at his desk, munching on a salad.

  “Sit down, Wilhemina,” he said between chews. “Calm down. The bank called, so I know it didn’t go well.”

  “The bank called you already?” It was worse than she thought.

  “Seemed they thought I should know that one of my realtors stood up on her chair at the conference table and started reciting the Constitutional amendments pertaining to discrimination at the top of her voice.”

  “I was a little . . . mad. They were so staid—so self-righteous.” She winced. “But maybe that was too much, standing up on the chair and all. Sorry for embarrassing you. It didn’t do any good anyway.”

  “But did you feel like you said your piece?” His old eyes twinkled.

  “I felt like Patrick Henry.”

  “Well then, good for you, Wilhemina. You always follow your heart, and that’s okay. You gained one supporter, by the way. Did you notice the nun who was at the meeting? She also called and said to congratulate you for your ‘spine.’ Seems to think that there aren’t too many people with a ‘spine’ in this town, and she was glad to see one in action. It was probably worth scuffing a chair, Wilhemina.”

  She smiled. “Do you know, Mr. Reynolds,” she said thoughtfully as she plopped into her desk chair, throwing one leg casually over the arm of the seat, “that you are the only person in the entire world who can call me Wilhemina and get away with it?”

  “Too bad. Wilhemina is a pretty name.”

  “Don’t spread it around, Mr. R. Remember my famous temper. Willow is just fine.”

  She told him about the bank. Earlier in the year, she had assisted an organization in purchasing a property to be used as a group home for AIDS patients. They had won the battle of getting community acceptance and support. But recently, the group had applied for a rehab loan to make necessary improvements to the property. The loan had been rejected.

  “We’ll have to find another way,” she concluded, “but right now, I’ve got to get ready for Manxo Manxo.”

  Mr. Reynolds laughed and shook his head.

  She grabbed a small tote bag that she kept under her desk, and disappeared into the ladies’ room. Hair, makeup, shoes, jewelry—they all had to go. In minutes, she emerged.

  Her eyes were made up much darker now. Large gold hoops hung from her ears, and around her neck were several strands of gold chain. Hair mousse had given her short hair a slightly spiky look, and the golden sash that she had worn around her waist was now tied around her head as a headband, its tails hanging down her back. The yellow tunic, unbelted now, had become a very short dress. The pants were gone. Long, tanned legs were set off by a pair of golden espadrille shoes, their long ties crisscrossing up her legs and tying behind the knee.

  “I don’t believe it,” exclaimed Mr. Reynolds, as he got a look at her. “You have done many weird things, but this is one of the highest on the list. You look like you just stepped out of an L.A. nightclub.”

  “Good. That’s what I was hoping for. Flashy and wil
d, that’s what Manxo likes, according to his agent on the phone. I’m going to clinch this deal, Mr. R.”

  He shook his head in wonder. “If your method works, it works. But I think Willow herself, without the getup, is still good enough. Just be careful.”

  She stuck a mobile phone in her pocketbook. “Call me if you need me,” she called gaily, waving with a flourish as she stepped out the door. A long white limo with black-tinted glass was just pulling to the curb. She put on a wide smile and greeted the face that was familiar to her from album covers and CD labels.

  “Manxo,” she exclaimed. “You’ve going to love this property, and it’s such a steal . . . .” The rock star took one look at her, and his face lit up.

  “We’ll have to take the limo, unless you want to dump the suit.” She motioned to the dark-suited agent in the backseat. “My sports car only has two seats,” she gushed, her long legs climbing into the limo, Manxo’s low voice answering in agreement. The limo door swung shut and the vehicle left the curb.

  Mr. Reynolds watched from the window and shook his head. Too much spunk for her own good. He wished she wasn’t so alone. But she’d probably make the deal, if he knew Willow. And if, by any stretch of the imagination, the deal wasn’t right, she’d probably come back with a contract to sing backup on Manxo’s next album instead—that was Willow!

  Chapter Two

  The afternoon, for once, flew by quickly in the law office. Rockford kept his mind on his work and had sorted through and settled a lot of paperwork by the time it was time to quit for the day. His mind had strayed a few times to the amazing blond he had seen from the window, but his well-practiced self-discipline brought him back to his task.

  The phones had stopped ringing; the last clients could be heard passing in the hallway on their way to the door. The staff in his Uncle William’s firm seemed competent and friendly, but basically they had left him alone since his arrival, sensing his aloofness, and giving him time to settle in.

  He suspected William had briefed them on the tragedy that had resulted in his leaving his father’s firm and his career in criminal law.