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Her mother blew out a stunned breath and Carrie knew she was thinking of the tragic way Jacob had lost his life.
The latest, highly anticipated Meyer-Randolph venture—a gentrification project in a run-down area of Chicago—had not been long underway. Jacob had made it a condition of his inclusion in the project that the existing homes and businesses were safeguarded and incorporated into the new development plans. However, not long after construction had begun, and he’d left to attend to another of his projects in Europe, Sterling Randolph had betrayed that promise in a bid to increase profits. The residents had been forced to leave their properties with little or no notice and with nowhere to go.
Anger at that turn of events had reverberated across the city, sparking enormous protests. When Jacob had learned of the double-cross, it had been too late to undo Sterling’s actions, but he’d hastily returned to the city anyway, to try and set things right. When he had attended a meeting with the local community, one furious resident had shot and killed him.
‘Well, that definitely does make it more complicated,’ Prue said eventually. Seeing Carrie’s miserable expression, she tightened the hand curled over hers in silent support. ‘Does Damon know who you are?’
‘No. And when he finds out I can’t see how he will want anything to do with me or the baby.’
Damon left his team celebrating. They had worked tirelessly these past weeks, showing a determination and a focus that had almost rivalled his own. Their pitch to Caldwell had been flawless, so they deserved their night of jubilation.
He, however, would not be celebrating until he had a signed contract in his possession and Randolph’s business obituary was being written.
But before he returned to his Mayfair home he stopped off at an exclusive bar for a nightcap.
A lone woman sat at the other end of the bar, and Damon remembered his earlier vow to find a companion to enjoy the night with. But the inviting smile of her deep red lips left him cold, and Damon turned away to savour his drink alone.
She wasn’t Carrie. That was the problem.
Because, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, there’d been something special about Carrie Miller of Santa Barbara.
Not for the first time a pang of disquiet chimed in him as he considered her. Something that prompted his brow to furrow...as if there was something about her he should have known but wasn’t realising...the source of which he had been thus far unable to put his finger on.
But then, out of nowhere, it hit him.
Miller.
Wasn’t Miller the maiden name of Sterling Randolph’s second wife? The wife with whom he’d had a daughter?
Having committed every aspect of Randolph’s life to memory, he scanned the recesses of his mind for her name.
Caroline.
Carrie?
A buzzing sounded in his ears.
No. It was not possible. It had to be a freak coincidence. Both Caroline and Miller were generic names. It was just an unfortunate quirk of fate.
Damon had almost succeeded in convincing himself of that when he recalled Carrie’s adamant stance that nothing could or should happen between them and the way she’d tried to leave the chateau.
‘It’s complicated. You just need to trust me, Damon. It is better for both of us if this begins and ends tonight.’
They were the words she’d spoken that night. They had made no sense at the time, but in this new context there was no misunderstanding them. She had known exactly who he was, and the awful way in which their lives were connected!
The buzzing in his ears grew louder, accompanied by the heated racing and roaring of his blood and a bitter dread pooling in his stomach.
Picking up his phone, he called his executive assistant Isobel, who answered on the first ring. ‘I need you to do a background check. The woman I met in Paris—Carrie Miller. Get me everything you can on her,’ he instructed, finding it hard to speak with so much visceral feeling coursing through him.
Demonstrating an even greater efficiency than usual, Isobel delivered the report to him the next morning. Looking at the solemnity of her expression as she handed it over, he felt the tiny piece of hope he’d spent the night clinging to that it was all an error evaporate.
‘Tell me,’ he instructed, unable to bring himself to look and see it in inviolable black and white.
‘She was born Caroline Randolph. The only daughter of Sterling Randolph and Prudence Miller. Started to go by Carrie Miller a few years ago. She lives in Santa Barbara...owns a bakery that is turning a pretty decent profit for a company that’s less than five years old.’
‘And her relationship with her father?’
Because that was what was really mattered.
