The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

"Both. The girls will look just like you; beautiful miniatures of their mother, with burnished hair that won't stay up and jade green eyes that flash when they're angry and glow when they've conjured up a brilliant idea."

Anastasia kissed his fingertips. "And the boys will be impossibly handsome and independent, and so astute in business that it will be obvious from the day they're born that they're destined to be brilliant." A peppery spark. "Then again, the brilliant part applies to the girls, too. After all, they'll be our children. Besides, we have more than enough companies for them to manage: the House of Lockewood, Fidelity Union and Trust—soon to be open and thriving—and, of course, Colby and Sons…" Anastasia halted, the very mention of her grandfather's company acting as a blatant reminder of the ugly dilemma they now faced.

She stared at Damen, apprehension eclipsing all traces of humor.

"We'll make things right, Stacie," he said softly. "I promised you that, and I meant it."

"We have to. Because none of the beautiful dreams you just described can happen until we put Uncle George and all his colleagues in prison." Fear knotted her gut. "By now, I'm sure he's interrogated Breanna to see if she knows anything more about my disappearance. I hope to God she's all right, that he didn't try to beat information out of her."

Damen gave an astute shake of his head. "Have faith in your cousin, sweetheart. I think she'll surprise you. She's stronger than you realize."

"I know." Despite the certainty of her words, Anastasia frowned, her brows knit in worry. "Breanna is very strong. But Uncle George is irrational. Lord knows how desperate he'll become when he discovers I'm gone, and to what lengths he'll go to find me."

Equally troubled as she by the prospects that conjured up, Damen rolled to one side, taking Anastasia with him. "Let's get our strategy under way. You'll feel better and, frankly, so will I." He kissed her ever so softly, held her for one more tantalizing minute before reluctantly withdrawing from her clinging warmth. "Remember where we left off," he murmured.

A watery smile. "Just try to make me forget."

He framed her face between his palms, brought her mouth back to his. "I'd rather make you remember. And I will, just as soon as we've destroyed your uncle and brought him and his crooked associates to justice."

* * *

It seemed days rather than hours before the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed twelve, heralding the noon hour and the time Damen had said he'd be returning to his Town house.

Anastasia spent the morning the only way her frayed nerves would allow her: she paced through every room in the house, covering both levels and never sitting down.

The servants were kind and understanding, offering her meals, tea, a library of books to read. But all she could think about was Damen and what he might be finding out at the bank. That, and Breanna, and whatever had taken place between her and her father yesterday.

Although she was significantly less worried about the latter since Wells's note had arrived this morning.

Actually, it had arrived last night, but Proust had waited until morning to present it to Damen, handing it to him the minute he and Anastasia strolled into the dining room. The two of them had read it together, and Anastasia had nearly wept with joy at how cheery the message sounded. According to Wells, he was writing at Miss Breanna's request. She was feeling lonely since her cousin's departure and would like some company. Therefore, she was cordially inviting Lord Sheldrake to either tea or a late lunch the following day.

Which meant today.

"That's Wells's way of assuring us Breanna is all right," Anastasia declared, rereading the message. "He's also suggesting that afternoon would be the best time for your visit. Uncle George probably has business away from Medford Manor." Anastasia sighed with relief. "I only wish Proust had delivered this note the instant it arrived. I would have slept much better."

Damen had cocked a brow, glancing about to make sure the dining room was deserted. "May I remind you that I practically accosted Proust the first time he interrupted us? I hardly think he'd choose to take me on again, especially when I hadn't mentioned expecting another piece of urgent correspondence last night." A provocative twinkle. "With regard to your sleeping better, that's a moot point since you didn't really sleep at all. I can attest to that fact."

Anastasia had been cheerfully unable to dispute that logic.

Right after breakfast, Damen had put their plan into motion. He'd gone to the bank as usual, ready to act as if nothing was amiss while keeping a keen eye on the mail, and on whoever touched it. Later in the morning, he intended to announce that he had an afternoon appointment, after which he'd ride out to Medford Manor.

Making an unscheduled stop at his Town house to pick up a passenger.

It was ten past twelve when Anastasia heard the key turn in the front door.

She flew to the entranceway, nearly knocking down Damen's butler in the process. "You're home," she gasped, seizing Damen's forearms and tugging him inside. "Tell me what happened."

He glanced back over his shoulder, then gestured for his butler to shut the door. "You're supposed to be staying out of sight," he reminded Anastasia with a dark scowl. "What if it hadn't been me at the door?"

She shot him a defiant look. "Just who else has a key to your home?"

He couldn't help but grin. "Good point. No one." He guided her into the sitting room, then drew her close, covering her mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. "Just so you know, that's how I'd like to be welcomed home each day."

"With pleasure, my lord." Anastasia leaned back in his arms, searched his face. She could see beyond the bantering, sense the strain beneath it. "You didn't figure out who he is."

Damen shook his head. "I know as little as I did yesterday. I saw the mail arrive. No one went near it during the quarter hour it sat up front. Then, Graff distributed it, leaving my personal letters on my desk. I glanced through my correspondence the moment he walked out. There was nothing from M. Rouge. I then intentionally left my door open and my room unattended to see if any of the bank officers went in, inspected my mail. They're the only people with access to that private section of the bank. Although it's hard for me to believe any of them could be guilty. They've been with me for years. Still, I can't be influenced by sentiment. I intend to catch this bastard, whoever he is. In any case, the point was a moot one."

"No one took the bait?"