Tell Me Your Secrets. Cara Summers

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      TELL ME YOUR SECRETS…

      Cara Summers

      To my newest daughter-in-law-to-be, Gert Fulmer.

       Thank you for the love and joy that you bring to my son, Kevin, and to our whole family. (And thanks for being a fan and enjoying my stories!)

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Epilogue

      Coming Next Month

      1

      “I CAN’T MAKE UP MY MIND. Shall I have the scones with clotted cream—and ooooh, look at those strawberries…but the triple-chocolate layer cake is calling my name.”

      My friend Pepper Rossi was studying the three-tiered dessert caddie the waitress had just delivered as if the fate of the world depended on her decision.

      I felt equally serious about the decision that I had made. After plotting and planning for the last three days, I’d come to San Francisco to run it by Pepper.

      Nerves knotted in my stomach. But I managed to keep my hand steady as I lifted the silver teapot and filled Pepper’s cup and then my own. I’d always run my plans by her when we were roommates in college.

      Of course, those days were well behind us now that we were established career women. I had a job as a writer for a successful Los Angeles based soap opera, Secrets, and Pepper worked as a P.I. at Rossi Investigations, her brothers’ up-and-coming security firm in San Francisco. Recently, she’d met the man of her dreams, Cole Buchanan, an ex-CIA agent who also worked for her brothers. From the glow on her face whenever she mentioned him, it was a match made in heaven.

      Even more recently than that, I’d engaged Pepper in her professional capacity to do a job for me. Hiring a P.I. was a first for me. But then life was throwing me one surprise after another lately.

      Pepper’s hand was still hovering over the dessert caddie. “Take the cake,” I urged her. “You know you’re not going to be able to resist it.” Pepper was a fellow chocoholic.

      “You’re sure?” she asked.

      “If it’s as good as it looks, we’ll ask the waitress to bring another.”

      There was a time when indulging in chocolate had gone a long way toward helping me to deal with life’s ups and downs. But it had lost some of its therapeutic value since the day five weeks ago when my whole world had shifted on its axis. That’s when I’d received an anonymous letter telling me that I was adopted.

      Up until that moment, I’d led a rather uneventful existence—if you discount the broken collarbone I’d suffered at age eleven when my horse Dandelion’s Pride and I had parted company during a jump. I’d believed my parents were John and Marsha Ashby, both successful neurosurgeons in Chicago.

      I was sure the letter was a prank, but my curiosity had kicked in and I’d phoned my parents. Mom and Dad had both gotten on the line in one of our typical “conference” calls. As busy and dedicated doctors, they’d always thought it more time efficient if they talked to me together. When I’d told them about the letter, I’d expected them to laugh and deny it, to reassure me that I was indeed their biological daughter and then get back to their busy lives.

      But they hadn’t laughed and they hadn’t denied it. Instead, there’d been this long silence on the other end of the line. With my stomach clenched, I’d pushed for more information, and they’d finally confessed to the fact that they’d adopted me and they gave me the name of the private agency they’d used.

      The moment I’d hung up I’d called Pepper and asked her to trace my biological family. A week ago, she’d sent me the information that had given me the first clue to my real past. She hadn’t been able to locate my biological mother. Her search had dead-ended when she found the adoption papers for me—and my twin sister, who’d been raised as the only daughter of James and Elizabeth McKenzie on their horse ranch near San Diego.

      My first rather giddy reaction when I’d received the news was that this would make a great story line for Secrets. Twins separated at birth. My head writer was going to love me. Mallory Carstairs, the bad-girl diva of the show, was currently in a coma, and now she could awake to find she had a twin sister….

      Then I’d reined in my overactive imagination for a reality check. I wasn’t a character on a soap opera. I was ordinary, nothing-ever-happens-to-me Brooke Ashby.

      Except I had a twin sister I’d never met—an heiress who’d been missing for five weeks.

      I watched Pepper slice into the chocolate cake. I’d let her enjoy one bite before I told her my plan. My head writer had been thrilled when I’d told her what I was going to do and she’d been more than willing to give me some time off. But I was sure that Pepper wasn’t going to be equally happy with me.

      I watched with envy as she savored that first bite. Then as she scooped up a second, I took a fortifying sip of tea and said, “I’m going to the McKenzie ranch and masquerade as my sister.”

      The cake froze just inches from Pepper’s open mouth, before her fork dropped with a clatter. “You’re what?”

      Pepper’s voice was loud enough to make the elegantly dressed lady at a nearby table aim a frown in our direction. High tea at the sedate St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco was not the place for loud voices.

      I cleared my throat and spoke around the little bubble of panic that had lodged in my throat. “Don’t worry. I’ve plotted it all out. I’m going to the McKenzie ranch posing as my twin sister, Cameron McKenzie.”

      “Your missing twin sister. Didn’t you read the report I sent СКАЧАТЬ