Free The Third Heiress by Brenda Joyce Page B

could not take any more!
    Do not think about the other woman, Jill told herself. Hal loved you. This isn’t what you think it is, it is not. That woman in the Chanel suit had meant something else—but Jill was too distressed to comprehend what that meaning might now be.
    Jill gripped the arm of her pew. In front of her, Margaret Sheldon was sobbing now, but softly. Thomas held her close. Directly in front of Jill, Lauren began to weep into her hands and then on her husband’s shoulder.
    The service had become a nightmare. A nightmare that she must escape.
    Jill closed her eyes, ordering herself to breathe deeply and evenly, but she was feeling both dizzy and faint now, and was horrified because she did not think she could cope for very much longer. She opened her eyes, only to meet Thomas’s gaze. He was still holding his mother, and instantly he looked away from her. The accusation in his eyes had been unmistakable.
    And Jill heard the minister saying, “One of the kindest, most compassionate, and bravest souls I have ever known.”
    Brave. Had Hal been brave? He had been thinking of running out on her after his marriage proposal. Because he was scared to bring her home to this. To these people, this lifestyle, this arrogance and condescension. In that moment, Jill could not blame him for losing his courage. His family was cold and hostile. Oh, God. They hated her, but even if Hal were alive, they would have hated her; and Hal had known it.
    Jill clenched her fists so tightly that her own short, manicured nails dug into her flesh, about to get up and run from the church. Hal had not been brave. She felt like the worst kind of traitor for harboring such a thought; she wished, desperately, that she had never had it. And she felt the stares again, knew she was being watched. She could not go. Everyone was already talking about her, and if she did, the gossip would become far worse. Jill stared straight ahead out of blurry eyes.
    Marisa was the kind of woman Hal could have brought home. Once glance had told Jill that—she was elegant, well bred, she came from money. It was as painfully obvious as the fact that Jill was from a lower income working-class background, in her trendy rayon and lycra clothes, her thrift-store and flea-market bargains. Even her haircut was too wayout for this uptown crowd.
    And most important, she was a dancer. It had been her passion since she was six years old. What had Hal been thinking?
    Thomas was speaking. Jill jerked at the sound of his sandy voice, because she had not seen him rise and take the pulpit. Focusing on him now was a relief—it might even be her salvation.
    He had taken the podium, which he gripped with both strong hands. A signet ring with a bloodred stone winked from his right hand. Jill couldn’t help noticing that even in his pitch-black suit and with his bloodshot eyes, he had an inescapable magnetism; he still looked good.
    “My brother Hal did not deserve to die,” he began, and instantly he had to stop, turning his face aside, fighting for control.
    Jill stared, softening a bit toward him. He might despise her, but he was also aching over the loss of his brother. Last night she had told Alex that they should be comforting one another. She still felt that way.
    But with Thomas as angry as he was, he was not about to let her console or comfort him, or even share their grief and anguish.
    “Hal did not deserve to die,” Thomas repeated, pausing, jaw flexed. His gaze moved over the crowd, making eye contact with it. He did not glance at Jill.
    “No one deserves to die,” he said harshly. “But my brother was so young, he was only thirty-six, and he was also one of those rare souls that the world needs so much more of.” He inhaled. “He did not deserve to die. I still can’t understand why this happened.” Thomas stopped. And suddenly he was looking directly at Jill.
    Jill stared back at Thomas, fists clenched. Any compassion she had just felt for Thomas