Free All Who Are Lost (Ashmore's Folly Book 1) by Lindsey Forrest Page A

note to her that terrible night. Unable to sleep on his side of the Atlantic, as she had been on hers, watching CNN as obsessively as she had. Recognizing Cam’s picture ( How had he known? Had he been at the concert with Julie? ). Pondering the best course of action, finding the fax number on the St. Bride Data web site, bending his dark head over the paper as he wrote to her, choosing his words carefully so as not to frighten her with this intrusion from the past, but opening the door in case she ever wanted to come home.
    He must never have found her out. It seemed impossible, after all these years, that her cover still held strong, but it had to be true. No man could write such words to a woman who had—
    No. There be dragons….
    She ran her fingers lightly over his handwritten words, touching him. His words, his signature, his telephone numbers scrawled beneath his name.
    His telephone numbers.
    She stared at them a long time before she reached for her satellite phone. Her fingers shook as she dialed the number he’d marked with (W) – then hit End . Of course, he wasn’t at work today. It was early afternoon in Virginia. He and Diana were hosting the annual dinner in the great ballroom of Ashmore Magna, the first Christmas since Peggy and Philip had died and they had become lord and lady of the manor. The long table was gleaming with luminous china, polished silver, sparkling crystal that picked up the lights from the twenty-foot tree. The chandelier was reflecting back the flames in the fireplace in a waterfall of light, and Diana was escaping her hostess duties by playing carols on the grand piano.
    If her sister wasn’t spending Christmas in jail. In the crush of dealing with Cam’s death, she had forgotten her father’s death three weeks before September 11. In the face of great evil, Dominic Abbott’s petty malevolence had slipped into insignificance. She had no idea what had really happened to Dominic, but whatever Diana had done, it probably hadn’t been painful or bloody enough.
    Forget Daddy. He doesn’t matter anymore.
    And Francie – she would not remember Francie, nor think of Richard’s part in Francie’s loss, or Diana’s. She would not remember what had happened within minutes after she had agreed to type his thesis, Francie moving in for the kill, seizing the opportunity to take her revenge against Diana for the jealousies and rivalries of their childhood.
    She started to dial the (H) number beneath his name, then hit End again. She had to mask her number; she wasn’t ready to come in from the cold.
    She dialed the St. Bride Data voice mail system, put in the code for an outside line, and listened while the signal winged its way into space, bounced off the satellite, and then flew back through the atmosphere to Texas, to speed through the phone lines to the great house outside Williamsburg. One ring, two… how long would she give it? Not long… three, four….
    “Hello?” A young, sweet voice. Julie? Or did Richard and Diana have other children?
    She was surprised to find her voice calm, collected, with a hint of the British clip she tended to pick up in London. Despite the chilly room, she felt feverish in her sweater and jeans and wool socks. She pressed her cold hand against her heated cheek. “May I speak to Richard Ashmore, please?”
    What would she say if the girl asked who was calling? But her niece, it seemed, was a typical teenager, oblivious to such niceties. “Dad! Phone for you!”
    She counted off the seconds by her heartbeat, breathing in and out to keep from hyperventilating. She heard music, footsteps approaching, a masculine laugh, a “Don’t be such a sore loser, Luce.” She heard him picking up the phone. “Hello?”
    She clutched the phone. She couldn’t speak. His voice… he sounded just like Richard. Hello, what have we here, Laurie? Her hero, the prince of her childhood, always out of her reach.
    A wave of such intense longing swept through her that she