“What about her eyes?”

“I didn’t wear much makeup when I was that age.”

Jeremy was curiously silent.

Ashley was having difficulty breathing. “And her eyes literally sparkle.”

“So do yours,” he said softly.

“Not like that And mine...mine are a different shade of blue.”

Jeremy shifted beside her. “A brighter version of the same shade—a rather vivid, unusual shade of blue, I’d say.”

Dark hair.

Pale translucent skin.

High cheekbones.

A drop-dead smile.

Bright vivid blue eyes.

Ashley pivoted abruptly and left without a word, flying out the front door and out to the garden of perennials. Her heart was skidding, but she slackened her pace as she walked out to the cliff, where the wind was sharp and the waves battered the rocks. It was high tide. Turning to the west, she could see the peaks of Mt. Desert Island, dark and purplish against the glowing sunset. She was glad for the long sleeves and heavy silk of her dress, but still she was cold.

Ashley didn’t pretend to be as beautiful as Judith Land. Her features lacked any subtlety, her eyes were more direct, her smile was wider. But her coloring, her shape—they were the same as those of the woman in the stunning portrait.

And the dates fit. And the facts—or the lies—about herself. And the jewels in the vaults of Piccard Cie. And the Liechtenstein trust.

Everything fit.

Judith Land was her mother. David’s mother. Their mother.

It was a conclusion—a theory, a hypothesis, a fact— that had been hovering uneasily in the back of her mind since she had learned the last person seen wearing the tiara and the choker was Judith Land.

Now another dimension to this ungodly mess could be added. There were already spies, traitors, torturers, liars and jewel thieves. Now there were kidnappers, too. Baby stealers.

Barky.

Ashley flung her wineglass off the cliff and watched it shatter against the rocks. Within seconds, a wave crashed and washed away the shards.

“Don’t get maudlin,” she told herself. “There might be another explanation.”

Of course there was: she was wrong. The similarities in shape and coloring between herself and Judith Land were a coincidence. A trick of the evening light and a mind that was too tired, too suspicious, too active. She didn’t yet have all the facts.

Why in God’s name would Bartholomew Wakefield steal someone else’s children?

He hadn’t.

She turned back to the house, stumbling on the rough ground. It was seven o’clock; time for dinner.

The dinner guests were gathered in the spacious living room: Jeremy, eyeing her closely; Lillian Parker, stunning in bittersweet red; a wiry, attractive middle-aged man in black tie; and an elderly man, tall and stooped, in a navy pin-striped suit that had to be forty years old.

J. Land Crockett walked over to her as she came through the door. “Ashley Wakefield.”

She nodded and sniffled. Coming from the cold wind inside to the relative warmth had made her nose begin to run. “Yes,” she said, “and you must be Mr. Crockett. Thank you for having me here. It’s a lovely island.”