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  Books by Fern Michaels:

  The Blossom Sisters

  Balancing Act

  Tuesday’s Child

  Betrayal

  Southern Comfort

  To Taste the Wine

  Sins of the Flesh

  Sins of Omission

  Return to Sender

  Mr. and Miss Anonymous

  Up Close and Personal

  Fool Me Once

  Picture Perfect

  About Face

  The Future Scrolls

  Kentucky Sunrise

  Kentucky Heat

  Kentucky Rich

  Plain Jane

  Charming Lily

  What You Wish For

  The Guest List

  Listen to Your Heart

  Celebration

  Yesterday

  Finders Keepers

  Annie’s Rainbow

  Sara’s Song

  Vegas Sunrise

  Vegas Heat

  Vegas Rich

  Whitefire

  Wish List

  Dear Emily

  Christmas at Timberwoods

  The Godmothers Series:

  Classified

  Breaking News

  Deadline

  Late Edition

  Exclusive

  The Scoop

  The Sisterhood Novels:

  Gotcha!

  Home Free

  Déjà Vu

  Cross Roads

  Game Over

  Deadly Deals

  Vanishing Act

  Razor Sharp

  Under the Radar

  Final Justice

  Collateral Damage

  Fast Track

  Hokus Pokus

  Hide and Seek

  Free Fall

  Lethal Justice

  Sweet Revenge

  The Jury

  Vendetta

  Payback

  Weekend Warriors

  E-Book Exclusives:

  Fancy Dancer

  Texas Heat

  Texas Rich

  Texas Fury

  Texas Sunrise

  Captive Innocence

  Anthologies:

  Secret Santa

  A Winter Wonderland

  I’ll Be Home for Christmas

  Making Spirits Bright

  Holiday Magic

  Snow Angels

  Silver Bells

  Comfort and Joy

  Sugar and Spice

  Let It Snow

  A Gift of Joy

  Five Golden Rings

  Deck the Halls

  Jingle All the Way

  FERN MICHAELS

  Classified

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Fern Michaels:

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  THE SWEETEST THINGS BUBBLE GUM CUPCAKES

  REVENGE IS NEVER OUTDATED

  EVERYTHING SHE LOST

  Copyright Page

  I’d like to dedicate this book to some truly wonderful people who recently came into my life.

  To Ben Harrison, the finest lawyer in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Many thanks for introducing me to Mark Mc Manus, Kenny Church, Steve Duncan, Sam Maw, the owners of the Beacon Restaurant in Spartanburg, and to Tommy Lee, Barbara, Karen, Jerry, Cartwright, Calvin and Ruby for making me the best Philly Cheese Burger in the whole world. And there are no words to describe the Peach Cobbler that makes me wish I lived next door so I could eat it every day.

  Thank you all,

  Fern Michaels

  Prologue

  Having tossed and turned for the past hour, Abby finally rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. It was 3:00 AM, the witching hour. Chris had fallen asleep on the sofa downstairs in the formal dining room. She didn’t have the heart to wake him. She knew by the time he walked upstairs and showered, he would be wide-awake, and it would take hours for him to get back to sleep. He’d spent fourteen hours today stripping the wood floor in the dining room—backbreaking and exhausting work. He was sitting on the sofa when Abby went to the kitchen for ice tea. When she returned, Chris was sound asleep. She covered him with a light throw and decided to go upstairs alone.

  Unable to sleep without Chris by her side, she switched the lamp on. A swatch of fabrics for the new drapes she wanted to order was lying on the night table. She picked it up, felt the different textures, examined the colors, feeling unsure. While she didn’t want something dark and heavy, she didn’t want something so light you could see through it. What she needed was something in between, yet something that stayed true to the Clay Plantation decor. Her mother had advised her and had spent many, many hours with her, going over the long history of the plantation, for she, too, had lived here for a short period of time when she was married to Garland, Chris’s father. There were old pictures of the many rooms, but they were so faded she could not even begin to guess what kind of fabric had been used to decorate them. One thing Abby knew for sure, she had to get rid of the heavy dark green velvet drapes. They reminded her of The Carol Burnett Show parody scene of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind, which she’d watched late one night on TV. Carol Burnett, playing Scarlett O’Hara, had ripped the heavy drapes from the window and worn them as her new dress, hoping to impress Rhett Butler, who had just returned from fighting in the Civil War. Abby had laughed until she cried, but the drapes had to go. They were just plain ugly.

  Not seeing any fabric or color that caught her eye, she found the remote and channel surfed for ten minutes. When none of the television programs captured her attention, she turned the TV off. She flipped through the latest edition of The Informer. Josh was doing an excellent job, but the stories didn’t capture her attention, as they once had. Frankly, she thought they were silly and a waste of time. Why the sudden change of heart? She’d almost died because of that paper and that total idiot, Rodwell Archibald Godfrey—behind his back, they referred to him as Rag. He’d kidnapped her, locked her in a tiny closet, tied to a chair, while he waited for his ransom money to be delivered. As it turned out, her mother was the owner of The Informer, something that was unknown to her at the time. Clearly, Rag was also unaware of that minor factoid. It had been a horrifying experience for everyone, as well as one of the principal reasons she and Chris had moved to Charleston.

  Now, for the past month, she’d been having trouble sleeping, only to be completely wiped out during the day. She thought of going downstairs to the kitchen to warm up a glass of milk, but she didn’t want to risk waking Chris. He’d worked so hard, and their new venture required his legal skills, making sure all their documents and contracts were legal. But he continued to tell her he wanted to be a farmer, and she now believed him. She remembere
d his telling her this when they had lived in Los Angeles, but she hadn’t believed him then. Of course, they had only been friends at the time. And he was her stepbrother, but not in a gross way. Her mother and Garland were married for a short period of time; Chris had been away at college; she’d been a teenager, spending time with her girlfriends, shopping, going to the movies, gabbing. Before she knew it, Garland had passed away. She and her mother, whom everyone called Toots, had moved into the house, which her mother would share many years later with Abby’s three godmothers.

  Finally, Abby started to get drowsy, and she turned out the light and curled up beneath the sheets. She drifted off to sleep quickly.

  Octavia knew her time was coming soon, but prayed she would have a few more weeks left before she had to tell Mr. Clayton. He’d been sending for her since she’d been thirteen years old. She’s tired, so tired, and it ain’t even half day gone. Her belly hurts, an’ her feets swollen, but she cain’t stop ’cause there’s so much work to do. She hates workin’ in the big house. Ever’ day she tries to upset the Missus in hopes she’d send her back to the field with her momma and sisters, but she says she be a “special” girl, and Octavia doesn’t know what she mean by that. She dropped a fancy china plate yesterday, an’ the Missus just tell her to clean up the mess, but Octavia might only be fourteen and three months, but she know the Missus knows she’s with child. She seen her lookin’ at her belly, she watches her, an’ Octavia is scared, but not so scared that she’s gonna stop tryin’ to get back to her home with Momma. The little cabin ain’t too big, but it be better than some other plantations have. They got real wooden plank floors, an’ their house is made of the same bricks Mr. Clayton’s got. They got a real fireplace, too. The beds is straw, an’ the coverin’s plenty soft, ’cause Momma cleaned them an’ rinsed them in hot water, an’ she put dried magnolias in the straw so’s they’d smell good, too. Her back is hurtin’ real bad, and she knows this ain’t suppose to happen now. Her belly ain’t big enough yet. How she wishes she could slip away to see Momma. She’d know what was ailin’ her, an’ what to do.

  Octavia is gonna go see her momma tonight. After the Missus and Mr. Clayton go to sleep, she’ll slip out through the kitchen door. Soon as she finishes her duties, she’ll go. She hopes Mr. Clayton doesn’t want to visit her tonight. She hates him. He crawls on top of her like she’s an animal. Them sounds he make scare her, too. His breath is hot, and smells of tobacco. No, he’d been to see her last night. Maybe Telly would get a visit tonight. Telly was only twelve and four months. Octavia felt sorry for her, but she couldn’t stop Mr. Clayton from crawlin’ on top o’ her any more than she could stop him from crawlin’ on herself. She prays every night that he would die. She knows it’s wrong to pray for bad things, but Mr. Clayton is a mean, bad man. He likes to use the whip on the men workin’ in the fields. Her daddy had thick, ropy scars on his back and arms from Mr. Clayton’s whip. Momma would cry when she see them. She’d rub lard on his wounds an’ make a poultice that stunk to high heaven, but Daddy said it helped the cuts heal faster. Octavia knows as soon as he be healed, Mr. Clayton will rip him open again. And Mr. Clayton will laugh. She hates him, an’ she hates the baby in her belly. A sharp pain rips through her back. She grabs the kitchen chair to keep from keelin’ over. She takes a deep breath, an’ the pain eases up. As soon as the pain’s gone, she turns to head upstairs to turn down the beds, an’ another pain hits her in the belly. She falls to her knees, pressing her hands against her, thinkin’ this will stop the pain. Sharp searing pain in her back comes again. Tears fill her eyes, an’ she bites the sides of her mouth to keep from screamin’ out.

  In the midst of her pain, she calls out, “Momma, I need you. Please, Momma, help me.” Takin’ a deep breath, she lets it out slowly, thinkin’ her pain’s all gone, when she feels another pain, this one worse than ever. She wants to push hard like she has to go to the bathroom, but she cain’t. Rolling on her back, she puts both legs against the chair legs. She don’t care no more. She pushes and screams. An’ she pushes again. This time she feels like her woman part is tearin’ in half. She screams again, not carin’ if Mr. Clayton or the Missus hears her. She really hates him now and begs God to make him dead right now! She prays for his death and prays for her own as she gets hit with another sharp pain, hot like a kitchen knife got stuck in her belly. She bears down again, this time so hard she feels the veins in her head an’ neck gettin’ so big.

  Another push, an’ she feels something warm and damp between her legs. She tries to push herself up with her elbows so she can see. Another pain, and she screams and screams and screams. Again, she feels something warm and wet between her legs, something heavy. Her body gots sweat ever’ place. She tries to push herself up, when she hears a soft sound, like a baby cryin’. She struggles to see what lies between her legs an’ sees a baby, but it ain’t right. It’s got an arm missin’.

  “The devil!” she cries out. She’d just given birth to Mr. Clayton’s devil.

  No!!!

  Abby bolted upright in the bed. Trembling, she turned the light on. Chris ran into the room. “Are you okay?” He cradled her in his arms. “I heard you screaming.”

  “Oh, Chris, I had a terrible nightmare. My God, it seemed so real.” Abby pushed herself up in the bed and leaned against the headboard.

  Chris cradled her against his chest. “Want to tell me about it?”

  Abby took a deep breath. “There was this girl, a young girl. She was . . . she was a slave. In the dream, she was scared and so alone. She kept calling for her mother. It was so sad.”

  She stopped. Something in the dream was so familiar, tugging at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t place exactly what it was. “She was having a baby! Alone. She was all alone! Chris, there is something in the dream that I should know, something I’ve actually seen, but I can’t pull it up.” Abby wrapped her arm around Chris’s waist. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “Hey, I’m glad you did. That sofa is not meant to sleep on. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “You looked exhausted, and I knew that if I woke you, once you showered, you’d be wide-awake, so I let you sleep.”

  “And here you are in bed without me for the first time since we’ve been married, and you had a nightmare. What does that tell you?”

  “Not to go to bed without you?”

  “Yep. Now, since I’m up anyway, I’m going to take a shower. You want to join me?” Chris nuzzled her ear.

  She gave a half laugh. “Not now, sorry.” She glanced at the bedside clock. It was almost five o’clock. “I tell you what. Why don’t you get your shower, and while you’re doing that, I can make us some breakfast. I won’t be able to go back to sleep anyway. If I get tired during the day, I’ll have a nap.”

  Chris kissed her cheek and ruffled her hair. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mrs. Clay.”

  As soon as Chris said “Mrs. Clay,” she stopped mid-thought. “Chris, wait. Listen, I know this is . . . strange, but has this place always been called Clay Plantation?”

  Standing at the chest of drawers, Chris pulled a pair of boxers out of the top drawer. “Good question. Why would you ask something like that?”

  She didn’t know, but she somehow knew it was important for her to find out. It was the dream. The man in the dream. The man the young woman hated, the man she wanted to die. “Just tell me, has the plantation always been referred to as the Clay Plantation?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, it has, but then again, it’s been around a few hundred years. It’s possible that it had a different name at some point before the Clays owned it. Is it important?”

  Abby’s reporter instincts were at play. Instincts she’d scoffed at earlier. “I’m not sure. It’s something in the dream. I don’t know.”

  “Well, don’t worry your pretty little head off. Now, woman, get your little rear end downstairs and fix that breakfast you promised me.”

  Abby grabbed her robe off the foot of the bed, careful not
to wake Chester, who was still sound asleep at the foot of the bed. “Some guard dog you are,” she said as she walked out of the room.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Abby started a pot of coffee. Her mind kept straying back to her dream, and it was silly. Damn, Abby, it was simply a dream. Weird? Yes. Strange? Yes. She opened the refrigerator. “What to make?” she asked herself aloud.

  “Ruff!” Chester gave his low-sounding morning growl.

  “You want some grub, old boy?”

  Chester walked over and stood by his dog bowl. Abby had chicken breasts left over. She chopped half of one, threw it in the microwave for a few seconds to get the chill off, then scooped the chunks of chicken into his bowl. Mavis had started doing this for Coco and Frankie. Chester had been over a few times and received the same meal. Now Abby had to bribe him with chicken breasts just to get him to eat his dog food. “You are so spoiled,” Abby said, leaning over and rubbing him between the ears.

  She grabbed a carton of eggs, a chunk of bacon, and a can of buttermilk biscuits out of the refrigerator. Usually, she loved the smell of coffee, but for some reason it gagged her now. She would swear she smelled a chemical smell coming from the pot. She lifted the carafe up to her nose. “Yuck.” She took a chamomile tea bag out of the canister, filled a mug with water, and popped it in the microwave. She usually loved her coffee, but not today. She felt shitty, like she was coming down with the flu. The last thing she needed now. With all that she and Chris had going on, she didn’t have time to get sick.

  Hurrying now, she removed a skillet from the cupboard, turned on the stove, and tossed several strips of bacon in as soon as the skillet was hot. She cracked half-a-dozen eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and then, with a wire whisk, beat the mixture until the yolks were no longer in evidence. She’d seen this technique used on some cooking show, with the chef saying that the eggs would be much fluffier. It worked, so she’d been using it ever since. She heated another skillet, dropping in a tiny bit of butter. She stared as it sizzled and turned a creamy light brown. She poured the egg mixture into the skillet, then remembered the biscuits. “Oh, the hell with it. We can have toast.” She took the can of biscuits and put them back in the fridge.