Private Passions

by Rochelle Alers

  “Whatever it is that has you old gray fools acting like rutting bulls, you’d better solve it before you leave this room.” Her dark, angry gaze seared her husband’s impassive face. “We’re here to mourn your father, not destroy a lifelong friendship.”

  Chris wanted to kiss Vanessa. He did not want to see nearly fifty years of friendship shattered because he and Emily were hiding their private passions.

  “Am I included as a gray fool?” he asked glibly.

  “If the shoes fits, then wear it, Senator Delgado,” Eve snapped. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “Mateo, I can’t believe you’d dishonor a dead man’s house by brawling like a drunken lout.”

  “I’m not drunk,” Matt sputtered, turning away from Joshua.

  “Well, you should be,” Eve countered. “At least you’d have a good excuse for acting like a fool.”

  “Eve…”

  She held her hand in front of his face, stopping his words. “Don’t, Mateo. There’s no way Vanessa or I will let you and Joshua destroy the covenant between our families because of your macho nonsense.”

  Still beautiful, elegant Vanessa Blanchard-Kirkland moved to her husband’s side and took his hand. “She’s right, darling. We’ve got to let go. We can’t hold on to our children forever. They need to find their own way in this life. We’ve given them a wonderful start, and we’re going to have to trust them to make the best of their lives.”

  Joshua smiled down at Vanessa, then cradled her to his chest. “But it’s different with a girl.”

  “Emily’s a woman,” she reminded him softly.

  Joshua stared over his wife’s head. He knew she was right. He couldn’t allow his concern for their daughter’s well-being to threaten a lifelong friendship. He had saved Matthew Sterling’s life, and Matthew his. Matt had risked his life to save the life of his younger brother, and he had also assisted the Cole family in rescuing Regina from her kidnappers. They’d shared too much for him to throw it all away because he believed that Christopher Delgado was taking advantage of Emily.

  His gaze shifted, meeting the direct stare of his best friend’s stepson. A vague light of compromise and understanding passed between the two men as they each registered the other’s barely perceptible nod of acquiescence.

  Lowering his head, he smiled at Vanessa. “You’re right, angel. As usual.”

  “Don’t you dare try to placate me, Joshua Kirkland.”

  His broad shoulders rose and fell as he shook his head in amazement. “I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t.”

  Matt placed a large callused hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t even try to figure them out. After thirty-two years of marriage we should know better.”

  Eve wound an arm around her husband’s waist. “You’re going to pay dearly for that little remark,” she whispered softly.

  He pulled her to his chest. “How?”

  She wrinkled her pert nose. “I think I’m going to have a headache for the next month.”

  Slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers, Chris rocked back on his heels. The women had successfully defused what had been certain to become a volatile confrontation.

  “I told you guys before that you’re too old for that,” he teased his mother and stepfather.

  “At least I don’t need to take a little blue pill,” Matt countered, deadpan.

  Chris registered the gasps from his in-laws. “He’s just kidding. He is,” he insisted, when Joshua and Vanessa looked at him skeptically. “Damn you, Dad.” Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the library, peals of laughter following him.

  A smile crinkled his slanting eyes as he made his way to the formal dining room to look for Emily. He found her sitting on a chair, holding one of her many cousins, cradling the child to her chest as she held a bottle to the baby’s mouth.

  He walked over to her, leaned down and whispered, “I love you.”

  She smiled at his departing figure. She was still smiling when her parents walked into the dining room to find Chris sitting beside her, feeding her morsels of food from his plate while the child in her arms concentrated on sucking every ounce of milk out of the bottle.

  The scene was imprinted on Vanessa Kirkland’s brain. It looked as if she was finally going to get her grandchild.

  * * *

  There was a stunned silence, then hushed whispers as John Edge shook hands with Martin Cole. It had taken the attorney less than a quarter of an hour to read the will of self-made billionaire Samuel Claridge Cole. The contents had made all Samuel Claridge Cole’s grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchild multimillionaires. Trust funds had been established for those under twenty-five. Samuel’s thirty shares of ColeDiz International Ltd.’s privately held stock, along with thousands of shares of other stocks and bonds worth more than $600 million were to be evenly divided between his three sons and two daughters. All eyes were trained on Matthew Sterling when his name was mentioned. Samuel, wishing to thank him for his selfless sacrifice for the Coles, had added a codicil, leaving him a gift of $5 million. Eve Sterling closed her eyes and leaned against her husband’s solid shoulder when John Edge stated that Christopher Blackwell Delgado and Sara Sterling-Lassiter would be given a gift of $2.5 million each. The Cole mansion would go to Martin Diaz Cole after his mother’s death. Samuel’s will had stipulated that the property remain in the Cole family for a minimum of 100 years.

  Samuel’s widow lay on a divan covered in aubergine-and-burgundy-striped silk, eyes closed and lips parted in a dimpled smile. Her Sammy had spent his life taking care of his family, and that would continue for generations to come. He had done well—very, very well.

  Chapter 22

  February 4

  Santa Fe

  The low babble of voices, punctuated by an occasional laugh, floated upward in the brightly lit ballroom at a Santa Fe country club. Black tuxedos provided a dramatic contrast to the brilliant colors of gowns molded to feminine bodies. Precious and semiprecious stones, fastened to scented necks and wrists, competed with the light of thousands of tiny crystal facets from four enormous chandeliers.

  Emily stood in the lobby, her head lowered, and spoke into the tiny microphone attached to the bodice of her strapless gown. “I’m in.”

  “I read you,” came a strong male voice through her earpiece. The man sat in a van with the network’s logo painted on both sides, parked in a lot cordoned off for the media.

  She removed her earpiece and microphone, concealing them inconspicuously in the upper portion of her gown. A fully charged battery pack was strapped to her right thigh with Velcro.

  She and other members of the press had met with William Savoy’s press secretary earlier that morning. He had cleared them to attend his fundraiser but had insisted they appear unobtrusive. And that meant no visible press badge, microphone, earpiece or handheld tape recorder. She had left the meeting glaring at the rigid man, while silently cursing him for being a spin doctor. He’d sought to control the flow of information about his candidate in order to strengthen William Savoy’s image. The technique, used many times by political strategists, sometimes proved detrimental to a candidate’s quest for victory.

  Returning a formally dressed couple’s smile with a casual nod, she made her way toward the bar and ordered a seltzer. Ignoring the flirtatious bartender, she sipped the cool liquid, her gaze sweeping around the room. In another two weeks the same ballroom would be filled to overflowing with Christopher Delgado supporters.

  A secret smile curved her lush mouth as she thought of her husband. Chris had returned to Santa Fe the day after the funeral and reading of Samuel Cole’s will to confer with his campaign manager and political strategists. She’d waited a week and then flown back to Las Cruces to fi
nd him at Salem and Sara’s, waiting for her return.

  They’d shared six glorious days and nights, recapturing their youth. She’d sat a horse for the first time in years, exulting in the feel of the wind caressing her face as she raced Chris across the flat landscape that made up Sterling Farms. They spent hours playing chess and listening to music, and crossed the border into Mexico to stay overnight in Juarez after a day of shopping. That was the first time they’d made love since their wedding night in Puerto Escondido. It had become a frantic, desperate coupling that left Chris gasping for breath and her close to tears. Both knew it might be their last time together until after the election.

  “Good evening, Miss Kirkland. I’m pleased you could make it tonight.”

  Turning, she looked up into a pair of gray-blue eyes belonging to William Savoy. He was flanked by two men wearing buttonhole microphones and earpieces who were obviously members of his security staff.

  This was her first time coming face-to-face with him since he’d lost the state senatorial election to Chris. Time had favored Savoy. There was something in his bearing that indicated that he had changed from the man who had campaigned vigorously for his first elected office. The man standing before her radiated charm, confidence and power.

  William Alan Savoy was very tall—almost six-four—slender and imposing. The thirty-eight-year-old bachelor had been graced with a full head of brown, wavy hair, with natural streaks of gold from a distinctive widow’s peak to the crown. A sun worshipper, his face was usually deeply tanned year-round. His features were ordinary—all except for his eyes. They were a penetrating blue-gray that changed color with his mercurial moods.

  Despite the rumors as to his penchant for sleeping with married women, it was well known that he was one of the savviest politicians in New Mexico. He’d served as a special assistant to the state’s attorney general while his father was lieutenant governor. He had distinguished himself during a high-profile case involving the death of several prisoners while in police custody. He had shattered the blue wall of silence to convict half a dozen rogue police officers who had earned the reputation of being “untouchable.”

  He inclined his noble head, a thick wave falling attractively over a high, intelligent forehead.

  Extending her hand, Emily offered a polite smile. “Mr. Savoy.”

  He grasped her fingers, bringing them to his mouth, and dropped a light kiss on her knuckles. “I’m pleased that your boss took my advice and assigned you to cover my campaign. I can’t think of a more professional journalist in the business today.”

  Her expression did not change. She’d blamed the wrong man. Richard Adams had reassigned her because William Savoy had requested her. Did he actually think she would fall into bed with him because her boss had served her up on the proverbial silver platter?

  “I’m certain it’s going to be a very interesting campaign.” Her voice was neutral.

  Savoy arched a sandy eyebrow as he leaned closer. “I can assure you that it’s certain to become a memorable one.”

  Emily pulled her hand out of his loose grasp as his gaze lingered on her impassive face before easing down to her bared shoulders, then even lower to the soft swell of tanned breasts rising above the décolleté of her midnight-blue satin gown. It caressed the length of her long, silken neck before returning to her mouth.

  William was unable to conceal his overt interest in Emily Kirkland. He’d met her for the first time more than two years earlier and had been intrigued by her then. But she had changed. Gone was the business attire and the curly hair falling to her shoulders. He much preferred her sophisticated haircut and formal gown. Her eyes were mesmerizing, pulling him in and refusing to let him go.

  She was perfect.

  Emily raised her glass to her lips, taking a sip of the cooling liquid, her gaze fusing with Savoy’s over the rim. Forcing a smile, she said softly, “If you can find time for me in your busy schedule one day next week, I’d like to conduct a personal interview.”

  Savoy smiled for the first time, attractive laugh lines fanning out around his eyes. “Of course. I’ll tell my press secretary to call you and set up a time. Would you be opposed to a dinner meeting?”

  This time her expression changed as she shifted her sweeping black eyebrows. “No.”

  He inclined his head, his smile widening until he displayed a mouth filled with large white teeth. “Good. I would like to linger and talk, but unfortunately I can’t. I have to thank my constituents for their overwhelming generosity. Again, it’s been my pleasure, Miss Kirkland.”

  Nodding, Emily stared at his broad back as he walked over to a gushing couple who appeared honored that he’d acknowledged them by name. The two men flanking him stood off to the side, their sharp gazes sweeping around the room. She wondered about them—how much did they actually know about their client? How much were they paid to protect Savoy? And how much to keep their silence?

  “Emily Kirkland—fancy meeting you here. I’d thought you’d be on the other side of this political fence.”

  She turned at the sound of a familiar female voice. Her gaze brightened when she saw a woman who’d shared a number of graduate journalism courses with her. Bettina Gibson was now a feature writer for an entertainment magazine.

  “Tina,” she said, bending slightly to press her cheek to the tiny blonde’s scented one. “When did you start covering the political circuit?”

  Bettina blushed attractively, averting her gaze. “I’m here in an unofficial capacity.” She managed a surreptitious glance at Emily. “You look fabulous. What’s happening with you at KCNS? I couldn’t believe you didn’t get the weekend anchor slot.” The words rushed out as if she was on drugs.

  Emily gave her a critical squint. Something was wrong with her ex-classmate. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course,” she replied a little too quickly. Her deep blue eyes darted over Emily’s shoulder. “I have to go. Call me at the magazine on Monday. We should get together and do lunch. Catch up on old times.”

  “Sure,” Emily mumbled, watching Bettina push her way through the milling crowd. Her petite, compact body was swathed in a short, fitted black slip dress that hugged her curvy frame like a second skin.

  Leaving her half-filled glass on the tray of a passing waiter, Emily moved through the lively crowd. Savoy’s press secretary had reported that all the tickets for the $2,500-a-plate affair had been sold within a week of their mailing. They had estimated that the event would generate an additional $2 million to the candidate’s already burgeoning campaign war chest.

  She glanced at the slim gold bracelet watch on her wrist. The cocktail hour would end in another quarter of an hour, then everyone would file into another ballroom to eat. She hoped she was assigned to a table with a few interesting people. There was nothing worse than suffering through a catered affair with a dining partner or partners who rambled on about the most mundane topics—weather, sports or movies. And the only thing worse than the aimless chatter was a string of boring speeches extolling the merits of the esteemed candidate.

  A slight frown appeared between her eyes when Emily spied Bettina walking up a flight of winding stairs to the second story of the opulent country club. She hadn’t missed the woman’s furtive gaze when she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her.

  Emily’s reporter’s instincts surfaced. Something was wrong with Bettina. Without hesitating, she followed the blond woman. Smiling at a man whom she knew was part of the security staff, she held the flowing skirt of her gown in one hand as she climbed the staircase. The midnight-blue satin shimmered against the warm brown flesh on her bared arms and flawless shoulders, highlighting the gold undertones in her skin. The man shifted his position, coming to stand at the foot of the stairs. She didn’t notice a pair of blue-gray eyes following her ascent, while measuring the fluid grace of her sle
nder body. Halfway up, she looked down and felt the iciness of the gaze. Slowing her steps, she found herself trapped in a cold, penetrating glare.

  Her attention was diverted as an older woman, clinging to the arm of a much younger man, mumbled a greeting. She responded, holding the hem of her gown high enough to display a pair of slender ankles and shapely calves in three-inch dark blue pumps.

  Making her way down a dimly lit carpeted hallway, she looked into several unoccupied rooms, searching for Bettina. The sound of voices came from a room at the end of the hallway. There was a man’s voice, raised in anger, then a woman’s. She tried discerning whether the woman’s voice was Bettina’s but couldn’t; she was too far away.

  Emily gasped and then went completely still when she recognized the distinctive sound of a gunshot, followed by a scream. There was an explosion, a scream, and then complete silence.

  Closing her eyes, she pressed her body against the wall, waiting. She opened her eyes, unaware that she was shaking uncontrollably. She was the only one in the hallway. Someone other than herself had to have heard the gunshot.

  The silence shouted at her as she registered the runaway pounding of her heart roaring in her ears. Moisture swept over her face like a fast-moving fog rolling in off the water. She hadn’t realized it, but she was counting silently, the seconds adding up in her mind. Shock had rendered her mute and motionless. She continued to wait—to see if someone would step out into the hallway—if someone would come up the stairs to investigate the sound of the gunshot.

  She had no idea how long she stood with her back pressed to the fabric-covered wall, wanting to move but unable to do so. All she had to do was walk another twenty feet and peer into the last room at the end of the hallway and look for Bettina, as she had done in all of the others.

  Her runaway pulse slowed, her legs stopping their uncontrollable trembling and she moved off the wall, her fingertips tracing the design of the wallpaper. The bugle beads on her evening purse bit into the tender flesh of her right hand as she clutched it in a deathlike grip.