Annette York was almost lost in the ornate grandness of the suite. Hunter found her burrowed in the corner of the plush sofa, a silver tea tray resting on the coffee table in front of her. Attractive in an elfin sort of way, her short frosted hair framed features that were thin and expressive, and swollen from crying. Beside the tea tray, her leather satchel lay open, piles of typewritten pages and her agenda visible. Hunter remembered she worked as a copy editor for a women’s magazine. She eyed him warily, her brows arching when he dismissed the butler.
“Are you The Guardian?” she demanded.
“Yes, I am,” he acknowledged. “We spoke several hours ago by phone. Again, my deepest condolences for your loss.”
Annette sandwiched her hands into the brocade cushions surrounding her. Hunter had the impression she was fortifying herself for an emotional onslaught. “Is it really necessary for me to be kept here like this? I have obligations. Mr. Nevins has questions about the funeral arrangements. I should be at the estate.”
Hunter had no intention of telling her that no one would be allowed at the estate other than the staff until the police had finished sweeping it for hidden listening devices. “You should be here, where you are safe and can be protected. Mr. Nevins is extremely competent. This will be a difficult period, Ms. York, I ask for your forbearance.”
“You don’t intend to keep me from attending the funeral?”
“No.”
“Good.” Annette drooped, some of the tension leaving her petite body. “I would still like to see my nephew, reassure myself that he’s okay.”
Hunter refused to be moved. “He’s safe and well cared for.”
Her lips set in obvious irritation at his response. Her green eyes snapped with fire. “And you still refuse to tell me who Ross and Lexi appointed to take care of him?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I know you and Lexi were close and that you were a frequent guest at the estate, particularly when your sister and her husband were entertaining. I was hoping I could pick your brain about some of the senior executives in Ross’s company and members of the board of directors.”
Annette made a face. “Egotistical jackasses, most of them. Don’t know why Lexi thought I might ever hook up with one of them. But then, marrying a billionaire was her idea of happiness, not mine.” Her tone grew edgy. “Do the police really think someone from within the company is involved?”
“It’s a possibility that must be considered seriously,” Hunter explained patiently. “Your impressions could be important. Ross was the president, CEO and the chairman of the board of directors. What do you know about Kendrick Dwyer? As the senior vice president and chief financial officer, he’ll be stepping into Ross’s shoes, taking over as CEO and reassuring the shareholders that the company will remain stable.”
A frown inched across Annette’s brow. “He’s been with the company for ages—at least twenty-five years. Ross’s father trusted him, and so did Ross. If Kendrick had any ill feelings toward the family, you’d think it would have surfaced earlier when Ross took over as CEO after his father’s death.”
“What about the company’s three vice presidents—they’d have the most to gain after Kendrick Dwyer.”
“Well, Simon Findlay’s the ultimate brownnoser and heads up human resources and corporate relations. He did whatever Ross told him, but his most charming quality is his ability to hire people with IQs vastly beyond his own so that he can take the credit for their brilliant work.” She rolled her eyes. “Other than that, I’m sure he’s a decent human being. His mother probably loves him. And I’m sure his new fiancée loves his salary. He, no doubt, loves her implants.”
Hunter hid a smile. Annette shared her sister’s expressiveness, but with a caustic edge that Lexi hadn’t possessed. “What about Paulo Tardioli and David Younge?”
“Not that either of them ever considered me worthy of anything more than a polite hello, but Tardioli’s the general counsel. He’s a player. Competitive. Gutsy. A don’t-get-in-my-way attitude. He doesn’t acknowledge you unless there’s something in it for him.”
“And Younge?”
“Younge’s the controller. He’s quiet and intense. He’s got a family, five kids. His wife, Sarah, is into causes. She’s an interesting dinner companion, at least, even if she only eats organically grown vegetables. Lexi told me David has ulcers, though she never mentioned if they were caused by the pressures of his position or raising five kids. One of them got suspended recently—for threatening a teacher or going on a hunger strike. I can’t remember which.”
Hunter digested the information, adding it to what he already knew about the senior executives in Ross’s company. “What about the board of directors? Anyone leap out who might have a grudge against Ross?”
Annette hesitated. “Well, I don’t know them all personally, but I do know that Lexi used to take special pains to seat Sable Holden and Phillip Ballard as far away from Ross as possible. They secured their board positions as part of the hostile takeovers of their companies. Phillip Ballard is a maverick, doesn’t like the corporate game playing. Sable is a total bitch. Amusing, but a bitch. Lexi thought Sable was hot for Ross, but she wasn’t seriously worried about it. I mean, how could she be? Lexi was so per—” She paused and swallowed hard, pain haunting her green eyes. Her hands fluttered in front of her as she struggled for control. “Well, Lexi was Lexi,” she finished softly, curling into a defensive ball against the cushions. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to be alone.” Her eyes shuttered closed, dismissing him.
Hunter excused himself and left her to her grief.
THE HEAD OFFICE of the Collingwood Corporation in lower Manhattan reflected the solemnity of the day. A portrait of Ross had been placed on an easel in the reception area and draped with black bunting. An employee carefully arranged a bank of floral deliveries around the foot of the easel.
The artist had captured Ross’s bold personality down to the golden aura that seemed to shimmer around him to the candor lodged in his blue eyes. The candor that won him friends and enemies.
Who did this to you, my friend?
“Are you here for the press conference?” the receptionist at the desk asked him, drawing him away from the painting. “It’s scheduled for three o’clock.”
“No, Mr. Dwyer is expecting me. I’m William Holmes.”
“Yes, of course. Please follow me.”
She ushered him down a wide hallway displaying pieces from Ross’s extensive art collection. When he saw the empty leather chair before the plate glass window that looked over New York’s financial district, the extent of Ross’s loss hit Hunter like an oar to the gut.
At his entrance, the four men occupying the office halted their conversation in midsentence. Hunter surveyed the men. A slightly stooped, silver-haired man with a drink in his hand came forward and introduced himself as Kendrick Dwyer.
Simon Findlay, slick as an otter in a shiny pewter-gray suit, his light-brown hair and sideburns touched with po-made, rose and offered a limp handshake. The brownnoser Annette had described. “Good of you to come. We’re all at a loss, but unanimous in the belief that Ross would want us to carry on his legacy.”
“Cut the bull, Simon,” said a well-heeled man in a black suit, shirt and tie who had the body of a prize fighter and a Roman nose that had never taken the battering end of a fist. “Ross would want justice and the bastard who did this strapped into the electric chair.” His black eyes pegged Hunter. “Paulo Tardioli. General counsel.”
“Down boy,” said the remaining gentleman, a heron-thin male in his late forties with a pinched expression about his lips. Hunter had the impression the liquid in his glass was spring water. “David Younge, controller. Do the state police have any viable leads?”
“None that they’re currently sharing. The investigation is only beginning. It may be some time before a suspect or suspects emerge.”
“What abo
ut you?” Tardioli quipped, his black eyes reminding Hunter of a vulture planning to pick a bone clean. “Who do you think did it?”
Hunter eyed him steadily until he could feel Tardioli back down. “I’m more interested in your opinions. The four of you had intimate knowledge of Ross’s business dealings. It shouldn’t be difficult for you to give me a list of people who bore an animosity toward him.”
“And you intend to include us on the list, I presume?” Tardioli asked, taking a sip from his drink.
“Naturally. And you can bet your life that the police are working the same angle. You four stand the most to gain from Ross’s death, so be prepared for some hard questions. I want a complete accounting of your time on Thursday and Friday. Where you were, who you spoke to, who saw you.”
Kendrick Dwyer’s face reddened. “You’ve got nerve to come in here and throw accusations around—”
“Sir,” Hunter coldly interrupted him. “Whoever killed the Collingwoods had the arrogance to think they could get away with this—and perhaps implicate one or all of you in their murders. I’m putting you on notice. You’re either with me in this investigation or I’ll consider your lack of cooperation an indication of your possible involvement. Is that understood?”
Paulo Tardioli broke the stunned silence created by Hunter’s threat. “Gentlemen, I suggest we cooperate fully with The Guardian’s request. We’ll have enough difficulties in the days ahead convincing the shareholders that the company is stable. It’s only to our benefit to find out whether there’s a Judas amongst us.”
Hunter nodded. “Excellent advice, Counselor. Someone will be by at four o’clock to pick up your schedules. Do feel free to list anyone you feel may warrant further investigation and your reasons for concern.” He laid four business cards on the coffee table. “Here’s a number where I can be reached 24/7. Good day, gentlemen.”
He’d have paid a million dollars to be a fly on the wall in Ross’s office after he left the room.
“GOOD GOD!”
Darren Black’s finger froze on the remote control as he flipped through the channels, hoping he could catch the last quarter of the football game. Ross and Lexi Collingwood had been killed in an explosion?
When the hell had that happened?
He’d spent the morning and most of the afternoon in meetings with his Ph.D. students, disproving their wild mathematical ideas on algebraic topology. Not one of them was showing signs of potential. Yet.
Darren upped the volume on the TV set, his heart twisting with bleak hope. Would this change anything between him and Annette?
He still wore the engagement ring she’d given back to him suspended from a chain around his neck. Some day she was going to see how wrong she’d been to break off their engagement. See how much he could offer her. He wasn’t a billionaire, but he was well on his way to becoming a hotshot in his field with his plum new teaching position at Cornell.
Maybe that day had finally come.
Darren turned off the set when the news brief ended and tossed the remote onto the coffee table littered with empty soft drink cans, the collection of wooden puzzles Annette had given him and the mechanical pencils and discarded doodling of math research.
He needed to see Annette.
The least he could do was offer his condolences to the woman he loved with all his heart.
JULIANA TACKLED the shopping with the cell phone glued to her ear, requesting hourly updates on her father’s condition and driving Valentina crazy, phoning the apartment every twenty minutes to check on Cort. Leaving him in Valentina’s care for a few hours made her far more anxious than she cared to admit. But time was of the essence and she couldn’t very well drag Cort through the Madison Avenue shops, especially after the last two rough nights he’d spent.
Thanks to the efficiency of the personal shoppers whom Marquise had lined up, she was able to make a sizable dent in her list of necessities in record time. Once the limousine’s trunk was filled with clothes, diapers, toys, formula, a car seat and a stroller for Cort, she’d focused on clothes for herself and preparations for the wedding.
Although it was only going to be a quick civil ceremony, Juliana was determined to make it special enough to satisfy any prying minds. She was a wedding planner. She could pull this off! It was all in the details. Not the least of which was Hunter.
Amid the other emotions teeming in her heart was the keen disappointment that she would never have children of her own. Leastwise, not with Hunter. He’d made it so plain that her face burned just thinking about it. She’d have to content herself with being Cort’s stand-in mother. And who knew, maybe Riana would one day be found, safe and sound, giving Cort a sibling? Though, if Hunter was right and Riana’s abduction was linked with her parents’ murders, it was unlikely the infant was alive.
Juliana experienced a chill as the limo pulled up outside Tiffany & Co. She’d picked out a Valentino dress for the ceremony, but she and Hunter still needed rings. Then she could focus on making their wedding night an event to remember—even though she knew it would be an experience she’d just as soon forget.
A WEDDING NIGHT was all about fantasy, Juliana thought ruefully as Hunter joined her at dinner later that evening, his fingers brushing the loose tendrils of hair adorning her neck after she’d pulled her hair into a chignon.
Her heart skipped like a stone over her ribs and plopped into the pit of her belly. She hadn’t seen him in hours and she was conscious of everything about him: the fatigue biting hollows into his lean cheeks, the texture of his gray wool blazer, his smoothly shaven jaw, the spicy scent of his aftershave and the faint dampness of his hair as if he’d recently showered.
His eyes glinted in warning as he slanted his mouth over hers in a welcoming kiss. Her fingers pressed against the lapel of his jacket in a futile effort to hold him and his invasive kiss at bay, but the warm coaxing pressure of his lips trampled her resistance, luring her into a dizzying vortex of contrasting sensations: hard muscle against soft flesh. Racing heartbeats and slow dizzying pulses. Dark bottomless kisses and blinding points of light that left her breathless and light-headed when he finally pulled away.
She blinked, trying to get her bearings. Planning a wedding night to reflect Hunter’s strong, compelling personality would take more daring than she’d first imagined.
The dark pinpoints of his pupils were narrowed on her, cool and assessing as if estimating the cost of the sleek cobalt dress and the diamond stud earrings she was wearing. “Miss me?” he said with dry amusement.
Juliana felt a furious blush erupt over her skin. The confidence she’d felt when she’d dressed for dinner crumbled tremulously beneath his gaze. The dress and the shoes and the earrings she had thought so perfect earlier, now made her feel as desirable and as invisible as a chambermaid.
She lowered her gaze and gestured toward the table she’d made certain was perfectly set with flowers and candlelight. “I would think that’s obvious. I asked Valentina to hold dinner until your arrival. But you look tired. Would you prefer a tray in your room?” She smiled at him uncertainly. “It would be more private. And Cort’s out like a light—for the night, I hope.”
One of Hunter’s eyebrows darted up. Juliana tried not to jump out of her skin when he slid a hand around her waist to the small of her back. “Are you propositioning me?”
She wet her dry lips, her heartbeat rattling in her chest like a door improperly latched. “Consider it a suggestion.” And she could ask the questions about the bombing that she’d hungered to ask all afternoon, rather than playing out this farce of being head over heels in love with Hunter.
Hunter’s nerves were pulled taut as cables as he took in the color infusing his bride-to-be’s flawless skin. Nothing had prepared him for the sight of Juliana standing near the table in the dining room, the candlelight glowing off her translucent skin and winking like stars off the midnight-blue fabric that clung to her delicate curves. At the end of this horrible day, his breath had stuck in his lun
gs hot and heavy as smoke from a smoldering fire at the vulnerability and the quiet determination shining in her eyes.
He’d kissed her, wanting to blot it all out, prove to himself that this wasn’t real, that the last twenty-four hours had been a nightmare and the fantasy would end when he kissed Juliana. Cinderella’s coach would turn back into a pumpkin.
Only it didn’t end. It became more real. Her skin tempted him, gliding beneath his fingers like the satiny embrace of the St. Lawrence on a misty morning. Her mouth pleasured him, a cove of delights shyly given up for his exploration. And her eyes compelled him to resist this madness.
He wasn’t sure which would be worse, playing out this farce in front of the servants or being alone with his reluctant Cinderella in his bedroom. But he needed food. And they needed to talk.
“Marquise,” he said over his shoulder, inhaling the scent of her skin. She smelled different than she had that morning. More sophisticated than apple blossoms. He presumed she’d bought a new perfume to go with the new clothes and the diamond earrings. The clothes and the earrings met with his approval. The perfume did not. “Set up a table in my room. Juliana and I will be dining alone tonight.”
His fingers remained possessively on her lower back as he guided her toward his room. He’d had a meeting with Tom McGuire, Ross’s lawyer, before he’d come back to the apartment, and he was still mulling over the list of monetary gifts Ross had bequeathed in his will, particularly the size of the gift to Juliana’s father. True, Goodhew had been a faithful family retainer for many years. But two million dollars was a considerable sum of money by any standards.
His mouth settled into a grim line. God help Juliana and her father if either one of them was even remotely involved in Ross’s and Lexi’s murders.
“WELL, WHAT DID YOU find out?”
Hunter warred between suspicion and amusement at Juliana’s unaccustomed directness.
He dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin. “According to the state police, the bomb was some kind of high explosive. It had been concealed in a small chest in the master bedroom. The bomb was set off by a pager. They’re attempting to piece together the pager so they can trace it.”
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