Though his mind warned him against behaving rashly, trusting too deeply, too soon, he anchored her against his chest and promised himself that they wouldn’t live in fear for the rest of their lives—assuming their marriage lasted longer than he anticipated. Then he called Investigator Bradshaw, the Bureau of Criminal Investigation investigator with the New York State Police, who was the lead detective in the homicide investigation. Maybe the killer had been careless and left some fingerprints in Juliana’s condo.
“AND?” ROSS AND LEXI’S killer waited expectantly for the update on the butler’s daughter and the baby.
“She’s gone. Her car’s gone. No sign of her passport or personal documents so she must have them with her. I went through her papers. I have a checking account and credit card numbers.” He paused slightly, significantly, “And she has a cell phone. She likely has it with her. I have the number.”
The killer jotted down the number on a thick creamy sheet of stationery from the desk drawer, reveling in this stroke of good fortune. It was amazing what money could buy.
LATE SUNDAY NIGHT Darren returned home to Ithaca to the empty clapboard four-bedroom house that he’d bought for Annette within walking distance of the campus. It wasn’t a mansion, but he thought she’d love the clean simple lines of the house, the dark oak floors and the yard spacious enough for children. He slammed the front door behind him, frustrated by a nine-hour round-trip drive that hadn’t achieved his objective.
The doorman at Annette’s apartment had told him she’d left early Saturday morning in a limo with a driver and bodyguard. He was certain she had to be at the Collingwood Estate. Where else would she be?
He’d fought his way through the horde of journalists demanding admission at the gates and gave his name to the security guard, who’d called up to the house, then told him that he was very sorry, but Ms. York wasn’t receiving any visitors.
She didn’t want to see him. His ego still throbbed from the bruising.
Like the hundreds of other people keeping vigil outside the gates, Darren had camped out overnight, hoping his love might leave the estate by car the next day and catch sight of him.
God he missed her. Missed how perfectly they’d fit together like a very elegant proof of a known mathematical result—clever and aesthetically pleasing. With her parents and her sister gone and no longer putting ideas in her head, it would be easier to convince Annette that they still belonged together. That he was all she’d ever needed in a husband.
Darren grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and twisted off the cap. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he downed half the bottle in one gulp. Whether she liked it or not, Annette was going to see him. The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday.
He’d cancel his classes so he could attend.
MONDAY MORNING Juliana felt buoyed by a call from the ICU nurse; her father had spent a good night. After breakfast she went with Hunter to apply for a marriage license in the Manhattan city clerk’s office with hopes that her father was rallying and she’d be able to talk to him later today—tomorrow at the latest.
Juliana balked at once again leaving Cort in Valentina’s care, but Hunter was adamant that Cort was safer in the secured building. Reluctantly, she had to admit he was right.
They didn’t need blood tests to get married, but there was a twenty-four-hour waiting period. They’d have to return the next day for the ceremony.
After they’d obtained the license, they stopped at Hunter’s lawyer’s office. Hunter signed a new will reflecting his anticipated marriage and appointing Juliana as Cort’s guardian in the event of his death. Then the lawyer handed them copies of the prenuptial agreement.
Though Hunter’s lawyer had urged her to seek her own representation to review the prenuptial agreement before signing, Juliana had dismissed his suggestion. “That won’t be necessary. My fiancé is a man of his word and that’s more binding than a piece of paper for me.”
Juliana couldn’t interpret the appraising look Hunter shot her. She had no idea whether her comment had pleased or annoyed him, but watching his dark head bowed and the sharp concentration in his eyes as he read the legal document before signing it, brought a rush of conflicting emotions to her chest.
When she was little, her mother used to tell her, “Handsome is as handsome does.” Through the hot jab of tears pricking her eyes, Juliana doubted there was any man on earth more handsome than Hunter at this moment. As much as she hated to admit it, she was seriously in danger of feeling something for her husband-to-be that she had no business feeling. He treated her like a servant, expecting his orders to be obeyed without question. The agreement he was reading so seriously was a contract to him. Everything clear-cut and explained. No entanglements.
He’d keep his end of the deal and expect her to keep hers.
But that didn’t stop her from wondering what background events had shaped Hunter’s perspective on the world. What motivated a man with his wealth to go to such extremes to help others while protecting himself from involvement? Juliana suspected it was quite possible that beneath Hunter’s cynicism about marriage in general, he valued love.
Once the papers at the lawyer’s had been dispensed with they headed back to the apartment. But their plans changed en route when Hunter received a call on his cell phone from the BCI investigator who was assigned to Ross and Lexi’s murder case. Hunter gave the address of the New York State Police’s NYC troop installation to Marquise, then closed the limo’s privacy window.
“Investigator Bradshaw needs to ask you some questions,” he explained quietly.
Juliana felt a quiver of anxiety that only increased when Hunter’s strong fingers wrapped around her hand as if bracing her for bad news.
His gaze met hers, intractable as a stone wall. “He knows about Cort.”
“He what?” Anger flared in her heart like a struck match. She yanked her hand from his. “You told him?”
His hands curled into fists on his knees. “We can’t hide that kind of information from the police—not without facing charges for hindering a criminal investigation. And it’s critical to the case. Investigator Bradshaw understands the sensitivity of the information. I have several retired BCI investigators on my payroll and they tell me I can trust Bradshaw.”
Juliana’s stomach rolled. Hunter could trust a trooper on a word-of-mouth recommendation, but not the woman he was going to marry. She would dearly love to know if he distrusted her specifically or just relationships. “Does he know about our arrangement, too?”
“He knows that Ross and Lexi appointed me the guardian of their living children, and I have assured him that I am instigating measures to protect Cort’s identity. And yours. Just answer the questions, you may know more than you realize.”
She leaned against the leather seat back not the least bit appeased. She had a sick feeling that Hunter was very interested in her answers to the investigator’s questions, as well.
INVESTIGATOR BRADSHAW was a compact man in his late forties with a long sharp nose and somber gray eyes. He greeted Juliana with a handshake that seemed both sincere and compassionate and asked after her father as he escorted them to a back room of the police installation reserved for interviews.
“We’d like to interview your father as soon as possible, Ms. Goodhew.” The investigator indicated that Juliana and Hunter take a chair at the table in the center of the room. “We may be able to piece together how someone else found out the location of the rendezvous in Severance. Did he reveal any details to you in your phone conversations?”
Juliana shook her head. “I’m sorry. All I know is that my father handled the arrangements himself and booked the house under his own name.”
“Would those arrangements include ordering flowers to be delivered to the house?”
Juliana glanced at Hunter uncertainly. He shrugged his shoulders, indicating the significance of the question was unknown to him. She wet her lips. “It’s possible. That would be the kind of thing he might do to en
sure the Collingwoods were comfortable in their surroundings. Lexi loved freshly cut flowers. But my father didn’t mention anything about ordering flowers. Why do you ask?”
“Because we’ve interviewed the property owners who claim that a floral delivery was made to the house Thursday morning—three large arrangements designated for the living room, dining room and master bedroom. The delivery person insisted on placing the arrangements himself and making finishing touches per Mr. Goodhew’s request. The owners didn’t object.”
Investigator Bradshaw’s inquisitive gaze shifted from Juliana to Hunter and back. “A large basket arrangement was carried into the master bedroom and placed on a table near where we believe the explosion originated.”
Juliana grew absolutely still as the horror of the investigator’s insinuation sank into her fogged mind. The room seemed to be closing in on her. She glanced at Hunter, unconsciously seeking his support as her fingers dug into her palms. This was insane. Her father would never hurt Ross and Lexi. He’d die for them. And a part of Juliana feared that her father’s slow recovery might be a subliminal reluctance to face life without Ross. Beneath the table she felt Hunter’s leg surreptitiously nudge hers as if reassuring her that he was close by and she wasn’t alone. She took a calming breath, drawing strength from this unexpected show of support and felt the walls starting to recede. She had to stay calm. Be as cooperative as possible. “You think my father was involved, Investigator?”
Bradshaw locked his fingers on the table. “It’s early in the investigation, Ms. Goodhew. We’re following every lead. That includes checking with every florist within a one-hundred-mile radius to ascertain who ordered the flowers. We can’t ignore the fact that your father was not in the house when the bomb went off.”
Juliana’s face grew warm with indignation. “He was outside waiting for me and the baby!” She told the investigator about Cort’s ear infection and her father’s command that they arrive by midnight to surprise Ross and Lexi. “I did my best, but the drive was too much for Cort. We stopped in a motel near Utica.”
The BCI investigator pressed on relentlessly. “The break-in at your condo yesterday suggests that someone is aware you’re caring for the Collingwoods’ son. Are you certain that no one on the estate other than your father, Ms. York and the Collingwoods was aware of the child’s true parentage?”
“There’s no way I can be absolutely certain, but we were all very careful. Whenever I visited the estate, I wore those pregnancy pads that actors use and pretended to be nauseous and tired so everyone would be convinced I was expecting.”
Investigator Bradshaw nodded. “How were your living expenses provided to you?”
“Ross gave me a check for two hundred thousand dollars and I set up an account at a bank in Cleveland,” she replied.
“So, the money didn’t come out of the household accounts that Mr. Nevins manages?”
Juliana shook her head, adamant. “No. I’m sure Mr. Nevins would have been curious about such an arrangement. The check was from one of Ross’s business accounts.”
At that, Hunter deigned to interrupt. He knew the BCI investigator had to ask his questions, but Juliana could use a moment to compose herself against the steady barrage. He could see fine blue veins beneath the pallor of her face. Had she eaten this morning? Why hadn’t he noticed?
“If the check came from one of Ross’s business accounts it’s possible that it came to the attention of Kendrick Dwyer, the chief financial officer, or David Younge, the controller,” he interjected. “More likely Younge as he would be responsible for the day-to-day spending.”
“Looks like I’ll have a few more questions for Mr. Dwyer and Mr. Younge,” Investigator Bradshaw said dryly.
Hunter rubbed his jaw, considering motives and opportunity. He’d already given the investigator copies of the alibis he’d gathered from the Collingwood Corporation’s senior management.
“Either of them could have had their eye on the CEO position. And they both have the resources to hire assistance. Did the homeowners provide a description of the delivery person? Perhaps Ms. Goodhew will recognize the description.”
“Yes. We got a Caucasian, male, approximately five-foot-ten-inches tall, medium build, maybe midforties wearing blue coveralls and a blue ball cap. No distinguishing characteristics. Ring any bells?”
“I’m afraid not,” Juliana said, her brow crumpling with worry.
“From what you’ve told us, Investigator,” Hunter continued undaunted, “the bomb was either carried into the house concealed in the arrangement or the delivery man left a door or window unlocked so that someone could enter the house at a later time and plant the bomb.”
Investigator Bradshaw loosened the blue-striped tie knotted at his throat. “That’s correct.”
Hunter drummed his fingers on the scarred wooden table. “Was the home monitored by a security system?”
“Yes, but the homeowner said it was only used in the winter months when the house was unoccupied. Break-ins are rare in Severance. Most people leave their doors unlocked in the daytime.”
“Has the Trace Evidence Section been able to determine what kind of explosives were used?”
“Unfortunately, no. There was nothing left. All we know is that it was a high explosive. We’re still working on piecing the pager together. We might know more in a few days. And, of course, the Cleveland police are dusting Ms. Goodhew’s apartment for fingerprints. The floral delivery man could be the same person who broke into her apartment. We’ll want to take Ms. Goodhew’s prints before she leaves today so they can be eliminated from any found at the scene.”
“What about Nonnie Wilson, the missing cook?” Hunter asked, noting that Juliana’s head snapped up and her rich mahogany eyes sparked to attention at his mention of the Collingwoods’ chef.
Discomfited, he tore his gaze from Juliana’s pale face and the sharp jut of her chin and focused on Bradshaw. Had he jeopardized the trust she’d placed in him by passing along the information she’d given him about the cook’s disappearance to the police? To Hunter’s consternation, earning more of Juliana’s trust and keeping it ranked high on his priority list. Right up there with being a loving and attentive father to Cort.
“Nonnie Wilson’s still unaccounted for,” Bradshaw said wearily. “A neighbor saw her put several suitcases in her car Friday morning and drive off. We’ve got an APB out for her car, and we’re checking the airports and bus stations.” The investigator checked his watch. “I’ve taken up enough of Ms. Goodhew’s time for today. If you’ll both follow me, someone from the Forensic Identification Section is waiting to take Ms. Goodhew’s fingerprints.”
Relief flowed through Juliana as she rose from the table. She was bone tired and heartsick with worry about her father’s potential reaction to Investigator Bradshaw’s insinuations. And she missed Cort. She wasn’t used to spending so much time away from him.
As Hunter and Investigator Bradshaw made arrangements to talk later in the day about the security for the funeral a chill eased down her spine. The sooner she and Hunter were married and safely on his island, the more secure she’d feel.
Chapter Six
Hunter holed up in his study when they got back to the apartment as much to get away from the reality of his impending wedding as to keep pursuing the investigation in his own way. He had piles of Collingwood Corporation documents to review, as well as updates from his operatives and a constant influx of tips coming in on Riana Collingwood’s 1-800 hotline demanding his attention.
Since the night of the explosion, calls to the 1-800 tips line for Riana Collingwood had catapulted into the thousands and each one had to be taken seriously. Even though an FBI case agent was reviewing the incoming calls for potential new leads in Riana’s abduction, Hunter had instructed the staff manning the hotline that he wanted to see a report on every call. He might spot something the agent missed.
Normally, he would review this information in the offices he leased for his covert G
uardian operations, but he felt more comfortable being near Juliana and Cort.
Hunter eyed the daunting piles of folders accumulating on his desk and selected Ross’s takeover files on Phillip Ballard’s and Sable Holden’s companies as being the most urgent to review. But the words swam on the page as an image of Juliana—radiant in an ivory wedding gown that brought out the luminescence of her pearly skin—appeared like a specter in his thoughts.
He hadn’t kissed her since Saturday night and the memory of that kiss throbbed hot in his veins. It struck him as being exceedingly ironic that while he was adverse to the institution of marriage, he was not adverse to Juliana’s charms.
Juliana, the butler’s daughter.
Ross would laugh his head off at the irony, then threaten to kill him if he hurt her.
Hunter appreciated women. Appreciated their beauty and the softness of their skin and the special way women had of making their mark on the world, whether in a business meeting or in wiping the tears from a child’s face. He understood the intricacies of seducing a woman. Knew the rules of the game and the outcome.
But he’d never been confronted with a woman who confused him like Juliana did. Although he’d laid out the rules of their marriage, he felt as if he were moving from one precarious foothold to another across a vertical rock face. One misstep and he’d fall into Juliana’s polished mahogany eyes. Or bury himself deep into her ivory satin skin.
He wanted to touch her. Kiss her. And yet, he didn’t.
He didn’t want to open his heart to his own vulnerability and let in emotions that would affect his judgment. He’d seen what allowing emotions to overrule good sense had done to his father. His father had fallen in love with a pretty office clerk from New Jersey, who worked in the file room, and had decided to marry her despite his family’s concerns that he was marrying beneath him.
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