She wanted him to take her home to his apartment where she could hug Cort and check on her father’s condition.
She said her goodbyes to the staff—and to Annette who’d be staying on at the estate for several days helping the staff deal with the Collingwoods’ personal effects. Then they collected their coats.
To her keen disappointment, Investigator Bradshaw occupied the front passenger seat of the luxury car. Not Hunter. He extended his hand to her as she slid into the back seat, wedged between her bodyguards. She noticed he was wearing latex gloves.
“I’d like to examine your purse, if I may.”
“Of course.”
The investigator raised his brows at her bodyguards. “Did she touch anything inside the purse once it was recovered?”
“No, sir.”
“No, I did not,” Juliana said, offended that her word was not considered good enough. “Nothing’s missing. It was a false alarm. I’m sure I mislaid it. I didn’t have any ID in it.”
“Hmm…we’ll check it for latent fingerprints just to be sure. The killer could have searched it looking for a clue to your whereabouts.” The car lurched forward down the long drive. “Anyone else in the house touch it?”
“Only Stacey Kerr,” she admitted reluctantly. “She found it under the buffet table in the dining room.”
She watched Bradshaw’s face furrow in concentration as he carefully removed and examined her tube of lipstick, her comb and, finally, her cell phone.
“What was the last number you dialed on your cell phone?”
“The hospi—”
“Damn it. Stop the car,” Investigator Bradshaw barked in a low urgent tone, cutting her off.
“What is it?” Juliana gripped the back of the front seat, trying to scoot forward to see.
“There are scratch marks on the phone. Someone’s tampered with it.”
The investigator shoved open his door and jumped out of the car, moving at a brisk walk toward the center of the wide sweeping lawn.
“Get her out of here,” he ordered over his shoulder. “And seal off the area. I want a bomb squad here ASAP.”
IT WAS THE LONGEST WAIT in Hunter’s life.
His insides quivered as he counted out the minutes until Juliana’s car would arrive at the rendezvous point for the transfer. His clenched fist pounded on his thigh. Where the hell was she?
Bradshaw’s tense voice on the phone informing him that Juliana’s cell phone had been tampered with looped through his brain, replaying itself over and over.
What if a bomb had been planted in her cell phone? She could have been killed. Cort, too.
His mouth firmed into a taut line, his heart pounding like a driven nail into his chest at the thought of never seeing her barge into his study without knocking or holding Cort against her breast with the glow of fierce determination in her eyes. Never hearing her laugh or smelling the apple blossoms in her hair.
Never being able to expect the unexpected from her again.
He’d promised to protect her and he’d come perilously close to losing her. Thank God he and Investigator Bradshaw were cautious by nature.
She’d done her part for the investigation at the funeral today—even nabbing Sable Holden wandering the house where she didn’t belong. Now, after a brief stop at the hospital, he was going to whisk Juliana and Cort home to FairIsle. Marquise was already en route with Cort. The helicopter would pick them up in twenty minutes.
He could keep them safe at FairIsle.
When the car carrying Juliana finally entered the parking garage, it was all Hunter could do to remain in the limo. Endless seconds passed as the one car door opened and a bodyguard, followed by Juliana, emerged. The door beside him opened.
Bringing the faint scent of apple blossoms with her, Juliana bolted straight into his arms.
THE KILLER WAS FRUSTRATED. The tracking device hadn’t fit in the damn phone as it should. It was too large. Or the damn phone was too small, and there hadn’t been enough time.
Pushing the redial button had only resulted in reaching the hospital where the butler was recovering from his injuries. Information the killer already had.
But the engraved monogram on the designer purse from an exclusive Madison Avenue shop was quite distinctive.
The killer slipped into the household manager’s office and looked up the phone number for the shop.
“Good afternoon,” the killer said in an uppity voice. “I’m calling from the Collingwood estate. Yes, those Collingwoods. As I’m sure you’re aware, the funeral took place earlier today. Unfortunately, one of the guests left behind a purse at the reception. It’s one of your designs. No, there was no ID inside, but there is a monogram—BES. Does that ring any bells?” The killer described the black leather handbag.
“What was the name again? Thank you. You’ve no idea how happy you’ve just made me. I’m sure the owner will be very grateful.”
With a smug smile, the killer hung up the phone.
Who the hell was Brook Everett Sinclair? And what was Juliana doing with her purse?
SHE STILL DIDN’T WANT anything to do with him.
Darren stood outside the gates to the Collingwood estate barred from his love by iron bars and security guards. The steady stream of departing Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs and Jaguars told him the reception was over.
He told himself she was distraught. She’d lost both her parents and now her sister and brother-in-law. She wasn’t thinking straight.
He’d give her more time. Maybe send her a card telling her he was thinking about her. Then after the media circus had died down he could call her up at the office, ask her out to dinner.
They could linger over coffee and talk into the late hours of the night about art and pop culture and whether or not universal health care would ever happen in the U.S. Just like in the old days.
It had been almost three years since she’d called off their engagement. He’d patiently waited all this time for her to realize that what they’d had was once-in-a-lifetime. What was a few more months?
“WE’RE GOING WHERE?”
“To the hospital to see your father,” Hunter explained patiently.
Juliana scooted away from him to the far side of the limo’s wide back seat and crossed her arms. “No. I’m not going. We’ll go directly to FairIsle.”
He narrowed his gaze on the determined set of her chin, trying to figure out what was going on in his wife’s mind. He’d thought she’d leap at the chance to visit her father.
“The window of opportunity is here. We should take it. No one would expect you to be able to get from Long Island to the hospital in the Adirondacks so quickly. It lowers the element of risk to an acceptable level. Cort won’t come to the hospital with us. I have a team of men who’ll stay with him.”
“No.”
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He wanted so much to touch her, feel her melt against him again and reassure her that they would survive this together. “I know the incident with your purse was frightening, but don’t let it deter you from seeing your father.”
“This has nothing to do with that.”
“Then what, Juliana? Please explain it to me. I spoke with the doctor. Your father could die, and I think you’ll regret not seeing him.” He slid his arm along the rim of the seat back and brushed her shoulder with his thumb. “After all you’ve been asked to do, I can’t ask you to make this sacrifice, too.”
She looked at him, her eyes tormented pools in her pale face. “Don’t you think I want to see him? He’s my father. I love him! But it would only make him angry.”
Hunter frowned, confused by her logic. “Why would he be angry?”
She clamped her lips shut.
He rubbed his thumb against her shoulder in tiny circles, and felt the slightest weakening in the bow-tight arc of her back. “Tell me, please. Trust me.”
“Trust you? Ha!” She jabbed a finger toward the privacy screen. “I’ve done nothing but give you my
absolute trust and you trust the limo driver—who’s probably some cop—more than you trust me!”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. There was some truth to her accusation, but he wasn’t about to admit it.
“Tell me a deep dark secret, Hunter,” she prodded him. “And maybe, I’ll tell you mine.”
Hunter stared at her, coldly furious, as if she’d drop-kicked him into another dimension without his permission. Words bottled in his throat. But he wasn’t sure what upset him more—her impertinence or the reckless temptation to answer her question with frank unvarnished honesty to see what it would garner him.
Recklessness won out.
He was a damn fool, but he wanted, oh, God, he wanted to trust Juliana more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life!
He held her gaze. “How about this, then? My mother had an unfortunate habit of sleeping with my father’s friends. She was neither wise, nor discreet. My father learned about my mother’s indiscretions from a blackmailer who sought to profit from her lapses in judgment. My father refused to meet the blackmailer’s demands because he was convinced my mother would never betray him. He’d fallen in love with a woman his family didn’t approve of, a file clerk at the Clairmont Hotel. The blackmailer released photos of her indiscretions to the press. My father filed for divorce. When my mother realized he was determined to prevent her from having any contact with my sister and me, she committed suicide.”
His tone hardened. “I’m not sure which was harder on my father, discovering that my mother had betrayed him and had probably only married him for his money—or being made such a fool of in public.”
Hunter stopped short of telling her that the family butler had orchestrated the blackmail scheme, believing that he was helping his master by opening his eyes to the truth of his marriage.
Flecks of gold and burnt umber shifted in Juliana’s eyes like molten metals. Her back remained taut as a wind-filled sail.
“How old were you?” she asked.
“Nine. FairIsle had been our summer home, but after my mother’s suicide, my father retreated to the island and we lived there year-round.”
Only nine. He’d never trust her completely, Juliana thought, seeing the shuttered set of his face and the white marks on his knuckles where his free hand unconsciously clenched and unclenched on his thigh. There was too much hurt buried there.
She knew without having to ask that he’d never been married before. He’d never planned to risk his heart the way his father had. And even when his cold calculating mind had urged him into marriage to protect a helpless baby, he’d protected his heart by making it clear from the outset that the marriage would be in name only. He’d be a father to Cort, but he wouldn’t make himself vulnerable by fathering children of his own. It also explained why he’d so readily agreed to share joint custody of Cort should their marriage end in divorce. He wouldn’t put a child through a messy custody hearing.
Suddenly it made perfect sense to her how and why he’d become The Guardian. Somehow he’d hoped to save others from the ugliness of his own childhood.
Juliana closed her eyes, feeling hot tears scald her eyelids. If anyone needed love, deserved love, it was Hunter.
“I can’t see my father because I promised him I’d take care of Cort,” she began in a thready voice. “If I went to see him, he’d think I was disobeying him—neglecting my duty to Cort—and he’d never forgive me.”
Hunter’s fingers closed over her shoulder, dipping into the hollow above her collarbone. “Your father would never forgive you? Never is a long time.”
She opened her eyes and looked into the azure blue sea of Hunter’s concerned gaze. “You have no idea. Never, so far, has lasted nineteen years and two months.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I was six my father asked me to watch my little brother Michael. Michael was three. We’d seen Ross sliding down the banister of the grand staircase when no one was looking and we wanted to do it, too. We’d been told many times, not to, but we were children. Michael was a little monkey. He climbed up on the railing and before I could stop him he was sliding down like a rocket. About halfway down he lost his balance and fell onto the stairs—and started rolling down. The fall killed him.”
A great emptiness opened inside her, stretching down to the bottom of her soul. “My father has hugged me only once since that day—and that was the day that I returned to the estate to be with Lexi after Riana was kidnapped.”
Rage shredded Hunter’s heart that she should be made to feel guilty for her brother’s death. “Michael’s death wasn’t your fault. You were a child yourself—much too young to have the responsibility of a three-year-old. You should have been supervised by an adult.”
He leaned down and kissed her temple, wishing there were some way he could heal the hurt of her father’s rejection. But knowing from his own life that hurts such as those left permanent scars. “I’m sorry about your brother. But I’m still taking you to see your father.” At the flash of protest in her eyes, he laid a finger on her lips.
“I’ll tell him you had no choice but to follow The Guardian’s orders. And after, we’re going home with Cort. Which reminds me…”
He reached into his coat pocket for her wedding rings, which she’d given him for safekeeping when they’d left for the funeral this morning. Even if she felt he was once again breaching her trust by insisting on this visit with her father, he was listening to his gut on this one. He’d never had a chance to say goodbye to his mother. He wouldn’t deny Juliana this chance with her father.
He took her left hand and slid the rings over the third finger, more solemnly aware than yesterday of the commitment he’d undertaken when he’d claimed this woman as his wife.
THE EXTENT OF HER father’s injuries hit Juliana hard. It was all she could do to keep the sharp cry of anguish from her lips. She gripped Hunter’s hand in silent communication to steady herself as she approached the bed.
Her father, who’d always possessed an authoritative bearing, lay motionless in the bed, garish bruises mottling his face, a turban of bandages circling his head. There were red areas on his arms and neck resembling a sunburn. And the tubes! Some sort of tube protruded from his chest. Another tube helped him breathe and a feeding tube had been inserted in his nostril.
Only when she reached the side of the bed could she detect the damage from the stroke on her father’s poor battered body. The features on the right side of his face drooped.
Releasing her grip on Hunter, Juliana slipped her hand gently under her father’s, careful not to cause him further discomfort by touching any of the burns.
“Papa, I’m here,” she said softly, seeking an undamaged spot on his face to kiss him. Tears welled in her chest as if caught in a dam. “I’m here with you.”
She felt a gentle supportive squeeze on her shoulders. “I’ll be right outside,” Hunter told her. His eyes gleamed with warmth and moisture as he brushed a kiss on her cheek. “You need your privacy.”
Juliana looked at her husband and nodded, her throat too choked to express the love and the appreciation she felt for his being here with her. Hunter had been right. As apprehensive as she was about her father’s reaction to her visit, she could see now that her father had needed her here as much as she’d needed to see him. She had so much to say. The ICU nurse had told her that even though her father was in a coma, he could still hear what was being said to him.
She prayed that was true. Summoning her courage, she said the words she should have said to her father years ago, “Papa, I’m very angry with you….”
“THERE WAS NO BOMB.”
Investigator Bradshaw’s brisk voice scraped over the phone line. “But we got some prints off the purse. We’ll run them through the system and see if we pick up anything.”
“Good. Better safe than sorry.” Holding his cell phone to his ear, Hunter paced the front walkway outside the hospital. Relief bounded through him that the scare earlier over Juliana
’s missing purse had been just that—a scare.
“How’s the butler?” Bradshaw asked. “Any chance we’re going to get any information out of him in the near future?”
Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose. Smoke from a cigarette butt dropped on the pavement nearby curled up into the chilly September night. “He’s still in a coma. The doctors aren’t sure how extensive the damage is from the stroke. It’s definitely wait-and-see. What’s the story with Sable Holden? Did you get anything out of her?”
“She insists the ladies’ room downstairs was crowded and she decided to try upstairs. There was nothing in her purse to indicate she’d been helping herself to a few souvenirs.”
“Annette was upstairs at the time—that could have been Sable’s motivation for being there. Sable might have changed her mind when she saw the bodyguards.”
“I’ve got ten witnesses who’ll swear Sable was seated at a dining table at a family party at midnight on Friday—” Investigator Bradshaw broke off abruptly. “Hold on a sec.”
Hunter waited impatiently, intending to point out to the BCI investigator that Sable could have put her hands under the table and called the pager that detonated the bomb with a cell phone.
Bradshaw came back on the line, excitement rising in his voice. “We’ve just been given the lead we’ve been waiting for on the pager. The call to the pager that set off the bomb was made from a pay phone in lower Manhattan.”
From the financial district, no doubt, Hunter thought.
“The pager was bought a month ago by a man named Robert Lance in Soho. Only one call ever made to the number. He doesn’t have a record. Does the name ring any bells?”
“No. But he could be the person who delivered the flowers. Maybe he made the call, too.”
“We’re on our way to pick him up. I’ll keep you posted.” Bradshaw disconnected the call.
Hunter looked up into the night sky that was blurred by the lights of the hospital compound and hoped this lead would break the case wide-open.
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