Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir

by Amanda Stevens

  As Brant followed the shadowy figure into the woods, the smell of damp pine drifted on the breeze. A light rain earlier that morning had deepened the fragrance and softened the soil beneath his feet. He made hardly a sound as he walked through the woods.

  The wind picked up suddenly, ruffling the pine boughs overhead. Too late, Brant realized the stealthy sound behind him was not coming from the wind or the trees.

  He turned quickly and caught a glimpse of a shadow. Instinctively, Brant put up a hand to deflect the blow, but something caught him at the temple, and he pitched forward into blackness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  VALERIE WAITED FOR the footsteps to pass, then cautiously made her way back into the corridor. Whoever had passed along this way must have alerted the conspirators inside the study, for someone had closed the doors. She pressed her ear against the panel, but no sound penetrated the heavy wood. Knowing she couldn’t stay in the hallway forever, she retraced her steps to the ballroom, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. His face.

  But Brant was nowhere to be seen, and Valerie wondered if he was in the study with the rest of his family. With the group of people who wanted her dead. Or at least silenced.

  The thought mocked her as she made her way across the ballroom, to the French doors and to the garden beyond, where only a few moments ago she’d been with Brant. Kissing him. Wanting him.

  What was she going to do?

  There was no one she could turn to. No one who could help her. Valerie had never felt more alone than she did at that moment, and suddenly the urge to run back to Chicago, beg her boss for her job back, move back into her apartment and resume her old life as if nothing had ever happened, was overwhelming.

  She could somehow pretend she’d never read her mother’s diary, had never been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that her father was innocent.

  She could somehow pretend she’d never met a cop named Brant Colter.

  Valerie wanted to run away just as she and her mother had done that night thirty-one years ago, when they’d tried to hide from their past. But an image of her father came to her, and she could see, in her mind, the way he’d looked the night he’d been arrested, the terror and guilt in his eyes as he’d looked down at Valerie and her mother before Judd Colter had led him away.

  The terror had been because of what was happening to him. And she knew now that the guilt had been not because he’d kidnapped Adam Kingsley, but because he’d betrayed the woman he loved. Betrayed her the night Adam Kingsley had been kidnapped.

  Betrayed her with a woman named Naomi Gillum.

  The truth lay with her, Valerie thought. As soon as she talked to Naomi, everything would be out in the open. As soon as she got the woman to come forward, her father would be cleared, and then no one would have a reason to want Valerie dead.

  And she would never have to see Brant Colter again.

  * * *

  “BRANT?”

  He opened his eyes. He could hear a soft, feminine voice somewhere above him, but he couldn’t quite bring her face into focus.

  “What happened?” the voice asked anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  Everything came back to him then. He lay on the ground outside the Kingsley mansion because someone had hit him on the head. And the concerned voice belonged to Kristin Colter.

  His cousin’s wife.

  The woman he’d once loved.

  Brant groaned and sat up, rubbing the side of his head with his hand. “Damn.”

  “What happened?” Kristin knelt on the ground beside him, her face pale in the moonlight. Her blond hair shone like silver, looking incredibly soft, incredibly touchable as she gazed down at him.

  There was a time when Brant had thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. There was a time when he would have done almost anything for her.

  “Guess I had a little too much to drink,” he muttered, not knowing exactly why he lied, but feeling it necessary to do so.

  He struggled to his feet, and she helped him. He was very aware of her hand on his arm as he gazed around. They stood at the edge of the garden, in a patch of broken moonlight. But Brant had entered the woods, following the intruder. Whoever had hit him over the head had dragged him out of the trees and into the garden. But why? So he could be found more easily?

  He looked down at his clothes. Bits of mud and pine needles clung to the fabric.

  Kristin stared up at him in shock. “You have too much to drink? I don’t believe it. I’ve never known you to lose control at all,” she said, with a faintly bitter edge in her voice. “What were you really doing in the woods? Your clothes are a mess.”

  She stepped closer and started to brush the pine needles from his clothing. Brant could smell her perfume in the darkness. It was something light and floral, and he couldn’t help comparing it to the scent Valerie had been wearing earlier, a fragrance that was deep, dark and mysterious, like the woman herself.

  He’d lost control with her, he thought. Lost it in a big way.

  “Brant?”

  Kristin squeezed his arm, and he glanced down at her.

  “I asked if you were surprised that Austin and I are back together?”

  Brant shrugged. “I haven’t given it much thought one way or the other.”

  He saw her frown in the moonlight, and realized he hadn’t given her the answer she’d been wanting or expecting.

  “Would it surprise you to learn that Austin and I have made a deal with each other?”

  “That sounds romantic.” Brant tried to ignore the throbbing in his head and wondered how he could politely get rid of her. He had no doubt the intruder was long gone, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a look around.

  Kristin laughed, her bitterness more open this time. “Romance has nothing to do with it. Winning is the name of the game. Didn’t you know that?” She laughed again—a darker, more resolved sound that Brant found oddly disturbing. “What do you think about Austin running for Congress?”

  “I wish him luck.”

  Kristin gazed up at him, her eyes unfathomable in the moonlight. “Bennett’s retiring, and the Party wants someone younger and stronger to take his seat, someone without scandal attached to either his name or his career. Governor Chandler has agreed to back Austin, and so has Edward Kingsley. With their support, he can’t lose. But if we were to divorce—”

  “I get the picture. So what do you get out of the deal?”

  Kristin shrugged her bare shoulders, emphasizing the tasteful hint of cleavage displayed by her strapless white gown. “I get to be a congressman’s wife. I get to move to Washington. Someday, I may even be the first lady.”

  And she would like that, Brant thought. She would like that very much. Kristin had always had a fondness for the limelight. She would never have been content as a cop’s wife. Her dreams were much grander than that.

  “So a deal has been struck,” he said. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

  “I know you don’t approve,” Kristin said pettishly. “But you never did understand me, Brant. You never understood what was important to me.”

  “Oh, I think I understood you pretty well.” She hadn’t been that hard to figure out. What Brant had a difficult time understanding now was how he’d fallen for someone like her in the first place. “So my cousin thinks he’s headed for Washington, does he?”

  “Everyone does. Like I said, with the Kingsleys behind him, he can’t lose. There is just one tiny fly in the ointment, though.”

  “Just one?”

  “This kidnapping thing.” She hesitated, then moved slightly away from him, so that she stood in a puddle of moonlight. Her eyes shone like stars as she gazed up at him.

  She really was beautiful, Brant thought. She would certainly be an asset to his cousin.

  “You’ve read that terrible article,” she said.

  Brant shrugged without comment.

  “The Colter name is considered a strong asset by the Party. They think the family’s
history in law enforcement will appeal to a lot of voters who are concerned by the escalating violence in our society. But what that Snow woman wrote—all those lies about your father and about Raymond and Hugh Rawlins—make them all sound like criminals. If she keeps on, she could cause a lot of trouble for Austin,” Kristin said. Then added more softly, “And for me.”

  Brant’s patience was wearing thin. “So what is all this leading up to, Kristin? Are you suggesting I do something about Valerie Snow?”

  “Someone has to. You’re family, Brant. You’re a Colter. We all stick together, don’t we?”

  “What do you want me to do, shoot her?”

  He’d said it facetiously, but Kristin looked slightly shocked by his suggestion. Shocked, but not horrified. “I wasn’t thinking of anything quite that drastic. I thought maybe you could talk to her.”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell her to stop.”

  Brant laughed in spite of himself. Tell Valerie to stop? Yeah, right. “Have you ever heard of something called freedom of the press?”

  “Yes, but what about slander?” Kristin countered. “What about libel and defamation of character?”

  “You could make a case,” Brant agreed. “But do you want to call more attention to her accusations? The Journal has a reputation for sensationalized reporting. No one’s going to take her seriously unless she comes up with some pretty convincing facts. So far, all she’s done is speculate.”

  “You think it’ll all die down?” Kristin asked hopefully.

  He might have thought so once. But now Brant didn’t know what to think. Someone had set out to either harm Valerie or to frighten her, and now it seemed likely that that same person, or at least someone connected, had hit him over the head to keep from being seen tonight.

  “I know you’ll do what you can,” Kristin said. She smiled sweetly in the moonlight, looking like an angel, but her light blue eyes reflected a determination that seemed almost deadly.

  * * *

  IT WAS LATE BY THE TIME Brant finally left the Kingsley estate, but instead of heading back to his apartment, on impulse he drove into midtown, to the old neighborhood where he had grown up, where his parents still lived.

  A light shone inside the house and a Lincoln sat in the driveway. Raymond’s car.

  Brant frowned as he pulled his own car to the curb and parked in front of the house. He sat staring at the meticulous lawn, the well-tended flower beds, the concrete birdbath that he and Austin had once used for target practice with their BB guns.

  His mother had been livid that day—one of the few times Brant had ever seen her lose her temper. Most of the time she remained extraordinarily calm. A soothing voice of reason in his years of rebellion against his father’s indifference, his sometimes-overwhelming personality.

  But Brant’s mother had always been there to support him in whatever he wanted to do. He realized now that in recent years, he hadn’t been as supportive of her as he might have been. He hadn’t kept in touch as he should have, and it struck him, with something of a shock, that he didn’t really know his mother anymore. Maybe he never had.

  He certainly hadn’t realized that she and Raymond had gotten so close since his father’s stroke. Brant supposed it was only natural that she would turn to Raymond for support. He was a lot like his brother in many ways, but Judd was the older and the stronger of the two, in both personality and physical stature. He’d always been the head of the family, the protector, but now, since his stroke, Raymond had stepped into the role.

  Despite his own problems with his father, Brant wasn’t so sure he welcomed the change.

  He got out of the car and walked across the yard to the porch. As he climbed the stairs, the door opened and Raymond stepped out.

  “Brant! What are you doing here?”

  “Just thought I’d drop by and see my mother,” he said, in a tone that was slightly challenging.

  He heard his mother’s voice behind Raymond. “Brant? Is that you?”

  Brant pushed past Raymond and stepped inside the small foyer. “I just wanted to make sure you got home all right.”

  She looked perplexed by this sudden attention. “Well, of course, I did. Raymond drove me home. He was just saying good-night.”

  Brant turned to his uncle. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “Brant!” His mother sounded shocked by his curtness.

  Brant shrugged. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound so rude. But it is getting late. I’m sure you want to get home.”

  Raymond nodded, but his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “The boy’s right, Dot. I need to be shoving off. I’ll drop by tomorrow to see if you need anything. You and Judd.”

  Brant’s mother smiled. “Thanks, Raymond. We appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”

  Just what the hell have you done? Brant wondered.

  He closed the door behind his uncle, then turned to his mother expectantly.

  She gave him a reproachful look. “Why were you so rude to Raymond, Brant? You know how much he’s done for us since your father’s stroke.”

  “No one asked him to come around throwing his money in our faces.”

  “Brant!”

  “Don’t think he isn’t enjoying this, Mother. After all these years, he’s finally getting to play the big shot.”

  His mother looked at him sadly. “This isn’t like you, Brant. What’s gotten into you? What’s happened between you and Raymond?”

  “Nothing. I rarely see him.”

  “So why the attitude? Is it because of Austin? Your troubles with Kristin?”

  Brant sighed. “I’m just in a bad mood, okay? I didn’t come over here to argue with you, Mother. I really did want to make sure you’d gotten home all right.”

  She smiled wistfully, and Brant noticed how fragile she looked, how indescribably weary she seemed.

  “I’m fine, Brant, really. You don’t need to worry. I was just about to look in on your father, and then I’m going to bed.”

  “Why don’t you go on up? I’ll check on Dad, then let myself out.” When she started to protest, Brant said, “Go on. I’d like to do this for you.”

  She reached up and patted his cheek. “You’re a good son, Brant. Your father is very proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I know that,” he said, to humor her.

  After she went upstairs, Brant walked down the hallway to the downstairs bedroom his father had occupied since the stroke. The light was off, but the curtains were open and moonlight filtered into the room, casting a surreal glow on his father’s face.

  He’d lost a lot of weight since his illness, and the shadows and angles that slanted across his features gave him an almost-skeletal appearance.

  Shaken, Brant crossed the room to his father’s bedside and stood staring down at him. They’d never been close—more like adversaries than father and son—and Brant felt the gulf between them more strongly now than ever. He’d heard about the exploits of Judd Colter, the legendary cop, all of his life, but Brant suddenly realized that he knew very little about his father, the man.

  Brant turned away from the bed, and as he did so, something on the floor caught his eye. His mother had always kept their home spotless. She had a real thing for cleanliness. The bits of caked mud on the floor would have driven her crazy if she’d seen them.

  As Brant knelt, he saw more mud near the sliding glass door that led outside. The tiny clumps blazed a trail straight to his father’s bedside.

  Raising the blanket that draped over the side, Brant peered under the bed. A pair of shoes had been shoved out of sight, the soles of which were lightly caked with mud and pine needles.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DUSK HAD FALLEN the next day by the time Valerie checked into the Hotel Royale in New Orleans, dumped her luggage in her room, and then headed back out. The streets were crowded, but not as heavily as they would be later. The French Quarter would come alive after dark, and Valerie knew that it would n
ot be wise to be caught there alone. She’d never been to New Orleans, but she’d heard stories from some of her friends who had.

  As a reporter, however, she’d been in tough situations before. She knew how to take care of herself, and her innate sense of urgency wouldn’t allow her to sit around in the safety of her room and wait for morning. She would go crazy, and besides, if she called first, Naomi Gillum, aka Marie LaPierre, might not agree to see her.

  Valerie decided the best course of action would be to drop in on the woman unannounced. Surprise her. Give her no opportunity to run.

  But what if she didn’t live at the same address anymore? What if Harry Blackman had gotten the wrong woman? Or what if Naomi had gotten wind of Valerie’s investigation and moved on? Changed her name so that locating her again would be next to impossible? What then?

  Valerie didn’t want to speculate as to what her next step would be if that turned out to be the case. She’d counted on finding Naomi Gillum ever since she’d begun her crusade. Ever since she’d found the woman’s name in her mother’s diary. She wouldn’t let herself imagine the worst-case scenario now.

  The street was hot and muggy, but a breeze from the river drifted through the oak trees that lined the sidewalk, making the evening bearable. The buildings along the street were old, some of them crumbling, and all had the signature grillwork and tiny balconies for which the Quarter was so famous.

  As Valerie walked along, she could hear laughter and music coming from some of the apartments located above stores and restaurants, and the sound, for some reason, made her lonely. New Orleans was a city for lovers, and as Valerie passed several couples strolling arm in arm along the street, she suddenly thought, inexplicably, about Brant.

  New Orleans would be his kind of city. It was not unlike Memphis in some ways, except perhaps, for being a shade more worldly. A touch more decadent. But Brant would like that. He would appreciate the city’s darker side, because he had one as well, Valerie reflected, shivering a bit as she conjured up an image of his dark hair and black, probing eyes.