“You have no idea,” Northrup said. “We couldn’t take the chance that another Kingsley heir might someday turn up and want his share of the pie. So we changed our plans.”
“And Michael became Adam instead of Andrew. But Andrew still had to go, didn’t he?”
Northrup glanced up. “We could afford only one Kingsley heir. Divided power is no power at all.”
“So how did you pull off the DNA tests?” Jake asked. “Were all three of the samples from Andrew?”
“Tell me something, Jake.” Northrup sat back in his chair and eyed Jake coolly. “If you were in my position, how would you make certain the DNA tests yielded the results you wanted, namely, that Michael was Adam Kingsley?”
Jake shrugged. “I’d have to find a way to switch his blood sample with a sample of Andrew’s blood. Identical twins’ DNA would be a match.”
“Yes, but Andrew’s been dead for five months. Wouldn’t a forensics expert of Dr. Wu’s caliber be able to tell that the sample hadn’t been taken recently?”
Jake shrugged again. “You tell me.”
“The one sure way to get the results we wanted was to switch Michael’s blood with that of the real Adam Kingsley.”
Jake stared at Northrup’s smug countenance for a long, silent moment, digesting what he’d just told him. “Are you saying you know the whereabouts of the real Adam Kingsley? That you managed to somehow get him to cooperate with this…plan of yours?”
Northrup laughed softly. “You give me a little too much credit, I’m afraid. As it happens, I don’t know Adam Kingsley’s whereabouts. But Jonas Thorpe does.”
And Thorpe had yet to be found. “How did you and Thorpe hook up?”
“Jonas came to me after the Adam Kingsley story broke last year, because he’d learned our firm handled all claims against the Kingsley estate. He wanted to know how much money Iris Kingsley would be willing to pay to learn the whereabouts of her long-lost grandson, but I persuaded Jonas to join us instead. He knew nothing about the Grayson Commission or Michael Eldridge at that point, but when I explained, he quickly understood how much more profitable our plan would be in the long run than a one-time payoff from Iris.”
“That still doesn’t tell me how Thorpe knew about Adam.”
“As it turned out, Jonas’s sister was the woman who helped kidnapped Adam all those years ago. She raised him as her own son. To this day, he hasn’t a clue to his real identity. Can you imagine that?”
When Jake didn’t comment, Northrup continued. “Jonas didn’t know who the boy was either until the story about Adam still being alive made headlines all over the country last year. Then, fortunately for us, he started to remember things from his sister’s past—like how she’d disappeared from Memphis without a trace all those years ago, and how years later, when he finally saw her again, she had a son but no husband. A son who looked nothing like her or anyone else in the family. And she seemed extremely nervous, anxious to be rid of Jonas. So after the story about Adam broke, Jonas located his sister again, forced her to admit the truth to him, and then later, after he’d spoken with me, he convinced her to help us get a blood sample from Adam—unbeknownst to Adam, of course. Carol, substituting for the receptionist at the clinic, switched Adam’s blood with Michael’s. It was a brilliant scheme,” he said, his eyes gleaming with pride. “You have to admit that.”
Jake stood. “You get points for long-term planning. And where you’re going, you’ll have plenty of time to come up with another one.”
Northrup smiled up at him. “You don’t really think I’ll go to prison, do you? I have the best attorneys in the state at my beck and call. I won’t spend a night behind bars.”
“We’ll see about that.” Jake headed for the door.
“Jake?”
He turned. Northrup was studying his fingernails. “Give my regards to Hope.”
In your dreams, Jake thought and closed the door between them.
* * *
AT FIRST, IRIS HADN’T wanted to believe them, but when Hope and Jake finally convinced her, her blue eyes hardened with icy rage. “All these years, he pretended to be my friend, my confidant, while all along planning to destroy my family. He will never again see the light of day,” she vowed. “I promise you that. Andrew’s death will be avenged.”
They had also told her about Michael Eldridge and his ultimate demise, and though Hope knew Iris had to be grieving for the grandson she’d hoped to reclaim, she held herself together remarkably well, probably because of her fury. When that subsided, the shock would set in. To be on the safe side, Hope had put in a call to her doctor.
“Do you think what he said about Adam is true?” Iris asked Jake. Her eyes misted, but she visibly fought the emotion. “The real Adam, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Jake said. “Unless and until we find Jonas Thorpe, we have only Northrup’s word.”
“But the woman who took Adam. Thorpe’s sister. Surely she wouldn’t be that hard to locate.”
Jake met Iris’s gaze evenly. “It’s been over thirty years since she left Memphis. I’m sure she’s changed her identity, probably several times since then, and there’s no telling where she is now. Without Thorpe’s help, it could be a little like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Then you’d better get started, hadn’t you?” Iris’s chin lifted and she glared at Jake.
He glared back. “Are you saying you want to hire me to find your grandson, Mrs. Kingsley?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Jake shrugged. “I don’t come cheap.”
“I didn’t expect you would.” She turned to Hope. “I suppose you’ll be leaving me now.”
Hope started to deny it, but then she realized Iris no longer needed her. She had something other than her grief to focus on. She had a mission.
“It’s time for me to move on,” Hope said softly, and realized that no truer words had ever been spoken.
Hope took Jake’s hand, and they left the Kingsley mansion together. As they drove east, into the beginning of a beautiful sunrise, Hope never once looked back.
* * *
A FEW HOURS LATER, Jake picked her up from her mother’s house where he had taken her earlier. Hope had had a shower, changed clothes, and even managed to sleep for a little while. She woke up feeling refreshed, as if the weight of the world had been removed from her shoulders.
Joanna, her eyes glistening with emotion, hugged them both before they left. Hope felt near tears herself. After all these years, after all they’d been through, she and Jake had finally managed to find their way back to each other.
“Where are we going?” she asked, when Jake had backed out of her mother’s driveway.
“You’ll see.”
Something in his voice made her curious. Hope turned to study his profile, but his expression gave nothing away.
Rather than leaving the neighborhood, he drove two blocks over, to Mrs. Forsythe’s house. The For Sale sign had been removed from the front yard, and Hope glanced at him in surprise.
“What are we doing here, Jake?”
He parked the truck and turned off the ignition. Dangling a set of keys in front of her, he said, “Let’s go in.”
“How did you get those keys?”
“I happen to know the real-estate agent,” he said. “She’s the same lady who sold my house for me.”
Jake let them into the house, and Hope looked around. All the furniture had been removed, but she could tell the place had been lovingly cared for. The hardwood floors gleamed, the windows sparkled, and the pastel walls glowed softly in the afternoon sunlight. She loved it immediately, just as she’d known she would the day she’d driven by here.
She turned to Jake, her tone suspicious. “How did you know about this house?”
“How do you think?”
“Let me take a wild guess. My mother the matchmaker, right?”
He grinned. “Let’s look around.”
He showed her
the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen with a small, enclosed sunporch attached. When he started down the hall toward the bedrooms, Hope caught his arm.
“Jake, whose house is this?”
His eyes glowed with an inner light. He bent down and kissed her. “It could be ours.”
She caught her breath. “Are you asking me to marry you?” She saw something flash in his eyes, a vulnerability she’d never seen there. Before he could respond, she said, “Because if you are, the answer is yes.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Ten years is a long time to wait. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d married someone else. You had every right.”
“There was never anyone but you,” he said. “There never could be.”
He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. Sunlight spilled through the many windows, highlighting the sleeping bag Jake had fashioned into a makeshift bed. Some of the windows were open and a breeze drifted through. A crystal vase of spring flowers—from her mother’s garden, Hope would have sworn—was placed near the sleeping bag.
Jake sat and pulled her down beside him.
“I can’t give you a ring,” he said regretfully. “At least, not yet. It’ll take the last of my savings to make a down payment on this house.”
“I don’t have any money, either,” Hope said, but at the moment, she’d never felt so rich. Or so happy. She reached up and took his face between her hands. “I do love you, Jake. More than I ever thought possible.”
He kissed her, and Hope wound her arms around his neck. They tumbled backward onto the sleeping bag, desire building deliciously. The breeze stirred the sweet, delicate scent of the flowers, reminding Hope of the first time they’d been together.
As if reading her mind, Jake whispered, “You’re so perfect. Everywhere I touch. Here.” He kissed her neck. “Here.” His hand cupped her breast. “Here.” His fingers skimmed down her stomach. “And here…”
“You remember,” she breathed.
“Until the day I die,” he said.
The Long-Lost Heir
Amanda Stevens
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
PROLOGUE
Jenny Arpello couldn’t shake the premonition that something was wrong. Something wasn’t as it should be. In her room adjoining the nursery, she paced nervously, wondering what she should do.
She’d started to say something earlier to Edward Kingsley and his new wife, Pamela, when they’d come up from the fund-raiser downstairs to say good-night to Edward’s three-year-old twins, Adam and Andrew, and again later, when Iris Kingsley, the twins’ grandmother, had made her appearance.
But what could she have said? I have this feeling that something bad is about to happen, but I don’t know what. I have this gift, you see. I can sense things. My grandmother had it, too. It runs in my family….
Jenny could well imagine Iris Kingsley’s response to that. She would have looked down her aristocratic nose at Jenny, given her a withering look with those icy blue eyes, and told her in her cultured voice that Jenny’s services would no longer be required. Iris Kingsley would not tolerate a woman she considered mentally incompetent watching over her grandsons.
Jenny was terrified of Iris Kingsley. She was terrified of all the Kingsleys, really. She’d never worked for a family quite as famous, quite as powerful, quite as rich as the Memphis Kingsleys. There had been Kingsley senators, Kingsley secretaries of state, Kingsley diplomats, and, if Edward had his way, the next governor of Tennessee would be a Kingsley.
But Jenny didn’t particularly care about politics. Her main concern was keeping her position. She’d only been in the household a month, and in spite of Iris’s arrogance, Edward’s roving hands, and Pamela’s sharp tongue, this was the best job Jenny had landed since graduating from nursing school five years ago.
And the twins were precious—quiet, troubled little Adam, whose soulful eyes tugged at Jenny’s heartstrings, and the more rambunctious Andrew, who, at three, was already a charmer.
The boys had lost their mother to cancer a few months ago, and Edward had recently remarried. Jenny suspected that was the reason he was trailing so badly in the polls. His hasty marriage had lent credence to the rumors of his longtime, illicit liaison with Pamela Harrington, a Memphis socialite with two divorces behind her and an eight-year-old son of her own.
At the thought of Jeremy, Jenny winced. Though she loved children, no one could consider Jeremy Willows anything but a brat. Thank God he’d been allowed to attend the party downstairs, and Jenny didn’t have to put up with him in the nursery tonight. He teased and tormented the twins whenever he thought he could get away with it, and Pamela always took his side.
Outwardly, of course, she made a fuss over Adam and Andrew, smothering the poor little motherless boys with love and attention, but Jenny had seen the way Pamela looked at the twins when she thought no one was watching. She clearly resented Adam and Andrew who, even though they were younger than Jeremy, would someday be the Kingsley heirs.
Opening the door to the nursery, Jenny stepped inside. Moonlight flooded into the room from the French doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking the rear gardens. Out of habit, she checked the latch to make sure it was secure, then crossed the room to close the hallway door. Hadn’t she shut it earlier? Had someone been in the nursery without her knowing?
Probably the Fitzgeralds, she decided. Their three-year-old daughter, Bradlee, was asleep in one of the beds, and Mary Fitzgerald couldn’t bear to be parted from the little girl for more than an hour or two at a time. And no wonder. The child was incredibly sweet, and her open adoration of little Adam had immediately endeared her to Jenny. Bradlee was the only one who had been able to make him smile since his mother’s death.
One by one, Jenny tiptoed passed the little beds. Andrew was sprawled on his back, a smile playing at his lips. Unlike his brother, Andrew hadn’t been traumatized by his mother’s death. He’d missed her, of course, but like most children, he’d quickly bounced back, readily accepting the affection of anyone willing to give it to him—even his new stepmother. Andrew seemed quite taken with Pamela’s excessive beauty and charm, whereas Adam wanted nothing to do with the woman.
Stepping to the next bed, Jenny gazed down at Adam. As usual, he was curled on his side, a pillow clutched to his chest. His eyelids fluttered rapidly in his sleep, as if he were dreaming about something troubling. The premonition Jenny had been experiencing all evening came back full force as she stared down at him, and it was all she could do not to lift the child from his bed and hold him tightly to her breast. Adam was so vulnerable right now. He brought out all her protective instincts.
As Jenny moved on to the third bed, she was surprised to find little Bradlee’s eyes open. The child didn’t say anything, didn’t fuss or fret, just lay there quietly in her bed. Wide-awake. Alert. As if she’d had the same premonition as Jenny.
Jenny shivered. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” she whispered. “Did you have a bad dream?”
Bradlee shook her head. She lifted her hand and pointed to Adam’s bed.
Jenny smiled. “You’re watching out for him, aren’t you?”
The little girl nodded, her expression solemn.
Tears stung Jenny’s eyes. The bond between the two children was a touching thing to witness.
“Adam’s fine.” She smoothed back Bradlee’s bangs. “He’s sleeping. You can sleep now, too. I’ll look out for him, okay?”
Bradlee nodded, but her eyes remained vigilant, as i
f she had no intention of letting herself fall asleep. Jenny tucked the cover around the child’s shoulders and then went back to her own room. The uneasiness still hung heavily over her, and she knew she would have a hard time sleeping.
As was her habit, she warmed some milk in the kitchenette next to the nursery, then carried the glass to her bedroom and drank the contents before climbing into bed. Within minutes she fell into a deep slumber.
She didn’t hear the nursery door open sometime later nor the soft footfalls that crossed the room. She didn’t see the dark shadow standing over her bed nor the empty glass being taken away. She didn’t know when the French doors in the nursery were opened nor when the signal was given to someone waiting below in the garden.
Jenny knew nothing until hours later, when a scream awakened her, and she rushed into the nursery to find little Adam Kingsley missing from his bed.
CHAPTER ONE
Thirty-two years later=m
* * *
Something was wrong. David Powers knew it as surely as he knew his own name. He frowned, glancing at the stack of phone messages he’d found on his desk after returning from court that morning. Three were from his mother.
Helen Powers never “bothered” him at the office. It was a point of pride with her. In the twelve years David had been with the public defender’s office in New York City, he could count on one hand the times his mother had called him at work.
“You’re a busy man,” she would tell him, ladling another helping of chicken and dumplings—comfort food from her Southern background—onto his plate at their weekly Sunday dinner. “The last thing you need is for me to call you at work and make a nuisance of myself.”
David would reply indulgently, if a little impatiently, “I appreciate that. But as I’ve told you before, if you ever need me, you don’t have to be afraid to call the office, okay? Margaret won’t bite.”
Actually, he wasn’t altogether sure that was true. Margaret Petermen, the receptionist at the P.D.’s office, was a sixty-year-old barracuda who swore profusely, screened calls to a fault, and kept a plaque on her desk proclaiming, I Have One Nerve Left And You’re Getting On It.
Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir Page 40