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

by Amanda Stevens

  And what kind of man would he be? Bradlee wondered. The child she remembered had been so vulnerable and sensitive, so sweet and caring, but Adam was a man now. The same age as Bradlee. Did he remember her at all? Did he recall the bond the two of them had once shared?

  She scoffed at such a notion. They’d only been three years old at the time of his kidnapping. Hardly more than babies. The bond they’d had as children only existed in Bradlee’s memory and would have been erased from there long ago if not for Adam’s disappearance. The trauma of that night, coupled with Bradlee’s misplaced feelings of guilt, had kept that connection alive in her mind, perhaps had even embellished it.

  But it didn’t really matter if Adam remembered her or not. Bradlee had come here for a purpose, and as soon as her mission was accomplished, she would be free of the past once and for all. Maybe she would even meet someone and fall in love, marry and have the houseful of kids she’d always wanted. Somehow that dream had always eluded her. Somehow her life, in spite of all the advantages she’d grown up with, hadn’t turned out quite the way she’d envisioned. Something—some vital piece of the puzzle—always seemed to be missing.

  Through the thick copse of trees, Bradlee caught glimpses of the Kingsley mansion, a towering red-brick Tudor that had become legendary throughout the years, especially after the kidnapping. The layout of the house had been featured in every major newspaper in the country, with arrows pointing to the balcony off the nursery where police suspected the kidnapper had gained entrance.

  Since Raymond Colter’s confession, the authorities had actually learned little more about that night. Colter was spending the rest of his life in prison and had refused to talk beyond his confession. Certain aspects of the case, the hows and the whys, still remained a mystery.

  Snapping a zoom lens onto her Nikon, Bradlee lifted the camera to her eye and brought a portion of the house into focus. She was startled to see someone standing on one of the second-floor balconies, although not the one off the nursery because that room faced the rear of the house. But it was in the same wing, and that alone was surprising because Iris had closed off that whole section of the house after the kidnapping. Andrew had been moved into his own room in another wing, and the nanny had been given new quarters on the third floor. Bradlee recalled hearing talk that the nanny had been dismissed sometime later because Iris had never forgiven the woman for allowing her grandson to be kidnapped on her watch.

  A chill crept up Bradlee’s spine as she continued to stare at the house. Except for Dr. Scott, the psychiatrist her parents had taken her to after the kidnapping, she’d never talked to anyone about her nightmares—about the shadow standing over her bed that night—because she’d never quite brought herself to believe it had really happened. Never quite accepted the notion that someone in the house that night, someone she recognized, had been in the nursery just before the kidnapping.

  She’d told herself over and over that even if someone had been in there, it probably had nothing to do with Adam’s disappearance. There had been any number of people at the fund-raiser that night, including Bradlee’s own parents and her uncle, Harper Fitzgerald, who had been Edward Kingsley’s campaign manager. To think that any one of those people might have had something to do with Adam’s abduction was ridiculous. Far-fetched. Unbelievable.

  And yet the nightmares had persisted. And Bradlee’s first inclination on hearing that Adam had been found was to rush here and warn him.

  But what would she say? Someone in your own family may have helped Raymond Colter kidnap you, Adam. Or maybe it was a close friend, someone like my uncle, for instance. Or my father. And whoever it was might not want you to come back. Might do anything to keep you from coming home—

  She would sound like an idiot if she blurted it out in that way. Bradlee knew she would have to be a lot more subtle, because in truth, that shadow might have been nothing more than a traumatized child’s imagination; and the nightmare, a product of her guilt. If that were the case, the last thing she wanted to do was taint Adam’s homecoming with suspicion.

  Bradlee wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing at the edge of the lane, camera to her eye, when a sound slowly registered with her and she looked up. A car came tearing around a sharp curve in the road and gathered speed as it straightened, heading directly toward her.

  Without thinking, she dived for the ditch and her camera went flying as she rolled down a slight embankment. The driver slammed on his brakes, and Bradlee heard the scream of tires gripping pavement before the car finally came to a halt. A car door slammed and footsteps sounded on the roadway.

  Bradlee got to her feet and gingerly brushed leaves off her clothing. A man stood at the side of the road, but she ignored him. She wanted to make sure nothing was broken first. She picked up her camera and examined it.

  “Are you all right?” he finally called, a trace of exasperation in his voice—a deep, masculine voice that drew her attention in spite of herself.

  “Fine.” She held up her camera. “Nothing seems to be broken.” She snapped off several shots in the man’s direction, and he glared down at her in annoyance. Bradlee started to climb up the embankment, and almost grudgingly, he offered her his hand.

  “What the hell were you doing standing in the middle of the road like that?” he demanded. “You could have been killed.”

  “I wasn’t standing in the middle of the road. I was practically on the shoulder, and if you hadn’t been driving so fast, you would have realized that.” She pulled her hand from his and glared back at him. He was good-looking, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Eyes that brought a shiver of awareness to Bradlee.

  Suddenly, she knew exactly who this man was, and the countryside seemed to quiet at the revelation. The birds, the wind through the trees, everything stilled around her as she gazed up at him.

  After thirty-two years, Adam Kingsley had finally come home.

  Something inside Bradlee trembled. She hadn’t realized how emotional she would be at this moment. How strong the urge would be to laugh and cry and throw her arms around him.

  But he would surely think her crazy, then. Adam Kingsley had lived on in her memory. His kidnapping had shaped her life in ways she couldn’t even begin to understand, but to him, she was a stranger. To him, she meant nothing.

  Bradlee tried to quiet her racing heart as she stared up at him. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. There was a coldness in his eyes, a hardness in his features that was almost chilling, and it occurred to Bradlee that she’d just traveled thousands of miles for nothing, because here was a man who could take care of himself. Here was a man who would hardly be impressed by her nightmares.

  An awkwardness settled between them, and Bradlee turned her attention to his car, a vintage Thunderbird, painstakingly preserved. Not exactly what she was accustomed to seeing a Kingsley drive. “Nice car,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  “Thanks. But it’s hardly in the same league as yours.” He nodded toward the black Porsche. “The tabloids must pay you pretty well.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  His gaze dropped to her camera. “I assume you were taking pictures of the Kingsley grounds, hoping to get a shot or two of the long-lost heir.”

  “I don’t work for the tabloids,” she said quickly, realizing he’d mistaken her for the paparazzi.

  “You’re not a photographer?”

  “I am a freelance photographer, but I’m not here—”

  He cut her off before she had a chance to explain. “The papers all said Kingsley wouldn’t be arriving until next week. Aren’t you a little early?”

  She took a deep breath. “Actually, I think my timing’s just about right…Adam.”

  He lifted one dark brow at that, but didn’t bother to deny his identity. “Your paper could have called for an interview, you know. You didn’t have to resort to skulking about in the shadows.”

  “I suppose I cou
ld have called,” she agreed. “But your identity has been kept a closely guarded secret. I don’t even know your name. I mean…the name you go by.”

  “David Powers.” He held out his hand, and this time, Bradlee was prepared for the shiver along her backbone when he touched her fingers.

  “Bradlee Fitzgerald.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, a flicker of recognition that brought a brief frown to his brow. “Do I know you?”

  He was still holding her hand, and Bradlee felt as if every nerve ending in her body was concentrated in the part of her skin that touched his. She started to tell him who she was then, but another car came racing around the curve, and they moved apart, stepping to the shoulder of the road.

  “Well,” he said, when the car had driven by. “This probably isn’t the safest place to stand talking. And I need to get going anyway.” His gaze lifted toward the mansion. Something in his eyes darkened. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let them catch you out here.”

  She glanced at him in confusion. “Who?”

  “The Kingsleys. I hear they value their privacy above all else.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked back to his car.

  “Wait! I’m not who you think I am!” Bradlee called, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He got into his car and pulled back onto the road, heading toward the private entrance that would take him to the Kingsley mansion.

  Home, after thirty-two years.

  Bradlee shivered as she watched him go.

  * * *

  DAVID PARKED HIS CAR in the semicircular drive in front of the mansion and got out to lean against the fender as he stared up at the imposing facade.

  Home sweet home, he thought grimly.

  He’d thought he’d prepared himself for the grandeur of the Kingsley mansion, but seeing the house in person was far different from viewing newspaper photos of it. The massive structure was awe-inspiring to say the least, and David was hard-pressed to imagine himself ever feeling at home in such a place.

  Since he’d learned the truth of his identity six weeks ago, he’d done a lot of research on the Kingsleys. Not much of what he’d learned had been flattering. They were a political family, ambitious, power-hungry, and very often ruthless. Iris Kingsley, the matriarch of the family, was still regarded as the real powerhouse even though she was well into her eighties. Her husband had been a U.S. senator and her son, David’s father, had been elected governor of Tennessee not long after the kidnapping. He’d only remained for two terms, however, before retiring from politics, a decision that had created a bitter rift between Iris and him.

  Iris had then pinned all her political aspirations on her remaining grandson, but Andrew, from everything David had been able to read about him, had been more interested in racing cars than in running for office.

  It was strange to think that he’d had a twin, David reflected. What about the bond identical twins were supposed to share? Why hadn’t he known about Andrew? Why hadn’t he sensed his brother’s death?

  Why didn’t he have memories of this house? Of the people inside?

  David felt nothing as he stared up at the mansion—nothing but a dark premonition that there were other secrets yet to be revealed. And that was why he was here. To find out if everything Helen Powers had told him was true. Someone in that house paid Raymond Colter to kidnap you. Someone connected to that family wanted you gone.

  But why? What had he done at the age of three to make someone want to get rid of him? Why him, and not Andrew?

  David pushed himself away from his car and started up the steps to the entrance.

  A uniformed maid answered the door. The guard at the gate had called the house and alerted them that he was here—a week earlier than expected. David wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d turned him away, told him to come back next week as planned, but evidently such had not been the case. The guard had opened the gates, looking at David with new respect as he drove through.

  The maid wore an almost-identical expression. For a moment, she appeared speechless, then she stammered, “Please, come in, Mr. Kingsley. Your father is waiting for you in the library.”

  “Thank you,” David said cordially. “But my name is Powers. David Powers.”

  The maid looked flustered for a moment, as if she didn’t quite know what to do. From the top of the stairs, a woman’s voice said, “It’s all right, Illiana. I’ll show…Mr. Powers into the library.”

  The woman who slowly descended the stairs looked to be in her early fifties, but she was dressed much younger, in a short yellow skirt and silk blouse that flattered a still-slender figure. Her hair was very blond, smooth and sleek, just touching her shoulders. As she crossed the foyer toward him, a cloud of expensive perfume enveloped David. When she held out her hand, the glitter of diamonds almost blinded him.

  On closer scrutiny, she was older than he’d originally thought, David realized. The exotic tilt of her eyes and the almost unnatural tautness of her skin were both dead giveaways as to just how she’d maintained her youthful appearance.

  “I’m Pamela Kingsley,” she said, taking his hand very briefly before releasing it. She studied him curiously. “So you’re Adam.”

  “I prefer to be called David,” he said. “At least for the time being.”

  Something flashed in her eyes—an emotion David couldn’t quite fathom. She smiled slightly. “Of course. I’m sure we’ll all need time to adjust.”

  In spite of the age difference and coloring, she reminded him a little of Rachel, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t a comparison he particularly wanted to explore.

  He wondered briefly what Rachel was doing at that moment. It was late afternoon, so she was probably having drinks with a client, maybe making dinner plans. She would be expecting a call from him later, and explanations as to why he’d decided against pursuing a career at Hollingsworth, Beckman, and Carr, why he’d taken a leave of absence from his job, and why he’d suddenly left town without telling her where he was going. His were hardly the actions of a loving and devoted fianc;aae, but then theirs was hardly that type of relationship. Neither one of them had any illusions in that regard.

  Pamela lifted a diamond-encrusted hand to her throat. “As Illiana said, Edward is waiting for you in the library. I’m sure you’re anxious to meet him.”

  “Yes, I am,” David agreed, glancing around his opulent surroundings.

  His eyes lit on a painting in the foyer. He was sure it was a Renoir, but he couldn’t begin to guess how much it might have cost. He realized once again that all his research, all his soul-searching in the last six weeks hadn’t prepared him for the scope of the Kingsleys’ wealth. Even the Hollingsworth estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, couldn’t compare to this.

  He glanced back at Pamela Kingsley, and her eyes narrowed on him. She smiled at him coolly, as if to say, You don’t fool me. I know exactly why you’re here.

  She turned on her heel. “This way.”

  As she led him down a corridor lined with more paintings, David asked, “What about Mrs. Kingsley?”

  “I’m Mrs. Kingsley,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder. “I’m Edward’s wife.”

  “I meant the other Mrs. Kingsley. My… grandmother.”

  Pamela paused before a set of ornate doors with what appeared to be gold handles. “Unfortunately, Iris is feeling under the weather. She’s taken to her bed for a few days. She was hoping to be recuperated by the time you arrived, but since you came early…” She trailed off, but her meaning was clear. She didn’t appreciate unexpected guests or surprises.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” David said. “I was hoping to meet her.”

  “Perhaps in a day or two.” Pamela opened the double doors and stepped inside the library.

  David followed her. The room was large, and like the rest of the house he’d seen so far, lavishly decorated with Persian rugs, priceless artwork, and heavy antique furniture that gave the room an air of oppress
ion. For a moment, he thought no one was there, but then his gaze shifted and he saw a man standing at the French doors, staring out into the garden.

  He gave no indication of having heard them come in, and Pamela said, rather impatiently, “He’s here, Edward.”

  The man turned at that and slowly crossed the room toward them. He was tall and heavy-set, with hair that had gone completely white and faded blue eyes that seemed to have a hard time focusing. David searched his face, looking for his own features, but Edward Kingsley was as much a stranger to him as the man in the photograph, the man he’d always thought was his father.

  “So you’re finally here.” Edward cleared his throat, as if not knowing what else to say. “Welcome home.”

  The moment was excruciatingly awkward. It was apparent to David that Edward was not an overly demonstrative man, nor one particularly comfortable with emotion. Perhaps none of the Kingsleys were. The house, while beautiful, was very formal and exuded little warmth.

  Finally, they shook hands.

  “Well,” Edward said. “Perhaps we should sit down.”

  He took a seat near the fireplace, and David sat down on the leather sofa. Pamela moved to the bar. “Would anyone care for a drink?” She turned and stared pointedly at her husband.

  Edward looked as if he could use a good stiff belt, but instead he murmured, “Perhaps a Perrier.”

  Amusement glinted in Pamela’s eyes. “And what about for you…David?” Somehow she made the slight hesitation before his name sound derisive.

  “I’ll have the same,” he said, glancing at Edward. The man was looking a little green around the gills, and when Pamela handed him his drink, David noticed that Edward’s hands were shaking. Judging by the bags under his eyes and the slackness of his jaw, David guessed that Edward hadn’t been on the wagon for long. And his loving wife didn’t appear to be offering much in the way of moral support. She perched on the arm of her husband’s chair and savored her own drink—a vodka martini.