“I won’t make you any promises I can’t keep, sweetheart.”
She knew that, and maybe that’s why she wanted so desperately just to be with him. Just for now. “We should head back.”
Joel sighed, then nodded. “Let’s go.”
Joel made his way through the lobby of the hotel toward the elevator. Alone. He’d considered inviting Riane up to his room, was confident that if he got her there he could have her naked and horizontal in short order. But he hadn’t issued the invitation because he hadn’t wanted to pressure her.
She wanted him, but she didn’t want to want him, and he’d sensed that confusion within her. He wanted her—period. His own doubts about the wisdom of becoming involved with Riane had been supplanted by the fierce desire that swept through him whenever he was near her. But his conscience wouldn’t let him take advantage of her uncertainty. It wasn’t often difficult to silence his morals, but two factors held him back: Riane’s unspecified relationship with Stuart and the fact that Joel really did care about her.
It had been a long time since he’d cared about anyone, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the feelings he had for Riane. He couldn’t have found a woman who was more wrong for him if he tried. And yet, knowing they were so completely ill suited did nothing to tame his libido.
Maybe the promise of forbidden fruit had made him want her more. That was exactly what had happened with Jocelyn. He’d known her father disapproved of their relationship from the outset. He hadn’t known that his disapproval was the greatest part of the attraction for Jocelyn.
This bitter reminder should have been more than enough to make him rethink the insane attraction he felt for Riane, but hadn’t she already proven she was different from Jocelyn? At the charity ball Riane had even referred to the waiter by name. Jocelyn hadn’t seen the servants who hovered around except to scream at them when something wasn’t exactly as she’d thought it should be. Then again, just because their methods differed didn’t mean their attitudes did. After all, Riane was the daughter of a politician—and even a servant had a vote.
He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He’d tried to keep things in perspective, to remain objective, but it was already too late for that. He wanted to believe Riane was different; he wanted her to be different. Because he wanted her.
The shrill ring of his cell phone was a welcome intrusion. He didn’t want to think about Riane Quinlan anymore. He didn’t want to remember how close he’d come to laying her down on the grass and—
“Logan,” he barked into the phone.
“You okay?” Mike asked. “You sound like you’re having trouble breathing.”
“Bad connection,” Joel grumbled, in no way prepared to admit to his friend that he’d become aroused by his own prurient fantasies. “You better share whatever you’ve got before we get cut off.”
“I spoke with the director of social services in Tucson,” Mike said. “And I’m beginning to think I was wrong to ever doubt your instincts.”
The infamous instincts went on high alert. “What did you find out?”
“She remembered the child’s name.”
“Are you sure?”
“She was adamant. She said she remembered because the name was uncommon. I gave her the approximate time frame we were looking at, and she dug out her old telephone logs. Sure enough, she found a notation about a call regarding Rheanne Elliott.”
“Did she follow up?”
“She referred the matter to another worker,” Mike said. “A Camille Michaud. Ms. Michaud, however, denied any involvement with the child.”
“Yet another futile lead,” Joel surmised, not entirely dissatisfied. Despite his earlier conviction that Riane was the woman he was looking for, he was now willing to be convinced otherwise. He wanted to be free to pursue a relationship with her without the threat of secret agendas or hidden pasts to come between them.
Mike’s next words annihilated that possibility.
“I think she was lying.”
Joel frowned. “Why would she lie?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” Mike admitted. “But I found it strange that a woman who never met the child remembered the name after so many years while another, who apparently was sent to investigate the complaint, claimed never to have heard the name.”
“Is that what she said?”
“Not in those words,” Mike told him. “In fact, she seemed very careful about the information she disclosed. What she said was that the name didn’t sound familiar and that if she’d had any contact with the family she would have made a note of it. If there’s no file, obviously there was no reason for social services to get involved.”
“How does this help us?”
“After I spoke with Ms. Michaud, I did some digging—to see if there was any connection between her and Samuel Rutherford, the attorney who handled the adoption. I didn’t find anything. But I did find a connection between Camille Michaud and Ellen Rutherford.”
“Now Ellen Rutherford-Quinlan, the Democratic senate representative from West Virginia?” Joel guessed.
“Bingo.”
Joel shook his head, impressed by the information his partner had managed to uncover, perplexed by the increasing facets and layers of the case, and disturbed by what this meant for his developing relationship with Riane.
“There’s more,” Mike told him.
Joel waited.
“According to the baptismal records of St. Jacob’s Church, Camille Michaud is Riane Quinlan’s godmother.”
Chapter 6
H e adjusted the knot of the tie at his throat. The silk was smooth beneath his fingers. He brushed his hands over his trousers. The pleats fell in perfect alignment to the tops of his polished loafers. He’d always taken pride in his appearance. It was important to make a good first impression.
It had never been more important than today.
He didn’t have a mirror. He wouldn’t have believed the reflection in the glass, anyway. He’d lost weight over the past few months, added some lines to his face. But he was still handsome. Still charismatic. And he still knew how to play the game.
He would be earnest, contrite, acquiescent.
Then he would be free.
Free to implement his plan. Free to seek his revenge.
Riane convinced herself that she’d done the right thing by ending her day with Joel early. She needed some time to think and she couldn’t do that while he was around. But even now, she was having a difficult time concentrating on anything but the kisses they’d shared that afternoon. Hardly the most appropriate thing to think about as she was getting ready for dinner with the man she planned to marry.
She wished her mother was home. There was nothing she couldn’t talk to her about. Ellen Rutherford-Quinlan might be in her second term in the Senate, but first and foremost, she was Riane’s mother. No matter how pressing her schedule, she always found time for her daughter.
Riane missed her terribly. She knew that she could contact the ship, but she didn’t think her personal crisis was an emergency that warranted interrupting her parents’ second honeymoon. They deserved this time away together, and Riane was thrilled that they’d finally decided to take the trip they’d put off for so long. Still, she missed both of them.
When the phone rang, she pounced on it, appreciative of any reprieve from her confused hormones.
“Mom.” Grateful desperation gave way to genuine delight as she heard Ellen Rutherford-Quinlan’s voice on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”
“We’ve just docked at Brunei and are getting ready to venture into the city.”
There was something in her mother’s voice, even over the long-distance connection, that concerned Riane. “What’s the matter?”
“What do you mean?”
Riane could almost see the false smile plastered on her mother’s face. The smile that never failed to fool political allies and adversaries but had never worked on Riane or Ryan. They knew her too well.
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“You’re tense, Mom. Is everything all right? Is Daddy okay?”
“We’re both fine, honey. I guess I was just missing you. We both miss you.”
“You’re on a second honeymoon. Neither of you should be thinking about anything but each other,” Riane admonished.
Her mother laughed, as Riane had hoped she would. “How is everything with you?”
“Good.”
“Have you met any interesting people lately?”
Riane frowned, wondered—briefly—where that question had come from. “What has Sophie been telling you about Joel Logan?”
“Logan?” Ellen sounded genuinely surprised. “I haven’t heard anything. Is there something I should know?”
“No,” Riane denied quickly. Then she added, “I don’t know.”
“Oh, baby.” Ellen managed a laugh. “It’s not like you to sound confused about anything, much less a man.”
“I’ve never met anyone like him,” Riane admitted.
“Where did you meet him?”
“At the charity ball last weekend.”
“He can’t be all bad if he supported your camp,” Ellen teased.
Riane smiled. She was so glad her mom had called, but somehow hearing her voice and knowing she was so far away only made her miss her more. “I wish you were here,” she said softly.
“We can fly out of Muara if you want.”
Riane laughed. “No. You can’t cut short your vacation to try and sort out my messed-up life.”
“We’d do anything for you, Riane.”
“I know, Mom. But you’ll be home soon enough.”
There was a pause. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” Riane promised.
“Give me a call—day or night—if you’re contacted by a Michael Courtland.”
“Who?”
“Michael Courtland,” Ellen repeated.
“Who is he? And why will he be contacting me?”
“I’m not sure that he will,” Ellen answered, ignoring her daughter’s first question. “But call me if he does.”
Riane frowned, wanting to press for further details, but the chime of the doorbell from downstairs alerted her to Stuart’s arrival. “Okay.”
“Thanks, honey. I’ve got to go now. Your father’s looking at his watch.”
“Give him my love.”
“I will. And ours to you.”
Riane hung up the phone, her conversation with her mother only adding to her confusion. She couldn’t make any sense of her mother’s request—or her own feelings about anything right now. She wished, for once, she could just crawl into bed and shut out the world. Instead she put a smile on her face and went downstairs to greet her future husband.
When Stuart drove Riane home after their habitual Saturday meal at LeJardin, he asked if he could come in to talk to her. His request was unexpected, a break in their pattern, and it concerned Riane. Stuart didn’t like anything to upset his carefully structured routine.
He turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car, then he came around to open her door. It was an action performed more out of convention than consideration, but she respected the habitual gestures that were such an integral part of their relationship. They gave her a sense of security and stability she’d only started to appreciate after spending time with Joel. She didn’t want her world shaken—not when it left her heart pounding and her knees trembling. Not when it made her feel so completely out of control.
So resolved, she pushed the lingering thoughts of Joel from her mind and focused on Stuart. She led him into the den, feeling unaccountably apprehensive about this unexpected turn of events.
“Can I get you a drink?” she offered.
“Please.”
She uncapped the decanter and splashed a generous amount of scotch in a glass for him, then poured another drink for herself.
“What did you want to talk about?” Riane asked.
“A couple of things.” Stuart set his glass down and reached for the Louis Vuitton briefcase on the floor by his feet. She was so accustomed to seeing Stuart with it in hand that it hadn’t struck her as odd when he’d brought it into the house with him.
He set the case on the table and flipped open the locks, then withdrew his date book. “I have a meeting with the arts committee next Saturday afternoon, but my morning is open. If your schedule is clear, I thought we could go to the jewelers.”
“Jewelers?” she echoed blankly.
“To get your engagement ring.”
“Engagement ring,” she echoed again, wondering where was the burst of joy, the rising anticipation she’d always thought she’d feel at this moment.
“Is your schedule clear?” he asked, his voice tinged with impatience.
“Um…yes…I think so,” Riane admitted. “But, Stuart, you haven’t actually asked me to marry you.”
“I didn’t think I needed to get down on one knee,” he said, making the idea sound ridiculous.
Riane washed down the lump of disappointment with a mouthful of scotch. Maybe she was old-fashioned, maybe she had high expectations, but she’d heard the story of her parents’ engagement a hundred times—a tale of candlelight and wine and soft music, culminating with her father on bended knee offering more than a ring—offering his heart and his love and his devotion. Was it so unreasonable to want more than an appointment to pick out a piece of jewelry?
“You don’t have to do anything,” she said softly. “I just…never mind.”
Stuart gave her a strange look, then penciled “jeweler” into his agenda for the following weekend. He snapped the book shut, smiled. “Good. That’s settled then.”
Riane forced her lips to curve, wondering why she suddenly felt so unsettled.
“The other matter I wanted to discuss,” Stuart said, forging ahead with absolutely no clue as to his “fiancée’s” feelings, “is your inappropriate association with this Mr. Logan.”
Inappropriate association? It was all Riane could do not to roll her eyes.
“There is nothing inappropriate about my association with Joel Logan.” Okay, maybe those kisses hadn’t been entirely appropriate, but she wasn’t going to think about those now. She wasn’t going to think about those ever again.
Stuart looked decidedly annoyed by her contradiction. “I know you’ve been spending time with him.”
“How?”
He smiled thinly. “It’s a small town, Riane. Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t find out.”
“I wasn’t hiding anything,” she said, feeling guilty nonetheless. “He’s in town for a short while and wanted someone to show him around.”
“Why is he in town?”
She sipped at her scotch again, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “I don’t know.”
“Riane,” he chided gently, shaking his head. “What do you know about the man?”
“I know he’s a private investigator,” she said, uncertain why she felt compelled to justify her association with Joel.
“Who used to be a cop,” Stuart said.
Riane frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I did a background check on him.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I thought it was important for at least one of us to know something about the man you’ve…befriended. And because he seemed a little too focused on you the night of the charity ball.”
“Is it so hard to imagine that another man might be interested in me?”
“Of course not,” Stuart denied.
“But you immediately assumed he had ulterior motives.”
“He does.”
Riane set her glass carefully down on the desktop, hating that his statement came so close to her own suppositions about Joel that first night and determined not to exhibit any of the frustration churning inside her.
“I’ve dealt with this my whole life,” she said softly.
“People either seek out my company or turn away from it depending on their ambition
s and their politics, and we both know that you’re not any different.”
“I care about you, Riane.”
She sighed, because she knew he did. Still, she didn’t understand why he was making an issue of her spending time with Joel. She wanted to believe his reaction was emotional—that he was concerned he might lose her affection to the other man. Unfortunately, she knew his actions were fueled by an interest in self-preservation. Investigators and reporters were often useful tools in furthering political aspirations; they could also be dangerous enemies.
“Don’t you want to know what my investigation revealed?”
“No. You had no reason to dig into his life.”
Stuart smiled thinly. “His life is digging into other people’s,” he reminded her. “And if you weren’t so blinded by your attraction to him, you’d agree that my actions were completely reasonable.”
She decided it was best not to respond to that comment, because she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to Joel, not after the way she’d responded to his kiss. Not after the way her body had heated and quivered in response to his touch. Just the memory of that stolen interlude brought a warm flush to her cheeks and made her wish, even if just for a minute, that she could know what it was like to make love with Joel Logan.
No other man, Stuart included, had ever made her feel the way she’d felt when she was in Joel’s arms. No other man had inspired the kind of erotic fantasies she’d succumbed to since she’d met him. Would his lovemaking be as awesome and passionate as his kiss had been? Would the aching emptiness inside her be filled by the physical union of their bodies? Would the overwhelming desire she could scarcely even comprehend be satisfied by this man?
Stuart was right. It was entirely possible that her attraction to Joel Logan was clouding her judgment.
“Have you slept with him?” Stuart asked.
“No!” Riane was indignant. She couldn’t believe he would even ask such a question. Whatever erotic fantasies she might have were just that—fantasies. She would never become physically intimate with one man while involved with another.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” she echoed, stunned.
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