“My father believed it was a bomb. He told me to call you. I called the police first to get them some help….” Her voice broke.
After all her problems with her father…was this how it was going to end? I’m sorry, Papa.
A sharp stab of guilt lanced her side, torturing her with memories of a rainy autumn afternoon and a gleaming banister—a forbidden and irresistible temptation to two young children. The day that had changed their lives forever.
She fanned her fingers over Cort’s plump belly, her heart melting at the snugly warmth of his compact body and his gummy irresistible smile. Tears slipped down her cheeks, splashing onto his sleeper. I won’t let the baby out of my sight, Papa. I promise.
The Guardian’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “You did the right thing, Juliana. Your father is wise to be cautious. Until we have more information confirming the cause of the explosion, I’m going to implement measures to keep you and the baby safe. Where are you now?”
“A motel in Utica.” She gave him the name and room number.
“Stay inside, away from the windows. Don’t go out to your car. I’ll catch a chopper and be with you in an hour and a half, two hours tops. Did you call your father or the police from the phone in the motel room?”
“No, I used my cell phone.”
“Good. So only the police know of your location.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell them who the child is with you?”
Did he think she had the IQ of an idiot? “Of course not,” she said shortly. “I told them I was the butler’s daughter, and I’d been talking to my father when the explosion occurred.”
“Are you armed?”
The implication of his question slid over her like the blade of a razor. He thought the danger was real.
“Yes. Mr. Collingwood insisted I be trained properly in how to use a gun.”
“Excellent. I’m on my way. Stay alert and be ready to move.” The line clicked off.
She dropped the phone onto the bed as if it had burned her.
Be ready to move.
But moving with a baby required thinking ahead. She’d given Cort his second dose of antibiotics when she’d stopped for gas at 10:00 p.m., but he would need a bottle. Wary of casting a shadow across the window, she crawled on her hands and knees to the bathroom to grab the bottle from the warmer she’d set up earlier on the counter. Then she unplugged the device so she could pack it back into the diaper bag.
Returning to the bed, she pulled the semiautomatic pistol from the diaper bag and laid it on the floor beside her within easy reach, then pulled Cort into her arms and leaned her back against the wall so she could keep an eye on the door while she fed him. Cort took the nipple of the bottle into his mouth, sucking greedily. His fingers curled and uncurled blissfully around the bottle as his eyelids slowly drifted downward.
Juliana kissed his sticky-sweet forehead as terror brutally clutched her heart in a white-knuckle grip. “Please, God, let them be okay.”
Beyond Cort’s sucking noises an ominous silence hung outside the thick drapes covering the window.
EXACTLY ONE HOUR and forty-two minutes later, Juliana heard a light tapping on the door.
Leaving Cort sleeping on a pillow on the floor, she approached the door stealthily with the gun in hand. Surely, it could only be The Guardian, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
Through the peephole she saw a man standing in the exterior hallway—his posture rigid and controlled as if his body were formed from black steel, his head turned in profile to scan the corridor and the parking lot below.
He was younger than the image she’d conjured from his voice. But no less intimidating. Instead of the military fatigues she’d imagined, he was dressed all in black. The black leather of his jacket gleamed almost malevolently in the muted glow of the corridor light piercing the chilly autumn night. He tapped again lightly on the door.
Juliana jumped, her heart dropping to her stomach. “Who is it?” she called softly, staying to one side of the door.
“Operation Guardian.”
Relief whisked through her. There was no mistaking his voice. “Just a minute.” Tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back, she unhooked the chain and opened the door. His brown hair was cut short and combed back, revealing every bone and hollow in a face that was hard and uncompromising. His eyes were the azure blue of a Mediterranean Sea.
The instant their gazes connected she knew the news wasn’t good. His face was grave, each tight line carved in stone.
She fell back two steps, instinctively retreating from the harsh truth in his eyes. “M-my father?”
He entered the motel room, closing and locking the door with fluid efficiency, then put his hands on her shoulders. His firm fingers held her captive, upright, though her knees threatened to sink right to the carpet. “Juliana, I’m afraid your father has been seriously injured.”
Her fingers twisted into the cold supple leather of his jacket, felt the impenetrable hardness of his chest beneath. “He’s alive, then?”
“They found him unconscious. He was apparently outside when the explosion occurred.”
“Oh, thank God! He was probably waiting for me and Cort to arrive.” Juliana stopped suddenly. A cold horrible truth was still suspended between them on a taut thread. “How serious are his injuries?”
“I don’t know. He’s been rushed to the hospital, and I haven’t received an update on his condition. But someone will call.” He paused and Juliana felt the slow pound of his heartbeat against her fingers. She couldn’t explain it. She was terrified, yet she’d never felt so safe or so grateful for this man’s presence. It was as if every beat of his heart shielded her in a secure airtight bubble from the grim truth of what had happened tonight.
“And the others?”
His face might have been carved of stone, but for an instant his eyes gleamed with moisture. Confusing her. Scaring her.
A well of grief savagely ripped open within her. “Oh, no!”
His fingers dug into her shoulders, preventing her from collapsing. “I spoke with the police at the scene. They don’t expect to find any survivors in the house.”
“Oh, my God.” Juliana pressed a fist to her mouth, hot tears stinging her eyes. This was not happening. It was too much. She’d grown up on the Collingwood estate. Had spied on Ross Collingwood and his friends living their golden lives in a world she could never be part of. Ross ran a billion-dollar corporation and amassed companies in takeover bids as if capturing checkers on a checkerboard. And he remembered to take her and her father out to lunch on their birthdays and wrote them silly poems for birthday cards.
A sob exploded in her chest like a fireball. He could not be dead. Nor could Lexi. They were madly, totally in love with each other. This was too horrible, too ugly to contemplate.
The Guardian pulled her against his chest, his hands stroking her back. Heat seeped into her cold body in slow widening circles.
“I’m sorry.”
Juliana bit back a sob and lifted her head to look up into his rock-hard features, her heart registering the compassion she saw in his eyes. She’d heard stories of The Guardian. Whispered tales that made him sound mysterious and invincible, like a cross between a comic-book superhero and James Bond. But in that fraction of a second before he hid the emotion banked in his eyes she saw a man who truly cared about the people he tried to protect. “Was it a bomb or an accident?”
“It’s too soon to tell. The fire department will investigate, but they say the explosion is suspicious. It appears to have originated in an upstairs bedroom. Were Ross and Lexi the only ones in the house? The police would like to know.”
Juliana nodded, her mind still trying to grapple with the horror of what he’d just told her and the frantic desire to rush to her father’s side, ensure he was okay even though he’d told her to keep Cort safely away. “There were only the three of them, my father and the Collingwoods,” she sa
id shakily. “The Collingwoods were being extra careful, following the precautions you gave them. They left the members of their traveling staff at home—even the chef and the chauffeur. No one knew they’d rented the house in the Adirondacks. My father secured the booking under his own name.” Juliana paused, suddenly aware that she was still standing there with The Guardian’s arms around her.
Self-consciously, she pulled out of his embrace and wiped her face with her palms. She needed to be strong. Ross and Lexi and her father were counting on her. She had promises to keep. “What about the baby?” she asked, her legs trembling as she walked around the corner of the bed to check on Cort. He was still sleeping peacefully, his little arms suspended in midair as if ready to receive a hug. “What happens to Cort?”
The Guardian followed her movements, his gaze narrowing on the sleeping infant. He didn’t ask why the baby was lying on the floor rather than in the crib. “He’ll be raised by his godfather.”
Juliana stepped defensively between him and the infant, alarm snapping her to attention. His godfather? That was news to her. Had Lexi and Ross had the baby christened shortly after his birth? Perhaps that was information they’d only shared with her father. “Who would that be?” she demanded, feeling as if more of her world was about to change.
“Me. I’m Hunter Sinclair.”
The strange, reclusive multimillionaire who’d sent Ross and Lexi a canoe as a wedding present? Juliana instantly recognized his name and remembered the rumors associated with it. Rumours of dementia. Wasn’t there a history of mental illness in the family? She didn’t give a damn if he was James Bond or the President of the United States. She was not surrendering Cort to him. Ross and Lexi had trusted The Guardian to find their daughter and protect them from harm. He’d failed on both counts.
“Over my dead body,” she said sharply, breaking twenty years of protocol by raising her voice to her better. “You are not taking that baby away from me.”
Hunter stiffened at the unexpected threat. Juliana Goodhew glared at him out of almond-shaped eyes that reminded him of richly polished mahogany. Her lips, bearing a faint trace of pink lipstick, thinned into a determined line.
Ross had trained the nanny well. Slim and youthful in blue jeans and a thick creamy cotton sweater, her silver-blond hair escaping a French braid, Juliana looked ready to carry out her threat. Her hand moved, reaching behind her for the Glock he could see in the mirror on the far wall.
Hunter cocked a brow, his hand snaking out to grab her wrist. He could snap the fragile bones in her arm with one movement. “Please, don’t for even one foolish moment, consider reaching for the gun at your back. I would hate to hurt you.”
“Release me instantly,” she snapped, her face glowing white with anger.
Hunter released her, eyeing her warily. The nanny he’d hired to care for his sister’s children would never dare speak to him like this. Nor was she this pretty, he noted, his inner radar for trouble sounding a silent alarm.
“Thank you.” Frost clung to Juliana’s tone. “I repeat, you are not taking that baby from me. I don’t care who you are. Where were you when Riana was abducted? Or for Ross and Lexi? The Goodhews have served the Collingwoods for sixty-three years. The Collingwoods personally entrusted him to my care. He’s staying with me.” She folded her arms across her chest and drew herself up to her full height; the top of her head barely reached his chin.
Grief lashed Hunter’s heart along with her accusations. He frowned down at her, hesitating between a grudging admiration for her show of loyalty to her charge and his innate suspicious nature. He knew painfully well that trusted servants betrayed their employers. Money could be a powerful motivator.
He’d been nine years old when he’d seen pictures in the newspapers of his mother’s indiscretions with two of his father’s friends. The Sinclairs’ butler had secretly orchestrated a blackmail scheme, certain that Hunter’s father would pay up to prevent the photos from being released to the media. Convinced his wife would never betray him, Hunter’s father hadn’t met the blackmailer’s demands. Their marriage was destroyed when the pictures appeared and his mother committed suicide. His father had told Hunter and his sister that their mother had suffered from a mental illness.
Hunter took in the sharp thrust of Juliana’s chin and the defensive stance of her body.
He could count on one hand the other individuals who’d known the Collingwoods had another child. There was the doctor who’d delivered Cort. The lawyer who’d drawn up Ross’s and Lexi’s wills. Lexi’s sister Annette. And Juliana and her father. Yet someone had obviously gotten wind of the child’s existence, despite the care the Collingwoods had taken to keep Lexi in seclusion during her pregnancy.
Where had the breach in security occurred?
“Juliana, I have no intention of wrenching that child from your arms. Not now or in the near future,” he said, striving to reassure her. “But you are both coming with me. These are extraordinary circumstances. We will have to work together. I’m sure it has occurred to you that Cort was an intended target of the explosion, as well. Whoever planned it is undoubtedly aware that you’re caring for the child. That puts you both in danger.”
“Why should I trust you? How do I know the almighty Guardian wasn’t behind the explosion?”
He stepped toward her menacingly. “I know you are hurting and wanting someone to blame, but Ross was my best friend. I would never hurt him, nor was I after his money.” A bitter laugh erupted from him. “I have enough damn problems dealing with my own family fortune.”
She didn’t budge an inch. “If you were so close, how come he never mentioned you? Oh, excuse me, your name was among the eight hundred others on the guest list to his wedding. But as I recall, you didn’t bother to attend.”
Hunter towered over her, feeling the tension and the distrust emanating from her body like shrapnel. He just happened to be the nearest target. “How do you know that?”
“I helped Lexi with the guest list. And I was there when your regrets arrived along with your wedding gift.” Her voice quavered, her brown eyes taking on a faraway cast as they glistened with fresh tears. “Ross had the canoe you sent put in the swimming pool so he could recite poetry to Lexi in the moonlight. He did, too.” She wiped away a tear slipping onto her cheek with a jerky movement. “He loved her so much.”
Hunter risked squeezing her arm, needing the human contact with Juliana to help ground his own tormented feelings. So much of his life he’d mastered on his own, coldly and calmly discarding any emotions that got in the way of his job. But he’d lost a friend tonight—Ross had been an anchor—and Hunter was treading water to keep himself from sinking under into the pain. “I know. Ross and I met at Harvard. We were roommates our last year. In fact, he’s the one who nicknamed me The Guardian.” Pain laced his words. “I take the credit for teaching him how to be a little more ruthless in his judgment. We stayed close, but I was afraid I’d be recognized if I came to the wedding. Ross sent me a video of the ceremony.”
She pulled away from his touch, leaving Hunter reeling alone in memories of his friendship with Ross. Her suspicions were still plainly apparent on her face.
“You’ve never even been to the estate,” she said in a clipped tone. “I was a boy-crazy teenager in high school when Ross was bringing his friends home from Harvard. You weren’t among them.”
His lips thinned. He knew the friends Juliana was referring to. She must have gotten quite an education from watching Ross with his self-indulgent buddies…if that was all she’d gotten. She’d probably been as pretty in high school as she was now. His impatience with the conversation grew.
“Juliana, you’re wasting time with these questions. We must leave quickly. I’m obliged to trust you to keep The Guardian’s real identity confidential, and you’re going to have to trust me. Understood?” His gaze locked with hers, studying the shadows flickering in her unusual mahogany eyes like minnows darting in the shallows.
Color r
ose from her pale throat and splashed onto her cheeks, but her voice was as suitably controlled and decorous as he would expect from an employee. “Quite, Mr. Sinclair.”
Hunter nodded approvingly as he reached for the bags lying on the end of the bed. “My household doesn’t stand on the same ceremony as the Collingwood household. You may address me as Hunter in private. The Guardian is addressed as sir when he’s on duty. Clear enough?”
She gave him a subdued smile. “Yes, sir.”
“The chopper is waiting. You take the baby. I’ll carry your luggage.”
“What about my car?” she asked as she slipped an apricot wool blazer over her sweater and transferred the Glock into one of the blazer’s front pockets. From the way she handled the weapon, Hunter had no doubt she was proficient in its use. Hooking a caramel leather purse over her shoulder, she knelt down to scoop up the baby.
“I’ll send one of my men to pick up your car. You won’t need it where we’re going.”
“We’ll need Cort’s car seat.”
“We’ll go without it. Someone could have tampered with your car since you left it in the parking lot.”
She glanced over at him, alarm sparking in her eyes as she gently tucked a blanket around the sleeping infant. The baby cried out in his sleep and Juliana spoke softly to him, pressing a kiss onto the crown of his head.
The intimate gesture caused anger to rise inside Hunter—anger and unbearable guilt that Ross and Lexi would never kiss their son—or the daughter who’d been snatched from their lives over two years ago. All the security precautions in the world could minimize the chances, but not always prevent a determined lunatic bent on destruction.
In the hospital, all it had taken was for one night-duty nurse to be overpowered by a stun gun and little Riana Collingwood was gone. Though Hunter had vowed to do everything within his means to find the infant, chase every lead that came in over the 1-800 tips line, the grim odds were that they might never find her. Or learn the true reason for her abduction.
The Butler's Daughter Page 2
