Hunter didn’t know all the details of his mother’s unfaithfulness, but he knew his father had gone through a terrible period when he’d wondered how many of his friends had slept with his wife.
Hunter had no intention of making his life more complicated than it had to be by falling in love with his wife. At least Investigator Bradshaw had pulled him aside while Juliana was having her fingerprints taken and told him that Cort’s ear infection was genuine. He’d spoken to the doctor who’d examined Cort. With a frustrated sigh, Hunter concentrated on the takeover files. To his consternation, he realized that Sable Holden’s nationwide chain, Office Out-fitters, had fallen to Ross’s mercy two months prior to Ross and Lexi’s wedding. The takeover of Phillip Ballard’s communications equipment company had occurred six months ago—one month prior to Cort’s birth. Both situations warranted further investigation.
Just before 5:00 p.m., Investigator Bradshaw called to tell him that the police had checked out Goodhew’s computer and discovered the butler had found the rental property in Severance via the Internet.
“Did Goodhew have a password to access his computer?”
“Yes, but his password was his daughter’s name.”
“That’s a no-brainer.”
“Exactly. Anyone on the staff or a cocky visitor could have accessed his office and looked at the sites he’d bookmarked. It only took our expert about five minutes to find the site.”
“Did you happen to find any sites for florists?”
“No such luck.”
Hunter riffled his fingers through his hair. “Well, at least we have an idea of how the killer may have learned of the Collingwoods’ destination.” He briefed the investigator on the dates he’d dug up on the Ballard and Holden company takeovers, then they went over the security arrangements for the funeral. Security would be tight with undercover state troopers stationed in the crowd and surveillance cameras strategically planted by the New York State Police Photography Section in hopes of capturing a gloating killer on film.
Lexi’s sister Annette would have undercover troopers protecting her. And Hunter had two operatives lined up who’d stick to Juliana like barnacles for the duration of the ceremony.
Hunter planned to attend the funeral, as well. He just wouldn’t be visible. He wasn’t letting Juliana out of his sight.
As he hung up the phone his attention was drawn to the bank of TVs in his study, which kept him apprised of public opinion. A picture of Ross and Lexi smiling into each other’s eyes at a charity function flashed on CNN. Hunter raised the volume on the set, so he could listen to the news update.
The media was having a field day with the tragedy, speculation running high that Ross had made one too many enemies. And conjecture as to what would happen to the Collingwood fortune. Would it be held in trust for the lost heir? Would Lexi’s sister Annette eventually end up with all that money if the heir wasn’t found? Fortunately, there wasn’t a whisper yet of the cook’s timely disappearance.
Hunter frowned as a clip from Kendrick Dwyer’s press conference on Saturday was replayed yet again as the news anchor reported on the hit the stock prices of the companies owned by the Collingwood Corporation had taken when the market opened this morning. Dwyer’s performance had been exemplary. In the clip, he looked paternal and strong, a seasoned senior vice president capable of leading the corporation into continued success as its new CEO.
From Hunter’s jaundiced perspective, Dwyer was in his element. Was he stepping up to the plate and showing his loyalty to a company he’d given most of his working life to? Or was he basking in the glory of a dream finally come true?
Hunter massaged the back of his neck, then thumbed through the files on his desk until he found a copy of Dwyer’s employee file. Dwyer was in his sixties. Close to retirement age. Hunter paused as he came across a record indicating the number of sick days Dwyer had taken in the last few years. Had Ross been aware that his chief financial officer was obviously experiencing some health problems? Had he suggested Dwyer think about retirement?
Hunter checked the time. If he hurried, he could have a private talk with Ross’s secretary and still be back for a late dinner with Juliana.
“PUT MY FATHER on the line,” Juliana asked Hunter’s operative, gripping her cell phone tightly in her fingers, wishing it could transport her into her father’s hospital room.
Tears sprung to her eyes as her father’s weak voice touched her ears. “Juli-ana?”
“Yes, Papa. It’s me. I’m so glad you’re okay. The doctors say you’re going to be fine.”
“Good girl, Juliana,” her father said woozily. “Always so good with her little brother.”
Juliana’s heart stopped, confusion setting in. Was the medication affecting her father or was this his way of giving her a message about Cort? They never talked about Michael or the terrible day Michael died. She was supposed to have been watching her little brother. She knew her father blamed her for Michael’s death and the end of his dream of Goodhews continuing on in the family tradition of serving the Collingwoods. “I’m so sorry about Ross and Lexi. I want so much to be there with you—”
“No!” Her father interrupted her vehemently. “No!”
Juliana cringed, frightened by her father’s reaction. “It’s all right, Papa,” she said, trying to soothe him, “I understand what you want me to do. You can count on me—”
“I’m sorry,” the operative’s voice cut in, tempered with compassion. “The nurse says your father needs to rest now.”
Juliana swallowed her disappointment. “Tell my father I’ll call him again tomorrow when he’s stronger.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Juliana hugged the phone to her heart feeling six years old again, and her father was entrusting her with Michael’s safety. She’d failed him then. No matter what happened, she wasn’t going to disappoint him this time.
HUNTER DIDN’T WANT to feel it, in fact derided himself for the sense of anticipation that lightened his step as he stepped off the elevator and rang the bell for his apartment.
He’d taken a cab to the Collingwood Corporation’s offices as Marquise had been occupied by a mysterious errand for Juliana that had something to do with the wedding. Though what, precisely, the butler wasn’t saying. Judging from the amusement in Marquise’s eyes as he took Hunter’s coat and wished him good evening, Juliana was doing a credible job of convincing the servants that the wedding was going to be a happy and joyous event.
Which reminded him that he had certain obligations for the wedding that couldn’t be ignored. Not if he wanted to convince anyone he was madly in love with the bride.
“Was a certain package delivered?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Marquise slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and produced a small velvet box. “Juliana has arranged for dinner to be set up in your room.”
Hunter found himself smiling, then frowning at the prospect of being alone with Juliana again in his room. Deliver us not into temptation, he thought wryly, tucking the box into his trousers’ pocket.
“Where’s my son?” His throat tightened awkwardly around the unfamiliar words.
“Just finishing his bath.”
While Hunter would admit grudgingly, under oath, that he had spent a few minutes in the cab on the way home picturing how Juliana would dress for dinner tonight, his vision hadn’t included this charming view of her backside as she lifted Cort from the special ring that helped him sit up in the bath. Tonight she was wearing a loose sleeveless black pantsuit that set off the blond fire of her hair and the ivory temptation of her skin. The back zipper of her top wasn’t closed properly, teasing him with a glimpse of forbidden flesh. “There, let’s get you dried off, pumpkin.”
“Aha,” Hunter said, propping his shoulder against the doorway of the bathroom and folding his arms across his chest to prevent himself from giving in to an overwhelming urge to touch that zipper. “I knew every Cinderella had a pumpkin.”
Juliana sh
ot him a harried look, which made her all the more charming in his eyes. “Next you’ll be asking me about glass slippers.”
“There’s a thought. Amazing what torture women will put their feet through for a party.”
“Uurg!” Cort clasped his toes with his hands and smiled up at them, trying to join in the conversation. “Naa-naa-nah.”
“Yes, I agree. Daddy is very silly, Cort,” Juliana said smugly as she patted Cort dry.
Daddy. With all that was going on, Hunter hadn’t quite prepared himself for the impact of that word. Cort would grow up calling him daddy, calling Juliana mommy. He’d be depending on them both. Hunter hoped he’d be worthy of the task and he wouldn’t cause more harm than good.
“Need some help?” he offered, stepping forward. He had every intention of drying the baby, but his fingers had another agenda. With a determined will of their own they sought the tab of her zipper and inched it into place. Juliana froze and Hunter breathed in the forbidden scent of apple blossoms.
Suddenly the memory of her standing naked in the dark before him burned into his thoughts and short-circuited his senses. He could hear the sensuous whisper of fabric gliding over her skin and puddling to the floor. But most importantly he could feel the gift of her trust burrow unerringly into his heart when she’d confided in him about the cook’s disappearance.
“Your zipper,” he explained, uncertain whether to feel amused or affronted by her reaction to his touch. Inch by inch, he could feel the tension ease from her shoulders.
“Thank you.” Her eyes met his in the vanity mirror. “I spoke to my father today.”
Torn between a carnal desire to stroke the tendrils of hair that had escaped onto the back of her elegant neck and his determination to resist her, Hunter compromised and ran his thumb along the fine edge of her jaw. His voice dipped to a strangled husky pitch as she moistened her lips. “I’m so glad. Did he mention anything about the explosion?”
She shook her head, lowering her voice to a murmur. “It was a brief conversation. He wasn’t that coherent, but he knew who I was. Maybe tomorrow he’ll be more lucid and can talk to the police.”
Cort squirmed free of the towel and rolled over onto his tummy. “Oh!” Juliana exclaimed and made a quick grab for him.
Hunter ensnared one of Cort’s ankles with his thumb and forefinger. “Hold it there, big guy.” Painfully aware of the uncomfortable tightness of his trousers, he bent to kiss the sole of Cort’s tiny foot. “Were you a good boy for Mommy today?”
Cort laughed, drawing his knees up to his tummy.
Hunter got a certain enjoyment from watching Juliana’s face turn pink as she towel-dried Cort’s trunk and waving arms. He had no doubt she’d be a loving mother to his godson.
“He’s always a good boy, aren’t you, pumpkin? The antibiotics seem to be working. He’s back to his happy-go-lucky self.” Her eyes lifted to Hunter’s, dark with shadows, as if she doubted life would ever be happy-go-lucky again. Cort’s parents had been murdered and the killer was still out there.
He silently handed her a diaper and Cort’s sleeper, watching as she expertly dressed the baby. “There,” she said, snapping the last fastener, “all ready for a bottle, a story and bed.”
He reached for Cort. “I’ll read him his story tonight.”
Hesitation reared in her eyes. “Don’t you have something more important to do?”
Hunter held out his hands like a scale. “Let’s see, read a story to my new son, have dinner with my bride-to-be, or save the world. Tough choice. But I’m taking all three and in that order. Princes can do things like that.”
Juliana bit her lower lip and settled Cort in his arms. Hunter let his gaze drop to that bit of tender pink flesh caught between her teeth and felt the gnaw of an answering hunger that didn’t wish to be denied. It was a shame neither Marquise nor Valentina were passing in the hall. It would have been all the excuse he needed to kiss her again.
HE WAS DELIBERATELY baiting her, Juliana thought, wringing her hands beneath the linen-covered table as she waited for Hunter to join her in his bedroom for their private dinner. He’d insisted on putting Cort to bed himself. She hadn’t heard a peep of protest out of Cort at this variation in his nighttime routine. But she worried that Hunter’s decision to take care of the baby had been a subtle demonstration that she was not irreplaceable, rather than an effort to play the role of a devoted father in front of the servants.
She bit her lip and studied the wooden sleigh bed and the matching tables and armoires that dominated Hunter’s room. The dark-green walls gave the room the feeling of an isolated glade. Visitors were seldom, and not welcome.
Deep down she suspected that all his talk of Cinderella and princes was his way of reinforcing that he thought of her as a servant masquerading as a princess, masquerading as his wife.
Which was all the more reason to strictly adhere to the rules of their marriage arrangement and not let herself fall prey to his azure eyes and his cynical smiles and those very thorough kisses. She was not going to be separated from Cort by doing anything so foolish as becoming too attracted to Hunter Sinclair.
She still couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that tomorrow this sexy, bewildering, larger-than-life man would be her husband. Her heart squeezed in awe and wonder as Hunter entered the room, followed by Marquise pushing a serving cart.
Pride lit Hunter’s features. “So far, so good. No roars. Cort’s on his tummy with his bum up in the air.”
“That’s his favorite sleeping position,” she shared, feeling almost as if she were giving precious secrets to the enemy.
Hunter dismissed Marquise with a wave of his hand as the butler removed the wine chilling in the ice bucket and presented it for inspection. “That will do for the night. Leave the cart. We can manage.”
A smile twitching his lips, Marquise withdrew with a discreet bow.
Juliana laced her fingers together on the edge of the table as the door clicked softly closed. She felt a new tension arc from Hunter’s broad shoulders like an electric charge.
“How subtle,” she remarked dryly. “The poor man is probably envisioning an orgy with food.”
Hunter laughed as he expertly uncorked the wine. “How inventive. We’ll save it for later in the evening.”
“We will not.” Juliana rose to hide the sudden spurt of her pulse and peeked under the silver domes covering the food. She placed the garden salads and the basket of rolls on the table. “I’m worried about Investigator Bradshaw interviewing my father,” she continued, returning to her seat. “Do you think the investigator seriously considers my father a suspect?”
Hunter fingered the stem of his wineglass and Juliana was moved by the lines of fatigue etched in his face and the stern inner fire of determination lighting his gaze. He pursed his lips, his gaze laser-sharp enough to peel the skin off her nose.
“What would you say if I told you that Ross left your father two million dollars in his will?”
Two million dollars? Juliana managed to keep her salad fork from slipping through her fingers and clattering to the table. With great care she placed the fork on her plate, aware that Hunter was watching and evaluating her reaction.
Despite the fact that he’d kept his word in naming her Cort’s guardian in his will, she could see now that the trust in this arranged marriage was solely one-way. She should have realized it earlier this afternoon when Marquise had told her that he was very sorry, but on Hunter’s orders he couldn’t allow her to take Cort for a walk in Central Park. She’d thought Hunter was just being protective.
Now she realized, he didn’t trust her alone with Cort. And she suspected that the operatives posted at her father’s side had more to do with making sure that she and her father weren’t conspiring together, than protecting her father from the Collingwoods’ killer.
Hunter’s gaze continued to mock her. If she weren’t so angry she might have dared to ask him what had happened in his life to make him so distrustful
. As it was, she couldn’t bring herself to ask him whether he’d advised Investigator Bradshaw of Ross’s generosity. No doubt Investigator Bradshaw already knew and was champing at the bit to interrogate her father. The very idea that her father could have killed Ross and Lexi was insulting. Her father would be outraged—and hurt—by the insinuation.
She wiped her mouth with her napkin, fully aware that Hunter was still awaiting her reply. “I don’t feel I need to explain or justify Ross’s decisions or his relationship to my father. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to enjoy your dinner. I’ve lost my appetite for the company—and the conversation.”
To Hunter’s mute astonishment, she rose from the table with dignified grace and marched to the door that connected their suites in a cloud of swirling black silk. The door gave a disturbing, final-sounding click as it closed behind her.
Hunter took another swallow of wine and watched the door, almost certain she’d return momentarily and apologize. She needed to understand no one was above suspicion. Not her father. Not even herself.
He was debating whether he should attempt to apologize—he could have phrased the information about her father’s inheritance a tad more tactfully—when the door adjoining their suites suddenly opened. Good, she’d come to her senses. They could resume their dinner and he could solicit her opinion about the timing of the takeovers of Sable Holden and Phillip Ballard’s companies. Then he could present her with the engagement ring he had tucked into his pocket. Marquise would notice in the morning if she wasn’t wearing it.
A feminine hand snaked around the door, a cascade of black silk trailing from it. She sent it sailing toward him. Hunter realized to his shock it was her dress. Then two scraps of black lace arced through the air. Her panties landed smack-dab in the basket of rolls and her bra snagged his shoulder.
He hooked a finger through a strap.
It was still warm from her body, and the scent of talcum powder and apple blossoms clung to it.
He grimaced, trying not to imagine how Juliana’s breasts would fill the flimsy peekaboo lace cups. He failed miserably.
The Butler's Daughter Page 9
