by Kristi Gold
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WINE COUNTRY COURIER
Community Buzz
GRANT ASHTON CHARGED WITH SPENCER ASHTON’S MURDER
Well, well, well. For someone so highly regarded in the community, Grant Ashton has his share of problems, yet he doesn’t seem to be putting up a fight against the charges against him. This reporter even thought he’d seen resignation in Grant’s eyes at the courthouse. Yet why would Grant stoop to murdering Spencer Ashton after all his family has been through? It just doesn’t make any sense….
And speaking of senses…We’ve spotted an incredibly handsome, buff and mysterious new man in town—a true delight to the eyes.
Who is this gorgeous blue-eyed Ford Matthews? And why has he been trying to visit Grant Ashton? Rumor has it that he’s been seen around town with the late Spencer Ashton’s presumed mistress, Kerry Roarke. Perhaps he has something to do with the murder investigation? Only time and the ongoing family feud will reveal the truth….
* * *
MISTAKEN FOR A MISTRESS
Kristi Gold
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Kristi Gold for her contribution to the DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS series.
Many thanks to the San Francisco Area RWA for answering my call for research assistance, particularly Laura, Cynthia, Alice and Nancy. Your help has been invaluable to this story. To all the “Ashtons” authors, it’s been a pleasure working with you.
To Marge and Bob Smith for sitting up half the night on a porch in
Pigeon Forge, helping me brainstorm the evidence in this story.
Books by Kristi Gold
Silhouette Desire
Cowboy for Keeps #1308
Doctor for Keeps #1320
His Sheltering Arms #1350
Her Ardent Sheikh #1358
* Dr. Dangerous #1415
* Dr. Desirable #1421
* Dr. Destiny #1427
His E-Mail Order Wife #1454
The Sheikh’s Bidding #1485
* Renegade Millionaire #1497
Marooned with a Millionaire #1517
Expecting the Sheikh’s Baby #1531
Fit for a Sheikh #1576
Challenged by the Sheikh #1586
† Persuading the Playboy King #1600
† Unmasking the Maverick Prince #1606
† Daring the Dynamic Sheikh #1612
Mistaken for a Mistress #1669
KRISTI GOLD
has always believed that love has remarkable healing powers and feels very fortunate to be able to weave stories of romance and commitment. Since her first Desire debuted in 2000, she’s sold over twenty books to Silhouette Desire. A classic seat-of-the pants writer, she attributes her ability to write fast to a burning need to see how the book ends.
As a bestselling author, National Readers’ Choice winner and Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she’s learned that although accolades are wonderful, the most cherished rewards come from personal stories shared by readers, and networking with other authors, both published and aspiring.
You can reach Kristi through her Web site at www.kristigold.com or through snail-mail at P.O. Box 9070, Waco, Texas 76714. (Please include a SASE for a response).
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Prologue
San Francisco, 1991
S ally Barnett Ashton was dead. One less complication for Spencer Ashton.
In his upscale office at Ashton-Lattimer Corporation, Spencer regarded the private investigator seated across from him, who looked as if he expected him to react with sorrow over the news of his first wife’s demise. On the contrary, Spencer experienced only relief that simpering Sally was now completely out of the picture.
Leaning back in his desk chair, Spencer tented his fingers beneath his chin and prepared to ask more questions, not because he wanted to know, but because he needed to know. “And the twins?”
“They’re twenty-eight now. Grant is still in Nebraska. He took over the family farm after your in-laws died.”
“Former in-laws.” Spencer had hated the pompous Barnetts with a passion.
The man looked somewhat put out over the comment. “Until 1975, when Sally died, they were your in-laws since you never officially divorced their daughter.”
Spencer’s patience was waning. “Pointless details, Rollins. Now get on with it.”
“As I was saying, Grant is managing the family farm. He’s turned it into a very successful crop-and-cattle venture.”
Obviously the boy had inherited Spencer’s business acumen, considering he was raised by a passel of country bumpkins. “What about the other one?”
The P.I. looked somewhat disgusted. “Your daughter, Grace, gave birth to two children, Ford and Abigail Ashton, in 1979 and 1981 respectively.”
“Ashton?”
Rollins flipped through a folder containing the report. “Yeah. There’s no marriage of record. According to the grapevine in your old hometown, she never named any father.”
Spencer’s anger threatened beneath the surface of his calm facade, and not because his daughter had made a presumed moral misjudgment by giving birth to two bastards. His anger stemmed from having been forced to marry the town prude in order to give his brats a name, and now his own offspring had not been held to the same standards. But he wasn’t surprised. Sally had spoiled her from the day she was born. He could still remember Grace’s constant wailing as an infant, even if it had been years since he’d taken off and never looked back. “Where is Grace now?”
Rollins streaked a hand over his chin. “That’s a good question. She reportedly ran off with some kind of salesman about five years ago when the kids were barely in grade school. I couldn’t find a trace of her, but I can keep looking.”
“That won’t be necessary.” As long as she wasn’t bugging Spencer, he didn’t give a damn where she was. “What about her kids?”
“Your son is now legal guardian of your grandchildren. He’s raising them alone.”
Spencer found it somewhat ironic that he had other children the same age as his grandchildren. That wouldn’t be unusual for a man who’d been coerced into marriage at a ridiculously young age. “Grant’s not married?”
“No. Not so far.”
Obviously he’d overestimated his oldest son’s intelligence. Why would any man want to saddle himself with a couple of kids that weren’t even his? Or any kids for that matter? He’d learned early on that child rearing should fall on women’s shoulders.
Spencer sat forward and leveled a serious stare on the P.I. “When you returned to Crawley, you were discreet?”
“Of course. I told anyone who asked that I met up with you when we were both teenagers and we lost touch. I have to tell you, though. You’re not very popular in town. If I were you, I wouldn’t be visiting again anytime soon.”
Spencer didn’t intend to ever go back to godforsaken Nebraska. “And I suppose you realize that absolute discretion on your part is imperative.”
“Are you referring to my knowledge that your second marriage was never valid because you never ended the first?”
True, but his marriage to his current wife was valid, not that he gave a damn about what Lilah thought about anything. She could also be replaced if necessary, and in many ways she already had. Several times. The advantages of having gullible secretaries and power. “I expect you to keep all of it to yourself. If not, you’ll never work in this town again.”
Rollins finally looked somewhat flustered, which pleased Spencer. “I’m a professional, Mr. Ashton. You can trust me.”
Spencer trusted no one but himself. “Good. I will hold you to that.”
The P.I. hesitated a moment before speaking again. “I’m no attorney, but aren’t you concerned about someone finding out? And if that happens, wouldn’t that mean you’d lose this company since it belonged to your second wife’s father?”
“Not a concern. Her father signed his shares in this company over to me. Caroline has no claim to it.” Spencer bit back a smile. What a pushover old man Lattimer had been, and so had his daughter.
“I guess you have all the bases covered.” Rollins pushed his chair back, stood and gestured toward the folder. “The details are in there, copies of birth certificates and death certificates. And a few photos I managed to come across, one in particular of your son. In case you’re interested in what he might look like now.”
Spencer was curious, but only mildly. “That will be all.” After opening his drawer, he pulled out an envelope and handed it to the investigator. “The amount we agreed upon, in cash, plus some extra to ensure your silence.”
Rollins gave him a shrewd grin. “Anytime. Enjoy your trip down memory lane.”
Without even an offer of a handshake, which suited Spencer fine, the man strode to the private elevator, leaving Spencer with bits and pieces of the products of his past. After the doors closed, he turned the folder around and flipped through it, coming upon the aforementioned photo of his oldest son included with a feature article in the Crawley Crier. He’d received some sort of business commendation from the town known for its stupid sentimentality. A boy who appeared to be about thirteen and a girl about two years his junior flanked Grant in the photo. Decent-looking kids, as far as kids went. But with his genes, Spencer certainly wouldn’t expect anything less.
Bored with the whole lot of them, he flipped the file closed, just as he had closed this chapter on his life long ago. He wouldn’t have to worry that Sally might someday show up on his doorstep. Most likely, neither would his foolhardy son or his reckless daughter, and even if they did, he certainly had no intention of seeing them. As far as he was concerned, his past in Crawley was as dead as the town itself.
Spencer Ashton lived a charmed life, answering to no one, and no doubt he would continue that life for many years to come. In fact, he planned to outlive them all.
One
August, Fourteen Years Later
S pencer Ashton was dead, and Grant Ashton had been charged with his murder.
For most of his life, Ford Ashton had endured being called the “illegitimate” child of a “tramp” in an unforgiving Nebraska town. He’d survived his mother’s cruel indifference and eventually her abandonment. But seeing his uncle—the man who’d put his own life on hold to raise him—wearing prison-issue clothes and shackled like an animal, would go down as the worst moment of Ford’s twenty-six years on earth.
Standing at the back of the San Francisco courtroom among a crush of curious onlookers, with a heavy heart and sickening anger, Ford listened as the presiding judge announced, “Remanded without bail.” Driven by a strong sense of desperation and blind fury, he elbowed his way through the crowd now moving in the opposite direction. Before he could reach his uncle, before he could tell him how much he meant to him, armed guards steered him away. But not before Ford met Grant’s gaze and saw resignation in his eyes.
He couldn’t allow his uncle to give up. Not now. Not after everything they’d been through together. With hands fisted at his sides, Ford fought the urge to pound something hard with the force of his despair. Pound something until he released all his building frustration and rage over the injustice.
“Mr. Ashton.”
Ford spun around toward the unfamiliar voice and confronted an equally unfamiliar man, a slick-looking young guy wearing a dark suit. No doubt, a media vulture. “I’m not answering any damn questions.”
The guy pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m not a reporter. I’m a clerk for your uncle’s attorney. If you’ll follow me, someone would like to see you.”
Finally Ford would get to speak with Grant. Finally he could tell him all the things he’d needed to say that had yet to be said. Without hesitation he stepped into the vestibule, glancing to his left at the mass of reporters dogging both the prosecuting and defense attorneys, held at bay by a contingent of security guards. He followed the clerk down a narrow hallway to a secluded room. When the man opened one door, Ford expected to find his uncle waiting for him. Instead, he found Caroline Sheppard—formerly Caroline Ashton—and her second oldest son, Cole, seated at a small conference table.
After the clerk said, “I’ll give you some privacy,” then left, Caroline rose and crossed the room, her arms held out in welcome. “I’m so sorry, Ford.”
He accepted her embrace, hiding his disappointment with a reserved smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Caroline.”
Cole soon joined them, his hand extended. “Sorry to have to see you again under such sorry circumstances, Ford. We weren’t sure you’d make it on time with such short notice.”
Ford shook Cole’s hand and said, “I wasn’t sure, either. I had a connection in Denver and spent the night in the terminal, then caught the first flight out this morning.”
Caroline’s expression showed motherly concern, something that had been totally absent in Ford’s life due to his lack of a mother. “That means you haven’t had any sleep, have you?”
“No, but I wouldn’t have slept, anyway, after getting your message.”
She gave a one-handed sweep through her short blond hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak with you personally. I hated that you had to hear about the arrest on your voice mail, but I didn’t know how to reach you.”
“Don’t apologize, Caroline. You had no way of knowing I was out of town on business. I am surprised Grant didn’t give you my cell phone number.”
Caroline sighed. “Grant didn’t want me to call you at all, but I knew you’d want to know. I also knew it could hit the national news soon, and I didn’t want you and Abby to learn the facts in that way.”
Abby. Damn, Ford didn’t look forward to telling his sister. Although his sibling was strong willed—strong, period—she was also pregnant. With twins. “It’s been three months since the murder. I thought maybe they’d marked Grant off the list of suspects. What in the hell made them decide to arrest him now?”
“Aside from the argument he had with Spencer the day of the murder,” Cole began, “someone’s come forward claiming to have seen him enter the building a few minutes before 9 p.m., Spencer’s approximate time of death. This witness picked Grant out of a lineup.”
God, Ford didn’t want to hear this. If only Grant had come home to Nebraska, none of this would have happened. If only he hadn’t been so damned determined to stay in San Francisco to confront his no-good father, then he’d be home right now, helping with the harvest instead of being accused of that father’s murder.
One thing Ford did know—his uncle might have been harboring some serious anger, but he would never resort to killing a man, even if justified. “He didn’t do it.”
“We don’t think he did it, either, Ford,” Caroline said. “But Spencer has always left victims in his wake, so it doesn’t surprise me that continued even after his death.”
Spoken like one of Spencer’s victims, Ford decided. Caroline had been one of many. “Do we know who this supposed witness is and why they’ve taken so long to speak up?”
“We don’t know any real details,” Cole said. “But you’ll be able to meet with Grant’s attorney on Monday.”
That wasn’t good enough for Ford. “Why Monday? Why not now?”
“He had another court appearance today, otherwise you could’ve spoken with him this afternoon. Unfortunately, he’ll be out of town this weekend, too.”
“His name is Edgar Kent and he has an excellent reputat
ion as a criminal defense attorney,” Caroline added. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of hiring him.”
“I don’t mind. In fact, I owe you.” How could he fault this woman for anything? She’d been nothing but kind since he’d met her six months ago in Napa at Abby’s wedding. “When can I see Grant?”
Caroline exchanged a brief look with Cole before saying, “According to Mr. Kent, that’s not going to be possible.”
The urge to knock a hole in the wall revisited Ford. “Why the hell not if they intend to keep him locked up?”
“They’re taking him to one of the jails that houses some of the worst criminals,” Cole said. “You’ll only be able to communicate through the attorney.”
Ford’s anger began to build momentum, threatening the tenuous grip he had on his temper. “I can’t believe they didn’t allow him to post bail.”
Caroline shook her head. “They consider him a flight risk because he has no ties to the community. And because he carries the Ashton name, they also believe he might have the connections and enough money to get out of the country.”
Grant might have money and the Ashton name, but not once had he ever run from his responsibility. “That’s ridiculous. He’s never been anywhere aside from Nebraska and now California.” Unlike Ford, who’d traveled abroad the year after college graduation, thanks to his uncle, and several times since, thanks to his successful business. “I can’t stand the thought of him being treated like some hardened criminal.”
Cole rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and lowered his eyes. “According to the state of California, he is.”
The state was wrong. Dead wrong. “What happens next?”
“Kent said the case will go before a grand jury,” Cole continued. “If they find the evidence is sufficient, then he’ll be arraigned again and a trial date will be set. It’s my understanding that process could take some time.”
