And what is your type? she asked herself dryly. How could she possibly know what her type was when she’d never indulged herself in fantasies, never allowed herself to become seriously involved? She had always believed herself to be the daughter of a killer, too tainted to become close to anyone.
But what about now? What if she proved her father’s innocence? Might she have a chance then to love and be loved?
And if so, who would be her lover? Who would be the man of her dreams?
Unbidden, an image of Brant Colter rose in her mind, and she shivered again, not from fear this time, but from something just as dangerous. Would he be here tonight?
“Here we go,” Julian said, offering her his arm. “I wonder if the Grande Dame herself will make an appearance. I can’t remember the last time Iris Kingsley appeared in public. She’s always been a tough old broad, but there’ve been rumors for years about her frail health….”
Julian babbled on as they presented their invitations again at the front door, then entered a large, marble-floored foyer. A butler took Valerie’s wrap and motioned for them to follow. As they passed along open doorways, she had only a brief impression of the rest of the house—high, vaulted ceilings with skylights; oil paintings and rich tapestries lining darkly paneled walls; glossy wood floors covered with thick, Persian rugs; bronze statuettes adorning marble fireplaces and glass-topped tables; and in one room, a magnificent concert-grand piano.
The butler led them into the ballroom, and here, Valerie had more of a chance to observe her surroundings. She caught her breath. The room was resplendent with dazzling chandeliers, gilt-framed mirrors and huge arrangements of flowers—azaleas and roses and the more exotic hothouse varieties of lily of the valley, orchid and bird-of-paradise—bedecking every corner and crevice of the room and trailing down the gorgeous curved staircase.
A mass of women in glittering dresses and men in somber black tuxedos milled about on the dance floor while an orchestra tuned up on the gallery above the ballroom. It was an impressive gathering, and Valerie felt a little like Cinderella crashing the ball as she and Julian hovered on the fringes.
Like scavengers, she thought uncomfortably.
Julian squeezed her arm. “There’s Austin Colter,” he said, nodding toward a dark-haired man a few feet away from them. “He’s already working the crowd, I see.”
Valerie looked in the direction Julian indicated. The man’s back was to her, but she could tell that he was talking animatedly to a group of older, distinguished-looking men. He turned suddenly, as if sensing her stare, and Valerie gasped.
For a moment, she thought he was Brant. Then she realized that what she was seeing was a rather remarkable family resemblance. All the Colters looked amazingly alike.
As Austin Colter’s gaze met Valerie’s, she thought she detected a look of recognition in his dark eyes, a flash of animosity. Then he turned, rather arrogantly, back to the crowd surrounding him and did not look at her again.
But somehow that brief look disturbed Valerie. Somehow she thought she had seen beyond his cool, polished facade and glimpsed a man who might be capable of violence.
The thought left Valerie shaken, for she had seen that same look in Brant’s eyes—that same smoldering anger kept so carefully under control. But what would happen if he ever lost control? What would happen if the anger ever erupted? Would either of the Colter cousins be capable of pushing someone in front of a bus? Of shooting someone?
It was a question Valerie didn’t want to linger over for too long, because like it or not, she knew she had more than a casual, or even a professional interest in Brant Colter. She didn’t want to think the worst of him, and that was a dangerous attitude for a reporter on the trail of a potentially explosive story.
When she looked around, she found that Julian had abandoned her without a word, and she was left alone on the edge of the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a tune. Valerie hastily retreated into a shadowy corner, where she hoped she could observe for a while without being noticed.
Her gaze drifted over the crowd as she tried to picture the scene thirty-one years ago. It wouldn’t have been so very different from tonight, she decided. Only the fashions would have changed. The crowd would have been virtually the same—state and local dignitaries, party officials, a judge or two, even a U.S. senator.
The Kingsleys had been steeped in politics for generations, counting among their own two U.S. senators, a secretary of state and several diplomats. Edward had been the first Kingsley in anyone’s memory who had run into political trouble. His gubernatorial campaign had been in serious jeopardy back then, primarily because of a hasty second marriage after his first wife died of cancer. The fund-raiser Iris Kingsley had thrown for him the night of the kidnapping had been a desperate bid to rally party support.
But then his son had been taken and later found murdered, and public opinion swayed in Edward’s favor. He had been swept into the governor’s mansion with a landslide victory, and had served two terms as governor before quietly retiring from politics altogether. Until now.
What had persuaded him out of political retirement to back Austin Colter? Valerie wondered. The two men hardly moved in the same social circles. Their only connection, as far as she could ascertain, was the Kingsley kidnapping.
Funny how that kidnapping had brought such a diverse group of people together. Funny how it was still affecting lives after all these years.
She wondered what the Colters and the Kingsleys would say if they knew Cletus Brown’s daughter was among them tonight. They would be horrified, and would, undoubtedly, have her removed from the premises at once. They might even call her the same vile names she’d been called long ago. They might even say she was tainted with a killer’s blood.
Valerie shivered and forced her thoughts away from the past. For a moment, she let the music flow over her, washing away the dark, somber images. As she swayed to the music, her gaze searched the crowd until, with a start, she found the face she’d been looking for all night, but hadn’t really expected to see.
The woman in his arms was quietly beautiful, as was the lavender gown she wore. Her hair was light brown, glossy and straight, but the starkness of her hairstyle, the simplicity of her gown did nothing to detract from her beauty.
She was not short, but her thinness made her seem very petite, almost frail, the kind of woman men love to take care of. The kind of woman Valerie had always secretly craved to be but could never quite manage; she’d been hardened by the ways of the world—and by her own determination—at too early an age.
“You needn’t worry, you know,” said a deep, masculine voice beside her.
Startled, Valerie whirled to find herself face-to-face with a handsome stranger. But he wasn’t really a stranger, she thought fleetingly. She’d seen his face in the paper too many times not to know him.
Andrew Kingsley grinned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I couldn’t help noticing you over here in the corner, all by yourself. I thought you must be hiding from someone.”
Valerie took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. She couldn’t blow this. She’d been trying to get an interview with one of the Kingsleys for weeks now, but both Iris and Edward had adamantly refused to talk to her.
“I’m not hiding,” she said. “I was just watching the dancers.”
“Yes, I could see that. Your gaze was very intent. You were staring at that man over there.” He nodded toward Brant and his beautiful companion. “You had the most interesting look on your face.”
“It’s not what you think.” Valerie felt herself blush. “I mean, I know him…. I recognized him…that’s all.”
Andrew Kingsley turned back to the crowd, and Valerie did her best to observe him dispassionately. He was tall, a little over six feet, and very well built. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, and there was a tiny, crescent-shaped scar above his right eyebrow.
Valerie wondered if he’d gotten that scar in one of his infamous automo
bile accidents. According to the tabloids, Andrew Kingsley loved to race fast cars, both on and off the track, and he’d been known to roll more than one expensive automobile in his time.
He was Adam Kingsley’s twin brother, and as Valerie stood gazing at his profile, she couldn’t help wondering if Adam would have grown up to look like him, if he would have been just as handsome and—from what she’d witnessed so far—as charming as Andrew.
As if reading her thoughts, he turned back and gave her a thoroughly disarming smile. “Judging from the rather pronounced family resemblance, I’d say he must be a Colter.”
“Yes, he is,” Valerie said, refusing to glance in Brant’s direction. “His name is Brant Colter. He’s a police detective.”
Andrew’s mouth tightened slightly. “That explains it, then.”
“Explains what?” Valerie asked curiously.
“How my wife happens to know him.”
“Your wife?”
“The woman he’s dancing with.”
Valerie felt relief flood through her, though she told herself she was crazy for feeling that way.
Almost against her will, her gaze traveled back to the dance floor, where Brant was still holding Andrew Kingsley’s wife in his arms. She could sense that Andrew was staring at the couple, also, and for whatever reason, he wasn’t at all pleased.
Another woman came up to Brant, this one just as beautiful as Mrs. Kingsley, but more spectacularly so. She looked vaguely familiar, but Valerie couldn’t place her. As she stood watching, Brant and Mrs. Kingsley stopped dancing, and the blonde threaded her arm through Brant’s in a gesture that was unmistakably possessive.
With an effort, Valerie tore her gaze away and turned back to Andrew Kingsley.
“My wife still has connections with the police department,” he was saying, almost to himself. “Her father was killed in the line of duty several years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Valerie mumbled, not at all sure Andrew even remembered her presence.
But he acknowledged her sympathy with a slight nod. “I’d hoped she’d severed all ties with…that life, but they still crop up from time to time. I suppose it’s only to be expected, especially now, since my family has become associated with Austin Colter’s campaign.”
“I’m curious about that,” Valerie said. “Your family hasn’t been active in politics for years. Why now? Why Austin Colter?”
“Our families go back a long way. Austin’s father and uncle did something for us once. I suppose my father and my grandmother feel they still owe them a debt of gratitude.”
“You’re talking about the kidnapping,” Valerie said softly, aware she was treading on sensitive ground. Even after so long a time, the kidnapping of his brother was bound to evoke painful emotions in Andrew. “Raymond and Judd Colter were responsible for Cletus Brown’s arrest.”
Andrew had been watching his wife, a small frown playing between his brows. But he turned now to Valerie. “You know about that?”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I know a great deal about your brother’s kidnapping. My name is Valerie Snow, Mr. Kingsley. I’m a reporter.”
The name didn’t seem to register at first, and then a slow dawning took hold. Andrew’s blue eyes narrowed a bit as he gazed down at her. “So,” he said. “The enemy is among us.”
“I’m not your enemy,” Valerie said. “I would think your family, more than anyone, would want the truth to come out.”
“My family thinks the truth has already come out about my brother’s kidnapping,” Andrew said tightly. “My grandmother and my father are both firmly convinced that the man who murdered my brother is getting his just deserts.”
“And what about you?” Valerie asked. “Do you think Cletus Brown is responsible for kidnapping your brother?”
“I’ve never had any reason to believe otherwise.”
For some strange reason, the thought occurred to Valerie that he’d meant to add, “Until now,” but had stopped himself in time. She glanced up at him and found that his eyes were once again trained on the dance floor. He seemed more concerned with his wife’s dance partner than with the fact that Valerie—“the enemy,” as he’d called her—was in his home.
But when he turned back to her, his gaze was clear and alert. He’d dismissed nothing of what she’d been saying. “Would you like to see where it happened?” he asked quietly.
Valerie couldn’t have been more shocked by his offer. “The nursery, you mean?”
He nodded.
“Why would you do that?” she asked, knowing that a good reporter would not waste time questioning motives. She should have jumped at the chance the moment he offered. “If you think I’m the enemy, why would you cooperate with me?”
He hesitated, a brief shadow flickering over his handsome features. “I read your article in the Journal,” he answered slowly, as if choosing his words with extreme caution. But then, of course, he would be careful about what he said to her. He was a Kingsley, after all. He’d had a great deal of experience in dealing with the press. “You present an interesting theory, Ms. Snow.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away, and Valerie, still in shock, hurried after him.
* * *
“SO, WHAT’S IT LIKE, living in a place like this?” Brant asked Hope Kingsley. The two of them had known each other for years. They’d grown up in the same neighborhood and attended the same public schools, although Hope had been a few grades behind Brant. Hope’s father had been a cop, just like Brant’s, which had made them a part of the same big family.
She smiled up at him, but her violet eyes were clouded. “Terrifying. At least it was at first. I’m used to it now, though.”
“It’s a far cry from the old neighborhood,” Brant said, referring to the neat rows of post-World War II homes in midtown where they’d grown up. “How long has it been, anyway?”
“Andrew and I will celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary next month.”
Brant whistled. “That long? Doesn’t seem possible that…”
She nodded, her eyes suddenly shimmering. “That Dad has been dead for so long? I know.”
Hope’s father, Dan Sterling, had been killed in the line of duty one night while answering a routine domestic-disturbance call. He’d walked in on a drug deal and had been blown away before he could call for backup.
Sterling had been a veteran officer, one the entire department had admired and respected. Brant could still remember the turnout for his funeral, how broken up his friends and family had been, especially his twenty-year-old daughter, Hope, who had been engaged at that time to one of Brant’s friends. Brant and Jake McClain had only been on the street for two years. Dan Sterling’s death had hit them both hard, awakened them with a cruel jolt to the realities of police work.
Brant had never really known the details of Hope and Jake’s breakup, but he’d always figured it had something to do with her father being killed and Jake being a cop. All Brant knew for sure was that a few months later, Hope had married Andrew Kingsley, and Jake had really been bummed out.
Brant had rarely seen Hope after that, had no idea if she’d been happy in her marriage or not. But she didn’t look particularly happy now, he thought, gazing down at her. There was a sadness in her eyes, a longing in her expression that he was pretty sure she wasn’t even aware of. If she had been, she would have taken more pains to hide it.
“I saw Jake the other day,” he said carefully.
Hope said nothing, but her eyes took on a faraway look he found hard to fathom. “How is he?”
“Don’t you see him?” Brant asked in surprise. “Doesn’t his father still work for the Kingsleys?”
“Yes, but—”
“You don’t associate much with the gardener, I guess.”
She looked at him reproachfully. “You know me better than that.”
“I thought I did.” They stopped dancing as the music ended. He took her elbow and led her from the dance floor. “I didn
’t think you were the type to dump a guy like—”
“Like Kristin did you?”
“Ouch.” Brant winced. “I guess I deserved that.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t dance with her?” Hope asked coyly. “Are you still holding a grudge, after all these years?”
“I didn’t dance with Kristin because I wanted to dance with you,” Brant said with a shrug. It had annoyed the hell out of him, the way his cousin’s wife had expected him to leave Hope high and dry on the dance floor and sweep her into his arms, as if it were her due.
But he’d refused and had the satisfaction of seeing Kristin stomp off, her pride and her ego trailing behind her.
Hope looked up at him now, the coyness in her eyes vanishing, replaced once again by a wistfulness that left Brant wondering about her marriage. “You really don’t care anymore, do you?” she said softly. “You really are over her.”
“It’s been a long time, Hope. We’ve all moved on with our lives. You married Andrew Kingsley, and Kristin married Austin. Maybe that’s the way it was meant to be.”
“But you never married,” Hope said sadly.
He shrugged again. “No. And neither did Jake.”
“Don’t you ever wonder—” She broke off abruptly, biting her lip.
“What?”
She drew a long breath. “Sometimes it’s hard not to think about the old neighborhood, the way we were back then. You and Kristin, me and Jake.”
“And don’t forget Austin,” Brant said dryly. “Always trailing around after us like a stray pup. Always wanting to be part of the gang. I guess he finally got his wish. He got the girl, and some say he’s a shoo-in for the United States Congress.”
Hope said nothing, but a tiny frown formed between her brows. Brant followed her gaze. She was staring at a couple climbing the staircase. The pair’s backs were to the dance floor, but Brant was pretty sure the man was Andrew Kingsley.
He didn’t recognize the woman, but she was a knockout, whoever she was. The simple black gown she wore was subtly seductive, clinging to her curves in a way that made Brant’s gaze linger admiringly. Her long, dark hair hung down her bare back like curls of pure silk. She walked with an assurance and grace that made Brant think she must have been born in a place like this.
Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir Page 7
