“Thank you,” she murmured.
His dark blue eyes deepened approvingly as his gaze slipped over her. “That’s exactly the color I would have chosen for you myself.”
Hope didn’t like the note of familiarity in his tone. Nor did she like the way he looked at her with proprietary eyes. Andrew’s eyes.
She shivered. The French doors were open to the April night, and a breeze drifted through the room, stirring the scent of jonquils and narcissus, and tinkling the teardrop crystals of the Waterford chandelier.
“Why do I get the impression,” Michael said softly, “that I make you uncomfortable?”
Because you do, Hope thought. Instead she said, “Maybe it’s your imagination.”
One dark brow cocked. So like Andrew. “Is it?”
The cloying scent of Andrew’s cologne drifted to her again, and Hope realized she must have been mistaken earlier. It hadn’t been Jeremy wearing Incens;aae. It was Michael Eldridge. And the coincidence, on top of everything else, was almost too stunning to bear.
He leaned toward her and the fragrance filled her senses. Sparked her fear. “Do I look that much like him, Hope? Is that why you’re afraid to be alone with me?”
“I’m not,” she protested, her hand inching to her throat. The walls of the library felt as if they were closing in on her. Hope wanted nothing more than to get away from this man, to get away from this house, to get away from her past. But she stood rooted to the spot by some horrible fascination, by some dreaded premonition of events yet to unfold.
“You do look like Andrew,” she finally admitted. “Very much.”
“Is that painful for you?” His gaze intensified. “It must be, if you were in love with him.”
The last was said almost in accusation. Hope drew herself up, bristling at his tone. “My marriage is really none of your concern.”
He looked immediately contrite. “Was I prying? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that I’m curious about you. I’m curious about everyone.” He turned to sweep the room with a brief glance. “Jeremy, Pamela, Edward. And dear, sweet Iris.”
Hope thought his words sounded facetious, but his eyes held no trace of guile. “Those are adjectives not usually associated with Iris Kingsley,” she said.
“Why not? She’s a pussycat.”
“To you, maybe.” And to Andrew. But to everyone else she could be a merciless tyrant, although Hope had always managed to stay in her good graces. Iris had once told her that she’d felt an immediate bond with Hope the moment Andrew had brought her home. Hope reminded Iris of herself when she was young, she’d said wistfully, and Hope had been flattered. What twenty-two-year-old wouldn’t be? A charming, sophisticated, worldly woman like Iris Kingsley comparing herself to a kindergarten teacher who’d never traveled farther from home than Nashville.
Michael turned back to Hope, drawing her attention away from Iris. “You fascinate me more than anyone, though.”
Hope tried to keep her tone casual. “Why?”
He shrugged. “The others are so easy to read. Jeremy, with his inferiority complex and resentment, Pamela with her greed and ambition, and Edward with his spent mind and self-destructive demons. Even Iris with her thirst for power and her need to control holds no mystery for me. But you’re different. I can’t quite figure you out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out.”
“That’s not true. For instance, why are you still living in this house? Your husband’s been dead for over five months.”
“It’s my home,” Hope replied, trying not to sound defensive. After all, she didn’t owe Michael Eldridge any explanations. She didn’t have to justify herself to him just because he looked like Andrew.
“I don’t think so,” Michael said. “I don’t think this is your home. In fact, most of the time you remind me of a caged bird waiting for the chance to escape.” His gaze darkened slightly. “You never liked it here, did you?”
His tone sent a chill up Hope’s spine. His insight made her shiver with dread. “Who are you?” she whispered.
He pretended not to hear her at first, then he smiled slowly, and the chill deepened around Hope’s heart. “You know who I am, Hope. My name is Michael Eldridge…at least for the time being.”
* * *
A LITTLE WHILE LATER, Michael went to kiss Iris’s cheek and bid her good-night. The whole room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief when he left. Everyone except Iris, who, all of a sudden, looked fragile and delicate and extremely vulnerable.
As Hope had anticipated, Jeremy had grown more withdrawn as the evening wore on, Pamela’s laughter had become more false, and Edward was now working on his fourth brandy. He didn’t appear to notice as his mother struggled to her feet and summoned Hope to help her upstairs.
Iris’s steps were even slower than usual as they ascended the curved marble stairway with its silk runner and carved mahogany banister. She clung to Hope’s arm for support, and in spite of herself, Hope couldn’t help remembering her mother’s words. “You may not see her manipulations, but I certainly do.”
Was Iris’s vulnerability tonight a subtle form of manipulation? Hope wondered, then was immediately ashamed of her thoughts. The woman was eighty-five years old. She had a right to succumb to frailty now and again.
Inside the green and gold suite, Iris sat down on a gold brocade chair and motioned Hope to the settee across from her.
“We haven’t had a chance to talk much lately,” she said. “I’ve hardly seen you at all in the last few days.”
“I’ve been pretty busy,” Hope told her.
“So I’ve heard. You’ve been substitute teaching at Claymore.”
“For a couple of days, yes.”
Iris’s eyes grew wistful. “I was a teacher, too, when I met Edward’s father. I’m sure I’ve told you the story many times. We have so much in common, you and I. I’ve always thought so. It means so much to me to have you here, my dear. I hope you know that.”
“You’ve always made me feel welcome,” Hope said truthfully.
Iris sighed. “Wasn’t it wonderful to have Michael with us this evening?”
“I’m glad you had a good time.”
Iris’s dark blue gaze met Hope’s. “I saw the two of you talking.”
Hope shrugged. “We were just getting acquainted.” She had no intention of telling Iris how disturbed she was by her conversation with Michael Eldridge, or how even more convinced she was now that he was a dangerous man. Iris wouldn’t believe her anyway. Not without proof.
“I probably shouldn’t say this,” Iris began hesitantly. “Andrew’s only been gone from us for five months, but…” She leaned toward Hope. “I think Michael is quite taken with you.”
Hope gazed at Iris in astonishment. Just after Andrew’s death, Iris had made it clear to Hope that she expected the two of them to be in mourning for a long time to come. Now, here she was suggesting…acting as if…
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Hope murmured uncomfortably.
“Perhaps,” Iris mused. She fell silent for a moment, then said, “For years now the thing I desired most in this world was for you and Andrew to produce a child together, a great-grandson who would carry on the Kingsley name. After Andrew died, I thought that was lost to me forever, but now that Michael has entered our lives…”
She trailed off as Hope stared at her in horror. Don’t, she thought. Please, don’t even think such a thing.
Surely she’d misconstrued Iris’s meaning. Surely Iris wasn’t suggesting that Hope and Michael Eldridge…
“I’m so tired tonight,” Iris said weakly. Her hand fluttered to her heart. “I have so little strength these days. Perhaps I should turn in.” She smiled as Hope took her cue and stood to leave. “Good night, my dear. I hope you have pleasant dreams.”
There wasn’t much chance of that, Hope thought, as she let herself out of Iris’s room. She started toward her own room in a different wing of the house, then suddenly revers
ed her steps and headed for the stairway. The prospect of spending a sleepless night in the suite she’d shared with Andrew had even less appeal than usual. As she descended the stairs, she decided to take a walk in the garden to try and clear her head.
As she passed the library, the murmur of voices drew her attention for a moment. Hope assumed everyone had retired when Iris did, but through the open double doors, she could see Edward asleep in a wing chair near the fireplace, his head thrown back, his jaw slack, his mouth open. An empty brandy snifter had fallen from his hand and was lying on the priceless Persian rug at his feet.
Hope wondered for a moment if she should go in and try to wake him, help him to bed, but Pamela’s disgusted voice stopped her. “Leave him. He’ll stumble upstairs eventually. God help me.”
“Why do you put up with this, Mother?” Jeremy demanded.
“You know why,” Pamela said wearily. “We’ve been all through this. It won’t be for much longer.”
Hope backed away from the library, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. But a part of her wondered if she should have stayed. Something about that conversation disturbed her. It was as if Pamela and Jeremy were plotting something. As if they had already put some grand scheme into motion.
Letting herself out one of the French doors in the drawing room that faced the rear gardens, Hope slipped into the darkness, shivering a bit in the April breeze. She wished she’d grabbed a sweater before coming out.
Skirting the pool, she headed for the deeper recesses of the garden, where the giant topiary sculptures cast menacing shadows in the moonlight. The night wind stirred the fragrance of spring flowers—jonquils, hyacinths and wisteria. The heavenly aroma settled over the garden like a gossamer veil, but underneath was a more subtle fragrance, a scent that was darker and deeper than the flowers. Mysterious and yet familiar.
Incens;aae, Hope realized with a shudder of dread.
She turned at the sound of rustling leaves behind her. Someone was out there. Someone was watching her. Hope’s heart started to pound in fear.
* * *
SHE STOOD AS STILL AS a statue. In the moonlight, her complexion looked as smooth and flawless as marble, her beauty timeless and mysterious. Jake stood staring at her for a long moment before stepping from the shadows to confront her.
Her hand flew to her throat when she saw him. “Jake!” she said breathlessly. “You startled me.”
There was an odd note of relief in her voice that should have flattered him, but didn’t. Possibly because he’d seen her stiffen in fear a split second before she’d recognized him. Something had spooked her this evening, and Jake wanted to know what.
“You’re out late.” He stepped into the moonlight beside her and saw that she was trembling. “Are you all right?”
She wore her hair up, but a few soft strands curled about her face. She pushed them back with a hand that didn’t look quite steady. “Of course,” she said. “I just came out for a walk before bedtime. You startled me, that’s all.”
“So you said.” The silky fabric of her blouse floated in the breeze, as light and airy as a whisper, making her seem hardly more than an illusion. Jake turned to the mansion. “He was there tonight, wasn’t he?”
Hope moved beside him, in a tiny, abrupt gesture that betrayed her nerves. “Yes.”
“How did it go?”
For a moment, she said nothing. Jake turned to gaze down at her in the pale light. Her profile made him catch his breath. Then she said, “Iris is more convinced than ever that he’s…her grandson.”
“That he’s Adam Kingsley.”
A slight hesitation, then, “Yes,” she said in almost a whisper. She turned to gaze up at him. The darkness deepened the violet of her eyes. Or was it something else? “What have you found out about him so far?”
Jake shrugged. “The preliminary stuff has all checked out—social-security number, driver’s license, school and employment records. There is a Michael Eldridge, no question.”
“What will you do next?”
“Go down to Houston,” Jake said. “Flash his picture around. Talk to his friends, business associates, try to get a lead on some of the foster homes he stayed in.”
“How did you get a picture of him?” Hope asked in surprise.
Jake grinned. “Do you really want to know?”
“If Iris knew you were lurking around the grounds with a camera, she’d have all our heads,” Hope said worriedly. “Your father’s included.”
“She won’t find out. I’m good at what I do, Hope. Trust me.”
Her gaze met his. She drew a long, trembling breath that did things to Jake—things he wanted to deny. “I do trust you,” she said softly. “That’s why I came to you for help.”
Her eyes looked like violet mist in the sterling light, her lips like the dewy petals of a rose. Soft and sweet. Irresistible.
The breeze stirred the curls at her neck, drawing Jake’s gaze to the creamy skin at her throat. And lower, to the hint of cleavage above her camisole top. He wanted to kiss her, he realized. Really kiss her. But the question was, would she let him? Would she resist or succumb? Slap his face or kiss him back?
It was a gamble, Jake decided, no matter how you looked at it.
As if reading his thoughts, Hope took a little half-step away from him, but Jake reached out to cup the nape of her neck—so soft and alluring—and gently pull her back to him.
“Jake, no,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“The past is over,” she said with an edge of desperation. “We both agreed.”
“I’m not thinking of the past,” he said. “I’m firmly grounded in the here and now. And I want to kiss you, Hope. You have no idea how badly.”
“But—” Her voice sounded shaky, as if she didn’t quite trust her resistance. Jake pressed his advantage, felt her yield ever so slightly. “It’ll only confuse things,” she said. “Mess everything up.”
“No, it won’t. How could it? We’re older now. Smarter. We can handle this. Besides,” he said, “maybe it’ll get it out of our systems. We can stop wondering if there’s anything left between us.”
“Maybe I don’t want to know,” she said softly, almost sadly. “Maybe it would hurt too much to know.” But she didn’t back away from him this time, and Jake knew that in spite of what she’d said, a part of her needed to know. Once and for all. No matter what the consequences.
He lifted his other hand to her shoulder and pulled her to him. This time she didn’t resist. This time she came willingly into his arms. He held her for a moment, gazing down at her in the moonlight. Then he bent to feather a kiss on her forehead, down her jawline, and finally, when he could deny himself no longer, he touched his mouth to hers.
Her lips trembled beneath his. Her eyes drifted closed and for a moment, the world stopped and time stood still. Nothing existed in the universe but the two of them, a man and a woman. Lovers reunited in this garden of Eden. This paradise of moonlight and memories.
When he would have deepened the kiss, Jake held back. The passion was there, yes, but…that could wait. This was something different. Something special. Something so fragile he knew it would easily shatter if he wasn’t careful.
A deep sadness filled him for all the lost years. For all the wasted love. For all that could have been theirs.
He pulled back and stared down at her. Hope’s eyes shimmered in the moonlight. A tear rolled down her cheek, and Jake felt something powerful stir inside him—an emotion he couldn’t quite bring himself to name.
He thumbed the tear away and whispered to her in the darkness. “I know,” he said. “I know.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Club Mystique was a dingy, hole-in-the-wall nightclub that had once seen better days as a gas station. Located on a two-lane state highway between Memphis and Shepherd, it seemed an unlikely place for someone like Andrew Kingsley to frequent. But Jake had discovered after Andrew’s wreck that he had been a regular there. The b
artender, a big, beefy ex-marine named Fred, who had a barbed-wire tattoo around his left wrist, had remembered Andrew well.
He remembered Jake, too, and scowled when Jake sat down at the bar. “Sergeant McClain, isn’t it?”
Jake didn’t bother to inform the man that he was no longer with the Memphis PD. Instead he ordered a Michelob.
The bartender slid the icy bottle across the bar to Jake. “What brings you out this way again—business or pleasure?”
Jake shrugged. “A little of both, maybe.” Truth was, he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing here. Why he’d felt compelled to visit Andrew Kingsley’s watering hole again. Why he couldn’t let Hope’s dead husband rest in peace. He glanced around. “Nice place you got here. I couldn’t stay away.”
Fred sneered. “Yeah, right.”
Jake wondered if the reason Andrew had been attracted to this place was because he’d had a need to see how the other half lived. But Andrew had never been one of the guilty rich, needing to atone for his wealth. He’d always loved what money could buy, and had never made any bones about it.
A more likely rationale for his hanging out here was the fact that Simon Pratt’s walled compound was only a few miles down the road. Had he been on his way to see Pratt the night he died?
Jake slid a twenty toward Fred to pay for his beer. “Keep the change.”
The bartender slipped the bill into his shirt pocket. “Much obliged,” he said. “Now what do you want?”
Jake shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d remembered something else about the night Andrew Kingsley cracked up his car. Maybe something about the woman he was with that night.”
Fred scowled. “Hell, that was months ago. My memory ain’t what it used to be.”
Jake took another twenty from his wallet and laid it on the counter. When the bartender started to reach for it, Jake set his beer bottle on top of it. “You said she was driving Kingsley’s car when they left the parking lot. You still sure about that?”
Fred shrugged his huge shoulders. “No reason not to be sure. I saw them with my own two eyes.”
“What did she look like?”
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