Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (15 page)

“I don't believe that,” Valerie said. “You're not that kind of person.”

He turned to face her. The look in his eyes sent a chill up Valerie's spine. “A few nights ago you were willing to believe I was capable of murder.”

Had it really only been a few nights ago? Had she really once believed him capable of murder?

It seemed impossible now, though Valerie wasn't sure why. Nothing had changed between them, and yet everything had. Somehow, in the last few days, her trust in Brant had begun to grow. She didn't know when or why or how, only that it was so.

And it frightened her. It frightened her badly.

* * *

S
OMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT
, the haunting presence made its appearance. Though it didn't exactly drive Valerie into Brant's arms, she did wake up with a start
and bolt upright in bed at the unexpected noise in the darkness.

The rain had stopped and the moon was out, filling the room with dark, ominous shadows. Valerie could just make out Brant's silhouette at the window.

“What is it?” she asked softly. “What was that noise?”

“Sounded like a motorcycle,” he said. “I'm going down to check it out.”

He crossed the room to the sofa to draw on the blue robe, and it was only then that Valerie realized he'd been standing at the window naked. She shivered under the covers, pulling the blanket up to her neck as she watched him move toward the door. When he'd disappeared into the hallway, Valerie got out of bed and pulled on her own robe. She followed him into the corridor.

He stood on the landing, staring over the railing into the large living room/lobby below. Valerie joined him. She started to say something, but he motioned her to silence. Together they watched as the front door opened, and a tall, shadowy figure emerged from the darkness.

Valerie could feel Brant tense beside her, and knew he was getting ready to confront the intruder, but just then, another figure appeared from the hallway beneath the stairs. A woman dressed in a white, flowing nightgown.

Valerie recognized Emily, the owner of the inn, and the intruder appeared to be a welcome one. When Emily drew near him, the man took her in his arms and kissed her. Valerie could hear them whispering in the darkness, a low intimate sound that stirred a yearning inside her.

The man swept Emily up into his arms and disappeared with her down the hallway. A door closed softly below, and there was little doubt about the couple's intentions. Little doubt about what they would be doing in a few moments.

The longing grew inside Valerie. She thought she had never felt more lonely than she did just then. She turned to walk back to the room, and Brant followed.

“I would assume,” he said dryly, when they'd closed the door behind them, “that was Emily's husband.”

“No doubt,” Valerie replied, climbing back into bed and pulling the covers over her. She didn't take off her robe, but she saw that Brant did. The fabric slid to the floor with a soft thud, then she heard the springs in the sofa creak ever so slightly as he lay down.

The springs creaked again as he turned over. Then creaked again, as he turned back over. He kicked off the covers, and Valerie heard him curse softly in frustration.

“Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?” she asked.

“No,” he said tersely. “That's not what I want.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “I'm smaller than you. The sofa would be more comfortable for me.”

“I'll tell you what's ridiculous,” Brant said. “It's ridiculous that someone wants to kill you—and now me, it would seem—because of something that happened thirty-one years ago. It's ridiculous to think my father—my
own
father—could be behind it.” He sat up on the sofa and stared at her through the darkness. “It's ridiculous that you're over there in that big bed all alone when there's plenty of room for both of us.”

Valerie's heart pounded against her chest. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me.” Then, “Oh, hell, stop looking at me like that.”

“How do you know how I'm looking,” she asked, hurt by the angry sting in his words. “You can't even see me.”

“No, but I know that look well enough. I saw it the other night in New Orleans. And before that, in the garden at the Kingsley mansion. You're looking as if you think I'll come over there and force my attentions on you.”

“Maybe I want you to,” Valerie said softly, surprising herself as much as him.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said, using his own words.

“Valerie—”

“Don't say it,” she whispered into the darkness. “Don't say anything. Just come over here and kiss me.”

It was a request he seemed more than willing to grant. Valerie watched him cross the room toward the bed, felt his weight on the mattress as he climbed under the covers. Then she felt his hand on her arm, and a delicious shiver raced up her spine. He slid his hand down her skin until his fingers found hers, locking them together, drawing her hand up to his mouth to plant soft kisses on each knuckle.

With her free hand, Valerie reached up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him toward her. When his lips were only inches from hers, he released her hand to wrap her tightly in his arms.

And then he kissed her.

And Valerie's whole world shattered.

M
ORNING BROUGHT SUNSHINE
.
And reality. Valerie awakened with a desperate sense of having done something she shouldn't have. Brant was in bed beside her, sprawled on his back, the covers shoved down to his waist. A sprinkling of dark hair on his chest arrowed its way beneath the covers, and Valerie shivered, remembering the way he'd looked last night. Remembering each and every detail of their lovemaking.

A part of her wanted to wake him up and relive those details, slowly. Over and over again. But another part of her pressed for caution. Yes, they'd made love. Yes, it had been wonderful. Incredible. Earth-moving in every sense of the word.

But nothing could come of it. Nothing could come of a relationship based on dishonesty. She hadn't told Brant the truth about herself, and when she did, he would despise her. He would think she had used him to get to his father.

She got up from the bed and drew on her robe, padding softly across the room to the door to find their clothing in neat stacks outside. Retrieving them, Valerie placed Brant's on the sofa, then took hers into the bathroom and quickly dressed.

He was still asleep when she came back out, and
taking care not to wake him, she opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony.

The sky was a pale, rinsed blue, as clear and fragile as crystal. Water droplets shimmered in the trees, refracting the sunlight into a thousand tiny rainbows. The scent of roses wafted from the garden below, and Valerie stood for a long time, drinking in the heady fragrance, and the cool, cleansing mountain air.

After a while, the French doors opened behind her and Brant stepped onto the balcony. Valerie glanced around. He was dressed, too, and judging by the moisture still in his hair, he had just taken a shower.

“How long have you been out here?” He came to stand beside her at the railing, but he didn't touch her. Valerie wasn't sure which emotion was stronger—relief or disappointment.

“For a while,” she admitted. “You were sleeping. I didn't want to wake you.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “I guess I wanted to be alone for a while.”

“Having regrets?”

She wished she could look away from his dark gaze, but she couldn't. She shook her head. “Not the kind you mean.”

One brow lifted. “Meaning?”

“You told me some things about yourself last night that made me feel closer to you. Made me understand you better. It meant a lot to me that you opened up that way.”

“You're not trying to tell me you felt sorry for me, are you? That's not the reason you invited me into your
bed, I hope.” His tone was teasing, but Valerie sensed there was an edge to his lightness. Almost an urgency.

She shook her head. “No. That's not the reason. That's not the reason at all.”

For a moment, heat flooded through Valerie as memories of their lovemaking swept over her. Brant had been so tender with her. So passionate. It had been so easy to lose herself in his kisses, to forget reality in his arms.

His eyes told her that he was remembering, too. And wanting her again.

Valerie drew a trembling breath. “It's just that…I haven't been as open with you. There're things about myself I haven't shared with you, things that maybe I should have told you before we…” Her voice trailed off as she tore her gaze away.

“Made love? You can say it, Valerie. It's nothing to be ashamed of. At least for me, it isn't.”

“I'm not ashamed,” she said quickly. “Please don't think that.”

Gently he cupped her chin with one hand and turned her to face him. “What is it, then?”

At that moment, she wanted to tell him everything, confess who she really was, do her best to make him understand why she had deceived him.

And if it had just been her life on the line, she would have.

So help me, I would,
she thought desperately.

But it wasn't just her life. Her father had spent the last thirty-one years—his youth—in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Valerie was his only hope for freedom. If she blew that chance now, she would never forgive herself. She would never be able to live with the knowledge that she'd let her father down.

It was imperative that the Kingsley kidnapping story
be told by Valerie Snow, not by Violet Brown. Who would believe a kidnapper's daughter? Who would believe Cletus Brown's daughter would be unbiased?

The truth about her identity would sabotage any chance she had of making people believe her. Of convincing the public that her father was innocent, and that the three men who had been heralded heroes were responsible for sending him to prison.

One of those men was Brant's father. If she told Brant the truth now, whom would he believe? Her? Or Judd Colter?

* * *

B
Y THE TIME THEY
arrived at her duplex in Memphis, the sun was setting. Brant's car was still parked out front, and for the first time, Valerie realized how that must have looked to the neighbors. But she shrugged it off. She didn't know anyone who lived in the neighborhood anyway. What did she care what they thought?

Brant insisted on walking her inside and checking the house before he left. The little red light on the alarm system shone when Valerie opened the door and let them inside. After a thorough check, Brant was satisfied that nothing was amiss.

“I'd better get going,” he said, and Valerie walked him to the front door. “I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Me, too.”

He paused on the threshold, gazing down at her. “About last night…this morning.”

“Yes?”

He tunneled his fingers through her hair. “I don't have any regrets, either. Not one.”

Valerie closed her eyes as he dipped his head to kiss her goodbye.

* * *

N
OT FIVE MINUTES AFTER
Brant left, Valerie's doorbell rang. Thinking it was Brant, she opened it without checking the peephole. The moment she saw who stood on the other side, she realized how careless she'd been.

The blonde standing on the other side looked familiar to Valerie, but for a moment, she couldn't place her. Then it came back to her. She was the woman Valerie had seen with Brant at the fund-raiser, the one who had come up to him while he'd been dancing with Andrew Kingsley's wife. The one who had linked her arm possessively through Brant's.

Valerie stared at the blonde now, wondering who she was, and what on earth she was doing here.

“I'm Kristin Colter,” she said. “Austin Colter's wife. May I come in?”

Valerie tried to suppress her shock. “By all means.” She stepped aside and waved Kristin in.

Kristin's silk dress was misty blue, the exact shade of her eyes. Pearls shone at her throat and around her wrist, and her hair was pulled back and fastened with a pearl comb. She looked regal and elegant and as cold as ice as she turned in the living room and fixed Valerie with a frosty stare.

“What do you want?” Valerie asked. She walked into the living room and stood in front of Kristin, not about to be intimidated by someone who looked more like a China doll than a real woman.

“I've been trying to get in touch with you all weekend.” Kristin glanced around the duplex. Her gaze came back to rest on Valerie, reflecting her distaste. “Where were you?”

“Away,” Valerie said evasively.

“With whom?”

Though the question was posed casually enough, Valerie sensed rather than heard the anger behind it. She smiled slightly. “A friend. I still don't understand what you're doing here. Or how it's any of your business who I was with.”

If possible, Kristin's gaze grew even colder. A darkness seemed to be simmering just below the surface. “You were with Brant. His car's been parked in front of your house all weekend.”

Valerie shrugged. “I guess you have been looking for me, haven't you?”

“Did you sleep with him?”

The bluntness of the question stunned Valerie. She gaped at Kristin for a second before retorting, “I don't see how that's any of your business, either.”

“So you did sleep with him,” Kristin said, evidently reading more into Valerie's words than she'd intended. Kristin's features hardened with hostility. She held her purse with both hands, and Valerie saw that her knuckles had whitened on the clasp. “He'll never be yours, you know.”

“Oh?” Valerie tried to act indifferent, but there was too much going on here—revelations that were very unnerving.

“He's never gotten over me,” Kristin said. “He'll never love anyone else. Why do you think he hasn't married in all these years?”

Valerie's heart flip-flopped inside her. So she hadn't imagined the intimacy between them at the fund-raiser. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “I didn't realize the two of you had a past.”

“We were engaged,” Kristin said. “Didn't he tell you? No, I suppose he wouldn't, at that.”

“What's the point of this little visit?” Valerie wanted the woman out of her house. She felt dirtied by Kristin's presence. She couldn't stand to think of Brant being with someone like her, holding her in his arms. Making love to Kristin the way he'd made love to her.

Kristin was busy opening her purse. “The point is, how much do you want?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She pulled out a checkbook. “How much do you want to drop this Kingsley-kidnapping nonsense?”

“Let me get this straight,” Valerie said slowly. “You're trying to buy me off?”

“That's what you want, isn't it? What other reason could you possibly have for wanting to dredge up all that old business?”

Valerie looked at the woman in disgust. “That ‘old business' involved the kidnapping and murder of a child. An innocent man was framed for the crime and sent to prison for life. I'm not after money,” she said. “I'm after the truth.”

It was as though Kristin hadn't heard a word Valerie said. She pulled the top from a silver pen and opened her checkbook. “I repeat—how much?”

Valerie shoved an angry hand through her hair. The woman's single-mindedness was infuriating. “This isn't about money! It's about justice! Surely you understand the concept. Your husband is a D.A., for God's sake.”

That seemed to jolt Kristin from her icy arrogance. She glared at Valerie with open hostility. “My husband is also a Colter. You're trying to destroy his family. I simply won't allow it.”

“There may not be anything you can do about it,” Valerie replied, folding her arms. Then, realizing she looked too defensive, she dropped them to her sides.

“There's always something I can do.” With quick, jerky movements, Kristin shoved the checkbook and pen back into her purse and snapped it closed. “You don't know who you're dealing with.”

Valerie thought she had a pretty good idea. A petty, vindictive, spoiled debutante used to getting her own way, primarily because of her looks. A coldly ambitious woman who was only too happy to ride on her husband's coattails, as long as he was on his way to the top.

A woman who might even be willing to resort to violence, to get her own way.

A chill crawled up Valerie's spine, although she was careful to show no outward fear. “You'd better go,” she said calmly enough. “Before I call the police.”

Kristin laughed, an ugly sound that deepened the chill inside Valerie. “Yes, you do that,” she said. “You call the police. Let's see whose side they're on when they get here. I'm a Colter, remember?” She laughed again, but to Valerie's relief, she headed for the door. As she pulled it open, she turned to glance over her shoulder. “I'm warning you. Leave my family alone.” Hatred glinted in her eyes as she added, “And stay away from Brant.”

* * *

A
S SOON AS
B
RANT
got to work the next morning, Lieutenant Bermann, his immediate superior in Robbery and Homicide, stuck his head out the door of his glass cubicle and hollered, “Hey, Colter! Captain Rawlins wants to see you ASAP.”

Brant got up from his desk and walked down the
hallway to Hugh's office. After knocking on the door, he entered the room, then stopped short just inside. Hugh wasn't alone. Raymond Colter occupied one of the chairs in front of Hugh's desk, and Brant's father sat in the other. Austin Colter stood at the window. He'd been staring down at the street when Brant first entered, but now his gaze locked with Brant's and he scowled in displeasure.

Brant walked slowly across the room to Hugh's desk, and looked down at his father. Although Brant knew his father had been making progress in his physical therapy, he certainly hadn't known that he'd recovered enough to be out and about like this.

Brant thought about the mud and pine needles on the shoes beneath his father's bed the other night, and an uneasiness came over him again. Was it possible his father had been the man in the woods that night? Had he hit Brant over the head to keep from being discovered?

If so, what had he been up to at the Kingsley mansion?

His father's expression gave nothing away. His mouth had been drawn slightly to one side by the stroke, and the lines in his face had deepened, making him look far older than his years. But his eyes were just as dark, just as probing as they'd ever been. He met Brant's gaze now without blinking.

“What's going on?” Brant asked.

His father said nothing, but beside him, Raymond spoke. “That's what we're hoping you'll tell us, Brant.”

Brant's gaze shifted to his uncle. Raymond was wearing a dark gray Italian-cut suit with a silk tie and expensive-looking loafers. Brant had never seen his
uncle dress this way before. He looked very successful, very sophisticated; and a comparison to the man sitting beside him was inevitable. Although there were only four years separating their ages, Raymond looked at least twenty years younger than his older brother. And infinitely stronger.