The Butler's Daughter (8 page)

Juliana's stomach rolled. Hunter could trust a trooper on a word-of-mouth recommendation, but not the woman he was going to marry. She would dearly love to know if he distrusted her specifically or just relationships. “Does he know about our arrangement, too?”

“He knows that Ross and Lexi appointed me the guardian of their living children, and I have assured him that I am instigating measures to protect Cort's identity. And yours. Just answer the questions, you may know more than you realize.”

She leaned against the leather seat back not the least bit
appeased. She had a sick feeling that Hunter was very interested in her answers to the investigator's questions, as well.

 

I
NVESTIGATOR
B
RADSHAW
was a compact man in his late forties with a long sharp nose and somber gray eyes. He greeted Juliana with a handshake that seemed both sincere and compassionate and asked after her father as he escorted them to a back room of the police installation reserved for interviews.

“We'd like to interview your father as soon as possible, Ms. Goodhew.” The investigator indicated that Juliana and Hunter take a chair at the table in the center of the room. “We may be able to piece together how someone else found out the location of the rendezvous in Severance. Did he reveal any details to you in your phone conversations?”

Juliana shook her head. “I'm sorry. All I know is that my father handled the arrangements himself and booked the house under his own name.”

“Would those arrangements include ordering flowers to be delivered to the house?”

Juliana glanced at Hunter uncertainly. He shrugged his shoulders, indicating the significance of the question was unknown to him. She wet her lips. “It's possible. That would be the kind of thing he might do to ensure the Collingwoods were comfortable in their surroundings. Lexi loved freshly cut flowers. But my father didn't mention anything about ordering flowers. Why do you ask?”

“Because we've interviewed the property owners who claim that a floral delivery was made to the house Thursday morning—three large arrangements designated for the living room, dining room and master bedroom. The delivery person insisted on placing the arrangements himself and
making finishing touches per Mr. Goodhew's request. The owners didn't object.”

Investigator Bradshaw's inquisitive gaze shifted from Juliana to Hunter and back. “A large basket arrangement was carried into the master bedroom and placed on a table near where we believe the explosion originated.”

Juliana grew absolutely still as the horror of the investigator's insinuation sank into her fogged mind. The room seemed to be closing in on her. She glanced at Hunter, unconsciously seeking his support as her fingers dug into her palms. This was insane. Her father would never hurt Ross and Lexi. He'd die for them. And a part of Juliana feared that her father's slow recovery might be a subliminal reluctance to face life without Ross. Beneath the table she felt Hunter's leg surreptitiously nudge hers as if reassuring her that he was close by and she wasn't alone. She took a calming breath, drawing strength from this unexpected show of support and felt the walls starting to recede. She had to stay calm. Be as cooperative as possible. “You think my father was involved, Investigator?”

Bradshaw locked his fingers on the table. “It's early in the investigation, Ms. Goodhew. We're following every lead. That includes checking with every florist within a one-hundred-mile radius to ascertain who ordered the flowers. We can't ignore the fact that your father was not in the house when the bomb went off.”

Juliana's face grew warm with indignation. “He was outside waiting for me and the baby!” She told the investigator about Cort's ear infection and her father's command that they arrive by midnight to surprise Ross and Lexi. “I did my best, but the drive was too much for Cort. We stopped in a motel near Utica.”

The BCI investigator pressed on relentlessly. “The break-in at your condo yesterday suggests that someone is
aware you're caring for the Collingwoods' son. Are you certain that no one on the estate other than your father, Ms. York and the Collingwoods was aware of the child's true parentage?”

“There's no way I can be absolutely certain, but we were all very careful. Whenever I visited the estate, I wore those pregnancy pads that actors use and pretended to be nauseous and tired so everyone would be convinced I was expecting.”

Investigator Bradshaw nodded. “How were your living expenses provided to you?”

“Ross gave me a check for two hundred thousand dollars and I set up an account at a bank in Cleveland,” she replied.

“So, the money didn't come out of the household accounts that Mr. Nevins manages?”

Juliana shook her head, adamant. “No. I'm sure Mr. Nevins would have been curious about such an arrangement. The check was from one of Ross's business accounts.”

At that, Hunter deigned to interrupt. He knew the BCI investigator had to ask his questions, but Juliana could use a moment to compose herself against the steady barrage. He could see fine blue veins beneath the pallor of her face. Had she eaten this morning? Why hadn't he noticed?

“If the check came from one of Ross's business accounts it's possible that it came to the attention of Kendrick Dwyer, the chief financial officer, or David Younge, the controller,” he interjected. “More likely Younge as he would be responsible for the day-to-day spending.”

“Looks like I'll have a few more questions for Mr. Dwyer and Mr. Younge,” Investigator Bradshaw said dryly.

Hunter rubbed his jaw, considering motives and oppor
tunity. He'd already given the investigator copies of the alibis he'd gathered from the Collingwood Corporation's senior management.

“Either of them could have had their eye on the CEO position. And they both have the resources to hire assistance. Did the homeowners provide a description of the delivery person? Perhaps Ms. Goodhew will recognize the description.”

“Yes. We got a Caucasian, male, approximately five-foot-ten-inches tall, medium build, maybe midforties wearing blue coveralls and a blue ball cap. No distinguishing characteristics. Ring any bells?”

“I'm afraid not,” Juliana said, her brow crumpling with worry.

“From what you've told us, Investigator,” Hunter continued undaunted, “the bomb was either carried into the house concealed in the arrangement or the delivery man left a door or window unlocked so that someone could enter the house at a later time and plant the bomb.”

Investigator Bradshaw loosened the blue-striped tie knotted at his throat. “That's correct.”

Hunter drummed his fingers on the scarred wooden table. “Was the home monitored by a security system?”

“Yes, but the homeowner said it was only used in the winter months when the house was unoccupied. Break-ins are rare in Severance. Most people leave their doors unlocked in the daytime.”

“Has the Trace Evidence Section been able to determine what kind of explosives were used?”

“Unfortunately, no. There was nothing left. All we know is that it was a high explosive. We're still working on piecing the pager together. We might know more in a few days. And, of course, the Cleveland police are dusting Ms. Goodhew's apartment for fingerprints. The floral delivery man
could be the same person who broke into her apartment. We'll want to take Ms. Goodhew's prints before she leaves today so they can be eliminated from any found at the scene.”

“What about Nonnie Wilson, the missing cook?” Hunter asked, noting that Juliana's head snapped up and her rich mahogany eyes sparked to attention at his mention of the Collingwoods' chef.

Discomfited, he tore his gaze from Juliana's pale face and the sharp jut of her chin and focused on Bradshaw. Had he jeopardized the trust she'd placed in him by passing along the information she'd given him about the cook's disappearance to the police? To Hunter's consternation, earning more of Juliana's trust and keeping it ranked high on his priority list. Right up there with being a loving and attentive father to Cort.

“Nonnie Wilson's still unaccounted for,” Bradshaw said wearily. “A neighbor saw her put several suitcases in her car Friday morning and drive off. We've got an APB out for her car, and we're checking the airports and bus stations.” The investigator checked his watch. “I've taken up enough of Ms. Goodhew's time for today. If you'll both follow me, someone from the Forensic Identification Section is waiting to take Ms. Goodhew's fingerprints.”

Relief flowed through Juliana as she rose from the table. She was bone tired and heartsick with worry about her father's potential reaction to Investigator Bradshaw's insinuations. And she missed Cort. She wasn't used to spending so much time away from him.

As Hunter and Investigator Bradshaw made arrangements to talk later in the day about the security for the funeral a chill eased down her spine. The sooner she and Hunter were married and safely on his island, the more secure she'd feel.

Hunter holed up in his study when they got back to the apartment as much to get away from the reality of his impending wedding as to keep pursuing the investigation in his own way. He had piles of Collingwood Corporation documents to review, as well as updates from his operatives and a constant influx of tips coming in on Riana Collingwood's 1-800 hotline demanding his attention.

Since the night of the explosion, calls to the 1-800 tips line for Riana Collingwood had catapulted into the thousands and each one had to be taken seriously. Even though an FBI case agent was reviewing the incoming calls for potential new leads in Riana's abduction, Hunter had instructed the staff manning the hotline that he wanted to see a report on every call. He might spot something the agent missed.

Normally, he would review this information in the offices he leased for his covert Guardian operations, but he felt more comfortable being near Juliana and Cort.

Hunter eyed the daunting piles of folders accumulating on his desk and selected Ross's takeover files on Phillip Ballard's and Sable Holden's companies as being the most urgent to review. But the words swam on the page as an image of Juliana—radiant in an ivory wedding gown that
brought out the luminescence of her pearly skin—appeared like a specter in his thoughts.

He hadn't kissed her since Saturday night and the memory of that kiss throbbed hot in his veins. It struck him as being exceedingly ironic that while he was adverse to the institution of marriage, he was not adverse to Juliana's charms.

Juliana, the butler's daughter.

Ross would laugh his head off at the irony, then threaten to kill him if he hurt her.

Hunter appreciated women. Appreciated their beauty and the softness of their skin and the special way women had of making their mark on the world, whether in a business meeting or in wiping the tears from a child's face. He understood the intricacies of seducing a woman. Knew the rules of the game and the outcome.

But he'd never been confronted with a woman who confused him like Juliana did. Although he'd laid out the rules of their marriage, he felt as if he were moving from one precarious foothold to another across a vertical rock face. One misstep and he'd fall into Juliana's polished mahogany eyes. Or bury himself deep into her ivory satin skin.

He
wanted
to touch her. Kiss her. And yet, he didn't.

He didn't want to open his heart to his own vulnerability and let in emotions that would affect his judgment. He'd seen what allowing emotions to overrule good sense had done to his father. His father had fallen in love with a pretty office clerk from New Jersey, who worked in the file room, and had decided to marry her despite his family's concerns that he was marrying beneath him.

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 cam
eras 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.

 

“P
UT 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.

 

H
UNTER 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 shot 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.