Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (12 page)

* * *

A
LITTLE WHILE LATER
, Brant walked her back to her hotel. Rather than easing the tension between them, their new association made Valerie even more uncomfortable around him. Even more aware of him.

In spite of their differing opinions about the kidnapping, in spite of the fact that they were, in some ways, still working at cross-purposes, the attraction between them had not lessened. If anything, it was more potent than ever.

Death and danger had a way of doing that, Valerie thought. Of charging every moment with overactive emotions and sensations.

When Brant took her arm to guide her into the elevator at the hotel, Valerie nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Static electricity.”

He stared down at her in the elevator. They were alone and his eyes told her he knew she was lying. He knew the real reason his touch had affected her so strongly.

This is not going to work,
she decided, and then, in horror, realized she'd spoken the words out loud.

He smiled at her knowingly. “What isn't?”

“We can't possibly work together.” She shoved her hair back from her face. “It just won't work.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said eloquently. “It just won't.”

He shrugged. “I don't see why not. We both want to find the truth, don't we? And besides, I want to make sure what happened to Naomi Gillum doesn't happen to you.”

Valerie cringed. “Thanks.”

“You
can
trust me, Valerie.”

“Can I?” She thought about the conversation she'd overheard in the Kingsley mansion last evening. She hadn't actually heard the conspirators inside planning her demise, but Valerie couldn't shake the notion that that had been exactly the purpose of the meeting. And she couldn't forget that they'd been waiting for Brant to join them.

Don't trust him,
she warned herself.
Use him, but don't trust him.

She didn't dare look up at him because she knew she would be lost if she did. She knew his deep, dark gaze would swallow her up, and she would have no will of her own. She would not be able to resist him.

He took her chin and lifted her face to his. “Are you afraid of me, Valerie?”

He made her name sound like a caress. Valerie shivered. “No. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of anything.”

“Not even the truth?”

“Why should I be afraid of the truth? Cletus Brown is innocent—”

“I'm not talking about Cletus Brown or my father or
the Kingsley kidnapping. I'm talking about us. About what's happening between us.”

“Nothing is happening,” Valerie said shakily.

“Liar. And I thought you placed such a high premium on the truth.”

“I do. But there is no ‘us,' Brant.” His name slipped out so easily, almost like a sigh. “There can't be,” she whispered.

“Why not?” His hands were on her arms now, holding her in front of him. Valerie didn't think she could have moved away if her life depended on it.

And maybe it did, she thought fleetingly. Her life could very well depend on her keeping her head, on not placing her trust in the wrong people.

Someone wishes you harm. A man. Your destiny is tied to him. He will deceive you.

“We can't do this,” she said desperately. “We're enemies. Your father—”

“My father has nothing to do with this.” His grip tightened on her arm.

“He has everything to do with it!” Valerie cried before she could stop herself. “You're his son. You look just like him—”

“But I'm
not him.
” Brant drew her to him. “Damn it, I'm not him, and this is just between you and me.”

Valerie closed her eyes briefly as he folded her into his arms. She drew a deep, ragged breath and looked up at him.

His gaze was so intense, it took her breath away. She could see desire flickering in those black depths, and something else she couldn't define. Something that made her quiver with fear. With desire.

His fingers tunneled through her hair, and then,
with one thumb, he traced the outline of her lips. Their gazes locked for one last time, and then slowly, almost in unison, their eyes drifted closed as his mouth lowered to hers.

The moment his lips touched hers, Valerie knew she was lost. A thousand warning bells rang in her head, but she ignored every last one of them. Nothing seemed to matter at that moment but the way his mouth felt against hers. The way her body melted into his.

Thrill after thrill rushed through her. Her body tingled with awareness, a pure and dazzling sensation. A part of her wished the moment never had to end, so great was its sweetness, while another part of her yearned for something more.

The bell sounded for her floor and the doors slid open. There was no one on the other side, but Valerie jumped back. She touched her fingertips to her lips as she stared up at Brant.

“No,”
she whispered desperately. “Not again.”

He stared down at her strangely, no doubt wondering why a kiss—one simple little kiss—would make her react so strongly.

He had no idea, Valerie thought. No idea what that one kiss meant. Not only had she betrayed herself, but she'd betrayed her father, as well. How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that Brant was Judd Colter's son? They looked so much alike. The eyes were exactly the same.

Those eyes were still gazing down at her. “Why are you so frightened?” he demanded. “Why do I threaten you so much?”

She shook her head, ready to deny it, but then caught herself, realizing there was no way she could make him
understand. Not without telling him the complete truth, and she had no intention of doing that.

“It can't happen again,” she said.

The elevator doors started to close, but Brant reached out and pressed the Open button. Together he and Valerie stepped out of the elevator. She started down the hallway, toward her room.

“Wait a minute.” He caught up with her and took her arm. “What's going on here?”

“Nothing.” To her vast relief, Valerie realized she'd regained her composure, at least outwardly. She shook off his arm. “Look, I agreed to work with you on the investigation, but fringe benefits don't come with the job.”

“Was that all that was to you?” Anger flashed in his dark eyes. “A ‘fringe benefit'? I thought it was a kiss.”

Valerie fished in the purse she'd retrieved from Naomi's apartment for her door key. “We've been through a lot tonight. The murder and everything. I expect we were just reacting to the moment. Our emotions were working overtime.” Not to mention their hormones.

“And last night?” He propped one hand against the door frame. “What was that?”

“It was all just a mistake,” Valerie said. In spite of her outward calm, her hand trembled as she inserted the key into the lock. She opened her door and glanced back. “It won't happen again.”

“Damn straight it won't,” Brant retorted. “Not if I'm to be made to feel like a fool every time.”

“You don't have to feel like a fool,” Valerie said. “It wasn't your fault. We both got carried away.”

“That's very generous of you.”

Valerie took a deep breath. “I'll see you back in Memphis. Good night,” she said awkwardly.

“Good night, Valerie.” He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but then changed his mind.

Valerie closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, her eyes closed, her heart pounding in her chest. What had she been thinking, letting him kiss her again? Had she completely forgotten who he was?

That was the most disturbing part. She hadn't forgotten. She'd known exactly who she was kissing, and still, she'd loved it. Still, she'd wanted more.

What was this hold he had on her? How could he make her want the impossible?

Because a relationship with Judd Colter's son was exactly that. Impossible. Crazy. She felt guilty just thinking about him…that way.

His father had put her father in prison. Her mother had died a sad and lonely woman, a desperate woman, because of Judd Colter. How could Valerie think for one minute that she could ever be with Judd Colter's son?

She stripped off her clothes and got ready for bed, but even after she'd turned off the light, it was a very long time before she fell asleep.

* * *

B
RANT STOOD IN THE
shower and let the water pound against his skin. It was cold and bracing—just the thing to take his mind off Valerie Snow and what had or had not almost happened between them earlier.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. He couldn't stop thinking about the way her mouth had felt beneath his, the way her body had responded to his. Just as it had been last night, the chemistry between them had been
powerful, consuming, and for a moment, everything had been swept from his mind except his desire for her.

But Valerie Snow was not a woman to lose your head over, much less your heart. For one thing, he knew she wasn't being completely honest with him. She had her secrets, but just what they were, or how they might affect him, Brant had no idea.

An affair with a woman you couldn't trust was never a good idea. Brant had learned his lesson the hard way with Kristin. He'd trusted her, given her his heart and soul, and what had she done? Betrayed him at the first opportunity. Dumped him the moment things didn't go her way.

In the years since his broken engagement, Brant had had relationships with a lot of different women, some more serious than others. But he'd never felt as dangerously out of control with anyone as he did now with Valerie.

What was it about her that intrigued him so much? That drew him like a moth to flame?

He knew he was playing with fire, but hell, wasn't that part of the attraction? Wasn't that part of the allure?

A
S SOON AS
Brant got back into town the next day, he drove straight to the building downtown that housed the police department's archives. The officer on duty, Tripioni, a veteran of the department for more than thirty years, was a big brute of a man with thinning red hair and muscle that had gone soft a long time ago.

He looked at Brant as if he were nuts when Brant told him what he wanted. “The Kingsley file? What the hell do you want that for?”

Tripioni was notorious for wanting to know everyone else's business, and most of the time, Brant humored him. But not this time. This time Brant wasn't particularly anxious to feed Tripioni's curiosity because the man was also notorious for talking.

“It's because of that newspaper article, right?”

Brant shrugged, admitting nothing.

Tripioni nodded. He laid a half-eaten bagel on his desk and picked up a cup of coffee. “It's a damn shame, the abuse the department has to take these days. There was a time when we knew how to deal with troublemakers like that reporter. There was a time—”

“Can you get the file for me?” Brant asked impatiently.

Tripioni gave him a sharp look. He took a long sip of his coffee. “There was a time when people knew their
places,” he said meaningfully. “People had respect. Not anymore. You take your old man. Helluva cop. Never be another like him. They were all good cops—Judd, Raymond, Hugh Rawlins. They solved the Kingsley case right under the FBI's nose. Embarrassed the whole damn Bureau.” He snorted. “Feds thought they could waltz into town and make us look like a bunch of damn hicks. Our boys showed them. Brought a lot of respect to the department, I can tell you that. Got us a lot of attention, both local and national. Made heroes out of the whole damn lot of us.”

Brant refrained from drumming his fingers on Tripioni's desk while he listened to a story he'd heard dozens of times. Finally Tripioni finished his recitation and pushed his bulk up from the desk.

“This is a little unorthodox, you know. You should have filled out a request. That file is restricted.”

“Restricted? After thirty-one years?”

Tripioni shrugged. “I don't suppose it could hurt, your taking a look. You being Judd Colter's boy and all. But it could take me a while to find it,” he warned. “Maybe you should come back later.”

Brant sighed. “No, I'll wait.” He had the feeling if he left, Tripioni might forget all about the file, and then there would be an even bigger delay.

Forty-five minutes later Tripioni returned with two bulging expandable folders and several envelopes marked “Photographs.”

“You'll have to sign for them,” he said.

Brant scribbled his name, rank, department, date and time of day on the sign-out sheet, then headed back to headquarters. He waited until he was seated behind his own desk before opening the files.

As he sifted through the folders, he noticed immediately that the autopsy report was missing from the file, though it was listed on the property slip.

The envelopes marked “Photographs” contained crime-scene pictures of the nursery and the grounds directly below the balcony where the kidnapper supposedly had gained access to the house, along with pictures of the shallow grave where the body of Adam Kingsley had later been discovered a few miles from the Kingsley estate. But there were no pictures of the boy's body. No autopsy photographs at all. Brant found that not only odd, but downright disturbing.

As he worked his way through the folders, reading the reports, he tried to visualize the scene through the eyes of the technicians. Eventually the picture grew clearer for him.

On the night of June 24, thirty-one years ago, three-year-old Adam Kingsley had been taken from his family's estate while a fund-raiser, much like the one Brant had attended for his cousin two nights ago, took place downstairs. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No unidentifiable fingerprints had been taken from the nursery or from outside the mansion.

The Kingsleys often used off-duty police officers for security at the mansion, and such was the case that night. But none of the officers reported seeing anything the least bit suspicious.

Just before midnight, the nanny had gone in to check on the twins before going to bed herself in a room adjoining the nursery.

At about three in the morning, when the last of the guests had gone home, Pamela Kingsley, the boys' stepmother, had gone into the nursery, found Adam missing,
and alerted the entire household. The off-duty officers still on the scene quickly called in for backup and began scouring the grounds. No sign of the boy or the perpetrator was found.

The next day, Edward Kingsley received the first ransom call. He was told to bring five hundred thousand in unmarked bills to Overton Park Zoo where he was to await further instructions. The police set up an elaborate surveillance, sealing off the entire park. But something went wrong. Somehow signals got crossed, and the kidnapper was able to slip through the net, contact Edward Kingsley and lure him to a more remote area of the park where he was told to leave the money. By the time the police closed in, the kidnapper and the money were long gone.

The media blasted the department for its incompetence, in particular the three detectives heading up the investigation—Judd Colter, Raymond Colter and Hugh Rawlins. To make matters worse, the FBI arrived and took over the case.

But soon after that, Judd Colter got an anonymous tip that led him to Cletus Brown's house, where fifteen thousand dollars of the ransom money was found in the trunk of Brown's car. An arrest was made, witnesses were interviewed—including Brown's brother-in-law—and it was concluded that Brown had means, motive and opportunity. He was officially charged with the kidnapping.

Two months later, another anonymous call led Judd Colter and his team to a shallow grave a few miles from the Kingsley estate and to the badly decomposed body of little Adam Kingsley. That sealed Cletus Brown's
fate. There wasn't a jury in the state, maybe the whole country, who would have acquitted him after that.

But where were the photos? Brant wondered as he finished reading through the last of the reports. Had the pictures of the body been disposed of out of deference to the Kingsley family? Perhaps someone feared an unscrupulous reporter might figure out a way to steal the pictures—or buy them—and print them in a tabloid.

How long had the photos of Adam Kingsley's body been missing? And why?

* * *

“W
HY WOULD SOMEONE
remove the pictures from the file?” Valerie asked as she and Brant talked over lunch. She'd flown in from New Orleans that morning—with, if not Melmer's blessing, his reluctant okay—and gone straight to the office.

A message from Brant had already been waiting for her. “Meet me for lunch downtown at the Rendezvous—12:00 p.m. sharp. Urgent.” It had been just after ten then, and Valerie had hardly been able to refrain from calling Brant at police headquarters and demanding to know what he'd found out.

But somehow she'd managed to control herself. She didn't want him to think she was too anxious. She didn't want him to conclude that his help was already starting to be invaluable to her. This new alliance was still a bit unnerving, and Valerie wasn't at all sure she completely trusted him. What if he was trying to deliberately mislead her just to throw her off track?

She had to admit, however, this new piece of evidence was fascinating. And Brant had kept his word. He'd gotten access to the Kingsley file.

He spooned sugar into his iced tea. “I don't know why someone would take them. It's damned irregular.”

“There must have been something damaging about the photos,” Valerie concluded. “Something someone didn't want others to see. Who would have access to the file?”

Brant glanced up. “Authorized personnel only.”

“Meaning, it had to have been someone in the police department, right?”

“Not necessarily. Any law enforcement officer in the state is able to come in and access our files, as well as the civilian clerical staff. I'll check the sign-out sheet, but I doubt if that will help much. There's no telling who might have taken those photos.”

Maybe not, but Valerie had her suspicions, and she knew Brant did, as well. Why else had he not reported the missing photos to his superiors? Why else had he not gone straight to Hugh Rawlins with the information?

Because he didn't trust Rawlins, that was why. He might not be ready to admit it yet, but Valerie could tell Brant was beginning to have his doubts—not just about Rawlins but about his uncle and his father; about everyone who had been involved in the Kingsley investigation.

She wished she could take pleasure in the fact that a wedge of distrust had been driven between Judd Colter and his son, just as Judd Colter had done to her and her father thirty-one years ago.

But seeing the torment of doubt in Brant's eyes, the growing suspicion that someone he knew, someone he cared about could have been involved in a cover-up, hit too close to home. Valerie knew only too well what he was experiencing. Soon the self-doubt would begin.

But Brant was a grown man. There was no reason to believe he would labor under the same self-loathing she had because of his father's sins. She'd only been five years old when her father had been sent to prison—too young to rationalize that whatever he might have done had nothing to do with her.

Brant wouldn't think that way. He was a cop. He would be able to handle whatever they found out, Valerie told herself; but an uneasiness began to grow inside her.

If she brought down Brant's father, what would Brant think of her? Would he ever be able to forgive her?

* * *

A
S
B
RANT SAT ACROSS
from Valerie, he found himself growing angry with her. He wasn't sure why, exactly. Maybe it was that flash of triumph he'd seen in her eyes when he'd told her about the missing photographs, and again when he'd admitted that only police personnel would have had access to the files.

She was enjoying this, damn her. She was enjoying the destruction of everything Brant had ever believed in.

He was being unfair and he knew it. She was a reporter hot after a sensational story, and he'd just given her new fodder. The knowledge of the missing photographs, coming as they did right after Naomi Gillum's murder, was intriguing to him, as well. Brant had to admit that even he couldn't let go of the investigation now, no matter where it led him. No matter who got hurt.

And if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that maybe, just maybe, his anger with her stemmed more from her rejection of him last night than
her reaction to the missing photographs. She was determined to fight the attraction between them, and even though Brant could rationalize that was probably for the best, a part of him still didn't like it. A part of him still wanted her, maybe more now than ever.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Valerie toyed with her salad, then glanced up, her gaze intent, as if she'd just come to some internal resolution. “Brant, do you know anyone in the FBI?”

“Why do you ask?”

She pushed aside her plate. The food had barely been touched. “Naomi Gillum told me there was an FBI officer working on the Kingsley case who came to see her after Cletus Brown was arrested. She said he didn't believe Cletus Brown was guilty, that he thought someone was trying to frame him.” Valerie paused. “If he's still alive, I'd love to talk to him. I'd like to know why he never came forward with the information about Naomi. His name was James Denver, and if you can locate him—”

Brant lifted his brows. “You'll be forever in my debt?”

Valerie suppressed a smile, glad that his mood seemed to have lightened. “How about if I just buy your lunch instead?” She picked up the check before Brant could grab it.

“I suppose that'll have to do,” he muttered. Then, as he took her elbow, he leaned down and whispered, “For now.”

* * *

A
FEW PHONE CALLS
and a few favors called in garnered the information Brant sought. Special Agent James Denver had retired from the Bureau with full
benefits five years ago and was living in a small town called Paradise, in northeast Arkansas. When Brant called Valerie with the information, she wanted to leave immediately.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I have other cases I'm working on. I can't just pick up and leave.”

“You don't have to,” Valerie replied. “I'll go. I'll let you know what he says. I'll even tape the conversation if he's agreeable.”

“No way,” Brant insisted. “I want to go with you. I have this weekend off. We can drive up on Saturday.”

“That's two days away!”

“Have you already forgotten what happened to Naomi Gillum?” he asked bluntly. “I don't want you to go by yourself, Valerie. Promise me you won't.”

She hesitated, wanting to be annoyed by his highhandedness, but finding, instead, that she was grateful for his concern. Was it possible that he really cared about her?

Or did he want to see for himself what James Denver had to say? Did he want to make sure the retired FBI agent didn't tell her something Brant and his father didn't want her to know?

You're being paranoid,
Valerie scolded herself. What did the man have to do to earn her trust? He'd saved her life, bailed her out of a dicey situation in New Orleans, gotten access to the Kingsley file and now had located James Denver for her. What else could he do to convince her he was on her side?

Valerie took a deep breath. All that was true, of course, but she still couldn't forget who his father was. She still couldn't forget about the conversation she'd overheard at the Kingsley mansion. Brant was a cop
and
a Colter. It appeared that he was going out of his way to help her, but Valerie would be a fool to let down her guard completely.