Finding Laura (10 page)

Dena looked up from her notes briefly. “I didn’t get much further before I had to quit yesterday. So far all I’ve found out about them is that Stuart was born in 1833, and
Faith in 1836. I’ll be able to keep following the trail on Monday.”

Laura shook her head admiringly. “You’ve already found out more than I expected, especially this soon. Do you think you’ll be able to trace the mirror all the way to the present?”

“No way to be sure, really. I’ve been surprised we’ve been this lucky; people don’t usually keep track of a brass mirror when it passes from hand to hand. But this one seems to have meant something to everyone who owned it, so they made note of what happened to it. Cross your fingers our luck holds out, and the next owners cared enough to record what happened to the mirror.”

Dena had typed up her notes so that Laura would have a copy of this first chunk of research, and after the college student had gone, Laura spent some minutes studying the material. Dates, brief comments, not much information, really. Dry facts. That a boy and girl had met and fallen in love in Revolutionary times. That they had married and had a family. That they had been especially close, especially in love, so much so that others noticed and commented. That he had commissioned a mirror to be made to honor his wife and their love.

That they had died less than two years apart, after more than fifty years together.

Then the next steps on the mirror’s journey to the present. Back to the silversmith who had fashioned it, and to his wife, who had loved it. Then, years later, put back in a shop window, where it attracted the attention of a young lady, who came in to buy it—and apparently fell in love with the man who sold her the mirror, the silversmith’s son.

Laura didn’t know what she had expected. Maybe a giant red flag indicating why Peter Kilbourne had wanted to buy the mirror back, or at least some hint of his reasons.
But there was nothing that she could see. Not so far, anyway.

She left the notes on the bar and went to her work area, staring at the beginning of the painting of a feminine hand holding the mirror. She had barely worked on it the day before, though she had spent a great deal of time staring at it. A great deal of time moving restlessly around her apartment while her thoughts chased around and around in her head and common sense and logic clashed with yearnings she didn’t even understand.

I can’t go back there
.

I have to
.

Laura rubbed the ache between her eyebrows fretfully and was just about to go in search of aspirin when the phone rang. Calls from the press had tapered off, so she had turned the phone back on the previous afternoon, but Laura still approached the instrument warily.

“Hello?”

“Laura? This is Amelia Kilbourne.

“She didn’t relax. If anything, she grew tenser. “Hello, Amelia.”

“Forgive my impatience, child, but at my age time is a matter of some concern. Have you decided to accept the commission?”

“I—I still don’t know, Amelia. I’m sorry.”

“If you’re troubled about the family, don’t be. They’ve been informed, and no one objects.”

Laura wondered if it was a case of no one daring to object, but she didn’t voice her reservations on that point. Instead she said, “If the police didn’t suspect me, it might be different, but—”

“Daniel spoke to the police—and I spoke to the commissioner.” Amelia uttered a little laugh, slyly pleased at having disregarded her grandson’s wishes again. “They admitted they have no evidence against you, Laura. They can’t connect you to Peter in the past—or that night. They
showed that photo you gave them to the motel manager, and he’s sure it wasn’t you he saw in the car. As far as the police are concerned, you’re no longer a—what do they call it?—a prime suspect.”

It was a relief to hear that, even though Laura had told herself often that no evidence of a relationship existed because there had been no relationship. Still, mistakes were sometimes made, and innocent people were sometimes convicted of crimes they had not committed. Laura would not feel entirely safe until Peter Kilbourne’s killer was in jail.

“I’m glad to hear it, Amelia,” she said. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Does it make it easier for you to accept the commission, child?”

Sidestepping that question, Laura said, “Amelia, wouldn’t you rather get a real artist with recognized ability to paint your portrait?”

“You are a real artist, Laura. And what’s wrong with my choosing to advance the career of an unknown? I can guarantee you that if you produce work we’re both happy with, you’ll have more commissions than you can accept within a month.” There was no conceit in her voice, but simple certainty; she might not be the leader of society she had once been, but Amelia Kilbourne knew that there were still many people in Atlanta who would follow her lead.

“I don’t think you’d be happy with the result, Amelia.”

“Let me be the judge of that. In any case, how will you know if you don’t try?”

Laura closed her eyes, wavering. She felt the pull of Amelia, the sensation of being drawn in, and every instinct urged her to be wary. This was wrong somehow. There was danger in this offer, in that house. But there was also Daniel.

I can’t go back there
.

I have to
.

Opening her eyes, Laura said steadily, “All right, Amelia. I accept the commission, thank you. We can get started on Monday, if that’s all right with you?”

M
ADELINE’S FORK CLATTERED
to her plate, and she turned wide blue eyes, still pink-rimmed from crying, to her mother-in-law. “Oh, Amelia, no,” she whispered.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Daniel said quietly from his place farther down the table. “The police believe Laura Sutherland had nothing to do with Peter’s murder.”

“She’s coming here, Madeline,” Amelia said in a matter-of-fact tone. “She’ll be here Monday, and she’ll continue to come here until the portrait is finished. I’ve asked her to do all the work on it here at the house.”

“She isn’t moving in?” Alex asked politely. “I thought I heard you give orders that a room’s to be prepared for her.”

“In case of need,” Amelia replied, and her lips tightened slightly. “She prefers to return to her apartment each evening, but I’ve told her the room will be ready should she decide otherwise.”

Alex looked across the table at Josie and let his eyes widen slightly, asking silently—and sardonically—why anyone would prefer not to spend the night in this house. Knowing all too well that he considered the place gloomy and the current atmosphere unnecessarily depressing, Josie looked away hastily and encountered Madeline’s anguished gaze.

As Daniel had, Josie spoke gently. “It really is all right, Madeline. I met her, and she seemed very nice. I’m sure she’ll be … sensitive to your feelings.”

“I wonder if she’ll be sensitive to Kerry’s,” Alex mused.

Josie glanced at the empty chair beside her, where Peter’s wife—his widow—normally sat; Kerry was spending the weekend with a sister who lived here in Atlanta. Josie said, “Surely she will. I mean, we don’t even know that she was—was involved with Peter.”

“I’d bet hard cash on the probability,” Alex said.

“That’s enough,” Amelia snapped, sitting up even straighter than usual in her chair at the head of the table. “Laura will be here as my guest, and I expect you all to behave accordingly.”

Amelia’s granddaughter, Anne, sitting between Madeline and Daniel at the long table, said, “Whether we like it or not.” Her voice was flat.

Amelia looked at her, frowning. “This is still my house, and I’ll thank you to remember that fact.”

Anne, a dark-haired, brown-eyed woman with her grandmother’s elegant features spoiled by a discontented expression, shrugged pettishly. “Oh, I remember. How could I forget, when you remind me almost daily?”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you.”

“No, I suppose not. After all, everything done in this house has to have your stamp of approval or it just doesn’t get done. I couldn’t choose wallpaper for my room without your okay, and we’re all forced to eat this bland, unimaginative food because it suits you, not because any of us like it.” She shoved her plate away with an angry gesture.

“You don’t have to live here,” Amelia reminded her coldly.

Josie intervened before Anne could voice a retort, saying quietly, “I think we’re all still coping with shock, and—”

“Don’t help me!” Anne told her in fierce resentment. She pushed her chair back and stalked from the room.

There was a little silence, and then Josie sighed. “No
matter what I say or do, I always seem to rub Anne the wrong way.”

“She’s jealous of you,” Amelia said with a shrug.

“She shouldn’t be.” Josie felt distinctly uncomfortable. “I … think I’ve eaten all I can. Excuse me, please?” Receiving a gracious nod from Amelia, she left the table and the room, hearing Madeline’s plaintive voice behind her.

“But, Amelia, this girl—!”

Josie frowned a little as she went to the library and the small desk she used. She didn’t really have any work to do, beyond sorting and filing copies of some of Amelia’s notes from the last day or so. Amelia was an inveterate letter writer at all times, maintaining a steady correspondence with friends all over the country, and she insisted on keeping copies of letters received
and
written for the family archives. Recent letters and notes concerned Peter’s death, of course, and Josie had been too busy to get them all filed.

Not that Amelia either asked or expected her to be working on a Saturday evening, but Josie was restless and needed to be occupied. She was worried. In many ways, Peter hadn’t exactly been an asset to the family, but his death had upset a careful balance, and the result was a great deal of tension—and suspicion.

Josie didn’t want to think that, but during the past days she had come to the reluctant conclusion that someone inside the family might have had something to do with Peter’s death. For one thing, the police seemed far more interested now than they had been initially in the whereabouts of family members the night Peter had been killed; they had returned twice during the week, polite but full of questions. And for another thing, the faces around her seemed guarded and wary when they hadn’t been before.

Even Alex …

“You surely aren’t planning to work tonight?”

Josie looked up as Alex came into the room, and after a slight hesitation placed a crystal paperweight atop a stack of Amelia’s notes. “No, I guess not. I was just restless.”

“After that little scene at the supper table, I’m not surprised. Madeline is still upset, and Amelia lost patience with her. So it’s left to Daniel to try and calm his mother down.”

“I can’t say that I blame Madeline, really,” Josie said. “To bring any stranger into the house right now would be upsetting, but Laura Sutherland? What’s gotten into Amelia? This sudden obsession with getting her portrait painted, and by an unknown artist, seems so …”

“Crazy?” Alex supplied wryly.

Josie got up and absently pushed her chair neatly back under the desk. “Eccentric, let’s say.”

Alex laughed shortly at her careful choice of words. “She’s up to something, that much is certain. So’s Daniel.”

Josie looked into his speculative greenish eyes and felt a little chill of unease. “What do you mean?”

“I mean … things are going to come to a head in this family, and soon, if I’m not much mistaken. The only question is, how many of us are going to be left standing when it’s all over.”

“You make it sound like a war.”

He shrugged, suddenly careless. “Nothing for you to worry about, sweet. Both Amelia and Daniel like you.” He reached out and took her hand, smiling. “Anyway, let’s not think anymore about that. You’re restless, and I’ve had about all of this house I can take for the moment, so why don’t we get out of here?”

“You’re on.” Josie didn’t know what he had in mind, but she didn’t really care. She didn’t want to think or worry anymore, at least for a while, and Alex was the best cure she had ever found for too much introspection.

•   •   •

T
HE CLOCK ON
his nightstand proclaimed the hour of midnight when Josie stirred beside Alex. She was reluctant to move, very reluctant, but she had never yet spent an entire night in his bed and wasn’t about to start now. Whatever he said, Josie doubted that Amelia would like her secretary and the soon-to-be family lawyer openly sharing a bed right here in the family house.

“Where are you going?” he murmured when she pushed the covers back.

“To my room, of course.”

Alex hooked an arm around her waist, hauled her easily back to his side, and shifted his weight so that he held her trapped. “I don’t think so.”

“Alex—”

He leaned down and kissed her, his half-open eyes gleaming at her in the lamplight as his mouth played on hers. His tongue glided sensuously, his teeth nibbled gently, in a caress that was blatantly sexual.

Josie felt his hard shoulders under her hands and wasn’t surprised that she had reached for him. He knew just how to touch her, just how to arouse her until she was beyond protest. Beyond herself. No matter how closely she tried to guard herself, he always found at least this way in.

Her body arched into his, pressing closer, and she made a little sound when his hand slid up her rib cage and cupped her breast. Her flesh responded instantly to the gentle kneading, to the rhythmic brushing of his thumb back and forth across her tightening nipple. She made another sound, harsher and more urgent, hearing it throb in her throat, which ached just as the rest of her body ached for him.

His eyes still slitted, still gleaming enigmatically at her, he murmured against her lips, “You don’t really want to leave me, do you, sweet?”

She looked at him dazedly, then caught her breath when he lowered his head so that he could brush his lips
across the straining tip of her breast. He held her gaze while his tongue darted out and flicked lightly, while his mouth captured and sucked her sensitive flesh.

“Do you?” he demanded insistently, his low voice as seductive as his caresses.