Finding Laura (7 page)

“Make yourself at home,” Josie invited, using the common and informal phrasing that sat oddly in this decidedly grand house. She went out of the room, leaving the double doors open.

Too nervous to sit down, Laura moved slowly to the fireplace and gazed up at the big painting hanging above it. The little brass plate on the bottom of the gilded frame said
Amelia Kilbourne, 1938
. Nearly sixty years ago. She had been beautiful then, strikingly so, a slender, elegant woman with jet black hair arranged—unfashionably but definitely flattering—in a pompadour that lent her a turn-of-the-century air. And that impression was intensified by the high-necked, lacy dress she wore—again, not at all fashionable for the 1930s.

Laura studied the lovely face of a young Amelia Kilbourne, noting the high, sharp cheekbones that reminded her of Katharine Hepburn, and the dark eyes that contained a glimmer of mischief. And that smile, like Mona Lisa’s, hinted at mystery.

Her imagination touched, Laura wondered how that lovely face had aged in nearly sixty years. The woman who wore it had buried her husband and both her children as well as a grandson, and had lived through what were arguably the most turbulent years in her country’s history. And so much had changed. Travel by air had been exotic when she was a child; she had lived to see space travel. Television,
personal computers, cable and satellite dishes, cellular phones, electronic security—had any of it changed Amelia? Or was she still the woman who had worn a pompadour in defiance of fashion because it suited her?

Laura didn’t know what made her turn suddenly, except the certainty that she was no longer alone. And her reaction, when she saw him standing in the doorway, was so powerful it was as if an actual electric shock had stopped her heart beating. In a moment of infinite silence, she stared at him, taking in his unusual height and wide, powerful shoulders, his gleaming black hair, and the palest blue eyes she had ever seen. He wasn’t handsome, but his harsh face was unforgettably compelling, and intensity radiated from him almost visibly, like the shimmer of heat rising from a fire.

Then, the utter silence was broken by his voice, deep and low, the tone measured. “I’m Daniel Kilbourne,” he said.

She swallowed hard and managed to say “Laura Sutherland” in an unsteady voice.

“Tell me, Laura Sutherland. Did you kill my brother?”

S
he wasn’t what Daniel had expected. Beautiful, yes; Peter had said she was beautiful, and Peter had been a connoisseur of female beauty. She was tall, voluptuous without an ounce of excess flesh, and her face was strikingly lovely. Her hair, pulled back from her face and arranged simply in a long braid hanging down her back, was a bright and burnished red-gold, and she had the unmistakable fair skin of a true redhead as well as clear green eyes.

She wore her pale slacks and silky green blouse with a certain unconscious elegance, and though her voice had wobbled a bit when she had introduced herself, her shoulders were squared with determination and her chin was raised. She had guts, he thought, to come here even knowing what they all must think of her.

But she was still … more than he had expected.

“Did you kill my brother?” he repeated when she remained silent.

“No.” She shook her head a little, her wide eyes never leaving his. “No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t know him.”

Daniel came into the room slowly, relying on the control built over a lifetime to keep his expression unreadable. He went past her to the compact wet bar between the windows. “Drink?” She shook her head, and Daniel fixed a small Scotch for himself. He wasn’t a drinking man, but he needed one now.

Turning once again to face her, he moved toward her until he could rest a hand on the back of the couch between them. He sipped his drink, watching her, then said, “Peter went to see you Saturday. So you did know him.”

“I met him then,” she said, steady now. “But I didn’t know him. He spent less than fifteen minutes in my apartment, and then he left. That’s the only time in my life I’ve ever seen your brother.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Of course, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

She drew a little breath, her fingers playing nervously with the strap of her shoulder bag. “You know I bought a mirror at your estate sale Saturday?”

He nodded. “Yes. The police asked me to verify that Peter had gone to see you because of the mirror.”

“You verified it?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I was a stranger to him.”

He smiled slightly without amusement. “I know that’s the way it appeared.”

“It’s the way it
was
. He came to see me because he wanted to buy the mirror back. Do you—do you know why?”

Daniel looked down at his drink, moving his hand to swirl the ice cubes around in the glass. “No.”

He’s lying
. Laura knew it. She didn’t know why he was lying, but she knew he was. She watched him lift the glass to his lips, her gaze fastening onto his right hand. He wore a big gold ring with a carved green stone that might have
been jade or emerald, and there was something eerily familiar about how he held the glass with only his thumb and two fingers.

It was difficult for her to think clearly; she was still shaken and bewildered by the instant physical attraction she had felt to him. She had never been a woman who reacted to men quickly, cautious in that as she was in no other area of her life, and she wasn’t quite sure how to cope with what she felt. He was a stranger, and a man moreover who thought her at least capable of being a killer, yet she couldn’t take her eyes off him, and all her senses had opened up so intensely that she felt nakedly unprotected.

Daniel lacked Peter’s beauty, but his harsh features were compelling in a sensual way that made the younger brother seem almost absurdly boyish in retrospect. Daniel’s big, powerful body moved with uncanny grace, with the ease of muscles under absolute and unthinking control, and his very size and strength spoke of command, of natural forces just barely contained. She thought of a big cat moving silently through a dark and dangerous jungle, and the image was so strong she could have sworn there was a scent of primitive wildness in the room.

To Laura’s bewilderment, her body seemed to open up just as her senses had, to soften and grow receptive as if in invitation. Her skin heated, her muscles relaxed, her breathing quickened. Her knees felt weak, shaky. She felt an actual physical ache of desire.

My God, what’s happening to me?

Struggling inwardly to control what she felt, to concentrate on what she had come here to find out, Laura managed to speak evenly. “You don’t know why Peter wanted to buy the mirror back, but you know that’s why he came to see me on Saturday?”

“As I told the police.” His pale eyes were fixed on her face, intent, almost hypnotically intense. He was absently
swirling the ice around and around in his glass, the movement causing his ring to flash shards of green.

His hand was long-fingered and strong; she wondered if his touch would be sensitive or if it would overpower with its strength. A flare of heat burned inside her as speculation created a rawly sexual image in her mind. “You don’t know why the mirror was important to Peter?” she asked with an effort.

“That’s what I said.” His voice was even, his gaze unreadable.

Whatever she felt, he seemed unaffected, and seemed not to notice that she hardly shared his composure. Laura tried to draw a steadying breath without making the need for one obvious. “He said the mirror was an heirloom. Is it?”

“As far as I know, Miss Sutherland, it was one of many unused, unwanted items packed away in the attic by God knows who, God knows how many years ago.” He had only a trace of a Southern accent, something common to people who had lived and traveled much outside the South.

“Would anyone else in the family know more about it?”

“I doubt it.” He was abrupt now, a slight frown narrowing his eyes.
And it’s not really the best time to ask them
, he might as well have added.

It struck Laura for the first time that Daniel seemed completely unmoved for a man who had buried his brother two days before. Had the two men disliked each other? Or was Daniel merely a controlled man who gave away little of his emotions? He certainly
looked
hard, with those harsh features and chilly blue eyes, and though his attitude toward her said plainly that he was not inclined to believe her relationship with his brother had been either recent or innocent, he didn’t appear angered or in any way
disturbed by the possibility that his brother’s murderer might be standing before him.

Still, he was obviously at least conscious that his was a house of mourning, and she wondered if that was why he had agreed to meet and talk to her—so that other members of the family, closer to Peter, would not be disturbed.

Slowly she said, “But you don’t believe the mirror has any value to anyone in the family?”

“I don’t believe anyone else will wish to buy it back from you, no,” he replied indifferently. His wide shoulders moved in a slight shrug, drawing her eyes and causing her concentration to waver yet again. There was so much of strength and power about him, so much of force or the possibility of force. And yet she wasn’t afraid of him, she thought.

Aware, suddenly, of a silence that had gone on just those few seconds too long, she said hastily, “Then you won’t mind if I try to find out why Peter wanted to buy it back.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Mind? No. But just how do you propose to do that?”

“It’s an old mirror; it’s bound to have a history. I have a researcher looking into that.”

“Why?”

Laura hesitated an instant before answering him. “I … collect mirrors, so I probably would have done it anyway just out of curiosity. But since your brother tried to buy the mirror back, and then was killed hours later, I need to know if there was some connection to his murder. For my own peace of mind.”

“I see.”

Hearing something in his voice, she said tightly, “The
only
connection between your brother and me is that mirror, Mr. Kilbourne. I was not having an affair with him, if that’s what you think.”

His eyes were narrowed again, fixed on her face, and
his voice was very deliberate when he said, “I haven’t quite made up my mind what I think about you, Miss Sutherland. Let’s just say I knew my brother very well. He never met a beautiful woman he didn’t try to get into his bed. And that was not something at which he often failed.”

Laura ignored the backhanded compliment. “Be that as it may, I’m not in the habit of sleeping with men on fifteen minutes’ acquaintance. Or married men at all, for that matter. Whatever you think of your brother’s morals, you have no right to make assumptions about mine.”
He’ll incline his head slightly to the side in that mocking way
.

He did just as she expected, the gesture familiar to her for no reason she could explain to herself.

“I was brought up never to call a lady a liar,” he said dryly. “So we appear to have a standoff. I don’t
quite
believe your relationship with my brother was innocent, and you have no way of proving it was.”

The fact that he was all too right about the latter point was something Laura found distinctly unsettling. She didn’t want anyone to believe she had been sexually involved with Peter Kilbourne, not the public, not the press, not the police, not the family—and most certainly not this man.

“At least believe I didn’t kill him,” she said, hearing the plea in her voice.

She thought that harsh face might have softened imperceptibly, thought there was a glint of warmth in the chilly eyes, but whatever Daniel would have replied to her plea was lost forever when a new force entered the study.

“Why didn’t you tell me we had a visitor, Daniel?”

I would love to paint her
, was Laura’s first thought.

Amelia Kilbourne, without question. She was a tiny old woman, hardly over five feet tall and seemingly frail, walking with a silver-headed cane even though her posture was upright. Her face hadn’t changed all that much in
sixty years, retaining the high, sharp cheekbones and jaw so obvious in the painting, as well as the high-bridged nose and clear dark eyes. Her snowy white hair was arranged in a smooth and immensely flattering pompadour, her turn-of-the-century–style black dress was floor-length, high-necked, and made of lace over some shimmery material that seemed more suitable for a dinner party than an afternoon of a day of mourning. But, like the hairstyle, the old-fashioned style of clothing suited her to perfection.

Daniel looked at the old lady before he spoke, and for an instant it seemed to Laura that there was a silent battle of wills going on, his pale eyes hard and her dark ones holding an expression that was somewhat defiant and—afraid?

Then Daniel said expressionlessly, “This is Laura Sutherland. My grandmother, Amelia Kilbourne.”

“Mrs. Kilbourne,” Laura murmured, not knowing what to expect from this member of the family.

Amelia moved across the room with apparent ease and without leaning on her cane, and sat down at Laura’s end of one of the leather sofas. She gestured to the other one with an elegant hand and said pleasantly, “Hasn’t my grandson asked you to sit down? Do, please.”

Laura did, overwhelmingly aware of Daniel standing silently behind her. “I didn’t mean to intrude, Mrs. Kilbourne. I—I know this is a terrible time. You have my sincere condolences on the death of your grandson.” It occurred to her only then that she had not offered sympathy to Daniel for his brother’s death, and she wondered if that oversight had been because his effect on her had pushed politeness aside or because she had sensed immediately that he would not want condolences from her.

“Thank you, Miss Sutherland. Or may I call you Laura?” Her voice was soft, her accent more Alabama than Georgia.

“Of course.”

“And everyone calls me Amelia. I hope you will.”

“Thank you.” Laura could almost feel Daniel’s sardonic gaze on the back of her head, and wished to heaven he’d move around the sofa where she could keep an eye on him It was like having the big cat of her imagination crouching in darkness behind her, ready at any moment to spring forward and devour—or at least seize—his prey.