Читать книгу Her Unforgettable Fiance - Allison Leigh - Страница 10

Was there ever a woman put on this earth who drove him nuts the way Kate Stockwell did? If there was, Brett didn’t want to meet her.

He ran his hand down his face and battled down the annoyance inside him before walking back into the Stockwells’ study where Kate’s brothers were still discussing the portrait. If they’d even noticed his and Kate’s absence, they made no sign of it.

Then he realized that Jack was watching him. Kate’s oldest brother had noticed all right. But then Jack had always seemed to have an extra dose of protective instincts where his sister was concerned.

And even though Brett had once been as comfortable around her brothers as he’d been around her—when he’d been just one more of the gang—he knew those times were gone.

He was the ex-fiancé of their baby sister and he had no doubts that Kate hadn’t left any question in her brothers’ minds about who was at fault for the “ex” part of that particular equation.

He wasn’t part of their group any longer, if there even was a group. Jack seemed to spend most of his time in Europe, as far as Brett knew. Rafe was a Deputy U.S. Marshal now, and Cord had taken over the family business interests. And Kate. Well, Kate had returned from Houston a few years ago, after her divorce from a man who’d once been Brett’s friend.

Brett remembered the exact day he’d heard she was back in Grandview. That she’d moved back into Stockwell Mansion. He’d blown his cover on a case he’d been investigating and it had taken two solid weeks to regain the ground he’d lost that day.

No. Brett definitely wasn’t here because of his former ties to this family. He was only the investigator they’d hired to follow the leads they’d already discovered regarding their mother. And since that’s the way he liked it, he needed to stop thinking about his past and focus instead on Madelyn Johnson Stockwell’s past.

“Were there other paintings of hers in the gallery where you found this one?” he asked Jack.

The other man shook his head. “Not anymore. I’d just missed a seascape that he’d had for a brief time. Beyond that, what there was had already been sold. Her work seems to be in fair demand over there.” His lips twisted. “And has been for years. The only reason this portrait hadn’t been sold to a private party was that the gallery owner, Roubilliard, didn’t want to part with it.”

“Then why did he?” Cord asked.

“Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Bought him off, you mean,” Rafe translated.

Jack shrugged. “It doesn’t belong hanging on an art gallery wall in France. It belongs hanging on the walls of this house, along with the other portraits of the Stockwells.”

“It would’ve been, too, if we hadn’t been fed that garbage about Mom drowning with Uncle Brandon,” Rafe said grimly.

Brett watched Jack’s face. He was the eldest and naturally would remember more of that day when Caine Stockwell had planted the seeds of a lifelong deception. But Jack’s expression didn’t change. He merely reached for a pile of brochures and held them out to Brett.

“Here,” he said. “Madelyn LeClaire’s work is listed in several of these catalogs. Private shows. Group shows. A couple of estate auctions.”

Brett took the items, fanning through them. Some dated back fifteen years. He suddenly knew Kate had entered the room behind them, but kept his attention front and center, where it belonged. On the job.

That lasted about half a second. He looked back at her. Frowned a little at the drawn expression on her face. She looked even worse than she had when he’d left her in the sunroom.

Dammit.

He didn’t want to care how all this was affecting Katy Stockwell. He deliberately looked down at the catalogs in his hand and paged through them once more. The job. Remember the job. “Quite a collection,” he murmured.

“People tended to hang on to them. And I think the owner of that—” Jack lifted his chin toward the portrait sitting against the wing chair “—had a bit of a crush on the artist. He’s the one who said he was certain she was living somewhere in New England and that she was being represented by a dealer in Boston. But that information is a few years old, at best.”

“But it proves something, at least,” Rafe said flatly. “Our mother is alive. She didn’t die in a boating accident. Not here. Not anywhere. Just like we figured after what Caroline and I found in her father’s papers. Did your smitten gallery owner happen to say what she looked like, since Caine saw fit to get rid of any photographs of her?”

“No. But we’ve all heard often enough from other people who knew our mother how much Kate resembled—resembles—her.”

“Well,” Brett said, “since you’ve brought me in on this, I’ve had my people checking the usual sources to locate a Madelyn LeClaire living anywhere in the New England area. No luck. If she is living there, she’s doing it very quietly. Most people leave some footprints of their life. Driver’s licenses, mortgages, property taxes, library cards. Something. But there’s been zilch, so far.” And in his experience, when people lived that quietly, it was for reasons they generally didn’t want to advertise.

He looked at Jack. “Are you sure your Roubilliard in France was certain of his facts?”

“The guy had a major case for her. I’m sure,” Jack answered.

“Then it’s time for a road trip to Boston. Check the art dealers in person,” Brett said. Although each of the brothers had done a lot of legwork, amassing enough information from the sketchy details they’d been given by their father in one of his rare lucid moments, he knew they had lives to lead. While his life was his work.

Which was why he’d been hired. The Stockwells had insisted that he personally take the case even though he had a half-dozen investigators on his staff who could’ve handled what was, essentially, a missing persons case. Even though it would have been easier, wiser, all the way around for someone else to deal with this family other than he.

“My office has already gathered information on the most likely galleries to be dealing with your mother. It’d be an easier task, except that she worked in so many mediums. Painting. Pottery. Sculpture.”

He’d hoped, actually, to accomplish more without having to make the trip. God knew he had no desire to go to Boston ever again. But they’d met with one dead end after another. It was as if the artist named LeClaire was protected by some unspoken shroud of discretion. Dealers knew of her, but nobody would offer more information than that.

“You can handle the trip, right?”

Brett answered Rafe’s question with a terse nod. “I had my secretary juggle my schedule for the next few weeks, just in case something like this came up. I can leave tomorrow morning.”

The other men nodded, satisfied. Cord, after another look at his watch, excused himself to rejoin his wife.

“Surely it won’t take that long? Weeks?” Kate moved nearer, bringing with her that faint feminine scent that was uniquely hers.

Brett shrugged, ignoring the surge in his bloodstream. “Probably not. But there are dozens of galleries and art dealers in Boston alone.”

“And you don’t just handle contacting them by phone?”

He looked at her, keeping his temper with an effort. “I’ve already said we’ve done as much by phone and the internet as we can. Now it’s time to personally visit the galleries. Don’t worry, Kate. All expenses will be accounted for in detail when the case is concluded.”

“I wasn’t implying anything.”

He raised one eyebrow. He knew better and it rubbed him wrong how little she trusted him. “Really?”

Her lovely blue eyes suddenly snapped at him. “It is our mother you’re searching for.” She waved her elegant, long-fingered hand to encompass her brothers. “Is there some reason why we shouldn’t be interested in how you intend to find her?”

“Kate.”

“No, Jack. I want to know.” Her gaze stayed on Brett.

“While you two kids battle this out, I’m gonna go steal my wife away for a hot afternoon date,” Rafe drawled, amused. He nodded sympathetically at Brett and gave his sister a wide berth as he left.

Jack, Brett noticed, just leaned lazily back against the bookcase, apparently prepared to enjoy the show.

“First of all, I’ll continue weeding out galleries and dealers who clearly don’t handle Madelyn LeClaire’s type of art.” He forced himself to remain patient. He’d never before been annoyed at explaining the manner in which his investigations were conducted. Which meant it was just her questions that annoyed him.

“Well, I could do that,” she pointed out smoothly. “What else?”

“Then I’ll take a photo of that portrait sitting there and these catalogs—” he held them up with exaggerated patience “—and personally canvass the remaining list.”

“Okay, enough.” Jack apparently recognized that Brett was speaking through his teeth by now.

“But—”

“Enough, kiddo. Brett’s the best at what he does. And it’s time to let him do it. Agreed?”

Her lips tightened. “Except for one thing.” Her gaze returned to Brett. “I’m going with you to Boston.”

“What?” Jack stared at Kate.

Brett shook his head. “No.”

“I can help you,” she said and he was painfully aware of the edge of desperation in her voice. “You said there were dozens of galleries,” she reminded needlessly.

“I work alone.” It was close enough to the truth. “If I didn’t, I’d take someone from my office. Not you.” He didn’t want to go to Massachusetts at all, much less with her on his heels. Not even if he had to check out fifty galleries.

“I don’t think it’s up to you to make that decision.”

“Listen up, princess.” He saw her chin lift at the name. “You’re not gonna tell me how to run my case. If that’s the way you want to proceed, find another investigator, because I’m outta here. Understand?”

She moistened her lips. Turned to her brother. “Jack—”

“Brett’s right.” Jack pushed away from the wall. “His case. His job. His way.”

“But—”

“You wouldn’t want someone coming in to one of your sessions and telling you how to do your job, would you?”

Brett watched Kate’s expression falter and couldn’t help but wonder at the cause. A Kate who argued and laughed was a Kate he knew. A Kate who looked stricken and uncertain was another thing altogether. Nor did he need Jack to enforce Brett’s rules, but he did find it enlightening to watch Kate.

Or maybe, despite everything, he just liked watching Kate.

She was stubborn and contrary and bossy as hell.

She was also a tall, blue-eyed beauty, and standing there—her slender body clad in that silvery blue suit that clung to the high curves of her breasts and the completely female curve of her hips—she was completely distracting. The vulnerability barely hidden by the passion vibrating from her was enough to make a man want to sit up and beg.

Another man. Not him. He’d already ridden that ride, thanks.

“No, I wouldn’t want someone interfering with one of my therapy sessions,” she admitted, her voice husky.

“Okay, then,” Jack said, as if that settled the matter. Then his expression seemed to soften a little as he studied his sister. “You sure you want to do this?”

Kate nodded, and it seemed to satisfy Jack, because he turned to Brett. “Brett. Good luck. Keep in touch.”

Brett nodded, still watching Kate, and the other man left the room, too.

Kate’s blue gaze slid to Brett and he leisurely adjusted his focus from her hips. Her cheeks were flushed when he finally looked at her face.

But at least she’d nearly lost that lost look.

“Must be nice to be able to call the shots with your schedule,” he said. “Most people don’t have the luxury. Particularly psychologists.”

“I’m an art therapist,” she said flatly. “I work in partnership with psychologists and psychiatrists. And you control your schedule, too. So don’t stand there and act as if it is something to be ashamed of.”

“Feeling a little defensive, are you?”

To his secret relief, the last bit of lost disappeared from her eyes.

“Not in the least,” she assured coolly. “But at the moment, I am between patients. And I do intend on going to Boston.”

“Because you don’t trust me to do my job.”

“Will you?” Her voice was husky and it made his nerves tighten. “You hate me. I can see it in your face.”

“You overestimate yourself, Kate. And as you’ve said, nothing gets in the way of my work.”

She seemed to wince a little. “Then I’ll go to Boston by myself.”

“And do what?”

“I can talk to gallery owners just as easily as you can.”

“You’re right. Go hunting through the art world yourself. Spread that mighty Stockwell name of yours as far and wide as you like. And if your mother doesn’t want to be found, which seems kinda likely if you ask me after nearly thirty years, once she hears a Stockwell is looking for her, she could well go to ground and you and your brothers would be lucky to pick up her trail ever again.”

She blanched and swayed.

He swore and pushed her down on a chair, summarily pushing her head down. “I don’t need you passing out.”

She scrabbled at his hand. “Get your hands off me. I am not passing out.”

He was perfectly happy to remove his hand from the slick silk of her hair.

She shot out of the chair, her hair tossing about. Almost as if she was afraid he’d have the gall to put his hands on her again. “I’m going to Boston,” she insisted.

“Why?” Because she didn’t trust him to do his job. The knowledge sat like a bitter pill. “Or maybe you really are enamored of my company once again,” he needled.

Her eyes flashed. “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself. If you must know, it’s because…because my brothers have all done something to help find our mother, and I’ve done nothing!”

“Come again?”

She pushed her fingers through her hair and walked over to the portrait, her expression telling him that she already regretted her flash of honesty. But she surprised him when she didn’t clam up the way he expected her to.

“Cord was the one to discover that Daddy was sending huge sums of money to one of his attorneys and had been every month since our mother supposedly died when I was a baby.” She recited the details without emotion. “He’s also the one who found a letter from my mother’s side of the family, the Johnsons, in Daddy’s personal records implying that the Stockwell side had once swindled the Johnsons out of land on which the Stockwells eventually discovered oil. And he’s been looking into that so we can make it right again, if it is true.”

She rubbed her fingertip along the frame of the portrait. “Rafe, now, he followed the money. To Clyde Carlyle’s office. And between him and Clyde’s daughter, Caroline, they found the divorce papers between my parents which were dated months after Madelyn supposedly died. They’re the ones who learned that Madelyn, and Uncle Brandon, too, most likely, spent a considerable amount of time in France, moving here and there. And that, somewhere along the way, she’d apparently changed her last name to LeClaire.”

“And Jack, being the most familiar with Europe because of his travels, picked up the reins at that point,” Brett concluded. He’d heard it all before from her brothers. But he’d never really thought how Kate may have felt about not having as active a role in the discoveries as her brothers.

Then he reminded himself that he was no longer interested in what went on inside her pretty head. Which mattered not at all considering the way her oddly false calm gnawed at him. “You think you’ll be holding up your end by traipsing around Boston with me.”

She nodded silently.

Brett swore inwardly. He still didn’t know why he’d accepted this case in the first place. It was gonna be one huge headache. Not only did she not trust him, but she was trying to salve her conscience. “Kate. You and me…it’s not a good idea.”

Her lips pressed together for a moment. “Because we used to be engaged.”

Because you drive me nuts. “Because I’m used to working alone.”

“I wouldn’t get in your way.”

No, you’d just be a constant distraction. Things might be dead and gone between them, but he was still a man. And she was a beautiful woman. A woman who didn’t trust him, no matter what her other reasons were. “No.”

She made a soft sound, her gaze still on the portrait. And he made the fatal mistake of moving around from where he stood, so that he could see her face.

Confusion. Hurt. Longing.

All of that was written on her perfectly oval, perfectly formed face. It was in her eyes and in the soft lip that she’d caught between pearly teeth.

In the days since he’d become embroiled with the Stockwells’ case, Kate had consistently been cool and controlled whenever they’d encountered each other.

And now, in one day—hell, in one hour—he’d seen her blue eyes swimming in tears, her aching so clear on her face that it beat his better sense into dust.

Swearing a blue streak in his mind, Brett knew he was making a mistake. “All right,” he said, sounding anything but gracious. “We leave in the morning. I’ll have my secretary, Maria, call you with the time.”

Now her blue eyes were glistening again. And she was looking at him as if he’d just saved a kitten from the jaws of a rattlesnake.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He slapped the catalogs he still held against his palm. “Be ready on time,” he said abruptly. “And don’t go packing a dozen suitcases, either, princess. We’re going there to work, not so you can walk around looking like a fashion show in progress.”

Her expression changed. Her lips parted, furious.

But he was already walking out of the room, satisfied. Her fury he could handle. Her tears, obviously, he couldn’t.