So James Abbott, Jacob’s eldest son, had been encouraged to marry a cotton heiress from Virginia. New equipment and the new bride’s knowledge of business had improved the Abbott fortunes considerably.
With the advent of synthetics in the middle of the twentieth century, Nathan, now in control of the company, had diversified. He’d married Susannah Stewart, the daughter of a Texas oil baron, and they’d moved to her family’s summer home in Losthampton, New York, situated in the small cleft of an inlet on the south coast of Long Island between East Hampton and Southhampton.
When Nathan and Susannah Abbott had moved into her family’s palatial home, it had been known as Bluebonnet Knoll because of the Stewarts’ Texas connection. But when Susannah had run off with the chauffeur, giving Nathan the house to assuage her guilt over leaving her children, Nathan had changed the name, wanting it to reflect his family’s business rather than hers.
Killian remembered his mother. Instead of warm, fuzzy recollections of a loving woman, he had strong, clear memories of a light-haired goddess always in gowns and sparkling jewelry, waving to him from across the room. She’d seldom come into the nursery, simply blown kisses from the doorway.
He’d harbored the hope that someday when he was big enough and smart enough, she’d come and talk to him, possibly even hold him. But that had never happened.
One day his father had called Sawyer and him into his study and told them their mother was gone and a new woman was coming into their lives. She was French, he’d said, and a designer for one of the clothing companies Abbott’s owned.
Killian remembered clearly the shock and distress he’d felt at having to accept that the goddess would never get to know him, never hold him, that she was lost to him forever. He’d been five.
Someone had to pay, so he’d made the new woman, named Chloe, the culprit. He’d told her straight off that he didn’t want anything to do with her, didn’t want her in his house and didn’t want her touching his brother.
Sawyer, though, even at three a man with a mind of his own, adored her instantly. Killian had resisted heroically, but had finally lost the battle to hate her when she’d walked into the nursery with his father about a week after her arrival and asked, “Is there a reason the children must be confined to this floor while we are home?”
His father had thought a moment. “Susannah liked it this way. She said it kept them out of her hair when her friends came around.”
Chloe had shrugged. “Well, as I have no friends yet and…” She’d patted a very short haircut. “As I have no hair for them to get into, I don’t see why they can’t have the run of the house. Except for your office, of course, when you are working at home. The staff tell me they are very good children and usually behave themselves well.” She’d put a hand to Killian’s face and one to Sawyer’s. It had been warm and smooth and had smelled of lilacs. “And you will continue to behave for me, n’est-ce pas?”
A whole new world had opened up. Although Susannah had never come back and Killian, ever her champion, had sat by his window every night before going to bed and watched for her, during the day he’d loved being with Chloe as much as Sawyer had. She took them everywhere—shopping, to church, to visit the friends she eventually made, to the beach. He’d maintained a locked-up corner of his heart for Susannah, but he’d let Chloe in and allowed himself be happy again.
Campbell was born the following year and Abby, almost four years after that.
Killian smiled at memories of his big-eyed, plump-cheeked baby sister, then straightened in his seat and put all thoughts of her out of his mind. He wanted to relax this weekend, to refill the well of his usually nimble mind and steady focus.
Thoughts of Abby, and, of course, her disappearance, wouldn’t allow that.
Daniel pulled around to the front of the house. Its cozy grandeur was somehow welcoming. To this day, Killian wasn’t sure what to call the architectural style. His father had referred to it as Seaside Victorian. Unlike the many slope-roofed and angular federal-style homes in the region, this one had large, long windows all around, a tower on one side and a circular porch on the bottom of the tower, one on the second level where the tower connected to the main part of the house, and on the back of the top floor with its view of the ocean. The frame exterior was painted a cheerful butter yellow.
Winfield opened the front door before Killian could open it himself. Campbell had hired the former boxer a year ago as a sort of butler-bouncer. Campbell resented Killian’s use of that term, insisting that Killian never took his vulnerability to theft or kidnap seriously.
Actually, Killian did. He’d thought about it every night since Abby had been taken almost twenty-seven years ago. But he didn’t want someone around to remind him that that kind of thing could happen. And he was a much less likely target than a fourteen-month-old child.
“What about Mom?” Campbell had asked when Killian had denied he himself could be a target. “Sure, you’re six foot three and trained in self-defense, but she isn’t. And you’re gone so much of the time.”
Killian had conceded. For their stepmother to have protection in the guise of a butler was a good idea, and he knew Campbell remembered Abby’s kidnapping, though he’d only been five and a half at the time. He was working out his own demons brought to life by the event.
So Killian cooperatively handed Winfield his briefcase and let him take his jacket.
“How are you, Mr. Abbott?” Winfield asked in a voice more suited to a boxing ring than a stately home. Though he was two inches shorter than Killian, he was probably twice as broad and all of it muscle. He had thin blond hair, pale blue eyes and a boxer’s nose.
He’d caused a few second looks when he’d first opened the door to guests a year ago, but his courtesy and kindness had since won everyone over.
“I’m good,” Killian replied. “How are you, Winfield?”
“Fine, sir. Though I’m worried about your mother.”
“Why is that?”
“She’s going to Paris, Mr. Abbott.”
Killian, in the act of looking through the mail on the hall table, blinked at him. “Paris? I thought she was going to the city for the weekend.”
“I was, I was!” High heels clicked down the marble floor as Chloe hurried toward them at a run slowed down by the beginnings of arthritis and her Prada shoes. She was small and graying, with a face filled with warmth. In a silk suit, with a hand-painted scarf trailing behind her, she was the picture of a society matron. “To stay with the Mitchells in their city condo and go to the theater. But their daughter’s with the Ballet de Paris, and she sent them tickets for her début—” she gave the word its French pronunciation “—next week and they’ve invited me along. You know how I love the ballet. And I can visit Tante Bijou while I’m there!”
Tante Bijou was legendary in their lives. Chloe’s mother’s sister had been in the Resistance during World War II, had written a much-acclaimed book about her experiences and had married five or six times—even Chloe had lost count. She was Chloe’s only living relative in France, and Chloe leaped at every opportunity to visit her.
“I was hired to protect you, Mrs. Abbott,” Winfield said politely. “How can I do that when you’re there and I’m here?”
Chloe rolled her eyes. They’d apparently been having this argument for some time. “I won’t have you coming with me and leaving the boys here defenseless.” Even she had difficulty keeping a straight face when she said that. Killian had boxed in college, Sawyer was a third-degree black belt and Campbell had a chip on his shoulder the size of Alaska and everyone seemed to know better than to mess with him.
Winfield faced her resolutely. “Mr. Campbell would insist…”
Killian