“Don’t bother,” Joel said, rubbing absently at the throbbing behind his temple. “It looks like we’re just going to have to cool our heels on this one until we hear from Mrs. Elliott.”
“You haven’t made contact with the senator yet?” Mike asked.
“No,” Joel admitted. “Apparently she’s in Thailand.”
“Thailand?”
“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction,” Joel agreed.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Her daughter wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details.”
“You’ve spoken to the daughter?”
Unbidden, a series of images came to mind. Riane moving toward him. Long legs, short dress, easy smile. Riane in his arms on the dance floor. Creamy skin, subtle curves, intoxicating scent. Riane with her fiancé.
Fiancé.
None of the information Joel had gathered indicated that Riane Quinlan was engaged, and he was certain something like that would have been splashed across all the society pages. Still, he’d recognized the man who’d intruded on their dance. Stuart Etherington III, a corporate lawyer at one of the biggest firms in nearby Huntington and an up-and-comer on the local political scene with big ambitions. Apparently Senator Rutherford-Quinlan’s daughter was one of his ambitions.
“Joel?” Mike’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “Did you meet with the daughter?”
“Yeah,” he said again.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then, “What was your impression?”
Long legs, short dress— Joel severed the thought abruptly this time. “I’d say there’s more than a passing resemblance between the two women,” he said instead. “And too many other coincidences to ignore.”
His years on the police force had taught him to be wary of coincidences, and the scandal that ended his career had given him more than enough reason to distrust anyone with the name Rutherford.
When Joel had first started to examine the potential Rutherford connection in this case, Mike had accused him of letting his personal quest for vengeance interfere with his professional judgment. Joel couldn’t deny that his impartiality had been compromised, but regardless of his personal feelings, facts were facts. And all the facts in this case had led him to West Virginia.
“I just can’t believe that someone trying to pass off someone else’s child as their own wouldn’t at least change the name,” Mike said.
“The spelling is different,” Joel pointed out.
“So is the date of birth,” Mike reminded him.
“Do you really think I’m looking for something that isn’t there?”
“It would take quite a conspiracy to pull it off.”
“Or a lot of money,” Joel countered.
There was a long pause, then Mike said, “You know I have the greatest respect for your instincts, but I can’t help thinking that your interest in this case is more about digging up dirt on the Rutherfords than finding the woman we’re looking for.”
“I know what my job is,” Joel said coolly. But if he happened to find some dirt in the process of doing that job, he sure as hell wasn’t going to wipe it off his hands and pretend it didn’t exist.
“Okay,” Mike relented.
Joel sighed as he disconnected the call. It looked as if he was going to be stuck in West Virginia for a while after all.
West Virginia.
He’d known that he’d find her. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. And he hadn’t expected it to be in West Virginia.
He was a little disappointed. He’d wanted a challenge. A task worthy of his time and attention. She had rarely been either.
He should forget about her. He knew that was the smart thing to do. But he couldn’t forget—or forgive—her betrayal.
She would pay for what she’d done.
But that was only the first part of his plan.
Four days after the charity ball, Riane hadn’t stopped thinking about Joel Logan. Even sitting across from Stuart at their usual table at the Casa, where they dined every Wednesday night, she couldn’t help but think about the other man.
It was because of Joel that she’d decided to shake up her relationship with Stuart a little. Maybe Stuart wasn’t passionate with her, she reasoned, because she didn’t inspire him to passion. So she’d bypassed the dark blue Chanel suit in favor of a scarlet silk A-line dress she’d bought several months earlier but hadn’t yet found the courage to wear. The dress had a plunging neckline and a back slit that cut more than halfway up her thighs. It was bold, vibrant, daring. Everything she wasn’t. Everything she wanted to be.
Stuart hadn’t even commented on the dress except to say, as he always did, “You look lovely, Riane.”
Not stunning.
Not sexy.
Lovely.
Several hours later, as Stuart pulled through the gates of the Quinlan estate, Riane found herself exhausted and frustrated. Dinner had been delicious, the service impeccable, their conversation monotonous.
It was all she could do not to scream.
When they arrived at the house, Stuart parked his Mercedes in front and came around to open her door. Always the gentleman, she thought, with an unfamiliar hint of resentment.
He walked with her up to the front porch, then touched his lips to hers. She willed herself to feel something, anything, in response to his kiss. But there was no tingle, no warmth, no desire. Nothing.
And then it was over.
“Good night, Riane.”
“Good night, Stuart.” She held back the sigh until he was in his car again and driving away.
Sophie was waiting for Riane when she stepped into the marble-tiled foyer.
“Good evening, Miss Quinlan.”
The housekeeper’s presence, as much as the formality she’d used, surprised Riane. “I told you not to wait up, Sophie.”
“You have company, miss.”
“Company?” Riane frowned.
“A gentleman.” Sophie’s eyes twinkled mischievously.
Riane’s frown deepened.
“He’s waiting in the den,” Sophie told her.
Riane didn’t want to deal with anyone else tonight. Her dinner with Stuart had been an exercise in monotony; his good-night kiss at the front door had left her uninspired. And she mentally damned Joel Logan for showing up at her charity ball and making her feel as though she was missing something.
All she wanted now was to slip into her favorite pair of satin pajamas and climb into bed. But she was a Quinlan, and the responsibilities she bore as such were equal to the rights and privileges. She squared her tired shoulders and turned toward the den.
The unnamed visitor was standing in front of the window, his back to the door. He didn’t turn around; he didn’t need to. Riane recognized him immediately. She wasn’t sure if it was the breadth of his shoulders, the tension in his posture, or maybe just his aura. But she knew it was Joel, and her breath caught in her throat, her heart thudded heavily against her ribs.
She chided herself for the instinctive reaction. She was twenty-four years old, not a law school freshman enamored of the editor of the Law Review.