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 patted Winfield’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Steve Mitchell was a marine,” he said.
“Sir, he’s in his sixties!”
Chloe slugged his arm. “So am I! And I’m hardly at death’s door.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I’ve golfed with him,” Killian said. “He has quite a swing and considerable endurance. He’ll take care of the ladies.”
“I’ll be fine,” Chloe insisted.
Winfield opened his mouth to protest further, but Killian silenced him with an unobtrusive shake of the head.
Winfield appeared puzzled, but closed his mouth.
The doorbell rang and Winfield opened it to Steve Mitchell, who greeted Killian, then took Chloe’s bag. She followed him out to a shiny black Cadillac, chattering incessantly.
“The minute they’re out of sight,” Killian whispered to Winfield, “we’ll call your company and get someone to trail her and the Mitchells while they’re in Paris.” To his mother, he asked, “Where you staying, Mom?”
“At the Hôtel Clarion St-James et Albany. The duke of Noailles once entertained Marie Antoinette there, you know.”
He raised an eyebrow at Winfield, who nodded, the data obviously stored in his memory.
“Good strategy, Mr. Abbott,” Winfield praised under his breath.
“Never fight a battle you can’t win,” Killian replied, even as he blew Chloe a kiss.
That was good advice to apply to Cordie, he suddenly realized. But there was no such thing as a nonconfrontational way of dealing with her. She was a forthright, in-your-face kind of woman. Even Sun Tzu, the brilliant strategist, would have had difficulty dealing with her.
CORDIE FINALLY PUT her feet up at about eight o’clock. She sat on the sofa in her elegant, quiet-as-a-tomb apartment, alone except for her cat, and tried hard to be interested in the steaming square of lasagna on the tray in her lap. She’d anticipated it all afternoon, but now that she had the food, it made her stomach churn.
She put the tray aside and leaned her head back against the ticking-striped sofa cushion and wondered grimly if this was what had happened between her and Killian: that he’d found her less than interesting once he had her, and put her aside.
She
