socialite was available. Morgan wasn’t a vicious gossip. She didn’t spread unholy rumors, but she seemed to know everybody’s business. And Gina intended to discuss Flint with someone willing to answer questions about him.
Morgan picked up on the fifth ring. Gina started a friendly conversation, asking the other woman if she’d enjoyed the charity mixer.
Morgan babbled for a while, and Gina pictured the redhead’s no-nonsense husband scanning the Boston Globe at their elegant dining room table, shutting out his wife’s perky voice.
Weaving her way toward the man of the hour, Gina said, “By the way, Flint Kingman finally caught up with me.”
“Really? So, what do you think of him?”
Gina shoved away the image of his dream-induced, rain-shrouded body. “I’m not sure. I can’t quite figure him out.” When the other woman breathed into the receiver, she asked, “What do you know about him, Morgan?”
“Hmm. Let’s see. His father is an advertising mogul, and his stepmother is absolutely riveting. Of course his real mother was equally stunning. She was a Hollywood starlet, but she died when Flint was a baby.”
Intrigued, Gina adjusted the phone. “Was she famous?”
“No, but she should have been. Supposedly she was really talented.”
Gina tried to picture the woman who’d given Flint Kingman life. “What was her name?”
“Danielle Wolf. But there isn’t a lot of old press about her. If you’re really curious about Flint, you should read up on Tara Shaw.”
“The movie star?” The aging bombshell? The world-famous blonde? “Why? Was she friends with his mother?”
Morgan made a crunching sound, as if she were eating breakfast while she talked. “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Flint used to work for Tara.”
“So? He’s a PR consultant. That’s perfectly understandable.”
The crunching sound stopped. “He had an affair with her, Gina.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Flint and Tara Shaw? The screen goddess of the 1970s? She had to be twice his age.
Morgan resumed eating. “Some reports say she broke his heart. Others say he broke hers. And some say they were both just playing around, tearing up the sheets for the fun of it.”
Gina shifted in her seat, nearly spilling her milk. She grabbed the glass before it tipped over. “When did this happen?”
“When he was fresh out of college. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”
“Normally, I don’t pay attention to things like that. I’ve never really followed the Hollywood scene.”
“Well, I do,” Morgan said. “Their affair didn’t last long, but it created quite a scandal.”
“Bigger than the one going on in my life?”
“Much bigger.”
That was all it took. Gina spent the rest of the morning on the Internet, pulling up old articles on Tara Shaw and her wild, young lover.
While driving past the prestigious homes in Beacon Hill, Flint got the sudden urge to call Tara, to tell her what was going on.
He glanced at his car phone and realized foolishly that he didn’t have her number. He hadn’t spoken to Tara Shaw in over eight years. Flint had left Hollywood without looking back.
Besides, what the hell would he say to her? And what would her new husband think if her old lover just happened to ring her up?
With a squeal of his tires, he turned onto a familiar street and pulled into his parents’ driveway, knowing his dad would be home on a Sunday afternoon.
Flint and his father saw each other often. They worked in the same bustling high-rise, but these days they rarely spoke, at least not about important issues.
He unlocked the door with his key, the same key he’d had since he was a teenager. For eighteen years, this elegant mansion had been his home.
He stood in the marbled foyer for a moment, catching his reflection in a beveled mirror. It wasn’t a cold house, completely void of emotion, but it didn’t present a warm, fuzzy feeling, either.
But then how could it? Especially now?
He crossed the salon, passing Chippendale settees, ornate tables and gilded statues. The Kingmans were a successful family, but money didn’t necessarily make people happy.
He located his dad in the garden room, a timber-and-glass structure flourishing with greenery. Shimmering vines twined around redwood trellises, and colorful buds bloomed in a shower of floral abundance, thriving in the controlled environment.
James Kingman, a tall, serious man, with a square jaw and wide shoulders, enjoyed growing flowers, and he tended them with a gentle hand.
Today he hovered over a cluster of lady’s slippers, orchids as beautiful and beguiling as their fairy-tale name.
Flint shed his jacket, and the older man looked up.
“Well, hello,” he said, acknowledging his son’s presence. “What brings you by?”
You, me and my mom, he thought. The past, the present, the pain. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?”
“My mother.”
James shook head. “I don’t want to rehash all of that again.”
“But I want to talk about it.”
“There’s nothing more to talk about. I told you everything. Just forget about it, let it go.”
Let it go? Forget about it?
Two weeks ago Flint had stumbled upon a horrible secret, and now the truth haunted him like a ghost. “You lied to me all those years, Dad.”
James shifted his stance. He wore jeans and a denim shirt, but he was impeccably groomed—a man of wealth and taste. “I did it to protect you. Why won’t you accept that?”
“Just tell me this much. Does N
“Yes, she knew when it happened. It broke her heart.”
And now it’s breaking mine, Flint thought.
“You can’t bring this up to your grandmother,” his dad said. “It wouldn’t be right.”
Flint nodded. As a rule, the Cheyenne didn’t speak freely of the dead, and N
