Buch lesen: «The Kelley Legacy»
“And you’re a great believer in doing the decent thing?”
Was that her being coy? Flirting? Or what she felt passed for flirting, she amended silently. What was going on here?
She was both nervous and excited, even as she warned herself not to be.
“Whenever possible,” he replied to her mocking question, fairly sure she was mocking him. He stole a glance at her now that they were relatively alone and unthreatened by traffic. “Whenever possible,” he repeated.
Instead of feeling a sense of relief at his profession of honorability, her nerves instantly spiked even higher than before, fed by anticipation the magnitude of which she had never encountered before.
Just what did she think she was anticipating here? Cindy asked herself. Women were a dime a dozen for this man. Why would he bother singling her out?
And why did she so desperately want him to?
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the first installment of THE KELLEY LEGACY, a family you first met in the pages of the last The Coltons of Montana mini-series.
We have a United States Senator who allowed his ever-growing ego to lead him into regions a more prudent-thinking man would have gone to great lengths to avoid. The purpose of the society he blundered into will be revealed slowly, but the chilling threat is evident immediately.
To the Senator’s rescue comes his estranged son (one of six siblings), Dylan Kelley, a class A trial lawyer. He joins forces with the Senator’s chief staff assistant, Cindy Jensen, who has secrets of her own. A challenge that will take a bit of work. But Dylan soon finds that Cindy is more than worth the extra effort he needs to put in.
As ever, I thank you for reading and, from the bottom of my heart, I wish you someone to love who loves you back.
Marie Ferrarella
About the Author
MARIE FERRARELLA, a bestselling and award-winning author, has written more than two hundred books for Mills & Boon, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.
Private Justice
Marie Ferrarella
MILLS & BOON
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To
Kate Conrad,
a little fighter
if ever there was one.
Keep up the good fight.
Prologue
They were out there, waiting for him. Waiting to feed on his public humiliation.
Vultures!
The hairs on the back of Henry Thomas Kelley’s neck stood on end as his anxiety grew.
He knew they were there before he even opened the courthouse door and walked out of the venerable building. Before he ever saw them, he sensed them. A gaggle of reporters clutching microphones as if they were weapons to be wielded, deadly weapons that, with the echo of one misplaced word, could kill all of a man’s hopes, all his dreams. Kill everything he had built up over these long years.
Backed up by their cameramen, they were ready, willing and eager to record the downfall of what had been, just days before, a fairy-tale life—complete with a breathtaking, meteoric rise in the world of politics.
He’d been king of the world with no limit in sight. And now, now that he’d crossed the wrong people, expressed a hesitation where none had been anticipated or would be tolerated, the king, it appeared, was dead—and everyone wanted their chance to kick the corpse before it was dumped into an unmarked grave.
Hubris was a terrible thing, born of adulation and coming in on the backs of fawning lackeys. And Hank Kelley knew, to his shame, that he had been guilty of it. Been seduced by it. Everyone had wanted to be seen with him, be in his limelight. Use him.
And now, those same people were ready to rend his body into tiny, indistinguishable pieces.
Joyfully.
He had been married to one of the richest women in the world, an attractive woman who had loved him, giving him five sons and a daughter. He and Sarah had been the absolutely perfect couple with the perfect family.
Had been.
And he had let it all go to his head.
He had stopped deflecting the flattering attentions of all those beautiful women who seemingly wanted nothing more than to be with him. To love him.
Vain, flattered, he’d stopped resisting, and the trap, he now realized, had been set. A trap to be used against him whenever it was deemed necessary by the people he’d so naively trusted.
Apparently, now it was necessary.
Now, not one, not two, but six of the women he’d been involved with—calling themselves mistresses when that title hardly fitted—all tall, all willowy, all blondes, had stepped forward to point an accusing finger at the man they were all claiming had seduced them.
It had been the other way around. It was always the other way around. But the end result was the same. He had cheated. Cheated on the wife who had loved him, cheated on the public who had trusted him, and that was all the public cared about.
That and watching his public humiliation, his public fall from grace.
It made for a great show.
Taking in one long breath, Hank braced himself and pushed open the door. He would have lowered his head to avoid looking at them, but it would have been taken as an act of cowardice, and he might be many things, but a coward was not one of them.
With determined steps he began to make his way to his waiting vehicle, enduring a hail of questions that swelled into a storm of noise.
“Senator, Senator! Look this way!”
“This way!”
“Are you the father of that woman’s baby?” Someone shouted the soul-scraping question louder than her fellow reporters.
His mouth, so often seen with a radiant smile, was grim. He kept his eyes on his target, the car, and avoided making any eye contact with the swarm around him, no matter how tightly they closed in around him.
He pushed forward.
“No comment,” he finally bit off as the questions grew and multiplied, choking the very air around him. He was beginning to doubt he was going to make it to his car in one piece. It couldn’t end like this. Not here. Not before he found a way to apologize to Sarah for the grief he had caused her. He had never meant to hurt her. He just didn’t think.
He kept plowing his way through the human throng, making progress by inches. He needed not only to get away, but to find somewhere he could go and think. What was happening was not a coincidence.
But why now? Why this?
He needed answers.
After what felt like an eternity embroiled in an endless journey, he finally made it to his car. The driver, Joseph, was standing holding the rear door open for him, waiting. He was quickly ushered in, his useless lawyer diving in right behind him, and the door was secured.
Exhausted, relieved, he leaned back and exhaled a sigh filled with anxiety.
“Where to, sir?” Joseph asked after sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door.
Both sides of the somber, black customized vehicle were besieged by the relentless reporters, still trying to get a sound bite, a single damning word.
“Anywhere,” Hank cried. “Just away from here.”
The car was already in motion, burrowing through the throng. “You got it, Senator.”
“Damn fool idiot!”
Bonnie Gene Kelley was walking by the den where her husband of forty years, Donald, could occasionally be found when he wasn’t up to his elbows in yet another barbecue sauce, trying to create one to top the one he’d breathed life into the time before. All created to be used at his very successful chain of steak houses.
The sound of Donald’s voice stopped her in her tracks and she peered in.
“Talking to yourself again, dear?” she asked. It was getting to be an unfortunate habit, she thought. People were going to think he was losing his mental faculties if he wasn’t careful. “You know, if you want some company,” she told him, walking into the room, “all you have to do is ask.”
Donald continued scowling at the TV.
Glancing toward the flat screen, she asked, “What are you watching?” before she had a chance to focus on the face of the man on the monitor.
Her eyes widened. Oh my God!
“Donald, is that Hank?” she cried, completely stunned.
Donald was still communing with the image on the screen. “Damn stupid idiot,” Donald retorted angrily. With a snap of his wrist, he made the picture disappear, shutting off the set just as the words recorded earlier scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “He never could keep from messing up a good thing!”
“Donald, why was Hank in the middle of that ugly crowd? Is something wrong? Why was he on the news?”
Bonnie Gene turned toward her husband, expecting him to give her an answer or at least to share in her confusion as to why Hank was the subject of a news story.
Donald didn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. Not until he got his temper under control.
Shaking his head, his asymmetrically cut, shaggy white hair—that he insisted only she cut—moving about independently, he acted as if he hadn’t heard any of her questions and announced, “I’m going back to the restaurant. That barbecue sauce isn’t going to create itself.”
“Donald,” Bonnie Gene cried, raising her voice as he strode past her to the den’s threshold, “talk to me.”
“That was talking, Bonnie Gene,” Donald said as he walked out. “Thought someone who’s always doing it would recognize it when she heard it.” He didn’t bother turning around.
Bonnie Gene, frowning, picked up the remote and turned the set back on. But the news had moved on and cut to a commercial. A bright, smiling blonde with way too many teeth was extolling the virtues of her shampoo.
Disgusted, Bonnie Gene turned off the set again and, with an annoyed sigh, left the room, promising herself that she was going to get the information out of her husband when he came home for the night. She wanted to know what was going on. The senator from California, Hank Kelley, was Donald’s younger and, for all intents and purposes, estranged half brother. But family was family and she intended to get to the bottom of this.
Donald, she thought, had better come clean if he knew what was good for him.
Chapter 1
Just when I thought there were no surprises left when it came to you, you had to show me I was wrong, didn’t you, Dad?
Several states away, in a prestigious law firm in Beverly Hills, California, high-powered attorney Dylan Kelley was watching the same news broadcast as his much-loved uncle Donald.
Biting off a curse, Dylan aimed his remote at the huge flat-screen TV on the opposite wall and terminated the broadcast. The screen went to black and, for a moment, silence ensued.
Dylan shook his head in dazed disbelief. So much for his father’s straight-arrow image.
“You really outdid yourself this time, Dad,” he muttered under his breath, anger beginning to set in and take a firm hold.
He wondered if either of his brothers or his sister, Lana, knew about this latest turn of events. Worse, what if his mother had caught this bulletin? She was a strong woman, a woman who had, over the years, slowly constructed walls and barriers around herself. He’d been a witness to that, watching the walls as they came up, holding her in.
Holding everyone else out.
He realized now, as an adult, that she’d done it to protect herself against being hurt. As if she somehow knew that this was in the offing.
Had she suspected? Did she know? He felt incredibly bad for her, incredibly angry at his absentee father for having done this to her.
Dylan sighed, sitting back down at his desk for a moment. For just a split second, his knees felt weak. If he felt like this, how must his mother feel?
Just goes to show you, he thought. Fairy tales were just that, fairy tales. They had no bearing on real life. The press and people in general had called his parents’ marriage a real-life, magical fairy-tale. Years ago, he’d stumbled across an old article in a magazine, an interview with his father written when Hank had just been starting out on his political rise—his eye even then on a very lofty prize.
His father had freely admitted, apparently with pride, that he had married an exceedingly rich woman who supported him in every way, eager to make him happy, eager to give him his heart’s desire, no matter what it was. Along the way, she’d also given him the perfect photo op family.
Dylan took in a deep breath as he closed his eyes and remembered being trotted out with his brothers and baby sister, all perfectly groomed, him wearing a suit he’d hated at the time, to stand around his father and mother, big smiles pasted on all their faces for the camera that froze their supposed happiness forever in time.
Or at least long enough to generate a favorable impression with the voting public. His father had been the family-values candidate.
He wondered if his father saw the irony in that now.
Agitated, Dylan dragged his hand through his thick, dark hair, remembering that the creation of those family portraits provided almost the only occasions when he actually got to see his father. The rest of the time, Hank was busy traveling, glad-handing potential constituents up and down the length and breadth of California, professing his undying willingness to work until he dropped for the good of the people of “this glorious, sun-kissed state of ours.”
And the voters had believed him. Believed every single word. They’d sent his father to the United States Senate, confident that he would represent them to the best of his ability, which was definitely good enough for them.
Who his father wound up representing, apparently, was himself, Dylan thought darkly, his mind going back to the jarring news story expounding on the fact that his father was being investigated on charges of illegal activities and criminal misuse of campaign funds.
One of the newscasters, looking properly shocked, said that there were allegations the missing campaign funds had been spent on setting up his mistresses, one of whom was said to be currently pregnant.
Mistresses.
Damn it, Dad, what the hell were you thinking? Didn’t you just once think about this getting out and hurting Mom? Dylan demanded silently.
He hadn’t seen his father in—what? Six months? A year? More?
He’d lost track. The last few times he had been the one to seek out his father, who never just showed up to see how his son was doing or how life was going for the family in general. His father was always too busy to take the time to stay in touch.
And now I know what you apparently were too busy with, Dylan thought angrily.
Well, if the prosecutors had their way, he was still going to have to go to his father in order to see him. And this time it would be because his father was incarcerated.
How the mighty have fallen.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he repeated, this time out loud, addressing a man who was not there.
Who hadn’t been there, even when he was, for a long, long time.
Dylan looked at the framed photograph on his desk. A photograph of the whole family taken for a Christmas card some four years ago. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the handsome older man in the center—his father’s usual position.
“If I had half a brain, I’d just let you stew in your own juices and go on with my life. Just like you’d do for me and the others if we needed you.” He had no doubt of that. What little fatherly love Henry Kelley had available went to Lana, because she was the youngest and the only girl.
And Lana had always worshipped him and defended him, no matter what. God only knew why.
Lana could probably find a reason to defend their father now, Dylan thought.
He leaned back in his chair, rocking slightly, thinking. If he went with his first inclination, if he just continued with his life and did nothing, in effect, he would be no better than the man who had earned his disdain.
Worse, because he knew better, knew how this kind of behavior affected the person on the receiving end. Ultimately, if he turned his back on his father now, he’d somehow wind up hurting his mother, who still, he suspected, deep down in her patrician heart, loved his father no matter what. She was that kind of a person, even though she tried not to show it.
Dylan frowned. When the final analysis was in and all was said and done, blood was thicker than water and that still meant something to him, if not to his father.
But he wasn’t going to do this for his father. He was going to do it for his mother. And also to prove to himself that he was a better man than his father apparently was.
Added to that, Dylan thought as he began to throw a few things into his briefcase and get ready to go to his father’s Beverly Hills office, the family reputation was at stake here. He had no doubt that if his father went down, the stain would mark all of them.
It didn’t matter that the rest of the family had little or no interaction with the man. The shame of his conviction, if it came to that, would be something they would all have to bear. And while his father might have done things to merit the ostracization, he, his brothers and sister and especially his mother, had not.
“You really don’t deserve anyone in the family coming to your aid, old man,” Dylan muttered under his breath as he left his office. “You really don’t.”
But he knew he was bound to do it anyway.
If this was fifty years ago—and a romantic comedy, Cindy Jensen added cynically—she would have been referred to as a Girl Friday.
“As well as a Girl Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday,” she said out loud.
However, in this modern world, the official title she bore was Chief Staff Assistant to Senator Henry Thomas Kelley. In reality, she was far more than that. She was his confidante, his mother, his cheerleader, his secretary. In effect, his walking, talking point of reference for almost everything under the sun, plus his gofer and, last but not least, his general smoother-outer of ruffled feathers.
She did a far better job of it than the pretentious fool the senator had hired as his press secretary, she thought grudgingly.
Too bad that with all those various job descriptions she hadn’t found a way to be his private conscience as well, because, Lord knew, as she had found out a couple of days ago, the man certainly needed one.
Desperately.
While she believed very strongly in his political agenda—if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have been here, wouldn’t have given her all to work her way up his team—she absolutely hated this other side of him. The side she’d unwillingly had confirmed for her via a news bulletin. The side that, in truth, she had come to suspect whenever the senator had asked her to clear some time for him from his calendar and been more than a little evasive whenever she’d asked him why he needed that time cleared for him. He’d mutter something about having an appointment he couldn’t break and flash that thousand-watt smile of his, once again charming his way out of the situation.
Well, his charm had certainly failed the man this time, she thought.
Feet of clay. That was the term for it, she recalled. The family-values crusader had feet of clay.
The realization cut through her like a knife.
The phone on his desk rang again for the umpteenth time. It had been ringing off the hook all morning, ever since the story had broken about the senator having to go to the L.A. courthouse regarding an investigation into his campaign funds, and suddenly mistresses—mistresses of all things!—had begun crawling out of the woodwork.
Ever since that bulletin had burst on her, her tiny, optimistic visions of this world the senator inhabited and she was working toward promoting had been crushed.
God knew she had few enough optimistic things to cling to. Her private life, well, that was a complete washout, but she had clung to her professional life, viewing it as her one saving grace, telling herself that at least what she was doing had merit for the country and she was going to have to find comfort—and ultimately validation—in that. She sure knew she wasn’t going to find it on the home front, not with the bastard in designer suits she’d had the misfortune to fall in love with and marry.
No, she hadn’t fallen in love with him, she’d fallen in love with the image he’d projected. Fallen in love with a man who didn’t exist. The one who did exist had had a foul temper and swinging fists. Fists that, she was ashamed to admit even to herself, had made contact. And she had taken it. In the beginning.
But after a spate of time when she’d blamed herself for causing his outbursts—just as he blamed her—she’d come to her senses. She’d realized that none of this—his outbursts, his out-of-control temper, his reasons for losing it—none of it was her fault. That was when, with the senator’s support, she had called the police.
It had been the first step in reclaiming her life, her very soul. And except for the curve she’d discovered she’d been thrown, a curve she now lived with every day, she pretty much had reclaimed it. Reclaimed it by throwing herself into her work, striving to make Senator Henry William Kelley the next popular candidate for the presidency of the United States.
It had seemed only right, because he’d been there to take her side, to encourage her not to allow her ex, Dean, to mistreat her. The senator had been the father she’d never really known.
And now this.
It was safe to say that the senator’s chances of gaining the presidency had pretty much been blown to hell. Much the way her faith in him had been.
Damn, it just wasn’t fair! Just how blind could she have been to miss this red flag? How deluded was her state of mind to see a hero where an old-fashioned scoundrel stood?
How could he? How could he?
“This can’t take away from what he’s accomplished, Cindy, it can’t,” she told herself fiercely, conducting an argument that was mostly in her head.
The man was still a good senator, still a man who had the interest of his country foremost in his heart, if not his mind. Still the man who had helped her. She had to remember that. Moreover, she had to do her best to remind the public of all his good points.
Just because it had been discovered that the senator had the personal morals of an alley cat didn’t mean that he couldn’t do great things for the people who voted for him.
“But it sure does rock the boat,” she ground out angrily.
The next moment she jumped as the door opened. She’d left orders not to be disturbed because she had damage control to do.
Who was ignoring her instructions?
And then she had her answer. Kind of.
A tall, well-groomed and quite handsome man who looked to be in his early thirties walked into the senator’s office. His chiseled features were complemented by straight, dark hair, worn slightly long, and his piercing, intelligent blue eyes.
Here was a man who got by on his looks first, then made use of anything he had in his arsenal—if necessary, she thought.
Well, whatever he did, he could do it somewhere else. He was trespassing as far as she was concerned.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she snapped at him angrily, recovering from her initial surprise.
Dylan looked around. Was she the only one in the office?
“I heard you talking to someone,” he said.
She stared at him. It almost sounded like an accusation, Cindy thought. Who the hell did he think he was?
“Even if I were, that doesn’t give you an excuse for barging in,” she informed him, expecting him to offer some apology and then leave.
He did neither. Instead, he remained standing where he was, looking around the office again, as if he expected someone to pop out of the shadows.
Dylan scanned the office more slowly this time, taking in what he’d missed at first glance. The pretty young woman with the pinned-back, golden-brown hair and the damning dark-brown eyes was still the only one here.
“Where is he?” Dylan asked the attractive watchdog. “The senator,” he clarified, even though he had a feeling there was no need to.
Her hands were on her hips, the picture of barely suppressed fury. “He’s not here.”
“But you were just talking to him.” She hadn’t been on the phone when he walked in, so he couldn’t have interrupted a phone conversation. That meant that the woman had been talking to someone in the room. Since this was his father’s office, where had he gone?
Her eyes—rather attractive eyes, he noted—narrowed into piercing slits. “I was talking to myself, if it’s any business of yours,” she said curtly.
Nodding, he accepted the explanation. But he had a pressing question that needed answering. “Okay, where is he?”
Well, that gave her the identity of the mystery stranger, or at least told her his occupation. Her hackles went up.
“Can’t you damn reporters leave him alone? Aren’t you going to be satisfied until you’re chewing on his bones? Even if I knew,” she ended defiantly, “I wouldn’t tell you.”
She was lying, Dylan thought. There was something in her eyes that told him she knew exactly where the “good senator” was. She was covering for his father. Was there more than just professional loyalty at play here? He looked at her more closely.
His eyes swept over her and he took a really good look at the woman standing before him like a member of the emperor’s royal guard.
The woman wasn’t just pretty, she was damn attractive, bordering on downright gorgeous. She wasn’t his father’s usual type—the woman had honey-brown hair, not blond, and her eyes, instead of the usual blue, were the color of an inviting, cool root beer on a hot day. But who knew? Maybe the old man was branching out in his lechery. He certainly wouldn’t put it—or anything else—past his father. Not after that news story had knocked the pins out from under him, Dylan thought.
“Are you one of my father’s … friends?” he asked the woman tactfully.
There’d been a long, significant pause between the last two words. Pregnant enough to make her eyes blaze and her temper flare.
“What I am, if it’s any of your business,” Cindy snapped, indignantly drawing herself up to her full five-foot-four, “is the senator’s Chief Staff Assist—wait.” She came to a sudden, skidding halt as her eyes widened and she stared at him. “Did you just say ‘my father?’”
“Actually, I said ‘my father’s,’“ he corrected glibly. “But, for the record, you got the general gist of it.”
For the moment, she took no note of the sarcasm. “You’re the senator’s son,” she said incredulously.
“Yes.” Why did the woman look so surprised at that? Though they were estranged, it wasn’t as if his father kept his family a secret.
Not like his mistresses, Dylan’s mind added tersely.
How did she even know that this was the senator’s son? Cindy thought. For all she knew, this tall man in a designer suit was a reporter—apparently a good one if the cut of his expensive clothes was any indication. And the man was trying to talk—to lie, she amended—his way in here.
“Why haven’t I seen you before?” she challenged.
“Maybe because the good senator’s not being very fatherly these days now that he doesn’t need his wife and family for photo ops.” He fixed the woman with a look that he’d used to take witnesses—and courtroom opponents—down a peg. “I haven’t seen you, either, and yet I’m willing to believe that you’re his—what was it you called it again? Chief Staff Assistant?”
She didn’t like the way his mouth curved when he said that. Didn’t like his tone and she definitely didn’t like the way his eyes swept over her, as if he was taking the measure of a thing, not an actual person. She’d had more than enough of that kind of treatment from her ex-may-he-roast-on-a-flaming-spit-husband.
Her chin went up in an automatic, reflexive move at the same time that her eyes narrowed again.
“Yes,” she ground out. “I’m Senator Henry Thomas Kelley’s Chief Staff Assistant, and if you are actually the senator’s son, I’d like some proof, please.”
His father obviously liked them feisty, Dylan thought, taking out his wallet, not doubting for a moment that while this woman might really be what she claimed to be, she was also one of the growing number of mistresses. In his opinion, she was an infinitely better choice than the three women whose faces had been flashed across the screen during the unsettling news story.
He flipped his wallet open to his driver’s license and held it out to her.
Waiting a beat for her to read it, he asked, “Proof enough? Or would you also like to fingerprint me?” As she pushed back his wallet, he flipped it closed again and slipped it back into his pocket. “You can check my prints against the ones on file with the California Bar Association if you really want to be thorough.” Straightening his jacket, he added, “I could also leave you a sample of my blood if it suits your fancy.”
“No need to get sarcastic,” she informed him stiffly. He was the man’s son all right. Now that she thought of it, she should have seen the family resemblance in his features. It was just that she was too angry to think clearly right now. “It’s been completely insane here the last couple of days.”
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