Tangled Vines (29 page)

Sam drove off. Kelly didn't know where he was taking her. More than that, she didn't care. She stared sightlessly ahead while the wind blew in the Jeep's open sides, stinging her face. She didn't feel it. She didn't feel anything. Not yet.

Somewhere along a twisting road that wound into the Mayacamas range, Sam pulled the Jeep onto a graveled lay-by next to a stream of softly chuckling water, bordered by tall trees, dripping moss. He switched off the engine and let the silence settle around them. Kelly sat motionless, her expression blank, her fingers tightly laced.

When Sam thought of Len Dougherty, the kind of father he must have been – always drunk, always in trouble – he wanted to swear loudly, viciously. His own parents had been nothing to brag about, forgetting all about him half the time, never bothering to come to his ball games or teacher conferences. But he'd never been ashamed of them. He could hate Dougherty for that alone.

Why in hell had he let security get lax? Dougherty shouldn't have gotten within a hundred feet of the winery. Dougherty had been too quiet for too long. He should have recognized that, but he'd let too many other things crowd Dougherty from his mind. And Kelly had definitely been one of them.

“Where did they take him?” Kelly broke the silence.

Sam took a deep breath before answering, wishing there was a way he could spare her, protect her. That was impossible. “To the county jail in Napa.”

She nodded as if they were talking about the weather. He looked for signs of shock, but her eyes were clear and bright, the color was back in her face. She had her emotions firmly under control. It was part of that strength he'd sensed in her, and he knew she'd need all of it before this was over.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, thinking she looked beautiful sitting there. Beautiful and alone.

One shoulder lifted in a semblance of a shrug. “I can't run away. I can't pretend none of this happened. Not this time.” A cardinal flitted among the branches of a redwood tree, a flash of scarlet against dark green. “He made my life a kind of hell. Now he's doing it again.”

“You aren't responsible for his actions.” Sam's eyes were dark and caring in their study of her.

“No, I'm not.” But she would suffer from them, just as she always had. It wasn't fair or right, but that's the way it would be. Kelly had grown up knowing what it was like to be judged, to be made to feel worthless because of her father. “I'm responsible only for my own behavior. Still... .” She left the thought unfinished as some of the old anger and resentment threatened to surface “What happened last night?”

How many times in the past had she asked a similar question? How many times had she needed to determine the circumstances surrounding her father's latest brush with the law? So many times that she thought it had ceased to bother her. This time was different; this time the charge was murder.

“There isn't much I can tell you,” Sam admitted. “Katherine saw Emile take the old bridle path that leads to the winery. She wanted to talk to him, so she went after him. Her night vision has become very poor over the years and she's old. I'm sure it took her longer to reach the winery than it did for Emile. The security lights at the winery were on. She heard some noise and saw Dougherty bending over Emile's body. When he saw her, he dropped the mallet in his hand and ran.”

“He ran.” The braid felt hot and heavy on her neck. “He wouldn't have run if he wasn't guilty, I suppose.”

Kelly absently rubbed her forearm, the left one that her father had broken in drunken anger. She remembered other occasions when he'd hit her, bruising her face or blackening an eye. She knew he was more than capable of violence. If he had killed someone in a fight, she would have believed that readily. But murder. The word sounded like an obscenity. Even though she hated him, Kelly didn't want to believe he was capable of that.

“What now, Kelly?”

She took a deep breath and let it out, fighting the anger she felt, keeping it inside. “Go back to town, I guess. Back to Darnell's.”

“They'll be waiting for you.”

“My fellow members of the press, you mean?” she said a little bitterly then looked around at the sylvan setting. “As peaceful as this is, I can't stay here forever. Sooner or later I'll have to face them. After that, I'll just take it moment by moment. But I needed this time.” She met his gaze. “Thank you for that, Sam.”

“It isn't necessary.” He turned the key in the ignition switch.

The noise of the engine and the wind tunneling in the Jeep's open sides made further conversation difficult. They drove back to town in heavy silence.

DeeDee pounced on Kelly the minute she walked through the doorway. “Where have you been? Hugh has called half a dozen times for you already. The man is having a hissy fit wanting to know what's going on. What is going on, Kelly?”

“You were there. My father has been accused of murdering Baron Fougere.” The sharpness in her voice was inadvertent, a reflection of the need she felt to be doubly on guard. It proved effective in silencing DeeDee.

Kelly walked past DeeDee straight to the phone in the dainty Victorian parlor and dialed the number to Hugh's private line, mentally bracing herself. He answered on the second ring, his voice very clipped, and very British.

“Hello, Hugh. It's Kelly.” She made an effort to project a calmness and gripped the telephone cord tightly, twining her fingers through its coils.

There was a full second of thick silence before he spoke in a voice much too quiet and much too controlled. “Kelly, how good of you to call. You do realize your name is making headlines on every wire service in the country.”

“I thought it might be.” The professional side of her recognized what a sensational story this made – a wealthy French baron murdered at a famed wine estate by the father of a television-news personality. It was the kind of story that could make someone's career.

“You thought, did you?” He was struggling to keep his anger in check, but it came through with a quiet force. “Then perhaps you would be good enough to explain what this is about? Is this man your father? I recall, distinctly, that you told me he was dead.”

“At the time, a lie was easier to tell than the truth.” But she doubted he would understand that.

“Kelly, Kelly, Kelly,” Hugh murmured in soft but angry censure. “The publicity on this has just begun. There are a great many people in this building who are not – pleased, shall we say, by what they are seeing and hearing. Is he guilty?”

“Probably. I don't know.” Her head started to pound. She rubbed at her temple.

There was a sigh of regret, of resignation. “Under the circumstances, it will be best if you take a leave of absence from the show.”

“No.” Her protest was instant and strident.

“That is not a suggestion, Kelly.”

“But I need to work, Hugh. I'll go crazy if-“

“Then pray some disaster occurs to push this story off the front page,” he snapped, then he added stiffly, “I'll do everything I can, but.... .”

He was already considering replacing her. Kelly could hear it in his voice. If that happened, she would be finished; her career would be over. She had devoted her life to it; it was the center of her existence. The people she worked with – the camera crews, the producers, the writers, the show staff – they were her family, her friends. And Hugh – she had expected him to be upset, even angry, but she had been certain he would stand behind her, certain he would mount a campaign on her behalf to remind the world the sins of her father were not hers. Instead he was ready to turn his back on her. With this leave of absence, he was already distancing himself and the show from her.

A horrible tightness squeezed at her throat and her chest. Even after all this time she still wasn't immune to the pain of betrayal and rejection.

Dimly she heard Hugh's voice. “Kelly, I said, is DeeDee there?”

She half turned to confirm that DeeDee was standing in the parlor's arched entrance, listening. “Yes.”

“I need to talk to her. Be sure to give her all your notes and materials on John Travis. She'll need it to interview him. And, Kelly, you would be wise to drop out of sight. Linda James is out for blood on this one.”

Kelly held out the phone to DeeDee. “He wants to talk to you.”

When DeeDee took it, Kelly immediately climbed the mahogany stairs to the room she'd left with such haste mere hours ago. She slung her shoulder bag on the unmade bed and crossed to the window.

There, in the vineyards beyond the live oaks, she could see the stooped shapes of migratory workers stripping the vines of their grapes. The morning was new, but the day was long and they paced themselves, conserving energy to be expended later. Had it been one of them playing the guitar last night? she wondered. It seemed an eternity ago, something she had dreamed along with the heat of Sam's kiss.

She closed her eyes against this sudden, aching need to be held and comforted, to know the warmth of strong arms around her and to draw on that strength. She was so tired of facing everything alone. But hadn't it always been that way since her mother died? Hadn't she learned she couldn't depend on anyone but herself? She felt the sting of tears and opened her eyes wide. Crying never changed anything; she'd learned that, too.

There was a light rap on her door, followed by DeeDee's voice saying, “Kelly, it's me. Can I come in?”

Kelly shook off the remnants of self-pity and gathered up her defenses, squaring her shoulders as she swung away from the window. “It's unlocked.” At the click of the latch, she walked to her suitcase and dragged out the thick folders on John Travis. “Hugh asked me to give you these.”

DeeDee hesitated, then took them from her. “I'm sorry about this, Kelly. Hugh's concerned about the show. A lot of jobs are riding on it.”

“What's one job compared to many? I can't fault the logic of that. But this is my job. My career.”

“He only wants you to take a leave of absence, Kelly. This whole thing could blow over in a couple of days and you'll be back to work. You haven't lost your job.”

“And I'm not going to,” she vowed as she began to rearrange the clothes in her suitcase.

“This has to be hell for you.” There was pity in DeeDee's gaze. Kelly hated that. “What are you going to do?”

She lifted her shoulders in a telling shrug. “I don't know. Hugh wants me to disappear for a while.”

“Are you?”

It was a tempting thought. Only God knew how tempting it was. “Most of my life I've been hiding, lying, pretending. What has it gotten me?” Yet she felt trapped, restless, her nerves jagged and raw.

“If you stay, it better not be here. Right now everyone thinks you've gone to visit your father in jail.” By everyone, it was understood she meant members of the various news media sent to cover the baron's murder. “Once they find out differently, they'll be camped outside.”

Kelly had already considered that. “I'll need the car.”

DeeDee shifted the folders to the crook of one arm and dug in her pocket for the car keys. “Where are you going?”

“I don't know yet,” Kelly admitted. “Right now I need to think.” She curled her fingers around the keys, aware she held freedom in her hand. But was it freedom?

The wind whipped at the pale brown ends of Sam's hair, bringing with it the sharp smell of fermenting grapes mixed with a faint tang of sea air as it blew in through the Jeep's open sides. The iron gates that marked the main entrance to Rutledge Estate were closed, barring reporters and camera crews from entry. Sam turned off onto an unmarked side lane before he ever reached it.

Bone-weary from lack of sleep, Sam headed straight to the house. He left the Jeep parked outside and walked in the front door. The staircase was off to his left, making its grand sweep to the second floor. He angled toward it, intent on a shower and a few hours' sleep.

When he was halfway to the steps, the housekeeper, Mrs. Vargas, stopped him. “Madam is in the morning room. She requested that you meet her there when you returned.”

Tired and irritable, he started to snap a reply, then dragged in a deep breath and said, “Tell her I'll be there after I shower and change.”

He went up the stairs and down the hall to his room. He kept his mind blank as he walked into the adjoining bath and flipped on the shower. Water gushed from the shower head, ice-cold at first then gradually warming.

Without wasting motion, Sam stripped off his clothes and tossed them in a heap on the mosaic-tiled floor. He tested the temperature of the water. It was hot and he stepped beneath the spray, swinging the glass door shut behind him. He stood beneath the pulsing jets of water, letting them beat the tiredness from his muscles, the water sluicing over his broad shoulders, down his back and chest to reach onto his narrow hips and strong legs.

Water pelted the tiled sides of the shower stall; the hiss of it surrounded him like the billowing steam. Cupping a bar of soap in his hands, Sam rubbed it over his arms and chest, working up a lather that the coursing water immediately washed away, leaving his tanned skin slick and glistening.

As he ran his hands over his body, Sam caught himself thinking of Kelly and the way she'd reacted when she learned it was her father who had been arrested for killing the baron, the initial shock that had drained the color from her face, leaving her looking exposed and vulnerable, the way her hands had balled, into fists as she fought to control her emotions and face the onslaught of reporters. That had been much more appealing, in its way sexier, than hysteria or sobbing flight.

Swearing softly, he lifted his face to the spray and closed his eyes, trying to shut her out of his mind, but he only succeeded in conjuring up the image of her sitting beside him in the Jeep, all that magnificent hair plaited in that damnable braid. He scraped his fingers through his hair, pushing the wet strands off his face. That braid had been like knowing she wore a woman's lacy things under those tailored clothes.

He stood motionless beneath the pulsing jets, his mind caught on that erotic thought. He tried to tell himself that he'd slept alone for so long that any woman could stir him. God knows out there in the Jeep he had wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, comfort her.

But he hadn't. He hadn't because it wouldn't have stopped there. It wouldn't have stopped with a kiss either, and sex wasn't what she had needed from him then.

He hadn't because he had never felt so damned protective toward another human in his life, even to the extent of protecting her from himself. It was a new emotion for him and Sam wasn't sure he liked it, but that didn't lessen the feeling.

Ten minutes later Sam walked into the morning room, dressed in khakis and a chambray shirt, his face clean-shaven and smooth, his hair still damp from the shower. Katherine sat at the breakfast table looking fresh and rested, every strand of white hair perfectly in place. Only the faint shadows below her eyes indicated that she had been deprived of any sleep the night before.

“Good morning.” Sam walked to the sideboard, ignored the silver coffee service and filled a glass with freshly squeezed orange juice. “How's Natalie?” He pulled out a chair and sat down.

With her lips curving in faint amusement, Katherine took a sip of her coffee. “Clay called an hour ago to make the same inquiry.” She lowered her cup. “She is still in bed. Mrs. Vargas took a tray up to her earlier, but she refused it. I suspect Natalie will spend most of the day in her room.”

Whether from guilt or grief, Katherine chose not to speculate. Just as she had chosen not to speculate to the police when they had asked her why Emile had left the party and gone to the winery last night. But she had her suspicions. And fears. Both would be kept totally to herself.

“Emile's death has naturally nullified all agreements we made. Perhaps that is best. Our wines will continue to carry only the Rutledge Estate name,” Katherine stated. “There is a sad irony that something good can come from such a terrible tragedy.”

“A very sad irony.” He drank down a swallow of juice and stared into the glass, his expression closed.

If only he had let her know how strongly he felt about Rutledge Estate, she thought. If he had, she would never have gone to Emile, he would not have come to Rutledge Estate, there would have been no party, and Emile would still be alive. That was the real tragedy of all this. But there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it, and Katherine turned her mind back to the present concerns.

“Did the police indicate how soon they would be taking down their barriers?” she asked. “They have combed the area thoroughly. Surely by now they have collected all their evidence and have taken all the necessary pictures of the scene.”

“I wasn't able to talk to anyone. There was a mob of reporters at the police station when, I arrived,” he explained, then paused a beat. “They transferred Dougherty to the county jail.”

“Yes, I heard on the radio that he was officially charged with murder.”

He cocked his head toward her. “Then you must have heard about Kelly, too.”

Katherine nodded. “The report made much of the fact Dougherty was her father.”

“She's one tough, gutsy lady.” He swirled the juice in his glass and watched it ride up the sides. “It's hard to believe she's his daughter.”

“Guts,” she mused as if testing the word that sounded so strange coming from her. “That describes Evan Dougherty, her grandfather, very well. Her intelligence and determination probably came from him as well. The green eyes, the red hair perhaps I should have seen the resemblance, though it hardly matters.”

“No, it doesn't.” He didn't give a damn who her parents were, but he remembered her wariness around him. Her father hated anyone connected to Rutledge Estate. Did Kelly see him as her enemy, too? Dammit, he wanted her to trust him.

“Did I mention the weather forecast calls for showers to move into our area in the next day or two?” Katherine said.

“That's the last thing we need right now,” Sam muttered in frustration.

“Unfortunately they are calling for a seventy percent chance.”

He sighed heavily at that. “I'll get the crews out this morning and start checking the vineyards to make sure there's plenty of room for air to circulate around the grape clusters. That should help some.”

“I quite agree, Jonathon. Sam,” she said, catching her mistake and correcting it at once. “Mold can form so quickly on wet grapes after a rain, especially if the rain is followed by hot days.”