A Man of Secrets Page 5

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “I thought you would be anxious to get home.”

  “I am.” Natalie took a deep breath. The whole thing was just too much, she thought. She’d been accused of murdering her ex-husband, while here she stood with his brother in her parents’ front yard. Could her life get any more bizarre?

  “It’s just… What if I look into their eyes and see that they don’t believe me? What if my own son thinks I’m a murderer?”

  In the glow of the Christmas lights, she saw a shadow crossing his features, and Natalie had a sudden premonition of what he was thinking. If the situation were reversed, it wouldn’t matter much whether his family believed in his innocence or not. They would condemn him for dragging the Bishop name through the mud.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he said, his voice hard.

  Natalie nodded, but before she could say anything, the front door swung open and a deep voice said excitedly, “Natalie! I thought that was you! Come here, sweetheart!”

  And suddenly Natalie knew everything was going to be all right. The tears that she’d managed to hold at bay for so long came flooding out at the sight of her father’s outstretched arms. She flew up the steps and into that waiting comfort.

  “Daddy,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes tightly shut against the rush of emotions brought on by the warmth and security of Paul Silver’s embrace. The scent of Old Spice had always reminded her of her father, but never had it smelled more wonderful, conjured more memories, than it did at that moment.

  “I know,” he said, holding her tightly. “I know, sweetheart, but everything’s going to be okay now. You’ll see.”

  He whispered to her and soothed her just as he had when she was a little girl, when she’d come to him with nothing more traumatic than a skinned knee or a broken doll. He was not a big man—only five foot seven or so—and he was still recovering from a heart attack he’d suffered two months ago. But Natalie thought his arms had never felt stronger.

  Presently they both became aware of Spence, standing at the bottom of the steps, and her father cleared his throat gruffly. “Why don’t you both come in and tell me how you got out. I’ve had our lawyer and accountant working non-stop since the hearing this afternoon, but I didn’t have any hope of getting anything done until morning.”

  Natalie hesitated, realizing her father had just invited Spencer Bishop into his home, and neither she nor Spence seemed to know what to do about the request.

  “I can’t stay,” he said.

  At the same time, she said, “It’s okay. Please come in.”

  Spence hesitated, as if staying here was the last thing in the world he wanted to do at that moment. But then he shrugged, and climbed the porch steps to follow them inside.

  The interior of the house was even more welcoming. Boughs of fresh fir and holly, draping the banister and mantel, perfumed the air, and a cheery fire crackled in the fireplace. A huge Christmas tree, decorated with colored lights and a myriad of ornaments in every conceivable shape and size, dominated one whole corner of the living room.

  The fire must have been her mother’s idea, Natalie thought. Joy Silver always said there was nothing quite so comforting as a fire on a winter evening—even if, in San Antonio, it often meant running the air conditioner at the same time.

  Her father kept his left arm around Natalie’s shoulders as he turned to Spence. For the first time, Natalie realized there was more gray than brown in her father’s hair, more lines around his eyes and mouth than she remembered. A pang of guilt darted through her.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said to Spence, “even though you do look familiar to me.”

  “This is Spencer Bishop, Dad. Anthony’s brother.”

  Natalie felt more than saw her father’s slight hesitation before he extended his hand to Spence. The two men shook hands, then her dad said, “Come on into the living room. Your mother’s out in the kitchen. I’d better go get her or she’ll have my hide.”

  Natalie said, “Where’s Kyle?”

  “He’s out back feeding your mother’s dog. I’ll get him, too.” Her mother’s dog was a ten-year-old keeshond that had been a part of the Silver family since the day he was born. But her father never referred to him as anything but “your mother’s dog,” even though he was just as crazy about Major as the rest of them were.

  Just then, the kitchen door swung open and Natalie’s mother came through. “Paul, I thought I heard voices—” She saw Natalie and her eyes lit up with happiness. “Natalie!”

  Mother and daughter met halfway across the room and flung their arms around each other. Natalie had to lean down to embrace her mother. Trim, petite, a bundle of energy, Joy Silver looked at least ten years younger than her fifty-two years. Her hair was darker than Natalie’s, her eyes a different shade of blue, but there was still a strong resemblance between them.

  “Oh, my God,” her mother cried. “I didn’t think we would be able to get you out until tomorrow. It broke my heart, thinking about you spending the night in that horrible place. But I should have known your father would come up with some way to get you out. Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, craning her head around Natalie to stare accusingly at her husband.

  “Because I didn’t know,” her father said. “I’m not the one who posted her bail.”

  “Then who did?” her mother demanded.

  “Actually…it was Spence who posted the bail.”

  “Spence?”

  Natalie looped her arm through her mother’s and pulled her forward. “This is Spencer Bishop, Mom. Anthony’s brother.”

  Her mother’s hand fluttered to her heart. “Oh, my,” she murmured. Her gaze flew to her husband’s, and Natalie saw her father’s shoulders lift in a slight shrug as if to say, I’m as confused by all this as you are.

  As if sensing the undercurrents, Spence said, “I should be shoving off. I’m sure the three of you must have a lot to talk about.”

  “You don’t want to do that,” her father said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t want to leave before you have a chance to see your nephew.”

  Spence looked at Natalie, who quickly glanced away.

  “Some other time, perhaps—” he started.

  “We don’t want to hold you up any longer—” Natalie began.

  “Mom! You’re back!”

  Before either of them could say another word, Kyle, dressed in a San Antonio Spurs sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sneakers, sprang through the kitchen door and launched himself at Natalie. She caught him in her arms, twirling him around and around until both of them collapsed on the plaid sofa, dizzy and laughing.

  “I missed you so much,” she said, kissing his cheek, but he was already pushing her slightly away as he turned to stare at Spence.

  Green eyes met green eyes.

  They measured each other for a long moment before Kyle wiggled off Natalie’s lap and sat on the couch beside her. “You look like my father,” he said.

  Natalie’s gaze flew to Spence’s. He was studying Kyle just as intently as Kyle was studying him. From where Natalie sat, their profiles looked identical. But then, all the Bishops looked alike.

  “I’m your uncle,” Spence said. “Your father’s brother. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “You’re not here to take my mother away again, are you?” Kyle demanded, his eyes narrowing on Spence.

  Spence looked slightly startled, then said, “No. I brought her home, so you could take care of her.”

  Kyle pondered this, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

  “Would you like something to drink, Spence?” her mother asked, having gotten over her initial shock. “Hot chocolate or wassail, perhaps?”

  Spence turned to her. “No, thanks. I really do have to be going.”

  “Let me walk you out.” Her father put his hand on Spence’s shoulder. The two of them turned to
ward the front door, and Natalie could hear her father speaking in a low voice as they stood in the foyer before Spence departed. She couldn’t help wondering what her father was saying to him. And what Spence was saying in return.

  As if drawn by her intense scrutiny, Spence turned at the door. His gaze captured Natalie’s and her breath caught in her throat. She asked herself again, what he was doing here? Why he had bailed her out?

  Dear God, she thought, what was he up to?

  * * *

  SPENCE PAUSED ON THE porch, unsettled by his brief encounter with the Silvers. The night suddenly seemed cold and bleak compared to the warmth he’d just left behind. For a moment, he had the strongest urge to turn around and go back, to join them in their cozy little domain, but there was no place for him inside that house. No place for him anywhere.

  He’d always told himself that, in his line of work, it was better not to have ties. Better not to have a family—people who depended on you coming home every night.

  He told himself that same thing now, but he couldn’t seem to shake the disquiet that being with Natalie’s family had awakened in him.

  Starting across the yard toward his car, he glanced back, unable to resist. Through the large front window, he could see clearly into the house. He felt like a voyeur, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away.

  The Silvers had all grouped themselves around the fireplace. Paul was seated in an overstuffed chair, while his wife perched on the arm. Joy. What an apt name, he thought, seeing the woman’s smile flash down at her husband.

  Spence thought that looking at Joy Silver was probably like getting a glimpse of what Natalie would look like in twenty years. They had the same bone structure, were both very thin and petite, and they both had the same soul-melting smile.

  Natalie was seated on the floor in front of her father’s chair with Kyle on her lap, her arms wrapped tightly around him, as if she would never let him go. But she was gazing up at her father, obviously clinging to every word Paul spoke.

  In the split second that Spence stood gazing inside that window, it seemed to him that Paul Silver must be the luckiest man in the world.

  * * *

  “NATALIE? YOU STILL UP?”

  Natalie turned from the window in her parents’ guest room as her father poked his head inside the door. “Come in, Daddy.”

  Paul, dressed in dark blue pajamas and robe, crossed the room to stand at the window beside her. They stood silently for a few minutes, gazing at the Christmas lights on the house across the street.

  Finally her father said, “What do you know about this Spencer Bishop?”

  “Not much,” Natalie hedged.

  “I can’t help worrying about his motives. If he’s anything like Anthony, I can’t see him doing anything out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “I know,” Natalie said. “That worries me, too.”

  “Then you don’t trust him?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t afford to. I can’t afford to trust anyone right now, except you and Mom and Kyle.” She turned to her father, gazing up at him earnestly. “I’m so sorry about…all this. All the trouble I’ve caused.”

  “Now, you listen to me,” he said sternly. “This is not your fault. Any of it.”

  “I know, but if I’d never married Anthony—”

  “You wouldn’t have that great little guy in the next room. Think about that.”

  Natalie turned back to stare out the window. She’d thought of little else but Kyle since this whole ordeal had begun.

  Paul put his arm around her and drew her close. “This family’s been through a lot over the years, and we’ve always come through just fine. We’ll get through this just like we’ve gotten through everything else—by sticking together. You hear me?”

  Natalie smiled at the gruffness in his tone. “I hear you.”

  “Okay.” He squeezed her arm. “Try to get a good night’s sleep. Things always seem brighter in the morning.”

  At the door, he turned back suddenly.

  “Natalie, about the bail…”

  “What about it?”

  He paused, then said, “You know I would have sold my soul to get you out of that place, don’t you?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I know that.”

  He nodded. “‘Night.”

  “Good night, Daddy.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows in the morning room, highlighting the silver streaks in Irene Bishop’s perfectly coifed blond hair. She sat on the very edge of a tapestried armchair, her posture stick straight, her bearing regal, her air one of aloofness. She resembled her surroundings, Spence thought, not for the first time. Beautiful, elegant, and completely untouchable.

  “Thank you for coming by so early this morning, Spencer,” she said formally.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “How would you expect me to feel? My son has been brutally murdered.” But whatever grief she might have been experiencing was carefully masked behind the perfect makeup, the perfect hairdo, the perfect black dress.

  “I’m sorry,” he said inadequately. “I know how difficult this must be for you.”

  “You have no idea,” she replied, still without so much as a quiver of emotion in her voice or expression. Although he did notice that the hand holding the fragile ivory demitasse trembled as she lifted it to her lips. She took a delicate sip, then set the cup down on a marble-topped table. “The funeral is set for tomorrow. All the arrangements have been made. Only close friends and family and, of course, a few of Anthony’s most trusted associates will be invited.”

  Who, in their right mind, had trusted Anthony? Spence wondered, then immediately felt guilty. His brother had been dead for little more than twenty-four hours. Couldn’t he find it in himself to show even an ounce of compassion, one measure of regret?

  Spence turned away from his mother, his gaze going automatically to the portrait of his father and brother that hung over the marble fireplace. Anthony, Sr., was seated, while his favorite son stood slightly behind him, one hand resting on his father’s shoulder. They stared down from their lofty position with the same handsome face, the same arrogant expression, the same cool green eyes.

  The same eyes Spence saw when he looked at himself in the mirror.

  But the similarities between him and Anthony—or with any of the other Bishops—ended there. Or at least Spence had always told himself so. He’d always told himself he was different, and that was the reason he was treated like an outsider in his own family. That was the reason there wasn’t a single Bishop he’d ever been close to. Not his mother, not his sister, and especially not his brother.

  He and Anthony had never gotten along, even as children. But seven years ago, when Spence had learned of Anthony’s treachery and Natalie’s betrayal, he’d known then that there would never be a reconciliation between his brother and him. Their differences were too great. The paths they’d each chosen for themselves, too divergent.

  And now it was too late.

  He rubbed his face with both hands as he turned back to Irene. “Is that why you wanted to see me this morning? To tell me about the arrangements?”

  “You’re her son,” Anthea said from the doorway. “Does she need a reason other than that?”

  She always has before, Spence thought bitterly, glancing up to find his sister glaring at him from the doorway.

  She walked into the room, tall and thin, head held high, striving to attain the Bishop air, but somehow not quite managing to pull it off.

  Perhaps it was the almost-imperceptible slump of her shoulders, Spence thought. Or perhaps the way her suit—no doubt expensive—hung on her lanky frame like a bag. Her dark hair was cut in a short, boyish style that did nothing to soften her angular features. But, even given all that, she might still have been mildly attractive if not for the permanent scowl that darkened her face.

  Anthea Bishop possessed not one ounce of her mother’s sense of style
or elegance, and Irene never seemed to let her forget it. Her critical gaze measured her daughter’s progress across the room, but she said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her silent disapproval echoed like a scream.

  Spence could almost feel sorry for his sister. He’d been on the receiving end of Irene’s cold disapproval far more times than he cared to remember. Only when she had looked at Anthony had her eyes lit with an inner glow. Only then had Spence ever glimpsed an emotion that remotely resembled maternal pride.

  But instead of their lowly positions in the family drawing them closer together, Spence and Anthea were hardly more than strangers to each other. While Spence had compensated for the lack of parental affection by becoming wild and rebellious in his teenage years, then later pulling away from the family altogether, Anthea had become cold and sullen, steadfastly clinging to her heritage as a Bishop. She was forty-one years old and still living at home with her mother.

  His sister’s cool, assessing eyes seemed to challenge him now, although Spence had no idea what she might be thinking. He’d never been able to read Anthea.

  “The reason I wanted to see you this morning,” Irene was saying, “is because I’d like for you to come home, Spencer.”

  He gazed down at her in surprise. “What do you mean, come home?”

  “I’d like for you to move back into this house, with Anthea and me.”

  His surprise turned to astonishment, and he found himself at a complete loss for words. He wondered fleetingly what his mother would think if she knew the real reason he’d come back to San Antonio; if she found out that his assignment had been to get Jack Russo at any cost, even if it meant implicating his own brother in a crime so dark and vile, the Bishop name would never again be the same.

  Spence didn’t think she would be inviting him to move back home, that was for sure.

  “I told you yesterday I’m only here for the holidays. I live in Washington.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Rising, Irene walked to the window and parted the heavy brocade curtains to gaze out at the sunlit courtyard.