The Rivals by Joan Johnston Page A

heart in her throat, hoping against hope that it was Kate, or if not her, that the police would have some word of her whereabouts. At the same time she was terrified that it might be someone coming to tell her Kate had been hurt in an accident—or that they’d found her body dumped beside the road.
    Libby put a hand over her pounding heart and opened the door. And gasped when she saw who stood there.
    â€œMay I come in?”
    Libby didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
    A second later, North was standing by her side, his body wired tight as a bowstring. “You can say whatever you have to say from right there, Blackthorne.”
    Libby stared at Clay Blackthorne, whose gaze had never left hers. His gray eyes were as ruthless and remote as they’d been since the day she betrayed him, his cheekbones chiseled, his jaw square and determined. He had crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and his black hair showed gray at the temples, but his powerful shoulders were still broad, and at six feet four, he towered almost a foot above her.
    He looked imposing in a long black cashmere coat. He unbuttoned it to reveal a tailored Armani tuxedo jacket and a crisp white tux shirt with the tie gone, open at the throat to reveal a thatch of dark hair. Black tuxedo trousers with a satin stripe along the side emphasized his long legs. His patent leather shoes looked out of place in her log home. Clay had come from a world of power brokers and politics. He didn’t belong here.
    â€œYou must have been at a party,” Libby blurted.
    â€œAt the British Embassy,” Clay confirmed. “With Dad and Ren and Jocelyn.”
    Libby looked behind him, as though expecting to see Clay’s father Blackjack, his second wife Ren, and Clay’s late wife’s sister Jocelyn Montrose on her doorstep. “Where are they?” she asked.
    â€œI came alone.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Libby said.
    â€œHas Kate shown up?”
    Libby shook her head. “No. What are you doing here?” she repeated. “Why did you come? How did you get here so fast?”
    â€œYou called me a little over four hours ago and said our daughter was missing,” Clay said. “I’m here to make sure she’s found.”
    â€œWe don’t need your help,” North said.
    â€œShe’s my daughter,” Clay said.
    â€œI told you not to come,” North said.
    Libby turned to North. “You talked to Clay?”
    â€œHe called here while they were doing the preflight check on his jet. You were out showing Kate’s picture around.” North turned to Clay and said, “Now get the hell off—”
    Libby turned on North and said, “This is my house. I’ll decide who’s welcome here.”
    North grabbed his Stetson and sheepskin coat from the antler rack behind her and said, “Call me when he’s gone.” He shoved past Clay, who held his ground, resulting in the inevitable collision of two hard-muscled male shoulders.
    Libby’s jaw clenched. North had taken up the gauntlet against the Blackthornes and carried it every bit as fervently as their father. Ordinarily, Libby would have sided with her brother. She wished she could hate Clay. But what had happened between them had been entirely her fault.
    She stepped back and said, “Come in.”
    Clay gave each of the three hounds a pat and a word of greeting as he entered. He took off his coat and hung it on the antler coatrack, then discarded his tux jacket before turning to her. “What’s being done to find Kate?”
    Libby bristled. “The presumption being that I’m incapable of handling the situation.”
    â€œI didn’t say that,” Clay replied with irritating equanimity. “I just want to know what’s going on.”
    Libby was itching for a fight, but she knew better than to provoke Clay. He didn’t fight fair, and he fought to win.
    â€œI’m