Blood Is Quicker Than Water

Blood Is Quicker Than Water A Danny Haase Mystery Novel

Katherine Smith

Whiskey Creek Press www.whiskeycreekpress.com Copyright ©2005 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. BLOOD IS QUICKER THAN WATER by Katherine Smith WHISKEY CREEK PRESS www.whiskeycreekpress.com Published by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS Whiskey Creek Press PO Box 51052 Casper, WY 82605-1052 www.whiskeycreekpress.com Copyright © 2005 by Katherine Smith Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. ISBN 1-59374-302-5 Credits Cover Artist: Nora Baxter Editor: Giovanna Lagana Printed in the United States of America

Other Books by Katherine Smith available at Whiskey Creek Press: www.whiskeycreekpress.com Wayward Sun The Summer Bones

Dedication To Alex. This one is for you, buddy. Many thanks to Giovanna Lagana, a wonderful editor and someone I consider a dear friend. My appreciation also to Deb Womack and Jan Janssen.

Prologue It was only the beginning of the dream; Cassandra Beaumont knew that as well as she knew she lived and breathed. The waiting was over, the votes counted, and after an endless night of flash bulbs, cheers, and infinite handshakes, at least they were going home. The world outside was gray and wet, a thin November drizzle heralding the expanse of dawn on the horizon. Drooping with exhaustion, Cassandra dimly heard Robert decline a waiting limousine. Someone, a polite stranger with no face, helped her into the passenger seat of their Mercedes. Her husband hummed as he pulled away from the building. The wheels squealed on the wet pavement. “Landslide!” He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and laughed out loud in satisfaction. “I knew I'd win, but a damned landslide?" “The youngest man ever to be elected senator in the history of Illinois. It's wonderful.” She leaned her head back against the seat and shut her eyes. “God, I'm so tired." “Tired? How the hell can you be tired, Cassie? I won." Lifting her lashes and glancing over, she stared at his profile, seeing the faint smile on his mouth. His stand on abortion and plans to reform the state budgeting structure aside, she couldn't help but wonder how many of the female voters had been swayed by his looks and name, that image so carefully created and exploited by the press. He fairly exuded the infamous Beaumont charm, even at five in the morning. The trace of a daybreak beard only lent a certain dash to his lean face, his dark hair was rumpled attractively, and he'd discarded his jacket and tie, his shirt open to show off a muscular upper chest and strong neck. They'd been married for five years and she still thought he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. The tires whined as they gained the beltline and changed lanes. The rain pelting the windshield had changed over to ice, pinging against the glass with audible rhythm. Even the inside of the car smelled stale and dank with the dying autumn. Not wanting to disrupt his jubilant mood, she still couldn't help but murmur, “You're driving awfully fast." Robert looked amused. “Darling, I always drive fast and there is virtually no traffic at this time of morning."

“Yes, but—" “Just relax. Can you imagine how Morris is feeling right now? For an incumbent, he sure got handed his ass." “Robert, please, I know you're excited, but you're going nearly eighty." The words stuck in her throat as at that very moment she heard something crack and the vehicle lurch sideways in a sickening wave of motion. Suddenly the world was a melee of swirling colors and screaming metal. Robert cursed, wrestling with the wheel. They hit the guardrail hard, slamming her forward against her seatbelt. Losing her breath, she dizzily realized with panic that the ragdoll sensation she felt meant they'd gone over the side of the road. “No,” she screamed in silent terror. Chapter 1 Her shaky return to the world was filled as always with gray edges and inner ghosts. At the moment, she wouldn't mind never sleeping again. Cassandra Beaumont rolled over and pushed the damp hair from her forehead, still trembling in the aftermath. Her heart pounded, sending the blood roaring in her ears. Her nightgown was soaked with cold sweat. Blinking up at the ceiling, she let her breath out very slowly. Control. She needed complete control. The room was dark but cool. Large, familiar, with the armoire in the corner and the long windows she loved across from the bed so she could look out into the garden in the summer. The air-conditioning hummed in low seductive song. She gazed upward at where the oblong pattern of relief from the security lights penetrated the curtains and touched the ceiling of her bedroom. Everything was normal. Quiet. The alarm hadn't sounded. It was just another damned nightmare. Her subconscious worked overtime lately and she was sick of it. “Mummy?" “Tim.” She came to a sitting position so swiftly that the room whirled for a moment. Her hands flew backwards to support her body. The bottom sheet was damp to the touch. “Go back to bed." A pair of solemn, dark blue eyes gazed at her from the doorway. “You yelled. I woke up." “I'm sorry.” Swallowing hard, she tried to smile but her lips felt as stiff as dried leather. “That's okay.” It was forlorn forgiveness. Framed by the darkened doorway, her son was light and shadow, his curly dark hair sticking up in tufts, his precious blanket clutched in his arms. Wearing cartoon pajamas and red socks, he looked so very ... very young. And so very much like his father. “I'm fine. I just had a bad dream.” She wiped her damp hands on the blankets in a self-conscious gesture. Her legs were still trembling in betraying little convulsions. “Do you want me to take you back to your room?" “No.” His stocking feet shuffled against the carpet. “Can't I sleep with you?"

She should have known he would ask. It was the same battle every night, over and over. Ever since the accident he'd been very dependent, rather unlike the forthright young child he'd been before. How she hated it. The difference was pronounced and a little frightening—actually, a lot frightening. “We've discussed this, honey. You need to be a big boy and sleep in your own room.” Flinging back the covers and throwing her wobbly legs over the side, she swung out of bed. She crossed the room to pick him up, his body small and firm in her arms. His little arms went around her neck and he sniffled slightly against her skin and clung to her. God, she loved this precious human being. It was almost as frightening as her dreams how much she loved him. Throat tight, she said, “Timmy, you know everything is okay, right?” She pressed her face against his silky hair and smelled baby shampoo mingled with his special childish scent. A sob shook him slightly. “Yes." “I'm here." “Mummy, I know. But ... Daddy isn't." No, she thought with as much emotional detachment as possible, he isn't. Very gently, she promised, “You and I are going to be great on our own, sweetheart." **** To him, the show was a complete fiasco. Michael moved like a shadow through the elite crowd, feeling rather like an automaton, a smile plastered on his face. His jeans and denim shirt were well-worn, a contrast to everyone around him, but long ago he'd had his fill of formal wear and stuffy affairs. The long gowns and tuxedoes made his casual appearance conspicuous, but that was the point, wasn't it? Drinking bad champagne from a long fluted glass, it was all he could do to look anything other than bored with the whole social thing. He'd even signed a few autographs with reluctance, always feeling like a sham. A great artist? He certainly didn't feel like one. Oh yes, his paintings sold in record numbers. It was ... amazing. But he felt somehow cheated and maybe a little Hollywood cheap. Damn all, he thought darkly and emptied his glass as he saw a portly man detach himself from a group of over-dressed, over-weight ladies. He was Hollywood cheap. The director of the gallery smiled like he'd just eaten a pound of the finest caviar. Drifting close, he murmured, “A success, Michael. Congratulations." Standing in an alcove where he could watch the flow of people, Michael murmured, “The turn-out is much bigger than I expected." “Oh, no. I was sure this display would draw quite a number." “Interested in my work?” The delicate question was as much a challenge as anything. The evening grated on the good manners that had been pounded into him since he could toddle across the floor. He felt a little like strangling someone. Mr. Alcott, as it happened, was at the top of the list of potential victims. Michael hadn't wanted this at all. Trevor Alcott had the grace to turn the slightest bit red. “I ... yes, of course." “Not my family and the illustrious Beaumont name? That full-page ad in the paper looked more like a

political banner than an invitation to an art showing. Why didn't you tell me you were going to do it? This is New York, half the world probably saw it." Alcott's eyes widened slightly in the folds of skin under his heavy gray brows. “You are a Beaumont. That doesn't hurt, Michael, you know that. Whatever gets your work out there so it can be seen helps. Having a famous name is in your favor." “I am sure you feel that way, I'm just not sure I do.” Michael did his best to not snarl out the words. Obviously stung, the man said, “I am in the business of promoting artists and their creations. Selling their pieces. That is what I'm doing. Here. For you." “I want people to enjoy what they see. To purchase a painting that will grace their home and enlighten their life, not just to have them buy something, even if they think it sucks, just because my last name is in the corner." “I am giving you great exposure.” The protest was more of a bluster. Michael lifted a brow and smiled coldly. “Using all means possible, is that it?" Above the perfectly immaculate collar of his white shirt, the director's plump mouth tightened. “Yes, that is it. You won't object when I hand you the check from tonight's proceeds." Michael could easily point out that that logic was extremely flawed, since the very name that Alcott had hung the bank on was the one that ensured Michael did not have to do anything as pedestrian as worry about making a living at painting, or anything else for that matter. He was a goddamned Beaumont. Lucky him. “I'm absolutely starved. Are we nearly done?” A slim arm slipped through Michael's and a hand came up to suggestively caress his shoulder. The interruption might have been welcome except when he turned his head, he looked into a pair of sea-green eyes that owed nothing to genetics and everything to colored contacts. He could even see the little rings around the irises. The woman clinging to his arm exhaled a delicate blast of gin across his face. “Darling, I think I'm in the mood for Thai." He said shortly, “I didn't think you ate real food. At least you never have in my presence." “I'm off my diet, just for tonight." “Well, sorry, we're not done." “How soon?” A pout pulled full lips into a bow. Mr. Alcott, both tactful and relieved, took that moment to drift off—maybe not drift. He was moving at a pretty fast pace. With reluctant amusement, Michael watched the man fade into the crowd and then replied, “Darling Tiffany, I have no idea. An artist is supposed to be available for his adoring public." “Adoring public?” The vacant aqua eyes widened. “What do you mean? Like ... groupies?" Lord, help him. Groupies? Michael said gently, “I'm joking, of course." “Oh.” A troubled frown briefly crossed Tiffany's lovely face. Blond, leggy, and as absent of intellect as she was full of bodily charms, she looked very nice on his arm ... but at that point the attraction was over. He'd found that out after the first date. After the first five minutes of the first date. Why she'd shown up here was a mystery to him. She certainly had no interest in paintings, his or anyone else's. But in her very short, very tight designer black dress, there were plenty of interested eyes on her. He suggested, “As far as I'm concerned, you can leave and grab a bite any time."

“Without you?” She actually batted her lashes at him. It was a maneuver he'd never seen done before, except maybe in cartoons. He wanted to laugh out loud. “I don't think you need me. Half the men in this room are staring at you with their tongues hanging out. Just pick one." “Oh, Michael,” she hit his arm playfully, “stop it. You're so funny." Hilarious. Yeah, that was him. He needed to get rid of Tiffany before he moved her to the top of his need to strangle list. “Odd, I wasn't trying to be. Here,” he put one hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward a corner, “let me introduce you to a friend of mine. I think you two might get along." **** Cassandra looked at the number displayed on her caller ID box and sank slowly into a chair. Had she not already been sweating, she would be now. Her throat seemed oddly clogged as she tried to swallow. Her hands began to shake. She was calling. Again. The number was displayed in bold print, undeniable and nerve-shatteringly real. What was she going to do? The phone pealed, insisting she do something. No. With an unsteady hand, she reached out and grasped the receiver, slowly bringing it to her ear. “Hello." “Mrs. Beaumont, you've been out.” The whisper was eerie, sibilant, deliberately unrecognizable. “How do you know that?" “I know a lot of things." “I ... I just went to play tennis with a friend.” Good God, was this maniac watching her all the time? Her heartbeat kicked up another notch. “Of course.” The caller gave a hoarse laugh. “That's what all good rich little wives do, isn't it—tennis at the club, lunch with the girls, our nails done at three and a massage somewhere in between? What's it like, princess?" “What do you want?” Cassandra hated her raspy voice for the betraying vehicle it was. “The world hasn't forgotten you yet, have they?" Forgotten her. Oh God, she so wanted to be forgotten. She drew a breath. “I want you to stop calling me. The police know all about this. They ... they can trace this, find you." “Let them. That would be just too bad for you, wouldn't it? Everyone would know." “Know what?" “Our guilty little secret. Now, now,” soft, silky admonishment drifted down the line, “you know what I want." “Money."

“Sure. I want money. Or else I'll publish those pictures and spill my guts all over the tabloids." The phone was slick and wet in her sweating hand. Swallowing hard, she said, “Robert is dead, I—" “Sweetheart, don't try to sell me some load of crap about how you don't have it. He left you a fortune, no question about it. I just want a little cut and I'll keep my mouth shut." God. Cassandra shut her eyes. “How much?" “Fifty grand." Relief was definitely a relative term. Expecting a much larger amount, she waited a fraction of a moment before saying, “If I agree, how should I get it to you?" “Oh, honey, I'll be in touch, don't worry. Get the money, keep it with you, and I'll let you know when and where to drop it." But she would worry. And she knew very well that blackmailers bled their victims dry. Desperately, Cassandra fought to make her voice firm. “This is the last time. I'm not going to be strung along and I want those pictures, free and clear." A laugh. The line went dead. Dammit, Cassandra thought wearily, slowly replacing the receiver. Cradling her head in her hands, she tried to still the tremors in her body. The phone began to ring again. Lifting her head with quivering dread, she looked at the display box. The number there was almost as unsettling as her unwanted last caller. This, now, was the very last thing she needed. There were tears on her lashes and she blinked hard. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone. “Marie?" A soft feminine voice spoke, the overtones modulated and smoothly pleasant. “Cassandra, how convenient modern society is, telling a person who is on the other line. I guess I should be grateful you didn't decline to answer my call." Her mind felt blank, numb. “Of course not." “Don't say that, my dear. We haven't seen Timmy but a few times in the past six months. It isn't right. I feel something is wrong, that your neglect is deliberate. I wouldn't want any unpleasantness between us over this issue." Unpleasantness. Still dressed in her sweat-stained clothes, slumped in the chair by the window overlooking the park, Cassandra managed to murmur, “I know it has been a while since you've seen him, but I thought we needed some time together, just he and I. He is still ... adjusting. I'm trying, he's been to a therapist, but it upsets him, so I've just tried to be here for him." Silence. When her mother-in-law spoke again, it was in a brusque tone. “Well, this will be perfect then. Timothy sounds like he needs his family, and that does include us, dear. We're going up to Thirty Birches in a few days. I'm planning a party for Gerald's birthday. We'd like you two to come. It will be a relaxed occasion, Anne and Stan are going to be there, Michael is invited, and the two of you." Michael? Things were going from awful to unbearable at a fast clip. Her chest felt tight with tension. And she didn't imagine for a minute it would be just a family occasion. She'd learned a long time ago that with an invitation like this one, there was usually an agenda of some kind. Biting her lip, Cassandra raced for an excuse. “I don't know ... the antique shop has been very busy—"

“Then just send Timmy. I hate to put it this bluntly, my dear, but we have rights.” Her mother-in-law's voice was very cool, very precise. The tone implied politely that there were a pack of lawyers employed by the Beaumonts that would ensure those rights were thoroughly honored. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Cassandra thought darkly. Having my son all to yourself without me. Fat chance. She murmured, “Actually, I think I can get away. When exactly shall we meet you there?" If Marie Beaumont was disappointed or triumphant, she didn't show it with her usual elegant and formidable self-possession. She said, “Three days from now—on the tenth. We'll expect you, my dear." “Great.” Sweat trickled slowly down her back as she hung up the phone. She felt chilled, even though she was sweating on a summer day in Chicago. Michael aside, she tried to chide herself; maybe she was looking at this the wrong way. If she left town, she'd be out of touch, away from unwanted contacts and threatening phone calls. Thirty Birches was like an elegant fortress, the closest thing to a castle that she could think of in this country. A summer home built in the grand old style and stuck up high on the upper peninsula of Michigan, she couldn't think of any place more remote or more inaccessible. Maybe this invitation was actually a Godsend. **** Michael sat on the terrace and stared over the vastness of light, form, and movement, raising the glass to his mouth in slow automatic rhythm. The city seemed to hum with electric energy, even when it should have been long asleep. Office windows here and there shown with the hunger of late-night ambition, cars crawled along darkened streets, and the occasional faint but definite blast of music floated upward in ghost-like echoes, telling him that there were people out there on the prowl, looking for God-knew-what and probably finding it. After all, this was New York. “God, I hate this damned place,” he muttered into the night air. “Then why the hell are you here, Beaumont?" Startled, Michael turned his head and stifled a low laugh. A tall, middle-aged man wandered through the open French doors of the apartment. “How did you get in, Gary?" “Key—from that trip to France you took last month. I came to return it.” His visitor held up the object in question. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Since you still have it, keep it and take in my mail again for the next few weeks, will you? You keep the plants alive better than I do anyway." “Do I know her?" “It's not a her." Gary smiled, a shark-like gleam of white teeth. “I won't even bother to ask if it's a him, more's the pity. Family thing?" “Unfortunately.” Michael couldn't keep the sour note out of his voice. “Chicago?” Gary Rivers dropped into an opposite chair and lifted an elegant eyebrow. He was wearing khaki knee-length shorts, a navy shirt that spanned his thin shoulders, and had a heavy gold watch on one wrist. His blond hair was thinning but still brushed back perfectly from his broad forehead and his

features were regular and unremarkable—until he spoke. Then something ... rare, a spark of humor and undeniable intelligence lent that bland face all the charm of Cary Grant on a good day. Michael shook his head. “Not Chicago. Michigan." “A return to the rustic family homestead, eh?” Gary indolently lifted a glass of what looked like scotch to his mouth. The glass was the finest English crystal. His loafers were slim, soft, very expensive leather. His legs crossed casually at the bare ankle as he asked, “I thought you hated the family scene almost as much as you hate New York." Michael admitted candidly, “Pretty much. But it's my father's birthday, so I don't have a real choice. I haven't been up to the place in about five years. I'm sure the whole ordeal will be a lesson in the different ways people who are supposed to love each other achieve nothing but alienation and discord." In mock disgust, Gary shook his head. “Good God, you are jaded. I get so tired of you tortured artists disliking everything and everyone." “Don't forget that proverbial thin line between love and hate.” Michael grinned. “It gets the creative juices flowing." Thin brows lifted and the ice in the scotch glass did a little dance. “Yes, I heard about the show. Big success. Congratulations." “Didn't see you there,” Michael commented dryly. A vague look of horror crossed Gary's face. “Dearheart, I hate that post-modernist shit you paint, you know that. It takes practically all the courage I have just to walk through your living room. I find that if I just look straight ahead and don't glance at the nightmares hanging on the walls, I'm okay." “I was joking, don't worry. I didn't expect you, and in truth, you didn't miss much." “Now,” Gary smiled without humor, “if you would do what you're really good at, I'd be your biggest fan, first in line with my checkbook. I have a need to be immortalized for all time." “There isn't a market for portraits.” The argument was an old one. Michael regretted often agreeing to paint a portrait of Gary's mother. Somehow his friend had got it into his head that Michael had some sort of genius for reproducing the human form. “Perfect. I doubt you need the money." His response was tinged with weariness. “Shit, Gary, you know it isn't about money, it never was. If someone decides they are going to paint for money, then they had better find the nearest building, put on a pair of coveralls, and pick up a roller. We could have this argument everyday." “We almost do,” Gary murmured. Michael gazed at his empty glass with apathy. He wanted more wine but didn't have much enthusiasm for getting up and going inside to get it. His whole body felt like lead. The next week yawned like the jaws of hell. Thirty Birches. His family. Cassandra. Damn. Getting to his feet with a resigned sigh, Gary said, “After all these years as friends and neighbors, I can read you like a map. Your unfairly handsome face is practically screaming depression. Here, give me

your glass. I'll get the wine." “Thanks.” Michael transferred the glass to Gary's hand and moodily contemplated the lit window of an apartment across the street. Through the blinds, it appeared the occupant was either doing aerobics or having incredibly gymnastic sex, bobbing into view again and again. Since Michael knew the resident was an extremely good-looking young man who worked at the gym down the street, either scenario seemed possible. Gary came back with a full glass of dark ruby liquid, passed it on, and sank back down as he noticed the direction of Michael's’ gaze. His lips quirked as he remarked, “Makes one wonder where he gets the energy. Too bad I know for a fact he's straight." Considering Michael felt as if a grain combine had backed over him several times, he simply lifted a brow. “I'm wondering about something else that has nothing to do with our vigorous neighbor.” Gary thoughtfully clinked the ice in his glass and looked bland. “Will your ex-girlfriend, slash sister-in-law, be attending this little Northwoods soiree?" “Truth is, I didn't ask." “Hence the pensive mood?" Michael stirred in his chair and felt his face tighten involuntarily. “What pensive mood? I'm just sitting here, tired as hell and dreading at least a week of my dysfunctional family's antics. If that's defined as pensive, all right, I'm pensive." “Don't forget defensive." “Gary, lay off." “Hey, that girl did a number on you once. I just wondered if maybe part of your avoidance of anything remotely to do with the Beaumont family hasn't a great deal to do with her." Michael fought the urge to shift again uncomfortably in his chair. Instead he fastened his gaze on the winking lights of a jet circling in the velvet night sky. The air smelled slightly of exhaust tinged with the musky scent of the potted geraniums scattered around them on the stone terrace. He muttered darkly, “I thought you were a stockbroker, not a shrink." “My new hobby." “Couldn't you have taken up needlepoint or something more appropriate to your sexual orientation?" Gary chuckled, once again crossing his very elegant ankles. “The stereo-typical insult draws no blood, my friend. Apparently I'm good at this. I believe I've struck a nerve." Michael shook his head. “Don't pat yourself on the back too soon. The truth is, I could care less about that greedy little bitch." Chapter 2 Cassandra carefully lifted the vase from the packing in stunned disbelief, letting the shredded newsprint drift over the counter without care. Glancing up, she could not help smiling. Her question was one swift word. “Where?" “Pawn shop in Cicero. Can you believe it?” Ella Parker cracked a laugh that sounded more like a gunshot than an expression of humor. Her sharp dark eyes gleamed in a face that was plain and angular,

free of any cosmetics that might have downplayed the lines and telltale creases created by the inevitable passing of time. Dressed in a faded flannel shirt and old jeans that hung on her spare body, she looked more like a down-on-her-luck homeless woman than the wife of the president of one of Chicago's largest banks. “I was looking for old costume jewelry, got the idea from a friend of mine who collects it. She says there is a market for the stuff. I thought we might need to add a display." “Sure, partner. Whatever you say.” Cassandra gazed at the beautiful object in her hands with awe. “Who would pawn a Tiffany vase? For that matter, I'm impressed the pawn shop owner would recognize it and hand over cash for it.” Cassandra reverently ran a finger along a beautifully done flower etched in the glass. “It's flawless." Ella snorted. “Oh, honey, he didn't recognize the signature or the real value—at least not as what it is. He thought the piece was pretty, but the mark meant nothing to him. Otherwise, I would have had to pay more than twenty bucks for it. Some old woman brought it in and he felt sorry for her." Twenty dollars. God in heaven. The thing was worth thousands. “A sympathetic pawn shop owner, who would have thought? I almost feel guilty at such a stroke of luck.” Placing it cautiously back in the protective nest of box and paper, Cassandra felt the familiar quickened heartbeat of elation over such a valuable find. The two of them had made some good purchases in the past couple of months, building up stock from auctions and thrift shops, but this was a windfall of the highest magnitude. “Luck?” Ella leaned one skinny hip against the counter and looked offended. “Hardly, missy. I worked hard for that vase. I had to dress in these old rags and scuff through every nasty dive in that part of town before I found a damn thing worth buying. If anyone I knew had seen me, they would have fainted dead on the spot. Luckily, none of them would venture within miles of where I've been today. As a treasure hunt, it wasn't the most glamorous, I assure you." Cassandra moved toward the back of the store where a door led to the office. She said tentatively over her shoulder, “But still better than an afternoon of playing bridge with Chicago's most distinguished matrons?" The older woman's smile was genuine and rueful. “Yes. I admit when you mentioned you were going to open this place, I thought that owning an antique shop sounded like perhaps the most boring thing on earth next to one of Beatrice Wright's cocktail parties. You know, the ones where she chooses a theme?" Going through the door into the office and opening a cabinet, Cassandra gave a small shudder. “I know. Robert and I went to one or two. Pretty awful." “An understatement, yet we all show up. Why is that?" Cassandra gave a smothered laugh. “I have no idea. I'd hate to think we had nothing better to do. Tell you what, it's almost closing time, shall we have a glass of wine to celebrate?" “Absolutely. I'll just go ahead and lock the door." Cassandra took a bottle of white burgundy out of the tiny refrigerator and searched for the corkscrew in one of the drawers while Ella went off with keys in hand. The office had once been the kitchen of the old house that she and Ella had bought together for their intended business venture. They'd had the old scarred cabinets torn out, the counters removed, the floor sanded and stained. Besides the necessities of microwave and refrigerator, an old farm table sat in the middle of the space, mismatched wooden chairs surrounding it, and in the corner by a stained glass window that was original to the house, sat a lovely roll-top desk with a computer, printer, fax machine, and all the other various modern necessities for running a business.

Cassandra loved this room. It reminded her of her grandmother's homey old farmhouse and represented her ability to get away from the life she had adopted when she had married into the Beaumont family. Deftly uncorking the bottle of wine, she filled two glasses half-full and turned to hand one to Ella as she came into the office. “Thanks.” Ella took a sip, lifted her finely plucked brows in appreciation, and sat down at the table. Plunking her elbows inelegantly on the smooth worn surface, she murmured, “To our growing business. May we have more days like today. Finding that vase was a rush, honey, I loved it. As I said, I thought this whole thing would be dull as a butter knife." “If I may ask ... then why'd you ask me if you could invest?” Cassandra didn't sit, but rather leaned a hip against the edge of the desk, holding her glass. It was a question she'd wanted to ask for all of the past five months but didn't know how. Especially when the already surprising offer to put up half of the money turned into even more astounding active participation. “I was very surprised." “Don't know what exactly prompted it.” The older woman shook her head, her tousled gray curls at odds with her normal perfect coiffure. “Maybe it was because everyone at the club, the committees, the damned theme parties, they all were talking about it like you were insane, and I thought to myself, she needs something to do. Her husband died, she's alone, she's beautiful and bright and wealthy enough to never have to worry about money in her life, and she still needs something. And she thinks this antique shop is going to give it to her." It was only too close to the truth. Cassandra took a large uncomfortable mouthful of wine. A fly buzzed drowsily at the colorful window. “I majored in Art History in college. I love beautiful objects, old or new. And antiques are all the rage. It sounded fun." “Art History, really?" “In New York,” She let the brief statement stand. Her days in school seemed like a distant dream, something that happened to someone else. “I see.” There was a pause. “I don't know if you understand this, but—” Ella hunched her shoulders. For a moment, her elfin face looked unutterably weary. She stared at her glass and her slim fingers, absent of the usual array of impressive diamonds and other gems, toyed with the stem. “You know, honey, I realized that I needed something too. Always had maybe, something of my own. Richard, he's always had the business. He lives it and breathes it. Oh, sure, the kids were a distraction, but they're grown now, and even when they were little we had nannies because we traveled so much." The wine made her throat feel thick. Cassandra said hoarsely, “I let our nanny go the week after I got out of the hospital after the accident. I have someone who comes in during the day when I'm here, but I mostly take care of Tim." Dark eyes raised and looked at her. “You have the option, don't you? Your husband is gone." Yes, Robert was dead. Oh God. “Anyway,” Ella lifted her glass and swirled the bright contents, “I thought to myself, hey, why not? Young Mrs. Beaumont wants to collect old things and sell them; you like antiques and have a lot of time on your hands. Maybe she would welcome a partner. It isn't too late, you can work a little, see if you like it, if not, get out. It wasn't like I was particularly enjoying my life before. What exactly did I have to lose?" When the very elite, very formidable Mrs. Parker had approached her with her offer of a partnership, Cassandra had been floored. They knew each other only casually on a social basis, their forty-year age difference a gap, as was their husbands’ opposing politics.

“You know,” Cassandra fought to keep her tone even as she fingered her wine glass, “most people would condemn both of us for complaining one bit. Because of our husbands we have everything we could possibly want right at our fingertips, Ella. Big houses, servants, expensive cars—" “More public exposure than any human being could possibly endure,” Ella interrupted smoothly. “I don't know how you handled all those reporters following you around, snapping pictures every minute, plastering your picture on the front of their slimy little rags. At least the press and their love affair with you seems to have died down." Due in a large part, Cassandra thought bleakly, to the fact that she had accepted being a virtual prisoner in her own home and offered them nothing to sink their sharp little teeth into. She murmured, “Robert was a public figure, I knew that when I married him. I guess I just didn't expect that one photograph from the funeral would promote such—" “Infatuation? Darling, you provided the world with a fairy tale, the beautiful widow of Robert Beaumont on crutches at her husband's graveside." Cassandra closed her eyes briefly. She could swear for a moment Robert's hauntingly handsome face swam before her darkened vision. Then she said softly and truthfully, “All I really want is to get on with my life." Lifting her glass high, Ella murmured, “Let's drink to it, then, shall we? To this little bit of the past blending with the present that gives us purpose and pleasure." Cassandra moved and their glasses touched. She said in a subdued voice, “Ella?" “Yes?" “I have to go to Michigan for a few days. Can you handle things here?" **** His plane was late because the weather was dreary and wet in New York, and then the airline topped off the trip by losing his suitcase. Luckily, Michael carried his tools of the trade in a satchel that would not fit in the overhead compartments but had to be stowed up front near the crew. His clothes he could do without. His paints and canvases were another matter. Assaulted by loud speakers announcing flights and summoning people to courtesy phones, he carried the precious bag down the echoing busy space and dutifully filled out the form at the lost baggage desk, gave the address where the errant bag needed to be delivered, and then went to pick up his rental car. He had refused to tell his mother his flight number or his date of arrival. He'd ridden in chauffeured limousines most of his childhood and absolutely hated the high-profile arrivals and departures. Besides, the drive to Thirty Birches was both beautiful and relaxing, especially late on a summer afternoon. He was looking forward to it. Smiling at the pretty young clerk as she handed over the keys, he turned around. “Michael. Here you are." “Stan?” Stifling an inner groan, Michael looked at the man who had materialized in front of him. Fair hair waved back from a broad brow, thinning much worse than the last time they'd seen each other. His brother-in-law had even, pleasant features, light blue eyes, his body not thin and not quite yet fat as it solidly approached middle-age. A cautious smile showed perfect teeth in a lightly tanned face. Michael asked in resignation, “How'd you find out when I was coming in?" Stan Ransom laughed. “Do you have to ask? The Beaumonts have their ways. Hope you weren't just

spending your money renting a car. I came in the—" “Limo." Stan nodded, still looking amused. “Yeah, of course. Your mother sent me to pick you up. The car is right outside, parked in what must be a towing zone, though I am assuming the airport guys won't dare." Michael held up his keys like a prize fish, dangling them from his fingers. People streamed by just to his left, an endless procession of humanity determined to make it from one place to another with all due speed. He said, “Sorry you made the trip for nothing, Stan. I tried to tell my mother I wanted my own transportation and thought I got through to her. That's why I didn't want to tell her my arrival time." Dressed in his usual conservative style; tan pleated slacks, crisp light blue shirt, expensive loafers on his feet, Stan looked unsurprised and un-offended. “I just do as I'm told, you know that. Anne is really busy right now, your mother has one of her headaches, and God knows your father can't be pried out of his office with that big merger going on, so meeting you sort of fell into my lap. I wondered if you knew I was coming." Michael had always liked his sister's husband. Stan and Anne had been married now ... what? Eight years? He was a perfect foil for Anne's formidable personality; easy-going where she was intense, accepting of her inherited Beaumont ambition, willing enough to step into the background and let her claim the spotlight. Michael had been surprised at his sister's choice in a spouse at first, expecting someone athletic and attractive. Quiet Stan was a corporate lawyer, a pencil pusher who didn't argue passionately before crowded courtrooms but rather gathered tedious legal details into even more tedious depositions. He was sedate and unruffled, took his wife's very busy schedule in stride, and should be probably nominated for sainthood considering he not only worked for the Beaumont family but also had married into it. God knew Michael couldn't stomach more than a few days with them. He said, “Tell you what, Stan. Why don't you ride with me? I'd like a briefing anyway on the upcoming week. Mother told me on the phone that it was just going to be a family gathering, which I don't believe for a second." “Er ... why not?" “Beaumonts never gather; they run in packs, hunting their prey." That won a low laugh. “You said, it, buddy, not me." Michael glanced at his watch. “Send Hal on back with the limo and you and I can stop for a beer or something on the way back. We have time, don't we?" Stan grinned. “That sounds great." **** Her heart pounded so loudly that she could barely hear the radio. It was the same man, the same car. This one wasn't a reporter, Ella was right, that had all died down and Cassandra was all but forgotten. No, this was the same one she'd seen before, trailing her on her way to work one day last week, parking down the street from the shop. God, she was sick and tired of being followed, of people prying into her life. Turning on a side street, she glanced again in her rearview mirror. It had started, of course, with the police. After the accident, they'd questioned her and Robert's

neighbors, their friends, his business partners, anyone who could have had a possible motive to tamper with the car that fateful evening. They'd come to the hospital time and again, looking at her with sympathetic eyes as she lay in that sterile bed, one leg in a cast, stitches in her side and face, asking their inexorable questions. Who might want her or her husband dead? She didn't know. Would her husband's political enemies be suspects in her mind? She didn't know. Did he have financial troubles or interests that might generate the kind of hatred that would cause someone to contemplate murder? She didn't know that either. What she did know right now was that a tan sedan had been behind her for at least five miles of city streets and she needed to know if she was just being paranoid or not. Turning a quick left, Cassandra spun the car into the parking lot of a fast food place and found a parking space. Getting out and hurrying inside, she made her way to the bathroom, grateful that it was empty. Sliding into a stall, she pulled out her cell phone with trembling hands, pushed a button, and stood with her back to the closed door facing a semi-clean toilet. Emaline answered on the second ring. “Hello?" “This is Mrs. Beaumont. I might be a little late. Have you packed Timmy's things for our trip? I think I've changed my mind, we might go ahead and leave tonight." “Oh, yes. Everything is fine and ready to go." “Thank you, Emi." “You're welcome.” The woman's placid voice was comforting. “Er ... keep the alarm on and Timmy inside, will you? I won't forget to disarm before I come in.” To her own ears, her voice sounded husky and distressed. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Beaumont?" “No ... no.” She took a deep breath. “I'm just edgy today for some reason. Maybe this trip to Michigan is making me nervous, I don't know. Humor me, please?" “Certainly." Pushing the button to end the call, Cassandra considered her options. Though she was used to being followed and photographed and generally hounded to death, underneath there was always a quivering rage that someone would and could affect her privacy in such an invasive way. She wanted to storm out and confront the driver of the car, demanding to know why he was tailing her. But her husband had been murdered. There were dangerous people out there, people who tampered with cars and didn't care about the other possible casualties as long as they achieved their objective. The police and FBI may well believe political issues motivated the sabotage, but how could she be sure? Someone, yet unknown, someone who still walked and talked and slept like any other human being, had planted a small explosive device that destroyed the steering mechanism that rainy November morning and fate had tipped her hand in the killer's favor by sending the car over that bank. Cassandra had been lucky to escape with only a

fracture and several sets of stitches. Robert hadn't been lucky at all. Timmy couldn't afford to lose another parent. She was already being blackmailed, she was being followed, and she was definitely frightened, but fear for her son paralyzed any action she could take, right down to contacting the police. Damn. Slowly she washed her hands in the stained sink and dried them, blotting the damp towel across her hot cheeks. The image that stared back in the mirror was not very reassuring. She was pale, she was shaky, she was hollow-eyed. Good, maybe no one would recognize her. Swallowing, she clutched her purse tightly and walked out into the main building. The counter was almost empty. She took her place behind a plump woman with two young children and waited. When it was her turn, she ordered an iced tea and took the cup to a nearby booth and sat down. The young girl behind the counter had glanced at her twice but apparently couldn't quite place her. A small chill edged up her spine as she glanced out the window. The tan car was there. It had lodged itself about four spaces down from her small sports car. Cassandra could see the driver, a baseball cap pulled over his face, bent over as if he ... or she ... were reading something. It was a decent neighborhood. If she went out of the other side of the building and walked down a block or so, she could surely catch a cab home and just leave her car—and him—behind. But then he would know she'd spotted him. She wasn't sure if that was bad, or good. Viciously sucking on her straw, she tried to think. Her address wasn't exactly a secret, how could it be after the past year? She just didn't like the idea of having the tan car follow her to where she and Timmy would sleep that night. How in the hell was she supposed to crawl into bed and turn out the lights with the thought that someone was outside on the street, stalking her? At least he was nowhere near her son. It gave her some measure of comfort that she could see him, see his car. In fact, she realized as she sat there, she could see the license plate. Quickly taking out a pen, she found a gas receipt in her purse and scribbled down the number. Having that made her feel better. Marginally. She waited an hour, shuffling the ice in her glass, before she finally went out and started her car. When she pulled out of the parking lot, the tan sedan was right behind her. Chapter 3 The pines stood straight and tall, an army of branch-to-branch comrades, guarding a crystalline stream that wound over glossy rocks and foamed knee high before it dipped into deep cobalt pools. Everything smelled of resin and earth and a thousand years of fallen leaves. So, Danny Haase thought as he very slowly lifted his arm, this was heaven. Or maybe it wasn't. Surely heaven didn't have mosquitoes as big as army helicopters. Maybe it just wasn't hell. He'd been there; he recognized hell, all right. Hell was the blearing traffic and steaming asphalt of the dark side of a big city. It was splattered blood and abandoned decaying buildings and a street gang logo carved into every bit of public property in sight.

Hell was deciding between losing his sanity and losing the woman he loved. His sanity had won that battle. And Laura. Well, as a result, Laura was long gone. God how he needed this escape—with every cast, every sweet breath, he could feel the habitual tension in his body easing bit by bit. Upstream, about thirty feet, he could see his friend bent in concentration, his pole arcing up and down in rhythmic movement as he edged between the rocks. The air was as clean as the water swirling around his waders, and if Danny hooked more trees with his inept casting than he did fish, well, that was just too damn bad. Mosquitoes aside, he was really enjoying himself. “Any luck?” The question drifted slowly in the afternoon air. Danny shook his head. “You?" “One Northern Pike under the length limit.” Craig Ralston, whipcord lean, fifty-ish, and dressed similarly in a flannel shirt, jeans, and waders that looked like over-sized diapers made of rubber with attached feet and suspenders, shook his balding head in apparent disgust and fiddled with his reel. “Better than nothing." “The fishing is lousy today, I told you it would be. So, speaking of nothing, I'm parched. There's a tavern about a mile from here. What do you say we chuck it in and have a beer?" “I say you've read my mind.” Danny grinned. Not ten minutes later they were seated on well-worn bar stools at an even more well-worn bar, sipping cool frosty local lager. The place smelled vaguely like a mixture of dead fish and stale pizza, but the pool table was brand new and the jukebox had nothing but old country music. Which, thankfully, meant not one of those modern rap songs. Except the song playing was sad, Danny noted wryly, a ballad about two doomed lovers. The last thing he needed. Smoothing the ice off his glass with idle fingers, he murmured, “I've been thinking about it, you know." Craig wiped his upper lip with an idle finger and squinted at the bar, pointing at his already half-empty glass. “Thinking about what?" “This.” A sweep of Danny's hand indicated the room. “Do you regret it?" If Craig had eyebrows left, they would have risen to his scalp. “Sitting in a cheap bar?" A chuckle, half-hearted, escaped. “Kind of. I mean leaving IPD. You did what I did, but you did it first. Left a promising career in big city law enforcement for a quiet and low-key place like this. Chief of Police in Lynchburg, Michigan, isn't exactly the big time. Do you think back and ever wish you hadn't made the move?" The answer was swift, without meditation. “You serious? No, I don't. Not ever. Oh, the money sucks, but I wasn't exactly a millionaire before.” Decisively, Craig shook his head. “What's this about? Do you wish you hadn't left Indianapolis PD?" Willie Nelson filled the room with plaintive apologies, demanding some sort of redemption from a lost love. Danny stared at his glass. “Maybe. Sometimes. Well, hell, of course I do. When I'm heating up a can of soup for dinner and hoping that the mindless crap that passes for television these days isn't a bunch of reruns, then I wonder what was wrong with me.” Danny could hear his laugh crack and took a large swallow of beer to hide his expression. “I spend a lot of evenings by myself. The truth is I'm glad

when I have to work late, it takes my mind off of things." Craig said quietly, “Yeah, divorce is tough." Divorce, Danny thought bleakly, was much worse than tough. And the loneliness, God help him, the utter loneliness ... he hadn't been prepared for it. Once upon a time, before Laura, he'd been a bachelor and enjoyed it. Now he found it impossible to go back. “But ... I was burning out, Ral.” He shook his head, clearing his throat to disguise the unsteadiness in his voice. “I know you understand what I'm talking about. With every arrest, every teenaged hooker or tax-dodging slum lord, it just got worse. I couldn't sleep. I felt frustrated and angry and helpless half the time. And when I moved to homicide, it became unbearable. The damned system was making me crazy. We're there to help people and we get treated like scum. I wanted to be a police officer ever since I could remember. But I was really hating the job." Ralston looked ironically amused, and there was a weariness to his smile. “You're preaching to the choir here, Danny. I know all about it, all those crappy feelings. If you want someone to tell you you did the right thing despite what it did to your marriage, well, I honestly think you did the only thing. But if you want Laura to understand, she's back in Indiana, pal." Danny caressed his dripping glass, making lines in the condensation and then lifting it to drain it. Maudlin wasn't his usual style and he felt a little embarrassed. Both he and Craig suddenly found their drinks extremely fascinating. Willie Nelson began again, someone in the place definitely having a hang up on depressing tunes. “At any rate,” Danny said after he swallowed the rest of his beer, “your invitation was perfect timing. Ral. I really needed to get away and do nothing for a while." Ralston smiled, a gleam of white teeth in his thin face. “Good thing. In Northern Michigan, we've got plenty of nothing." **** In five long years, not much had changed. Michael watched the gates open in a fluid motion, the wrought iron of the ornate barrier belying the soundless efficiency of the well-oiled hinges. The hightech cameras and digital pad that needed a code for entrance did sap some of the ambiance out of the rustic beauty of the place, but then again, Beaumonts had never stinted on security. Easing the rental car through the opening, he relished the long shadows thrown by the corridor of trees that lined the long drive. Slender white trunks stretched as far as the eye could see, topped by a canopy of green fluttering leaves. The place should have been called Thousand Birches, he thought not for the first time. Above, the sky was very blue, topped by wispy lazy clouds, and the air coming in the open windows smelled sharp with summer and damp earth. Stan tapped his finger thoughtlessly against his thigh in a random pattern. Michael watched the restless movement out of the corner of his eye and wondered what his brother-in-law wasn't telling him. Something about placid Stan—the unusual chatter of the past hour, the twitching of his hands and mouth—was sending off bells. They'd had their beer, but the conversation had been pretty pedestrian. His brother-in-law had been downright evasive. Michael suspected he knew what this invitation to visit might be about. There had been hints, little tidbits. Not from his family, he thought cynically, but the media could be helpful at times. “So,” he finally steeled himself to ask, “has Anne decided what she's going to do?" “About?” Wariness crept into those bland blue eyes.

“The race for governor, Stan.” Michael laughed. “Please, don't pull that slack-jawed act with me. My sister is fairly salivating to take on that old incumbent bastard that sells himself as the great humanitarian. I can feel her licking her lips all the way from New York. She's damned hungry. So what's it going to be?" “Maybe I should let her tell you herself." “In other words, a big fat ‘yes’ I thought so. Being a congresswoman wasn't going to satisfy her for long. No one who knows her well thought it would. Robert served one term and moved on like a rocket." Giving a resigned sigh, Stan murmured, “There's going to be a big party here Saturday night—caterers, champagne and caviar, people flying in from everywhere. She's making the announcement then." “Ah, with her loving family all in attendance. I see." “What's wrong with that?" Dappled sunlight slid over the hood of the car as they rounded the turn and slowly took the ascent to the house. Michael smiled grimly. “I was told to come for just a little family get-together. I knew that was bullshit. Good thing I knew it and packed a decent suit. My mother just can't lie well; she won't lower herself to it. You can tell she wasn't born into the family. I thought something bigger was going on the minute she told me that load of crap about all of us together here at Thirty Birches for the first time in years, so on and so forth." Stan looked pained. “Michael, Anne will make a wonderful governor." A wry laugh erupted. “Oh sure. I know she will. I guess I just don't like being hauled here under false pretenses. I suppose my mother knew if she told me the real reason, I wouldn't want to be part of this. I refused for years to go to any of those back-slapping extravaganzas that Robert invited me to attend." “False pretenses?” Stan murmured, “Really, I doubt that was Marie's intention ... maybe she didn't want to steal Anne's thunder. Maybe—" A resigned weariness seemed to settle somewhere in Michael's stomach. After all, his brother-in-law wasn't the one who had wheedled him into coming. He interrupted quietly, “Stan, forget it, will you? Defending my family is not worth it and not your job, lawyer or not. They live and breathe politics, it has sunk into their membranes, flows in their bloodstreams, permeates everything they do. Maybe that's why a little honesty is so hard to come by with the Beaumonts." Outside the car, the birches bent and waved gracefully in the light breeze as they drove slowly past. Looking a little sheepish, Stan murmured, “You're so cynical, Michael." “Hell yes, I am. Wonder why?" “I ... er ... don't know." “Yes, you do. Think about it. For that matter, how come you aren't?" His brother-in-law laughed out loud. “Come on. You don't really expect a comment, do you?" “Ever the husband of a congresswoman and a lawyer too, aren't you? Okay, let's bypass this subject." “Fine by me." Around the bend the house came into view. Michael drew a sharp breath of childhood memory. The structure rose above the veil of trees, white and gold in the dying sunlight, palatial and yet somehow not ludicrous in the wild setting of water and forest. The facade of the mansion was high and wide, railed porches running the long length of the building on both levels, flanked by huge shining windows.

The occasional grouping of scattered deck chairs let a person enjoy the spectacular view of Rose Lake and aspired to a warm homey effect despite the grand scale. The drive was circular and lined with towering pines and knobby bushes. The double front doors were glass and open to the warm afternoon. As he pulled around and parked by the garage with its many doors, he could see the lovely glitter of the water below the steep slope of the hill behind the house. He hated to admit it, but he loved this place. Of the various homes his parents owned, this was the only one that didn't feel sterile. Even his apartment in New York didn't embrace him like Thirty Birches. Of course, he had to note wryly, neither did his mother. Michael got slowly out of the car and saw that she had come out of the house and stood on the porch. Wearing loose tan, linen slacks and a matching sleeveless blouse, she waved a languid hand and offered a smooth cheek as he approached. As he bent to deliver the obligatory gesture of affection, Michael had to guess with cynical resignation just what a psychologist would make of their very stilted reunion after a six-month separation. “You look well, Mother.” It was an inane comment, but she expected inane. She actually demanded inane. ‘Inane’ meant nothing personal would be said. “Thank you. How was your flight?” Her critical gaze took in his very casual khaki shorts and light blue tee-shirt and she apparently saw fit to not return his compliment. “Late. They lost my luggage. I like the hair." She lifted a hand to touch the perfectly-snipped swing of gray-blond curls brushing her jaw line. “My hair dresser insisted it would make me look younger." “It does,” he said truthfully. “How's the headache?" The blue of her eyes had faded over the years, leaving them a shadow of the vivid color genetics had bestowed upon her children. She blinked up at him, a petite and elegant five-foot-two, and pursed her well-painted mouth. “Headache?" “Stan said you had one, that's why you didn't come to the airport with him." “Oh yes,” a wave of her hand, “I took my pills. It's gone now." Because he'd been pretty sure since childhood that her ‘headaches’ were convenient maladies that swooped down whenever she wanted to get out of doing something, he didn't comment. The fact that one of the things she'd wanted to get out of doing was to greet her youngest child, well, it didn't hurt like it used to hurt. God help him, he'd gotten used to it. The trees moved softly, rustling in the wind. The lap of waves on the shore below the wide expanse of lawn was soothing and soporific. The smell of the water was seductive and sweet, overlain by the strong scent of pine. For lack of other conversation, Michael said simply, “Stan told me about Anne. Wow. Governor, huh?" His mother's eyes lit up. She finally attempted a gesture of affection, linking her arm with his and starting for the front door. “Isn't it wonderful?" **** Timmy sat in the backseat, his little legs outstretched, showing the white, immaculate soles of his shoes —new shoes, of course. Cassandra would never dare show up in Michigan without her son wearing new clothes and new shoes. In fact, he had a suitcase full. On the other hand, she had no idea what resided in her black leather case. Still unsettled and shaky from her unwanted friend in the tan sedan,

she'd simply opened her closet and tossed things in haphazardly. What she was doing was crazy—or else very smart. Time would tell. She didn't pull off the freeway until well past Lansing. Timmy had to go to the bathroom and she was feeling uncomfortable as well. They went into a well-lit chain restaurant and she insisted he use the ladies room so they wouldn't be separated, despite his manly five-year-old protests. Minutes later they were seated at a booth and ordering dinner, even though it was well past ten o'clock. “Can I have pancakes?” Timmy had dark smudges under his eyes but his face still perked up at the thought of syrup. “Sure.” No doubt sugar was a poor idea at this late hour but she was too tired to argue. Cassandra looked at her menu with disinterest. In the end she ordered a chef salad and poked at it while her son lavished gooey liquid over the starch on his plate and consumed bacon with relish. Drinking her coffee, she had to make sure she was careful to not slop it out of her cup with her still unsteady hands. She was fairly sure that she'd lost the person, or persons, trailing her. That was the problem. She was only fairly sure. It wasn't like she'd created an elaborate plan besides waiting for dark and easing out of her driveway as quietly as possible. The maneuver had been a little frightening. Dealing with a stalker in broad daylight was different than having one trail her and her son in the middle of the night. What she'd counted on was that once she had arrived home earlier, her tracker had assumed she was there for the night as per her usual habit and left. If anyone had been trailing her for any time at all, they would know she rarely went out in the evenings. There were streaks of sticky dark stuff on Timothy's face. He played with his fork, pushing it around in the sea of sweet leftovers, humming happily. To him, it was all a grand adventure. To her it was a nightmare. After one more trip to the bathroom to wipe the worst of the mess off her son's cheeks, she paid the bill and they left. She found a motel off the freeway just past Mount Pleasant. Barely glancing at the mottled carpet and ugly spread on the big bed, she dumped their suitcases on the floor and switched on the television. A fast-moving cartoon was a lifesaver and Timmy stared, fascinated by the bright blobs of speedy color as she gently undressed him and helped him with his pajamas. He was asleep before she could even get him to brush his teeth. A long hot shower seemed to melt away some of the tension in her body, leaving her feeling limp and exhausted. Wishing for a glass of wine or something comparable to soothe her nerves, she brushed out her hair and slipped into a cool nightgown. Cuddled in the bed with her son sleeping sweetly, she listened to the sounds of slamming doors and subdued voices outside her questionably-locked, generic door and ... shivered. Her child felt fragile in her arms. She felt fairly fragile herself. Tomorrow, she would be at Thirty Birches surrounded by typical Beaumont security. Tomorrow, she would be safe—at least for a while. Wouldn't she? No, she thought miserably as she stroked Tim's soft dark curls. Physically she and her son might be more protected, but emotionally she was going to be raked over the coals. Marie had mentioned Michael's name. She'd said outright he was invited. The question was would he come?

She hadn't seen him since Robert's funeral, and even then they had barely done more than nod at each other, the overwhelming crowd of mourners enough to make personal contact easy to avoid. However, it would be very different at Thirty Birches in an intimate family reunion. It was no secret how he felt about her. He loathed the very sight of her. She honestly couldn't blame him. **** First had come the mushrooms, stuffed with delicately spiced pate and garnished with capers, served on the deck overlooking the lake—very nice. Michael had gulped down a glass of scotch with the appetizer, a bracer for the evening to come. It hadn't been a bad idea. Dinner had been melt-in-your-mouth deviled chicken, tiny roasted red potatoes, and green beans in a coarse mustard vinaigrette. The dessert was a combination of cream and chocolate and some sort of cake that must have fallen from heaven. Michael swallowed each mouthful appreciatively and contemplated that he'd been eating take-out from the deli down the corner from his apartment for much too long. As he ate, he assessed the situation with what he called inwardly typical Beaumont suspicion. The five of them—his parents, his sister and her husband, and himself—sat at a table that could seat at least three times as many. The dining room was something his mother would consider informal, yet it still boasted a crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling and two very large paintings—neither of them painted by him—hung on the pale yellow walls. A bank of floor to ceiling windows overlooked the rippling post-dusk lake. A rug underfoot was Persian and incredibly brilliant. The food was served on antique Spode china and the servant that flowed and ebbed from the kitchen was quiet, efficient, and dressed in severe black and white. Replete, sipping scalding hot coffee and listening to the water lap the shore outside, Michael leaned back in his chair, unable to help remembering earlier days. Different days, before tragedy had reached out a cold finger and touched his family. His brother's chair was conspicuously vacant. His father looked unchanged from their last brief meeting at Christmas. Tall, heavy in the shoulders, his dark hair streaked with gray above a razor-thin face dominated by eyes that were both shrewd and restless. Making no allowance to their informal surroundings, he wore a designer suit. Anne was just a younger female version—wavy dark hair, minus the gray and cut into a casual yet business-like style, her eyes a more vivid hue, her body still trim and athletic at thirty-eight years old. Michael saw her more on television than in person anymore, so the casual button-up silk blouse and navy slacks were a bit of a change and made her look younger. He'd been told by quite a few people who would know that the press obviously liked her, both for her magnetic self-possession and her almost masculine good looks. Next to her, Stan ate, drank, and listened with his usual bland good humor. Michael's mother had the good hostess syndrome so thoroughly ingrained that she trotted it out even for her family. The same expensive ensemble from earlier was now offset with pearls and some glistening lipstick and she gestured instructions to the woman bringing the courses and taking their plates with unobtrusive grace. Yes, change had crept into their lives, more than just Robert's empty seat at the table. But one thing stayed exactly the same, he mused darkly. If you were a Beaumont, you could count on one inevitable subject coming up after dinner, or before and during, for that matter. He found he was grateful the coffee was so good, because the political content of the conversation bored him to tears. Holding her brandy, Anne planted her elbows defiantly on the white tablecloth in response to a remark

from their father. She insisted as if it mattered, “The committee isn't about big business. In fact, it isn't about business at all. It's all about environmental issues." “Tied to the practices of businesses,” he shot back smoothly. “Tied to malpractices of business, yes.” Her blue gaze was a challenge. “We do good work. We're changing things. I'm proud to be the chairperson. It was a damned honor to be chosen." Michael watched his father bare his teeth in a feral smile and finger his glass in a deceptively casual gesture. “Yes, you're changing things all right. Have you any idea of the fines Beaumont Industries alone paid just last year? Who would ever think my daughter would become a liberal bleeding heart?" “Bleeding heart?” She sounded outraged. Stan said weakly, “Hey, you two ... not this again." Michael stood. “Excuse me, I need some fresh air.” A little woozy from both jet lag and the wine he'd drank with dinner, he wandered out the French doors and onto the wide deck, drinking in the cool night air as if it were nectar. Raised voices followed him out, growing dimmer as he strolled to the farthest corner away from the brightly-lit dining room. Above, the stars scattered like glowing embers from a disturbed fire. Below, the water shimmered and lapped, ever-changing and alive. Standing in-between, Michael savored the clean knife-edged breeze that seemed to exist only in this northern part of the Midwest and leaned against the railing. A vague headache pounded behind his eyes. The woods all around were silent and thick, fragrant with pinesap and the fecund scent of decaying leaves. He could hear the splash of some creature or else a very large fish, out in the lake. The boathouse sat quietly, the bay doors shut on the boats inside, the upper windows dark and shuttered. It was a hell and gone difference from sitting on his very expensive terrace overlooking Manhattan. Oh, this terrace was also expensive, but the scenery was just so very different. “Hey, kid." He turned, a little surprised at hearing the feminine voice. “Hey yourself. I thought you and dad were gearing up for an A-1 argument?" Anne strolled forward and stopped next to him, carelessly looping her arms together and leaning forward against the railing of the deck with her back arched. The white sleeves of her blouse billowed slightly around her slender arms. “Mom doesn't want him excited anymore. She just gave me one of those looks, trotted out his medication, and I decided to leave before he got belligerent." Michael stifled a laugh in his chest. “Dad? Belligerent?" Anne chuckled. “Yeah, who would think? It's nice out here, isn't it? It was hot as hell in Washington all last week." “Yeah, it's nice." The light wind moved her perfect hair in a perfect arc. Michael watched his older sister with the awareness that five years of difference in their ages was quite a bit and that he actually knew very little about her daily life. He knew her; the cutting sense of humor, the edginess, the brilliant banter, but not what her life was like. And it was probably his own damned fault. He'd made himself a stranger to his family because he was uncomfortable with being the odd one, the artist drifting in a sea of litigators and history makers. Or maybe it was his family that was uncomfortable with him, he never had been sure.

That's what he was thinking when she said in a deadpan tone, “They've made no progress at all with Robert's case. Did you know that?" Yes, he did. Michael could feel the wood of the railing hard under his flexing hands. He said neutrally, “Did we expect them to? How difficult would it be to investigate something like that? A bomb in a car in a city of millions." Anne's tone was overtly hostile. “He was murdered, our own brother. Yeah, I think we should expect results. It's been months. Fuck those millions, they should be able to do something." He blinked a little at her vehemence. “I just meant ... given how difficult it would be to trace the evidence, the device, the public access ... that's all. A small explosive mechanism with a timer—it could have been anyone with a grievance, imagined or real." Her eyes were luminous in the starlight. “Public access, that's a sick joke. Where were the security guys? It was an election—a high-profile election. Where were they?" “I have just no idea." “Neither do they, that's the problem." “It's still open. Cases like this do get solved, Anne." “Sometimes. Of course, I give them little chance now to catch the crazy son-of-a-bitch. Too much time has passed and he's out there, waiting to do it again to someone else. It's like terrorism on a smaller scale. Anyone could be a target." “Yeah, I suppose so. Er ... if this is your train of thought, I'm a little surprised that you're going to go ahead and run." Anne's erect shoulders softened marginally and she shifted her weight. “Sorry. Was I ranting? I'm a little sensitive and nervous. Stan told me you two talked, that you know I'm going to run. There's something about following in Robert's footsteps that both exhilarates and scares the hell out of me. I'm a Beaumont and going to run for governor. Sure, he was elected senator, but our policies are very similar. If his murder was politically motivated, I'm walking right into the same arena. If it was just some freaked out nut with a personal agenda, that isn't any better." “I've thought of that." “Me, too." That morose acknowledgment left a little silence. Anne paused for a moment and said quickly, “Speaking of Robert, you do know Cassandra will be here tomorrow. She and Timothy are driving up." Michael managed, he hoped, to look nonchalant. His brother's very beautiful, very treacherous widow was not someone he wanted to think about. Unfortunately, she was someone he thought about all the time. He stared out over the magical landscape of black rippling water and reflected light. His throat felt constricted, but he hoped his tone was normal when he said, “Yes, I know. I bet Tim is big now. How old is he?" “He's almost five." “Wow. Time flies." Next to him his sister spoke softly, “I hope this goes well. Mom and Dad, they aren't the same since Robert's death. God, sometimes I think they blame her. All that publicity after the funeral didn't help."

His attention sharply skewered sideways and he said incredulously, “Blame her? How so? She was also in the car that night and could just have easily died in the crash. Cassandra is lucky to be alive." Anne gave him a sidelong look and pursed her lips. “Blame might be the wrong word. Resent could be better. Not for him dying ... but maybe for him dying and her living, you know?" Michael frowned sharply. “No, I don't know. That isn't hardly fair." “Are you defending her? I'm surprised.” The declaration was quiet. His fingers curled painfully around the wooden railing and he was grateful for the cool breeze across his face. “I'm not defending her particularly; I just can't see how what happened could in any way be her fault." “But just the same Robert's gone and she's fine, she has his money, several houses, the trust fund for Tim, the insurance, and Mom and Dad's precious only grandchild. What's worse,” a small mirthless laugh punctuated the statement, “she isn't interested in flaunting any of those things so they can't openly hate her. No dates, no tawdry bad habits, instead once the furor dies down, she opens a little shop and hides away from everyone but those odd customers that wander in for a cracked plate or bit of yellowed lace." Anne's contempt for such a pedestrian endeavor shone through and he almost smiled. “I heard she'd gone into the antique business." “Mother had fits. I had to listen to her rant on about it. Be glad you live in New York." He swallowed and tried to look bland. “So? What's to rant about?" “A Beaumont working as a clerk in a run-down antique shop?” Anne's mobile brows inched upward. “Think about it." His voice was even and calm. “It sounds fine to me. Maybe she needs something to do, to escape that big house for a little bit. Remember, she didn't grow up with the eyes of the world on her. It had to be tough, all that attention." “Yes, but ... shop-keeping?" “Whatever it takes. You're sounding like a snob, Anne." “God, you artists are so forgiving of everything, aren't you?” Anne laughed out loud, making the joke just a light-hearted quip. “After the way she dumped you for Robert, I would think you'd be bitter. In fact, I could swear you were bitter." The prod was enough. Michael straightened, ignoring a tightening in his chest. “It's been years, Anne, so why the hell should I care anymore? And yes, we poor, tortured artists are endlessly forgiving of others in similar, plebeian pursuits." “Michael, you are hardly poor and probably the least tortured soul I know.” His sister frowned and absently rubbed at a sliver of wood that was separating from the railing. Her tone dropped and the next statement was both startling and abrupt. “Still, I guess she is lucky. She has a son. Stan and I cannot have children." Off balance at that sudden and unexpected declaration but grateful for the switch in subject, Michael hesitated a moment before saying neutrally, “I guess I didn't realize you were trying." Anne turned her face to the breeze as if she were searching for something. Moonlight lent a silver sheen to her dark hair and shaded her features. “Well, we have been—for years. Pretty much ever since we got married. I just don't talk about it."

It was dark enough that he couldn't really read her expression and the subject of infertility was definitely not his area. Michael murmured, “I assume you've been to doctors—" A short bitter laugh interrupted his cautious speech. “Doctors? Yes, you could say that—probably at least a dozen, Michael, specialists here, two in Europe. I've tried every procedure that would give Stan and I our own child with our genes short of finding a surrogate mother. And quite frankly,” an audible swallow rippled the muscles in her throat, “if that issue wasn't so politically charged and the publicity might damage my career, I think I might have considered it." “I'm ... well, I'm sorry.” It was an inadequate thing to say, but then again, he felt pretty inadequate at comforting his older sister anyway. “Yeah, me too." “Can they tell what's the problem?" “Not exactly.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “The battery of tests reveals nothing really abnormal with either of us. His sperm count is a little low, but they are still puzzled. We should be able to have children according to the experts. There is always the possibility that our failure to conceive is due to some rare incompatibility between my eggs and Stan's sperm. Nice bit of luck, huh?" Considering his sister had been born bright, beautiful, and into a lifestyle most people only dream of living, not to mention her successful political career, Michael was sorely tempted to say ‘Well, you can't have everything'. But the mere fact she had sought him out and was uncharacteristically baring her soul made him keep his mouth shut. He knew she had to be hurting over this to bring up something so personal. Instead, he said tentatively, “Adoption? A lot of people do." The shake of her head was firm and instant. “No, I don't think so. Not just any baby." It wasn't too surprising, that answer. A Beaumont would want one of their own kind. “I see. How's Stan handling it?" A fond smile crept over her sculpted features. “Oh, you know him. He's disappointed, of course, but so damned supportive that he ought to get some sort of great husband medal. I think he's glad this upcoming race will take my mind off of it." “Will it?" “Buster, you have no idea. Running a campaign like this is like jogging a never-ending marathon. Utter exhaustion is a silly understatement." Truthfully, he said, “I can only imagine and that's as close as I want to come." Anne shook her head openly at that very unBeaumont-like sentiment. Her teeth gleamed in a moonlight grin. “Michael darling, I love you, but if you didn't look so much like the rest of us, I would wonder where you came from, honey." Chapter 4 They'd only been there an hour and it was already a nightmare. Cassandra took a deep breath and fought the urge to grab her son and run out of the room, put him right back in the car, and drive away at top speed. The only thing she could tell herself was that Timothy hadn't slept well at the motel, which must account for his behavior.

He was acting like a spoiled brat. Since the moment they arrived at Thirty Birches he had been excitable, uncooperative, and extremely annoying. To Cassandra, it was more than the topping on a long day, it was terribly embarrassing. She was the sole person currently responsible for her son's behavior and he kindly chose to throw a tantrum in front of the people most critical of her in the world. Not that she could logically blame a child his age, but his timing was pretty awful. Marie Beaumont, excruciatingly well-dressed in lemon-colored silk slacks and matching blouse, viewed her grandson's prone body on the floor of the vast living room with a raised eyebrow that fairly exuded criticism. He lay face downward in a pose of juvenile stubborn denial and none of Cassandra's terse orders for him to stand up and act like a good young man had any effect. The fact that he'd been an angel the entire trip made his behavior even more infuriating. Cassandra leaned over and said for the last time in a firm voice liberally laced with anger, “Tim Beaumont, get to your feet now." “No.” The refusal was smothered in the expensive carpet. His little body radiated defiance. “Yes.” It was said through her teeth. “No!" Cassandra was acutely aware that her sister-in-law, Anne, sitting in a plush chair by the open doors to the deck overlooking the lake, looked amused with her usual cool sophistication. Tim's grandmother, on the other hand, was obviously appalled. Luckily, no one else was around to witness the scene. “You need a nap.” In frustration, she leaned over and scooped up her son in her arms. Tim immediately started to squirm and scream, “I want to play baseball, I want to play baseball ... right now!" “Stop it.” Gritting her teeth, Cassandra raised her voice and explained over the din, “He's in a summer league, this is his first year and he really loves it." “Apparently.” Marie looked disenchanted, not only with the loud writhing boy ruining the peace of the lovely summer afternoon, but with Cassandra and her pathetic parenting. One manicured hand brushed at her silk suit as if something unhealthy and dirty had invaded the room. Not much of a believer in corporal punishment, Cassandra still felt the urge to put her child over her knee and startle him with a good slap to his defiant bottom. “I want to play baseball!” Tim shrieked again. “A game of baseball sounds great." Cassandra jerked at the interruption of the deep voice, the cadence and familiar tone making her stomach twist. Whirling toward the doorway, the inadvertent gasp that escaped her throat coincided perfectly with Timothy going limp and quiet in her arms. For about two long painful heartbeats the tall man looking back at her was a dual ghost, the moment giving the bright afternoon an unreal quality. He moved, snapping the mood, stepping into the room with an athletic grace. A slight cynical smile curved his mouth, emphasizing the lean slant of his jaw. Dark hair, a little long, a little tousled, curled against his tanned neck, framing well-defined, starkly masculine features and the arch of matching ebony brows. His eyes were very blue, long-lashed, and steady, and he was dressed casually in beige shorts and a plain white tee-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and defined his muscular upper arms. But when that blue gaze caught Cassandra's, she felt a small chill. There was no warm greeting there to

match the lighthearted offer—not for her. His eyes were cold, direct, and impersonal. She knew he hated her, but God in heaven it always felt awful to see it in his eyes. “Since when,” Anne spoke up, arching a dark brow, “do you still play baseball, Michael? Do we even have a baseball?" Cassandra's body went hot and then cold, making her feel weak and odd. Michael had come after all. Clinging to the hope that Robert's younger brother would somehow not be able to make it was the only thing that made the idea of being at Thirty Birches for any length of time bearable. Why did he come? He usually took care to avoid family situations, dammit. And damn his uncanny resemblance to her dead husband too, she thought dimly. The two of them had always been remarkably alike, at least in looks. Had it been Robert appearing like a specter from the grave, she wasn't sure that would have been worse than Michael standing in that doorway. Stiffening her shoulders, she swallowed, inwardly searching for some speck of sorely needed composure. She could endure the usual polite nod, which was all that had been exchanged between them in a long time, but not much more contact. Mimicking that same detached expression on his face couldn't be so hard, could it? For the past six years they'd dealt with each other in the most off-hand way possible, straining to achieve politeness. She should be used to it by now. In an off-key voice, she managed to say, “Tim, I know you haven't seen him in a long time, but this is your uncle.” For whatever childish reason, she couldn't bear to say his first name. “Actually,” Michael said mildly, strolling forward, “there are bats and balls out in the storage shed, or at least there used to be. How about it, Tim? Want to bat a little? I'm a pretty good pitcher." From her embrace, Tim stared at the stranger that so resembled his father with quiet regard, his small body light and tense. For a moment Cassandra thought he might refuse after all. Then he slowly nodded. “Good,” Michael Beaumont said pleasantly. Apparently Tim wasn't completely sure. His small voice asked tentatively, “Can my mom come?" The hesitation was palatable and a near insult. She felt her face heat up before Michael said indifferently, “Sure, your mom can play catcher." **** Michael shoved aside an inflated rubber boat, choking on the fine spray of dust that rose as he stepped past. The shed was crammed full of years of junk no one seemed to care about discarding. Three folded lawn chairs hung from the ceiling like bizarre bats, the rotten webbing dangling and brushing his shoulder. Stubbing his toe on a full box of roofing nails, he stifled a curse and dashed aside several fastmoving spiders as he reached for the handle of the locker where an eon ago he and his brother had stored their summer sports equipment. He was crazy, he reminded himself wryly. Yeah, that was it. Maybe all those years of inhaling paint fumes finally took their toll. The place had a musty disused smell that evoked unwanted emotions, and he was experiencing enough of those already. Long past summers rose to mind; summers full of swimming in the crystal waters of Rose Lake, of the cool early morning smell of pine needles and damp wood, and the sound of loons and their lonesome cries as the sun came up over the misty water. The metal locker door screeched in protest as he forced it open. The worn bat came into his hands, the satin-like finish feeling like a forgotten old friend. The ball he found was mildewed and ill-smelling, but it felt firm enough as he

tossed it experimentally into the air. Playing baseball together was one of the rare things he'd ever had in common with his older brother. Personality-wise, they couldn't have been more different as boys, and later, as men. The irony of him teaching Robert's young son how to hit and throw did not escape him. His brother would have hated anyone but himself playing ball with his son. Robert had been possessive as hell. No one knew that better than he did. Shaking the memory off, Michael emerged outside into the bright sunshine. Timothy was waiting impatiently, his thin legs and arms emphasized by an over-sized, bright red teeshirt and black baggy shorts. His pristine tennis shoes had little lights that blinked on the bottoms every time he moved, which seemed to be pretty often. At the sight of the ball and bat, he started to run around in excited circles on the slope of groomed lawn that led down to the front of the house. “He's never like this." The quiet statement made Michael turn abruptly. Cassandra stood a few feet away in the grass. Her face averted, she watched her son, giving Michael nothing but her profile. She wore simple white shorts that showed off her long tanned legs and a light-blue sleeveless blouse, her slender body radiating tension as if she were holding herself very stiffly. A swallow rippled the smooth muscles of her throat. Her hair, a true shade of dark gold that he knew for certain didn't come from an expensive salon, fell to just past her slim shoulders, shining and straight and heavy in the afternoon sun. Her beauty struck him like it always did, with a sharp and piercing slap of sexual appreciation. Right to the groin, he thought with disgust. Apparently he could forget the painful lesson she'd taught him so well, at least for a moment or two. He might as well be staring at a jar of poison with longing. Her looks were as unusual as the color of her hair and liberally dosed with a classic untouchable princess-like quality that both disturbed and beckoned. Quiet self-possession coupled with an aura of sweet vulnerability was a compelling combination. At least that had always been his reaction to his lovely sister-in-law. Damn her straight to hell. She must have felt his regard for she turned as he moved. For an instant their gazes locked and she said in a husky voice, “Look, Michael, given everything, I appreciate your offer to play with Tim. He isn't usually—" He interrupted shortly, “All kids have their cranky moments. Don't worry about it." After a pronounced hesitation, she seemed to welcome his disinclination to discuss their past. Her lashes lowered a fraction. She gave a small, mirthless laugh. “Actually, he doesn't. Not like that little performance in the house. Though,” a sigh, “I do wish he'd been a little better behaved in front of your mother. But I meant this.” She pointed at the whirling figure. “He's exuberant." “Sure. He's five." Her slender hand came up to gracefully tuck a lock of pale hair behind her ear. “That's unfortunately my point." Michael lifted his brows in comprehension. “I see. What's he usually like?" “Since the ... accident, not very carefree.” Her long-lashed eyes were an odd color, somewhere between rainwater and new grass, that gray-green gaze following her son's antics. Her perfectly-shaped mouth curved in a wistful, aching smile. “I feel a little like he's been deprived of some of his ... his—"

“Innocence?” As he supplied the word, Michael tightened his fingers around the musty ball in his hand and looked at it. She swallowed again, clearly not feeling comfortable. “Yes, I suppose that's a good word. Thank you." He tossed the ball up and caught it, acting casually as possible. “Well, that's life, isn't it? God knows things have happened to me that have shaken my belief in any goodness in this world. How about you, Cassandra?" The challenge and darkness in his voice made her eyes widen slightly. Her mouth opened but she didn't seem to know what to say. Michael quickly supplied the words for her, despite his resolve, an edge creeping into his voice. “Of course, being born a Beaumont, I had a little less innocence than most children to begin with, so Tim is just a chip off the old block. Not much time with your parents, but hell, what kid wants that, right? We had drivers, nannies, maids picking up your underwear ... anything we wanted. That's all stuff that sticks with you. Surely Robert must have talked about it. After all, the two of you were married for what, about five years?" Damn, that had been a cheap shot, but he couldn't regret it. Color came up to awkwardly spot her cheekbones. Her lips, as soft and delicately pink as he remembered, tightened. She said hoarsely, “I think Robert liked all that. The servants and pampering, he thought it was the only way to live." Relenting a little, he murmured, “Sounds like you're doing a better job with Tim. At least you spend time with him." “Thanks.” The reply was faint. She looked uncertain, as if the backhanded compliment was a snake, waiting to bite. Perhaps it was. “He's a cute kid." Her response was quiet, as reserved as the rest of her. “What an interesting compliment. He looks like his father." And Michael knew he and Robert had looked enough alike to be twins. He blinked at that unexpected counterblow and turned away. That, he told himself silently, was enough sparring for one day. “Hey!” Timothy was through bouncing around in the grass and came across the lawn. His little hands crooked on his hips. “Can we play?" “Sure.” Michael grinned with effort. “Tell your mom to get behind you and catch anything you don't hit." “Come on, Mom.” Tim clapped his hands with glee and laughed. **** Dinner was maybe worse than Tim's tantrum or having to attempt to play baseball. She was worse at making small talk than she was at catching stray balls. And being tired, off-balance, and uncomfortable, she had been appallingly bad at that. Cassandra toyed with her wine glass and gritted her teeth. The Beaumont formality was cloying as ever, the food rich and excessive, and the conversation boring. For a vacation in the woods, it surely wasn't canned beef stew and the campfires of her childhood. She'd known what to expect, of course, as she'd visited many times during the years of her marriage. Perhaps it was just that she had become used to being pulled along in the brilliance of

Robert's wake. The big dining room seemed unnaturally quiet, even with the debate about labor laws going on between her father-in-law and Anne. They might as well have been speaking Greek as far as she was concerned, and no one else was really saying anything. If Robert had been there ... everything would have been different—very different. For one thing, she doubted Michael would be sitting at the table. A week—could she really survive it? Turning her head toward the big windows overlooking the lake, she watched in absent admiration as the setting sun cast a reddish haze behind the crowding trees. The water looked black and glossy with the encroaching darkness. “Timmy's in bed, I take it?" Cassandra jerked, not expecting the question, for a second not realizing it was even aimed in her direction. No one had actually addressed her in the past fifteen minutes and it took her a moment to realize that Anne's husband had been the one who had spoken. She said quickly, “Um, yes. It's a little early but he was tired." Sitting directly across the table, Stanley Ransom regarded her with what looked like sympathy. “Tough gig, huh? Raising a child all alone can't be a treat. Boys especially seem to need their fathers—a firm hand and all that." Since she'd never known Stan to be anything other than solicitous and pleasant, she stifled the urge to shoot back a defensive retort. If she was objective, she had to admit that perhaps Timmy's outrageous behavior that afternoon did have something to do with his situation as a single-parent child. Forcing a smile, she said, “I'm sure you're right, but playing the cards we're dealt is a fact of life, isn't it? I'm doing my best and most of the time he's pretty good." Stan's light brows lifted toward his receding hairline. He instantly looked apologetic. “I wasn't implying anything, Cassandra. Timothy is terrific, no question of it. I guess I think you look a little ... strained. Gorgeous as always,” his smile was swift and looked sincere, “don't get me wrong on that point." She'd always felt more comfortable with the easy-going Stan than anyone else in the Beaumont family. He might be a little on the bland side, but no one knew better than herself that being a foil for a Beaumont spouse was the best defense. “Thank you." Stan chuckled, leaning back in his chair as his plate was cleared by a young woman wearing a white blouse and black slacks. “Hey, don't thank me. Good genes, that's the ticket. Robert was never a fool." The smile on her lips stiffened at the mention of Robert's name and at that moment she caught sight of Michael's cynical expression. Sitting next to Stan, he had obviously been listening to the by-play for he lifted his wine glass in a mocking half-salute and took an over-large gulp. Embarrassed that Stan had glanced over in time to see Michael's ridiculing gesture, Cassandra tried to hide the heat climbing up into her throat and face by ducking her head and blotting her mouth with her napkin. It was going to be a long week, she thought in despair. “Mrs. Beaumont.” A soft voice at her ear and light touch on her shoulder broke the awkward moment. Turning quickly, Cassandra saw that one of the young girls that had helped serve their dinner was standing by her chair. She whispered discreetly, “You have a phone call. The caller said it was urgent." The acceleration of her heart was immediate and painful. Mumbling an excuse, the sudden jolt of

nervousness made her stumble when she rose from her chair. Marie would never allow anything so rude as someone taking a call at the table during dinner, so Cassandra headed through the huge and busy kitchen and down a short hallway to the den, where the blinking light on the phone on the desk let her know that line one was on hold. Her housekeeper and Ella were the only people who knew where'd she'd gone, and no one else had the number, which was very, very unlisted. Taking a deep breath, she hoped it was another Tiffany discovery and reached for the receiver. “Hello?" “Did you think I wouldn't know?” The husky whisper was nightmarishly familiar. Sinking into the leather chair and swallowing, Cassandra said, “Know what?" “Where you are, princess." “Are you following me?" “Are you ditching me?" In a sudden burst of furious, frightened honesty, Cassandra hissed, “I would if I could, believe me." “That would be a big mistake.” A flat warning—almost as if she forgot her desire to disguise her voice, the woman's tone was much higher, probably close to her normal speaking voice. Swallowing hard, Cassandra demanded, “How did you get this number?" “Sweetheart, how do you think?” The laugh was low and coarse. “I have my sources. Or rather, had." “Can't we finish this? Tell me what you want or leave me alone." “Fifty grand, like I said before. We'll make the exchange in a few days. This seems like a good place, lots of deep dark woods." Dark woods, elicit money, sordid scandal. Protesting, Cassandra said, “Look—" The line went dead, buzzing hollowly in her ear. Slowly replacing the receiver, Cassandra jerked as a cool voice intruded. “Lover's spat?" Stifling a cry, she swung around in the swivel chair. Michael stood framed in the doorway. The only one of them who hadn't dressed up for dinner, his navy blue polo shirt was tucked into jeans hugging his lean hips, his arms crossed over his chest. He had one dark brow lifted suggestively. “And before you accuse me of being crude and eavesdropping, my mother sent me to tell you dessert is being served. I just got here." “That was just a friend of mine.” She was poor at lying, and flustered, she was even more awful. Her lips trembled and she clamped her mouth shut. What was worse, tears hovered close by, stinging beneath her lids. Her life, she thought as she struggled for composure, might be going to hell in a hand basket, but she would not weep in front of Michael Beaumont. “Can't we finish this? Tell me what you want?” That irritating brow inched ever higher as he repeated her words in a mocking tone. “You seemed rather passionate about the topic at hand. Just a friend—oh come on, Cassie." The nickname must have slipped out, for his expression darkened instantly and went flat, even before she could answer. Lunging away from the doorjamb, he didn't wait for a response but turned and went down the hallway. A few minutes later, her stomach churning, she followed, certain that if she had to take even one bite of

crème brûlée she would be quite sick all over Marie's priceless oriental rug. **** The night was like black silk, one of those rare evenings without even the touch of a breeze. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees from the warmth of the day, but it was still pleasant enough to sit outside without a jacket and Michael took advantage of it, escaping to the back porch as soon as possible after dinner. To say he was surprised when his father joined him was an understatement. “Your mother tells me that you've been commissioned to paint for the new arts center they're building upstate New York. Quite an honor as I understand it." Michael idly swirled the brandy in his glass before glancing up. His father never asked about his career. He said neutrally, “Yes, a wall mural that will serve as part of the entry hall. The building isn't even finished yet, so it'll be another year or so before I can start working." Leaning back expansively in his deck chair, his father squinted a little in the darkness of the screened porch. He'd discarded his suit coat and tie and unbuttoned his shirt, as was his habit for after-dinner brandy and cigars. Despite warnings from one of the finest doctors in Chicago, a thin ghost of smoke coiled from the ashtray at his elbow. Around them, the woods were alive with fireflies and a chorus of frogs sang monotonously from the lakeshore. Lifting his hand and taking a long puff on his cigar, he said gruffly, “Sounds like this art thing is finally taking off." This art thing, Michael thought with resigned amusement. To say that father didn't understand his creative need to put images on canvas was an understatement. The fact he'd rather do it for a living than be an executive in one of the Beaumont-held companies and draw a seven-figure salary, well, that was incomprehensible. The good news was that they'd finally stopped arguing over it. Michael said neutrally, “Yes, it's going well. I'm luckier than most, I've had a few good breaks. My last show was a great success." His father's bushy brows shot up. His chair creaked as he shifted his weight and asked the predictable question. “Profitable?" Michael laughed. “By your standards, probably not. But to me, yes." “Since we're on the subject, your mother and I want you to paint Cassandra's portrait while you are both here this week." The suggestion was so ludicrous that he froze; his brandy glass arrested an inch from his mouth. Michael said incredulously, “What?" “She's the only member of the family you haven't painted yet, son. Your mother wants it for the gallery in the house in Chicago. Robert's wife should be there, next to his picture. After all, she's Tim's mother." “You're joking." Heavy brows twitched. “About this? Of course not, why would I?" It was unbelievable to think that neither of his parents had the intuition to grasp the tension between him and his brother's wife. Of course, Michael realized sardonically, staring out over the lake, then again, to them, Robert was the better choice anyway and Cassandra had just acted in a logical fashion when she had discarded him for his older brother. As to his own feelings, he was probably expected to gladly step aside for the golden son. Actually, the trouble was, there were times when he felt he could understand her decision too, maybe that had stung more than anything. Why settle for the rebellious, moody, younger son when you could

have a handsome, sophisticated, and highly ambitious man who might easily run one day for President of the United States? Show him the woman who wouldn't make the same choice. But, dear God, it had hurt. The dual betrayal had been unexpected, but somehow Cassandra's defection hurt much worse than Robert's. His older brother had always gone right after what he wanted with ruthless determination. Michael had no illusions about Robert; he'd grown up with him. Cassandra, on the other hand, had been a young college girl when Michael had met her at NYU. Struggling by on an academic scholarship, orphaned by a fire years before, she'd been shy and sweet and captivatingly unconscious of her beauty. The minute she'd walked into an Art History course he was teaching, he'd been entranced. Their first dates had been pizza and old movies and artless, cautious old-fashioned good night kisses. He'd been taken in by what he thought was a refreshing innocence. Completely taken in. He had even postponed introducing her to his family because he was sure their exalted lifestyle would be intimidating to a naive girl from a small Midwestern town. It turned out he was the one who was naive. He couldn't have been more wrong, he thought savagely as he lifted his glass and drained it. Stifling a cough, he set the glass down on the wooden side table with a definite click. Voice raw with brandy, he rasped, “You can hire someone to do the portrait. I'm on vacation." “Nonsense. You've done all the others." “Not this one." Stubbing out his cigar, his father asked irritably, “Are you trying to tell me you aren't going to paint this week? I haven't seen you without a brush in your hand since you were five years old. It's a damned obsession." “I only did the other portraits because I was experimenting with technique. I don't sit portraits anymore." “You brought supplies and have already unpacked them and set up your easel in the gazebo down by the lake." “You aren't listening to me." “I want you to do this for your mother, understand? Goddammit, Michael, you go your own way and we let you, not seeing you for months and months. Just do this." It was obviously the end of the discussion because his father heaved himself to his feet and stalked off, the sliding screen door clicking lightly into place behind him as he went inside. The edict had been made. Still sitting there in the cool darkness, Michael said bitterly, “Shit." Chapter 5 Tim didn't make it through the night in his own bed. When Cassandra awakened, he was curled beside her, his smooth little cheeks pink and round, his blanket clutched to his chest with one plump fist. Outside it was bright sunshine, the light pouring in the windows and spilling across the polished floor. Her bedroom, the one she had always shared with Robert, looked exactly the same as the last time they'd been there together—pale taupe walls, gorgeous French doors that opened onto the terrace overlooking the lake, a huge off-white rug on the wooden floor, an oak armoire in the corner. The bath

had matching taupe towels and a cool tiled shower, plus a giant walk-in closet. Raising a heavy head, she struggled to keep away the memory of anything that had happened between her and her husband in that room and that bed. Robert's ghost was the last thing she needed. Getting up, she pulled on a blue silk robe and cautiously tugged open the French doors to slip outside. The breeze was cool and clean and very sweet. The lake rippled quietly, burnished gold and blue under the undiluted light. The trees were reflected in the water like some impressionist painting, almost taking her breath away with the subtle beauty of the scene. Turning her face, she sucked in a deep soothing breath and leaned against the railing for support. She'd dreamed again. Her hair was still damp on the back of her neck. She felt weak and washed out. God help her, when would it stop? Even when she was asleep she was haunted by the past. “It's about time." The quiet comment from behind her caught her completely off-guard. Whirling around and tugging her robe closed across her breasts, she stifled a gasp of surprise. “What?" The second story deck ran the length of the house and faced the lake, and while it was a lovely place to sit, it did afford an access to all the bedrooms that made privacy a matter of curtains and closed doors. Michael Beaumont sat in one of the deck chairs just outside her room, one denim-clad leg crossed over the other, his wide shoulders relaxed against the rustic wood. He was drinking coffee from a thick brown mug and wearing a faint sardonic smile. He was irritatingly clean-shaven, fully dressed, and clear-eyed. “I thought you were going to sleep all morning." “It was a long drive,” she said defensively, immediately conscious of her rumpled hair and the fact that she hadn't bothered to remove her make-up the night before. No doubt it was smeared across her face, making her look as haggard as she felt. She added unnecessarily, “I was tired." “Yeah, I agree with Stan, you looked tired." Michael, of course, didn't bother to attach a compliment like his sister's husband had done. Instead, he asked coldly, “How long is it going to take you to shower and get dressed?" Still clutching her robe like a threatened maiden, she swallowed. “What do you mean?" His hair, ever too long as always and slightly unruly, curled in the morning humidity over his collar. Ebony brows slowly lifted in ridicule over those very blue eyes. “What don't you understand about the question? Seems pretty straightforward to me." He was being deliberately rude and it was an effort to look back at him without flinching away. The breeze blew her disheveled hair across her mouth and she swatted it away. “Your interest in my schedule, I guess." He calmly drank more coffee and murmured over the rim of his cup. “Uh-oh." “Uh-oh. Why uh-oh?” She wasn't at all sure if she even wanted the question answered. “You don't know, do you?" Her hand was not very steady as it went up again to brush aside her tousled hair. To say that she felt at a disadvantage was an understatement. He looked handsome, relaxed, and wide-awake. She was crumpled and a little out of it from her rough and restless dream-filled night. They stared at each other for a second before she mumbled, “What does that mean? Know what? And what are you doing here?" “Here at Thirty Birches? Same as you, the hopeless victim of shameless emotional blackmail. In other

words, visiting my parents." Her eyes felt gritty and she blinked. “Stop being difficult. I meant here. Outside my room.” The railing was hard against her back and the morning breeze flapped her robe around her bare ankles and calves. Like you were waiting for me, she surmised silently. “I was sitting here drinking coffee and thinking that if we're going to have to add this to our lovely vacation itinerary, we might as well do it. Get it over for both of us by getting started as early as possible. Like this morning.” His blue gaze was steady. “Started?” Her heavy head made it impossible for her to follow the oblique line of their conversation. “On what? You aren't making any sense." “Please tell me they informed you of all the quality time we'll be spending together in the next few days." Just looking at the cynical expression on his face was enough to make her swallow and want to look away. There was little question about how Michael Beaumont felt about her and what had happened six years ago. Everyone knew it, she certainly knew it. He'd never been much for hiding his feelings, the only sensitive one of his family. The one she'd ground under her heel and left behind when she chose his brother instead. It made her extremely uncomfortable to be anywhere near him but she forced herself with an earned self-control to not do anything but meet that penetrating look with as much aplomb as possible. Wearily, she murmured, “No, no one has told me anything. Please be blunt, I haven't even had coffee yet. What are you talking about?" “Word is I'm painting your portrait." “What?” Dismay made her gulp out the word. He could not be serious. “Yeah.” His smile was swift and without amusement. “You heard right. It's my parents’ idea apparently. I'm surprised they didn't talk to you." “I'm not,” she muttered without thinking. His laugh was quick, almost too quick, with another slight twist of his mouth. “Anyway, you apparently need to be added to the sacred Beaumont wall of fame." The thought of sitting for hours with Michael and his unsettling, unfriendly stare fastened on her, much less giving him the opportunity to put his version of her face and person on canvas, was appalling. The fact that her in-laws would ask it of either of them was even more ludicrous. She moved, the boards of the deck rough under her bare feet. The breeze, which had felt so wonderful before, suddenly seemed a little chilly. “I'm not very interested in having my portrait done. No offense." “None taken. I'm not interested in doing it.” The edginess in his tone was tinged with the bitterness of their past. Cassandra tried not to flinch. “Good. We agree on that one thing." “Yes, we do. But my father wants this done and my mother wants it done. You've been a Beaumont long enough to realize what that means, I imagine." Like fighting the system, fighting the Beaumonts was usually a losing battle that left you worn and weak. She wouldn't be in Michigan if she had wanted to fight them. Tim was a touchy issue; no matter

how much money Robert had left her, Marie and Gerald could summon lawyers that would wipe their feet on her. She knew it and they knew it. It was part of the reason she hadn't dated anyone, hadn't socialized beyond the occasional tennis game, never drank in public ... the list went on. She was even afraid to go to an “R” rated movie. For the past year she'd been petrified that they would try to sue for some sort of partial custody. God, she needed some coffee. Rubbing the bridge of her nose with her knuckles, she said curtly. “Okay, I get your point. How long do you think it will take?" “How long will we have to put up with each other, you mean?” His laugh was a twisted parody of the real thing. “That depends.” He lifted his wrist and consulted his watch. “I'll give you an hour to eat something and get ready. Meet me at the gazebo. I've set up everything there." “An hour and a half.” Cassandra was truly tired of being pushed around. She folded her arms across her chest and glanced toward where the long drapes shielded her room from the open porch. “I have to get Timmy up also, get his breakfast, and find someone to watch him." “The sooner we start the faster it will be done.” He set his cup aside. “I'll hurry,” she promised with irony. **** Michael fidgeted with two different brushes, finally discarding one in disgust by tossing it halfway across the room. The fact that the door opened at the same time and the piece of flying debris almost hit his anticipated subject was an accident. Dressed in a navy silk sheath with a heart-shaped neckline and thin straps over her shoulders, Cassandra flinched and stopped as the brush smacked into the screen a few inches from her head, one foot poised over the threshold. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Sorry.” He felt stupid and made up for it by leaning back carelessly in his chair and curving his mouth into a deliberately spiteful grin. “Oops. My mistake." “For throwing it or missing me?” She remained in the doorway, a wary expression on her face. He ignored that comment. “You're late. I've been waiting almost a half an hour." “I know. Your mother insisted she would know best what I should wear.” Cassandra stepped into the gazebo and glanced around. The structure was roughly fifteen feet in diameter, eight-sided, and had screens from floor to the peaked wooden ceiling. Maybe fifty feet up the hillside from the shore, the building was designed to let people sit amid the trees and enjoy the lake without the pesky task of staving off hungry mosquitoes. When setting up his makeshift studio, Michael felt the usual acute satisfaction at the fabulous lighting and had simply shoved the chaise lounges aside and plonked his easel in the middle of the room, effectively taking over the place for the duration of his stay. He leisurely and dispassionately surveyed the dress that showed off her long slender legs and bare arms, letting his gaze travel slowly up and down in a way that he knew would make her uncomfortable. “I like it. If nothing else, my mother's taste tends to be infallible. Did she suggest the hair style?" Cassandra's hand went instantly to the neat chignon at her nape. “No." “I didn't think so. Take it down." At his abrupt order, she stiffened. “Why?" He turned toward the palette and pretended to rub at some nonexistent paint stain with a cloth. “Because it isn't the usual you. The painting is intended to be Cassandra Beaumont, wife of the late

senator-elect, captured on canvas. You should look like yourself. It will please my parents, which is the only reason either of us is doing this. So ... let your hair down and have a seat on the stool.” He lied, of course. His parents would probably like the more formal look. However, he didn't. And if, by damn, he was forced into doing this, he was going to do it his way. Maybe it was petty revenge, but there it was. “Are you going to be this bossy the entire time?" He glanced up, gratified to see her tugging the comb out of her blond hair and running her fingers through it until it fell in silky waves around her face. Her cheeks were flushed as she stared at him from across the room. She still stood by the door, just barely inside. He said quietly but firmly, “Actually, maybe we should get this straight. When we're here and I'm working, I am the boss." “And I'm the bowl of fruit?" He couldn't help it; a small laugh escaped his throat at her acerbic tone. “If you like. I'll tell you how to sit, how to smile, how to hold your head, and you just do what you do best, sweetheart, be beautiful." As an insult, he thought it rather well done. If there was one thing he remembered well about that pretty young girl he'd fallen for so long ago, it was that she was intelligent and very sensitive on being judged on her looks alone. For a long moment, he was sure she would turn on her heel and leave. The stains of color deepened across her perfect cheekbones and her soft mouth tightened into a resentful line. But apparently he hadn't gone far enough, not yet. Taking an audible breath, she walked the few feet necessary and perched on the barstool he'd brought down from the family room, demurely folding her hands across her lap, knees tightly together, heels on the rung of the chair. The loosened veil of her golden hair framed her face and her lashes were lowered slightly over her eyes in a telltale characteristic mannerism he wanted to capture. Immediately he picked up his pen and started to work on the canvas in long strokes. Minutes passed and he quickly lost himself in the work, the magic gripping him tightly, banishing everything except his desire to take the image before his eyes and capture it, defined and shaped by him, forever. It didn't matter if it was a perfectly shaped flower, an abstract melee of sunset and horizon, or a woman. Even a woman he disliked and distrusted. It flowed, formed, grew into a reflection. First, the line of her jaw and the way her hair brushed the elegant curve of her bare collarbones. Then the elusive color of her unusual eyes, shaded by those thick lashes... Not to mention her shoulders, right now so rigid and set so uncomfortably he could etch the tension with pencil and paint for generations to come. He owed Cassandra nothing, quite the contrary, and the idea of her sitting there until her whole back ached held some appeal, but he couldn't help it, as he worked he finally murmured, “Relax." “What?” She barely moved her lips, her spine like steel. “You don't have to be a mannequin. Relax. You'll breathe, change position, blink your eyes. I've done this before and expect it and know it. I want the impression, Cassie, not the photograph. Otherwise I would have a camera, not a brush." “Oh.” She slumped a little in relief. Shifting on the uncomfortable perch of the cushionless stool, her lashes flickered. “You could have told me that sooner." “Yeah, I suppose so. That's better."

The sun dappled the floor in muted patches of refracted light. The movement and sounds of birds was constant; the music of a hundred different songs and cries punctuated by the flashes and flutter of wings outside the gazebo. He worked fast and easily, inspiration not a problem in this case. His fascination with the female form was more than just typical masculine appreciation. He loved to draw women, loved to paint them, almost as much as he loved touching them. The curves and hollows and graceful lines were an artistic dream and Cassandra was a particularly beautiful woman. Of course she was. His brother was not the kind of man who would marry anyone less than a complete knockout. With his pencil, Michael concentrated on the delicate curve of her upper lip, working as he always did, from the inside out. The background would be added later. He murmured, “Where's Tim?" “I put on a Disney movie in the den. Since I try to keep television watching to a minimum at home, he's captivated. Ashley Conner, the housekeeper's daughter, is helping out as kind of a general housekeeping assistant or something here this summer. She's fifteen and seems like a sweet girl. She said she'd peek in on him. I wasn't sure how long this would take." “A while. I can only work so long. But ... after we finish for today, I was thinking of taking him out in the boat fishing. Would he enjoy that?" Her mouth softened a fraction and she glanced toward the right, out to where the pines and birches splayed fragrant branches over the hillside outside the screens. He could see her swallow and duck her head slightly. Her voice was a little husky as she responded, “I am sure he would love it. That's nice of you." “Nice has nothing to with it. He's my nephew.” Michael said it crisply. “Just the same, first baseball and then fishing. He could use a positive male influence, I'm sure. You'll be his new hero." “I have no desire to be a hero.” The interruption was sharper than he intended. “Oka ... ay.” The word was said very slowly. Her gaze moved past him and fixed on something behind him. “Sorry to thank you for being nice to my son." Michael frowned at the canvas, his fingers moving methodically. He added insult to injury by saying evenly, “My brother's son, remember? And by the way, this will be strictly a men-only deal. You aren't invited." His reward for that barb was a very visible tightening of her mouth and stiffening of her body. So much for his advice to relax—maybe he should keep his taunting remarks to a minimum. Cassandra said coolly, “Your position is noted. Just for the record, Timmy can't swim." “We'll take life-preservers." “I guess that will be all right." “Don't you trust me?" Her gray-green gaze swung up and finally met his. “I think I trust you to take care of Timothy, yes." “Was that an oblique answer?" “Let's just say if I were drowning, I'm not sure I'd hang my hopes on you diving in to save me.” Her tone was dry but her knuckles were white where her hands clasped in her lap. Michael glanced from the canvas on his easel to her face and then back again. He said nastily, “You know, considering our past, I don't think the issue of trust is one we should discuss, Mrs. Beaumont. You might not like my opinion of your integrity."

Apparently, he finally went too far. She blanched, the high color in her face draining slowly away. Deliberately unhooking her heels from rungs of the stool, she stood up, smoothing her dress with shaking hands. “Let's forget this.” Her hair swung against her bare shoulders as she turned toward the door. “I'll tell your mother something ... that I'm just not able to do this, not here, with you." The streak of guilt through his stomach was ridiculous. Nevertheless, he said, “Cassandra, don't be a child. Sit back down." With her hand on the door handle, her voice was very soft. He could see her body quiver slightly. “Your dislike is obvious enough without you having to put it into words every chance you get, Michael. I really don't think I can sit here for hours and hours and have you tell me what a terrible person I am. I'm just not interested. Believe it or not, I have enough problems without adding your animosity to the list." Setting aside his pencil, Michael folded his arms across his chest and stared at her back. “My mother, much less my father, will not accept that excuse, you know. They would simply point out that we are adults and therefore should be able to be polite to each other." Cassandra stayed in the same position, face averted, the slender fingers of one hand wrapped around the knob. “I'm a grown woman. I don't have to do everything they say, even if they are Gerald and Marie Beaumont." “Yeah, but it makes life so much easier to give in, Cassie.” Giving a loud and hopefully effective sigh, Michael picked up his pencil again. “I hate to waste a perfectly good sketch. I might have been a little out of line, I admit that. Tell you what, maybe it would be better if we didn't speak at all, how's that?" She didn't move. “Cassie, sit down." “Fine with me.” When she turned around and seated herself woodenly on the stool, there was an unmistakable shimmer of tears in her eyes and she looked anywhere but at him. Dammit, Michael cursed inwardly as he worked. She had deserved that and he refused to feel like an ass. **** The silk slid over her hips as smooth as cool water and pooled at her feet. Stepping out of the puddle of cloth, Cassandra automatically bent over and lifted the navy dress, shaking it out and going to the closet to hang it up. Her left temple throbbed slightly, residue from the past uncomfortable hours. Crossing the cool elegance of the room, she lay down on the bed in nothing but her underwear and stared up at the even soothing movement of the ceiling fan. With the drapes drawn, the afternoon sun was trapped outside, leaving the room pleasantly dark. Her lashes drifted shut. Maybe she could take a nap. The door was locked, she was very alone, and she hadn't slept well the night before. Since Timmy was out with Michael fishing, it would be a nice way to avoid contact with anymore of her husband's family, at least for a few hours. Sleep—a nap would be lovely. She hadn't napped since she was pregnant five long years ago. A few seconds later, she opened her eyes. Who was she fooling? A tight lump came up in her throat and she swallowed hard to dislodge it. Sitting up, she brushed her hair from her face. The call the night before haunted her. She had to wonder if the man in the beige sedan was tied to her tormentor. There was little doubt in her mind that the female blackmailer, who had been so guarded and careful the first

few calls, had begun to derive a sort of sadistic pleasure from her sick game. There had been no point in calling last evening, except for a show of power. Her unpacked suitcase was neatly stacked in the top of the huge closet. Cassandra got up almost unwillingly and crossed over, pulling it down and checking the zippered pocket on the side. The large manila envelope was there, the cash intact. Considering the efficiency of the housekeeping staff, hiding it anywhere else in the bedroom or bath seemed foolish. Her unpacked suitcase should draw no interest, even if the money wasn't locked up. Putting everything back, Cassandra pulled on a pair of shorts and a casual tank top. That money seemed a symbol of everything that was wrong in her life. Going into the bathroom and picking up her brush, she ran it carelessly through her hair. Oh well, she thought with cynical despair, she only had to be responsible for it for the next few days. And hopefully that would be the end. In a perfect world, the awful woman calling her would hand over the pictures, negatives, the whole thing, and take the cash and go away forever. But she'd learned a long time ago that it wasn't a perfect world. Not even close. **** Fishing with an enthusiastic five-year-old had definitely been the highlight of this day. Michael idly sipped his wine and felt the heaviness in his soul weigh his limbs. Yes, Tim and his exuberant excitement over worms, hooks, and bluegill had gone a long way toward lightening his mood, but being stuck having another stilted dinner with his family plunged him right back into the depths without any problem. Tomorrow, he would have to endure another session with Cassandra. Damn. It was all harder than he imagined it would be and he had dreaded this visit to begin with. Those eyes, not green, not quite gray, sheened with tears. The memory of that should not make his gut wrench with guilt. Stupid, stupid guilt, when she was the one that should be crawling with remorse. She even acted as if she might be crawling with remorse and still that didn't satisfy him. He needed more wine, he decided, staring at his empty glass. Maybe he'd go through a whole cellar before this week was through. Tomorrow night was the party, all black tie and flowing champagne, but at least he wouldn't be stuck at the family table again. A horde of guests would dilute his sister-in-law's presence and as far as he was concerned, he was free to leave Michigan after the obligatory gesture of support for Anne. He could make up some reason why he needed to fly right back to New York and then he could thankfully forget today had ever happened. Forget the portrait. Forget Cassandra. That was the plan all right. He was getting the hell out of there as soon as possible. Chapter 6 Sitting on the picnic bench, Danny polished off his second sandwich and reached for his iced tea as he listened to the sound of music and laughter surrounding him. The park was crawling with people, more than half of them children, and bright trailers were parked in a long row, selling everything from

lemonade and corn dogs to the best walleye sandwiches he'd ever eaten in his life. Wiping a dollop of tartar sauce off his chin with an inadequate napkin, he found he was reliving the events of the morning again. The day had dawned as cold and clear as a glass of pristine spring water. For Danny, the rising sun had crowned not just the glory of the coming day, but it had witnessed his own crowning moment, the landing of a forty-inch fiercely resistant bundle of fins, scales, and bones. A beautiful gold and black prize of a muskie, the king of fresh water sport fish. For the fifteen minutes it took him to land the fish, he'd been that kid again from Indiana; heart pumping with excitement over the battle, eyes straining and searching the water to see what struggled on the other end of his line, shaking hands letting out line and reeling in at just the right moment... “What a beauty.” Craig had held up the net and the fish flopped angrily again. Danny found he was grinning from ear to ear. “Worth getting up at four in the damned morning. Wow, what a rush. Let's get him out of that net and back into the water." Ralston lifted a thin brow. “Hey, our catch-and-release agreement didn't include a trophy like this bastard. If you want to have him mounted, keep him." The air had smelled like fish, fresh water, and wet earth. The lap of the water against the side of the boat was incessant and relaxing, and even though he was cold, damp, and his rear hurt from sitting on the hard seat of the johnboat, he was having the time of his life. Danny shook his head. “No, let's let that big guy go. I had my fun but killing him and sticking him up on my wall would take away from the experience. He's magnificent. Let's keep him that way." Craig had agreed with the sentiment and they had fished for several more hours in contentment, not getting as much as a bite. Driving back to the small town of Lynchburg to purchase more bait had been a great idea, the sleepy little place transformed by some kind of local fair that Craig promised had fantastic fish sandwiches. He'd been right; the decision to eat lunch there had been a stroke of genius. Ralston came back and sat down opposite, bringing with him a third sandwich. Danny shook his head and his friend grinned. “I can't resist these things. I'm sure they're swimming with cholesterol but damn, they taste so good.” He unwrapped a plain bun dripping with crispy fish and gooey sauce and took an impressive bite. Two little boys dashed by, chasing a puppy, all three of them making a good deal of noise, their chubby legs churning across the grass. The picnic bench was at the end of the park, just outside a fringe of old shade trees. A man, presumably a father, strolled after them at a more leisurely pace. The streets being blocked off, most parents seemed content to let their children run a little amuck and enjoy themselves —but apparently not all parents. As Danny idly watched the crowd, a young blond woman turned away from the ice cream stand, one hand gripping a young boy of four or five by the collar and the other transferring a chocolate cone to his eager little hand. Wearing a pale blue sundress with thin straps over bare shoulders and a short hem that emphasized long tanned legs, she was more than pleasant to look at, in fact, she was gorgeous. Given he was as appreciative of an attractive female as any man, he openly admired the view. “Your eyes aren't deceiving you, pal." “What?” Danny jerked his gaze away as the woman and child wandered closer. Craig leaned his brawny elbows on the table and wiped his mouth with one of the ridiculous tiny napkins. He jerked his head sideways. “Do you recognize her?" As inconspicuously as possible, Danny glanced back. The two were closer now and he could see her

face clearly. To his surprise, he did recognize her. But damned if he knew from where. “Actress?” He asked in a low tone. “I don't get to the movies much these days." Ralston looked amused. The bright sunlight shone off his polished bald head. “Not hardly, just one of our local celebrities. I know you remember some joker tampering with Senator Beaumont's car last year and the accident that killed him. It was all over the news, the funeral was even broadcasted on television." Danny nodded. Craig watched mother and child walk past. “That's his widow." So it was. Danny knew now why he'd been so struck. Her face had been plastered across the cheap supermarket rags for months after the wreck that had killed her husband. Photos of her on crutches at the graveside, her facial injuries framed by a dramatic black veil, had awakened feelings of sympathy from thousands. And even afterward the press seemed to feel they'd found a new sweetheart in Beaumont's pretty young widow. Later stories had her doing everything from joining a convent to dating a foreign prince. None of which were probably true. Danny wasn't much an expert on the tabloids, but it seemed to him that the furor had died down lately. He toyed with his tea glass and said, “No offense, because I'm enjoying the hell out of myself here, but what on earth is someone like Cassandra Beaumont doing at a little fair in Lynchburg, aka nowhere, Michigan? Shouldn't she be jet-setting around the world, or something?" Craig glanced down and seemed to notice for the first time a large damp stain on the front of his flannel shirt. He swiped at it with a hand still greasy from his sandwich, not improving the situation. “Oh, the Beaumonts own a big house on Rose Lake, have for years. It's a friggn’ mansion, complete with a big electric gate and that sort of thing. There's some sort of big party there this weekend, I'm told they rented the entire resort there on Birchwood Lake a mile or so away from their own place, every damn room so the guests would have a place to stay. Can you imagine how much that would cost?” He sounded a little outraged. “A lot.” Danny gave an inward smile. “The local airstrip has been alerted that several private planes will be landing this morning and they need some security so they asked our department for help. It's a joke, really. Security is going to end up being an off-duty local cop. Best I could do." “I doubt there's a need for more way up here. Rich people are just paranoid." Craig Ralston looked thoughtful, turning around to watch the retreating figures of Cassandra Beaumont and her son as they walked toward a black BMW parked at the edge of the park. His pale eyes were grave. “I don't know, Danny. Maybe they should be paranoid. After all, Robert Beaumont was murdered and they've never figured out who did it." **** Cassandra dreaded nothing more than pulling into the circle drive at Thirty Birches and parking her car. The vans from the catering company were already lined up near the back door, the Illinois plates indicating that Marie trusted no one but her local favorite for the job and had spared no expense for her daughter's big moment. The party was going to be one of those extravagant affairs that she hadn't missed one bit since Robert's death. Going around the side of the car, Cassandra helped Timmy with the buckles of his car seat and watched him scramble out. There was ice cream on both his face and shirt and he was smiling. Taking him to the fair to escape the bustle of preparation inside the house had been a good idea.

Too bad she had Michael to thank for the suggestion. If their session for the portrait had been tense the day before, it had been electric that morning. They had barely exchanged a civil greeting. She'd sat uncomfortably, and he'd worked behind the easel for what seemed like a lifetime but was probably less than two hours. As she'd left the gazebo, Michael had called out the time and place of the little fair—no more. Just that. God help her, she'd jumped on the information and dragged her son out to the car as soon as she could change. Not that Marie would notice their absence. Tim's grandmother was inconsistent with her affections anyway and right now diving deep in throes of her hostess syndrome. Cassandra doubted if Marie was aware of anything but the party that night. It had been the single topic of conversation that evening before. Cassandra still had trouble figuring out why she and Timothy had been included in this family gathering. Other than evening meals, which were served so late that her son was already in bed, the Beaumonts spent no actual time together. “Here you are.” A voice called out, waking her from her musing. Cassandra turned. Anne came down the hallway, looking a bit harried, her sleek dark hair pulled back from her angular face with tortoise-shell clip. Gesturing at her linen slacks and short-sleeve blouse, she said, “We're all getting ready to change. Mother was starting to worry about the two of you making it in time. Where'd you disappear to anyway?" “Lynchburg." “Lynchburg?” Anne's dark brows went up and she eyed Timothy's sticky face. “Isn't it about thirty houses, a post office, and a cafe?" Timothy reached up and tugged at Cassandra's hand. “Mommy, can I go swimming?" “Tim, you need a bath.” Reaching down and swinging her son up into her arms, she said to Anne, “They had a little fair there today, some rides, junk food, that sort of thing. Timmy had a ball." She neglected to add that it had been an excuse to get away, both from Michael and the pre-party bustle. She and Tim would have just been in the way. Anne looked skeptical about the allure of a small country fair but said nothing more than, “Well, once you're dressed, the family is going to have a small private toast on the deck outside the dining room before the guests arrive. You'll need to join us there. Ashley Conner said she'd take over with Tim whenever you're ready. She went into town and rented some movies for the two of them to watch, so you'll have more fun today, okay buddy?” She ruffled Tim's hair in an off-hand way and went down the hall toward the bedrooms with her usual purposeful stride. Tim was worn out. He nestled in Cassandra's arms in a way that was becoming more and more rare as he got older. “You don't know how much I wish,” she murmured tenderly against her son's soft hair, “I was spending the evening with you instead, Tim. Even if I had to watch The Little Mermaid for the fifteenth time." **** Through the open door, he could see them all gathered: elegant, well-dressed, sipping champagne and about as familial as a pride of lions. Michael shot his cuffs and squared his shoulders before stepping out onto the deck. It was another lovely evening, unusually warm and clear, making the suit coat he wore a nuisance and discomfort but heaven help him if he declined to dress formally for one of his mother's big bashes. Not that this was going to be big in her normal sense—just forty or so guests—all strategically chosen in a political sense for his sister's grand announcement. A public statement would come later, but this would definitely get

the ball rolling in all the right places. He was enough of a Beaumont to know that much. Anne was dressed for the occasion in a black silk suit that was both feminine and tailored. She poured champagne into a fluted glass and shoved the bottle back into a crystal ice bucket before coming over to hand him the glass. “Michael, don't you look handsome.” An expert hand straightened his tie. He smiled down at her. There was no missing the sparkle of excitement in her blue eyes or the satisfaction in the curve of her mouth. This was her night. “Glad I won't embarrass you." “Are you kidding? You'll have to carry a whip and chair to keep them away." “Somehow that analogy doesn't surprise me,” he murmured dryly. Over his sister's head, he said truthfully, “Mother, everything looks wonderful." An airy wave of her hand was his response. For the grand toast, a table had been set up on the deck, complete with a spray of red roses, crystal glasses, and several bottles in ice buckets. His father and Stan were dressed like himself, in dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties. His mother wore a floor-length black gown that suited her petite stature, the simplicity of the design no doubt belying the price. She offset the stark effect with diamonds that glittered at her throat, wrists, and on every finger. “I thought this was a party, not a funeral,” he joked. “Black must be the in color these days." Anne moved over to where her husband leaned against the rail and linked her arm with his in a way that made Stan smile. He stroked her arm lightly in an affectionate gesture and said, “Michael, you'd think living in New York, you'd know that." Michael took a sip of his drink and thought about his careless wardrobe of worn jeans and faded teeshirts. As far as he was concerned, comfort always carried the day. Dryly, he said, “I'm not much of a fashion expert." Anne interjected, “Actually, neither am I. I swear Stan knows what will look good on me better than I do. I leave clothes shopping to him, especially mine." Always restless and disinterested in the banal conversation, Michael's father glanced at his watch. “Where's Cassandra? We'd better get on with this birthday business because the guests will be arriving soon." “Sorry I'm late." It took everything he had in him to not jerk in reaction to that soft apology. Instead, Michael took a slow deliberate drink of champagne and watched Cassandra move into the periphery of his vision. She apparently didn't follow fashion either. Her dress was a soft silvery greenish color that exactly matched the unusual shade of her eyes. The neckline scooped low in several folds of material that emphasized the curves of her breasts in a flattering way. Her arms were bare, as were her legs to midthigh. Her dark blond hair hung shining and straight down her back and he caught the gleam of gloss on her lips as she smiled at his father and gracefully accepted a glass. As an entrance, it wasn't at all bad, he thought cynically as he downed more champagne. Though being Cassandra, he wasn't sure it was deliberate. She managed somehow to always carry that vulnerable air of innocence, and despite their past, he couldn't say that it wasn't genuine—at least some of the time. Nor did she seem aware that all three of the men there were gazing at her with pure male admiration. Anne, however, wasn't one to miss a trick, and smiling wryly, she moved forward. “You look stunning tonight, Cassandra. Doesn't she, Stan?" Stan looked instantly chastened. “Yes ... er, stunning."

It was disarming the way Cassie's cheeks colored at the compliment. The innocent, demure maiden, Michael thought mockingly as he moved forward to retrieve the closest champagne bottle, it was a part she played so well. With them all gathered, Stan began to clear his throat, glancing sideways at his wife, undoubtedly for the signal to speak. Hell, Michael mused bitterly, staring at Robert's wife, this would normally be Robert's moment. Personally, he hated flowery speeches and grand toasts and his aversion was well-known, but he was the only remaining son. He should do this. Pouring himself a full glass, in fact, a very full glass, he suddenly lifted it high. “Now that we're all here,” he said in a clear voice, “I want to propose a toast." Anne's eyes widened in surprise and he didn't need to be told that his unexpected gesture took everyone off guard. His bemused family all obediently lifted their glasses. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure he knew what to say. Clearing his throat, he began, “To Gerald Beaumont, leader, businessman, philanthropist, husband, and father. We are all glad to celebrate this day together. Happy birthday, Dad." His father's gaze sharpened on him quizzically as he lifted his glass in acknowledgment. Michael raised his brows in response and gulped down a mouthful of his drink. At that moment came the clear sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Stan slipped his arm around Anne's waist. “Here they come, darling. Are you ready?" Smiling, she lifted her glass, took a long drink of champagne and didn't bother to reply. Softly, Michael murmured, “Please, Stan. She was born ready." **** The candles glittered, the lifted glasses glittered, the guests glittered, and outside, the moon lent a similar shimmer to the water of the lake. Cassandra edged past a group of determined drinkers and eaters who had lodged themselves very near to the disheveled appetizer table containing leftover pate and stuffed oysters. The house rang with laughter and the low sound of classical music in a post-dinner contented hum. It was late, close to midnight at a guess, and she was tired of it all. She'd barely been able to pick through her food, though the cold beef tenderloin with chive sauce had been superb and the chocolate mousse cake rated rave reviews. Condolence after condolence over Robert's death had robbed her of any appetite. People seemed determined to bring it up constantly though she had seen many of them at the funeral. The constant barrage of sympathy had been more than trying; it had been nerve-shattering. It was the type of thing she'd been avoiding diligently since the accident. She would have avoided this party like the plague, no matter how annoyed it might have made Marie, which was probably why she hadn't been told the truth when she was invited up to Thirty Birches. When would the world forget and therefore let her forget? Slipping into the hallway, she made her way toward the den where her son, and Ashley, now firm friends, were ensconced with a mountain of popcorn and a DVD player. He should have been in bed hours before. “Shhhh.” As soon as the door opened, Ashley had her finger to her lips. Even though the room was dark, the flickering television screen provided enough light for Cassandra to see Timmy, curled up with his blanket on the couch, fast asleep. Although he had announced some months before that thumbsucking was for babies, his fist was curled suspiciously under his nose.

Mouthing a thank you, Cassandra tiptoed over and carefully eased him into her arms. Thanks to the busy day and glut of junk food, he didn't even stir as she carried him to his room. Tucking him under the covers, she smoothed his dark curls and kissed his cheek. Not a sigh. “Mrs. Beaumont?” A whisper. Turning, she saw Ashley in the doorway of Tim's bedroom, an apologetic look on her young face. The girl extended a piece of paper. “I almost forgot, someone called for you and I took a message. Sorry, but she wouldn't leave her name, just this." It was difficult to conceal the surge of helpless fury that shot through her whole body as she advanced and accepted the offering. Murmuring a thank you, she waited until the teenager left before stepping out of the darkened bedroom into the hallway, lifting the missive with trembling fingers and reading it. DON'T FORGET ME. Sucking in a deep breath to try and calm herself, Cassandra crumpled the note deliberately into a tight ball in her fist, squeezing until her fingers ached. No wonder Ashley Conner had an odd expression on her face when she handed over the note. It was bad enough to be blackmailed, but the woman was set on taking some delight in torturing her as well. Damn her to hell. A sob stuck in her throat. “I think it's dead." She jerked in reaction to that smooth amused tone, swiveling to see Michael standing behind her, tall and dressed in a dark suit that suited his dramatic coloring and good looks. He'd removed his jacket and it hung over his arm as if he were on his way to his room to discard it. Oh God, an inward moan. Him. The last person she needed. She'd been careful to not be anywhere around him all evening. “What?” Her throat was dry and the word came out as a croak. She felt light-headed and slightly ill. He elevated his dark brows and glanced down at her clenched hand. “Whatever you're murdering with such a vengeance.” He took a step closer and his expression changed as he got a good look at her face. He asked sharply, “Is something wrong?" The paper was a solid hard ball in her grip. She moistened her lips and managed to shake her head. God help her, she was tired, shaken, and terrified. She shouldn't have drunk so much champagne and eaten so little. The hallway seemed to tip and settle. “You're white as a sheet." “I'm ... fine.” She had never fainted in her life, now was not the time to start. Michael was no one's fool, he never had been, and perhaps the only sensitive Beaumont in the entire tribe. Staring at her, he said slowly “Why are you lying? You are obviously not fine at all. What was that, bad news?" “No." “Oh please. You're shaking.” He reached out and deliberately caught her wrist. Unfurling her fingers gently, he removed the wadded ball from her deathgrip, pulled it apart, and smoothed it. Cassandra watched, standing numbly in the hallway outside her son's bedroom, as he read it. She probably should stop him, she thought remotely. She just didn't have it in her to argue with him. Taking a slow, deep breath seemed to help her dizziness a little. Frowning, he scanned the words. “"Don't forget me.” What the hell does that mean? Who sent this?" “I don't know."

He looked up, his blue eyes narrowing. “What do you mean you don't know? Does this have anything to do with the phone call that upset you?" She swallowed. Hard. Rubbing her damp hands on her dress, she managed to say reasonably, “Michael, just let it go, will you? This is none of your business." His mouth tightened. “Love affair gone bad? You should report it to the police if some guy is harassing you." “I haven't had any love affairs.” She wished she could keep the tremble out of her voice, but it was there just the same. Lord, how she wished she could confide in someone, but Michael would be her last choice at this moment—actually, at any moment. Blinking back tears, she said hoarsely, “Well, I'd better get back to the party or your mother might notice I've been gone and treat me to one of those awful freezing looks. Excuse me.” She moved to brush past him. His hands unexpectedly caught her shoulders; his fingers warm against her bare skin. “Cassandra, you're crying. Forget my mother at this moment.” he paused, checked. “Jesus, you're cold as ice." His grip was light, but firm. It was the first time he'd voluntarily touched her in six years. She stiffened, the room swam and her knees weakened. “Let me go, Michael." “Here ... don't pass out on me.” One strong arm came around her waist and suddenly she was limp against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. She could smell the faint tang of his cologne and the starch from his shirt. He said firmly, urging her forward, “You need some fresh air." As if fresh air would solve her woes. She stifled a hysterical laugh. Chapter 7 She felt soft and ethereal in his arms, as ghostly and insubstantial as the haunting scent of roses that drifted from her skin. Afraid to let her go for fear she'd collapse, Michael pushed open the glass door onto the deck with his foot. Clouds had come up and the breeze had died down almost completely, giving the lake below the sheen of black ice. The frogs were so loud they were a palatable presence, their incessant chirping giving an earthy backdrop to the forest and water surrounding the house. Michael guided Cassandra to a chair and with the palms of his hands on her shoulders, forced her gently to sit down. Her skin was cool and clammy to the touch and her body trembling like a leaf in a stiff wind. In her thin green dress, she shivered in the warm air and he took his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Just what the hell was going on? Not exactly an expert on the signs of shock but worried about her pallor and uncontrollable trembling, he said quickly, “I'll be back in two seconds. Don't move." He practically ran up the deck, went inside, and shouldered his way through a small crowd of loudvoiced, portly men that had commandeered a convenient monopoly on the bar, and asked for two drinks. “Make one a double please,” he told the ridiculously young-looking hired bartender serving drinks from a gleaming cherry table set up in one corner of the giant living room. To his surprise, Cassandra had obeyed the order, and when he returned in record time with two glasses in hand, she was still sitting there, statue-like and remote in the thin light, her lovely profile as perfect

as a cut diamond. Her blond hair looked like pale tumbled silk against the dark material of his suit coat. He thrust a glass into her hand. “Here, drink.” Their fingers brushed and he felt her flinch from even that brief contact. His mouth tightened involuntarily in irritation. “Come on, take it. Drink, it's an order." At least her hand wasn't shaking quite so badly as she accepted the drink and took an obedient sip. The muscles in her slim throat rippled and then jerked in a cough. Her free hand went to her mouth. With hoarse intonation, she asked, “What is this?" “Scotch." “It's awful." “It will cure all ills. Drink up." Her wide eyes blinked up at him. In the shadows, her face was still very pale. “I don't drink scotch." “You do now. Trust me, it'll help.” He wandered over to the railing and leaned back casually against it, facing her but putting some space between them and trying to be as unthreatening as possible. “Now, tell me what's got you so upset." She immediately shook her head, which was no surprise. “No." “Can't tell me or won't tell me?” His curiosity was growing by the second. Apparently that was a question for some consideration. After a pause, she took a sip from her glass. “Both, probably." Even though he was certain he already knew the answer, he still murmured, “Because?" Even in the semi-darkness he could see the somber look in her eyes and the quick twist of her lips. The ghostly white oval of her face and obvious distress did nothing to detract from her beauty; in fact the opposite seemed to be true. She seemed delicate and in need of something, of someone to help her. And dammit it all if he wasn't right there, handing her a drink and trying to pry the truth out of her. The surge of concern and protectiveness was just that kind of instinctive reaction you could probably trace back to the very roots of mankind, he quickly told himself, staring at her in the moonlight. What any warm-blooded male might feel toward a lovely female in distress. And the truth was, there was simply no way to deny that he still found her physically very attractive. He hated it, despised it. Tiffany of the green contacts was beautiful, why didn't he want her, especially when he could have her and walk easily away. Cassandra laughed, a short cough of choked noise. The ice in her glass trembled against the rim. “Are you really asking me this? Why I might not want to have this conversation with you, of all people? Where should I start—maybe with the fact that you don't even like me, Michael. Why would I choose you as a confidant?” Very swiftly and very much too late, she amended, “If I even needed one." His glass of scotch smelled heady and full of smoky overtones. He took his time, sipping indolently, pondering his response before he said simply, “Because I'm here—because I'm asking. It strikes me that you don't have a whole lot of people to talk to, Cassie.” He paused and added neutrally, “And for the record, I don't dislike you. It isn't that simple." Her response held a trill of hysteria. “You give a very good imitation of it." “I'm angry at you. It's different.” And six years of anger, he conceded to himself silently, was a great load to carry. Seeing her again had made it very heavy indeed.

She instantly looked taken aback, her fine features blanched and colorless. Her fingers were white around the stem of her glass. Michael continued flatly, “At any rate, I happen to care a great deal about the only nephew I'm likely to ever have, and everything about you affects him. Talk to me, maybe I can help." He wanted to help her, he realized. It was an odd and unsettling feeling. She shook her head, her pale hair ghostly and shimmering. “I don't know. I don't think I can talk about it." “Think again.” He kept his voice low. “Just about anything is better when shared with someone else. Even, perhaps, me." Apparently his reasonable tone worked. Setting down her glass on the arm of the chair, she slowly got to her feet and walked away a few paces, resting one hand on the railing as she gazed out over the gleaming view of night and water. She looked graceful and unapproachable and infinitely lovely. His jacket dwarfed her slender body. He waited, just looking at her. Finally, she said, “All right. It isn't really that terrible, I guess, it's just that I've been getting some nasty phone calls. Back home and now here. It ... it upsets me." She sure wasn't lying about being upset. Not terrible phone calls? He was dubious. Michael studied her averted posture, the body language screaming tension. “Threats?" “Not physical.” The denial was swift. But he had been on target. He asked, “What kind of threats then?" “Well ... they're vague, really." “Like ‘Don't forget me'?" “Yes.” Her gaze shifted sideways, away from him, as if the sheen of black water below was the most entrancing thing on earth. “Any idea who it is?" “None.” The word fell like a stone. Michael shifted position, trying to get a better look at her expression. In the shimmery light she was all supple form, softness and delicate color. Caustically, he pointed out, “You know, the police are pretty good about this sort of thing. In fact, I believe it just might be their job." Minutely, her lashes lowered. “Sarcasm isn't particularly helpful, Michael. And I'm not interested in going to the police. Something like this gets out if you report it. I've had enough publicity in my life to carry me through until the day I die." True enough, being the bereaved, American princess certainly had to have been an intrusion on her privacy in a big way. And she just might be right. Having avoided grocery shopping for months because he was unable to walk into a store with seeing her face plastered across every magazine in every aisle, he wasn't sure he could blame her for wanting a low profile. He took another long sip of his scotch and contemplated her options. “Why not hire a private investigator? Get this character and let them know you've got them and will prosecute if it continues." Her slender shoulders lifted minutely. “I suppose that might work. I hadn't considered it." “You're kidding, right?"

“No." Cassandra was an intelligent woman. He wondered at once why she hadn't considered it. The answer to that question would be interesting indeed. There was more going on than she wanted to tell him, no doubt about it. Swirling the ice in his glass, he asked slowly, “Are you going to elaborate on these vague threats?" “No." “You're sure you and Tim are in no danger?" “Would I endanger my son?” Her voice was tight and hard, and she finally turned to look at him fully. Her eyes were huge in her pale face. It was unfortunate he was so much taller. Looming over her made him feel like a bully, which was undoubtedly the last thing she needed. He said neutrally, “How can you know you aren't already placing him in danger? He's a Beaumont. Considering what happened to Robert, the kid should probably have a bodyguard." The nerve was struck, as he intended. She faltered and looked away. “Like I said, the threats haven't been physical. It ... it isn't like that at all." “Yet." “I don't think they will be. She doesn't seem to be concerned with Tim." “She? It's a woman?" The slip had been unintentional, no doubt about it. Her mouth tightened. “The voice is female, yes." His smile was wry. “I suppose this sexist comment will offend you, but I'm a little relieved this nut is a woman." “I would be relieved if she would just leave me alone.” Her half-whisper was shaky. “That would be nice, but these people usually need a little incentive to move onto their next victim." “You aren't being very reassuring, Michael." “I'm not trying to be." Cassandra didn't seem to have an answer to that. Instead she lowered her lashes and softly changed the subject. “What you said earlier ... why are you still so angry with me?" Instantly the tables turned. Michael could feel defensiveness rise in his chest like a tide of blood. Consciously biting back a quick unkind retort, he listened to the soft blare of music and laughter from the other end of the deck where the wide doors to the living room stood open to the night air. No doubt about it, the party was a grand success. People were still drinking, laughing, heartily enjoying themselves. And what was even better, the big announcement had been greeted with warm support. Anne should be pleased. Cassandra waited for an answer, standing there in his coat, looking at him, fragile and washed to hollows and gleaming skin. “Why are you still so angry with me?" He finally said unemotionally, “Six years ago you dumped me and married my brother instead. It was somewhat embarrassing, for your information. Why shouldn't I be angry with you, Cassie?" Her voice was husky with emotion. “But ... it's not fair. You forgave Robert. That was apparent all along. It was me you avoided, me you refused to speak more than two words to. I guess I have never

understood. You felt betrayed and I'm sorry, but shouldn't we both have held the same blame? Why let your brother off the hook and hate only me?" “I don't hate you. I just said so." “You certainly act like you do." He squared his shoulders. The night breeze caressed his cheek, gentle as a lover. Maybe she did deserve the truth. Weighing his words, he said slowly, “You probably won't understand this, but it wasn't the same betrayal." “How so?" This conversation was about six years too late. Still, it was perhaps best to clear the murky air in some way. Michael hesitated before he said bluntly, “I didn't lose Robert. He was still my brother after you two married; nothing really had changed between us because he'd always been pretty self-serving.” His mouth twisted in a deliberately cynical smile as he looked directly at her. “But I was in love with you and you chose another man over me. Does that answer your question?" She stared at him for an endless heartbeat. He could swear for a long moment that she didn't even blink, or take a breath. When she spoke, it was so low he could barely hear the words. “You ... you were in love with me?" “I brought you to meet my family, where did you think it was going?" “You never told me that, Michael. We hadn't dated that long." “Would it have mattered if I had told you?” He was morbidly curious to hear what she would say. She waited a slow excruciating lifetime to answer the question he never should have asked. Her gaze faltered and shifted away. “I don't know." What had he expected anyway? “Jesus. Ouch.” His breath went out in a whoosh. “That's honest. Thanks. I had a feeling that question was a mistake, but somehow with you, as always, I ignore my instincts." The faintest breath of a breeze from the water stirred her honey hair. “I ... I ... what do you want me to say? That yes, I would have chosen you over him if you had just told me the truth? I can't say that. It isn't what happened and I can't change the past." “Yeah, well, go to hell, Cassie.” He turned away. Stupid, stupid, he thought violently, why drag it all out and look at it? Why not let it lie quietly under the rug? “Michael.” She stepped forward quickly and put her hand on his arm, the light clasp of her fingers reaching every nerve, even through the material of his shirt. She whispered, “I'm sorry. Hurting you again was not my intention and you've been kind this evening when I needed someone to talk to. You made the first step toward being friends and I ... I don't want to go back to the way things have been these past few years." Why the hell couldn't he just walk away like he wanted to? That savage inner question was answered when he turned at the soft pressure of her grip and looked at her. A face, so lovely and white, crowned by a halo of shining hair. Perfectly curved lips, a slender neck leading to the equal perfection of her body. And it wasn't just her beauty that captivated him, but the gravity and sincerity in her eyes as she gazed up at him. Dammit. He could believe almost anything looking into those incredible eyes.

His voice was hoarse, sprung with effort from his chest. “I wasn't being kind. And for the record, I sure as hell don't want to be friends." Her fingers loosened and she flinched as if he'd slapped her. She whispered, “Why did you bother then? Why the big show of sympathy—” She trailed off, comprehension of his intentions crossing her face as he suddenly grasped her waist and pulled her into his arms. His coat slid off her shoulders and onto the deck. “No, Michael, don't—" “Maybe for this.” His mouth coming down hard to cover hers shut off her protest in the most effective of ways and answered more truthfully than any words. Sweet memory. As much as he had wanted to forget, her taste and texture were like a mad rush toward the past. Thrusting his right hand into her hair, he tugged her head back, the angle giving him more access, the arm circling her waist pulling her tight against his body. She stiffened as he slid his tongue between her parted lips and though a piece of his brain registered her lack of enthusiasm, he didn't care much. He didn't need encouragement of any kind. Years of frustrated desire mingled with a bitter resentment went into that kiss. It exploded through him in a surge, making him suddenly crush her closer. He was vaguely aware that his forcefulness finally triggered a real objection on her part, and she squirmed in his embrace. Not allowing her to pull away even though she pushed at his shoulders, he continued to plunder her mouth, exploring every warm inch and sweet corner, one arm pinning her tightly against him, the other cupping the back of her head. When he finally ended the forceful embrace, he was breathless. Lifting his head, he felt more than a little bemused and suddenly extremely ashamed of himself. Cassandra shoved away like ridding herself of the coils of a cobra. Panting and furious, she backed away to what apparently was considered a safe distance, about ten feet or so. Her voice shook as much as the hand that came up to smooth her disheveled hair. She wobbled out, her eyes wide and hollow, “Damn you, Michael." Yes. Except he had already been damned, he wanted to say. She'd done it to him six years before, sending him right into hell. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I'm not sure quite why I did that, actually." “You aren't usually an ... an ... animal.” The sob in her voice was like a lash. “Yeah,” he agreed, willing his breathing back to normal. “Oral rape isn't usually my thing." An owl called out from across the lake, the soothing sound floating over the water in sharp contrast to the emotional vibrations between the two of them. Cassandra stood there looking wounded and shaken, arms at her sides, obviously waiting for the apology he certainly should be giving her but just couldn't seem to find. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked away toward the light and laughter of the party, leaving her there in the dark. **** When Ralston's beeper went off at four in the morning, Danny felt the usual telltale twist deep in his stomach that signaled recognition of disaster. During the ride to town from the cabin, the sensation had deepened to almost physical pain. And a disaster it was all right—a full-blown disaster in the form of one dead girl in a cheap motel room. That physical reaction never failed and Danny was pretty sure it would take some time to get his

appetite back. Popping an antacid tablet in his mouth, he studied the bloody footprint on the sidewalk and then looked through the doorway into the motel room. The girl lay on her back just inside, one arm outflung, the other curved over her body. Her profile was imposed on the ugly cheap carpet, the puffy bluish features a contrast to the crass greenish pattern. Her eyes were wide open and glassy and a strip of what looked like blue silk was still around her neck, buried in the swollen folds. There was also what looked like an ordinary kitchen knife sticking out of her throat, framing her head in a pool of congealing blood. Still clad in jeans and a plaid cotton shirt, Ralston rolled his tongue inside his mouth, making his cheek stick out as he contemplated the body. He said finally, “Someone really wanted this lady dead, didn't they?" Danny merely nodded. The motel room reeked of the smell of disinfectant, stale linens, all overlain by the vague stench of death. “Sorry we have to wait so long for the coroner. I'll probably have to take the pictures myself. There just isn't anyone close by that can process a scene like this the way it should be done. Not much call for homicide work in this area." Standing safely outside the doorway so as to not contaminate any evidence, Danny murmured, “Murder seems more obscene here for whatever reason.” He wasn't referring to the dumpy roadside motel but to the sweeping pine forest that surrounded it, making even the squat half-brick building a pretty place. The swirling blue lights from the police cars in the curving driveway around the place reflected on the straight trunks of the crowding trees. The sun was coming up, but taking its time about it and it was dark and quiet. Craig turned and glanced back. “I know what you mean. Hell, I remember only too well. You get a call from the projects that some crack dealer has been shot during a deal, and you just aren't too damn surprised or sorry, are you? It shouldn't be different but it is." It was true. And when you arrived at the scene, the broken windows and filthy floors and mouseinfested furniture framed the corpse in a sad but very real reflection of the drama of poverty and death. Having moved to the tiny town of Mayville and taken a low-paying position as a local cop to avoid all of that, Danny agreed wholeheartedly. He said, “Yeah, it sucks. I usually feel like whoever takes out one of those guys did us and the world a favor. Human life should have more value." “Bet this lady right here would agree with you." “Bet she would.” Danny frowned. “Hey, Ral, I know I only came along for the ride, but can I make an observation?" “Wish you would. I haven't worked homicide in ten years, Haase." The lighting in the motel room was garish and gave everything a yellow cast, but it was bright. From his position outside the open door, Danny had a good view of the body. He said slowly, “I'm going to set money down that your medical examiner is going to tell you that the knife wasn't necessary." Ralston's thin face registered thoughtful surprise and he turned to peer again at the corpse. “How so?" “Not enough blood. Look for yourself. Sure, there's some, but I can see from here it isn't enough. A throat wound really bleeds, all those nice big veins. I'm guessing she was dead first, a pincushion after. Once the heart has stopped beating, you don't get the same effect. Maybe her attacker was worried that she'd just passed out and needed to make sure she was dead."

Ral nodded slowly. “Okay, I'm with you. Anything else?" “Our killer brought the knife. People who stay in motel rooms don't usually carry cooking utensils with them. Neither do ordinary burglars carry weapons like that. Too big, not easy to slip into a pocket like a gun or even a switchblade. The choice of weapon smacks of premeditation." It was hard to determine the woman's age because of the dark coloration of her face, but she was dressed for bed in loose shorts and a tee-shirt that had once been white but now was stained, bloody, and torn. Her arms and legs were well-rounded, but not obese, and the skin was smooth. Her long brown hair was curly and thick. The desk clerk had produced her registration information and her age had been listed as twenty-six. It had been the desk clerk, a thin young man with red hair and a truly unfortunate complexion, who had stepped outside earlier to smoke a cigarette and noticed the fresh blood on the sidewalk. He'd told them that the door had been slightly ajar and that he could see the dead girl through the opening, but hadn't touched anything. For the sake of the officers investigating the case, Danny sure hoped that was true, though in his experience, when civilians were first on the scene, they almost always contaminated evidence in some way or another. He mused out loud, “I'd say she's been dead less than twelve hours. Probably no more than four or five." “Is that so?" “Yep. I can usually guess pretty close to what the ME brings in, even from this distance." “Talented fellow, aren't you?” Ralston grunted. “No,” Danny replied wryly, “Just had a lot of experience." The simultaneous arrival of the coroner and the ambulance put an end to any further discussion. Danny walked to the edge of the parking lot to stay out of the bustle. He watched the unfolding scene with as much detachment as two years in homicide at IPD could produce and felt a heaviness in his chest. Chapter 8 Cassandra wrapped her arms around her knees and stared over the smooth expanse of water. The sun was warm, setting the little ripples from the light breeze to diamond bright dazzles as the water moved and lapped the shore. Underneath her, the floating dock moved gently. She'd been there for some time, just sitting and staring, trying to arrange her emotions into some sort of order she could control and analyze. In light of her other problems, such as being shadowed and blackmailed and having her life ordered by fear, the punishing kiss from the night before should be trivial and unimportant. However, she'd decided wearily, it wasn't. Michael was bitter and somehow still angry, and she held a great deal of responsibility for those feelings. She supposed the ironic thing was that she'd fallen for him too, what seemed a lifetime ago. Fallen hard. She could still remember clearly the first time she walked into her Art History class and had seen him standing there by the podium, ready to start his lecture. Carelessly dressed and heart-stoppingly good-looking with his dark hair, sensitive mouth, and those very vivid blue eyes, he'd turned more than her head. At twenty-seven, he already had a growing name in the art world and the class had been well attended, especially by female students. And she'd been flattered when he noticed her. Very flattered and off-balance. And even more bemused when he asked her to have coffee with him one day after class. Michael Beaumont, interested in her? By the time the semester was over, they were quietly dating and he'd told the university that he was

resigning to paint full time. It had been gloriously fun, spine-tingling sexual attraction like she had never experienced before, but then again, she'd been nineteen years old. It would have been better, she thought pensively, if they had waited until they'd become lovers, until they committed further, perhaps gotten engaged, before he'd brought her to meet his family. It was an interesting fantasy and she closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of the sun and the sweetness of the air, wishing herself into the past. But the vague sense of contentment that she felt vanished instantly when she heard the light footfall behind her. Somehow she knew who it was without even turning around. She stiffened, her back arching involuntarily as if a shiver of electricity found her spine and crawled upward. “You missed your portrait sitting.” The masculine voice was flat and emotionless. “Yes." “I've been looking for you all morning. Where have you been?" She'd hidden in her room, mostly. Deliberately not turning around, she lied coolly, “Here. The lake is so peaceful today. I was enjoying some solitude." The pontoon rocked as Michael stepped out on it. He said crisply, “Ouch. I suppose I should take that as the big brush-off." Her response dripped acid. “That would be nice." “The lady holds a grudge, I see.” Nevertheless, he dropped down next to her and dangled his long legs over the edge and into the water. Though she concentrated on staring straight ahead, she saw that he shot her a quick glance from under his dark lashes. “Where's Tim?" Michael was only wearing, like herself, a bathing suit. His trunks were red, a contrast to the dark hair that lightly covered his muscular calves and thighs. His bare chest gleamed bronze in the midday light, tapering to a flat stomach, the impressive and well-defined proportions of his upper body both unsettling and unfortunately fascinating. The muscles were hard, his shoulders wide. And his face—she knew every hollow and angle of his handsome face. She knew the curve of his ebony brows, the straight line of his nose, the slant of his jaw. This morning he looked a little tired, and there were lines near his well-shaped mouth. A curious panic tickled her throat, making her swallow. She remembered that other man, the art instructor with the incredible sexy smile, the man who'd bought her latte in one of those little campus coffee bars and teased her lightly about her Midwestern accent. It was a dangerous memory. The last thing she needed. They weren't the same at all. This man, the one sitting next to her, was a resentful stranger who had brutally kissed her and then walked away. Forcing herself to a bored tone, she said, “Timmy went with your parents to the Birchwood Resort for that brunch and to say good-bye to most of the guests. Then they are driving on some sort of tour of the UP. Apparently, one of their friends from out of town read an article on some of those little lake towns and they wanted to see it. I thought Tim might get bored and be a handful, but they insisted in a way that gave me little choice." “My mother tends to show interest just when it suits her, I'm sure." Now that was only too true. “Ashley Conner went along,” Cassandra said off-handedly, “I'm guessing she'll be the one really watching him."

Michael laughed, a cynical sound. “No doubt. I'm glad they're making an effort at least, but it isn't all benevolence, I'm sorry to say. My mother and father usually leave town for a day or two after one of their big events. There is a cleaning service up there now at the house. Everyone has cleared out, even Anne and Stan. I thought maybe you went with them." “No.” She'd been invited but simply couldn't bear the thought of another huge gathering, nor did she want to sightsee with her in-laws and whatever exalted friends they were bringing along. The fact that they'd wanted Tim was surprising, but perhaps Marie was anxious to show off as the affectionate grandmother, a grand pretense if there ever was one. Of course, considering Cassandra's mood, maybe it was best Tim was with someone else. Thank God for Ashley Conner, at least she knew someone was actually paying some attention to him. There was a silence. Michael just sat there next to her. His arms were braced on either side of his hips and the faint tang of cologne drifted from his skin. The water rippled, the birds sang. The boards of the dock were warm against her bare thighs. She now wished she'd worn a wrap over her suit. Michael finally turned toward her and squared his broad shoulders. “Look, I want to say something. That's why I came looking for you." She made a swift motion of denial with her hand, hoping to arrest whatever he had to say. “Michael, don't bother. Let's just forget last night, okay.” Her lips felt stiff. “Sorry, no can do.” His denial was swift and short. “What?” She turned at that and looked at him incredulously. She was the wronged party, he'd been the one out of line ... how the hell could he refuse a polite offer to drop the whole thing? There was a flicker of something in his blue eyes as he stared back at her, maybe anger, maybe disdain, she couldn't tell. He said roughly, “Let's not misunderstand each other. I didn't come looking for you for absolution so don't bother to graciously forgive me for my ungentlemanly behavior." She really hadn't thought it possible to be more unhappy than she already was—or hurt, or frightened, or a thousand things in between. What's more, from the unrepentant look on his face, he actually meant what he just said. Through her teeth, she hissed, “I wasn't going to grant you absolution, don't worry. I just don't want to talk about it. I would appreciate it if you would just leave me alone." He shook his head. “Not until I say what I want to say." Ungraciously, she said, “Whatever it takes to get you to leave." Thus given permission, he paused. His blue gaze strayed away from her face toward the water. Long lashes lowered slightly to leave shadows on his cheekbones. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even. “All right, here goes. Last night, you were perfectly right. What happened between us back in New York was a long time ago. We had dated only a few months, we never even slept together, and I don't even know if I realized I was in so deep until it was too late.” A crooked smile touched his mouth but he continued to look out over the lake. “Let's just say that kiss was a culmination of disappointment over what I realized that I lost—that we lost—and my still-bruised self-esteem at my rather public failure to keep your interest once you met Robert. It isn't an apology or an excuse, but an explanation. Best I can do." Cassandra swallowed. That admission had cost him in male pride, she could tell, even if it didn't include an apology. The sun felt very hot on her shoulders. Regret was like a taste in her mouth. She'd known she'd hurt him, but not the extent of the wound. Suddenly the kiss, however surprising, however rough and shocking, suddenly didn't matter so much. All her anger just seeped away. She mumbled,

“I'm not sure how to respond." “You don't have to. You were right about singling you out for the sole blame. Robert took one look at you and I knew I was in trouble.” His light laugh held no mirth. “As his younger brother, I'd lost to him plenty, I was used to it. He was so damn good at everything. I guess it was wrong of me to expect more loyalty from you than him. I just understood his nature. I'd lived with it all of my life." “He was very ... forceful.” Keeping her tone nonchalant was difficult. She looked down at her knees and felt a shiver of memory creep up her spine. “And charming, and intelligent, and just about everything else it takes to make a good Beaumont. I never cared so much that he and I were so different until I realized I was losing you to him." Charming, intelligent. Oh yes, Robert had been both of those things—and much more. She interrupted compulsively, “Comparing yourself to someone else is wrong, Michael. Robert wasn't perfect." “Hell no, he wasn't. Of course not; that isn't what I'm saying.” Another hollow laugh punctuated his words. “I guess I didn't realize how much I resented what happened between us ... or what didn't happen.” He turned and his gaze penetrated hers with an uncomfortable intensity. “Until I kissed you last night." Cassandra fought a quiver of unease and quickly looked away. “It was a mistake, Michael." “Yeah, it probably was. It sure as hell felt like one. After I went back to the party, I downed quite a bit more scotch trying to convince myself." Convince himself. Her mouth felt unwieldy, like she'd swallowed a ball of cotton. “Of what?" “That I hadn't ever loved you, that I was crazy when I said those words. And yet here I am, sitting beside you and wanting you." Cassandra wasn't sure she'd even heard him right until she turned her head. For a crazy moment the world seemed to hang, suspended, as they just stared at each other. He wanted ... what? Oh God. It was sick, it was unfair, how her body could yearn for what her heart knew to cringe away from. And if the evening before hadn't brought that home, then she simply was more of a fool than anyone could be. Michael said gently, “Cassie?" The spell snapped. Her heart began to hammer uncomfortably in her chest. “You ... you don't want me, I mean, not really. I understand, I really do. It is just some sort of absurd challenge, part and parcel of a competition with Robert that stretches back years.” Even as she stammered out the words, she edged a few inches away. “It's gratifying to know you understand my motivations better than I do.” Michael's mouth twisted in a cynical smile but he made no move at all to touch her. “Here, all along, I thought I was simply attracted to a very beautiful, sensitive woman. You might remember that six years ago, I fell in love with you before you ever even met my brother." Sensitive. She was that. Sensitive to his every movement, his scent, the way he held his head and looked at her. Sensitive to him as a man—how the hell that could be, she didn't know, but it was true. My God, even after everything she was attracted to him. “Please. Let's not discuss this.” Her voice wobbled and she looked away, suddenly blinking back tears.

“Cassie, you're free. Robert is dead.” His voice was as persuasive as the light breeze from the water. “Oh, I know that,” she mumbled half-hysterically. His hand touched her arm very lightly. His long fingers glided across her skin with infinite care and warmth. “You cannot stop living because he has. It's been months ... over half a year now." “That's not it. You don't understand." “What I understand is that I'm not interested in the past anymore. I can let it go, I want to let it go, Cassie, and for us to move forward.” His voice was low, compelling. “If you want, I'll pack my bags and give my mother some excuse and get on the next plane for New York. But first, I want you to tell me that I was completely wrong six years ago. When we were together, it felt ... special, didn't it? Or was I a complete fool?" A plane, she thought frantically, trying to ignore the warm touch of his hand on her arm—a ticket to New York. Yes, that was it. If he meant it, if he left, this torment would be over. Or would it have just begun? Damn him. The words that would banish him stuck in her throat. Some ridiculous innate honesty kept her from the lie, and perhaps too, the knowledge that he would know it was a lie. Michael was right. Six years ago, she had been head over heels for an idealistic handsome artist with an incredible smile and a dream of enlightening the world with his creations. His interest in her had been like falling into some fairy tale and she had been more than captivated. And like a heroine in a romantic fable, she had been sucked into a treacherous mix of glamour, desire, and impossible choice. Young and inexperienced, she had been no match for Robert's dazzling pursuit, too star-struck and flattered to even think of resisting. What a stupid, stupid girl she'd been. And Michael, she reminded herself for the hundredth time, he hadn't helped one bit. Clearing her throat, her voice still cracked shamefully, “You know you aren't blameless for how things turned out." His brows, so perfect and dark, lifted slowly. “I'm probably guilty of a thousand things. What are we specifically referring to?" Her voice was hushed and tight. “You just ... just let him have me. I mean, no one knew better than you that I was completely out of my element, and there was Robert giving me the full court press and you faded into the wallpaper, Michael." A small hawk took off from one of the pines across the lake, superimposed so gracefully as it soared against the very blue sky. The water rippled in lovely random patterns, stirred by the same breeze that brushed her heated face. Michael said nothing. Cassandra turned finally and looked at him. As close as he was, his thigh was only an inch or so from hers and his left hand had come to rest on top of the fingers of her right hand. “You weren't a fool, Michael. At least not about whether I was falling in love with you, too.” She added slowly, “But answer me this, is it me you've really been angry with all this time, or yourself for backing off so quickly?" The dock moved a little, rolled by the tiny waves. A shuttered look came and went on Michael's face, the fine line of his sensual mouth tightening, a muscle moving in his cheek. After a moment, he spoke. “I'm sure you have a point, Cassie. Maybe what we both need to do is to let it go. It's over; we can't change it, after all. However,” his intense gaze caught hers once more, heavy with emotion, “now is

now. We're both adults, both free." Oh God, things just got worse and worse. He was still attracted to her, too. She could see it in his eyes and it shocked her more than his anger ever could. The trouble was she wasn't free. The past he spoke of was like an anchor tied around her ankle, chaining her to the bottom of a dark sea. “Let's not pretend,” he continued in that same calm tone, “that we both don't know what I'm talking about." His honesty made her feel humbled. And weak. And very, very frightened. It was true, throughout the past years, every black glance in her direction, every stiff, cold greeting and carefully orchestrated avoidance, all of it had spoken of a deep hurt that still existed inside him, she'd known it. And the times when he did look at her, she'd felt the intensity of that burning gaze with every fiber of her being. He waited for her answer, the question hanging heavy in the bright afternoon. She could feel his fingers tensing where they rested on her hand. In a rusty tone, she murmured truthfully and sadly, “It doesn't matter. It won't work, Michael." **** Her answer was technically a yes. Never mind the negative declaration. The fact that she'd announced her doubt was a negligible difficulty. He knew she'd raised fences to protect herself; anyone who spent more than five minutes in her company and had a brain could see past the cool princess composure and know the walls existed for a reason. Who could blame her, her husband had been murdered and her grief dragged out for the entire world to see. And even if he didn't know about those barriers, the shimmering uncertainty in her eyes would have told him. He leaned forward very slowly, his gaze holding hers with a provocative intensity, almost daring her to turn away. “What are you so afraid of, Cassie?" Her mouth parted and her breasts, full and pliant under the cloth of her brightly-colored bikini top, quivered as she shivered visibly despite the warm sun. She just shook her head but he saw the rigidity of her body and her toes curled against the wood of the float. Taking advantage, he leaned forward a little more. The fingers of one hand moved slightly to bracket her slender wrist. His mouth was just inches from hers when he whispered, “Why can't this work? I swear to God I still remember what it was like to kiss you and have you kiss me back." She didn't answer. But neither did she resist when he reached over and gently turned her face toward his. Her eyes were already closed when he lowered his mouth and touched it to hers—a gentle pressure, sweet and giving as he could make it. When he broke away, he lifted his head to look at her, both curious and cautious. She still sat next to him, quiet and unmoving, her lashes lifting a fraction as she watched him. The signals were undoubtedly mixed but he took her lack of withdrawal as encouragement and bent his head to kiss her again. His tongue rimmed her soft lips and he tasted, coaxing until she gave in, opening slightly, letting him inside. His arm came around her waist, urging her closer. Her soft breasts touched his chest. With his free hand he stroked her cheek as he deepened the kiss, his mouth opening wider, demanding more and more. Everything about her, the soft clean scent of her skin, the heady taste of her mouth, the silk of her hair against the back of his hand ... all of it was so incredibly arousing that all he could do was wonder how she could have such a damned unsettling effect on him so quickly.

And he wanted more. He lifted his head and stared into her gray-green eyes as he urged her backwards, downward against the warm boards so that she lay flat on her back. Still she didn't protest, didn't say a word, just looked at him. He moved then, adjusting the length of his body over hers so that they lay like lovers, his hips cradled against her thighs. Passively, she didn't resist, even when he slid one hand upward to cup the swell of one firm breast. They kissed ... or at least he kissed her. He touched, he wanted, he felt the exquisite torture of growing arousal. Her hand lifted to his cheek, her only movement, and he felt her cool fingers like fire against his skin. Dimly, he realized that gentleness was being replaced by a growing urgency, evident in both the pressure of his hands and his insistent mouth. Going slow seemed out of the question. His fingers stroked warm, smooth flesh. And suddenly it was over, like a shock of cold water tossed into his face. Cassandra jerked violently away, twisting to break his hold and ending up in a sprawl half on her side as he realized her panic and let her go. It happened so quickly, passion to frantic escape, and he felt dazed and almost as embarrassed as the night before. Only this time, he knew, it had been different, this time they'd both been part of it—at least for a while. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” Breathing raggedly, he stared at her as she rose to a sitting position and scooted away toward the edge of the dock. “I'm ... sorry, I—” Twin spots of color rose into her cheeks and she lifted one hand to her mouth, the other quickly tugging her bathing suit top back into place. Blond hair tumbled carelessly across her bare shoulders. “I just can't ... can't do this." “Really?” Michael got to his feet in one impatient movement. “Yes.” Staring up at him, her eyes were liquid with unshed tears that made him feel like a complete fool. “Shit.” It was a low frustrated curse. His face was rigid as he looked down at her, his body tight and uncomfortable. Fighting for a breath, he asked in a controlled voice, “May I ask why? I would never have taken you for a tease, but congratulations, you seemed to be enjoying yourself until two seconds ago. I have to tell you, Cassie, you are confusing the hell out of me." “I'm not trying to.” Her voice broke. “Yeah, well, just the same.” If he didn't leave that very moment, he was going to say something he'd regret forever, he knew it. Besides, he felt like a true idiot. Like some teenaged boy caught groping his girlfriend in the back of a car. Swinging around, he started for the steps. “Michael!” He could hear her scramble to her feet. On a sob, she cried, “Wait!" He swung around, his stare holding both fury and accusation. “Wait for what? Sorry, Cassie, but I'm not too into sexual frustration. Jesus, I must be a moron, signing on for a second round." To his surprise, Cassandra stepped closer. And closer. The dock rocked gently. He could see the glitter of tears in her eyes as she stared up at him. “I wish I could explain ... I really do." God dammit, he wished exactly the same thing. His hand went up abruptly. And she flinched instinctively, half-ducking her head, lifting one arm in an obviously defensive gesture. Michael stopped dead in the act of shoving his fingers through his hair in a gesture of fervent

frustration, absolutely stunned. For a split second he felt the flush of outrage sweep through his body. Had she actually, even for a second, thought he might hit her? Yes, she had. He saw it in the depths of her eyes. Her arm fell slowly to her side as she stared back at him, her skin ashen and her mouth a thin line. God, no. He could feel his face change, the blood draining away to leave him cold, his anger slowly fading and being replaced with grim undeniable comprehension. No, he thought numbly. No. Please. It couldn't be. No. **** The little house was a lot like its owner, run-down, shabby, suited to the ill-kempt yard and rusted truck parked in the weedy driveway. The place stank of smoke and suspiciously of cat urine, born out by the presence of a mangy orange colored mass of fur that hadn't even shifted from a spot of sunshine on the windowsill. Danny sat gingerly on a lopsided sofa, while next to him Craig took notes. Across a short space of stained carpeting, Paul Walton sniffled, coughed, and the nicotine stained fingers on the cracked arm of the chair twitched convulsively. Watery red-rimmed eyes blinked in a thin face. “It was the car. I couldn't help but notice a car like that one, you know? I thought to myself, now why in the hell would someone who drives a car like that one be staying at this dump? The Woodland ain't exactly a high society kind of place." As a dump, Mr. Walton's house would qualify just fine, Danny thought in amusement. The owners of the Woodland Motel should be outraged. Craig asked patiently, “And you say it had Illinois license plates." “Yes.” Walton shifted in sagging chair. “Started with B D A. That's all I can remember. Black convertible, looked new; an expensive as hell BMW." This man, Danny decided wryly, didn't like talking to the police. He was probably in his forties, looked sixty at least, and was unmistakably yearning for a cigarette. Still, he'd done his civic duty and called the station just as soon as he'd learned of the murder to report a car driving away from the motel at just about two in the morning. “How long have you worked second shift, Mr. Walton?” Craig tapped a pencil on the side of his cheek and looked stern. The man blanched a little. “What has that got to do with anything?" “Is it your habit to stop at the motel in the middle of the night?" Walton's thin face tightened. “I told you, I'd just gotten off work and I stopped to get a soda from the machine out front. That's when I saw the BMW." “You think the person was coming out of unit number ten, the victim's room?” Craig was shifting into speed, the questions coming a little faster. “Pretty sure, that's all. I just stop at Woodland to get a soda now and then because everything else is closed and they have a machine out front. I've never stayed there or anything. I don't know a lot about the rooms.” Walton glanced longingly at an open pack of non-filters on the coffee table. “Can you remember anything more about the person you saw getting into the car?" “Average height maybe, long dark coat. I wasn't paying that much attention, like I said before. But

when I heard about that dead girl—" “You are sure it was a man, though?" That brought an unhappy falter. “When you say sure ... I don't know. I thought it was a man. That was the impression I got. That's all I can say." “So when you say average height, you mean either average height for a man or maybe it could be a tall woman?" “I guess so. Either one.” Apparently unable to take it any longer, Walton dived for the pack of cigarettes and fumbled in his pocket for a lighter. He gave them both a sickly smile. “Hope you don't mind if I smoke." **** Cassandra had turned away and walked to the edge of the float, but not before he'd seen the mixture of shame and misery in her stricken expression. As he watched, she wrapped her arms around her chest in a protective gesture. Michael spoke softly from behind her. “Tell me it isn't true. Tell me ... Jesus, Cassie, tell me Robert never hurt you." She didn't speak, staring out over that expanse of sunny water. Her silence was more telling than any words could be. The muscles in her shoulders were clearly defined by tension. Bile rose in his throat as so many things slid neatly into place. He said evenly, “That sadistic son-of-abitch.” If his brother wasn't already dead and gone to the worms and inevitable decay, Michael would want to kill him. A slow haze of anger seemed to seep into his bloodstream like a drug. It was simply one more thing Robert had triumphed over. The golden boy wasn't around to pay for his crime. Because, Michael vowed with inner silent ferocity, he would pay if he were still alive. Cassandra still had her back to him. He could see the smooth fall of her dark gold hair over her slender shoulders, the graceful curve of her spine, the long length of her legs. But he couldn't see her face. It didn't matter. He already had his answer. There was only one reason he could think of that would make a woman cringe automatically like that before an angry man. And that reason made his stomach churn. The worst part of it all was that so much suddenly made sense—awful, horrifying, perfect sense. Including that aura of unwilling vulnerability he always sensed, her panicked retreats, the withdrawal she had made from the world. Good God, he realized in horror, it made what he had done to her the night before even more criminal. That savage kiss was something he regretted with acute pain. He swallowed. Hard. His voice was still hoarse as he said quietly, “Cassandra." She didn't turn or move. Her hair moved lightly in the breeze, brushing her back and shoulders in teasing wisps. “Please. Talk to me." “About what?” Her voice was carefully expressionless as she stared out over the gleaming waters of the lake. “About what? For the love of God, don't do this. We need to talk." She turned around swiftly, bare feet scraping on the boards of the dock. Her soft mouth shook

betrayingly. Her eyes were wide and glistened in the bright sunshine. She looked very, very lovely and very, very damaged. Her laugh was a shaky mess. “Sure, Michael. We can talk—about the weather, about the portrait, about last night's dinner. But I don't want to discuss Robert." He was hardly a trained therapist and though he suspected what she was saying was absolutely true, he was pretty sure avoiding the pain was the worst thing in the world. He asked, “Why'd you stay with him?" “Aren't you listening to me? No, Michael.” A tear escaped and she dashed it quickly and awkwardly away. “I'm listening, I'm just not agreeing with you. Just answer my question. Why would you stay with a man who abused you?" “I never said—" “Sweetheart, we both know you don't have to. Listen to me, what have I just been saying? I grew up with Robert. Oh, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't have guessed this and I'm furious, but has it struck you yet that I'm not really all that surprised?" It hadn't. Her gaze swept up to lock with his, fell, and then came up again. The desperation he saw there both appalled and relieved him. He might still be fighting a ghost, but all the rules had changed and his chances had improved so ... so very much. She wasn't rejecting him, she was very simply ... afraid. Michael nodded very slowly. He held out his hand. “Cassie, come here." “What?” She blinked. He said again, “Come here." **** The man didn't ask much, did he? That extended hand was nothing more than muscle, sinew, and skin drawn over bone. Cassandra knew that. What it represented was ... trust. Now that he knew the truth, how could he expect her to calmly walk up and place her hand in his? Yet somehow he did. His eyes were very blue and very steady. She reminded herself that she trusted no one. Yet, incredibly, Cassandra found herself moving forward.The dock was warm under the afternoon sun. She lifted her arm. His fingers closed around her own, warm and firm against her cold flesh. She could feel the tensile strength of his grip. Strength. Superior strength to her own—strength he could use to hurt her, if that was what he wished. She was sure somehow he wouldn't, but she'd been just as incredibly naive when she married Robert. Who would have thought such a charming, handsome man could turn into an unpredictable monster at the slightest provocation. Not her. Her instincts weren't worth a damn. It was a fact she'd faced long ago. Michael tugged her off the dock toward the path up to the house. “Come on." “Where are we going?” Her voice sounded odd and disused as she followed. “Gazebo. It's private there. I have no idea when Anne and Stan might come home and you can see the dock from the house. No one will bother us at the gazebo, assuming you're still sitting for me.” He glanced back, holding her hand. “We definitely need some alone time, Cassie. And I mean

undisturbed." He had a point. If he was so damned determined to know the truth, privacy was a good thing. Maybe she could even tell him more about the blackmail now ... God, that would be a relief. The stone steps were cool under bare feet, patterned with shadows from the towering trees. Birds were everywhere, crossing the azure sky above, twittering in the crowding branches of birch and pine. Cassandra couldn't tell if she felt numb or just relieved. Michael knew. Michael hadn't been surprised. He opened the door to the screen building and held it for her, letting go of her hand as she stepped inside. His easel and paints were in the corner, her chair sitting in the middle of the space, and the two neglected chaises sprawled to her right. The door banged lightly into place. Cassandra's heart was beating fast as she turned to face him. “Look, Michael—" “Sit down." It seemed somehow natural to choose the stool she posed on while sitting for the portrait, but she felt instantly awkward and on display in her bathing suit. Self-consciously she crossed her arms across her chest. He chose his stool by the easel, dragging it forward with a dry rasp across the wooden floor. Her gaze faltered as it met his, and even though she tried, she dropped it to the floor and looked at the dusty boards instead. He began very bluntly. “You thought I was going to hit you." She lied desperately, “No." “I saw your face, Cassie. How often did Robert knock you around?" “He didn't ... not often. Not like that anyway." “Not often? Not like that,” he repeated slowly, looking both incredulous and somehow wounded. “What the hell does that mean?" “Nothing." “You aren't making this very easy." She looked away. “What is easy about this?” A slow sob came up and escaped her throat. Tears stung her eyes, unwanted but still insistent. Her hands flew upward and pressed hard against her face, as if she could stem the tide physically. She was barely aware of Michael getting to his feet and coming toward her. “Shhh.” He peered down into her face. “Easy, okay?” His hands came up to rest lightly on her bare shoulders, cool against her sun-warmed skin. “It's all okay. I promise you." But it wasn't okay. It hadn't been okay for a long, long time. “Oh God.” She lost the battle and began to sob, years worth of tears giving way in a flood of pain and suppressed shame. Chapter 9 Warm droplets slid across his bare skin like falling rain.

Michael watched the dappled sunlight make patterns on the floor, abstractly trying to remove himself emotionally from the rage produced by each shudder that racked the body of the woman in his arms. To say that he was out of his element was a gross understatement. He felt awkward and inadequate and at the same time furiously angry with someone who could no longer be held accountable. Cassandra was not the young, pretty undergraduate that had first intrigued, and then entranced him years ago back in New York. She was now a widow, a single mother, and ... apparently, had been a battered wife. Goddammit. He didn't know how to act, what to do. Robert ... his own brother—he felt sick when he thought about it. At least she was quieter now, hysterical weeping having slowed to a sort of exhausted collapse against his chest. It was just as well that he wasn't wearing a shirt. He could probably have wrung it out from the deluge of tears. The floor of the gazebo was dusty; he could feel the grit against his legs every time he adjusted his position. The stool on which Cassandra had been sitting would hardly hold the both of them so he simply lifted her like a child and sank to the floor cross-legged, trying to comfort her as best as he could by stroking her soft hair and holding her cradled on his lap. She finally hiccupped and went still, her wet cheek against his damp skin. He held her like a child, protectively and tightly. His chin rested lightly on the top of her head and he could smell the flowery scent of her shampoo. It took a few minutes before he had the courage to say, “Okay?” His fingers feathered down her bare arm in the lightest touch. She sniffed audibly. “Yes ... sorry. I don't know what happened. I didn't mean to fall apart." His smile was inward and wry. “That was a long time coming, if you ask me." Stirring, she sat up, not quite pulling away but still apparently insisting on some inches of distance. His arms loosened around her waist and he made a conscious effort to not restrain her in any way. When she did look up at him her face was streaked with dampness, her eyes red, her mouth quivering. Trembling hands tried unsuccessfully to repair the damage with small ineffectual swipes. How the hell was she still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen? Their faces were inches apart and she seemed to realize suddenly that she was sitting on his lap. He checked her instinctive withdrawal by catching her hands and squeezing slightly, allowing her only to move so she was sitting opposite, their knees almost touching. “This,” she said in a shaky tone, still tugging at his light grip, “is way too awkward, Michael. I'm sorry, I can't talk about it." “It will help, sweetheart." “I have to go." His fingers intertwined with hers, holding fast. “Stay, Cassie. I think you've done enough running away.” Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he smiled grimly. “If you'd like me to begin this little discussion, I'd be happy to go first." “We aren't having a discussion.” She shook her head desperately, denying him. “Yes, we are.” His voice was as firm as his hold on her hands. “Don't worry about where to start, like I said, I'd be happy to go first." “First?” She blinked sticky lashes, her soft mouth folding closed. “What do you mean?"

He said slowly, “I think I can sympathize a little with what you went through with Robert. In fact, I think I can sympathize a great deal." A disbelieving look came over her face, replacing her quivering vulnerability. “Michael, you are a tall, strong, healthy male, you've always had money, privilege, everything. How on earth do you think you could possibly know what it is like to be forced into a corner where you have to choose between possibly losing custody of your child or a life of fear?" “Hear me out.” His declaration was unintentionally harsh and he released her hands, taking a deep breath. Looking into the depths of her eyes, he explained carefully, “You need to understand, I grew up with Robert. I know what I'm talking about and he might have been a compelling politician but he was also a damned bully." That flat statement made her lashes flutter slightly. “Until I was about fourteen, Robert was not only older and stronger, but he was a lot bigger than me. Let me just say that his idea of a good time was to make me miserable. I think anyone else might have chalked it up to the older brother/younger brother syndrome ... you know what I mean, competitive males and all that baggage, but he always went a little too far, physically and verbally." Too far—it was so very true. Ominously true, now. Michael hadn't ever thought of Robert's behavior as ever being anything other than the sign of an aggressively competitive personality, but now the past took on a chilling significance. He continued quietly, “I avoided him, if you want the truth. He could fool my parents just as easily as he charmed everyone else, and they never believed me if I told them what was going on, so keeping out of his way was the best course. Once I could give as good as I got, he left me alone. As we got older, we didn't see each other much and that was fine with me." Cassandra's mouth trembled, her eyes wide and damp and dark with obvious memory. She had ended up with her legs under her, sitting back on her heels. Her hands nervously smoothed across her upper thighs. She said nothing, her breathing still erratic from her recent breakdown. Carefully choosing his words, he went on, almost musing out loud. “Robert had an almost maniacal desire to dominate everything around him. He was the star of every sport he played, the top student in his classes both in high school and college, and one hell of a successful businessman. He got away with murder because he could switch on that charm and talk his way out of almost anything, but down deep, I always knew he was self-centered and controlling to the core. I guess that's why I was so surprised when he married you. It seemed like he had actually fallen in love." “Surprised ... because of my background, you mean.” Speaking in a raw voice, Cassandra continued the restless motion of her hands. He didn't bother to deny it. “Most of the girls he dated were from families comparable to the illustrious Beaumonts, and Robert was something of a snob.” Michael couldn't keep the cynicism from his voice. “You were an orphaned girl from a tiny farming town. Besides your looks, you brought nothing to the marriage that would benefit him. Unfortunately, I'm beginning to see that was exactly what he was looking for. Someone vulnerable. Someone defenseless, without family that might take their side." Kneeling before him like some wounded goddess, Cassandra closed her eyes. Her whisper held an almost chilling despair. “That's true. I had nowhere to turn, Michael, and no money to fight him. If I had tried to file for divorce, he would have taken Timmy. Smeared me in every way possible, created false evidence of infidelity, drug abuse, you name it, to make me look like an unfit mother. Believe me, he made that perfectly clear."

“That son-of-a-bitch.” The words forcefully ejected from his throat, beyond his control. “Yes." “You could have come to me, Cassie." Her eyes flew open. A short stifled laugh escaped her throat and he wanted to flinch from her searching gaze. “You gave a pretty good appearance of despising me, Michael. Besides, Robert would have been even more vindictive if you had been involved, believe me. He didn't understand the concept of love, but possession was something he knew inside and out. He was twisted, but he was smart. I was just outgunned and out of luck." She was right, only too right, and he knew it. “I'm sorry." Her mouth twisted wistfully. “For what? Robert ended up being a troll, not a prince. It was my choice, my mistake, and I paid for it." “Just the same ... no one should suffer what happened to you." “True. But,” she seemed to struggle for a moment, searching, “maybe there is something you need to hear. You are right, in a way, about the differences between the two of you. Robert was dazzling. Like a rocket exploding overhead. I was so overwhelmed when I realized he was interested in me, and stupidly naive. What's worse, I knew afterwards that I'd hurt you. I'm very sorry." She was apologizing to him after all his brother had put her through. Michael smiled, “I lived." But Cassandra seemed intent on some inner story, her eyes shadowed and unfocused. “I knew before our wedding I was probably making a grave mistake and I didn't have the courage to back out, not with the whole thing being so public." She knew before the wedding? Michael could feel his face tighten. “What do you mean, you knew? What did he do to you?" She shook her head. “I ... no, Michael. I've been working for the past months to forget everything." “And failing pretty miserably, as far as I can tell. Answer my question, how did you know marrying my brother was a mistake?" That brought her to her feet. She walked a few paces away, standing to stare out the screen. A slight breeze stirred her hair. Michael stood as well, but didn't move closer. If she needed space to be able to face her past, he wanted to give it to her. Her bare skin was golden in the muted sunlight. “Cassie?” It was a gentle but insistent prompt. Still as a stone, only her lips moved. “It was a few months before our wedding and Robert had flown out to New York. He was staying in Manhattan and we had gone out to dinner to celebrate my finishing finals that week. Afterwards, we went up to his room. I guess I thought it was time." Her matter-of-fact tone did not keep his stomach from twisting like a balloon losing its air. Jealousy was a damnable force, Michael couldn't help but think as he stood there and listened. “We'd never slept together before. In fact, I'd never slept with anyone. I thought that was the problem, actually. I had no experience and virgins rarely enjoy their first time, that sort of thing. Let's just say it wasn't exactly the romantic experience I thought it would be." Upon his life, Michael could think of nothing to say. He felt ill, as if he'd just been exposed to something diseased and unhealthy. If Robert's obsession with dominance exhibited itself in a sexual way ... it would be no wonder an inexperienced young girl would be shaken and repelled.

Cassandra's hand came up and she put her palm against the frame of the gazebo, as if support was needed to keep her on her feet. Her profile was averted. “I was ... disillusioned, and hurt, and more than a little confused, but he didn't seem to notice anything was wrong. What's worse, I began to see glimpses of a side of him that I didn't dream existed, little moments like small furious outbursts over trivial things. I began to wonder if he wanted to marry me as much as he wanted to own me. By the time I knew how big of a mistake I'd made,” her voice cracked painfully, “it was too late." Enough said. “Christ,” he muttered. “When I got pregnant with Timmy right away, believe me, I was thrilled because Robert left me alone. Abusing your wife is one thing, abusing your pregnant wife another.” Her smile was a bleak replica of the real thing. “I honestly think he was afraid he might snap and make the mistake that would end his career. We settled into an uneasy truce after the baby was born, an unspoken agreement that if I were the dutiful wife and mother to the outside world, we could go our separate ways at home. It worked, as much as anything like that could work." Earlier she had described Robert as forceful. Now Michael sickeningly knew exactly what she meant. Cassandra turned around, her face curiously devoid of expression, her lovely eyes wide and blank with unmistakable pain. “This is a terrible truth, but when they told me at the hospital that Robert hadn't survived the accident, Michael, I wanted to drop to my knees and thank God. I felt so ... free." What a burden of guilt to live with. No grief for the father of your child. “It's a human thing to say, Cassie. Don't beat yourself up over it.” He winced instantly at his choice of words. “I mean, you were a victim and you are allowed to be angry. He didn't deserve your sorrow, and that is his fault, not yours." “Perhaps.” He saw the muscles in her throat move. “That day, when I finally realized Robert was dead and out of my life, I swore to myself I would never become involved with anyone.” When he opened his mouth, she made a convulsive movement. “No, let me finish. For five years I had lived in a little hell, my every movement controlled by someone else, completely dependent, my fate always hinging on his mood, his needs, his wants. Everything I had, he gave me. I didn't have the slightest idea how much our house cost, our cars, or anything that would remotely give me some sense of anything other than completely belonging to him. I hated it and I am not going to give someone else the opportunity to do it to me again." Someone. At this moment, at least, she meant him and he knew it. “Cassie,” he pointed as calmly as possible, “you're twenty-six years old. You can't lock yourself away from the world." Dappled sunlight slid across her skin like elusive shadows. She declared firmly, “I don't like sex either, Michael. I don't miss it one bit." He blinked at that quiet declaration, groping for an answer. God in heaven, how could he blame her for feeling that way? After a long moment, he said, “Making love is different from sex. Whatever was between you and Robert—" Her laugh was caustic, abrupt. “The basic concept is all the same, isn't it?" He disagreed quietly, “No, actually, it isn't. The mechanics might be similar, but how you feel about the person, the sharing, that's different. Tenderness can be a part of passion too, believe me." “I'd like to, but the truth is, I don't, Michael. I can't be more honest than that.” Her lashes flickered and her shoulders stiffened.

She was warning him off, no doubt about it. That consideration was probably more than he deserved after his stupid actions of last night. The worst part of it, he realized ironically as he stood there and looked at her, was that he was going to ignore that warning. She was emotionally damaged, fearful, and wanted no part of a relationship. And he didn't care one bit. He wanted her anyway. Not just because she was beautiful and desirable, but because of something else —something elusive but persistent, something he didn't even understand, something that had lasted for six years despite himself. They still stood several feet apart and he left it that way. He said softly, “Look, Cassie, I think I understand the way you feel, it seems like a pretty normal reaction after what Robert put you through, but can you answer me one question?" A wary look crossed her delicate features and she tightened the arms folded across her chest. “What question?" “Why did you let me kiss you down on the dock?" Her soft lips parted. “I—" “If you had as much as lifted a finger, I would have stopped and you know it." Silence. “If you weren't leading me on, that means you must have felt something, some desire to have me touch you.” He dropped his tone persuasively. “Do you really want to let Robert go on cheating you of life, of love? It seems like he's hurt you enough. You're a woman—a real woman who has the normal instincts to want physical intimacy. I know you think you don't want it, but I felt that desire when I kissed you a few minutes ago." Dimly he could hear the sound of a car pulling into the drive, the faint crunch of gravel drifting in the afternoon air. With that sound, he lost her. Cassandra said remotely, “That must be your parents back with Timmy. They weren't gone very long. I hope he didn't make some sort of scene and cut their trip short. He's been very dependent this past year." “Cassie—" She turned and pulled open the screen door, leaving him standing there as he watched her walk slowly up the steps toward the house. “Dammit,” he muttered out loud. **** “My, my, now that's a house.” Danny gazed at the huge white structure with some awe. Graceful porches wrapped the entire exterior and the landscaping was a clever mixture of native wildflowers and indigenous trees shaped and tamed by the hand of man. The swaying birches that gave the place its name made a lovely backdrop. All the gate security didn't seem excessive when you saw the Beaumont estate up close. A great deal of money can breed a great deal of problems. Slamming the car door, Craig said dryly, “Yeah, just like mine, isn't it? A little modest summer getaway." Considering that Craig lived in a two-bedroom log cabin with a bathroom the size of a closet and a

woodstove for heat, the comparison brought a grin to Danny's face. He said, “Exactly, buddy. You're probably invited for cocktails on a regular basis, aren't you?" “I keep my tuxedo handy since we run in the same circles.” A laugh. Craig's face sobered instantly. “Hell, I wish I did. Then I might know how to handle this thing. Believe me, the last thing anyone wants around here is to piss off the Beaumonts. They give money to the schools, the park district, you name it. I got an earful from my supervisor this morning." A woman came around the side of the house as they stood there talking. Dressed only in a bikini that emphasized her slender, shapely figure, blond hair swinging across her tanned shoulders, Cassandra Beaumont was even lovelier up close than she had been that brief glimpse at the park. She stopped abruptly in obvious surprise, her unusual green eyes widening at the sight of the police car and Craig in his uniform. At once, her hand flew to her throat and the color visibly drained from her face. If she was acting, she was damned good at it. “No.” The word emerged as a moan from her throat and she swayed unsteadily. Next to him, Craig frowned, the violent reaction obviously puzzling to him as well. Convinced she was on the verge of fainting, Danny sprinted forward. “Mrs. Beaumont, are you all right?” He caught her arms and kept her upright, peering down into her ashen face with apprehension. She sagged. “Timmy ... oh God, please tell me you aren't here about Tim—" “What the hell is this?" Glancing up at the sound of a male voice, Danny saw a dark-haired man emerge from the same path up the hill. He also wore only swimming trunks and for one split second, Danny could have sworn that the ghost of Robert Beaumont had crawled out of the grave to come to the rescue of his wife. Behind him, Craig Ralston said loudly, “Sir, we're from the Lynchburg Police Department. We're investigating—" “Cassie.” Danny found himself being shoved aside. The man caught Cassandra Beaumont in his arms and she willingly buried her face against his bare chest, mumbling something indistinguishable as he enfolded her in a protective embrace. Looking over the top of her bent head, he said, “I'm Michael Beaumont. What's happened? Why are you here? Has there been an accident?” The demand for an answer was harsh, his face gone pale, showing a stark morning graze of dark whiskers. “No, sir.” Danny instantly realized why they both were reacting so oddly. Once before this particular family had police arrive to tell them grim news. Apparently a police car and two grim-faced officers seemed to set off a reaction to the possibility of a nightmare come true. He said evenly, looking the man in the eyes, “This is Officer Ralston and I'm Daniel Haase. We're just here with a few questions. Nothing else is wrong. No one in your family is hurt." “Thank God.” He kept his arm around Cassandra Beaumont's shoulders even when she lifted her face and took a deep shuddering breath of obvious relief. “Er—” Craig seemed to feel he'd lost control of the situation because he stepped forward aggressively. “Mrs. Beaumont, like he said, we'd like to ask you a few questions. Is that possible?" “Yes, I suppose so.” She stepped away from Beaumont's encircling arm, giving them a small rueful smile. “I'm very sorry to just fall apart like that, but please understand, my husband was killed not all that long ago. I'm on pins and needles every time my son is out of my sight."

Craig squared his shoulders, not unaffected by the charming apology, because he said gruffly, “Not at all, Mrs. Beaumont, we didn't mean to frighten you. This should only take a few minutes." “Can we go inside? I'd like to change. I'll do it quickly.” She motioned toward the big double glass doors. “Certainly." Michael Beaumont stepped forward. He was tall and well-built, towering over both Danny and Craig. He fairly radiated a sense of protectiveness of the lovely Cassandra and Danny had to wonder just what kind of relationship existed between them. Beaumont said brusquely, “Just a minute. What kind of questions are you talking about? Why do you need to talk to her?" Danny looked at him somberly. “Once we're inside, sir, we'll explain as much as we can." Chapter 10 Neither police officer seemed at ease, which, Michael thought sardonically, was probably not surprising. The living room at Thirty Birches was not what you would remotely call cozy. First of all, the space was huge, nearly seventy feet across the portion that faced the lake, the carpeting a ridiculous cream color that was undoubtedly someone's nightmare to keep clean, the couches and chairs a matching elegant cream on gold satin, the scattered tables gleaming cherry and ornately carved. He watched the older police officer, the severely balding one in uniform, glance around the room, a barely disguised expression of disbelief in his pale eyes. It was clearly not what he imagined most people wanted when they got away from the city to relax. Michael couldn't help but silently agree with the sentiment. Even with the long windows and lovely view of forest and water, the rigidly formal furnishings were not exactly an invitation to put your feet up, and several of the artwork pieces probably cost many times the yearly salary of the other two men in the room. His mother, as always, had ruthlessly asserted her taste and spent whatever she pleased doing it, no matter that this was supposed to be a family retreat in the north woods. Both men seemed grateful to spring to their feet when Cassandra came back into the room, dressed now in dark shorts and a sleeveless silk blouse. She'd washed her face and repaired the damage from her tears and there was a hint of glistening pink gloss on her mouth, her hair smooth and shining. She looked beautiful, and as remote as the moon. Choosing a wing chair, she sank down and clasped her knees. “Thank you for waiting. Now then, how can I help you?" The uniformed officer chose to not return to his seat, but instead stood by his chair and braced an arm across the top. He was whipcord lean and Michael was hard pressed to guess his age since he was weathered to an almost ageless finish. He said abruptly, “Have you ever been to the Woodland Motel, Mrs. Beaumont?" Cassandra blinked. Her hands were motionless, her eyes composed. The hysterical weeping wreck from earlier might never have been. She replied slowly, “The Woodland Motel? No. I've never heard of it." “It's on the highway outside Lynchburg, pretty close to town, kind of a mom and pop operation with just twelve rooms. No big signs like with the national chains, just a sort of long dark building and paved lot. Ring any bells?" She slowly shook her head. “I'm afraid not." Michael had chosen to stand all along, one shoulder propped on one of the tall window frames. He murmured, “Once again, gentlemen, aren't you required to tell her what this is about?"

He was given a swift glance. “No, sir, we're not. Nor is she required at this time to answer our questions. But cooperation would be appreciated." “At this time? That sounds ominous.” He didn't like this, wasn't sure at all where this was coming from, and Cassandra had been through enough already in the past hour or so. He was still reeling mentally from their conversation. All this babble about some seedy local motel was mystifying and he didn't need anything more to think about. The officer transferred his attention back, addressing Cassandra again. “Can you tell me what you know about a woman named Sabrina Rawlings?" Cassandra was really beginning to look puzzled. Her fine brows knitted. “Who?" “Ma'am, Sabrina Rawlings." “Nothing. I've never heard of her." “Brown-haired, brown-eyed, about five-six, one-hundred and forty pounds, age twenty-six, Chicago address. That any help?" She thought for a moment but then shook her head. “No. Why? Who is she?" So far all the younger man who had introduced himself as Daniel Haase had done was to sit quietly. Fair and compactly built, he was wearing jeans, a gray tee-shirt and tennis shoes. He didn't fit Michael's idea of a detective, but then again, he didn't have much experience with law enforcement. Haase finally said quietly, “Mrs. Beaumont, you were in Lynchburg yesterday. You drive a black convertible, don't you?" The gravity in his tone made her eyes widen and Michael's stomach quiver. Cassandra said slowly, “Yes, I do. And how do you know I was in Lynchburg yesterday afternoon?" “That isn't important." The lack of response to her question made Cassandra's cheeks gain two high spots of color. The officer named Ralston pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and rattled off a make and model name. Looking absolutely confused, she nodded again in confirmation. “With Illinois plates?" “Yes, of course. I live in Illinois.” Her lips barely moved. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the fair young detective asked, “Can you think of any reason why we have an eye witness that says a car fitting the description of yours was in the parking lot of the Woodland Motel last night?" “No.” Her eyes widened. “Last night I was here. There was a party." Michael desperately wanted to ask what had happened at that damned motel that made it significant. However, they weren't answering any other questions, why would they answer that one? Instead he interjected, “She is hardly the only person to own a black BMW and there are plenty of Illinois plates around. And she's right, there were close to fifty people here who could tell you she was in this house last night." “Even at two to four in the morning?” Officer Ralston wore absolutely no expression on his face as he asked the question. “Do you claim you were here then, Mrs. Beaumont?" Anger and an unwelcome twinge of fear made Michael straighten. Even though he knew it wasn't going to help a thing, he said hotly, “She doesn't claim it, if she says she wasn't at that motel, she wasn't there.

And anyway, last I knew, visiting a motel was not a crime in the state of Michigan." Daniel Haase gave him a sideways glance of unexpected sympathy. “No, sir. But murder is. Officer Ralston is just trying to do his job." **** Would the nightmare simply grow like an over-fed animal until she could no longer fight it? Her emotional confrontation with Michael that morning seemed paltry in light of her visit from the police. It hadn't helped at all to have Stan and Anne arrive home just as the police were leaving the house. There had been no choice but to explain. Stan replaced the receiver in the cradle and gave her a rueful smile from across the desk. “They are sitting on this pretty tight but I was able to glean a few bits and pieces." “Like what?” Anne paced past, drink in hand. Dressed in deference to the high humidity and unusual heat, she wore shorts and a sleeveless top, her dark hair tucked back behind each ear. “This sucks, Stan. I want some answers before the press decides that Cassandra is no longer their pretty little darling but the scapegoat of the decade." Trying to not wince openly at that sentiment, Cassandra swirled the ice in her glass. It was Michael who spoke up sharply. “How can she be a scapegoat when she hasn't done anything, Anne? Just relax." Stan nodded but his high forehead wrinkled as if he were perplexed. They were ensconced in the huge office that Gerald used when on vacation. It had all the modern modes of communication possible; computers, fax machines, even a satellite conference system so that Gerald was never out of touch. Sitting behind the desk, Stan looked much more like a lawyer, despite his casual short-sleeved patterned shirt and beige shorts. Cassandra had been grateful when he had offered to make a call or two to some highly-connected friends who might get information about what was going on. His calm presence was comforting, especially since Anne had reacted predictably with fierce concern over any negative Beaumont publicity, and Michael was so intensely protective and angry. Cassandra took a quick gulp of her gin and tonic and tried to sound collected and unconcerned. “So, tell us, what did they say?" Twirling a pen in his thin fingers, Stan leaned back and gave her a level look. “Well, first of all, Michael is right, relax everyone. The police, I was assured, are going to handle this with kid gloves. No press leaks." “Let's hope not,” Anne muttered and journeyed past them again, making a restless circuit of the room. “And coming here was just a routine interview. This Rawlings woman was found dead in her motel room by the night manager and though no one is saying how she died, the police seem to think she was murdered. That's all I could get for now, but then again, she was just found last night, or rather, early this morning. The medical examiner won't even have a report out until tomorrow." Michael was the opposite of his agitated sister, leaning one broad shoulder against the elegantlypapered wall, his only movement to lift his drink occasionally to his mouth. His dark hair was rumpled and he'd changed out of his swim trunks into worn jeans and a black tee-shirt that made him look exactly like the careless young man that Cassandra had met what seemed a lifetime ago. He said coolly, “This car deal. One of those two policemen said they had a witness claiming to see a car like Cassie's in the parking lot of that motel in the middle of the night. How in the hell can that mean a thing? There are other cars the same make and model with Illinois plates. It doesn't sound like enough to bring them here." “The police have to process all the leads they have.” Stan sighed and dropped the pen on the desk.

“Honestly, I think they must have something more, something that gives them a strong enough reason to think it was the same car so that they felt confident in coming here. Maybe someone saw the license plate number. Too bad you couldn't have told them your keys have been missing since yesterday or something like that." Cassandra protested flatly, “But that would be a lie. I checked, they are in my purse. I just don't see how on earth it could be my car. I was here. You all know I was here." “Therein,” he gave her one of his gentle smiles, “lies the problem. For you and the police. If you weren't there, how did your car get there? The easiest explanation for them is that you had no idea someone saw you and are lying for some reason. The reason that comes to mind is that you knew a crime had been committed and don't want to admit you were anywhere in the vicinity." Her throat tightened and she stared at him. Her voice sounded off-key when she said, “But if I had any idea why the police were here, wouldn't I have come up with a lie just like you suggested?" He tilted his head in a thoughtful mannerism. “Maybe. But if you didn't know they had something so incriminating, you might panic and just deny everything. Happens all the time. It is hard to think when you are guilty and the police are in your face." “Christ,” Anne moaned. “Goddammit, Stan,” Michael practically snarled, “Will you shut up? You sound like a lawyer and I'm sure you're scaring Cassie, because you're sure as the devil scaring me." “I am a lawyer and I'm just spit balling about where the police might be coming from.” The reply was even and measured. “The good news is that Cassandra doesn't have any connection to the victim. She says she doesn't know her, has never even heard of her. Since we have no idea how this Rawlings was killed, that part is unknown, but without any kind of motive, I'm sure the police are just sniffing around to see what they can find. Do you own a gun, Cassandra?" “No, of course not.” She shook her head swiftly, horror creeping along her skin in little waves. “That's good, because if you did, I was going to tell you right now to go chuck it into the lake just in case." Anne stopped her pacing and turned to stare at her husband. “Disposing of possible evidence, that would be your advice? God, you lawyers are a shifty lot.” Her laugh was more like a bark. “That coming from a politician?” Stan raised his light brows and laughed back. He quickly sobered. “Anyway, since we don't know who might have taken your car and parked it at the crime scene—" “Taken it?” Cassandra interrupted shakily. Moisture from the condensation on her glass dripped onto her bare knee. It was Michael who said bluntly, “It wasn't your car, but ... let's just say it was. Cassie, if you weren't driving it and it was at the motel, it's pretty clear someone stole it.” He added morosely, “And that person must have brought it back here and returned your keys." Opening her mouth to protest, she thought better and said nothing, instead turning her head to look out at the view. The office was no different from the other rooms in the house, having two sets of French doors that opened onto the deck. The dying sun reflected in ruby ripples on the water and the tops of the trees were gilded dark, like spilled blood. A busy woodpecker left a staccato echo through the darkening woods around the house. The keys had been in her purse when she and Timmy had returned from Lynchburg. That she knew, for she'd put them in there after she parked the car. That left someone in the house to have gone into her

room and gotten into her purse. Since the housekeeper, Mrs. Conner, and the rest of the staff had been with the Beaumonts for years, they seemed unlikely candidates. Of course, the house had been full of guests... Michael put her thoughts into words. “Could have been any number of people. There was quite a crowd here last night. Some of them stayed very late, some spent the night here instead of the resort. And because of the flow of cars in and out, the security gate was open. Dammit." Anne bristled predictably. “Yeah, federal judges, state senators, and millionaires routinely stoop to petty theft, Michael. Think again. There wasn't one guest here that I would suspect of something like that. Give me a break." He argued, “Car theft is a felony last I knew, hardly petty. And some of them brought dates, people we don't know." Anne stopped suddenly by a wall of filing cabinets, looking at her empty glass as if she had no idea what had happened to the contents. “If Cassandra is telling the truth, then someone from the outside could have done it." Michael's brows shot up. “If? Jesus, Anne." Anne turned and faced her brother, scowling and snapping, “You know what I mean. Don't go all Sir Galahad. Cassandra doesn't need the big strong man protecting her. Screw her if that's what you still want after all these years, but let her fight her own battles." Michael went white. “Sweetheart,” Stan's voice was unexpectedly firm, and he stood up. “I think you've said enough. You stayed up way too late last night, had champagne at breakfast, wine at lunch, and that scotch vanished pretty quickly. All the build-up is probably taking a toll. Let's stop before you say any more, okay?" “Amen,” Michael muttered darkly, turning away toward the window as if he found it suddenly fascinating. There was a sudden awkward silence. Cassandra would have felt more embarrassed over such a crude remark except that she was too tired. The only good thing in an awful day was that Tim had apparently been behaving very well. Well enough that Marie had called to say that they'd decided to spend the night somewhere up the coast at an inn that she referred to as charming and quaint. Any protests Cassandra had offered were immediately and efficiently cut off with chilly affront. Her mother-in-law had, she was reminded coolly, raised three children. She was sure she could handle one five-year old boy for one night. And since Ashley had ridden along to keep an eye on Timmy, there was no need for any concern. Though she had been uneasy with the notion, not having spent a night away from her son in a year, Cassandra had not much choice. Getting to her feet, she unsteadily rubbed her clammy palms on her shorts, saying dully, “Thank you, Stan, for everything." “No problem." Without a word to anyone else, she left the room. **** The evening breeze was sweet and low and laden with the scent of rain. Sitting in a deck chair with his feet propped on the railing, Michael moodily studied the play of uneven light over the vast blackness of the lake below. The gentle suck of the waves against the shore came in soporific repetition. Hearing the screen door slide open behind him, he kept his gaze fastened on where the speedboat bobbed gently by

the long dark shape of the dock. “She wasn't at dinner. I suppose that's my fault." Michael stirred and turned. His sister had changed into some kind of sweats made from velvet or velour and her dark hair was wet from a recent shower. She moved forward as if hesitant of her reception and hovered by a nearby deck chair. In the darkness it was hard to see her expression but she at least sounded contrite—or as contrite as Anne ever could be. In her own way, she was as self-centered as Robert had been. He was too damn tired and confused to be angry. He said, “Yeah, it probably was your fault. You were pretty out of line about something that is none of your business. Sit down." “I'm sorry.” She sank into the chair and sighed loudly. “Stan was right. All the excitement and constant flow of booze got me going a little. I was on cloud nine after the party; it went even better than I thought it would. Then to come home and hear that my sister-in-law just might be implicated in a murder case right as I'm about to announce my bid for office ... well, I got wound up.” Morosely, she added, “Stan didn't help with his worse case scenario routine. He means well, but he's a fucking lawyer." “It's okay, Anne." The moon was obscured by a thick bank of clouds and the wind picking up. The way the temperature was dropping, a front couldn't be far away. The night breeze brushed his cheek in a cool caress. Anne stated flatly, “Maybe I shouldn't have said it ... okay, not maybe, I shouldn't have said it, but it is really obvious you still have a thing for Cassandra, Michael. It's like an electric charge when you look at her." The wooden slats of the chair were hard against his back. He sucked in a deep breath of earthy air. “Is it?" “Did it ever go away, even when she was married to Robert? Is that why you stay so devotedly single? What would you have done if things worked out as they were supposed to and he lived to be a ripe old eighty?" The barrage of very personal questions was unsettling. He said honestly, “I don't know." “I thought you were pissed at her." “God, sometimes you really have a mouth." “Try working on Capitol Hill. I'm actually considered demure. And by the way, that was a question." “You'd better believe it, I was pissed at her.” A cynical laugh accompanied that admission. To say that over-simplified the situation was a gross understatement. Anne's eyes glimmered in the dark as she turned her head. “Who could blame you? She dumped on you pretty good." “Robert was a powerful force to contend with, let's remember that." Her smile was a faint gleam. “Yes, he was. And Cassandra is exactly the opposite, isn't she? The press adores her vulnerable damsel in distress aura; they eat it up like candy." Thinking back to the emotional discussion of the morning and her heart-wrenching confession and the following drenching of tears, a savage twist came to his mouth. Michael shifted position, his feet falling and scraping on the wooden boards of the deck. “She has every right to feel vulnerable, Anne. Please remember, she wasn't born a Beaumont so she hasn't been sharpening her teeth by chewing

silver spoons to pieces since she could toddle. I doubt growing up on Main Street in a tiny farming town prepares you much for life with someone like Robert. She was in over her head from the very start." “Is that how you are rationalizing your continued attraction to her?” a wry laugh, “by blaming Robert for your break-up and holding her blameless?" “Actually, I think I blame me, if you want the truth." Her dark brows winged upward. “Really? How so?" Michael turned his face toward the lake. It looked very beautiful as a vein of lightning behind the trees flashed across the surface of the moving water. He said quietly, “I just let him have her. No fight. No down on my knees declarations of love. I saw it coming and backed away." Anne twisted, her mouth parting. “Should there have been declarations of love?" “I tried to tell myself my pride was just bruised, but ... judging by how I felt for the next five years, yes, perhaps there should have been." “And apparently how you feel now." His smile was bleak. “It isn't that simple, Annie." “Nothing ever is, is it?” She sounded wistful, laying back in the chair and rubbing the arms with the palms of her hands, a restless gesture that so was typical of her driving energy. “I'm a little scared, you know. Oh, I don't show it, exposing weakness in my world is like laying your neck on the block after helping the executioner sharpen his ax, but just the same, I am." Curious about the direction of the conversation, Michael asked, “Of what exactly?" “Losing." “The race for governor?" Her hands moved and for a minute rested quietly on her knees. Her high cheekbones were hollowed with shadow. “It's more than that for me. I wanted a family more than anything. It appears I can't have that. My career is everything to me now. It's like a measure of ... myself, if you will. I am not a whole woman. I'm flawed, unable to bear a child. At the least, I want to be a successful politician. I think we all know Robert might easily have sought a presidential nomination down the road. I'd like the same shot. Maybe that's why I flew overboard this afternoon. Anything that might jeopardize my future scares the hell out of me. As much as Cassandra has become a public figure, I don't need her neck-deep in some sort of sordid scandal." Grimly, Michael rejoined, “I'm sure she feels the same way." “The whole thing is weird, if you ask me. How would her car get there?" “I was sitting here thinking about it and I can't come up with a single idea." “Hopefully, the police will sort it out quickly.” A yawn escaped and she stood up. “God, Stan was right, champagne at breakfast is a killer. I'm going to bed." “Sweet dreams, Annie." Thunder finally began to rumble and behind the trees there were flashes of light. Sitting alone in the darkness, Michael abstractly watched the approach of the storm and pondered the connection between a dead woman and a black car in the parking lot of some obscure motel. Cassandra had admitted to him that someone was threatening her.

Now someone was dead. He sure as hell hoped that there was no connection between Sabrina Rawlings and those phone messages. A sudden crash of thunder nearly made him jump out of his skin. Chapter 11 The rain had come in from the southwest, the first drops hitting the outside deck with huge warm, splattering drops. Hugging her arms around her chest, Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed and watched the windows facing the water. The room being entirely dark, she could see every nuance of light on water, every ripple and droplet. A distant peal of thunder must have obliterated the sound of the door opening. She jumped as a square of light fell from the hallway across the pale beige carpeting. The silhouette of the man outlined in the doorway showed his hand lifting to find the light switch before he suddenly stopped; his arm frozen in mid-air. Michael slowly lowered his hand without turning on the light and in a flash of lightning, Cassandra could see his dark brows were drawn together in a frown as he stared at her. At her, sitting on his bed at this late hour, waiting for him in the dark. God knew what he was thinking right now, she thought emotionally. God only knew what she was thinking, being there. When he spoke, he sounded absurdly normal. “Hello." Hello. Her own vocal chords seemed suddenly non-functional. It took a moment before she cleared her throat and responded in a self-conscious whisper, “Hi." He stepped into the room fully then and shut the door. The resulting darkness made him nothing more than a tall shadowy form. In that same mild and even tone, he asked, “Before I stub my toe or trip over a chair or something equally graceless, would you mind switching on the bedside lamp?" Actually, she did mind. There was a certain freedom in the fact that Michael, who was nothing but perceptive, could not see her face and recognize the indecision and fear in her eyes. Nevertheless she reached and fumbled for the knob, sending a small pool of golden light over the bed. It was instinct, albeit foolish instinct, that made her grasp the edges of her silk robe with the other hand and tug it together. It was too much to hope that he wouldn't notice that self-conscious act. Michael lifted his finely-arched brows and smiled thinly. Shadows highlighted his cheekbones and the lean line of his jaw. “Why are you here? Is something wrong, Cassie?" “Wrong?’ She stifled a small laugh that turned more into a sob. Her whole life was wrong, what a question. She mumbled, “Well, I suppose that term is relative. I do know I can't sleep." “Sitting on my bed isn't going to help. Maybe you should go back to your room.” The cool suggestion was hardly encouraging. Or comforting. Was that why she was there, for comfort? Her fingers gripped the material of her robe so tight that her fingers began to ache. Cassandra said carefully, “I want to talk to someone and I thought.... I thought you might be—" “What?” a flat question. Tension outlined the way he held his body. Perhaps he had every right to be wary. Not able to tell if it was animosity that fueled his question or just curiosity, Cassandra shivered. She supplied faintly, “That person. If I was wrong, I'm sorry."

He still wore the black tee-shirt. It stretched across the wide breadth of his shoulders and emphasized the sculpted muscles in his upper arms. Jeans, rather faded and ragged at the hem, hugged his lean hips and long legs. With his rumpled dark hair and untrusting air, he resembled a mystic and romantic poet; damaged and suspicious. After a long moment, when they simply stared at each other, he let out an audible gust of air and shoved one hand into his hair. “Jesus, Cassie, you don't ask much, do you?" She had to consciously relax her hand and let it drop to her lap. “I try not to, if you want the truth." That comment brought a small smile to his lips. He moved forward then and stopped less than a foot from where she was sitting. The storm outside rumbled and advanced. Looking down at her, he said, “No, I believe you don't. What is this all about? Tim? He'll be fine. My mother is hardly going to win any apple pie baking contests, but after all, we survived and one night might just make her back off about having more time with him. You should be in bed, enjoying a respite from all the responsibility you've had for your son this past year." She had to tilt her head back to see his face. “I was in bed,” the whisper held a hint of defensiveness that she couldn't keep at bay, “and all I could do was lie there and think about ... about, well ... things." “Things?" There was something in his tone, something edgy and judgmental that made Cassandra stiffen, hot blood flooding into her cheeks despite her resolve to not give into the vulnerability that threatened to paralyze her very life. Not show emotion, what a joke, she thought as she stood up. Michael didn't move and since their bodies were very close, she had to step sideways to walk past him. It had been a colossal mistake to ever think she should seek out Michael in his bedroom, no less, and expect sweet understanding and platonic sympathy. Not when the man in question was complex, emotionally involved, and had made his feelings very clear. “Excuse me." Michael neatly stepped into her path, effectively blocking her exit from the room. He stared down at her, their faces just inches apart although he wasn't touching her, and he repeated pleasantly, “I don't think so. Things? Are we talking about Robert, Tim, or that damned visit from the police?" “Not Robert,” she said too quickly. Long lashes lowered slightly over his blue eyes. He smelled of rain, spots of moisture dotting the dark material of his shirt. Very quietly, he asked, “What about me, Cassie? Were you laying there in your lonely bed and thinking about me?" God help her, she had been. Thinking about the taste and texture of his mouth when he kissed her. Thinking about his body, long and hard, pressing against her, the softness of his hair in contrast to the taut muscles in his neck, of the way he touched her with urgent and reverent desire. Somehow, he touched her soul, made her wonder, made her feel again, damn him. Cassandra closed her eyes and admitted, “Yes." **** It had been an unfair question, given the almost ghostly pallor of her cheeks and the tension screaming from every movement of her slender body, but Michael wasn't sorry for one damned moment that he'd asked it. Hiding away from the world had done Cassandra no good at all and living like a nun hadn't eased the memory of Robert's abuse either. In fact, he was sure it had exacerbated and festered instead, growing like some mushroom cloud of doubt and fear that was only fueled by darkness and silence. Staring down at her averted profile, he fought a sense of absurdity in the situation. Here she was at last, like he'd fantasized a hundred times in the past six years. Cassandra Beaumont, dressed in a light silk

chemise-style, short nightgown and matching robe that showed off her long, luscious legs, coming to his room, coming to him. Her honey-colored hair curled past her shoulders, her long lashes left shadows on her incredible cheekbones, and the pale pink curve of her lips made him ache to taste them. Yet he could see the frantic pulse point pounding in the delicate hollow of her throat and she kept the top of her thin robe clutched tight above her breasts. He had no idea how to handle the situation. His long-running fantasy completely left out emotional damage and physical fear of intimacy. And she wasn't the only one afraid. In his ignorance he'd bungled it so badly the past two times he'd touched her that he was fearful of repeating his mistakes. Hell. “I've been thinking about you, too,” he said finally. He reached out one finger and very gently traced the soft curve of her cheek before dropping his hand back to his side. There was a thin white line from her right temple into her hairline where she'd cut her face in the accident. That faint scar, unnoticeable unless you were very close, seemed a poignant symbol of her vulnerability. “I guess if you'd like to stay awhile, we could sit and talk." “Talk?” Her voice sounded muffled and she was still staring past him. “Or whatever else you want." Her gaze shifted from studying the closed door to his face. Her eyes were wide and uncertain. “I'm not sure I can do this, Michael. You need to know that upfront." At least she wasn't going to ask him to pretend that they weren't thinking about sex, talking about it. “Yeah, I'm pretty clear on that.” He didn't touch her; instead he turned and moved past her the short space to the bed. Sitting down, he patted the spot next to him and then loosely clasped his hands between his knees. “Sit. And talk, then." Her initial lack of response was no big surprise. She did look slightly off-balance that he hadn't moved to touch her and the death grip on her robe loosened a fraction, however, the wariness in her lovely gray-green eyes was stark and unhidden. She said in a low voice, “All right. Thank you." The dip of the bed as she sat down, the subtle scent of flowers from the warmth of her hair, the beginning lash of the advancing storm outside—all of these impressions were muted by his uncertainty over what might come next. Michael sat and looked at his clasped hands and decided that the only course that felt the least comfortable was to just wait. Lightning flashed starkly, illuminating the room in vivid fire. Cassandra jumped slightly as the thunder followed, rumbling through the house like some vengeful god. Michael could hear her swallow before she murmured, “I am even worse at this than I thought I would be. And I think the hardest part might be that I'm not sure why I'm here, not even now." “Because you don't like sex.” It was a frank statement, a risk he thought he could take because she didn't seem to be avoiding the reality of the situation. “Yes.” A breath. He glanced over and kept his voice matter-of-fact. “All right, maybe you don't. So far your experience hasn't been good, but that can change. The trouble is, no matter how much I want to make love to you, I'm not sure how to avoid doing anything ... anything that might remind you of something you would rather forget." Her smile was wan, a curve of her perfect lips in her pale face. “I'm afraid of the same thing."

The solution suddenly seemed to be as crystal clear as the light show Mother Nature had chosen to provide. As the next rumble of thunder pealed forth, he shifted and lay down on the bed, lifting his legs and straightening them comfortably on the mattress straight ahead of him, crossing his ankles. Folding his arms behind his head and settling into the pillow, he smiled. “The answer seems pretty obvious to me, Cassie." Sitting half-turned next to him on the side of the bed, she knitted her brows and finally looked him in the eye. “How so?" He said gently, “Why don't you make love to me? That way we won't do anything you don't want, anything you don't like. All your way, sweetheart." He'd forgotten how easily she blushed, how young she sometimes seemed. Color came rushing upward into her face, staining her delicate cheekbones with bright spots. “Michael.” It was a mumble of protest. He persisted quietly, “Why not? What is making love, after all—a touch, a kiss, a whisper? Sex can be a thousand things from ugly to beautiful, but making love is simply wanting to give and receive pleasure, isn't it? So do whatever you want to do because I'm pretty damn sure that as long you're touching me, I'm going to enjoy it." Silence settled except for the lash of the rain outside. She didn't move. Not a muscle or the flicker of an eyelash. He added softly, “Isn't that why you're here?" Maybe it was his words, maybe it was his unthreatening prone position, or maybe it was whatever brought her to him in the first place, but Cassandra lifted a trembling hand and brushed back her hair from her cheek. “I suppose we could try." It was a little unfair how such an unenthusiastic statement could still make the blood surge through his veins and his groin tighten. Watching from underneath half-closed lids, Michael saw her tentatively turn and fully face him, the firm roundness of her hip touching his knee. Her smile was tremulous. “I have to tell you I don't know where to start." “Anywhere." He couldn't help but think that such uncertainty in a woman as lovely as Cassandra bordered on ridiculous. Her eyes were luminous as she echoed shyly, “Anywhere?" Anywhere. She hadn't even made a move and his erection was already swelling uncomfortably inside his jeans. Trying to ignore his body's unruly response, he just laid there, waiting, almost holding his breath. She scooted forward a little, a foot or so until she was sitting closer but still perched on the edge of the bed. He still didn't move when she leaned in, one hand coming to rest on his chest and her mouth touching his with the lightest of pressure. As a kiss, it was certainly less than a remarkable event. Soft closed lips meeting his, the brush of her hair across his cheek, tense fingers splayed at his breastbone. Yet, he felt the electric tingle of that contact like fire racing through his veins and when her tongue very lightly traced the line of his lower lip, it was all he could do to not groan out loud. Don't touch her, he told himself, clenching his hands into fists. Don't take her in your arms; don't crush her into a hot open-mouthed kiss. He could feel the texture of her breasts settle against his chest. The kiss didn't change dramatically but his breathing kicked into high gear. Still, he somehow managed to stay there and hold himself still,

doing nothing more than lifting one hand to settle it at the small of her back. And even at that pressure, she stiffened. Goddamn Robert. And his brother was the last person he wanted to think about at this moment, he thought ironically. The kiss, innocent as a high school first date, was over way too soon. Cassandra pulled back and her uncertain gaze searched his. Dropping his hand, Michael managed to say reasonably, “A good start." “I feel foolish. I feel ... crippled." Well, so did he—at least a little. Mostly he felt on fire. He whispered, “There is no need to feel that way, not in this bed. For God's sake, Cassie, no one on earth will ever know what happens here between us except you and me. Do whatever it is you want, whatever you feel like doing." “I can't.” Her lashes lowered minutely. “No.” It was a firm declaration. “No reservations. If you want to do it, do it. And help me. Tell me what you want, what you like, what you need." “I don't know what I need,” an aching whisper. “You need something or you wouldn't be here." Silence. After a moment, she spoke. “I suppose,” it was a slow statement, “you're right. I don't know how, but I need ... I need to wipe all of it away." Not the easiest order in the world. All of it, Michael thought grimly. Jesus. Lying there on his back, he suggested quietly, “I think you are very beautiful, Cassie. Why don't you take off your robe." It was almost a surprise when she complied. Her nightgown had thin straps that showed off her perfect shoulders and he lifted his hands to touch her smooth skin. “Here. Come closer.” He urged her forward with gentle pressure until she laid on top of him, face-to-face, breasts-to-chest, her hips cradled against his. “Kiss me again." Her hair brushed his face when she lowered her mouth. This time he let his fingertips trail down her back as she touched her lips to his, keeping the caress light and soft. He angled his head and slowly, very slowly, deepened the kiss, skimming her lips, exploring every inch of her mouth and expecting her to pull away at any moment. She didn't. In fact, she slid her fingers into his hair and began to participate, cupping his head in her hands and relaxing a little against his body. The kiss seemed to last a lifetime and yet be astonishingly brief. When Cassie lifted her head and looked into his eyes, he found he was breathless, his hands resting on her hips. There was no way she could miss the aroused condition of his body, not sprawled on top of him as she was. One hand lifted and she touched his cheek, sliding her fingers along his jaw. “You're beautiful too, Michael." “If you really think so,” he held her gaze deliberately, “then maybe you wouldn't have any objection to, say ... my taking off my shirt. You have the most unsettling effect on me, especially when you're lying on top of me. I'm burning up, Cassie." “All right.” A whisper and a tremulous smile. She moved, slipping off of him and laying down next to him on top of the bedspread. A flash of lightning sparked beyond the French doors and lit her hair to a fiery sheen. He sat up and tugged his shirt up over his head. It was a warm night but the air still felt cool on his heated skin.

She lay there very quietly on her back, not moving, watching him with those very steady, very lovely eyes. His hand was actually trembling as he reached over and brushed her shoulder. “I want to touch you." She knew what he meant. He could see the misgiving in her expression but she said nothing at all as he hooked a finger in the strap of her nightgown and eased it lower. And lower. She was very still as he stroked her breast, circling the nipple with his thumb. A tremor rippled through her body. He knew he couldn't be hurting her, so what else could it be but pleasure? He moved his lips to the valley between her breasts, nudging aside the material so that the gown was at her waist, giving his full attention to the other breast and relishing the gasp that escaped her lips. With one hand he roamed the length of her body, thigh to shoulder, up and down. Everything light, everything slow. Was it his imagination or had she moved closer? Her eyes were closed, lashes long on pale cheeks as if the nakedness of her upper body embarrassed her. Michael moved to kiss her gently and was pleasantly surprised when her lips parted very naturally in invitation. He took his time, something not easy to do when his body was pounding for release, and felt triumphant when her arms closed around his neck and tightened. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest, the nipples tight and incredibly arousing. That was the problem, of course. He hardly needed anything else to move him uncomfortably close to the edge. Breaking the kiss, he moved his mouth ... everywhere. Her throat, the curve of her shoulder, down the softness of her stomach. She made some murmurs, probably of protest, when he eased the nightgown down her legs and tossed it aside, but she didn't move away. He continued the tender exploration, licking, touching, murmuring against every hollow and curve how much he wanted her, rewarded by the subtle changes in her body and the nuances of her breathing that told him she was becoming aroused. Her panties were a slip of material low on her hips and he took them off slowly, down the long length of her legs while she watched him, her eyes growing heavy-lidded and soft. Fully dressed she was a knockout, he thought in wonder, but nude she was ... spectacular. The dream come true. All for him—those shapely legs, slender waist, those perfect breasts, the golden hair that spread out perfectly over his pillow. It was more than that, too. The essence of the woman—her vulnerability, her strength, her quiet intelligence, it all drew him with a powerful and inexplicable force. And he was finally making love to her. Standing up, he unbuttoned his jeans and shoved them down his hips. When he moved over her, her eyes were tightly shut. His erection rested on the soft swell of her stomach. His voice was hoarse, “Cassie?" The muscles in her throat rippled. “What?" “Look at me, please." Her lashes flickered, then lifted. The gray-green depths shimmered. “Do you want to stop?” God, his voice actually sounded normal as he asked the question. A miracle. “I ... no. Please don't stop.” It was barely a whisper.

The answer he wanted. The answer, dammit, he needed. Leaning forward, he sighed into her fragrant hair, “Good. Just a minute." Sitting up, he reached for his wallet sitting on the dresser next to the bed. The rain had started in earnest and the pounding of the onslaught against the windows matched the pounding of his heart. Cassandra half-raised and caught his arm. “What are you doing?" “There's a condom in my wallet." She tugged him back toward her, murmuring huskily, “There's no need." “Are you sure?” He went willingly back into her arms, his brain registering that the issue of birth control was better discussed prior to unprotected sex, but his body insisting that it didn't matter. “Michael.” She kissed him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders as he braced himself above her. “I want you.” There was a hint of wonder in her voice. She wanted him. Oh God. His weight shifted, moved lower. Nudging between her thighs, he felt wet heat with relief and joy. His entry was slow and very restrained. Cassandra held onto him as he moved, tightly grasping his upper arms, her pelvis lifting in subtle welcome, opening for him. Their gazes locked. With incredible pleasure flowing molten through his body from hers, Michael began to move in a gentle rhythm, still staring into her eyes. Don't look away, he demanded silently, know it's me, Cassie, making love to you. Not how you wanted it to be with Robert, but how it would have been, how it is with me. Despite his intense hold on his control, he could feel himself beginning to go faster, the intensity of the physical sensations rocketing through his body, robbing his mind of any will. Cassandra's cheeks were flushed, her body supple and liquid beneath him, and she made small sexy little sounds as he increased the pace. Good. Damned good. Too damned good. She moaned out loud. That evidence of her enjoyment was his undoing. The thin thread holding him back snapped like a rock smashing into glass. He grasped her hips, lifted her higher, and gentleness was replaced by undeniable and passionate urgency. He climbed higher and higher and apparently he took her with him because when he thought he couldn't hold on another second, she cried his name and he felt her nails dig into the flesh of his upper arms as she tightened helplessly around him. His own release was a scalding rush of pleasure like nothing he had ever known. The world faded and nothing mattered except the woman he held in his arms. He buried his face against her hair and groaned out loud, his entire body racked with spasms. How long it was before he had the strength or sense to shift his weight sideways, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about anything in the world anymore. Except that he was still in love with Cassandra Beaumont. **** “I'm being blackmailed." It may not have been the right time to say it, but it came out just the same. Half-propped up against the pillows, his dark hair attractively disheveled, Michael blinked in surprise. Cassandra lay curled up against him, her head in the crook of his arm, one hand slowly tracing idle

patterns on his muscular chest as she unobtrusively watched his reaction. When he bent his head to peer at her averted face, she felt an unwelcome intrusion of reality on what had become a fairy-tale moment. He said thickly, “Excuse me, but ... blackmailed? Is that what you just said?" She nodded her head against his chest. “Yes." Never a fool, he easily guessed. “Those phone calls. The note." Her hand stopped moving and she pressed closer, as if she could crawl inside him for protection. It was unfair, really, to even tell him. He'd already done so much for her, so very, very much. Her whole body still tingled and the way he held her made her feel cherished and special—and absurdly safe. That, she thought with awe, was how it was supposed to be. He smoothed a lock of hair off her forehead and asked in an even-sounding voice, “What on earth could anyone know about you that would lead him or her to considering asking for money to keep their mouth shut?” His smile was grim. “Believe me, my parents had your past researched so thoroughly before you married Robert that if you ever had a parking ticket, they knew it." At that, she stirred. “They did?" “Sweetheart, are you surprised?" Was she surprised that the Beaumonts had taken steps to protect their precious name, their precious son? No, she wasn't. “I guess not.” Her voice was hushed. “And anyway ... it isn't me." She could feel every muscle in his body clench as he understood and his anger exploded to the surface. “Robert?" Cassandra nodded again and pulled away, taking the sheet with her and sitting up on the bed with her legs folded under her, so she looked him in the eye. Her mouth trembled embarrassingly and she bit her lip to control it. “There was this girl working at his campaign office, young ... pretty. Her name was Nicole Rice. I got an envelope just a few months after he died. It had pictures of them together,” an audible swallow, “I mean graphic pictures. The threat is pretty much the usual thing, the person said they'd sell them to the tabloids or worse, to someone who wants to do a biographical book or movie." Eyes narrowed, Michael said through his teeth, “You'd think he'd be more careful. No one on the face of this earth was more self-centered about his career than Robert." The fact that she was as much to blame as her dead husband didn't make matters any better. With painful honesty, Cassandra admitted, “I already told you pretty much ... that is, we'd stopped sleeping together. I think he knew that if he pushed me too far, threats or no threats, I might take Tim and run.” Her smile was bleak. “Oh, he'd find us eventually, we both realized that, but the publicity would be embarrassing and God knew that if I sued for divorce on the grounds of abuse, he might be politically ruined. So we ended up with an odd truce. He satisfied himself elsewhere and I stayed put so I could keep my child. I doubt he knew the pictures were ever taken." “Stupid bastard,” Michael muttered. “I don't know what's worse, that he could have had you in his arms every night but he chose to browbeat and terrorize you until you loathed him so much he had to turn elsewhere, or that he compounded the crime by getting caught. What about this girl? I assume she's the one with the pictures. Beaumonts can lean pretty hard; maybe it would be best to simply tell my father the whole ugly truth. She'd be sorry she ever even attempted—" “Michael, Nicole Rice is dead." He shifted slightly in reaction, shoving his lean body upright against the pillows. His blue eyes narrowed and he asked tightly, “What? What happened?"

It was all too easy to remember the sensation of horrified shock when Cassandra had read the newspaper article and realized that the woman in the lurid pictures and the face smiling up from a recent photo taken at some kind of charity benefit were one and the same. She said heavily, “She died after attending a party—a party that had to do with some sort of political fundraising. It was cocaine. I guess they weren't sure if the overdose was intentional or accidental. I'd just gotten the pictures a few days before with a typed note that said the sender would be in touch." “My God, what a mess." “Yes.” Cassandra could feel a bleak smile touch her mouth, the sheet still clutched to her chest. “That was months ago. Then nothing. The calls didn't start for a while; I even started to feel safe. To feel like maybe with the death of that girl, the nightmare had ended. What a terrible thing, to think that way and be happy about it." “Since she was at the least sleeping with your husband and at the worst, intent on extortion, I don't know how much sorrow you are supposed to feel for Nicole Rice.” He rubbed his jaw. “And now, apparently, someone else has jumped into the game." “I don't know. What if Nicole Rice was being blackmailed, too? Maybe she did commit suicide." I might, Cassandra thought silently, rather than have that sort of violation of my life. Naked pictures plastered out there for the curious. The thought made her sick. Michael must have seen it, that awful realization in her expression, for he reached out, pulling her into his arms and sinking back down, tucking her in next to him. He put his mouth against her hair and whispered, “It's late and we're both tired. I'm assuming you told me about this because you're tired of dealing with it on your own, and that's good. We'll sit down tomorrow and come up with a solution, okay? There is one; we just need to sort it out." It would be nice if he was right, but she didn't have his confidence. She mumbled against his chest, “I'm supposed to pay her the day after tomorrow." “Pay her ... up here? She followed you to Michigan?" “Yes, I guess so. I'm supposed to take the money to Lynchburg, at that little cafe. I'm leaving it there at nine o'clock." “How much?" “Fifty thousand in cash. I brought it from Chicago." He growled, “The hell you say. Fifty thousand? The lady in question must be an amateur if she only asked for that much." “Or else it's just the beginning.” It was a morose thought but Cassandra was exhausted and the solid feel of Michael's embrace gave at least the illusion of security and safety. As she drifted into sleep, she felt a quick last flash of regret for the past—and an odd flare of hope for the future. Chapter 12 The soporific drip of rain from the eaves and the hovering trees mingled nicely with the aroma of rich coffee and frying bacon. Sitting in a decrepit rocker by a bank of windows where he could look out over the trees, Danny sipped his coffee and watched the mist hanging over the river. It was beautiful and serene and almost eerily silent. The storm the night before had swept in and moved onward, but the day dawned gray and dismal and very quiet.

He liked it. Liked the soft predictable pattern of sound, liked the contrast between the lovely blue skies of the previous day and the current gothic forest gloom around the cabin. He especially liked the quiet. Quiet, actually, was a relative term. Everything outside was quiet. Inside would have been the same except for Craig. Hovering over the frying pan, he was muttering out loud, poking at the meat with studied frustration. “The problem is, how much can I do? We're investigating the other motel guests, but only four rooms were rented that night and they all look squeaky clean. The victim's car has no clues and even though her suitcase might have been rifled, she could have just been a sloppy packer." Danny mused as he stared out over the moving water. “I always hate cases like these—no apparent motive, no immediate suspects, no leads, except, of course, your eyewitness." A snort came from across the room. “Yeah, an alcoholic forty-two-year-old factory worker just off the night shift who stopped at the Woodland in the middle of the night to get a soda from the outside machine to mix with his Jack Daniel's. And he can't even remember anything more than the first three letters of the license plate. There isn't a judge in the world that is going to give me a warrant to impound that car." “That's true.” Danny frowned over his cup. The last thing he wanted was to think about that dead girl in the motel, but the circumstances were puzzling and he was unwillingly intrigued. Besides, Craig seemed determined to pick his brain—on a strictly unofficial level, and had gotten permission from his superiors for Danny to tag along in the investigation. Like it or not, he was at least a little involved. Craig tore off a paper towel and almost viciously slapped it onto a plate before scooping the bacon out of the pan to drain. “Danny, we wouldn't even have thought to check Mrs. Beaumont's plates if we hadn't seen her driving that car in Lynchburg the other day. The connection is tricky and all based on blind chance." It was true. When Paul Walton reported what he'd seen, both Danny and Craig had instantly thought of Cassandra Beaumont's gleaming BMW. It wasn't like this part of Michigan was overflowing with expensive cars similar to hers. The fact that a simple plate check showed the first three characters that the witness had reported did actually match her registered plate ... now that was too much to be coincidence. Or was it? The kind of lawyers the Beaumonts could command would rip something so flimsy to shreds in no time. And then there was the fact that Walton was only pretty sure the person he saw come out of the Rawlings girl's room and get into the car was a man. Couldn't swear to it, but was pretty sure. Just like the letters on the license plate. It muddied things up. And Craig was right about one thing; their witness had two DUI convictions and hardly came across as a steady stalwart citizen. Who was to say that Walton hadn't already been drinking before he even got to the motel. Impaired recollection would be a stick of dynamite in front of a judge. Danny got up and moved across the room, easing past Craig and heading for the coffee pot. He murmured, “Not trying to be a sucker for a pretty face, but it's unlikely Cassandra Beaumont could have killed this woman anyway. If she weighs a hundred and twenty pounds, I'd be surprised. Sabrina Rawlings had thirty pounds at least on her and she was strangled. Tell me, if a much smaller man tried to take you out that way, don't you think you could struggle free?" “All right.” Craig turned in challenge, oblivious to the smoking pan of grease behind him. “Then who

stole her car and very nicely returned it? Because it was her car, I'm pretty sure of that much. No one local has wheels like that." “That doesn't matter, Ral, and you know it. Pretty sure means nothing. Beaumont had a point. There are other vehicles exactly like hers with Illinois plates out there." “Plates that start with the same three letters?" “We'll know that when we hear back from the Illinois BMV. Problem is ... your fairly unreliable eyewitness wasn't any too positive about those letters, was he? Show me a connection between someone in that house on Saturday night and the victim, and we can go from there.” Danny refilled his cup and moved to go sit back down by the window. “That's what you need." “Yeah,” Craig muttered sarcastically, “that'll be easy.” He apparently noticed the danger of imminent combustion behind him and jerked the pan off the stove, swearing when grease splashed on his hand. “Doesn't help that there were so many guests. Any one of them might have access to Mrs. Beaumont's purse and keys if they were interested enough in borrowing her car that they were willing to risk being seen going into her room." “And let's talk about that one, shall we? One of the Beaumont's guests as a suspect? What a nice can of tipped-over nightcrawlers that is.” Craig poured out the grease in the frying pan into a tin cup and reached for a carton of eggs. “For starters, sorry pal, but I have a hard time believing that a senator, or maybe a federal judge, or some executive officer of some huge company, is going to creep around that big barn of a house, stealing keys and cars so that they can risk their posh lifestyle by driving to some cheap motel and offing some poor ex-waitress.” After that long declaration, he determinedly dumped two eggs into the pan. “And if I have a hard time believing it, try the local district attorney." The chair underneath him creaked warningly as Danny shifted restlessly. “I agree we need a motive. Since she apparently wasn't robbed or sexually assaulted, then somewhere there is another reason someone wanted to kill Sabrina Rawlings." The ringing phone interrupted Craig's retort. Glancing at the clock on the front of the stove and frowning at the early hour, he grabbed the portable from the wall and jabbed at a button. “Ralston here." Danny watched curiously as his friend listened, punctuating the conversation with occasional short one word responses. An acrid smell began to fill the air and when Craig hung up the phone, Danny said mildly, “I think your eggs are burning, Ral." Craig gave him a grim smile, still holding the phone triumphantly in the air. “Who cares. Sabrina Rawlings’ sister is coming up to identify the body and she wants to talk to us. She swears she knows why her sister was murdered." **** Cassandra dreamily listened to the trees outside dripping onto the deck, the soft lovely rhythm as soothing as any lullaby, coming aware of her surroundings very slowly. Her lashes lifted, sank down, and with effort, lifted again. Somehow, she felt both lethargic and energized. At once, she came wide awake. The room was shrouded and gray, the drapes drawn across the French doors. In some confusion she sat up, realizing two things at once. This was not her room. This was Michael's room. And she was naked in his bed. Alone. The events of the night before came flooding back. Her face

heated at the memory. Her gaze flew to the crystal clock on the nightstand by the bed. It was nearly nine o'clock she saw with chagrin. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept past seven. Much less, the thought was ironic, in someone else's bed. The bathroom door was closed and suddenly the sound of water switched on in a gentle roar. The shower. Michael must be taking a shower. Michael. Dropping back onto the soft mattress and stretching out under the blankets, Cassandra felt a sort of decadent forbidden sense of enjoyment, not only of the slip of the sheets against her bare skin, but of the indulgence of staying in bed so late. The same kind of enjoyment she hadn't believed possible until the night before when Michael had touched her, and loved her, and ... given her something very precious. He'd given her back ... herself. It was an impulse that made her toss aside the covers and swing her legs over the side of the bed. Resisting the urge to reach down and snatch up her robe from where it lay in a puddle of silk on the floor, she padded nude across the room with just a minimum of self-consciousness and quietly grasped the bathroom door. The handle turned easily in her hand and she slipped inside. The room was a twin of the tiled bathroom off of her bedroom—large, cool, expensively convenient. In the wide mirror above the sink she could see herself, tumbled hair, bare flesh, and all. Yet the woman looking back at her was not the Cassandra Beaumont she usually saw reflected in the glass. This woman was softer, less haunted, not quite so brittle. Nevertheless, she wasn't sure she'd have the courage until she actually reached out and opened the shower door. A soft cloud of steam obscured her vision momentarily as she stepped in, the tile warm and wet beneath her bare feet. Blinking, she saw that Michael had turned toward her at the sound of the door opening, the spray hitting his back, a bar of soap in one hand. His dark hair was slick and wet, emphasizing the stark masculinity of his features, and in the confined space he suddenly seemed taller and broader than she remembered. Maybe this hadn't been such a wonderful impulse after all. Dark brows slowly lifted over blue eyes, not concealing his surprise. “Good morning." “Good morning.” She felt foolish, standing there holding the handle of the door. Being spontaneous with your lover was fine; failing in the middle of it was humiliating. He said pleasantly, “If you're coming in, I think it's a marvelous idea. If you've changed your mind, I'm disappointed but understand. Either way, do you mind closing the shower door? It's a little drafty." She did have the door still wide open. Swallowing, she pulled it closed, making her choice. Taking chances wasn't her strong suite but the night before it had been well worth it, hadn't it? Humid air settled over her skin and she could feel the warm deflected spray like a fine mist touching her arms and legs. The half-amused, half-tender look on Michael's face at her obvious hesitation made her give a weak laugh. “I'm not exactly sure what made me want to do this." “I am. Hopefully last night had something to do with it. Here.” He handed her the bar of soap and grinned. “Make yourself useful. Wash my back."

He turned, facing the spray. Stepping closer, Cassandra took a breath and felt a flutter of excitement deep in her stomach as she smoothed suds over well-defined muscles and smooth skin, taking her time. Her fingers grazed the span of his wide shoulders, the length of his arms, across tight buttocks and lean hips. She had never touched Robert in such a way, she had never wanted to. And the truth was, though she and Michael had been intimate the night before, she hadn't explored his body, not at all in the same way he had explored hers. She moved closer and the tips of her breasts touched his back, making her sharply draw her breath and step backwards. It was so new, so exciting, this longing, this desire to touch and be touched. She was still shy, still uncertain, still wary, but ... my God, she wanted him to touch her. “Turn around.” Her voice was unexpectedly husky and she fought the urge to clear her throat. He complied slowly and she began to soap the ridges of his chest, well-aware of his growing arousal, his heavy-lidded gaze watching her intently. “You must work out,” she murmured, admiring the bulges of muscle and flatness of his stomach. “Everyone in New York works out.” His voice sounded a little breathless. “It's practically a requirement of residence." She moved lower, her forearm brushed his erection and she could hear a swift intake of breath. “Cassie." Smiling, she innocently looked him in the eyes and did it again. “Yes?" “My turn,” he said abruptly and took the soap from her hand, tugging her around so that the warm stream of water gushed over her body. Cassandra arched her neck and let the water run through her hair, the sensation somehow completely different from the ordinary act she performed everyday. Especially with Michael's hands touching her—her breasts first, his hands moving sensuously, slick with soap, circling, cupping, teasing until her nipples were tight and straining. He moved to her shoulders and arms, then back again, the sensation so incredible that she bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. Gentle but firm, his hands glided over her back, pulling her into the circle of his arms. His mouth touched hers softly, lightly, the kiss as gentle and arousing as the sensation of water and the pressure of his hard flesh against her stomach—warmth, pleasure, anticipation. Michael's mouth slid to where the curve of her neck met her shoulder just as the fingers of one hand slipped between her legs. Her breath caught in her throat as he stroked and penetrated, holding her loosely with one arm around her waist, both of them covered with the streaming caress of the shower. A low moan escaped her lips, his touch both inexorably intimate and shockingly intense. Somewhere in the fogginess of conscious thought came the conclusion that he knew what he was doing a little too well, the spurt of jealousy a little surprise and quickly gone. At the moment, she thought dazedly as his fingers moved, she did not care where or how he learned how to elicit such sensation. Maybe later she would care. “Michael,” she panted his name, a plea. “I'm here,” he whispered in her ear, easing her out of the water, back against the wall of the shower. “Believe me, sweetheart, I'm right with you.” The feel of the cool tile was a little shock against her back, but it was quickly banished. His hands cupped her bottom, lifting and positioning her body and she clung to his shoulders, her face buried in the hollow of his throat. Slick heat, delicious friction, and the choppy sound of his breathing above the running water all combined with incredible pleasure. When Michael went rigid and cried out her name, she was already over the edge.

Not a bad impulse after all, she realized vaguely, drifting back into the moment, feeling limp and weak yet wonderful. Michael still held her, not withdrawing, and when he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, she felt as if he could see right through her. He said quietly, “I was afraid that this morning you would regret last night." She touched his cheek and smiled. “Obviously not. Do you?" “You're joking, right?” he said with flattering disbelief, his mouth curving into a rueful smile. “The fantasy didn't even come close to the reality, believe me. Remember me, the man who coveted his brother's wife?" She didn't want to think about Robert, she didn't want to think about how she'd hurt Michael all those years ago. Her hands were still resting on his shoulders and their bodies joined intimately so she knew he could feel the involuntary tremor that shook her body. Her smile was tremulous. “Sometimes when we wish for something, we're disappointed when we get it." “Do I seem disappointed?” His brows rose teasingly “Last night or a few minutes ago, was there even the vaguest hint of anything except utter enthusiasm?" “I'm not talking about sex, Michael.” She swallowed hard. He moved away then, releasing her body and moving back into the spray of water, saying abruptly, “I know you aren't." They had barely begun this relationship and already she'd been less than fair to him. Cassandra still leaned against the wall. “I have a lot of baggage I cart around these days, so ... if you want this just to be casual, a short affair, just sex, I understand. You won't hurt me.” It was a lie; she knew it even as the words slipped out. Michael shook out his hair and opened the shower door, reaching for a towel. Somehow by the set of his shoulders, she had the odd feeling she'd hurt him. He said, “We'll talk about this later. Right now, why don't you finish your shower." **** The woman was calm, controlled, but there was a belying quiver in her mouth and redness to her eyes that suggested sometime not so long ago, she had not been. Only an observer, Danny watched the restless motion of her hands across her knees, the shifting of her gaze from Craig to the county detective. For someone who had just identified the body of her murdered sister, she wasn't doing too badly. He'd seen worse in his career, much worse. She said dully, “Sabrina was in over her head this time, wasn't she?" There were sitting in the drab little square room that served as the station, the walls dingy and yellowing, the sound of rain tapping at the high small windows. The place smelled musty and the shift in temperature from warm sunshine to damp and dismal didn't help matters. Craig's desk was a mess as always, scattered with papers and empty plastic coffee cups, but huddled in a chair next to it, Linda Rawlings didn't seem to notice her inauspicious surroundings. “In over her head?” Craig prompted. She moved at the question. “I suppose you know she used to work in one of those places. Dancing for money, taking her clothes off. She called herself Sunshine, like a stage name. God, if Mom or Dad were still alive, they would have shit.” A half-sob came from her parted lips. “She was a dancer?” Craig scribbled down the information.

“Exotic dancer. She'd quit some time ago. A good thing, it only got her in trouble. She waited tables for this past year or so. Some place called Marino's." Craig said evenly, “Then you know your sister had a criminal record, Miss Rawlings?" “Yes." “Let's see.” His chair creaked as he rifled through a stack of papers and took one out. “Small stuff, really. Misdemeanors, one felony charge that was plea bargained, but she does have two convictions and served time in jail twice." Her body stiffened defensively. “She was a good kid. She got a little off track now and then because of the drugs, but she was sweet and funny and—” Her voice cracked and she stopped talking with a huge swallow. And is now dead, Danny thought sadly. “We are here to help, you know.” Craig leaned forward just slightly, looking sympathetic. “Would you like a drink of water?" “No thanks.” The response was low. Linda Rawlings's lashes fluttered a little and she swallowed again. “I'm okay, it's just that Sabrina is the victim here. Do we need to talk about her problems? I mean, what's the point of that? You're acting like it's her fault she's dead." Craig, as a small-town and over-worked police officer, had been assigned some help in the investigation, a detective from the county sheriff's department introduced as Jake Jobe. He was short, overweight, and not too many years away from retirement. A white shirt bulged untidily over the waistband of rumpled dark slacks, there was a grease stain on his garish tie, and his thick iron-gray hair looked like it hadn't been brushed after he got out of bed. He was a decided contrast to Craig with his immaculate uniform, wiry build, and bald head. However, Danny had found that a person's eyes often told you a lot about them and a clear, shrewd gaze stared back from Jobe's plump face. Clearing his throat, Jobe spoke for the first time. “Yes, ma'am, she is the victim. We won't lose sight of that, I promise you. However, someone had a motive, something we can't see right away from the evidence we found with her body, for killing her. The more we understand about her life, the better. Now, just a second ago you said she was in over her head this time. Does that mean you know of something she might have been involved in, something potentially dangerous?" Sitting in the chair, Miss Rawlings took her time, thinking over her answer, staring at her hands clasped loosely in her lap. In her life, pictures told them that Sabrina had been pretty, if a bit full blown in the figure, with long brown hair. Linda was thinner and her hair was a darker shade, but Danny thought that she might also be attractive if she weren't so shocked and transformed by grief. She said finally, “You have to understand, Brie wasn't practical. That's how she got into those scrapes, the drug possession, the dealing charge. Even when we were growing up, she wanted it to be easy.” Finally lifting her head, she glanced around the room, as if willing them to understand. “Cheating on exams at school, that sort of thing. Anything to avoid work." Danny gave a slight nod as that red-rimmed gaze fastened on him, encouraging her. It seemed to work. She continued to stare at him, looking desperate. “I told her she was being stupid, to just walk away, but she apparently didn't listen." Craig's chair creaked again as he moved. “Stupid about what, Miss Rawlings?" “I don't know the scheme exactly. It involved her roommate, or I guess I should say ex-roommate, Nicole Rice. They knew each other from high school and Nicole was the worst influence possible on Brie. She was a lot like my sister, bright but always working an angle. I knew Sabrina first hooked up

with drugs because of Nicole." Neither Craig nor Jobe looked openly skeptical, though Danny was sure that's how they felt. He'd heard it himself just too many times, parents or other family blaming someone else for the downfall of a loved one. Though he was supposed to be mainly a silent observer, the witness was talking directly to him and Danny prompted quietly, “Scheme?" Linda Rawlings compressed her pale lips and said bitterly, “They had one. All Sabrina would tell me when she quit her waitressing job was the she and Nicole had this great ‘idea'—something to do with something that happened where Nicole worked. She started borrowing money left and right, running up her credit cards. All she did was laugh and tell me everything was going to be fine, she'd pay it all off." Craig observed dryly, “Sounds like she thought she might come into some money." “Yes. I couldn't help but think that myself.” All the misery of her worry for the wayward Sabrina came through in the huskiness of her voice. Jobe clicked the pen in his hand. “Sounds like we might want to start with Nicole Rice. Can you give us her address and place of employment, Miss Rawlings?" A hopeless laugh came from the woman's throat. For a second Danny thought Linda Rawlings might actually yield to hysteria and start weeping right in front of them. Instead, she straightened in the uncomfortable chair, and shook her head. Her eyes held a watery sheen. “Her address is a cemetery somewhere on the south side of Chicago and I never paid attention to where she worked. But her parents could probably tell you. I did take the time to go through Brie's stuff and find their number for you." Craig's pale eyes narrowed. “Nicole Rice is dead?" Linda laughed again, the sound crawling along Danny's spine it was so hollow with grief and malice. “Yes, drug overdose. The bitch finally screwed herself instead of everyone else." Chapter 13 Stanley Ransom tapped his pen along the edge of his jaw, frowning. He wasn't at all sure if his fatherin-law would appreciate his place behind the big desk, but Gerald was away and he rather liked sitting in the big chair. His gaze dropped to the phone, then lifted again. He stared out the huge windows at the diminishing rain falling across the lake below. It was only sprinkling now, but the skies were still dark and gloomy. He had always loved the way the water turned opaque as burnished steel under the onslaught of weather like this, how it seemed something completely different, something foreign and untouchable. Untouchable. This entire business was untouchable. His fingers toyed with the handle of his cup of coffee. He'd been up for hours and the influx of caffeine was starting to make his hands shake. Anne was still in bed, comfortably curled under the blankets, undoubtedly dreaming peacefully of her triumphant announcement party. It had been such a typically Beaumont production: flashy, expensive, and hugely successful. Her party nomination was in the bag, if the support of those important few who were invited could be seen as a gauge of general opinion— unless, of course, disaster in the form of a juicy public scandal fell down upon them like a carrion bird on a rotting carcass. Not, he thought with detached practicality, that he believed for a minute the police could ever link someone like Cassandra with a crime that involved cold-blooded murder. He'd known well before she'd

married Robert that she didn't possess the edge of steel necessary to deal in the same leagues with the Beaumonts. Oh, he liked her well enough, always had. But, the trouble was, she was ... nice, poor girl. Sweet and honest and fragile, and best of all, she looked the part. Even when he and Anne had walked in the day before and seen the two officers perched in the living room questioning her about her car, he'd seen that both men were uncomfortable and solicitous, not wanting to upset her too much. That damned car. How unfortunate was it going to be that both Michael and Cassandra disappeared sometime during the party and she had never reappeared? He hadn't, Stan mused morosely, even realized that until Anne had told him about it. Dammit it all. The phone on the desk began to ring then, a shrill high sound and his hand shot out to pick up the handset. This had better be good news... **** Craig replaced the receiver and Danny didn't need to be clairvoyant to read both apprehension and satisfaction in his friend's expression. Leaning back in his old chair so that it creaked abrasively, Craig said quietly, “Well, you wanted it. Now, it seems, I've got it." At least, Danny thought remotely as he looked at the tiny window above the desk, it had quit raining. Maybe they could take the boat out later and do a little trolling. It was supposed to warm up and another front was headed their way. Reluctantly, he asked, “Okay, what do you have?" “A Goddamned, all-fired, life-complicating connection between Sabrina Rawlings, aka Sunshine, the exotic dancer, and the Beaumonts." Unwillingly amused, Danny eyed the remains of their lunch, dry sandwiches from the supermarket counter and lukewarm coffee that added debris to the already unruly piles all over Craig's desk. So much for Lynchburg's famous walleye and a cold beer. Maybe it wasn't her fault, but Sabrina Rawlings was ruining his vacation. He murmured, “You don't sound too happy to be making progress so quickly." “Nothing will be quick about this if it involves a murder investigation and the Beaumont family." Now that was undoubtedly true. He'd been quietly sitting and pondering as much while Craig made half a dozen phone calls. Stretching out a little and flexing his stiff muscles, Danny stifled a sigh. “So, what is it? Tell me about this magic connection." Rubbing at the stubble on his jaw, Craig furrowed his brow. “Nicole Rice was some sort of public relations intern and she—get this—worked for Robert Beaumont. Not him personally, of course. But for his campaign office." Outside, the whoosh of cars passing on the wet street came faintly. Danny admitted, “That's something. However, a lot of people must work there." “Yeah, well, apparently she held some sort of position where she came in contact with the senator-elect on a regular basis. Her parents were pretty proud of it, of her. They didn't want to talk about the overdose, of course, but her mother told me they didn't think she was using anymore." “Guess they were wrong." “Guess so.” Gloomily. Danny sighed inwardly and resigned himself to the notion that a quiet mist-covered lake and a fishing pole were not likely in his immediate future. “All right. So what we have is Robert Beaumont possibly knowing Nicole Rice, Rice definitely knowing Sabrina, and Sabrina ending up dead here just miles

from the Beaumont estate ... at the same time the family is all in residence." “Plus we have her sister's conviction that Sabrina was into some sort of deal with Nicole Rice to make some easy money, something to do with her work, and her work being getting Beaumont elected to office." “And the fact that the victim had no solid reason we know of to come to such a remote place and get a motel room,” Danny finished thoughtfully. “Plus, of course, Cassandra's car being spotted at the motel at the time when the murder was likely committed." It was too much now, he had to admit silently to himself, to ignore. And yet, they had nothing solid. No real evidence other than one badly smeared footprint on the sidewalk outside the girl's room and an unreliable drunk who swore he saw someone coming out of her room and getting into a flashy car. “Maybe,” he said heavily, “you need to talk to Mrs. Beaumont again." **** The rain had left a legacy of dripping branches and cool, sweet-smelling air. Outside the gazebo, the forest was silent yet alive with subtle movement. Michael sat in his chair and stared at the half-formed image on the canvas, trying to clear his mind so he could work. He needed to do some shading, he told himself, maybe some ocher to enhance the color of her hair ... he picked up a brush and dabbed at the palette, then turned to the picture. The thin stick of the brush hung in his fingers. Familiar, yet he ridiculously wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Concentrate, he told himself fiercely. It was impossible. If you want this to be casual, just sex, you won't hurt me. With a sigh, Michael set aside the brush. Playing his next hand of cards was an interesting puzzle. Trying to judge in a detached way how to handle the conversation he was sure that he and Cassandra needed to have was beyond difficult. It was outright impossible. Last night had changed everything irrevocably between them. He didn't know what she wanted. Worse, he wasn't just sure what he wanted. However, it wasn't casual sex. Oh, hell yes, the sex had been good, it had been fantastic, in fact, but he hadn't ever been one to hop from bed to bed anyway. Considering how he felt about Cassandra, it wouldn't be possible to be so callous. Her half-formed image in front of him both mocked and beckoned. He wasn't satisfied with the way the picture was going; surely her mouth was softer, her eyes less shadowed... The scrape of a shoe against stone made him shift and turn. Cassandra came down the steps from the house as quickly as possible in her high heels, carefully ducking to avoid low hanging branches still laden with rain. The dark blue gown concealed the body he now knew so well and her shining, dark blond hair swung past her slim shoulders. Opening the screen door and stepping inside, she said a little breathlessly, smiling, “I'm late again I know, but your mother called. They expect to be back around five. She claims Tim is having a great time and being an angel." Her son, his brother's son—that was yet another complication. There was a child involved in this equation, someone else to possibly get hurt. Michael said with as little inflection as possible, “I expect you'll feel relieved to have him back here, safe and sound. Sit down, please." Perching on the stool, she blinked quickly at his moody tone. “I've already told you, it isn't that I don't

trust your parents—" “I know.” He didn't mean for the interruption to be so abrupt. Taking a breath, he attempted a smile and moderately succeeded. “Sorry." Her gray-green gaze was both understanding and confused at the same time. “Are you angry for some reason?" “No.” He picked up the brush he had just discarded, looked at the picture, looked back at Cassandra's uncertain expression, and set the brush aside for the second time. “Who am I fooling,” he murmured almost to himself. “I can't paint right now." “Michael." He could hear the way she said his name, almost imploring him to give her room, to not push her, but he ignored it. “Look, Cassie, last night was a good start, a very good start. But you need to know; I'm not at all good at dealing with secrets or unanswered questions. I like things clear. I like to know where I am." She looked away in an unconscious quick mannerism that always made his heart hurt a little bit. Smoothing her hands over the skirt of her silky dress, she said quietly, “You know all my secrets now, Michael." “Do I?' “Yes. Robert. My awful marriage. The blackmail.” She gave a little laugh, not amused, half-bitter. “That's enough for one person to handle, isn't it?" “Let's not forget your car in the parking lot of the Woodland Motel in the middle of the night." She stared then, looking back at him, her eyes widening. “I don't know anything about that." He hadn't really meant to bring up that subject, but it was bothering him, like an angry fly buzzing at a window. Shaking his head, he leaned back in the chair and brooded at the gray waves lapping at the shore below. He needed to tell her ... a lot of things. He needed to tell her that he wasn't interested in her generous offer of a casual fling. He needed to explain that the realization of Robert's abuse set him free from a six-year affliction of guilt and frustrated desire. What was worse, he needed to tell her to move to New York, right away—into his apartment, into his bed, into his life. Because he was still in love with her. And if he said all of that, he would be every bit as bad as Robert had ever been, trying to steamroll a confused, hurt, and vulnerable woman into doing what he wanted, without ever finding out just what she wanted. Damn. The air smelled heavy with sap and wet earth. He hadn't actually thought about her being cold in her skimpy dress, but she probably was. With conscious control, he let out his breath. Then he said, “All right, secrets aside, how about unanswered questions." Her brows winged together. “Such as?” It was a cautious inquiry. Sitting on the stool, Cassandra looked very lovely and very wary. “Why I don't need to use a condom." He'd thought she might flinch away from such a direct query, but instead she just looked at him with those unusual beautiful eyes, unmoving.

Watching her expression, he added slowly, “I'm pretty sure someone who has not been sexually active in a long time wouldn't take oral contraceptives or carry a diaphragm. Am I right?" “Yes.” No hesitation. “Well?" “I would like to have another baby.” Her smile was faint and the soft corners of her mouth trembled. “If I got pregnant, I would be happy about it. So ... why use anything?" For such a staggering decision that might change their lives forever, she certainly looked serene. Michael said hoarsely, “Did it occur to you to ask me about how I might feel about the subject?" That half-smile vanished. Her lashes lowered minutely. “A long deep discussion on the possibility of parenthood would have been out of the question at that particular moment, don't you think?" She was exactly right, of course. If he'd wanted to ask questions, if he'd found it possible to stop in the middle of making love to the woman of his dreams to insist on an explanation ... he should have done it then. And in the shower this morning, he could have brought up the subject before it went too far for him to care one way or the other. Cassandra said softly, “I ... I didn't realize this would make you unhappy, Michael. Trust me, it isn't some sort of plot to ... to trap you into something you don't want, I hope you know me that well. I'm raising Timmy on my own;, I could do it with another child." Was that what she'd wanted from him? A baby? A wicked grinding uncertainty, one he never knew existed deep inside him, made him ask coldly, “Was that what it was all about, Cassie?" “What?” She looked startled. “What do you mean?" “Did you come to my room last night, the shower this morning, all because you want to be pregnant again and I'm a convenient sperm donor?" He regretted the words almost as soon as they were said. Stupid ass, he admonished himself as he watched the color and animation drain from her face. She stood up very quickly. The breeze coming up from the lake through the screen ruffled her skirt against the slender length of her long legs. Her chest lifted as she took a deep, deep breath. “If you knew how difficult it was for me to trust you last night, Michael, you would know how ridiculous that question actually is. No,” she lifted her hand sharply as he opened his mouth, “let me finish. You asked, I'll answer." That was only fair. Sitting in his chair by the easel, he made an inarticulate sound of agreement. Pale and regal, she faced him, chin up, eyes steady. She said slowly, “We have a long way to go. I guess I should expect that. You don't trust me and I can't say I don't deserve it. But, please understand, I came to you last night because seeing you these past few days, being with you, having you ... touch me, all of those things reminded me of what I once was. Of, perhaps, what could be. You offered freedom from the past, my past." “Cassie—” He stood up. “I needed you and you gave me what I wanted, tenderness and pleasure and ... everything. Maybe I am guilty of using you, but it didn't feel that way. I didn't intend it that way.” Her voice thickened with tears. “And by the way, if a woman wants a baby in this modern age, she can get pregnant without having to crawl into bed with someone." Of, perhaps, what could be ... had she really said that? He felt his heart tighten with hope.

She turned to leave. Her hand was on the handle of the door. He'd done this, after all that had happened between them; he'd destroyed the magic with one foolish accusation based solely on his own doubts. “I'm sorry." “Maybe we both should be.” Her voice was almost tired. “I love you, Cassie." In the act of opening the screen, she froze. He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, especially when he'd just so obviously hurt and insulted her, but the words came out anyway. He repeated softly, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to act like such an idiot.” Raggedly, he added, “But you need to know I'm scared as hell of feeling this way when I'm not sure how you feel. And it's all mixed up with a thousand other things too, like Robert and our separate lives and your son." She turned, and the tears he'd seen filling her eyes were running in streaks down her cheeks. “Oh, Michael." He wasn't aware that he'd crossed the room until he realized he was looking down into her eyes, the fingers of one hand touching her cheek, gently wiping away warm wetness. She'd had enough weeping for a lifetime and he felt acutely guilty to contribute, especially when she'd arrived so cheerful and happy. “I'm sorry,” he said for the third time and bent his head to kiss her very lightly. But she didn't want lightly. To his surprise, her mouth parted under his and her arms went around his neck, tightly, almost frantically. It wasn't a fervent declaration of love, but he'd take it. **** The steps were cleverly constructed to be elegant and rustic all at once. Probably not something, Danny thought wryly as he followed Craig down, easy to do. Something only some sort of fancy landscape specialist could achieve. The material looked like gray slate and the path staggered down the hillside in a slow winding pattern toward the water, punctuated by flowers blooming at every curve. He could also see the jut of a dock below and the roof of the gazebo where they'd been informed, Mrs. Beaumont was sitting for a portrait. The expression on Craig Ralston's face had been priceless when he'd heard that bit of news. “A portrait?” He said to Danny incredulously once they were outside and headed toward the lake. “Who the hell has their portrait painted these days?" “Very beautiful, very rich widows of important men, I'd guess.” Danny had laughed. Only portrait painting didn't seem to be what was going on in the gazebo. The building was a good-sized, octagon affair that sat amid the trees and had a fantastic view of the water and forest. A fair distance higher than the dock and boathouse, it was almost all screens and windows and a similar set of steps veered off the path and led to the building. Which was occupied by two people obviously having some sort of heated argument. Going first down the steps, Craig stopped abruptly when he saw them and Danny paused on the step behind him. From his vantage point, Danny could see through the thin mesh screens that Cassandra Beaumont was standing by the door. She was crying, the unmistakable gleam of wetness on her face a dead giveaway that the conversation wasn't a pleasant one. Nor did the stiffness of the way her brotherin-law held himself contribute to the illusion of a casual talk.

Their voices drifted in the cool wet afternoon, impassioned words floating out of the tall screens. “I'm sorry ... Oh, Michael." Feeling like a voyeur, Danny watched as Beaumont moved forward, speaking softly, tenderly touching the crying woman's wet cheek, and then they were suddenly in each other's arms, kissing passionately. An interesting little tableau, he thought with detachment. Michael Beaumont so obviously in love with his dead brother's wife; Danny had seen that clearly on their previous visit. And despite whatever they'd been discussing that she'd found so distressing, she was hardly objecting, her fingers threaded through his hair, her arms around his neck... And when the hell, it was an unwanted intrusion of realization, was the last time he'd kissed Laura like that? He couldn't remember. Had he ever kissed her with quite that amount of hunger? Maybe that was part of why he'd lost her. Craig muttered something under his breath and reached over to pluck a smooth rock from a carefully orchestrated tumble of landscaping around a mound of budding daisies. Tossing the rock in an arc, he looked pleased when it clattered across the gazebo walk with a satisfying volume of noise. The two people inside sprang apart. It was a tell-tale guilty movement and Danny would almost have been tempted to amusement ... except he was dwelling unwillingly on the head-on slam of truth about his relationship with his ex-wife and the situation suddenly didn't seem funny at all. Quickly striding down the steps, Craig called out, “Mrs. Beaumont, Officer Ralston again. We have a few more questions if you don't mind." To say that they'd caught the couple off-guard was putting it mildly. When Danny and Craig pushed open the door of the gazebo and stepped inside, Michael Beaumont looked as if he wouldn't mind both of their hearts on a platter, his mouth a grim flat line. Cassandra Beaumont was trying to surreptitiously wipe the tears from her now very pink cheeks. “Sorry to interrupt.” Craig was trying to be polite, but it was the wrong thing to say. Beaumont, clad in well-worn, paint-stained jeans and an old soft gray tee-shirt, gave a small mirthless laugh and shook his head. He said grimly, “You guys certainly have interesting timing. More questions? Like what?" The furniture that normally occupied the space had been all pushed into one corner, leaving a stool in the middle of the room and a chair and easel in one corner. Michael Beaumont, Danny vaguely remembered reading once, was an artist of some renown, quite the contrast to his very political family. Interesting. He couldn't see the picture from where he stood, but he'd like to catch a glimpse. Craig pointed at the tumble of chairs. “Do you ... er ... mind? Maybe we could all sit down for a minute." Cassandra seemed to have regained a little bit of her composure. She nodded her head and moved to sit on the stool where she'd obviously been posing earlier, crossing her slender legs. She wore a gown in some sort of silky dark blue material that bared smooth shoulders and gave contrast to her shining honey hair, the effect very pleasing to an appreciative male eye. Unless, of course, you saw the way she compressed her mouth to keep her lips from trembling and the smudges around her eyes. Scraping a chaise lounge across the floor a few feet and plunking down, Craig cleared his throat. Danny chose to stay standing. Craig was uncomfortable, he'd made no bones about that ever since the Beaumont name surfaced in the case, and he looked it. Danny could see the beginnings of sweat rings

under the arms of his uniform shirt. He wasted no time. “Er, is it possible, Mrs. Beaumont, for someone besides yourself to have access to your car keys during that party you've mentioned?" “I just put them in my purse. I leave my purse sitting on the dresser in my room. So I suppose it would be." “How long were you out of your room that evening?" “For hours. At least until after midnight." “But you didn't see anyone going into your room, didn't notice your purse had been moved or that the keys were gone?” Craig shifted on the dusty chaise and it creaked loudly. Blond hair brushed her shoulders as she shook her head. “No." Danny tried not to openly wince when Craig asked without any finesse, “Do you know a woman named Nicole Rice?" The only real reaction was a widening of Mrs. Beaumont's eyes but it was enough. However, she shook her head. “Know her? No." Danny spoke before Craig could say anything else, “But you do recognize her name.” He made it a statement of fact with his tone. Her gaze shifted to him, shimmering green, an unusual color like clear lake water. She swallowed. “Yes. She worked in my husband's campaign office as an administrative assistant, I believe. I recognize her name because she died and it was in the paper." It was a straightforward answer, and reasonable. Standing restlessly by the stool, Michael Beaumont's face had lost all expression, almost carefully so, which was telling. The hostility completely gone from his voice, he said, “What does Nicole Rice have to do with the woman who was killed?" Craig apparently saw no harm in telling them the truth. “The two of them were roommates back in Chicago." The widow of Senator Robert Beaumont should certainly never gamble anything more than a few pennies on a hand of poker. Her expression went from puzzled to rigid as she made some sort of visible convulsive mental leap. To Danny it was unmistakable, it was pay dirt, and Craig must have seen it, too. He said harshly and way too quickly, “I think you'd better tell us what you know about what happened to Sabrina Rawlings, Mrs. Beaumont." “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” An unfamiliar voice spoke, making them all jump. Danny turned and saw a pleasant-looking man approaching down the slate steps, maybe late forties, with fair thinning hair and a faint smile on his almost nondescript face. He wore well-tailored slacks and an open-necked shirt, both in shades of tan, which suited his unremarkable looks. Opening the door to the gazebo and stepping inside, the man offered Danny his hand first, as he was the closest. “Good afternoon. I'm Stan Ransom, Cassandra's brother-in-law." Automatically, Danny shook his hand, which proved to be unexpectedly firm. “Mr. Ransom." Sitting on the half-folded chaise, Craig impatiently began to say, “Look, Mrs. Beaumont—" “Cassandra isn't saying another word, understand? Not one more, not without a lawyer present.” Still pleasant, still smiling, there was surprising steel in Ransom's voice. He added lightly, “Or at least

another lawyer present. Is there anything else I can do for you?" Another lawyer. That explained that look, that confidence. Shit, Danny thought with amusement. A lawyer who wants to call in more lawyers. Michael Beaumont, to his mind, looked visibly relieved at his brother-in-law's arrival. Craig stood up. “If you would volunteer a guest list for your little get-together here Saturday night, that would be helpful. Maybe the names of anyone else, caterers, household staff, that sort of thing. Anyone and everyone who might have access to Mrs. Beaumont's keys besides herself." “Do you have exceptionally good evidence that you need such a list?” Ransom sounded friendly and unthreatening in contrast to his words. He didn't bother to point out that a lot of very important people might not be happy over being questioned in connection with a murder. “Even with the description, I understand that a license plate check of the reported numbers came up with several possibilities besides my-sister-in-law's car." “How do you know that?" “I have friends.” It was an amused comment. Craig had sweat on his upper lip now. “I'll tell you what I have. I have a victim with a roommate that used to work for Robert Beaumont. I have her here in my jurisdiction and,” he cleared his throat, “I have her dead." Stan Ransom didn't blink. “But no physical evidence, no reliable eyewitnesses." Ransom had friends indeed if he already knew about Paul Walton's drinking problem and the fact that as a witness, he was hardly first-rate. Craig glanced over and Danny saw the electric frustration in his eyes. “Could you see your way clear to perhaps cooperating to the extent of giving us that list, sir? We promise to be discreet." Ransom laughed lightly. “Our lawyers will be in touch." Chapter 14 For whatever reason, Cassandra felt like a child who had done something naughty. Sick to her stomach, off-balance and defensive. First, the police had walked in on her and Michael in each other's arms. Then Stan had found her talking to the police. All four men made her feel on edge, and the earlier scene with Michael had been achingly awful. Until he'd said he loved her. He loved her. But she couldn't think about that now, her mind was still numb. Both of the policemen had gone. And none of it, not the argument, the kiss, or the inquisitive police, mattered. Because she now knew that Sabrina Rawlings was probably the woman on the phone, undoubtedly the blackmailer. That it was Sabrina who had gotten the pictures from Nicole, or even been the one to take the pictures, and she had been the person who had made those terrible calls, asked for all the money. And someone had killed her. Cassandra's head ached, a throb beginning at her temples. The trees dripped steadily. Sitting on the stool, face averted, she knew both Stan and Michael were watching her.

“Why don't you,” Stan's voice was characteristically mild, “tell me what the two of you might already have said." It wasn't that she wasn't grateful for Stan, with his calm approach and no-nonsense style coming to her rescue; it was just that the information about Nicole Rice and Sabrina Rawlings was just so shocking. She shook her head. “Nothing, really." “Nothing? The bald one looked like he'd just found Jimmy Hoffa's body." Michael said in an odd inflection, “She's right. They'd just gotten here." The off-key tone of his voice wasn't a surprise, really. He knew about the blackmail, she'd just told him as she'd lain in his arms the night before. And Michael was an intelligent man. He had to be thinking exactly the same thing she was thinking. Oh God. If the police found out about what Sabrina Rawlings had been up to, if they discovered why she'd followed Cassandra up to Michigan, then suddenly Cassandra had a pretty solid motive for murder. Outside the rain still dripped slowly ... very slowly, from the trees. She could hear it hitting the roof of the gazebo in a gentle pattern and concentrated on listening to it, trying to tune out her churning emotions. It should have been soothing. Instead, she shivered, suddenly cold from head to toe. Michael's hand fell, warm and firm on her bare shoulder. She could feel the tensile strength of his fingers against her skin, taut and with the slightest pressure of reassurance. He asked, “What's this about her license plate?" Stan shrugged negligently, pulling it off except for the lines drawn from his nose to the corners of his mouth. “As you already know, the police have an eyewitness who says he saw a car the make and model of Cassandra's and it had Illinois plates. The first three letters he remembers match her plate, that's all." “All?” It was a small explosion of sound. Michael's fingers twitched against her bare flesh. “How can that be unless someone took her car? The odds must be huge that there could be two cars up here, same everything, including the color, and both of them have Illinois plates that start with the same three letters. It's ridiculous to even imagine it." “Ridiculous maybe. But it's up to the police with the cooperation of the Bureau of Motor Vehicles in Chicago to find out if it is possible. There must be hundreds, maybe even thousands of cars just like Cassandra's sold to people in Illinois every year." Michael lifted his hand from her shoulder and shoved it through his hair. “Listen, Stan, quit the lawyer crap for five seconds, will you? Someone must have taken her car. And it was possible, we know that. There were a dozen cars parked in the drive, hell, maybe more. Any number of people could have taken the keys and left in the middle of the night, as long as they were careful to replace the keys in her purse at some time. Which means a murderer was here at this house Saturday night." “It means nothing of the sort.” The reply was unexpectedly sharp and Cassandra heard Stan take a slow inward breath, his expression fading from annoyance to bland again. “Sorry, I know you're worried, but relax. My source tells me that the police have nothing solid. No physical evidence whatsoever, and they aren't going to find any. All they have is a tentative identification of a car that isn't the only one of its kind, and that's by an old drunk. If Cassandra never met this Rawlings woman, it doesn't matter who her roommate might have been. She's innocent and the police aren't as stupid as they come across in the movies. She wasn't there and they can't place her there. End of story."

He was right, of course. She hadn't killed anyone, so how could they prove she did. Even as she took a grateful breath of relief, Stan continued inexorably, “However, the less said the better. You don't have to prove your innocence, Cassandra; they have to prove your guilt, which they can't do. Don't give them any information that might make them delve deeper, and for God's sake don't agree to let them go over your car. That's just the sort of thing that the press can sink their teeth into and twist into an ugly and very public knot. Think about it, all they have to say is that you aren't a real suspect in this murder but are fully cooperating with the police ... and they are off the hook. They haven't implied you're a suspect, yet if they are going over your car with a crime scene unit, it sure as hell looks bad." The press. She shuddered, remembering snapping cameras and people in cars camped outside her door for weeks. In a dull murmur, she said, “Don't worry I won't." “Don't worry, she won't.” Michael repeated the words hollowly. Glancing up at his set face, Cassandra saw he was staring at his sister's husband with a jaded smile quivering on his lips. “Don't worry,” he said again, softly, cynically “she won't hurt Anne's chances for governor. Because that's what it all comes down to, doesn't it? Your efforts at damage control." “Jesus, Michael.” Standing by the doorway to the gazebo, Stan compressed his mouth and shook his head. “I'm trying to help—" “Anne. You're trying to help Anne." He must have struck a nerve because Stan stiffened suddenly. His gaze swept from where Cassandra sat on the stool up to Michael and then back. He said angrily, “Look, you distance yourself from this family, Michael, I don't. I want what's best for Anne, of course, she's my wife. But I also want Cassandra to avoid any unnecessary publicity. That's all." It was what she wanted too, oh, so much. But, Cassandra thought drearily, there was a woman dead. It didn't matter if she'd been a blackmailer; she'd still had a right to life that no one else should take away. It was hard to forget that. Shouldn't there be justice for Sabrina Rawlings? **** Craig slammed the door to his patrol car so hard it actually rocked the vehicle. He said through his teeth, “If I find out who leaked information from the sheriff's office, I'm going to go down their throats with both my feet. That's one good thing about having a small department, you can pretty much figure out who knows what. It didn't come from Lynchburg so I know it came from County, those bastards.” Without waiting for a comment, he strode off toward the cabin and went up the porch steps two at a time, angrily rubbing the back of his neck. In sympathetic humor, Danny followed at a slower pace. That, he thought with an inward sigh, was another investigation altogether. Law enforcement was as susceptible to corruption as any branch of the government. Undoubtedly the Beaumonts had the connections to trickle down pressure to the local powers that be at whatever level they needed. It was unfair, but it just was. Inside, Craig had dragged a small suitcase out from under his bed. Through the open door, Danny could see his friend tossing some clothes carelessly inside, then heading down the short hallway to the bathroom. Taking a neutral position by just sitting down at the kitchen table, he murmured in his most reasonable tone, “Do you really think you should go to Chicago without at least telling Jobe?" Craig emerged from the bathroom with a tube of toothpaste in his hand and a shaving kit under his arm.

He snarled, “So that he can run and tell every little detail to ‘friends’ of the Beaumonts? Come on, Danny. Didn't you just see me get shut down by that smug bastard Ransom not a half an hour ago? For your information, I didn't enjoy it." “Jobe is supposed to be your partner. You don't know exactly who is talking to Ransom's contact." “Nope, I don't. And because I don't, I'm not taking any more chances on missing a chance to make some progress in this case. Cassandra Beaumont knows something about this, you saw her face when I mentioned the Rice woman.” Craig disappeared back into the bedroom and the sound of his suitcase snapping closed came through the open doorway. “Yeah,” Danny muttered, looking out the window at the wet trees, “I saw her face." Suitcase in hand, Craig came into the tiny kitchen. His expression was somber, the anger dying a little out of his eyes. He said, “I've got to find something physical. Something solid. Some sort of evidence telling us why Sabrina Rawlings decided to make the trip up here." “Yes, you do.” Danny smiled thinly. “But I get the feeling that besides Linda Rawlings, you're the only one who wants you to come up with that evidence." “Oh, yes, I realize that, that's why I'm glad Sabrina's sister gave me the go ahead to do a search without the crap of having to wait for a warrant. Looking through her apartment is the logical next step; you of all people know that. It appears that a lot of people could have taken Mrs. Beaumont's car Saturday night if they were willing to take a risk. The housekeeper said the party went late, some people left, some stayed up and drank and talked, some went to bed. In other words, opportunity to bag that car and come and go unnoticed is wide open." “It looks that way.” They'd been lucky that Ransom hadn't come on the scene when they'd first arrived at the house. Mrs. Conner, who said she'd worked as a housekeeper for the Beaumonts for years, gave them at least a few details about the party. “I need a motive, Danny. That girl is dead because someone wanted her dead. I want to know why. Maybe her apartment has the answer to that.” Craig glanced around the interior of the cabin at the somewhat shabby furnishings, the windows still streaked with rain, the stack of dishes in the sink from breakfast. He said sheepishly, “The place is kind of a wreck, isn't it? I guess I'm a lousy host, huh?" Danny grinned at that, shaking his head. “I came up here to fish. I plan on spending this evening on the river, doing just that. You've got a job to do, that's fine with me, Ral. I'll do a few dishes later." A nod. “Wish me luck in Chicago." Considering the complications of the case, Danny wished him a miracle. **** She didn't have much time. Checking her watch, Cassandra had an almost eerie feeling as she unlocked her car and slid into the driver's seat. Was it possible that a murderer had sat in the very same spot, put their fingers on the steering wheel, and driven off to carry out a heinous agenda? Nonsense. It couldn't have been her car. But whatever Michael had said earlier made so much sense ... coincidence was one thing, but... Quickly swallowing, she shook off the sensation of sick speculation and inserted the ignition key with trembling fingers. She might be making the most foolish mistake of her life. And that even included disregarding her

feelings for Michael all those years ago and marrying Robert instead. Could she go more wrong than that? She thought wryly as she started the car and eased it down the long drive—hopefully not. Once past the gates she wound down the road, almost breathing a sigh of relief to leave behind the tense atmosphere of Thirty Birches. She'd only told Mrs. Conner that she was leaving the estate, not even giving Michael an idea of where she might be going for fear he would protest and she was unsure enough about what she was doing. By the time Gerald and Marie got back, it might just be too late. It had to be now if she was going to do this, that seemed clear. According to the phonebook, Craig Ralston, Chief of the Lynchburg police, lived down a small lane off of the county highway near the Prairie River. Almost missing the battered mailbox that marked the entrance to the small drive, Cassandra turned and bumped along a rutted driveway closely lined with white pine and hemlock whose dripping branches gave the illusion that it was still raining. The house itself was a former vacation cottage, one of the ones built back in the forties or fifties; wooden weathered walls, pitched tar and shingle roof, small windows, and a plain door off a small front porch. The setting was what gave beauty to the place, thick woods all around with the river winding not more than a hundred feet away from the structure in a picturesque oxbow meander. As she parked the BMW next to a small pick-up truck, Cassandra couldn't help but wonder if Officer Ralston was married. It was hard to imagine a woman wanting to set up household in an old fishing cabin. The ground was soft and spongy with pine needles under her sandals. Once the rain had moved off, the afternoon had grown warm and humid, overseen by a polished overcast sky the color of fireplace ash. As she approached the house, Cassandra could see that the front door was open and a man moved behind the screen, putting something into a small pack that lay beside the door. He most certainly must have heard her car, and he straightened when she walked slowly up the porch steps, and stepped outside. The bag he had been packing was some sort of tackle box, which he placed next to a fishing pole leaning against the side of the house. Dressed in rubber boots, jeans, and a long sleeved shirt in spite of the heat, there wasn't much doubt that a fishing expedition was part of his afternoon plans. His expression could only be described as carefully neutral when he said, “Hello again, Mrs. Beaumont." Daniel Haase was not the person she was expecting. In fact, she doubted if she concealed the surprise she felt over finding the younger officer at Craig Ralston's house. Hesitating on the top step of the rickety porch, she swallowed and murmured, “Hello. I'm very sorry to bother you, but when I called the Lynchburg police station, they told me Mr. Ralston was off-duty and would probably be at home. I was hoping to catch him." “Ral ... I mean Officer Ralston, isn't here. I'm sorry.” Haase had very light blue eyes and a steady gaze. Cassandra had been rattled both times before when she'd seen him, in fact very rattled earlier in the afternoon, so she hadn't paid much attention, but up close now she saw that his hair was fair and cut short, his features even and pleasant, his build compact and muscular but not bulky. A nice-looking man, she thought abstractly, not strikingly handsome, but rather the-fresh-faced boy-next-door. In fact, he looked like someone you could trust. Poised there with her hand on the railing, she cleared her throat. “Perhaps I could just talk to you instead." “About Sabrina Rawlings?"

“That's the problem,” she attempted a small smile, “I don't know if what I have to say has anything to do with her or not." Those light eyes flickered. “But you must believe it does, or you wouldn't be here." “I don't know what to believe,” Cassandra admitted honestly. “That's why I'm here, sir." “I have to tell you I'm not with the Lynchburg Police Department. Not in any official capacity at all.” He stood unmoving on the porch, just looking at her. That quiet declaration surprised her. Cassandra felt her eyes widen. “But—" He interrupted very quickly, “I'm a former homicide detective from Indianapolis and the Lynchburg police have decided that a little advice from a knowledgeable observer might be valuable. I just tag along, you might have noticed that. This is Ralston's investigation. I'm just a friend on a visit, trying to get in a little R and R with my fishing pole." But the clock was ticking. By this evening, after two police visits and the information about her license plate, she knew that Stan and Anne, and God help her; certainly Gerald and Marie, would snap their fingers and summon their little lawyer genies and anything she had to say would be quietly squelched. She said in a small voice, “I need to talk to someone right now, Mr. Haase. It's a take it or leave it situation. You or no one else." It was true. It was desperately true. And he must have realized this for he said abruptly, “Maybe you should come inside, Mrs. Beaumont." **** The striking blue dress was gone, replaced now by sandals, a slim casual skirt, and a sleeveless blouse in some sort of silky pastel pink material. The overall effect made Cassandra Beaumont look very young, from the pink nail polish on her toes to the shining blond hair on her head. She was too young to be the wife of a very front page ambitious businessman and politician—most certainly too young and fragile to force her way into a motel room, strangle a larger woman, and then to brutally finish the job with a vicious stab wound to the throat. He tried to remind himself silently that appearances could be deceiving. Danny watched her perch nervously on the edge of one of the two chairs at Craig's tiny kitchen table. He noted the unhappiness in her gray-green eyes and felt torn between the urge to take her hand and comfort her, or to ask her what in the hell she was doing getting involved with another man in a family of man-eating sharks when she was obviously just a pretty little minnow. Instead, he just waited, sitting across from her at the table. After all, she had come to him to say something. Well, technically not to him, but the police. What he should do right this minute was call Jobe and have him come take her statement, that he knew. What he did was sit there and look at her. Not meeting his gaze, she glanced around the room and he wondered what she thought of what she saw. Compared to the Beaumont estate, not much at a guess. There was a galley kitchen with an old short refrigerator, chipped sink, and badly painted metal cabinets at least sixty years old. In the living area, old scratched wooden pine plank floors stretched to an old sofa in the corner, a coffee table made out of half of an old door squatted by the couch, and cheap faded curtains framed the windows. “This is really nice,” she murmured. He was surprised enough that a short laugh escaped his throat. “You're kidding, right?"

Her gaze, so grave, seemed sincere. “No. That view. Incredible." It was true. He looked past her to where the one wall facing the river, almost all windows, showed the water and woods. It was serene and lovely and when he went back to Indiana he would envy Ral that view every single day. His opinion of Cassandra Beaumont bumped up a notch at that moment. She thought Ral's dumpy, homey little cabin stuck in a clearing in the middle of nowhere was nice. And she really did. He could see it in her face, in her eyes. He said, “Well, it isn't exactly elegant, but then again, I like it, too." “Yes.” She looked down at her hands knotted tightly together and resting on the top of the scarred table. Her fingers were slender and as delicate as the rest of her, white at the knuckles from how tightly she clenched them into fists. “Would you like something to drink?” He mentally did a swift inventory from his recollection of the inside of Craig's refrigerator, and added lamely, “We have beer or water." “A beer would be nice, thank you.” Her smile was tremulous and charming. As he got up and retrieved two cold bottles and scrounged through the cabinets for a clean and presentable glass, he wondered with an inner surge of amusement if anyone back in Mayville would ever believe him if he told them he'd seen the very lovely, very elegant Cassandra Beaumont sitting in a shabby old fishing cabin, swilling domestic beer. He was pretty sure they wouldn't. Finally he found an old Point Beer glass that didn't seem to have an inch of dust in it, rinsed it out quickly, and brought her both the damp glass and one of the bottles of beer. He took a quick swig from his bottle and watched her make a big production out of carefully pouring amber liquid into her glass. When she lifted it to her lips, her hand was quivering dangerously. The coming revelation obviously made her very nervous. “Mrs. Beaumont, you came to say something?” He tried to make it a delicate question. Her breath went in at his gentle prompt and she looked up suddenly, as if forcing herself to sit and meet his eyes. Holding the glass in front of her, she gazed straight at him and said bluntly, “For the past few months, I've been blackmailed." Whatever he expected, it wasn't that particular declaration. He'd questioned hundreds of suspects and witnesses during his career at IPD and had schooled himself to not show any expression, but still couldn't quell a blink at such a frank admission. He asked quickly, “Blackmailed how?" “Phone calls. Asking for money." “Do you know who it is?" “No.” The word was punctuated by a definite shake of her head. “And you didn't contact the police." “No.” She took a quick sip and her throat muscles jerked. He wasn't surprised. “People are rarely blackmailed over happy events that make them proud of themselves, Mrs. Beaumont. Care to tell me why someone thought they could extort money from you illegally by threatening you?" That dropped her gaze, but only for a moment. That shimmer of gray-green came up again, and she said in a voice painful to hear, “It ... it really wasn't something I did."

“It was something you didn't want anyone to know about, or else why the blackmail. What was it?” His beer tasted a little flat but he took another big swallow and watched her expression. She squared her slender shoulders. “My husband cheated on me, detective. He had an affair with another woman and was foolish enough to be unaware that someone took pictures of the two of them together. And you are right, I didn't ... I still don't, want anyone to know about it. I hate publicity." The river shimmered outside, laden with rainwater, rising in its banks. The air coming in the screen was incredibly earthy and warm. Danny asked almost reluctantly, “Together?" Cassandra Beaumont barely blinked. She nodded slowly over the rim of her glass. “Yes, together. Exactly the way you are thinking, Mr. Haase. I was sent a few samples and believe me, the photographs are very explicit." What he was thinking, actually, was that any man stupid enough to turn elsewhere when he had someone like the beautiful Cassandra in his bed was more than just foolish, he had to be a complete idiot. He said gently, “That could not have been easy, Mrs. Beaumont." Underneath her light tan, her skin was ashen. “No, it wasn't." “Who was the woman? Did you know her?" “No, I told the truth, I didn't. I'd never met her. But I now know it was Nicole Rice." Oh, hell. A lot of things suddenly started making sense. He smoothed the damp label of his beer bottle with sudden abstract absorption. Nicole, plus the senator, plus Sabrina. Wow. “I can tell,” it was a careful statement as she stared at him with those wide lovely eyes, “from the look on your face that you just made the same conclusion I did when I learned about her being friends with this Sabrina. I can tell as well that you are thinking that I had a motive to kill Sabrina, but the truth is, I didn't know she was in Lynchburg and I didn't murder her." Obviously, she had no idea that the very physical way Rawlings had been killed gave her some kind of an alibi. He murmured, “Mrs. Beaumont, you probably shouldn't be here, telling me this. Your brotherin-law will use his considerable resources to get this case thrown out if he knew I heard this from you on such an unofficial level. Everything about this whole thing becomes more complicated by the second." The beer sloshed dangerously close to the rim in her glass and she took an audible deep breath. “Detective, the last thing I want is for those pictures to surface. I was even willing to pay the asking price; the money is in my room at the house.” Suddenly, tears gleamed against the darkness of her lashes, her whisper husky. “But someone else is dead. I don't feel I can hide behind the Beaumont name, and I don't feel right about keeping information from the police, even if it might hurt me." Hurt me. Danny thought about all of those tabloid covers and understood a little. Life under a microscope had to simply suck. He leaned forward in his chair. “Is there anything to make you think that someone who attended the party on Saturday night might have killed Sabrina Rawlings? Who else knew about the blackmail?" “No one.” She shook her head. “I find it hard to believe you wouldn't have at least confided in your brother-in-law, Michael. You two seem very ... close." She obviously understood that he was referring to what he and Craig had seen earlier and her pale cheeks took on color but she didn't flinch away from meeting his gaze. She said, “I told Michael about the blackmail last night. It was a huge relief. But if Sabrina Rawlings was killed late Saturday night, he

didn't know then." Didn't he? Danny had to wonder. From the passionate embrace he'd witnessed and the way Beaumont looked at her, he might indulge his protective instincts with violence. Men had done worse things for less. He murmured, “A minute ago you said someone else was dead. Do you think there is a connection between your husband's murder and what happened at the Woodland Motel Saturday night?" “I don't know. It's more than just this awful thing that has happened to that girl up here. I've been followed too, all over Chicago. It's been going on a long time, by a man in a tan car. I have his license number.” She picked up her purse and pulled out a slip of paper, which she handed over with shaking fingers. He looked at the numbers and felt a little amazed at her resourcefulness. “I'll get Ral to run this, Mrs. Beaumont. It might be very helpful." “I want to help, that's why I'm here." “The Lynchburg police will appreciate your honesty. Some people, I'm sorry to say, would not go to the trouble. This might help bring Sabrina's killer to justice." She said quietly, “Let's not forget, Mr. Haase, that there are three people dead." A small spike of excitement shot through his veins. “Ma'am?" A hiccup of a mirthless laugh escaped her lips. “I am referring to my husband, Nicole Rice, and Sabrina Rawlings. How can it all be chance?" Hell again. He was almost rendered speechless by that one. Damn Craig for being halfway to Chicago. Sitting across the table, Cassandra looked at him and her mouth trembled when she said haltingly, “It seems to me, detective, that everyone so far who might have anything to do with those pictures is dead, including Robert." And it seemed to him, suddenly, that she was absolutely right. He reached for his cell phone and found his hand wasn't quite steady. Chapter 15 The wind had picked up again, sighing wickedly through the branches of the surrounding forest in a moaning whine. Cassandra, listening to Danny Haase with a cell phone pressed to his ear advise Craig Ralston that he needed to see what information he could gather while he was in Chicago about Nicole Rice's death, thought in vague recollection that perhaps she'd heard something about another front coming through. Sipping her beer and gazing out the window, she watched some leaves float leisurely down the river outside. As if things weren't gloomy enough, she thought, there would be more rain. The sky was thickening in an ominous way. No doubt, she'd be in trouble with her in-laws for telling Detective Haase what she knew about all of this awful situation, but what was done was done. He'd started punching buttons on the pad of the phone almost as soon as she finished telling him she'd thought there had been three murders, not just one dead woman in a motel outside of Lynchburg. But the truth was, she was so very tired. After five years with Robert, very, very tired of holding up a facade. And the secrets had to stop somewhere. A third murder seemed to be the right place—two young women dead, Robert in his grave for months.

The leaves caught in a slow eddy and disappeared around the bend. She hadn't been just obligingly polite earlier about what she thought of the cabin, though it was clear that Haase thought that. The place was great. Isolated, plain but homey, with an absolutely gorgeous view of the river and woods that no one in his or her right mind could resist. Not that she was in her right mind. First of all, a little voice whispered to her, she was having an affair with Michael. That knowledge still needed to sink in. Second, she was implicated in a murder. For a third argument, she'd just sought out the police and made sure she was a suspect. Danny Haase folded up his phone and slipped it back into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. He said grimly, “Craig wanted me to tell you how much he appreciates your cooperation, Mrs. Beaumont. I gave him that license number, we'll find out what's going on." “I doubt somehow my husband's family will feel the same about my cooperation, you heard my brother-in-law, Stan.” Cassandra felt how dull and apathetic her words sounded and attempted a small smile. “Not that you can exactly blame them. I think you must develop a knee-jerk reaction to any possible scandal, detective, when you're used to being in the public eye." His blue gaze was light and almost crystalline. “As you have." “As I have,” she agreed, toying with her glass. “Yet you came here anyway." “Yes. It's been difficult to feel ... hunted and exposed. I want my life back." He sat across from her on the other side of the rather odd and battered kitchen table, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, booted feet firmly on the floor. His expression held just the right amount of sympathy mixed with a steely underlying intelligence. “I imagine they'll be getting a court order to force you to allow a crime scene team to go over your car." “The driver's side floor mat is missing.” She made the admission with as little emotion as possible and raised her glass. The beer actually tasted pretty good, even though she'd never much liked it. “What?” He rocked back in his chair a little. “I haven't driven the car since I took Timmy to the fair in Lynchburg on Saturday afternoon. When I got in it to come here, I noticed the floor mat was gone." Haase muttered something, an expletive she didn't catch, under his breath. And something came into his eyes, she noticed. A hunter's gleam, a frisson of excitement. “Our man stepped in her blood; it would have been on his shoes." “Man?" “Never mind, Mrs. Beaumont. I probably shouldn't have said that. Tell me, did you notice that Michael Beaumont was gone for any significant time during Saturday evening?" The witness. Stan had said they had a witness of some kind. Haase's earlier remark about Michael suddenly stuck out like a red flag and she felt a little twist of fear. She knew he and Officer Ralston had seen them together in the gazebo ... would the police think Michael could have killed this woman to protect her? “Mr. Haase, I think I need to tell you that up until last night, Michael and I—” she licked dry lips and fought to continue without embarrassment, “we had been estranged for years, not even speaking to each other. He would have no reason whatsoever to kill Sabrina Rawlings. As a matter of fact, he and I had a nasty argument during the party and I went to bed early because of it."

“Yet today, well,” his smile was very polite, “if you'll excuse me, ma'am, you seem to have mended those fences without any trouble. Now, if you went to bed at midnight, how could you know what Mr. Beaumont did with the rest of his evening?" Helplessly, Cassandra stared at him. Shit, what had she just done? She said haltingly, “Michael wouldn't hurt anyone. He isn't at all like the rest of them." “The rest of them?" “My husband's family are a little ... ruthless. Michael isn't like that." Very slowly, Danny Haase asked, “If you've been estranged for years, how do you know what he's like?" And she found she couldn't answer that question. He watched her steadily and she felt as if he were seeing maybe a good deal more than he should. His next question made her flinch, “Are you and Michael Beaumont lovers?" Put so bluntly, she felt a small shock over the implication. “That's ... not your business. I don't see how that means anything either way, Mr. Haase.” Her voice sounded hoarse and she cleared her throat selfconsciously. His beer was gone and he set aside the empty bottle with an almost angry click. “If the answer is yes, you would think nothing of him being in your room, which is where you say you left your purse containing the keys to your car." She had a flashback vision of the night of the party. Michael with his coat over his shoulder, his face derisive and taunting until he realized she was in true distress. She shook her head and said truthfully, “I promise you Mr. Haase, if I had seen Michael in my room Saturday night, I would have been more surprised than if it were anyone else in the house." **** He'd needed something to do; he was restless, he was apprehensive, and he was in the dark. But taking a walk had done nothing to help him. Michael strolled forward down the rocky beach back toward the dock and boathouse, his hands in his pockets, his mind still restless from the events of the past few days. Becoming simultaneously embroiled in an unexpected love affair and an even more unexpected murder at the same time had him decidedly off-balance. Cassandra suddenly disappearing this afternoon didn't help matters much either. He had to work on not having a sense of outrage that she would leave and not let him know where she was going. She didn't, he had to tell himself calmly for about the fifteenth time, owe him any explanation. She was a grown woman, independent, and owed him nothing. If anyone had ever earned independence, she had. Dammit. This relationship was going to be very difficult. If he had an ounce of sense, he'd simply go on up to the house, pack his suitcase, and get in his rental car and drive away as fast as possible, catching the next plane to New York. But then he'd leave Cassandra to the tender mercies of his family and Michael couldn't stomach doing that. If he admitted it, the truth was he'd been chained to her memory for six years and the reality was not something he could walk away from easily, or even at all—especially not to this nasty little situation.

A rueful smile curved his lips. Life in New York, where violence and street gangs and drug rings abounded, well ... that was quiet and sedate compared to this small corner of rural Michigan. The afternoon had grown warm and oppressive, making his shirt cling to him like gelatinous cellophane. The beach was uneven and his tennis shoes slipped on the wet stones, making progress difficult. Yet, the breeze was redolent with summer and the calm water of the lake mirrored the dripping trees in a fairy tale way that somehow soothed even his troubled soul. The speedboat sat quietly in the slip, sleek and shining, the canvas top that stretched across to protect the seats and controls dappled with latent spots of leftover rain. The craft was a beauty, brand new, which was ridiculous, because his father had long ago ceased to take the time to actually enjoy the recreational opportunities of being up at Thirty Birches. It must be sheer habit to trade last season's model for a new one every year, he thought with a shake of his head. Swinging himself up from the beach onto the dock, Michael deftly unhooked the cover and shook off the pooled moisture. It was supposed to storm again, but Tim had loved their little fishing trip, more fascinated by the boat ride than anything else. His parents and nephew were due back any time now, Michael mused as he surveyed the boat, maybe he could talk Cassandra into letting him take her and Timmy out for a spin around the lake before the weather got ugly. The vessel rocked gently as he slid onto the deck and checked the gas gauge. It was an excellent idea, he thought with a glimmer of relieved enthusiasm. No doubt about it, he wanted to be somewhere else when Stan and Anne told his parents what was going on and certainly wanted Cassandra to be out of the line of fire. Nothing that had happened was her fault, but that wouldn't stop the canon being aimed straight at her. Lifting the lid of one of the padded seats, he glanced inside the storage compartment underneath to make sure there were enough life vests for the three of them. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of a long leisurely boat ride. Frowning, he paused, staring downward. The vests were there, no problem. But there was something else as well, something that hadn't been there when he'd taken his nephew out on the water three days ago. A little puzzled, Michael reached down and pulled out what looked like a small roll of carpeting. It was carpet, he discovered as he unrolled it and looked at it curiously. In fact, it looked like a floor mat to a car. There was a brownish stain, quite pronounced, just off center, dark against the light gray plush of the rug. And that wasn't all. There was a pair of men's dress shoes that had been rolled up inside the carpet. They'd fallen to the deck of the boat with a dull thudding sound that seemed to echo across the water and rebound in the shrouded trees. Now, what the hell was all this doing here? Michael picked up one of the shoes and examined it curiously, noting the expensive Italian label with raised brows. It appeared to be barely worn and in perfect shape, a size ten that was highly polished and immaculate, except for more of the brownish substance that stained the rug crusted across the toe and in the ridge separating the leather upper from the sole. Two shoes wrapped in the floor mat of a car and stuck away in the seat storage of the boat. That made little sense. Or did it? A cold finger seemed to ease down his spine and he swallowed. All of a sudden he stiffened, his fingers loosening to let the shoe fall back with a loud sound onto the deck of the boat. He hastily

stepped back one pace, as if a little distance might change direction of his thoughts. It didn't. He quickly drew several pretty obvious and unwelcome conclusions. The mat came from the driver's side of Cassandra's car. The stain on it was blood, there was more of the same on the shoes, and someone, undoubtedly the murderer of Sabrina Rawlings, had hidden the evidence in the boat. And, God help him, he'd just stuck his fingerprints all over it. Standing there, a small film of sweat breaking out over his face, he felt two things at once. A sort of grim resignation that the police should be given this information no matter how ugly and embarrassing for his exalted family, and a very definite relief that he wore a size eleven shoe. **** Jobe wore an expression of almost resentful apology on his pudgy features. He said curtly, “The license plate belongs to a perfectly legit private investigator who won't reveal the name of his client but who says he's been following Mrs. Beaumont around for nearly six months. Regular surveillance, weekly reports, generous fee set by the customer for more than he usually charges." Danny stifled a low whistle. “You've done pretty well then, in just,” Danny checked his watch, “two hours. His name?" “You aren't exactly part of this investigation, Haase.” Jobe was wary, no doubt a result of Craig nearly blistering off his ears five minutes before for the loose lips in his department. The barely veiled hostility hung in the air like a pall of smoke. Very mildly, Danny said, “Cassandra Beaumont came to me. I came to you, detective, as a fellow law enforcement officer seeking to help you solve this case. Before, you had one man with a questionable reputation as a witness and three letters of a license plate. Now you have a missing floor mat, a dead blackmailer, and one woman being followed by a private investigator for six months, which is a very expensive proposition. Now, as a former homicide investigator, I think if I were you I would be grateful and maybe give something back. I'm not going to do anything to damage this case; I just want to help out an old friend. Look at it like this, I'm on the job for free here. You and Ral will come out singing like angels if we get something solid." The little cafe where they were sitting was half-empty; most of the occupants were in the other tables near the front of the place, leaving them in a dark corner booth that smelled like stale beer and the grease from a thousand hamburgers. Jobe fingered his iced tea glass, glanced with obvious envy at Danny's beer, and nodded reluctantly. “Ralston claims you were a crack investigator." “Once.” Danny lifted his glass and took a sip. “Not that long ago. I got out for something a little tamer." “Okay, look Haase, I have no quarrel with you sticking your fingers in the pie, but I don't know shit." Shit. Well, that was about appropriate. The entire case reeked to high heaven. Danny said neutrally, “I know some shit, but I've told you all of it. Just return the compliment. Surely you have the medical examiner's report." “Hey, Norma.” Jobe nodded toward a plump waitress, who sidled past their table and sent him a wink. He glanced back. “Rawlings was strangled with the belt of her own bathrobe. Her assailant stunned her with a blow to the left temple, not with a blunt object but probably a fist, grabbed the robe which we

found on the bed, took the belt and killed her, and then stuck the knife in her throat once she was down. The damned blade penetrated all the way through the pad of the carpet and into the subflooring of the room. Our guy meant business. He was strong, and if you ask the medical examiner, in a hurry." “Brutal. Any sign of anything else?" “No sexual assault, we found no prints on the weapon, there was nothing obvious missing from her purse or the room itself." Danny said softly, “Except those pictures she was supposed to turn over to Cassandra Beaumont for fifty thousand dollars." “Our victim was a small-time crook, Haase. She had no intention of handing over those negatives, and even if she did, all she had to do was keep a set for herself and copy them." “Still, she must have had pictures to hand over as a sign of good faith, even if she intended to keep up the scheme." “Maybe. Her suitcase was a bit of a mess, someone might have rifled through it, or she might just have been kind of a slob. We don't know. There were no prints anywhere that we could work with. He didn't wipe, just probably wore gloves." Danny sighed. “The killer was angry, Jobe, don't you think? A little frustrated and angry to strangle and then stab her.” It was more of an introspective question, murmured into his drink. Jobe laughed uncomfortably and tugged at his tie. “You tell me, Haase. You know the bad guys better than I do, apparently. We don't get homicides like this around here. A domestic that goes wrong now and then maybe, cut and dried stuff. He hit me one time too many, so I shot him, that sort of thing. But nothing quite like this." “Nothing with the Beaumonts knee deep in it, you mean." Jobe quivered a little at that, shifting on the cracked upholstery of his seat. But his stare was straightforward, his eyes clear. “I told Ralston already that any information leaking out of the office didn't come straight from me. I report, like I'm told. I have too, dammit. What happens after that isn't me. Your friend is barking up the wrong tree." Danny nodded. He'd worked in a big city department. Even without the kind of muscle the Beaumonts could produce, there had been pressures that sometimes caused information to seep out of the edges. He asked, “Has Craig found out anything else? I talked to him about an hour ago but we got interrupted." “He said that Nicole Rice's parents called him back on his cell. Seems they want to talk face to face. I guess when she died, they found out that she had quite a stash in the bank. It surprised them to no end and now that Sabrina's dead too, they're wondering a little if that money could be a clue to her death." “Canny folks.” A smothered laugh. “Geniuses." With a noncommittal wave, Danny gestured to the waitress to bring him another beer. “What do you think, detective?" “I think that those two girls decided to put the screws to someone who didn't like it. Their last mistake too, the both of them." Danny thought the same thing. He pushed at his damp napkin with an idle forefinger. “What about Cassandra Beaumont's theory that the pictures also tie into what happened to her husband?" Jobe gave a jaded smile. “Well, he is dead.” He heaved himself to his feet. “I've got to go, Haase. Your

pal Ralston made it pretty clear that he wanted me to nag the forensic lab about the specifics on that knife, though I doubt it will matter. Looked like the same knife my wife uses every night to chop up onions for her meatloaf." It had looked very ordinary to Danny as well, though it had been hard to tell when it was protruding from the victim's throat. “How hard is it going to be to get a search warrant for the Beaumont estate?" Jobe looked down at the table, untidy as always, his shirt half-untucked from his pants, his tie askew, but his face deadly serious. “Somewhere between extremely hard and downright impossible. I don't know, Haase, like I said, we aren't used to something like this around here. People come here to fish, to relax and enjoy the woods, the water ... they don't come here to kill each other, at least not very often. The judge isn't going to be anxious to step ankle-deep into this pile of crap, and who could blame him?" Danny protested, “We have some pretty compelling circumstantial evidence." Jobe gave him a glance from those shrewd eyes. “Implicating who?" “Someone who attended the Beaumont party Saturday night." “Yeah, that was ... what? Fifty people or so?” Jobe gave a wry chuckle and headed for the door. “We gotta do better,” he threw over his shoulder. Michael Beaumont, Danny thought silently, watching the waitress set down another frosty beer in front of him, had the opportunity, the strength, and a very possible motive. However, their witness was sticking to his story that the person seen coming out of the room was not above middle height for a man or even might possibly be a tall woman, and Beaumont was well over six foot-two or three. Hell. Not that he actually wished Cassandra Beaumont any more misery, but it was neat and tidy if it tied up that way—Michael the killer, trying to defend and protect his woman. It wouldn't fly though, not if they were using Paul Walton as a reliable witness. You couldn't have it both ways, either he knows what he saw, a dark BMW with Illinois plates and a medium height male suspect, or else he was too unreliable to believe any part of his story. The information that Nicole Rice had already scored from the blackmail scheme was interesting though, he mused as he picked up a menu and scanned the list of sandwiches. Mrs. Beaumont had said nothing about being approached before, much less about paying before. Who else, he thought idly, would lose from negative publicity over the late senator's private life? Who else would pay? Of course, maybe the pictures in question weren't Rice's first little jaunt into the world of extortion. She'd been attractive and obviously ambitious and amoral ... any one of the powerful men in attendance on Saturday night might well have been seduced, photographed, and then approached for money. Robert Beaumont hadn't been an idiot yet he'd fallen for it, why not another? Which made Jobe infuriatingly right. Fifty suspects was a hell of a big bite to chew. With a sigh he decided on the walleye sandwich and picked up his beer. Chapter 16 “I hope you aren't planning to go out. There are tornado watches scattered across almost every county from here to Canada." The cool voice made Michael jump guiltily, and he straightened abruptly, the seat slamming into place

and hiding the damning contents. The boat shifted uneasily beneath him as he spun around. Okay, he thought as he stood there dazed and still off-balance from his gruesome find, this was not what he needed when his mind was already spinning out of control. At this moment he was fervently glad he'd decided to dump the rug and shoes back into the space under the seat. Mr. Damage Control wasn't going to be happy about a presumptuous killer hiding evidence on Beaumont property. And Michael wasn't exactly prepared to process the information either. Stan stood at the bottom of the steps, gazing at him with his usual placid self-possession, his hands thrust casually into the pockets of his shorts. He said, “Where's Cassandra? I thought you two might be together, but apparently she went off on her own. Do you know why?" “Um, no,” Michael admitted uncomfortably, well aware that his stiff expression was undoubtedly a dead giveaway something was very, very wrong. “She just left without a word.” Thank God. Thank God he'd found her gone and unable to accept his offer of a walk on the beach. This way only he had the horrifying dilemma of deciding what to do about his load of dynamite discovery. “That's odd.” A murmur. “Neither Anne nor I can imagine where she'd go." “Maybe she just needed a little space.” God knew that Michael could use the state of Montana all to himself right at the moment. He needed to be able to think. “I hope,” Stan said it with a sort of fond resignation, “that she wasn't foolish enough to feel she needed to go to the police.” He shook his head. Well-aware that he was standing there with a set of bloody shoes and a stained driver's side car mat in a locker just a foot or so away from him that might be the link to a killer, Michael asked hoarsely, “Why would you think she would do that, Stan?" Stan stepped off the last step onto the dock and strolled forward, stopping just next to the boat. The wind, which had been quiet all day, was rising now, ruffling his thin hair and laying ripples across the lake. “Her expression earlier today when I interrupted that interview. She didn't look innocently puzzled over their questions, she didn't look frightened, she looked aghast. Like she'd stumbled over a rotten corpse." The analogy seemed particularly in bad taste, but Michael knew perfectly well that the exposed link between the dead Miss Rice and also recently deceased Sabrina Rawlings had rocked Cassandra. It had sure as hell rocked him. The person blackmailing her had been murdered. The implications were unnerving. Stan continued reflectively, “Cassandra is a lovely person, Michael, inside as well as outside. I can well understand why you still carry a torch for her, even after all this time passed. But she's a little innocent, don't you think? Too gentle, too inexperienced, even after five years with your older brother. I'm a little surprised she didn't toughen up more, learn the ropes." “Those can be some ugly ropes, Stan. Cassandra is tough in other ways.” Michael drew a steadying breath. “Maybe that's fine in your artistic world, but in the real world of politics and big business, you need to have a better grasp on reality. Self-preservation is rule one.” Stan looked at him and smiled benignly. “You know what I mean." Considering he was thinking frantically of all the options, including going straight up to the house and phoning the authorities to report what he'd found, Michael felt a little unwilling to agree. “There's nothing wrong with integrity. If she knew something to help them find this murderer, she should come forward, of course. Surely you would do the same."

Stan laughed softly, eyeing a line of clouds crawling across the greasy-looking sky. “Perhaps, if the circumstances demanded it. But, really, if she didn't kill that unfortunate woman herself, what could she have to contribute to the investigation?" It wasn't so much what he said, as it was the way he looked when he said it. Michael blinked, registering the determined glitter in his brother-in-law's eyes, the folded set of his mouth, his carefully nonchalant stance. It was a very serious question. Stan knew something was up and he wanted to be on guard for any possible hit. Of course, every Beaumont would nudge shoulder to shoulder to keep the police out of family business. Michael fought the urge to glance back at the closed seat on the boat and felt reality sink like mud through his bones. Blackmail, he wanted to say to his brother-in-law. Cassandra could talk about blackmail, and fear, and the overshadowing of her life. She could talk about her abusive husband and his indiscretions. She could point her fingers at his parents and explain that fear of a vicious custody battle kept her very much in line. But for the same reasons that Cassandra had kept so quietly to herself since Robert's death, he said none of those things. Why stir up the beast when it was easier to wait until it fell asleep and tiptoe around it? Instead he smiled and responded mildly as possible, “Who knows? Besides, like you said, since she didn't kill her, we have nothing to worry about, do we?" **** Craig's voice cut in and out like a two-way radio, the incoming storm no doubt having something to do with the less than perfect reception. Danny sat in his parked truck and pressed the phone to his ear. “What?" “I said I've got something. At least I think I do. I don't know if it means anything but it smells bad, Danny." And there was a reason Craig was calling, even if it was just to discuss the odor. Danny said, “Okay." “Proof is just an abstract term here, understand?” It was a distant shout. “Always is.” Danny tried to sound nonchalant. “This case is unfolding pretty fast. The victim has just been dead a little over two days. What did you come up with?" “Stanley and Anne Ransom were at the same party as Nicole Rice the night she died." “So ... so? Your point?" “The medical examiner's report says she died of an overdose—an overdose of extremely pure cocaine. The kind you don't get often on the street. She was a user, should have known what she was doing, but probably just didn't know what she was dealing with." Interesting. The sky had turned an odd deep chartreuse color, like the patina of old copper. Danny squinted at the horizon and said slowly, “I see. So you're thinking someone could have given her the pure stuff, so she would use it and not ever realize she was about to commit suicide." “It could happen that way." “Can you tie it back to Ransom?" A snort. “Yeah, like he'd be out trying to score some high-quality stuff and leave a trail. He's a goddamned lawyer and way too smart for that."

“Do we have any reason at all to think either of the Ransoms would want Rice dead?" “No. But they were both definitely at Robert Beaumont's election celebration too; in fact, it was their car that was right behind the senator's car before it went off the road. The explosive device was set off by a trigger tripped by someone nearby. Earlier, the police thought maybe the guy was waiting for them as they came around the curve of the road. Now I'm not sure. What if it was set off by remote control from the car right behind them?" Danny took a deep breath. “Why would Anne Ransom kill her brother?" “I don't know. But there are at least two murders. Rice would be three. Those two were near all three crime scenes. Opportunity, Danny." “You have to have a little more, Ral." “Yeah,” It was a gloomy response. “You're swimming and the pool's deep here, buddy." “Sharks everywhere.” Craig cackled a parody of a laugh somewhere on a distant freeway. “I'm on my way now to talk to Rice's parents and then meet up with the investigator from the coroner's office who reviewed the case. He swears there is a place that makes deep-dish pizza that will make you weep with joy. I'm meeting him downtown." The walleye sandwich still sat in his stomach like a lump of lead. Danny murmured, “Enjoy." “Hey, I can't help but wonder about one thing." Just one? Three people were dead, a majority of high profile suspects ... and just one? Danny shook his head, which he knew Craig couldn't see. “What thing?" “If those pictures are in any way linked to these three deaths, someone out there will not like Cassandra Beaumont's sudden decision to talk to us." A gust of wind blasted his cheek, stale and warm in the humid afternoon. Danny asked slowly, “So you think Mrs. Beaumont might be in danger?" Somberly, Craig said in broken cell phone staccato, “I don't know what to think." **** Cassandra lifted her head and looked at the door. The gentle rapping came again, soft and barely audible above the slow brush of the wind outside. The evening was lethargic and heavy, with a cloying warmth and an almost visible tension in the air. Timmy was fast asleep. Easing out of the bed and tucking the blanket under her son's chin, she crossed the room and cautiously opened the door. Michael, she thought with a little unwelcome shock of reality, looked ... well, haggard. Having eaten dinner with her son in the kitchen to avoid the formal family meal, she was guilty as hell of trying to forget the unpleasant situation. Michael stared past her to the sleeping child in the bed. He said quietly, “Are you all right?" “Fine. Timmy just needed me.” Her voice faltered, and glancing back into the darkened room, she found the need to clear her throat. “He's worn out but it does sound like he had a good time. Maybe I've misjudged your parents.” Her son looked very small under the blankets. “Yes, my mother said he was very good.” A hesitation. His eyes, so very blue, looked clouded with doubt and uncharacteristic need. Not the sort of sexual need she'd seen the night she'd crawled into his

bed, but a frightening intensity she'd never seen before. He said somberly, “I need to talk to you." It was not a discussion, by judging his expression, about Tim and his trip with his grandparents. Cassandra squared her shoulders and said quietly, “I suppose you've already guessed that I went to the police and told them the truth about the blackmail." “Stan mentioned he was afraid you might do that." “Stan doesn't know all the facts. I needed to do it, Michael." Michael's smile was a cynical curve of his mouth. He stared down at her, his expression enigmatic. “I'm pretty sure even if Stan knew all the facts, you would still be advised to keep your mouth shut and let the police find out for themselves. If they even could." Her smile was tremulous, her voice still low because they stood in the hallway full of bedroom doors. “I'm sure you're right. Why do you think I got in my car and left without telling even you where I was going? It took some courage in the first place. I didn't need anyone talking me out of it." Lifting his hand to brush it very lightly across her cheek, Michael murmured, “For the record, I wouldn't have talked you out of it, and I understand only too well how you must have been feeling. Come on, I want to show you something." His mood was decidedly off-key and it was more than just the tension she could feel flowing from the set of his features and the way he held his body. Cassandra shut the door to her son's room as quietly as possible and didn't object when Michael grasped her hand and tugged her down the hallway. “Your room is closest to the end,” he said in brief explanation as he let them both inside and then made his way to the doors out onto the deck overlooking the lake. “I don't want anyone to hear us go out." “Michael?" “You'll understand in a minute.” The brevity in his voice precluded asking any more questions. A little mystified, Cassandra followed him out the French doors and felt the warm smothering air close around her like damp blanket. The sun had set already but the sky was still strangely illuminated by a sullen glow that seemed to cling to the tops of the surrounding woods. He led her down the steps at the end of the deck and to her surprise turned left and began to climb immediately toward the top of the hill where the driveway and garage sat in front of the house. Since it would have been much more direct to simply walk out the front door, she felt another little shiver of apprehension over the obvious subterfuge. Despite the lurid sky above, it was dark under the trees that hung grasping branches over the steps. She clung to Michael's hand and followed in a progress she almost could call stealthy. Once they gained the drive, he paused, glancing back at the house before proceeding. Edging along the line of trees behind him, Cassandra could feel her distress and confusion growing by the second. He obviously didn't want anyone to see them as much as he didn't want anyone to hear them. Why? None of her mystification subsided as Michael tugged her past the huge looming bulk of the two-story garage and toward the storage shed where he'd retrieved the balls and bat for the impromptu game of baseball with Timmy just a few days ... long, eventful days, before. The door rattled loudly as he opened it, showing a pitch-dark interior. The air around them seemed hushed and full. Strong storm's coming, she thought inconsequentially as she watched Michael pull a small flashlight from the pocket of his signature tattered blue jeans, the evening news had said so,

much worse than the night before due to some huge unstable air mass... The beam bounced off a bizarre collection of shapes, not helped by a sudden flash of lightning behind them. There were boxes, endless cans, and things hanging from the ceiling in odd shapes. She blinked, wondering what on earth they were seeking in that old shed. He said unemotionally, “Look at this, Cassie." 'This’ appeared to be a dark bundle shoved underneath an old upside down wheelbarrow that he'd lifted up with his foot. Gazing at shiny black rubber in a roll, Cassandra shook her head in bewilderment until he reached down, pulled the object out, and let it naturally unfurl. Her breath went in sharply as she recognized the significance of what he showed her, the hiss audible even against the low moaning of the wind. It was unmistakably her car mat—the one that was missing from the driver's side, and a pair of men's shoes sitting in the middle of it. “Where,” her voice sounded funny, not more than a whisper, “did you find it? It was gone out of my car when I left this afternoon." “I was afraid,” Michael didn't even glance over at her, still staring at the jumbled items on the dusty floor of the shed, the light steady in his hand, “you would tell me something like that." “Why is it in here?” She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly cold in spite of the stifling heat. Michael said in the same deadpan tone, “I put it in here. I found it in the boat. With those shoes,” the beam flashed and danced over a gleam of leather. The shoes meant nothing. The rug, on the other hand, was like seeing a ghost. Shakily, Cassandra said, “The boat? What boat? Michael what are you talking about?" “I found the rug and the shoes in the boat at the dock." “That makes no sense." “Well, yes, it does, if you wanted it all out of the way. If you wanted to dispose of incriminating items later. Rolled up and hidden in one of those storage compartments under the seats of the boat isn't a likely spot the police would ever search. I didn't know what it was until I picked it all up.” He turned and looked at her, his face pale in the unusual light. “And I wasn't even sure until you confirmed it was the floor mat from your car. By the way, the shoes have what looks like blood on them. So does the mat." Hidden? He'd said it was hidden? Still trying to adjust her mind to what she was seeing, Cassandra said hoarsely, “So it was someone here Saturday night that took my car and killed her." “We don't know that, Cassie." “Tell me that's not just exactly what you are thinking, too." “What I think,” Michael said, the words almost inaudible in the sigh of the coming storm, “is that the police deserve a second visit today. Let's give them this evidence. They can take it from there." “Yes.” Her nod was puppet-like. He was right, of course. She was jumping to conclusions, but then again, they seemed pretty damning conclusions in the face of that bloody bit of carpet. He finally turned then and looked at her, his gaze at once sharpening and sliding past her shoulder. His entire body reacted to what he saw and he muttered in a muffled voice, “Oh shit."

**** His stomach resembled some sort of ancient over-stoked boiler about to fizzle out and die forever. He didn't feel sick, just incredibly tense for no obvious reason. It wasn't practical, it didn't have anything to do with real police work, and still ... still, Danny was worried. It wasn't, he told himself firmly, the vulnerable beauty of the curve of Cassandra Beaumont's long neck. It wasn't her aura of sweet innocence, her obvious difficulty in coming forward to talk to him, the way she'd held onto her son that day in the park at Lynchburg. Hell, who knew what it was, he told himself uneasily. But he had a very bad feeling in his gut. He sat at Craig's rickety kitchen table and looked down at the list he'd started—an old habit, writing it down, getting the facts in as good an order as possible. It had worked in the past many times. There was a column for each victim, if you included Nicole Rice as a victim, which had yet to be determined. As a previously known cocaine user, her overdose wasn't exactly compelling evidence. Still... Trying to ignore the cloying damp breeze that drifted through the screen of the open door, Danny gave his notes a dispassionate glance. There was a definite connection between the dead senator and Nicole Rice, Nicole and Sabrina Rawlings, and a common denominator of Cassandra Beaumont. However, assuming it could be confirmed that she'd never met Nicole Rice, that ruled her out as the supplier of the deadly cocaine. Besides, if you were screwing someone's husband, you didn't accept gifts like illegal chemicals from her, so Cassandra seemed unlikely as a candidate for that possible homicide. He could link the other Beaumont family members by indirect means to all three again, with the added tweak that Stanley and Anne Ransom had attended the same fundraising party after which Nicole had gone on a permanent high. Michael Beaumont had been neither at the fundraiser, nor his brother's post-election celebration. And, though he certainly could have physically pulled off Sabrina Rawlings’ murder, he was supposedly too tall to be a viable suspect. There was another option, of course. Cassandra Beaumont was beautiful and had been extremely public for a few months, capturing the attention of the tabloids, and therefore, a nation. What if, Danny thought abstractly, fingering a half-full glass of scotch, they were dealing with some sort of a whacko with an obsession? Someone was paying a private detective to follow her. And it did seem like anyone threatening the lovely Mrs. Beaumont, including her cheating husband, was taking a trip to the morgue. Maybe the deaths were someone's bizarre idea of protecting her. Femme fatale... That term might not seem so outlandish, when he pondered on it. The Beaumont link might be just a red herring; it was possible. There were a lot of kooks in the big, bad world, a lot of kooks. Maybe this guy was out there right now, fantasizing about her. But, he barely registered a distant atmospheric groan that rattled the windows; there were a couple of problems with that angle. It still didn't explain some things. Cassandra hadn't mentioned any kind of harassment other than the private detective following her, and Sabrina's demands. It was rare for a stalker to stay completely out of sight and not let the victim know in some way that he was a part of

their life. That was a lot of how it worked, the hunter letting his quarry know he was on the prowl. It would be interesting to run the idea by a criminal profiler and see what they thought of it. Not an exact science though, figuring out what a stalker might do, even for the professionals. They were aberrations by nature; that was why they turned into such nasty animals. The thought was an inward sigh of frustration and his stomach tightened another notch as he shifted in his chair. Danny had lived in the Midwest long enough to feel when all the signs aligned to bring in some really severe weather. Nonetheless, restless and unhappy, he got up and grabbed the keys to his truck. Goddammit, he needed to do something. Chapter 17 The wheelbarrow clanged downward in a hollow sound that echoed inside the confined musty space as Michael shifted his weight. It had been an impulse to move the carpet and shoes from the boat up to the shed. Or so Michael had thought. As he stood there looking at the doorway, transfixed by the familiar silhouette backlit by the garish night sky, he knew suddenly that it hadn't been an impulse at all. Hell, he thought almost wearily, with a thin sort of horror barely lying under the surface. He knew the truth. Not impulse. Instinct. How had he known? Worse, he just wasn't surprised to see the person standing in the open doorway of the shed. Cassandra saw his stare fastened on something behind her shoulder and she turned to look. Her troubled glance swung back to Michael's face and she said nothing, obviously registering the palatable rise in tension. Stan was wearing jeans and a polo shirt instead of his usual tailored ensemble of polished loafers and carefully casual designer slacks and shirt. Despite the heat he had on a lightweight nylon jacket and his hands were thrust into the pockets. He said mildly, “I wondered where you hid the stuff. When I went back to the boat to get it, it was gone, and of course I knew it must have been you, Michael." “You knew these things were in the boat?” Bewilderment colored Cassandra's voice and Michael felt, rather than saw, her turn back to look at the open doorway of the shed again. He was busy himself trying to absorb the beginnings of a nightmare. He already knew there were two possibilities to explain Stan's sudden appearance. The first one was that he'd seen Michael's discovery earlier in the day, figured out with his quick mind just what it was and what it could mean in terms of negative publicity to the Beaumonts in general and Anne in particular, and had decided to take care of that evidence himself. When he'd gone to the boat and found it missing, he'd waited, knowing Michael hadn't left the estate, and then followed them despite Michael's semi-precautions. The other possibility, of course, was that Stan had placed the items in the boat himself. He would know it was almost never used and that he had time to dispose of them at his leisure. That second possibility was extremely disturbing. Cassandra said in a wobbly voice, “What's going on here?"

Neither he nor Stan answered, which was ominous both ways. In retrospect, it had been a selfish impulse to include her in this little excursion. Michael hadn't really thought things through, now had he? Confirming that it was the BMW's mat could have been as easy as a request for her keys and a simple look into her car. The truth was he'd wanted to talk with someone who would support his conviction of turning over everything to the police. Someone to agree he needed to defy everything ingrained into his childhood psyche and tell him unequivocally that doing the right thing was the only thing. He'd known Cassandra would do that. Damn. The wind was sighing in an uncanny song through the branches of the forest around them. Standing there in the damp interior of the shed felt very confining suddenly and Michael switched off his flashlight with a click. Stan stood clearly outlined in the doorway, but the interior where Cassandra and Michael stood would be dim and both of them more difficult to see—but not for long. Stan had come prepared. Very prepared. A powerful beam caught Michael in the eyes and he stepped backwards and nearly fell over the wheelbarrow. Grabbing a rickety lawn chair that hung from the rafters to catch his balance, he blinked and registered that the flashlight wasn't the only thing that Stan had brought with him. He also held a gun. It was black, shiny, and very business-like in his hand. The second scenario was looking more likely the possibility all the time. Cassandra quivered as she took in the gun, and then visibly realized their mutual silence was not a good sign. In the blaze of white flashlight beam, her shocked face looked like marble. She said, “Stan, are you crazy?" “Yeah,” Michael echoed very seriously, “are you crazy?” Even in the still air he could feel the beads of sweat suddenly spring to his skin. “No.” Stan moved the torchlight in his hand slightly down Michael's body, flicked it toward Cassandra, and then fastened the beam back on Michael. “But I must admit a few things have gone awry." Awry. For God's sake. A woman was dead. That did not qualify as awry. Michael cleared his throat and resisted the urge to lift his hands high in the air in surrender like in the movies. “The gun,” he said calmly as possible, “isn't necessary, Stan." “Well, I'm afraid it is." “Cassandra isn't a part of this. Let her go on back to the house, to her son. You and I will sort this out." Sort this out. God help him. Stan shook his head slightly, the barest movement, his alert gaze never wavering. “Cassandra is the beginning and the end of this, and no, I think she'll just stay right here.” The pleasant voice rang in eerie firmness. In response to that incredible declaration, Cassandra slowly turned away from the gun and looked at him. Michael felt as if a vise were closing around his chest as she gazed into his eyes and said slowly, “What's going on?" There was no use lying. She needed to know what she was dealing with, what they both faced down the barrel of that gun. He said succinctly, “Murder." ****

It was simply too absurd. Yet Cassandra found her mouth opening in protest, her knees weakening, her heart heaving in her tight chest. Yet the look on Michael's face, as ill-lit as it was by the reflected flood of the flashlight, was frighteningly grim and she thought she saw a sheen of perspiration across the expanse of his forehead. And Stanley Ransom, a man she'd known for years, was standing there pointing a gun at them. Incredible. He solidly blocked their way, standing calmly and holding that fantastical weapon as if he'd actually use it. She couldn't begin to believe he would. Unfortunately, she was so flabbergasted that she really couldn't move. Stan told them both in his quiet voice, “We need to have a little compromise here. What I want,” he paused slightly, “is for us to go for a little ride." “Stan—” Part of the nightmare seemed that her voice wouldn't really work and the protest came out as a sort of ridiculous squeak. “All three of us,” he interrupted her smoothly, the gun shifting position slightly so it was aimed directly at her. “Right, Michael?" From behind her right shoulder, she heard Michael say in a husky voice, “Jesus, Stan, don't point that thing at her. I get this picture, unfortunately. You don't have to screw around." “I never ‘screw around', remember that bit of information.” A flash of lightning, so far away that not an answering ripple of thunder came with it, lit his form with macabre definition. Stan added coolly, “All right, so it's good to know we understand each other, isn't it? I'm sure you won't object if I insist you two go first. Michael, your car is already unlocked and I have the keys." It wasn't until Michael's hand touched her shoulder that Cassandra realized she was supposed to move her leaden feet. She shrank back, instinctively resistant to moving any closer to the stranger with the gun whom she'd thought she'd known and liked for so long, but Michael said quietly in her ear, “Cassie, please, cooperate. I don't know what he'll do." It was something in his voice that made her stomach deflate further and her feet actually shuffle forward. Something awful. Something final. Stan stepped slightly back as she gained the doorway and when she stepped out onto the gravel of the outer driveway, he took her arm in a firm grip. She flinched back but he didn't let her go. The gun was pointed at her neck. Just under the jaw, not a place, she figured, where anyone wanted to get shot. Her knees felt full of jelly. The spacious sweep of the drive was designed to allow the number of cars to park that might reflect the full occupancy of a house the size of Thirty Birches. Besides the giant garage, there was ample space for her BMW, Michael's rental, Stan and Anne's luxury sedan, and several other cars if necessary, in cleverly set spots along a neatly landscaped edge overhung by graceful birches and fragrant hemlock trees. Stan waited for Michael to step out of the shed, instructed him to precede them, and tugged Cassandra forward. Gravel crunched lightly underfoot, but Cassandra reflected dully that it was likely no one would hear or care. Most of the staff was daily workers that went home in the evening. Mrs. Conner and Ashley had left for a visit with family right after Tim and his grandparents had arrived home, and Hal, the chauffeur/bodyguard, had the night off after being on duty nearly twenty-four hours a day since the party. He'd disappeared toward town about sundown. She had no idea if he was coming back to the estate that evening or not. That left Gerald, Marie, and Anne to come to their rescue. The odds seemed depressingly dim that any of the three would even notice anyone gone from the

house. Anne seemed to be drinking fairly heavily over this vacation and was probably already semicomatose after dinner. Marie was tired and had gone to bed early. Gerald was in his office, catching up. Not that Cassandra was acutely even thinking of possible liberation, except in an off-hand way. Her world seemed to have slipped into some sort of phantasm alter-space where very nice people carried guns and handsome heroes found bloodstained shoes hidden in boats. Stan directed Michael, “Go to the driver's side of your car." His fingers were tight on her arm, the only sign he gave of any tension. As Cassandra watched numbly, Michael walked around his small rented compact and opened the door. Stan pushed her to follow as he rounded the rear of the car just a few steps behind. This cannot be happening, she reminded herself dismally. “Here.” There was a musical jingle and a thud as Stan tossed the keys and they landed about two feet from Michael's feet in the gravel. “Pick them up." Michael hesitated for just a second and his face had almost a pasty hue as he obligingly bent over, as if he knew what was going to happen. Cassandra certainly had no idea when Stanley Ransom suddenly dropped her arm and switched the gun from one hand to the other, stepping forward. The blow was wide-screen and from the hip, the pistol arched backwards in his grip and catching Michael full across the side of the face in a cracking smash that sounded even over the rumble of the distant approaching storm. She cried out in horror as Michael slumped forward, crashing face first against the rocky drive. In the two seconds before she could move, she could already see a slow seep of crimson down the side of his exposed cheek. “No!” Pain gouged her bare knees as she flung herself with a sob down at Michael's side, her shaking hands hovering fearfully over his hair. He lay on his stomach, his right arm twisted unnaturally under his body, his face toward her. The seep had turned into a river over his ashen skin, obliterating his features, coating his eyelashes, running over his nose, his mouth... Dear God, don't let him be dead... Her whole body was now shaking like a dead leaf in a winter's gale and she fumbled awkwardly to find a pulse, her fingers cold against the warmth of Michael's throat ... she was pretty sure he was still breathing ... pretty sure, oh God ... only pretty sure... “Get up.” A strong hand grabbed her arm and yanked her away, gravel scraping cruelly across her legs. “I don't want his blood on you, understand?" She didn't understand. She didn't understand anything. Cassandra sobbed, “Stan, please, let me get him some help, take him to the hospital." Her brother-in-law, the man she'd liked, trusted, even admired for his attachment to his wife and her family, looked at her with cold eyes. “Help me put him in the car." Her lips felt numb, but she still managed somehow to ask him. “Why would you do this?" “The public is weary of philandering politicians, Cassandra, you know that. Robert was going to take us all down.” He stood there, looking for all the world like he always looked, a middle-aged, pleasant man with a receding hairline and unremarkable features ... except for the gun in his hand and the utter lack of remorse in his eyes. Robert? This is all about Robert? Her reeling mind struggled to make sense of what that cryptic

statement might mean. He was still holding onto her and he shook her arm, none too gently. His fingers dug in painfully as he gave her a shove. “Take his feet." Woodenly, because she didn't know what else to do, she complied, watching as he carefully extracted Michael's right arm out from under his body and grasped both his limp wrists. Between the two of them, they lifted him, Stan shoving the unconscious body unceremoniously into the backseat of the car, the gun going to the waistband of his jeans for only the seconds when both hands were busy. It reappeared instantly, once again pointing her way. Stanley informed her unemotionally, “You'll be driving your car, following me. The keys are already in it. Turn when I turn, stay right on my bumper.” His lips curved in an eerie facsimile of a smile. “By the way, if you try anything, if you lose us, I'll kill him. Understand?" Her teeth were chattering. She completely understood. **** Now this, he thought in dark amusement, was one of his less inspired ideas. Danny gunned the engine and glanced uneasily at the sky as he drifted down the winding road toward the Beaumont estate at well below the speed limit. He wasn't sure exactly what he was doing. He didn't have the authority to talk to anyone, he would be stepping on toes in a major way if he poked his nose on his own into this case, and even Ral would be furious with him if he interfered. Cassandra Beaumont had come to him with her confessions about the blackmail and the missing car mat, that was a different story altogether. He could gather the information and pass it on, she'd insisted on a ‘now or never’ clause in their conversation anyway. However, he shouldn't go to her, even if he just wanted to warn her that the police were concerned about her safety. The big gates were closed, and security lights discreetly placed on either side of the stone pillars glowed somewhat eerily in the dusky night. A nearly invisible wire fence radiated from either side of the gate, immersed cleverly in the woods, an almost indistinguishable perimeter that he guessed couldn't possibly protect the huge amount of land the Beaumonts actually owned, but must instead simply discourage any unwanted intrusion on the area around the house itself. He slowed the truck and cruised by slowly, wondering if the cameras he knew were mounted somewhere above the gates registered his image. He didn't think so. His impression was that the system was merely designed to allow someone inside the house to see whoever was at the gate and decide whether or not to let him or her in. Those damned gates, he thought darkly. If they hadn't been left wide open Saturday night, the field of suspects would narrow right down to anyone who knew the code and could get in and out at the unlikely hour of two or three in the morning. As it was, any one of those partygoers could be the person who killed Rawlings. There had been security guards discreetly posted around the house, but anyone who looked like they belonged could have come and gone. He glanced at his watch, the glowing dial reading nearly ten o'clock. Thunder rumbled again, very distant, very heavy, like artillery fire. The severe storm warnings were on until after midnight; he'd watched the news while he'd brooded over the case. Rain was hell on the fishing conditions, and it looked like another downpour was inevitable, just his luck. He sped up and tried to find a good place to turn around.

Since the Beaumonts owned every scrap of land in sight, there were no convenient driveways and the forest grew up thick right to the edge of the road. He finally chose a wide open stretch of road where he could see someone coming and they could see him, his headlights sending an arc of light against the darkened shapes of thicket, straight trunks, and moving leaves, as he backed up, moved forward, and turned around. To his surprise, when he drove back the way he'd just come, he saw the gates to the estate were now open, a car poised to pull onto the road. No one knew his truck, except maybe if Cassandra Beaumont had noticed it on her visit to Craig's that afternoon, but he still instinctively hunkered down in his seat, averting his face as he drove past. It was a light compact car, an inexpensive sedan maybe, one person inside, probably a man from the brief glimpse he'd gotten. Curious, he watched his rearview mirror as the person pulled out behind him and headed in the opposite direction, taillights lurid against the slick-curving road. A second car followed right behind the light-colored car, this one dark and sleek. Could be Mrs. Beaumont's BMW, Danny pondered, in his inattention almost catching the side of the road as it snaked into a turn, a sharp tug at the wheel saving him from a plunge into disaster. Steady on, he reminded himself cynically. Pay attention. Smashing himself into a tree a few yards from the estate would be something hard to explain, if, of course, he lived to explain it. But two cars leaving Thirty Birches at this time of night, dammit, now he was unwillingly intrigued. No way he should follow anyone leaving the Beaumont estate, he reminded himself quickly. As far as everyone in the world was concerned, he was just a regular guy on vacation, not a detective. Harassment charges would be unpleasant for him and an embarrassment to the Lynchburg Police Department. On the other hand, he was already braking before he realized it, there had been murder done. **** She must have done the right things: turn the key and start the engine, use the brakes, the gas pedal, her turn signals... She must have because there she was, following behind Michael's rented car on a dark wash of country road. Cassandra wasn't aware of actually doing any of those things required to make a car travel from one place to another, she wasn't aware of anything except an exquisitely painful chill that seemed to penetrate her whole body. Michael had been breathing, hadn't he? Yes, she promised herself, watching the two dim red lights in front of her like a fascinated fly caught in a web watches the spider approach. Yes, he'd been breathing. Maybe. It was hard to ignore that panicked flicker of fear that bit deep into the pit of her stomach. No, she couldn't bear to think of it, even consider he hadn't been breathing. But dear God, that awful sound when Stanley hit him ... and the blood, there'd been a lot of blood. Stan didn't want Michael's blood on her and had been careful to not getting any on himself, yet he must know that Michael was right now bleeding all over the rental car. Her numbed mind couldn't make any sense of it. Where was he taking them? The image of the car in front of her suddenly lost definition, becoming a blurred outline, swimming in

the darkness. No, she told herself fiercely, no crying, just blink them away ... it won't help you and it won't help Michael. Wet warmth dripping onto her hands told her that the tears fell anyway. A persistent voice in her head reminded her that Stan must know that he couldn't viciously assault his brother-in-law right in front of her and not expect either of them to not tell anyone about what happened. That same voice whispered that perhaps Stan wasn't worried about them ever being able to tell anyone anything. The ploy of tossing the keys onto the ground and making Michael vulnerable to attack when he bent over to pick them up, that had been planned. Her keys had once again been taken from her purse and waiting in her car, and that had undoubtedly taken some foresight. He'd said outright that he'd been waiting, knowing that Michael had moved the evidence left in the boat. Murder. The word had been said. If she suddenly slammed on the brakes, turned around, and drove like a maniac off to Lynchburg... If she did that, Michael would most certainly die. Stan had said so. And she believed him. The steering wheel was slick and damp under her trembling grip. Michael could not die, she told herself vehemently, with sickening repetitive denial. She loved him and he couldn't die. Maybe for all these years she'd still loved him. Underneath the disillusion and pain of her farce of a marriage, there had been an even greater ache over what she'd destroyed and left behind. A buffet of wind hit her car, making her swerve unexpectedly. The sky had begun to pulse with incoming lightning, one strike after another, and fat droplets of rain splattered here and there on her windshield. She'd never gone this direction before, the unfamiliar road leading to parts unknown, away from town, hedged thickly by trees that moved and swayed in the wind. It seemed to her that in a lifetime barely remembered, she'd once heard Robert say that the road went this direction for twenty miles before connecting to the county highway—miles and miles of crowding pines, pin oaks, graceful ghostly birches, darkness, white light, the road growing slick with rain. Again, the thought spun through ... where was he taking them? The sudden scarlet pulsing of a turn signal made her jump and at least partially answered her question. He was taking them right. Somewhere right in the middle of the forest in the middle of a storm. She watched the small car turn and disappear as if swallowed whole by the timber. She followed, finding a rutted lane that was barely wide enough for the car through a gap in the hovering trees. Stan, she discovered as she pulled into the uneven dirt path, was out of the vehicle, the driver's door open despite the now persistent rain. She barely stopped in time to keep from plowing into the back of the rental car, and she saw his face flash as he glanced back at her. Then he resumed the task of unlatching some sort of crude wooden gate that blocked the passage. She should have done something more, she thought desperately as she watched the stranger she'd known as Stan Ransom swing open the barricade and get back into the car. She should have been thinking about what to do, how to escape, how to help Michael, how to summon some sort of help for them both ... and now they were going straight into the hellish blackness of a northern forest at night, and she had still done nothing. A note. It was a frantic, sudden hope. She should have written a note on one of the napkins she kept in the glove compartment, and dropped it on the road. She always kept a pen in the car ... her fingers

fumbled for the latch on the glove box. Napkins, yes, from Tim's love affair with fast food hamburgers, she always kept a few. But there was no time. Stan had already pulled away and if she delayed long enough to try and scribble something and toss it out the window... Her fingers found paper, not the flimsy napkins distributed by the national burger chains, but something else—her vehicle's registration—name, address, identification information on her car. She pulled it out and looked at it, and then glanced up at the car moving forward ahead. Brake lights flared as he obviously realized she wasn't yet moving. Pushing the button for her driver's window, she let the card flutter outside as she hit the gas and lurched ahead at the same time. Hopefully the forward movement of her car would keep Stan from seeing she'd dropped something out the window. At least she'd done something. Chapter 18 Homicide detectives, Danny declared to himself for approximately the millionth time, did not do all those cool tricks you saw on the movie screen. Shooting guns out of people's hands, throwing themselves down dark alleys, cleverly pushing suspects into unwitting but damning confessions ... and, in this particular instance, trailing someone out of sight in such a way the quarry had no idea on earth he was followed. He wasn't a hero, he wasn't slick and dangerous and well-armed like James Bond. He was a small-town police officer on vacation, trying to do a little amateur sleuthing and making a mess of it. Hell, he was having trouble tracking two cars on a deserted, little highway. First, he was too far back. Once he'd gotten turned around on the narrow road, he'd sped up to try and catch a glimpse of the cars that had left the Beaumont estate. No luck. They must be going fast. He'd gone over the speed limit a little even though the weather had gotten more threatening as each moment passed; and finally, finally, about ten minutes later, he had glimpsed taillights in the distance. Then, he got a little too close. Turning off his headlights was not an option. The road was winding, it was wet with wild blowing rain, and with the encroaching forest surrounding it, it was black as ebony. That meant, of course, the cars ahead of him could see him in their rear view, or at least the second car could. Had this been a road that saw more traffic, he wouldn't have cared or been so worried. Had it even been the middle of the day, he wouldn't have cared. But this late in the evening, three cars traveling right along together looked odd, that wasn't something he could risk. He could barely understand himself why he was impulsively following those two elusive cars; anyone else would think he was just insane. So he fell back, well back, and because of that, he missed them turning off. He had to have, he realized once he rounded a hairpin turn and saw the stretch of road in front him go on like an eternity into the darkness. No taillights ahead, the cars vanished like a wisp of smoke. Vanished? Where? There hadn't been a single side road or driveway that he'd noticed passing. No lights, no houses, no

place to go. Not one. Jesus, this was getting worse and worse. The way his stomach churned in warning, he should probably call Jobe, but wasn't sure what to say. Hey, remember me, the off-duty small town cop? Well, you won't believe this but I'm the in middle of fucking nowhere trailing two cars that left the Beaumont estate for no reason except I have this nasty feeling in my gut... Yeah, that would do. Craig would want his head, rightfully so. Slamming on the brakes, he turned around, flipping the windshield wipers on high to blow off some wild and wet leaves deposited by the storm. **** The headlights illuminated a rain-lashed clearing in the trees. Stan had stopped the car again, this time amid a sea of delicate ferns that glistened and bowed in the rain. He motioned for Cassandra to park at a right angle, the hood of her car behind the trunk of the rental. Without the cover of the crowding forest, the rain fell hard. Cassandra watched it bead and run down her windshield, her arms crossed over her chest as she shivered. From the other car there was no movement except Stanley extracting himself. Michael must still be unconscious. Just unconscious, she reminded herself in a dismal parody of firm conviction. He will be fine. Stan still had the gun. Disregarding the moisture falling from the heavens, he walked over and opened her door, motioning her to get out with the barrel in a way that left no room for argument. She was past argument anyway, the whole thing so absolutely grotesque that her thought processes seemed rusted and useless. She stepped out onto the ferns, squishing mud. The air smelled dank and warm and full of decaying vegetation. The wind had died down, or was so blocked by the thickness of the forest that she didn't feel it. Drops of water slid down her ankles and soaked her thin-soled sandals. Stan's shirt was wet and clinging to his middle-aged body, his thin hair plastered to his skull. Barely moving his mouth, he said abruptly, “Walk over to the car." She left the lights of the BMW on, her shadow thrown across the other car like a leaping giant as she reluctantly moved toward the rental. He told her, “Open the door to the backseat." Her hand caught the handle and managed to pull open the door. Michael still lay there, sprawled in an ugly, unnatural position, his long body awkwardly jammed against the opposite door. An appalling welter of dark red liquid pooled around where his head rested on the seat, his eyes closed against the crusted blood on his face. “Get in.” The suggestion was quietly made, almost surprisingly gentle. Cassandra glanced up at the set, streaming, almost normal face of the man who'd sat across from her at the dinner table a few nights before, and felt the unreality of the situation crash in again, hurting her stomach like stabbing pins. Get in. Oh God. What was he doing? She tried one last time, turning, lifting her hands in supplication. Her eyes smarted. “Stan, please, let me take Michael to the hospital." His face looked plastic with moisture, devoid of emotion. “Get in the car, Cassandra." She did as she was told. In retrospect, the tossing of her registration seemed not only futile but also

pitiful. Oh, she had tried, but failed very miserably. A great moment of empowerment rendered stupid and wasteful. Crawling into the backseat, she moved over Michael's body, touching his chin, happy to just feel the slow but steady beat of his heart under her trembling hand as she rested it on his chest, tentatively running her fingers over the frightening lump at his left temple. Her hand was instantly stained bright with congealing blood, the sickening slip of her fingers against his clammy skin making her whole body tighten queasily. But Michael groaned, bringing tears to her eyes. Thank God, she prayed fervently. Thank you. Alive, yes, Michael was alive. At a guess, just barely, but she'd take it. She was dimly aware that Stan had gotten into the front seat and put the car in gear. Now where could they be going? Michael's tall body took up most of the room but Cassandra sat up on a corner of the backseat and looked out the window—nothing but forest—black, night-filled forest, without light—nowhere to go, as far as the eye could see. What the hell? The car moved forward reluctantly at first, over bumpy ground. She realized vaguely that Stan was staring at her in the rearview mirror. “I heard a noise. I didn't kill him.” It was a statement. He seemed to know Michael was breathing, so she agreed, “No." “I didn't think so." “You tried.” She didn't even attempt to keep the bewilderment from her voice. “No.” He shook his head and looked in the mirror again. “It's better this way. This is what I intended." “What does that mean?" “Well, what would you do,” he asked almost conversationally as the car eased forward, “if you had to choose between life and death, Cassandra?" As a philosophical question in an ordinary conversation, it would be ridiculous and obvious. In the middle of a storm-tossed forest, with a bleeding and senseless man practically in her lap in the back seat of a car, it was beyond even answering. The car rocked unevenly, almost violently and lurched downward. Stanley Ransom added gently, “I don't mean whether you would choose to live or die, of course, we all want to live, don't we? I'm asking if you had to choose between your life or Michael's death, what would you do?" Looking out past the man in the front seat, she thought she could see a black sheen of liquid movement and a remarkable lack of trees in front of them. A flash of lightning was reflected back toward the unruly heavens. There was water below them. Suddenly, she was certain she understood Stan's intentions. Her mouth silently formed the word, “No." But she couldn't scream, the sound locked in her throat. Pure terror held her immobile. The car was still moving as he opened the door. She saw the flash of the dome light, illuminating Michael in his gory mess, and the movement of Stan jumping out into the night. Oh God. The driverless car bucked, gathering speed. Heading downward, hitting objects on the way but still

moving. She slammed into the seat in front of her when they hit the lake, a glancing blow that hurt and dazed, the stinging pain bringing tears to her eyes. The car surged forward, arrested, nose downward. Water began to pour inside the open front driver's door. She could smell it, cool and clean. In two short seconds it was surging over her feet, rushing up her calves and thighs. On cue, they began to sink. **** Danny parked his truck under a huge pine just a few yards past the cleft in the woods and slammed the door shut, shoving the keys in his pocket. Even though the rain had steadied and let off, the sky was amazingly active, putting on a spectacular light show that gilded the tops of the trees with bursts of offkey light. There was more bad weather on the way, no doubt about it. The white thing that had caught his attention was a scrap of paper. Bending over to fish it out of the mud, Danny saw that it was a vehicle registration slip from Illinois. How in the hell, he thought as he silently scanned it, did that get there? It wasn't like Cassandra Beaumont was cruising along with her windows and glove box open and it just flew out, not in this weather. And if she dumped it, that had to be for a purpose. Adrenaline shot through his veins. Before, this all had just been a bad premonition. Now it had all the makings of a full-blown situation. He chose to sneak cautiously along the path rather than hide in the woods and pick his way ... it was just too damn dark and too wet to try to play Indian scout and approach unnoticed by skulking through the underbrush. Especially since he had no idea where he was going or what he might be looking for. He'd only gone a hundred feet or so before he saw the lights. There was a glen ahead, a large clear space full of vegetation, rimmed by forest. A set of headlights caught the opposite wall of trees in dual rings of illumination, the trunks like an opposing army. One set of lights. Now where the hell was the other car? Keeping to the shadows, Danny tried to ignore the persuasive drip of water running down his neck and edged forward. A man stood at the edge of the clearing, looking out into the night. His dark silhouette was defined again and again by quick flashes of lightning. One car. One man. Puzzling. Either a minute passed, or else a lifetime flashed by. Danny wasn't sure. Stuck beside a scrubby tree that had set its sights on battling the forest monoliths, he inhaled the tang of pine and tried to collect his thoughts. In the distance the low hum of energy from the storm seemed to gather and bunch into an overwhelming roar of wind and rain. The man stood. Danny watched. What was he looking at, or waiting for? Minutes passed. Rain pelted leaf and branch. Finally the figure moved, turning and walking toward the car that still had its lights on. A second later Danny heard the sound of the engine and saw the sweep of the lights flicker across the vista of tree and

branch. The car must have passed within two feet of where he crouched in his inadequate hiding place. The glare of the headlights was momentarily blinding but swiftly passed onward and apparently the driver didn't see Danny behind his pathetic pine because a minute or so later he audibly gained the little paved county road. The whine of tires on the wet road was muted by the rumble of the skies. Perplexed, his clothes starting to cling to him because of the rain, Danny edged forward toward where the car had been parked. He always carried a flashlight in his truck but was reluctant to use it until he figured out what was going on. Luckily, the frequency of the lightning made the small clearing in front of him almost as light as day. As far as he could tell, he was quite alone. Shrugging but still uneasy, he switched on the flashlight and openly walked forward. Delicate ferns lay flattened where the BMW had arrived and left, the woods thick and dark all around, and to his left a sharp slope led to a small lake of maybe ten acres or so, the water black and then white due to nature's insistent light show. The rutted little road ended at the clearing, so it must be in existence to let a person park their vehicle close to the lake if they wanted to do a little fishing, Danny guessed. It made sense where nothing else did. Now why, he stood there slowly rotating the light on the ground, thinking hard, would someone drive out to this spot in the face of an approaching storm and park with the lights on for a few minutes, walk to the top of the hill and stare out over the lake, and then just leave? And what happened to the other car, the white compact that pulled out first from the Beaumont driveway? He supposed, he mused as he walked a few paces over to where he'd seen the man standing, that it could have pulled in and turned around and left before he had time to realize the cars had pulled off the road and turned around himself. Still, it seemed a senseless journey. Looking out over the water, he felt the sensation in his stomach tighten to almost acute pain. Two cars meant at least two people. He could only account for one car and one person. How odd. The scene before him was pretty; one of a thousand just like it all over the state of Michigan. A lovely little lake ringed by acres and acres of timber... The rain had all but stopped, Danny realized, though his hair was soaked and clung to his skull like a cap. And the wind had died down as well, almost to an ominous hush. He'd been flicking his flashlight beam in a cursory fashion over the hillside as he stood there and suddenly he froze, locked into place by an awful possibility. There were more mutilated ferns several yards down. He could see fractured stems and crushed plants in an odd pattern—a flattened good-sized gooseberry bush, the splintered raw wood bright and fresh. Jesus. He couldn't believe what he was thinking, surely it couldn't be the explanation, but ... the hillside was steep and fairly clear and it was possible, dear God in heaven, it was possible that a car could travel down that slope... He didn't even realize he was scrambling downward toward the water until he slipped on the wet vegetation and slid ten feet on his side, the flashlight spewing crazy strobes against the night sky. He got up immediately, still running, his breathing harsh and uneven. At the bottom he rocked to a horrified halt.

In the sand between the steep bank and the actual water he could see the clear imprint of a tire track. **** Darkness. Cold water surrounding her, pulling, consuming all body heat Cassandra gasped and choked, the flood reaching her chin and lapping upward into her mouth every time she moved. Feet braced on back of the front seat, she had both hands twisted in Michael's shirt and it took all her waning strength to keep him from slipping under and drowning. Ironically, the buoyancy of the substance that would probably kill them both was the only thing that allowed her to support his weight. He seemed to be regaining consciousness but that was little comfort at the moment. The car had settled somehow nose first, at almost a forty-five degree angle. Forced backwards by the rush of invading water, Cassandra had tried in her panic to open her door but had ended up somehow shoved into the back window where a trapped pocket of precious air gave her and Michael a few more moments of life. God help her, she shouldn't think that way. God help her, she couldn't help but think that way. Moments. That's all they had left. Michael moved a little, his warm breath rasping across her cheek. The initial rush of cold water had roused him enough to elicit a feeble groan and a mumbled word, but he seemed to be drifting between worlds. The last thing she needed was for him to come to in time to fight her when she found the courage to make the desperate attempt to get out of the car and try to drag him with her. That was not going to be a choice. But dear Lord, the possibility that she could get out herself, much less drag an unconscious man almost twice her weight, that seemed like trying to flap her arms and fly to the moon. And if he wasn't aware enough to be able to hold his breath ... she was too frightened to think about it. Her forehead throbbed where she'd struck the seat. It was the least of her problems, of course. Michael moved his arm. She felt it brush across her stomach through the sodden material of her thin blouse. A little ridiculous flame of hope stirred. If he could only swim ... just a little... Please. **** He knew where the car had gone in. He knew someone had to be inside because someone drove it there, hadn't they, and only one man, as far as he could see, had left in the BMW. Unfortunately, the lake was deep, the hillside continuing the downward slope at an acute angle that encompassed silt and water. Danny took a deep breath and dived again, this time deeper, ignoring the ringing cold of the water. The water was black as pitch and opening his eyes under the surface didn't help a bit. He jackknifed as powerfully as possible, thrusting with his legs, groping with his hands. It wasn't until he was already straining with the effort of holding his breath that he rammed into something hard and solid.

Smooth and slick; metal and glass. Unmistakably what he was looking for. But his lungs were burning and he had to go upwards, breaking the surface and gasping. No one would be alive in that underwater tomb. Had that been what the man was waiting for as he stood there on the hill in the rain? To make sure the car sank? Treading water, he told himself that he couldn't assume the passenger of the doomed car was dead already. How would he live with himself if he were wrong? His ears roared, his mouth oddly dry considering he was in the middle of a lake. And he dove back down. This time he slid his hands everywhere in frantic search—up, down, sideways. Finding the handle on one of the doors, he pulled, meeting no resistance. Amazing. Water in and out made the act of opening one of the back doors of the car just like it might be in the air-filled world above. Thrusting his hands inside, he began to search. In seconds his cold fingers met warm flesh. Danny was more than astounded, he actually flinched back. It was like encountering an octopus or giant squid, even though one had been looking for that creature. No. That was what he'd come for, even if the person trapped inside the car was already dead. He grabbed and found cloth. Hands grabbed back and at once he knew the person he'd found was very much alive. Alive. Using the metal frame of the car, he levered backwards, pulling the person free of the submerged vehicle. He wasn't the strongest swimmer. Hard to admit sometimes, but he just wasn't. Kicking back toward the surface felt like the last few steps of the Boston Marathon. Especially since the person he'd found was inordinately heavy and ungainly. Neither did his burden seem to be helping. They moved, they kicked, but they hardly seemed to be doing anything that even remotely reminded him of swimming. Cursing in his head, he strained upward, unwilling to let go, but certain he would do neither of them any good by drowning himself. His straining lungs screamed silently, making his ears roar. His feet found the bottom before he actually broke surface. Standing up in chest deep water, slipping on the steep bank, he heaved a grateful breath into his tortured lungs and pulled hard on the cloth twisted in his left hand. The garment tore but not before the person came up out of the water, gulping loudly. Then sank again. Danny lurched forward, found flailing arms and legs, got his fingers wrapped around a frantic wrist ... and realized with a small shock that there were two people in the water. No wonder he'd been nearly unable to pull them out. Come on, just hold. Just heave, just pull ... come on. He wasn't sure how it all happened, but it seemed like an eternity later he was lying on the steep slope of the hill, half in and half out of the water, an unconscious Michael Beaumont sprawled in front of him on the muddy bank. Cassandra Beaumont knelt by the limp body of her lover, hair streaming, slow sobs shaking her bare shoulders. Clad only in shorts and a thin lacy bra, it must have been her missing blouse that Danny had used for a towrope. She looked like a damaged mermaid out of some sort of

dark fantasy movie. And there, he thought irreverently, was an interesting fantasy. “He's not breathing.” Her voice was as hollow as her eyes. Dark blond strands of hair clung to her cheeks and neck like seaweed. There was a tuft of some sort of grass tickling Danny's ear and his face was pillowed gratefully on a smooth rock. The adrenaline rush that had him diving into a chilly lake during a storm had left him exhausted. His ears were humming. The rain had begun again, and now it felt cold, almost icy as it bounced over his skin. She repeated beseechingly, “He's not breathing. Help me." The emotion, if not the words, came through. Danny pushed himself upright as he registered the content of her declaration. He crawled on his hands and knees upward in alarm and pushed her out of the way. She was unfortunately absolutely correct. Beaumont wasn't breathing. Beaumont, in fact, looked like hell. Not only was he ashen and unnaturally still, the entire left side of his face was swollen and deformed. White specks of what looked like snow covered his body. Danny knew CPR, had taken the classes long ago, and some scrap of distant memory must have kicked in because in seconds he had positioned himself so that he was breathing into the prone man's mouth like he actually knew what he was doing. Pinch the nose shut. Exhale, watch the chest rise... And do it over and over. Nothing. In the background, a half-naked Cassandra Beaumont continued to sob in a heart-wrenching chorus. The rain began to hurt and vaguely Danny registered that it was sleeting and that the sleet was turning alarmingly into hail. Somewhere, he thought as he repeated the action, someone forgot to mention that breathing into the mouth of a possible corpse was disheartening, eerie, and brought on a confusing array of other emotions. Within seconds he felt like he should quit, that it was futile, a little voice in his head asking when exactly did one know it had been long enough and decide to stop. Without any warning, Michael Beaumont twitched. Danny sat back on his heels and watched the subject of his efforts convulse, water spewing from his mouth and nose, the sound of coughing overcome by the consistent roar in his ears that Danny couldn't seem to shake. What the hell, he asked himself, was that noise? It sounded like a rocket taking off from a launch pad. The hail glanced painfully off of his head and arms and the ground was white. “Michael.” Cassandra Beaumont cried out, shivering in her half-dressed state, her hair wet and thick against her back. Something flew past her head, maybe a bird, although what a bird might be doing flying so close to the ground... And suddenly Danny knew. The sudden quiet, the onslaught of hail, and now the awful roar above them—oh, shit, they were in for it. In one movement he flung himself forward, knocking her flat, covering her body with his as a freight train swell clamored through the darkness and engulfed the world.

Chapter 19 One minute she was drowning in a metal coffin, the next miraculously pulled free, only to have the world explode violently all around her. This never-ending nightmare was over the edge. Wake up, Cassandra wanted to scream. Only her heart was lodged somewhere in the region of her throat. She was blasted from every direction. Sand, water, other flying debris that stung and glanced and hurt ... and over the top of it all, the horrible howling of what sounded like a million jet engines converging on top of the bank of the little deadly lake where Stan had wanted to bury them. The smell of wet earth was sharp and narcotic. Face down on the hillside, she felt the earth rocking, trembling, or maybe it was the shuddering of the trees all around her. Only vaguely aware of Danny Haase and the weight of his body on top of her, she lay, dazed with the enormity of sound and movement. Giant cracks like mini bombs, limbs flying, the awful rushing of sucking wind and groans of dying trees... She drifted in a sea of horror and overwhelming sensation. Michael lay unprotected, she thought in abstract horror, but she couldn't move, could barely breathe. Eventually, the sound diminished. Her discomfort, however, continued. After the awful sound came a slashing cold rain, pelting her bare arms and legs like tiny icicles. She was only dimly aware when Haase moved, shifting his weight from on top of her. Then he was gently tugging her to her feet, holding her upright by her upper arms, peering into her face. “Are you hurt, Mrs. Beaumont?" The lightning had followed the storm; now flashing only in incidental bursts in the distance. It was so dark that she could hardly see anything more than the shape of his head and shoulders. She had no idea on earth how he'd come to be there, under the water and pulling them out of the car. Trembling under the grasp of his hands, she tried to shake her head. She could feel mud all over her face, her almost nude upper body, in streaks down her legs. “Mrs. Beaumont?" With difficulty, she found her voice. “No. No, I'm not hurt. But Michael?" Haase let her go and crouched down. In the darkness he seemed to be searching for something, moving his hands. He said, “He's breathing, but he still isn't conscious. My hands are shaking too damn much to find a pulse." After watching the man she loved be viciously attacked, being nearly drown by a madman disguised as a sedate lawyer, and then being run over by what must have been a tornado, she was a little shaky herself. Cassandra drew a deep breath and it came out as a sob. “He was hit on the side of the head with the butt of a gun. Hard." That got his attention. Haases's head whipped up. “A gun?" “Yes. There was a lot of blood." “With head injuries there usually is. How long ago was this?"

She opened her mouth, laughed out another semi-hysterical sob. “It feels like years. I have no idea.” Her voice broke into splinters. She swallowed, tried again to suppress the nightmare memory, and finished thinly, “I have no idea how long we were trapped in the car." The hail had thankfully already lessened. Cassandra rubbed her arms and shivered. The air all around them was growing calm, the night having that terrible increasing silence that signaled the aftermath of disaster. Haase said evenly, “As you can imagine, I have more than just a few questions." “I can imagine.” Cassandra lifted a filthy hand to rub her equally filthy cheek. Her arm felt like lead. “You can tell me,” even in the darkness there was a steely edge to his voice, “all about it during our drive to the hospital.” His light eyes gleamed as he glanced up at her. A hospital. Yes. Lights, doctors, kind nurses, shelter. Michael really needed a hospital. He shifted position, saying briskly, “He's a pretty tall guy. I'm afraid, Mrs. Beaumont, you're going to have to help me carry him. If my truck isn't in the middle of that twister bound for somewhere in Canada, it should be just a little ways down the county road." Stifling a hysterical laugh, she said, “I think, under the circumstances, you can call me Cassandra." **** Danny slipped backwards and almost fell, hanging onto his balance by a miracle, his aching arms under Michael Beaumont's shoulders. Glancing up, he saw with relief that it was the lip of the road that had tripped him. Thank God. And praise to that deity again when he made out the dark shape of his truck, still where he'd left it a few hundred feet away under the shadows of the trees on the side of the narrow pavement. Miraculously, the sky in the wake of the storm had begun to clear and wisps of light drifted downward from where tearing clouds streamed past a struggling moon. Half-naked, disheveled, and covered in mud, Cassandra held Michael's legs gamely enough but her whole body drooped betrayingly. Danny could sympathize. Getting their limp and helpless burden up that steep, slippery hill and down the rutted path to the road had been a Herculean effort. He was damned afraid that all the rough handling and jolting hadn't done the unconscious man any favors either. “Just a few more feet,” he said encouragingly, attempting a smile. She nodded and they stumbled on. “You'll have to ride with him in the back,” he said apologetically when they finally reached the pick-up. He would have to be told her story somewhere else, at some calmer time. In the condition Michael was in, it wasn't like they could toss him in the back and have her ride in the front of the truck. And from the look on her face when she gazed at Beaumont, he didn't think she'd even entertain the notion of leaving his side anyway. Downed branches from trees lay over everything, a plaster of leaves covering the windows and the bed of the vehicle. Danny had never seen anything like it, not even back in Indiana where spring brought violent weather right along with the tulips and daffodils. He managed to get the unconscious man into the back of the truck without being too brutal by levering him over his shoulders and rolling him off with as much care as possible. He then had to half-lift an exhausted Cassandra so she could crawl in behind. She was protectively lifting Beaumont's battered head into her lap when he shut the gate.

He wasn't lying earlier; his hands still trembled so badly from both adrenaline and physical exertion that he could barely fumble in his pocket for his keys. He thought regretfully of his cell phone, which had gone right into the lake with him and undoubtedly no longer functioned, as he opened the door, slid in, and stuck the key in the ignition. His headlights coming on showed havoc everywhere. A line of broken trees lay to his right, branches splayed obscenely and half-obstructing the road, dirt and debris nearly obliterating the paved surface. Once the wipers had cleared the worst of the leaves off his windshield, he slowly pulled onto the road, trying to quell the feeling of urgency that had replaced the lump of lead in his stomach. Going too fast might jar and injure either one of his vulnerable passengers and neither one of them needed any more catastrophe this evening. For that matter, he gritted his teeth and bumped over something hard buried in a sea of leaves, he was pretty done with catastrophe himself. Skirting around a haphazard pile of wreckage, he slightly increased his speed. The closest hospital was a good forty-five minutes away. Whether Michael Beaumont had forty-five minutes of leeway before he got some treatment for his head trauma, he didn't know. He sincerely hoped so. He didn't want to think that someone who had survived attempted murder, near drowning, and being run over by a deadly storm would later die. But someone had wanted him dead. Someone had wanted them both dead. That sentinel on the hill had been watching to make sure neither of his victims escaped that submerged death trap. 'Diabolic’ was a word that came to mind, Danny thought grimly, weaving between a large limb full of green leaves and a good-sized rock that now resided in the middle of the road. ‘Brutal’ was another one, also inhuman, and calculating. Deliberately drowning two people in a car was a cruel choice of execution and the idea of it made his skin crawl. The fact that the very lovely and fragile looking Cassandra had somehow managed to keep them both alive for so long was a pure miracle. The fact that she was apparently unhurt and could possibly have saved her own life by abandoning her unconscious lover and chose not to ... well, that was a display of courage that amazed and humbled him. If a woman ever loved him that much ... well, he should ever be that lucky, he told himself cynically. However, a physical glimmer of satisfaction came from the fact that undoubtedly Cassandra Beaumont knew who tried to kill her and Michael, and undoubtedly she was alive to tell her tale. And Danny took very great pleasure in knowing he'd played a part in bringing down a monster by saving her life. Maybe he hadn't done any great detecting; maybe he hadn't done anything more than follow his instincts, but it had paid off. “Shit!” His foot hit the brake as they rounded a sharp curve. On the slimy littered road the truck slid, briefly out of control, and then rocked to a jolting halt just in the nick of time. A thin film of sweat mingled with the dampness already on his skin, and Danny stared through the windshield at a wall of roots at least eight feet high, the fresh dirt clinging to what looked like curled white claws. The road was completely blocked, Danny realized in dismay. Not one, but two giant uprooted trees lay together like supine lovers. A frantic tapping on the back window made him shift and turn around. Cassandra's ashen dirt-streaked face was close to the glass and she was gesturing frantically with one hand to the right. Looking out the passenger window toward where she was so vehemently pointing, he felt a frisson of shock run down his spine. Underneath the carnage was the crushed frame of a dark car. He could see one shattered taillight still illuminated in the tangle of broken limbs and flattened leaves.

Shoving the gearshift into park, Danny clambered out of the truck and ran over, peering into the disaster. One of the trees, a huge elm, had landed on top of the vehicle, smashing in the entire roof. It looked, he thought with horrified irreverence, like a toy crushed under the heel of a petulant child. The probability of anyone being still alive inside that mass of flattened metal was very low. Coupled with the fact that he couldn't get to it in that chaos of roots and tangled branch, nor had the equipment to extract anyone ... well, Michael Beaumont needed help now. They would have to turn around and hope the road was clear the other direction. He turned and ran back to the truck. Cassandra was staring at him from over the edge of the bed of the truck, streaks of mud down her arms and bare torso. In the filmy light coming from the moonlight behind the veil of clouds, her eyes looked like two dark holes in her face. Danny said, “We're turning around. It's going to cost us time but the road is blocked. I don't think we're more than fifteen miles from the highway. Hopefully, there we can find a way to call for help." Her breasts quivered under the now filthy lace of her bra as she took a visible breath. She asked quietly, “Is he dead?" Danny blinked. He asked sharply, “He?" She looked past his shoulder at the wreckage in front of them. “That's my car. Oh God, it's my car and he must still be inside." Then she began to laugh and cry at the same time. **** The world was bland and clean and smelled of antiseptic. The underlying tones of voices, machines, ringing phones and brisk footsteps—all of that was muted, faded, hushed. Someone had brought her a cup of something hot but tasteless. Cassandra sipped it mindlessly, eyes closed against the glare of institutional lights. Never had she felt so tired in her entire life—or so dirty, so battered, so numb. Upon their arrival at the hospital what seemed like hours and hours before, Danny Haase had given her his shirt to slip on over her semi-nakedness and it had finally begun to dry, still stiff with mud. Brown streaks marked her legs and arms and she was sure from the neck up there was no improvement. She wasn't sure just what he'd said, but Danny Haase had somehow gotten her a chair just inside the intensive care unit doors, away from the curious stares of the waiting room. Though Michael had thankfully regained consciousness during those dark awful miles to the hospital, in one of the rooms, behind drawn curtains, he lay attached to a myriad of tubes, surrounded by doctors and nurses. No one was telling her anything about his condition, which would be ominous, except she was fairly certain everyone bustling around had been instructed not to speak to her until she gave a statement to the police. The thought of that brought another surge of hopeless exhaustion. She was beyond explanations. She was beyond thinking about it. Her brain could not process any more horror. She was glutted, full to the brim, saturated in it. The doors opened quietly on their automatic hinges. Slowly lifting her lashes, she saw Danny Haase come in to the ICU. He gave her a brief reassuring smile and walked past her to the nurses’ station. Somewhere along the line, someone had given him the shirt from a set of scrubs and he'd washed his face and arms. His fair hair still stuck up in clumps here and there and his jeans were filthy, but he looked at least human, which she was sure she didn't. After a brief conversation with a stout nurse with unlikely jet-black hair, he nodded and walked over to

where Cassandra was sitting and sank down beside her. His blue eyes were serious and he put his arm around her shoulders. “Hey, how are you doing?" “Okay.” A lie. She blinked rapidly to ward off an unexpected rush of tears, staring up at him. “Did they tell you anything about Michael?" “He's stable and seems lucid, which is a good sign. That's about all they know right now." “What about Tim? Were you able to get through to Thirty Birches?” Her voice cracked as she asked the question. There had been a tornado and she hadn't been there to protect him, to hold him. His arm tightened and his expression was sympathetic. “The police are there now and everything is fine. The storm tracked east of the house. I promise you your son is safe." Her relief was a physical sensation and she allowed herself the luxury of resting her head against his shoulder as she mumbled, “Thank you.” The familiarity of sharing death and danger, coupled with the fact that this man had saved her life, made the intimacy of the act seem natural. With Michael incapacitated, she felt like Daniel Haase, formerly of the Indianapolis Homicide Division, was about her only friend in the world. “No problem.” He gave her another brief comforting squeeze. “Cassandra, I know this is difficult and you've had a rough evening to say the least, but could you answer a few questions? There's a detective outside waiting to talk to you. They need to know what happened tonight." The warmth of his chest under her cheek felt nice and solid; and the fabric of the hospital shirt smelled faintly of antiseptic. “Can't I just tell you?" “I'm afraid not. But don't worry, they know you're exhausted and I've told them everything that I know, so all you should really have to do is fill in the blanks.” A breath. “One really big blank being just how you and Michael Beaumont ended up at the bottom of that lake." There were a lot of blanks in her mind, as well. Wearily she nodded and let him pull her to her feet. She might dread remembering the details, but she'd known it was coming. There were several uniformed officers in the hallway outside the doors, and the detective that wanted to talk to her, a large untidy man named Jobe. He'd commandeered one section of the waiting area by pulling the furniture into a small semi-circle and the police officers stood on the periphery, effectively declaring it to be an official interrogation area. Cassandra was put into a cushioned chair and asked very simply to begin where she judged it significant and to recite the series of events that led to her and Michael being trapped in the rental car under the water. In a dull voice, she started with Michael coming to Tim's room and telling her he needed to talk to her. She was aware of Danny standing with the uniformed men, watching her with his clear blue gaze, the sympathetic eyes of the other men, the almost hushed bustle of the hospital. Jobe listened without expression until she reached the part where Stan asked her what she would do if she had to choose between her own life and Michael's and then jumped from the lake-bound car. She didn't even realize that her hands had begun to shake until he reached out and clasped them both in his large warm ones, and said, “According to Mr. Haase over there,” a nod in Danny's direction, “the car had to be underwater for a good while before he realized what happened and went into the water. He also feels that you could have gotten out yourself, if you had been willing to let Mr. Beaumont die.” He smiled at her suddenly, a surprising smile that wrinkled an otherwise unattractive face. “I think he's going to run for president of your fan club." She hadn't thought it possible, but she let out a small laugh. Jobe added in a more somber tone, “Can't say as I disagree. It is always a pleasure to meet a truly great

lady." She blinked at the compliment and then ruefully shook her head. “I don't feel too great, to be honest. I just feel ... tired." A small commotion at the end of the hallway made her glad they were at least through with her part of the story. She could hear Marie's voice, slightly raised and shrill, and someone's quieter answer. Oh no, Cassandra thought in dreary resignation and stood up. Both her mother-in-law and father-in-law stopped short when they saw her standing in the circle of policemen. Marie, looking a bit haggard but as elegant as ever in a pale green slack suit, didn't bother to hide her shock at Cassandra's disheveled appearance. She said sharply, “What happened to you? Where's Michael?" What happened? Cassandra had no idea what they'd been told and no idea where to begin any kind of explanation. Marie continued to stare and there were white lines around her mouth. She looked at the closed doors to the intensive care unit and then back at Cassandra. Her voice shook with accusation. “My God, first Robert and now Michael. What have you done to my son?" Cassandra flinched but wasn't exactly surprised. Marie had never liked her and she always felt that there had been a lingering sense of blame somehow for the death of her beloved eldest child. That fact that she'd chosen now to voice it out loud, in front of an audience, well, that just embellished an already awful evening. It was Danny Haase who said in his mild but firm way, “Ma'am, she saved his life. If it wasn't for her, he'd be dead." The words weren't brutally said, but Michael's mother jerked as if she'd been slapped. She glanced at Danny Haase and must have felt the grave intensity of the stares of the police officers and Jobe, because some of the vindictive accusation faded away. Her whole body seemed to sag and she aged a decade in an instant. She looked at Cassandra and said pitifully, “I don't understand. I don't understand any of this." Gerald put his arm around his wife, gave Cassandra a look that spoke of a new respect out of shrewd tired eyes, and said in his authoritative way, “I need some answers." Jobe said gravely, “Perhaps you'd like to sit down and have a cup of coffee. I have some answers but also some questions, Mr. Beaumont." The doors to the ICU slid open and a young nurse came out, oblivious to the tension. Glancing incuriously around the group, she said, “Are you Michael Beaumont's family?" Gerald nodded. He said hoarsely, “I'm his father. Can we see him?" The young woman said impassively, “The doctor said one visitor for ten minutes.” She slightly raised her brows. “Mr. Beaumont asked for which ever one of you is Cassie. She can go in, no one else." Chapter 20 “I'm drowning in paperwork, dammit, and you're a goddamned hero.” Craig reached for his plastic cup of coffee, took a sip, and grimaced. “At least Ransom had the grace to get himself pulverized by that flying tree and spared the county the cost of a big trial. This is a quiet little place, trying to imagine that circus hurts my brain."

That was one way to look at it, Danny thought sardonically, though he found it hard to be quite so detached. Having seen firsthand the scene of Stanley Ransom's death, he had too much imagination by half to not feel a sort of sick horror at the memory of the crushed car. At least, he reminded himself, it would have been fast. He said, “I agree that the Beaumonts have already had their share of tragedy without having to continue to live it for the next year or two. Did Chicago PD find those pictures?" Leaning back in his chair behind his cluttered disaster of a desk, Craig nodded. “They called this morning. Rawlings had a safety deposit box full of negatives. My guess, and we won't ever know for sure because everyone that could tell us for certain is dead, is that Rice started an affair with Robert Beaumont during his campaign. When she discovered he liked his sex a little rough and kinky, between her and Rawlings they cooked up the scheme to take the pictures and blackmail him. I'm going to bet that Beaumont either went to Ransom to ask his advice about what to do, or else the girls decided to blackmail Anne Ransom as well, since her career was sort of sucked along in the wake of her brother's. Why not get the both of them? They had the money, the need for silence." “That theory goes pretty well along with what we know anyway,” Danny commented. It was late afternoon and the sun sent a few slanted rays through the one high inadequate window in the office. “I guess I don't get why Ransom chose to sabotage the senator's car." “Yeah, well I have a theory." “I understand why he killed Rice and Rawlings, that's obvious enough—dirty blackmail, trying to protect his wife. But his brother-in-law?” Craig rubbed his lean jaw and frowned, making his chair creak ominously as he sprawled back even farther. “I mean, Beaumont had just been elected a United States Senator in a pretty big state and he was a young man with a promising future. Surely, if Ransom did all this because of the ambitions he had for his wife, he'd want his brother-in-law to go as far as possible. Why kill him?" Danny shook his head and fingered his own lukewarm cup of coffee. “From what I understand from Cassandra, the affair with Rice was not the first. That usually means it wouldn't be the last. I get the impression that she and her husband were basically estranged ... she just doesn't seem like the kind of woman who wants to indulge in the kind of sexual activity in those pictures. He went elsewhere for what he couldn't get at home." “So Ransom decides his brother-in-law is destined to short-wire his career eventually and go down in a blaze of nasty publicity and he decides to make sure he can't do that kind of damage to the family name?" “Ransom seemed quiet and unassuming, but from what I understand he was the driving force behind his wife's success. He commented to Cassandra that the public has lost patience with political figures that couldn't be trusted to stay faithful to their wives. If Robert Beaumont died while he was still a romantic golden boy, that would solve a lot of problems." Craig shook his head. “Christ, talk about premeditation. That guy was cold as ice." Danny agreed. He said slowly, “He didn't have the personality or looks himself for a political career, but he sure as hell had the smarts. Killing Beaumont was a calculated decision, but I think if Rice had simply turned over the pictures, she might still be alive. Someone obviously paid her at least once, hence the money her parents found in her account after she died. Her mistake was not taking the cash and walking away the first time. She got greedy and he wasn't a man to put up with it. Rawlings did the same thing. Blackmailing Cassandra and Anne Ransom at the same time turned out to be a fatal error. Cassandra would have paid her, she came prepared to do so, but Ransom must have realized that the longer those pictures stayed out there, the greater the risk that they would come to the surface in a blast

of ugly scandal." Craig lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, thought better of it and set it aside, and said, “Mrs. Ransom claims she had no idea anyone in her family was being blackmailed." Danny lifted a brow. “She could be telling the truth. She's a congresswoman, a busy lady. I'd bet her husband handled all her correspondence and screened her calls, especially at home." “Yeah.” Giving the drab interior of his tiny office a pensive glance, Craig muttered, “Hell, there's a lot of things I don't get in this world, Danny, believe me. But when a man who is lucky enough to be rich, smart, and married to an attractive woman who is also rich and smart, decides that the way to solve a problem is by killing someone, that blows my mind." “I heartily agree.” Danny smiled grimly. “But what blows my mind even more is that the same rich, smart guy would have gotten away with murdering at least three people, maybe five, if it wasn't that by chance we had one old drunk spot Cassandra's expensive car. And what if Michael Beaumont hadn't had the keys to his pretty generic rental car in the pocket of his jacket all evening because he'd had to move it earlier? If Ransom had been able to take his car, not forced to sneak off in Cassandra's more noticeable vehicle, we might never have looked at the Beaumonts at all." Craig said, “Yep. Sometimes that's the way it all comes down." This time it had come down to two completely innocent people almost being suffocated in a submerged car because things had gotten so out of hand. And that wasn't counting the first three victims, perhaps not as innocent, but still deserving of life. Danny murmured, “I guess Ransom forgot to take good old fashioned bad luck into consideration. He was meticulous, right down to paying someone to follow Cassandra for the last half a year. You have to wonder if he didn't know about the double blackmail and it isn't too much to suppose he was worried that since she was so in the public eye, she would do something that would bring the scandal out in the open. He couldn't have that, not since he'd already gone through the trouble of killing her husband." “You gotta wonder what makes a guy like him tick at all, don't you?” Craig fiddled absently with a very ugly letter opener shaped like a fat bluegill. It said ‘Souvenir of Tomahawk, WI’ across the blade. He set it aside, unused, on a pile of mail. “You're right, we just got lucky on this one, that's all. And if Michael Beaumont hadn't found those shoes and the carpet from the car hidden away and forced Ransom to take such drastic action, we'd probably never had enough to pin anything on him. And that would have sucked." Danny responded pensively, “That's why I'm not a homicide detective anymore, Ral. I just can't stand to think about those cases where we never got the eyewitness, the chance tip. Those unsolved cases still haunt my dreams. All those victims and no justice." Craig looked him in the eye and said softly, “And I'm thinking, especially the way this case turned out, that it's a damned shame you aren't a homicide detective anymore, Haase." **** The afternoon was as soft as a cashmere sweater, the sky the color of washed denim. Even the parking lot of the hospital seemed a warm friendly place and Cassandra walked slowly, relishing the sun on her face. After Robert had died, she'd thought about how lucky she'd been to have lived through the accident. In the glow of such a perfect afternoon, she felt a certain reverent gratitude to have been given yet another chance at life. No one gave her a second glance as she walked through the lobby to the elevators. It was amazing how

a long hot bath and some sleep could transform her from the bedraggled victim of the night before to just another visitor. Michael, she was told at the reception desk, had been released from critical care and moved to a private room on a regular floor. Following directions, she found the room and for whatever reason, felt a certain sense of trepidation when she walked through the already open door. Thankfully, his parents were gone. She'd deliberately waited and watched the limousine pull out of the parking lot. Michael was propped up on pillows, scowling at the television. He looked absurdly too tall for the bed, his dark hair stark against the white bedding, the temple to chin bruising on one side of his face a fantastic contrast to his unusual pallor. Registering her presence, he pushed a button on the remote and the room filled with a sudden silence. “Hello,” she said, feeling foolish. The night before he'd been sedated and she gotten to do little more than hold his hand. Almost as soon as he saw her and knew she was okay, he slipped off to sleep. But she'd gone ahead and taken the full ten minutes anyway, giving way to few tears of gratitude that he was still alive. Now, after everything that had happened, there was so much to say, yet she didn't know how to begin. “Hello.” Those very blue eyes were dark and unreadable. At least the one that wasn't swollen shut. Cassandra mumbled, “How was your visit with your parents?" “Predictable.” He shifted a little, still just looking at her with a sober straightforward stare. “My mother is in complete denial. She told me to my face that she doesn't believe any of it, if you can wrap your mind around that one.” He grimaced slightly. “I haven't gotten to look in a mirror yet but I have been assured by several nurses that they've seen worse. Somehow, gauging from people's faces when they walk in here, I'm doubting that one. Yet, my mother can still sit there and look at me and tell me that sweet old Stan would never have knocked me over the head, that this is all a mistake." Sweet old Stan certainly had. Cassandra said slowly, “She blames me for Robert's death. I guess I knew that. I suppose all of this ... awfulness, won't make things better between us." Out in the hallway someone pushed a gurney by with rattling wheels. The fine line of Michael's mouth tightened. “That might be true, God knows she's about as affectionate as a lump of ice, but neither one of us are going to worry about it, understand? My father is a different story. He told me the two of you talked some this morning." They had. It had been unsettling at first, very rarely had Gerald Beaumont done more than speak a few polite words to her. She was, she'd always felt, in his eyes merely an ornamentation at Robert's side, and then later, the means through which he'd obtained a male grandchild. But this morning, when she'd finally risen from the sleep of the dead and slapped a little make up semi-successfully over the battle scars, he had been obviously waiting for her to emerge from her bedroom. Very gravely, he had invited her into his office. And gruffly, awkwardly, thanked her for the life of his son with unexpected tears in his eyes. She'd been taken aback, tongue-tied, and touched. He'd also apologized for the behavior of his wife, something she imagined very difficult for him to do. The best part of the entire interview had been his voluntary assurance that the issue of partial custody was not something she needed to worry over. Period. She had his word. Cassandra nodded slowly. “Yes, we talked. Your father told me your doctor thinks you'll be going home

maybe as early as tomorrow." “Yes.” He shifted again, still intently looking at her. “They want to repeat a few more tests, make sure there's no damage that didn't show up the first time." “Sounds reasonable.” Not sure what to do with herself, she stood there awkwardly. “How do you feel?" “A bit of a headache." Recalling that awful crack when Stan hit him with the gun, she expected it was worse than just a bit. Her smile was sickly. Michael murmured, “The police came by this morning. I'm afraid I don't remember much at all about last night." “Not surprising at a guess.” She wished she couldn't remember any of it, but unfortunately, she recalled almost every gruesome detail. “Cassie ... how's Anne?” The question was soft. “I can't ask my parents, they're too upset themselves. God, what a nightmare, I can't believe Stan's dead." “She flew back to Washington this afternoon. The police let her go, so I imagine they believe that she didn't have any idea about—” She stopped, unable to go on. Swallowing hard, she looked away to where the window showed part of the flat roof of the building and a patch of blue sky. “Who told you about Stan?" “After the police left this morning, Danny Haase stayed and spun me a pretty incredible story." Her laugh was shaky. “Incredible is a perfect word to describe it. Incredible is a pretty good word to describe him. I'm sure he downplayed his participation, Michael, but he saved us both. And once we were out of the water, if it hadn't been for him, you would have died anyway. I was petrified." “According to him, you were amazing, and I,” the words were almost carefully expressionless, “am furious with you." Furious. All she could do was stare. “To say I am also grateful to you is such an understatement it almost isn't worth saying. How is a man supposed to feel when the woman he loves risks her life to save his? When, as I understand it, you chose the hopeless course of staying trapped underwater with me rather than saving yourself. Cassie, Hercules couldn't swim out of a car and up through eight feet of water pulling an unconscious person twice his weight.” His voice cracked and she saw him swallow convulsively. So much for furious. She was standing a few feet away from the bed, still holding her purse, clasping it hard with both hands. Softly she asked, “Would you have left me?" He shook his head and then instantly winced, his fingers going gingerly to the spot where there was a small bandage over the stitches. His response was husky with both pain and emotion. “No. I don't know if I could leave anyone to drown, but certainly not you. I love you." He said it so easily, she thought with a glimmer of envy. Like he was so sure. She loved him, that wasn't the problem; it was just that trust was still a chasm she had to leap every time she contemplated the future. Michael watched whatever emotions played across her face with a steady gaze. She could feel that regard like a physical touch.

Damn. She cleared her throat and finally looked into his eyes. She was still exhausted and off-balance, and a thousand other things. “What are we going to do, Michael?" He smiled—that incredible smile that made him so attractive even with half of his face swollen and discolored. “Once you tell me you love me, Cassie, once you say the words, I'm going to ask you to marry me. Or live with me. Or whatever you feel you can do. I don't mind going slow but I'm not going to lose you again. My father told me I'd be a fool to back off, and since the man has an admittedly shrewd, if ruthless, side to him, I think I'm going to take his advice. I won't let you go." “I don't want to lose you either,” she admitted. He lifted one brow. “Perfect. Then would you mind terribly saying it?" “That ... that I love you?" “Exactly." “Well ... I do. I love you.” Her breath went out with a rush. His smile widened, which had to hurt, but he didn't seem to mind. “Come here and kiss me and tell me if you think a country house in upstate New York would be something you'd consider. I have a project there coming up soon." His voice trailed off as she approached the bed. When she bent to lightly, very lightly, touch her mouth to his, he sighed and one hand, the one not attached to tubes and pumps, came up to touch her arm. Cassandra whispered against his lips, “I think Timmy and I will love upstate New York." ABOUT THE AUTHOR Katherine Smith is the author of eight novels, including the Whiskey Creek bestseller, Wayward Sun, and the first Danny Haase mystery, The Summer Bones. She lives in rural Indiana with her husband and three children. She would love for you to visit her at www.katherinesmith.net or www.bookswelove.net/smith.html. For your reading pleasure, we invite you to visit our web bookstore **** **** WHISKEY CREEK PRESS www.whiskeycreekpress.com

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