“I’m sorry, Lottie. So sorry. My fault. All my fault.”
Gavin Kirkwood lay beside his wife in bed, his head propped on his hand as he looked down at her troubled, dreaming face. She’d greased her skin with a cream he knew cost over a hundred dollars a jar—cream that promised a decrease in wrinkles and an increase in firmness. The cream was a rip-off. In spite of faithful use for six months, Ellen’s complexion still bore the inevitable traces of age and gravity. Gavin knew that within a year, she would resort to plastic surgery.
He really didn’t care if she looked thirty. The sexual attraction he’d felt for her when they first met had vanished long ago, and he was frankly relieved that not much was expected of him in the lovemaking department anymore. Ellen was too depressed since the death of young Jamie last year to care about sex. That was the only good thing that had come from Jamie’s death. Gavin had loved him too, and although Ellen had sucked up all the sympathy offered by friends and relatives, Gavin had often wished he’d drowned instead of the intelligent, charming little boy. For a long time, Gavin’s world had turned gray and cold without the child. But no one seemed to notice his pain, or to care.
Ellen had arrived home at five o’clock today claiming she’d been out looking for Lottie. She was sweating, shaking, scratched by thorns, and so weak she could barely stand. Gavin wasn’t sure some of her maladies weren’t just attention-seeking acts, but to be safe he had promptly called her doctor, who’d given Ellen a mild lecture on overexertion, then to Gavin delivered a downright harsh lecture on his lapse in looking after Ellen. As if anyone could ever make Ellen cooperate, Gavin had thought in fury. He’d felt like punching the guy, but that would have brought on a fit of hysterics from Ellen and probably a lawsuit from the doctor. So, as he did so often, Gavin had seethed in silence while Ellen’s emotional state took dominion over his life, and he endured being belittled by yet another person contemptuous of a man they believed had married only for money.
Now, five hours after the doctor had given Ellen a tranquilizer and sent her to bed, Gavin lay miserably beside her, suffering through her slurred rambling and maddening restless leg movements. He had a brief but almost overwhelming desire to lay a pillow over her perspiring face and hold it in place until the woman finally stopped talking. And breathing. The urge became so strong, Gavin was frightened and promptly threw back the covers, abandoning the bedroom without even bothering to put on a robe. The pretentious silk pajamas Ellen made him wear covered enough of his well-toned body so the maid wouldn’t be shocked if she happened to hear him rattling around the house and emerged from her room to investigate.
He ambled into the room Ellen had decorated and called his study, a room he found dark and depressing and inconvenient. But as much as he hated the study, one of his pleasures lay buried under a pile of folders in a desk drawer—sour mash Kentucky bourbon. Sour mash, he thought fondly, considered the finest of whiskies, requiring ninety-six hours of fermentation and at least four years of aging before it is thought fit to drink. Ellen thought the drink was crass and protested having it even brought into the house. But sometimes Gavin felt as though he couldn’t get enough of it. Tonight was one of those times.
He poured a couple of shots into the simple drinking glass he also kept hidden beneath the folders in the drawer. Then he turned on the dim, green-shaded desk light and sat down on his heavily padded desk chair, leaning back and staring up at the beamed ceiling. He was so tired. Exhausted. But sleep wouldn’t come. In fact, it had been eluding him since the death of Julianna. With her, for the first time in many years, he’d felt like a man. And now the feeling was gone, probably forever.
When Kit was an adolescent and he’d just married Ellen, he’d paid no attention to Kit’s friend Julianna. She was just a tall, skinny girl with a mass of auburn hair who talked too much for his taste. Of course, her talking was better than Kit’s sulking. But of the three friends, he’d preferred Adrienne. Not sexually. At that time Ellen was still good-looking and, although he knew everyone thought he’d married the woman fourteen years his elder for her money, he’d been genuinely attracted to her looks, her sophistication, her charm. He’d actually loved her. And she’d been crazy about him. Besotted was the word his mother had used. “She’s besotted with your handsome face and your smooth line,” she’d said venomously. “Just like I was with your father. But give it time, Gavin my boy. She’ll find out what a loser you are. I know from experience.”
When he was young, Gavin had had the confidence to almost ignore his mother and approach any woman. His good looks and glib tongue surprised even him, but they were assets he’d first realized he possessed when he was sixteen, when his twenty-four-year-old, uncommonly glamorous history teacher had come on to him. Between her and Ellen had come a slew of women, of all ages and all degrees of attractiveness and intelligence. But not until Ellen had a woman possessing looks, smarts, and money pursued him.
Gavin had been flattered by and truly infatuated with Ellen. He’d happily married her and blessed his lucky stars. What he hadn’t counted on was her passive-aggressive dominance, her neuroses, her knack for the finely crafted, subtle art of emasculation that was far more powerful than his mother’s clumsy, overt attempts.
Between the controlling wife, the contemptuous stepdaughter, and the drowning death of his young adopted son—a death wrongly attributed to Gavin’s negligence—Gavin Kirkwood had been almost completely demoralized when he met Julianna again at a party being held in Philip Hamilton’s house.
As far as Gavin knew, Julianna was not a particular friend of Philip’s or Vicky’s. Vicky’s younger sister Adrienne had been part of the triumvirate of best friends including Kit and Julianna. He surmised that Julianna, a former world-famous model, had been invited as a star attraction. And it had worked. People flocked to the parties and hovered around her like groupies. Including Gavin.
Over the course of the next three months, Gavin realized he was falling deeply in love for the first time in his life. He’d tried to hide his feelings from everyone except Julianna. Tried damned hard.
But he hadn’t been successful. Margaret Taylor had seen right through him and threatened to tell his wife if he didn’t pay for her silence. And to make matters worse, Julianna didn’t have romantic feelings for him, which she’d told him in an almost heart-wrenchingly kind and ego-protecting way. He’d been crushed. He’d felt cold and dry and old and hopeless.
And then one night, to his complete astonishment, Julianna had called him. She’d been upset. She said she felt she could trust him and needed to speak with him alone. She’d asked him to come to her apartment. He’d made it to Julianna’s apartment house in record time, bounded up the stairs, started to rap on the door, then froze. He’d heard voices inside. Loud voices. Angry voices. Of course, he knew Julianna’s. But he was fairly sure he recognized the other one too and something being said about an affair.
He’d tucked himself away in a chair placed in an alcove and waited. And waited. After two hours, no one had emerged from the apartment. Things had gotten quiet. But Julianna had said she needed to speak with him alone, and she most definitely wasn’t alone, so he hadn’t gone to the door.
Instead, in defeat he’d dragged himself home, trying to ward off depression by telling himself he’d talk with her tomorrow. Surely, she’d want to talk to him then as much as she had tonight.
But the next day, Kit had called and announced that Julianna was dead. She had been murdered at la Belle.
Turning the phone over to Ellen, Gavin had walked straight into the bathroom and thrown up. Then he’d had a drink and one of Ellen’s tranquilizers, driven his wife up to that damned hotel as she’d insisted he do, and stood weakly behind her, unable to look at his beautiful love lying pale and cold as stone beneath satin sheets.
He would never get over it, he thought now as he poured another double shot of bourbon. Losing Jamie had been devastating, but at least his death had been an accident. Julianna’s death was no accident. It was deliberate and obscene. It would be the end of Gavin Kirkwood.
But he wasn’t quite done in yet, he thought. Someone should pay for what they had done to Julianna, he resolved, draining the glass, his expression hardening into vicious determination.
And someone would.
“We’re home!”
Adrienne stood silently for a moment, holding the phone, before she realized the shrill, falsely cheerful voice she’d heard was her sister Vicky’s. “Welcome back, Vicky. How was the trip?”
“Typical campaign stuff. Smiling. Shaking hands. Me not remembering any of the damned names of possible campaign contributors. Awful meals. I’m dying to have a good meal and a drink with someone I actually likel” High, brittle giggle. “Can I treat you to lunch at The Iron Gate?”
“That sounds wonderful, Vicky, if it’s all right for Skye to join us.”
“Oh.” Vicky sounded as if she’d just thumped back to earth from a high altitude. “Well … sure.”
Skye, who’d been looking disconsolately into the open refrigerator for something interesting to eat for lunch, turned and made frantic hand motions. “Just a minute,” Adrienne said to her sister, then to Skye, “What’s wrong?”
“If Aunt Vicky wants you to go someplace with her, let me go to Sherry’s. I was invited, but you said I’d wear out my welcome. I wouldn’t, though. Patty will be there. And Joel, I think.”
“Who’s Joel?”
“Oh, he’s just Patty’s brother. Nobody important” Skye’s speech grew faster and her face turned redder. She has a crush on Joel, Adrienne thought, making a mental note to ask Sherry’s mother about him. “Anyway, I can go to Sherry’s and you can go with Aunt Vicky and we can both have fun instead of us just sitting here looking at each other.”
“And not having fun.”
“Well, it’s not that. It’s just …”
“That you’re getting tired of being watched over like an eight-year-old.” Adrienne pretended to think about the matter. “Okay. Get your bathing suit—not the two-piece sexy one I didn’t want you to buy—and you can spend the afternoon with Sherry and Joel Who’s Nobody Important. I’ll meet Vicky, and we’ll both be in better moods tonight”
An hour later, Skye had been deposited at Sherry Granger’s with reassurances from Mrs. Granger that Skye was a lovely girl who could never wear out her welcome. Adrienne noted with amusement that Skye and Sherry elaborately ignored Patty’s brother Joel, who had the confidence of a boy aware of his own good looks, not to mention the superiority of being one year older than the girls. Skye would have a challenge on her hands winning the affection of this teenage Romeo, she thought.
Adrienne drove downtown and found the last parking space in a crowded noonday lot at The Iron Gate’s lunchtime Grill. She walked in and immediately spotted Vicky, who was already sipping a drink and waving enthusiastically to catch Adrienne’s attention. As soon as Adrienne sat down, Vicky gushed, “You look wonderful! Did you get some sun yesterday?”
“A little more than I meant to.” Adrienne touched the bridge of her sunburned nose. “I took a long walk. I’m sure it was good for me, but my muscles are telling me I need to exercise more often.”
“A drink will fix that. I’m having a piña colada. Very festive. Want one?”
“It’s a little early, Vicky.”
“Nonsense.” Vicky motioned to a dark-haired waitress. “She’ll have a piña colada. And I’ll have another.”
“Another?” Vicky threw her a frosty look, and Adrienne knew she was asking for trouble if she commented on Vicky’s alcohol intake. Philip no doubt had chastised her about it while they’d been away. “Aren’t you worried about calories?” she amended in a light tone.
“Not today. I put on a good show on the trip. I was the perfect campaign wife. Now it’s time to enjoy myself.” Vicky looked pale and a sheen of perspiration covered her upper lip. She reached quickly for her drink, her hand trembling so much she almost ran the paper umbrella up her nose before her mouth located the straw, and she sucked up half of the piña colada.
“What’s wrong, Vicky?” Adrienne asked. “Did something happen on the trip to upset you?”
Misery glimmered in Vicky’s blue eyes. “It was just the usual. Tasteless food, endless smiling, Philip being charming in public and a bear in private. And all the while, Margaret bossing around everyone and acting as if she were Philip’s wife!”
“It seems Philip would speak to her about that kind of behavior. It can’t make a good impression on all the people they both want to vote for him.”
“Oh, Margaret’s smart enough not to do it in public,” Vicky said bitterly. “In front of an audience, she keeps herself in the background. When it’s just family, she treats me like I’m invisible and Rachel like crap. Margaret and Rachel had a terrible argument right before we left on the trip.”
“About what?”
Vicky looked down at her drink again. “I don’t know. It’s always something. Then Philip walked in and reprimanded Rachel. Not a word to Margaret about showing a little respect for his own daughter. And he allows Margaret to treat me like I’m a nonentity. I’ve spoken to him about it, and he says, ‘She’s supposed to be more concerned with me than you, Vicky. Why do you want all the attention?’ He makes me sound like a spoiled brat. I don’t want all the attention. But he doesn’t even listen to me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He’s having an affair with her,” she announced sharply.
“Oh, surely not.” Adrienne heard the lack of conviction in her own voice. She hoped Vicky didn’t notice, but she’d had her own doubts about Philip and Margaret. “Philip wouldn’t cheat on you.”
“I didn’t used to think so. Not because he loves me. Because of his public image. He’d be too afraid people would find out.” The waitress delivered the drinks—the first one Adrienne didn’t want and the second one Vicky didn’t need—and left menus. “Before, I’ve never had the feeling that he’d risk being unfaithful. But Margaret is damned attractive. Physically, that is. Her personality leaves much to be desired, although she’s usually sweet as pie to Philip. Flatters him until it’s sickening, and he just eats it up. You know how stupid men are when it comes to their egos!”
“I don’t remember Dad being that way.”
Vicky dismissed him with a sweeping wave of her hand. “Oh, he doesn’t count.”
As a man? Adrienne smiled inwardly. She wondered how her father would have reacted to that comment. “Listen, Vicky, do you actually have proof that Philip is having an affair with Margaret?”
“He hardly ever touches me.”
“He’s under a lot of stress.”
“Stress never bothers any man!” Adrienne wondered if it were the rum in the piña coladas that was suddenly making Vicky such an expert on men. “And I don’t know of anyone Margaret’s involved with,” Vicky went on angrily, her voice too loud. “I don’t think she’s dated for ages, and I’m sure she’s not the kind of woman who can go for long without sex!”
“Well …” Adrienne went blank. She felt a little hot with embarrassment when she noticed the men at the table behind Vicky had gone silent, listening to the tirade of the wife of a gubernatorial candidate, a tirade that gave every indication of picking up piña-colada-fueled steam. With relief, she looked up to see Kit drawing near. “Here’s Kit!” she burst out. “I’ll bet you haven’t seen her for a while!”
“Gee, it’s been at least a week,” Vicky said dourly, clearly not wanting to cut short the topic of Margaret and Philip. But years of practice in the political venue allowed Vicky to quickly assume a look of forced pleasantness for Kit. “Hello there, Ms. Kirkwood. Looks like business is good.”
“Almost too good,” Kit said. “Sometimes I wish we’d have a few bad days so I could get some rest.”
“Some people take vacations,” Adrienne said, motioning for Kit to sit down.
Kit scooted next to Adrienne but focused on Vicky. “So how is the campaign trail?”
“Tiring but exciting.” Vicky slipped into the role of enthusiastic, supportive wife. She and Kit had never been anything but casually friendly. “I really think Philip is going to be our next governor, although he claims if I say that too much, I’ll jinx him.”
Kit smiled blandly. “I didn’t know Philip was superstitious.”
“He’s joking.” Vicky’s false, professional smile faded and she abruptly asked, “Have there been any new developments in Julianna’s murder?”
“Not that I know of,” Kit said. “Adrienne’s the one with the inside source.”
Adrienne shook her head. “Lucas isn’t big on talking about cases with me.”
“Even if the case involves one of your best friends?” Vicky asked, dipping her head toward her straw again.
“That would make him even less likely to let me in on details. He wouldn’t want to upset me.”
Kit grimaced. “As if anything could make Juli’s murder sound worse than what you saw.”
The waitress came to take orders. Kit declined. Adrienne and Vicky ordered, Vicky freezing Adrienne’s objection to a third drink with an icy glare. Then she did a quick shift and looked pleasantly at Kit. “I’d weigh two hundred pounds if I worked here around this delicious food all the time.”
Kit grinned. “All the time being the operative words. Sometimes I get sick of just the smell of food, no matter how good it is.” Kit turned to Adrienne. “I hear you and Mother had quite an adventure yesterday.”
Was there an edge to her voice? Adrienne wasn’t certain. But Kit’s hazel eyes showed no anger. Only curiosity. “I was painting at the Belle when your mother came by, determined to walk up the hill to Lottie’s cabin and look for her along the way. Unfortunately, we didn’t find her.”
“Lottie is still missing?” Vicky asked in surprise. “I thought she would have been found or just come home while we were gone.”
Adrienne shook her head. “No. Anyway, Ellen and I saw nothing of her. But the jaunt just about did in Ellen.” She felt guilty about not mentioning that they had gone farther up the hill to the vine-covered bunker Ellen called the Hideaway, but on their way back to the hotel, Ellen had made Adrienne give her sacred promise that she wouldn’t mention it Like a child, Ellen had insisted the promise be repeated three times. “Is Ellen all right?” she asked Kit
“Not really. Last night she was a mess. The problem was more emotional than physical, as usual with Mother, but Gavin had to call her doctor. Then he called me. He can’t handle anything on his own. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to take responsibility for Mother. Whatever. But that’s how I know about your walking tour.”
“I’m sorry,” Adrienne said sincerely. “I should have stopped her.”
Kit smiled ruefully. “You couldn’t have stopped her short of tying her to a tree. She has a will of iron, and she’s a lot stronger than she looks or acts. Physically, that is. I’m grateful you went with her. She wouldn’t let me.”
Adrienne thought of how Ellen had said she hadn’t minded Adrienne going with her because she knew Adrienne wouldn’t hurt Lottie. Did she fear Kit would?
No. The idea was nonsensical, Adrienne thought After all, it was Kit to whom Lottie had gone after Julianna’s murder, not Ellen. Kit that Lottie had turned to, not her best friend, Ellen. Not Ellen.
“Adrienne, are you all right?”
Adrienne glanced up as she felt blood drain from her cheeks. Her sister was looking at her somewhat Wearily, but Kit’s eyes seemed to have narrowed slightly. Kit knew her too well not to realize something disturbing had crossed Adrienne’s mind. “I’m fine, Kit,” she said brightly. “Just hungry.”
But she still felt uncomfortable as Kit abruptly said she’d leave them to their lunch and swept away from the table. Kit did suspect something, Adrienne realized. And whatever she suspected was making Kit feel extremely uneasy.
Feeling wretched and confused, Adrienne forced down what should have been a delicious lunch while her sister harangued endlessly about Margaret Taylor, the woman Vicky hated.
“I get so tired of skulking around like a pair of teenagers. I wish we could bring our relationship out into the open.”
Margaret Taylor gave Miles Shaw the long, slow blink she knew he found enticing, and ran her foot up his bare leg to the top of his thigh. “But darling, you know I can’t pull the focus away from Philip onto myself, and that’s just what I’d be doing by announcing that I’m seeing a world-famous artist.”
Miles laughed softly. “World famous. Now that is funny.”
“You are famous.”
“Maybe in a tristate area. Big fish in a little pond. That’s all I am.”
“A fabulously talented fish who will soon be well-known in a much bigger pond. As soon as I get Philip elected, give me two or three years to work on you. Your name will be known all over the United States and Europe.”
Miles reached out, touching the silky length of Margaret’s gleaming black hair. “Not lacking in confidence, are you, Ms. Taylor?”
“There’s no room for insecurity in my business.”
“And you do know your business. You’re an expert at disseminating and concealing information. But are you certain Philip doesn’t at least have an inkling about us?”
Margaret turned slightly and picked up her glass of red wine from the bedside table. “I’m quite certain. I’ve taken great pains to keep us a secret.”
As she sipped, Miles looked at her closely. “Then why do you lower your eyes when you talk about our secret? Is it to hide a little flicker of doubt in your eyes?”
Margaret’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “Maybe there’s just a little doubt.” She took another sip of wine, her voice hardening. “It’s that damned Rachel. I think she suspects us. And if she does, she’ll tell her mother.”
“And you don’t want Vicky to know about us because she thinks you’re having an affair with Philip, which thrills you.” Margaret tried to look insulted and failed. The corner of Miles’s lips crooked. “You really can’t stand Vicky, can you?”
“She frustrates me.” Margaret replaced the wineglass on the table, turned, and began tracing tiny circles on Miles’s chest. “From what I’ve heard, Philip made a good choice when he married her. She was attractive, charming, self-possessed, even fairly savvy about political affairs. She was quite satisfactory as a politician’s wife. She even had some backbone, like her sister, although I don’t care much for Adrienne, either. She watches me, like she’s waiting for me to screw up. Of course, that’s because Vicky has told her all kinds of unflattering things about me.”
“Imagine that,” Miles said dryly.
“I don’t know what happened to Vicky over the years, but now she’s so damned weak,” Margaret went on heatedly as if Miles hadn’t spoken. “And whiny. And not nearly so physically presentable. Do you know that half the time she doesn’t put on her makeup properly?”
“Good God! I had no idea!”
“You think it’s funny, but it’s not. It’s a sign. Vicky isn’t careful about her looks because she’s fast on her way to becoming an alcoholic. I think she has her first drink by ten in the morning. Certainly by noon. An alcoholic wife! She could ruin everything for Philip!”
“All right I see the trouble with Vicky. I hardly know her, but she doesn’t appeal to me, either. So let’s move on to Rachel. What’s your problem with her?”
Margaret’s expression turned rancorous. “I have lots of problems with Rachel, not the least of which is she doesn’t appreciate that a great life has been handed to her on a silver platter. She takes it for granted, like it’s her due. If she’d had to scramble to pull herself out of the dirt like I did, she might value a thing or two. Instead, she looks down on me.”
“Are you sure she looks down on you? Or is that your imagination? You can be a little paranoid about how people view you.”
“That is not true!” Margaret drew away from him, her face turning pink.
“Uh-oh.Hit a nerve.”
“No, you did not hit a nerve. You accused me falsely. I don’t like it.”
“What you don’t like is being criticized.” Miles smiled and drew her close again, cupping her firm, bare breast. “But most people don’t like being criticized unless they’re masochists. I’m sorry, lover. I’ve had too much wine. My mouth is running away with me.”
“Your mouth is just fine.” Margaret kissed him deeply, then licked his earlobe. “No earring tonight?”
“You nearly tore it out last time.” He chuckled. “Besides, I seem to have misplaced it. Hey, speaking of tearing, how about tearing ourselves out of this bed for a while, going to see a friend of mine who’s having a little party, then returning for more fun and games?”
Margaret tensed as she pulled back and looked him full in the face. “Those friends who indulge in drugs?”
“Only moderately, for mind-expanding purposes.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks, darling. Too risky. Whenever we’re there, I feel like the cops will be sweeping down any minute. Besides, Philip has an important meeting tomorrow.”
“Philip has a meeting, not you.”
“When Philip has a meeting, so do I. You know I have to be on my toes so I can brief him.”
Miles sighed in disgust. “Good God. If only people knew they were electing you instead of him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you seem to do all the work. Philip is like an actor, reciting for the public the lines you’ve given him. He’s just a puppet, a conventionally good-looking guy in an expensive suit who can memorize.”
“That is not true, Miles. Philip Hamilton is a brilliant man.” Miles snorted. “He is. But no political figure does all his research. Not even the president.”
“Now that I can believe.”
Margaret sat up in bed, not bothering to hold the sheet in front of her breasts, her hair hanging long and tangled over her shoulders. “Are you jealous of Philip?”
“I’m jealous of the time you devote to him. He always comes first You can’t go here with me. You can’t go there with me. Being seen in public with me might cause gossip that could detract from Philip. God, Margaret, you make me feel like a whore.” Miles’s ebony eyes blazed. “Maybe that’s all I am to you. A whore.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Then prove it Devote one whole night to me instead of to Philip.”
“I’ve devoted many nights to you. It’s just that I’ll have to cut this particular night a bit short. I have notes to go over, then I need a full night’s rest Alone.”
“And you forgot to mention all of that when you invited me to dinner.” Miles flung off the sheet and stood up, his imposing six-foot-four frame leaning over the petite, small-boned Margaret “I don’t like being taken advantage of, Maggie.”
‘Taken advantage of!” Margaret scrambled from the bed and stood across from him. “I didn’t know fixing you an excellent dinner and having sex with you was taking advantage of you!”
“Why? If I’d fixed dinner for you, had sex with you, then told you to leave, you’d be mad as hell. But because you’re doing it to a man, it’s a whole different story. That’s the trouble with you feminists. You don’t change things. You just turn old conduct on its ear, treat men like crap instead of vice versa, then feel justified!”
“That is preposterous, Philip!”
His eyes narrowed and he said in a low, angry voice, “My name is Miles, Margaret.”
She flushed. “I meant Miles. I say Philip a hundred times a day. It just comes out sometimes.”
“Yeah, like when you’re in the presence of a naked man.” Miles bent and picked up his jeans. “You’ve just been playing with me, haven’t you? Using me as a smokescreen for your real love interest—Philip Hamilton.”
“Oh please,” Margaret nearly spat. “Don’t compare my morals to those of someone like your beloved Julianna. She’s the one who slept with so many men she no doubt got them confused. She would have stooped to anything. But you didn’t care, did you? You were blind to what she was. Absolutely, totally blind. A fool!”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Margaret knew she’d made a grave mistake. Miles stopped fastening his jeans and looked at her, fury growing in his eyes, fury deep and strong and dangerous. Margaret had never been afraid of a man before. Not really. But to her intense surprise, she was now.
And the odd thing was, she didn’t quite know how this fight had started. The last few minutes seemed like a blur with the argument spinning out of control, stunning her with its speed and bitterness. But Margaret was an old hand at retrieving unpleasant situations. All it took was some charm and finesse.
She rallied her forces and smiled sweetly. “Darling, we were having such a lovely evening and now we’ve turned it into something silly. We sound like kids, and I’m sorry for contributing to it. It’s been a grueling day. Can’t we just bury the hostility and go back to our earlier peace and comfort?”
Miles gave her a hard look and reached for his shirt “I think it’s time for me to get out of here.”
“You’re going to leave? Now? It’s not even ten o’clock!”
“You have your important meeting in the morning, remember? You’d better be in bed within half an hour or you’ll have circles under your eyes and then God knows what will happen. Maybe it will cause Hamilton to lose the election.”
Margaret forced a laugh. “No one pays attention to me at these events, and even if they did, I don’t think I’d be jeopardizing Philip if I looked a little tired.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re the brain behind the puppet. If you look tired, people will think the campaign is falling apart.”
She sighed. “Listen, darling, sometimes I get carried away. I’m a perfectionist”
“No kidding,” Miles said wryly as he finished buttoning his shirt and yanked back his hair in its long ponytail. “Well, I’m a perfectionist, too. I have a painting to work on tonight Now. Sorry, I forgot to mention it earlier. Hate to eat, screw, and run, but you of all people know that duty comes first”
Margaret dashed to his side, placing her hand on the back of his head and trying to pull his face toward hers for a passionate kiss. But she couldn’t bend his head. Suddenly his neck seemed as rigid as iron. And the look in his eyes turned her cold to the bone.
“Don’t, Margaret,” he said barely above a whisper. “Don’t try to kiss me, don’t clutch at me, don’t even touch me.” She drew back, stunned by the venom in his voice. “And one more thing, Maggie. Don’t you ever say a bad thing about Julianna again, or I swear to God, I’ll make you regret it.”
In fifteen minutes, Miles climbed into his car while Margaret hovered near the half-open front door, her silk robe tied loosely around her. Anger, confusion, and a little fright churned behind her dark eyes. She felt stunned. And hurt. But never one to let another person get the upper hand, she slammed the door, locked it, and flipped the dead bolt. The gesture was futile—after all, Miles wasn’t coming back—but she knew he’d heard the noise of the slamming door, which somehow made her feel better.
The big grandfather clock in her living room chimed ten times. How she’d loved that cherrywood clock when she was a teenager, and how surprised she’d been when the elderly man who’d been her mentor and her lover had given it to her when she got her master’s degree in public relations. “I’m an old man. I no longer need it,” he’d said. “But when you look at it, you’ll remember me. And don’t say you’re not leaving me, because I know you are. You’ve outgrown me, and I won’t be greedy and pitiful by trying to hold on to you. But I can’t forget how when you came to me at sixteen, you seemed like a magical gift. And a magical female needs a magnificent, chiming clock to let her know when it’s the witching hour—the hour of midnight on a full moon when a witch’s powers are at their strongest.”
“I wish you were still here,” Margaret said wistfully to the lover who’d died a year after their parting. “You would know how to handle Miles. You would know whether or not he really loves me, or if I’m just a poor substitute for his lost Julianna. The bitch! If I told what I knew about her death, I could change quite a few things that need changing, and not just because of Miles.”
By eleven-thirty, Margaret had put the dishes in the dishwasher, gone over her notes for tomorrow, watched the news, and written a rare letter to her mother, but none of these activities had settled her nerves. Margaret finally slipped into an old sleep shirt and went into the bathroom to begin her nighttime beauty ritual, all the while still smoldering over the woman who’d caused her so much trouble in life, and who still managed to cause her trouble in death.
Julianna Brent. Margaret could easily strip away any illusions people had about that piece of work. Yes, Julianna was beautiful. She was also a self-seeking, heedless, idiotic woman of thirty-six who had the sense of a twelve-year-old. Even less sense, Margaret fumed as she slathered cleansing cream over her face. Yes, she could shake up quite a few things if she revealed the name of Julianna’s killer and the reason for her death. And at the moment, she almost felt like doing it, to hell with the consequences.
Margaret rubbed a washcloth over her face, wiping hard at the cleansing cream, then winced as the stuff ran into the corner of her eye. It was guaranteed not to sting. The guarantee was false. She felt as if she’d poured vinegar directly on her right eyeball. “Dammit,” she muttered, bending down and leaning sideways to let water from the spigot run into her eye. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
Margaret splashed water, letting it run into her hair, into her nose, splashing it onto the mirror above the sink. Finally, it began to trickle down the side of the new mahogany vanity she’d just had installed. Salt from the water softener would cause the water to leave spots and mar the shining varnish of the vanity. She fumbled for a hand towel and stooped to wipe dry the wood. Then, even with one eye clenched against pain and the other blurry from the water dousing, she saw it.
A foot.
A foot in a terry-cloth house slipper.
Margaret raised up. “What on earth?” she got out before something slammed against the back of her skull.
She dropped to the floor as if her bones had dissolved. Her forehead raked the sharp edge of the vanity and her knees folded, trapping her lower legs beneath her thighs.
In a flash, someone was at her, delivering a crushing blow to her upper face, smashing the orbital bones around her eyes. Her vision vanished, as if a shade had been dropped, but she remained conscious, able to hear more facial bones snapping, nasal cartilage crunching, teeth shattering.
At first, Margaret felt nothing. She lay crumpled—blind, silent, stunned to near-insensibility, and stupefied. Then pain lashed at her, searing through every limb, taking away her breath. Her left arm flailed aimlessly, unconsciously, and was promptly pinned against the floor. Another explosion of pain ripped through her as something cold and heavy smashed her elbow.
Margaret finally drew enough breath to scream and choked on fragments of broken teeth. Her teeth had been perfect, she thought in the tiny corner of her mind that remained sensible. They’d looked like porcelain veneers. Now they mixed with blood and clogged her throat. She emitted a gurgling sound. “Not so good with the words now, are you, Margaret?” a voice asked. “Not so sure of yourself anymore.” Something smashed down on her chest and she heard a rib snap before she experienced the pain of a jagged edge puncturing a lung. “But you know what the Bible says: ‘Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before the fall.’ So you see, you had it coming. No, I guess you don’t see. You won’t see anything again. So sad. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
Margaret thought in agony, Why can’t I pass out? The blows to her body had stopped. The taunting voice had stopped. But she could still hear. And worst of all, she could still feel. Some deep instinct kept nagging her to get help, to drag herself from the bathroom to the bedroom phone. But another instinct, stronger and more powerful, wanted to avoid pain.
She lay perfectly still, sensing someone watching her, waiting for a jerk, even a twitch, before raining blows on her again. She barely let herself breathe. She felt consciousness shrink into a tiny spark within her body. Or what was left of her body.
If I live, she thought with a strange cool certainty, no one can fix me. No one can even make me halfway presentable. I will be pathetic. Repulsive. A freak.
And that, for Margaret Taylor, who had worked so hard to make herself perfect, would be worse than death.
It’s over, she thought bleakly. In ten minutes, her intelligence, beauty, ambition, and potential had been shattered like the fragile bones of her face. How invincible she’d felt just this afternoon. How annihilated she felt now.
Blood streamed down the ruin of Margaret’s face and soaked into the cream-colored bathroom carpet. After what seemed hours she felt the sharp edge of pain dull and the rapid pace of her heart begin to slow. It’s ending, she thought in relief, knowing someone still hovered and watched. It’s finally ending.
As Margaret drew her last breath, she heard the grandfather clock in the living room chime twelve times, cheerfully announcing the arrival of the witching hour.