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