Change of Life

“It’s a beautiful house,” he said in a soft, tempting tone.

And with that Nora realized she’d been played like a fine Stradivarius. Leonard had made the hackles rise on her neck, made her forget Mark Fingerhut.

She rubbed her imaginary frown. “You were trying to tempt me. The problem is, I’ve never provided estimates on your ‘projects’ before. If you can’t give me carte blanche this time, then by all means realign yourself with Starr Mulligan. I hope you won’t be sorry.”

Like a hermit crab, Leonard scuttled in his baggy khakis across the office to seize her hand. “Please, Nora. I do value your input.”

“I refuse to be manipulated.” She withdrew from his cold grasp. “I thought we were friends,” she added in a gently scolding tone and, ignoring his hangdog expression, ushered him out the door.

She knew Leonard’s taste in home decor. She would simply redo his new quarters in a month or two. For twice the price.

For the time being, she decided to let him squirm.

As for Starr, they would talk, all right. But there would be no truce.

By the time Nora got to Starr’s office, having needed an hour to gather herself after Leonard’s betrayal, she learned that Starr had left for the day. Disappointed, Nora drove to her last appointment in the very upscale Royal Palms subdivision on the outskirts of Destin. Ready to do some serious arm-twisting, she found the slim, almost petite Geneva Whitehouse waiting—but also, quite unexpectedly, Starr Mulligan.

Nora gritted her teeth, determined to keep her mouth shut until the right opportunity arose to confront Starr in private. Even her latest perfidy wouldn’t cause Nora to lose her cool. In grim silence, she trailed Geneva and Starr through the house, expressing the proper oohs and ahhs here and there over Geneva’s treasures. Geneva, who appeared to be the very epitome of the trophy wife, wanted a new showcase for several of her valuable collections, and Nora and Starr both offered their suggestions.

At a ceiling-high, antique glass-fronted cabinet in the wide hallway, which had a gleaming black walnut floor, Geneva paused.

Peering over her shoulder at the lighted étagère, Nora saw a large number of handblown glass bowls, perfume bottles, and paperweights. A vast amount of gold and silver mixed with crystal sparkled on every shelf. Nora identified Lalique, Orrefors, Waterford—and was that vintage Tiffany?—before her gaze caught on a stunning slender, heart-shaped vase that stood out from the rest.

“That is a gorgeous piece,” she murmured. “Very unusual.” The light struck and then ricocheted off the cobalt and ruby inside through a swirl of clear glass, creating a rainbow across the dark floor.

“Obviously expensive,” Starr said.

“Who’s counting?” Geneva smiled, showing a row of very white—and probably fully porcelain-crowned—teeth. Nora guessed she was in her early forties now, but everything about the woman appeared to be perfect, including her youth, or the illusion she had managed to sustain. “It was a present from my husband right before we became engaged,” Geneva told them with a loving smile. “His promise, he said then, of our future.”

“And you certainly have that,” Nora murmured.

Even so, this cabinet was a relatively minor possession. So was the vase, which Nora assumed held a more sentimental price tag. The rest of the house was a monument to expensive taste and extravagance, from the lush sofas with goose down cushions to the brushed nickel-framed paintings on the silk-papered walls. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the redesign job. As soon as she got home, she would draw up her plans. Something a shade less traditional, she envisioned, a tad more lean and contemporary to complement the obvious bling that Geneva appeared to treasure.

Almost twitching, Nora waited until Geneva drifted off into the kitchen. Should she use cherry or alder wood for the new cabinetry? While she pondered the choices, Nora and Starr were alone for a moment, and Nora spoke her mind.

“How dare you?”

Starr arched an obviously waxed eyebrow. There wasn’t a stray hair, or even a hair on her head, out of place. Her bland expression didn’t alter, not even a blink. “I beg your pardon. Haven’t you heard of capitalism, free enterprise?”

Nora clenched her teeth. “In other words, it’s every woman for herself.”

“If you mean Leonard Hackett, we competed, you lost.”

“And you feel entitled to steal my clients from under my nose?”

In response, Starr looked pointedly at Nora’s beak. She’d never felt especially proud of her nose. A trifle too long, a bit narrow, it would appear in her mirror to be a classic slash of a blade, but with just a slight bump over the bridge. That might work on a man, on Johnny for example, or Heath Moran.

The thought of Heath gave her a twinge of regret. In spite of her best intentions, after Johnny and Savannah had left the other night Nora had given in and called him, needing some kind of affirmation that she was still a reasonably attractive woman. But Heath hadn’t answered his telephone. Maybe he had his reasons, and Heath had decided she was right about the difference in their ages.

Would Nora also inherit her mother’s flabby underarm gene, her spreading cellulite? She could already imagine her breasts becoming a sad ski slope under her raw linen blouse, which by now had turned into a mass of wrinkles.

“Starr, darling.” She repeated Starr’s word from the luncheon. “Let me give you some advice.”

“Unsolicited, as always?”

Nora smoothed her blouse. “I don’t know who scheduled these two meetings at the same time, but I can guess. Wasn’t Leonard enough? No,” she answered her own question, “you had to call Geneva, and when you learned I would see her today, you ‘dropped by’ a few minutes earlier. Of all the nerve. If I were you I’d make some polite excuse and leave.” She indicated Geneva, who was opening and closing the doors to the immense pantry only a few feet away. “You can put in your bid another day.”

“Another day and you’ll have contractors all over this place.”

“Just tell Geneva—”

“What? That I’m the better designer? Most of the Florida Panhandle already knows that.”

Nora felt her blood pressure surge. After her recent near brush with a cardiovascular event, she needed to keep calm. No more of those unanticipated…flushes.

She would maintain control if it killed her. Of her temper. And her body.

“You’re not going to rile me, Mulligan. Don’t even try.”

Nora whirled around, intent upon charming her soon-to-be client and nailing down the deal. Her mind spinning with ideas, she started toward Geneva.

Starr charged after her.

When she jerked Nora around, pulling her arm almost out of its socket, Nora had no choice but to freeze in place. Starr glared at her.

“I want this job. I intend to have it. One way or another.”

For a few seconds, Nora stared her down. Then with a cool look of dismissal, she pulled her arm free and continued on into the kitchen. She didn’t care whether Geneva heard her or not.

“Someone will die first,” Nora muttered.

CHAPTER 3

D etective Calvin Raji Caine had a hangover.

On this hot September morning, it pounded behind his eyes and through his fogged brain. Last night’s six-pack roiled in his belly, which he fully deserved, but if anyone spoke too loud in the next few hours, he wouldn’t pull his punches.

Caine wasn’t proud of what he called his therapeutic drinking, which had started after his wife, Annie’s, death, but occasions like that three years ago, and at the moment this one, tended to throw off his good intentions. Right now, his job wasn’t helping him to reform.

“Guess I picked the wrong line of work,” he said, but it was all he knew.

Caine wound his way up the long, paved drive to the Whitehouse address.

Good Lord.

Did people really live this way? He knew they did. In his job Caine saw all kinds of homes: grand estates, middle-class brick ranch houses, single-and double-wide trailers. The small bungalow he’d shared with Annie popped into his mind as well. Neat and tidy, it had smelled of good food and furniture polish and most of all, love, when she was still alive. He hated going home now.

Solitary confinement, Caine called his place, which echoed with a sense of emptiness now that she was gone. He’d never planned on living there alone, or being a bachelor again. Well, alone except for Annie’s cat. Caine was the orange tabby’s sole companion now, just as the tomcat was his. He guessed they suited each other, one of them as irascible as the other. Once, he supposed, they’d both been normal guys.

What the hell. He might as well question Geneva Whitehouse about some petty burglary she’d reported earlier that morning or he’d start to feel tempted to go find a little hair of the dog and call a beer or two his lunch—not that Caine had ever done any drinking on the job. He didn’t expect the interview to amount to anything. Probably the Whitehouse maid had lifted an item or two, giving herself a nice five-finger bonus.

He rang the bell and heard discreet chimes from within.

The woman who answered would have sucked the breath from an ordinary man, one who still had red blood flowing through his veins. Reed-slim but full-breasted, Geneva Whitehouse wasn’t tall, yet she carried herself like a supermodel. An ash blonde with wide blue eyes, she wore a gold wedding ring on her hand next to a flashy diamond set in platinum that must weigh four carats.

“Ms. Whitehouse. Calvin Caine.” He flashed his badge. “I’m the investigator assigned to your case. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

With the introduction he handed her his card. As she studied it, the striking blue of her eyes went flat, like an unpolished stone, and the sparkle disappeared except from her ring.

“Please come in.”

Caine felt the back of his neck crawl. Right away his head began to throb again and he felt lost. The house was huge, in all ways. Big entry hall, big rooms, big ceilings, big air-conditioning system if the chill was anything to judge by. He thought of his own decrepit bedroom unit, cranking out stale air all night, not helping him to sleep. He kept meaning to replace it. Too bad he didn’t have the inclination to change the AC, his clothes, whatever.

In the living room she studied him. “Would you like a drink? Soda, coffee, something stronger?”

He must look as if he needed one. The temptation he’d suppressed rocked him back on his heels. “No, thanks. I’m on duty. I won’t take much of your time.”

Geneva Whitehouse perched on the arm of a very expensive-looking sofa. She invited him to sit down, but Caine stayed on his feet. He took out his notebook and clicked open his pen.

“The missing vase,” he said, prompting her to begin.

“Yes, of course. I noticed it was gone this morning when I got up,” she said. “It’s quite valuable, although not of museum quality.” She named a figure that widened Caine’s eyes anyway. “My husband had it custom-made for me from his own design.” She blinked. “As you might guess, it has even greater sentimental value.” She worried her bottom lip. “Do you think you can get it back?”

“We’ll try.” He scribbled on his pad. “When did you last see this vase?”

With a longing look toward the hall, she indicated the now-empty space in the curio cabinet, a look that reminded Caine of himself at home in his empty house. “Yesterday afternoon, I think, just before five,” she said.

Caine asked the usual questions about anyone who had access to the house or grounds, anyone who might know the layout and her daily routine. In his experience, most people followed the same schedule, in the same order, each day without any significant deviation. She mentioned the gardener, her cleaning service, the pool boy. “But they haven’t been here as recently as—” Her gaze popped open even more. “Oh, goodness. I’ve been so upset, I almost forgot. I’ve been interviewing interior designers. We’re going to have some work done on the house—” needlessly, Caine thought, but it was her money, or her husband’s “—and two women were here yesterday. One of them admired that particular vase. It does stand out,” she added.

Caine needed specifics.

“Nora Pride,” she murmured, sounding reluctant to say the name. “Her firm is Nine Lives, Inc. in Destin.”

Sounded more like a pet store to Caine. She gave him the other woman’s name, Starr Mulligan of Superior Interiors, and Caine rolled his eyes. Geneva Whitehouse didn’t see him because she had glanced away, but when her gaze met his again, his cop instincts began to hum. Caine saw doubt in her eyes. She didn’t know whether to tell him something.

“Anything you can give me, Ms. Whitehouse, will be a help. Sometimes the smallest detail can sound a bell.”

She fidgeted with her ring. “Something else does bother me, Detective Caine. I’d be less than a good citizen—and not very helpful to you—if I didn’t tell you that when they were here, Starr and Nora argued.”

Geneva Whitehouse gnawed on her lip again. It was a great lip, full and plump and ripe, but Caine reminded himself that he didn’t have much interest in women these days. His work had become his life. And besides, she was married. Caine liked to think he was a principled man.

“I wasn’t in perfect earshot,” she continued, bringing him back to the reason for his visit. “While I was looking at the shelves and cabinets in the kitchen, Nora took Starr aside. I could hear the buzz of their voices, then they rose before Nora’s dropped a little…” She flushed, prettily.

“Go on.”

Geneva Whitehouse hesitated. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. The vase was here when they left and later, I think, when I left home myself. I was supposed to meet my husband for dinner, but he was detained at work so I ended up eating alone in the restaurant.” She all but wrung her hands, looking more unhappy than her husband’s necessary lapse seemed to warrant. “I don’t see how anyone could have gotten into the house while I was gone. We have an alarm system and it’s always monitored. Earl insisted on it as soon as we were married.”

And she had become a blue blood by law, Caine thought. He made a little “hmm” of encouragement. This was Geneva Whitehouse’s first marriage, he knew, but it was her spouse’s third trip around the matrimonial track, and each time he had downsized in terms of his bride’s age. Earl Whitehouse was a prominent local builder and Royal Palms was his project.

Talk about career development. Without ever holding a job, Geneva Whitehouse had become an instant multimillionaire.

In the next breath she knocked him flat again.

“I hate to say anything against Nora, really. But I saw how determined she was to get my business.” Geneva Whitehouse reported Starr Mulligan’s similar statement, then stopped.

Caine sighed to himself. Getting a witness to talk could be as hard as bathing Annie’s cat. For another moment she couldn’t go on. Or at least that’s how it appeared to Caine, who felt his anticipation rising with every empty second.

She tried again. “Nora said—”

His tone was gentle yet insistent. “Yes, Ms. Whitehouse?”

“The burglary here is one thing and I’m heartbroken over my vase. But, well, I couldn’t help but overhear. Detective Caine, Nora threatened someone…with murder.”

Nora stared down at the just-received wedding invitation on her desk and thought of violence. And here she’d imagined she had put her past—her marriage—behind her at last. She reread the formal words.

Mr. and Mrs. William Baker

Request the honour of your presence

At the marriage of their daughter

Heather

to

Wilson Pride

The creamy vellum sheet was decidedly stubborn, if an inanimate object had any such quality, or it would have disappeared by now, zapped by Nora’s fervent wish that she hadn’t been included in the guest list. Attend her ex-husband’s wedding? Nora shuddered, but the words on the invitation hadn’t altered, either. She wished she could simply ignore them and the troublesome date that she had tried, only a few months ago, to make sure would never happen.

She wasn’t proud of herself for attempting to sabotage Wilson’s newest “love of my life,” and now it seemed she had definitely failed.

Nora leaned around her desk to catch Daisy’s eye. The golden retriever was lying in her usual spot between her and the door to her office. Several months ago, taking into account her lost clients, Nora had been forced to lay off her receptionist, and Daisy had kindly offered to work for free. Three times a week she kept Nora company at work, while supposedly discouraging intruders; in return, Nora dispensed extra doggie treats and kept a Chinese porcelain bowl of cold water on hand in lieu of a salary.

“Well, Daisy,” she said, “what do you think of Wilson and his bride? It’s a good thing he didn’t ask you to be in the wedding. I would never have forgiven him for that. But does he really think I want to—”

Nora heard the outer door open.

Apparently her ears were better than Daisy’s. The dog hadn’t gazed at Nora for more than a second before dropping her head again onto her paws, letting her floppy ears fall over her eyes, and going back to sleep. Now she didn’t move—until Nora’s visitor appeared in her office doorway. Detective Caine, apparently. The policeman had called to say he was dropping by.

The Walking Wounded, was Nora’s first surprised thought.

And, for some unknown reason she might never understand, all of the blood drained from her head straight down to her Jimmy Choo pumps. For a second, she swayed in her ergonomic desk chair.

Quickly, even in her distress, she took inventory of the detective. His rumpled black Dockers, his herringbone jacket, his shirt and tie were good quality and well-tailored but looked uncared for, like the man himself, it seemed. His craggy, hard-jawed face, shadowed by a late afternoon stubble, had seen too much living, Nora felt sure, with a sharp, masculine nose and shrewd yet puppy dog-sad dark eyes. His head of thick, dark hair, with just a hint of distinguished gray at the temples, clearly needed a stylist.

Yet he drew her gaze again. He reminded Nora of herself right after she had left Wilson and unwillingly struck out on her own, feeling ironically abandoned. She was feeling that now after getting the invitation to his wedding while she was still single and likely to stay that way.

Nora, the saver of other lost souls ever since her divorce, felt almost sorry for Caine. So did Daisy, apparently.

The retriever’s eyes opened, then brightened, and her plumy tail began to flap in greeting against the carpet. So much for Daisy’s new career as Nora’s quasi-secretary and protector. The detective smiled a little, then bent down to give Daisy a good scratch behind the ears.

“Ms. Pride?” he prompted.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Nora Pride.”

“Nice dog.”

Daisy rolled over for an expert tummy rub, gazing at Calvin Caine like an adoring strumpet. “She certainly seems to like you.”

Nora smoothed her limp skirt, wishing she’d had time to powder the shine from her nose. She reminded herself that he was a cop and not to underestimate him, though it was clear he liked animals, usually a plus in Nora’s book. Why did he want to talk to her? He hadn’t said, but Nora’s heart did a three-sixty roll. She had a stack of unpaid parking tickets stashed in the glove compartment of her car. Had the department finally tracked her down? Why send a detective?

He gave the surroundings a cursory yet professional assessment: Nora’s glass-topped desk, the wall of shelves behind it neatly sprinkled with books, a tidy stack of interior design journals and the latest issue of Architectural Digest. Then his gaze returned to Nora. He looked her up, then down.

“I have a few questions,” he said.

When he stood, Nora inspected his badge, tucked his card away without looking at it and then gave him another careful scrutiny like the one he’d given her. He had a decent build, good shoulders and a straight spine, if not of the same height and breadth as Heath Moran, who still hadn’t bothered to answer her numerous telephone calls.

Hugh Jackman, she decided of Caine. A more mature Hugh Jackman.

Then he murmured, “Geneva Whitehouse.”

Geneva? Almost before Nora could take in the name, the questions came at her like bullets. This wasn’t about parking tickets. When had Nora left Geneva’s house yesterday? Who could vouch for her whereabouts last night?

“I was home, alone.” Perversely, considering the situation, Nora wished he would smile. She’d like to see what he looked like then, because she suspected he didn’t smile often. Or maybe she was trying to divert herself from her obsessive study of the wedding invitation a few minutes ago—that is, until he brought up Starr. And the apparently missing vase.

“Yes,” Nora admitted, “I did see Starr yesterday.”

He had picked up on her cool tone. “You’re not friends.”

“I didn’t say that. We’re, well, more than acquaintances. We’re competitors in interior design.” Oh, you bet. Nora had barely been out the door yesterday before Geneva Whitehouse called to inform her that she’d chosen Starr to do the work on her home. The sudden decision had wounded Nora, but she tried not to show it. “Ours is a small world, Detective Caine. One can’t afford to make enemies.”

“Would you call Ms. Mulligan an enemy?”

Nora felt her cheeks heat. Before she knew it, they were as hot as a pancake griddle, and she could sense the blood rushing through her veins, centering in her chest and making her feel breathless. Nora fought the strong urge to fan herself with Wilson’s invitation. Her skin must look as red as fire. Dear God, she was having another of those flushes, worse than before. Caine’s fault. That alone was enough to make her dislike him.

“Starr and I may have had words a time or two, bless her heart. She doesn’t have the best…disposition. But we both know where our bread is buttered.” She had formed a small lie, hoping to tamp down the fiery blush spreading across her skin, hoping to defuse his keen attention. “If you must know, yes, we sometimes quarrel.” A new insight struck her. “I suppose it’s almost a hobby for us.”

Her heart thundered like a cannon during a twenty-one-gun salute at Arlington Cemetery. Nora looked from him to Daisy, who was now curled at Caine’s feet as if she belonged to him rather than Nora. Surely he didn’t think…

“Do I look like a common thief to you?” she asked.

Nora drove home in a blue funk, her fingers trembling on the steering wheel of her convertible. She knew she hadn’t conducted herself well in the interview with Detective Caine. Still, she wasn’t behind bars tonight for something she hadn’t done. Look on the bright side.

Daisy certainly did. She hadn’t stopped smiling since Caine walked into the office, not even when Nora worked late then dropped her off at the vet’s on the way home. Daisy didn’t know it, but she was staying overnight at the clinic to get her teeth cleaned.

Alone in the car for the rest of the ride, Nora put down the top and let the warm, sultry Gulf breeze blow through her hair. Overhead the sky had darkened to a velvety blue, and she glimpsed a few stars trying to come out.

She was putting her key into the door of the home she’d worked so hard to pay for as a single woman—an honest woman—when a hard hand covered her softer one. Her pulse jerked in alarm. She hadn’t recovered from Caine’s interrogation, and Nora half expected another attack right at her door.

Then she smelled him, that recently familiar scent of man and the pricey cologne she had given him for his birthday. Instead of a real assault, to her relief this was some fantasy come to life in her doorway.

A hoarse masculine growl threatened to melt the skin at the nape of her neck. There was no “Your money or your life” forthcoming, but every square inch of Nora’s flesh quivered.