The Arrangement

He bent to pick up her white silk kimono, which was lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. “You’re not the same person,” he said. “How could you be? They’ll see that immediately.”

She took the robe from him before he could help her with it. Once she had it on, she turned away and tied the belt. He didn’t care about her, not really. He was fixated on finding out who’d tried to frame him for murder. That was the reason he’d given her for returning to Mirage Bay, but she had a gut feeling there was more to it. He wasn’t telling her everything.

His voice came to her, low and restrained. “We need to behave like we’re married, Alison.”

She glanced up at his reflection. He used the mirror to make eye contact with her, and she found it hard to look away. There wasn’t a hint of revulsion or pity in his eyes. He was razor-focused, curious and very aware of her, much like any man interested in a woman. But it was all part of the illusion, the arrangement.

“And in love,” he said. “People will expect that much.”

She knew it was true. Everyone would be insatiably curious, her family most of all. But she didn’t know how they were going to do it, or whether anyone would be convinced. It would require acting skills beyond either of their ability. Would anyone believe they were the same passionate, overheated couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other?

Tears rolled down Julia Driscoll Fairmont’s cheeks as she plucked the downy hairs from above her upper lip. One by one, she extracted the barely visible offenders, leaving an occasional spot of blood. But the sharpest sting came from the errant nose hairs that dared to protrude from her aristocratic nostrils.

Her esthetician would have been happy to do the honors, with much greater speed and far less pain. But that would have defeated the purpose. It wouldn’t have calmed Julia’s nerves the way plucking did.

For the last half hour, she’d been sitting at her vanity, balancing a hand mirror and her surgical tweezers—and wincing with every extraction. She was probably adding a wrinkle for every hair. She had heard physical pain caused the brain to produce endorphins that could become addictive, but that wasn’t her problem. She wasn’t a pain junkie. If anything, her obsession with plucking was in large part thanks to her dear departed mother.

Eleanor Driscoll had been named for Eleanor Roosevelt, and she took that responsibility very much to heart. From her teens, Eleanor Dee, as everyone called her, had been an activist. She’d thought of herself as a modern-day crusader, which included defending society’s downtrodden wherever she found them.

Eleanor Dee believed in volunteerism and self-sacrifice. She was against self-indulgence in all its forms, including drinking, smoking and, of course, indiscriminate sexual behavior. Sadly, her daughter and only child, Julia, had failed her on nearly all counts, and in the most disgraceful and embarrassing ways.

“Mea culpa,” Julia muttered. At forty-nine, she was still riddled with guilt and would be until the day she died. Only her mother and devoted husband knew what she’d done all those years ago in her twenties, and they’d taken her secrets to their graves. Julia had tried to atone. She’d lived an exemplary life…well, until very recently. But she had raised her two children and become a pillar of the community, as all the Driscolls and Fairmonts had before her. Still, none of that was sufficient penance for the damage she’d done. Nothing would ever be.

So, yes, she was guilty. But she was angry, too, and not just at herself. She was still seething at the way she’d been failed back then. That was the reason Julia plucked and winced. There were times when she wanted to yank out every hair on her body. She was ridding herself of the infidels who’d broken her heart when she’d had a heart to break, the ones who’d betrayed her.

She went after her eyebrows next. This wasn’t plucking. It was cleansing, and if the pain was some kind of penance for her sins, at least she was inflicting it on herself.

With a sigh, she put down the tweezers and studied her pensive reflection in the hand mirror. Was that spidery thing on her cheek a broken capillary?

Another wince. Another wrinkle.

The mirror landed on the granite countertop with a clink. Even her scalp hurt from sitting so long in an unnatural position. She had no time for this. Her daughter and son-in-law were arriving tonight, in a matter of hours, and she wasn’t prepared. Her house was perfect, and her assistant would help serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Even Bret was mysteriously cooperative. Everything was as ready as it could possibly be. But she, Julia, wasn’t prepared.

Her black silk halter dress was displayed on a molded hanger in her dressing room. As she entered the room, she took in the dress’s simple, elegant lines, aware of how it would set off her stunning diamond brooch and drop earrings.

She should have been looking forward to this evening, but what she felt was foreboding. She knew it wasn’t possible, given what Alison had been through, but that hadn’t stopped Julia from imagining her daughter exactly as she’d looked when she left: lithe and carefree, luminous as summer itself. Alison had a quality greater than mere beauty. She had magic. And if Julia could have put her in a time capsule and kept her the golden debutante forever, she would have.

It was a mother’s fantasy, and probably a selfish one, but she only wanted to keep her daughter safe—and protected from predators like Andrew Villard. Just because Alison wasn’t dead didn’t mean the man hadn’t tried to kill her. Julia’s suspicions were so strong she’d hired a detective to investigate him—and learned several disturbing things.

She’d never understood why someone with Alison’s advantages had thrown herself at a man like Villard. She’d had some crazy dream of being a pop idol, but Villard had never intended to help her with that. Julia probably knew more about him than Alison ever would.

As Julia dressed, she couldn’t help but wonder what her own mother would have thought of this strange homecoming party. It had taken a massive heart attack to bring Eleanor down, but she’d lived to see her granddaughter publicly defy her mother’s wishes and run off with a sideshow impresario.

Yes, Eleanor had seen it all—and blamed it on Julia’s lack of parenting skills. She’d also threatened to invoke the morals clause on the fifty-million-dollar trust that would have gone to Alison on her twenty-eighth birthday. But Eleanor had never made her wishes known to the family’s estate attorneys, and technically, the money might have gone to Alison, if she hadn’t turned her back on it.

Julia hadn’t been so lucky. Eleanor had also imposed the morals clause on her, two decades ago, making it impossible for Julia to collect a dime of that same fund when it was supposed to have come to her on her twenty-eighth birthday. And now the money was sitting in a trust account, controlled by lawyers.

“You were a heartless bitch in so many ways, Mother,” Julia muttered. “And I’m becoming just like you. You must be so proud.”

Fortunately, Julia had never needed the trust money. Her husband, Grant Fairmont, had made his fortune in the yachting industry and left everything to her when he died. Still, Julia wasn’t content to leave that much family money in the hands of attorneys who were extracting hefty fees for doing what amounted to nothing. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t even American, and Julia had already started taking steps to correct the error of her mother’s ways.

Eleanor was probably sitting up in her grave and howling.

Julia snorted and cupped a hand to her ear. “Louder, Mother, I can’t quite hear you.”

4

“What have you done to your hair?”

They were the first words out of Julia Fairmont’s mouth as she flung open the doors of Sea Clouds and gaped at her estranged daughter.

Alison reached for and found Andrew’s hand, grateful to have him beside her. The woman terrified her and always had. Evidently there were going to be no hellos, no welcome homes, no hugs. Alison wouldn’t have been comfortable with that, anyway, but this was very strange.

“They shaved my head,” she explained to her mother. “It grew out this way, darker, so I left it.”

Julia still couldn’t seem to believe it. “But you’ve always been a blonde.”

Alison touched her dark waves. “Not always. I started lightening it several years ago.”

“Yes, and I assumed you would go on doing that.”

Alison felt Andrew’s hand tighten, as if to tell her she was doing fine. But they were outside, flanked by the marble columns of the grand portico, and Alison wasn’t certain her mother was going to let them in the house—or that she wanted to go in. Julia’s black halter dress was stunning, and her long dark bob softened her angular features, but her face was pale and masklike. She had on too much makeup, or maybe it was too much Botox. Something was wrong.

“Do you dislike the color that much?” Alison asked. She wondered what her mother thought of the blue silk shantung capri outfit that Andrew had helped her choose.

“It’s just so popstar. Not you at all.” She shot Andrew an icy glance, as if it was all his doing.

“Oh! Is this your daughter and her husband?” A younger woman appeared in the doorway behind Julia. Her round pretty face was wreathed in smiles as she edged beside Julia to extend her hand.

“I’m Rebecca, Julia’s assistant. Nice to meet you both! How was your trip?”

Andrew stepped forward to take her hand. “Andrew Villard,” he said, “and the trip was fine, thank you. This is my wife, Alison, of course.”

Alison and Rebecca exchanged nods. It would have been awkward to reach around Julia, who was still peering at Alison as if she were trying to piece her together like a puzzle.

This was exactly what Alison had feared. Worse.

Rebecca gently took over, whispering something to Julia, and then inviting Alison and Andrew in. “You must be exhausted,” she said, beckoning them to follow her into the mansion’s breathtaking pink marble foyer. “Did you leave your bags in the car? I’ll be happy to get them, but first can I fix you something to drink? Lemonade or a wine spritzer? It’s such a warm day.”

“We’re fine,” Alison told her. “We picked up some iced tea at the airport.”

Julia seemed to have found her voice. “Rebecca can unpack for you, if you’d like.”

“That’s very kind, but I can handle the bags.” Andrew gave Alison a glance. “We would like some time to freshen up.”

“Of course.” Julia nodded to her assistant. “Rebecca, show them to their room, would you? The second floor, facing the mountains.”

“Oh, Julia, did you forget? The guest room on the ocean side is all ready for Alison and Andrew.”

“My memory’s just fine, Rebecca.” Julia’s tone was as sharp as her glance. “I’m sure they’ll love the mountain view. Show them up, please.”

She and Andrew had just been downgraded, Alison realized—and Julia was making sure they knew it. They hadn’t been here five minutes. Unbelievable.

“Oh, by the way,” Julia added, “drinks are at seven on the terrace. You remember, Alison. We always gather on the terrace before dinner.” She looked searchingly at her daughter. “You will join us, of course.”

Alison didn’t know anything about drinks at seven. She just wanted to run. Somewhere in the murky depths of her memory, she could hear demons howling.

“That was terrifying,” Alison whispered, speaking more to herself than to Andrew. “She looked like a mannequin in a window display. Has she always looked that way?”

Rebecca had just left them in their suite of rooms with a cheery reminder about drinks at seven. Alison found her to be effusive and overly helpful, but then anyone would have seemed effusive compared to Julia.

The suite was actually a combination bedroom and sitting room, which opened onto a balcony with wrought-iron railings. To Alison’s eye, everything about the room was soothing and beautiful. The palm trees and elegant cane furniture created a cool garden of tranquility.

Andrew had gone over to check out the liquor cart, a wheeled brass-and-leather showpiece that was probably an antique. It was weighed down with crystal decanters, all filled a variety of expensive and exotic spirits, of course. Julia Fairmont’s hospitality was legend. So was her bitchiness, apparently.

“Do you think she’s changed her mind?” Alison asked. “Is she going to ask us to leave?”

“No, she has her reasons for wanting us here, just as we have ours.” He glanced over at her. “You can’t have forgotten what your own mother looks like. We went through the albums. I showed you the pictures.”

“I do know what she looks like. That’s the point. She’s changed. Didn’t you see it?”

“You’ve changed. You scared her half to death with your wild-ass hair.” He laughed and picked up a slender decanter that glowed amber in the waning light. “How about something to drink? Sherry? It’ll calm you down.”

“Ugh, I’d rather drink mouthwash.” Alison sat on the edge of a wicker chaise near the bed and tried to envision the many faces of Julia Fairmont, the ones she remembered and the ones she’d seen in the snapshots. But the masklike image never left the screen of her mind. It hadn’t seemed to bother Andrew, but for Alison it was too stark and disturbing to be dismissed.

To calm herself, she began to mentally rehearse some of the other details she’d conjured up about her mother, with a lot of help from Andrew. Julia had never worked outside the home, but had made a career raising money for various charities. She was allergic to cats, but not dogs, and had an aversion to the color red. Her musical tastes were highbrow, but she was addicted to reality television. And almost nothing had seemed to ruffle her except the sound of crying babies. Alison had no idea why, but a wailing infant could make her mother tremble and slam doors to block the sound.

There was more, but none of it came readily to mind. She still slipped into a fog at times and couldn’t remember anything, especially when under stress.

“Was she always that statuelike?” she asked Andrew. “She didn’t look quite real. You’d think she had the surgery rather than me.”

He started to say something, but Alison stopped him. “Why did we come, Andrew? She doesn’t want us here. She acted like we were avian flu carriers.”

Alison had caught the horrified flicker in her mother’s eye, even if he hadn’t. She could only guess what it meant. Maybe all wasn’t forgiven, and she and Andrew had been summoned for some kind of confrontation. Or her mother was repulsed because Alison really did look as strange and different as she felt.

He picked up a fifth of scotch and examined the label. She watched him, aware that he no longer drank alcohol.

“You know why we’re here,” he said.

His voice had taken on an edge that prompted her to change the subject. “I love this room,” she said, “but the house… It’s huge and bewildering. I’m not sure I could find my way back down to the foyer.”

“Julia mentioned on the phone that you wouldn’t recognize the house. She’s totally redone it since you were here last. I forgot to tell you that, sorry. It’s been pretty chaotic.”

As if by way of apology, he brought her an aperitif glass of something pale pink. She sniffed and then took a sip. Definitely not sherry. It tasted like strawberries.

“Julia is nervous, too,” he said. “Couldn’t you see that? She wants you here. She never stopped trying to see you after the accident.”

“Yes, but why? It’s not as if we were close in any normal mother-daughter way. Is she still angry with me? Is she curious? She has plenty of money, so this probably isn’t about the trust that was supposed to have come to me…unless she wants me to promise in writing that I’ll give up my claim.”

“Would you do that? The money was yours. It was you who decided to walk away from it. You could always change your mind.”

“And start another war? No, I can’t do that.”

Did he want her to go after the money? Was that the real reason they were here? She buttoned up the light cardigan she’d slipped on over her capri outfit, but not because she was cold. It was to hide the warmth spreading over her skin. When she was nervous she broke out in hivelike splotches on her chest and face.

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said.

He knelt next to her chair. “Alison, your mother almost lost you. She hasn’t seen you in four years. Give her some time.”

“But she invited us. At least she could be civil.” She touched her face. “Do I look that horrible?”

“You’re stunning. Maybe she’s jealous.”

Stunning? She could feel the red heat crawling up her neck. Soon the brilliance would invade her face and make her look like a burn victim. It had been a day of nasty shocks, and this was one more. Since the accident, Andrew hadn’t given her any reason to think he found her attractive, other than an occasional polite reference to her hair or her outfit.

Now, suddenly, he was dishing out compliments, and her mother, who’d always been so proud of her daughter’s beauty, was acting like she was a leper. It was too much.

Andrew rose and left her on the chaise, taking off his linen sports coat with the ease of someone who’d always worn fine clothes and took for granted the cachet they lent the wearer. She could still conjure up a mental picture of the first time she’d seen his face. Somehow he’d come into her line of sight, dark and striking in a white sweater that contrasted beautifully with his coloring. Undoubtedly, she’d seen the dark eyes first, framed by the tanned, strong face. But she couldn’t seem to remember exactly where the sighting was. A harbor somewhere, possibly on the bow of the Bladerunner, with a beautiful blonde on his arm.

The image reminded her that one of her goals while in Mirage Bay was to get a look at his boat, without him or anyone else around.

“Are you up to unpacking?” he asked. “I can do it if you’d like to lie down for a while.”

One bed. She shot a glance at the lovely swirls of the white iron bed with yards of sheer veil draped from the canopy frame. It appeared to be at least king-size, but there was just one. That was going to be awkward. Sharing a room was going to be awkward, too, even in this spacious suite.

“I’ll unpack,” she said, “but maybe I will lie down for a few minutes first.” She sounded formal, stiff. She always sounded that way with him. Why couldn’t she relax? What did she think he was going to do to her? Realistically, what?

She’d barely completed the thought when he came across the room, drawing something from the pocket of his slacks. “This is for you,” he said, handing her a small, black-velvet jewelry box.

She opened the lid to the most beautiful earrings she’d ever seen. The pink, emerald-cut diamonds sparkled so brightly they were almost painful to look at. Pale-yellow diamond chips surrounded the large center stones.

“Why?” she said, looking up at him.

“Because you wore diamonds everywhere. I thought you might wear them to dinner tonight.”

“They’re exquisite.”

“Alison, so are you.”

She sucked in a breath. “Why are you doing this?”

His shrug suggested that it was no big deal, but his gaze was focused on her face, intent on her eyes and her startled mouth—especially her mouth. Her stomach dipped and her pulse was quick, hot, crazy.

“You remember,” he said. “You even wore them to bed—and nothing else.”

She could feel heat flare to the tips of her ears, scorching her face. “Amnesia comes in very handy at times.”

She set the velvet box on the end table next to her, a clear rebuff. What looked like generosity on his part was beginning to feel like something else to her. Was this one more insidious attempt to control her, right down to what she wore on her earlobes?

“The earrings are yours, regardless.” He casually changed the tone of the conversation. “I’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind. I’ll take a quick shower and be out of there.”

Her heart pounding, she watched him go to the valet stand, open his suitcase and take out his shaving kit. It wasn’t going to be easy getting ready with just one bathroom. They could take turns with their showers, but where were they going to dress? She hadn’t seen any dressing rooms.

“I’m going to hang my suit to steam out the wrinkles while I shower,” he said. “Shall I hang your dress?”

She agreed, aware that he knew exactly which dress she was going to wear because he’d packed her bag. It felt strange watching him go through her things, knowing that she’d granted him access to her dressing room and allowed him to pick and choose what she should take. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now it made her feel vulnerable.

He unzipped her garment bag and drew out the ankle-length black jersey gown that appeared shapeless on the hanger, but clung to every curve on the female body. It looked particularly good on a leaner figure like hers.

Once he’d disappeared into the bathroom, she breathed a sigh of relief and took advantage of the time alone to make a quick cell phone call. She keyed in the same number she’d been calling for days, but again got no answer. Concern weighed heavier on her heart with every attempt. She was going to have to rely on Andrew’s help, after all. Promising herself she would come up with a better plan, she turned off the phone. Right now, it was too risky to go herself.

She took a furry, animal-print throw from the back of the chaise and went to lie on the bed. Sleep had been her escape since the accident, but she couldn’t imagine drifting off in this situation. She had pills with her, but if she took one now she’d never wake in time for dinner.

The shower came on full force in the next room. He’d left the door partially open, probably for ventilation. Clearly, he was more comfortable with their accommodations than she was. But that didn’t stop her eyes from going straight to the crack in the door. Only the sink and mirror were in her line of sight, but that was enough to present what seemed like an irresistible opportunity.

Moments later the water abruptly stopped and the shower door banged open. He appeared at the sink, which allowed her to see him lather up and shave. He’d knotted a white bath sheet around his hips, and her eyes were unavoidably drawn to the knot. But his arms were the sexiest part of his body. She could have watched the play of his triceps, the ripple of cords and veins, for hours. God help her. This was not the distraction she needed.

She closed her eyes, but the memories came flooding back, anyway. She remembered so vividly when she’d first become aware of him in the periphery of her life, the wild infatuation and hero worship, the falling in love from a distance and never believing it could be reciprocated.

Was this the same man she’d felt all those things for? If she couldn’t answer any other question about her life, she wanted the answer to that one. She wanted to know if he’d hurt the other woman in his life—and if he meant her harm.

Her feelings for him were massively conflicted. She flinched when he got too close, yet a part of her still wanted that, and she couldn’t explain why. Or maybe she could. Maybe what she missed was the slow-burning dream, the wondering what it would be like with him. She wanted the Andrew Villard she’d fallen in love with from a distance.

Tony Bogart printed his name in block letters in the motel’s guest registry. He was in Mirage Bay unofficially, but he had no desire to hide his presence or his intentions. He wanted people to know he was investigating the murder of his brother—and possibly a second murder associated with his brother’s death, though he had no actual proof of that yet, just a telephone tip from his anonymous snitch.

“I got a room with a partial view of the water, special for you,” the aging female desk clerk said, sliding an old-fashioned brass door key across the counter to Tony. Disco music throbbed at low volume from the clock radio on the rusting metal file cabinet behind her.