I WISH YOU hadn’t done that with Will,” Samantha said quietly. She stood just outside the door to Bryce’s stable. The rest of his entourage was halfway to the house. She hung back, feeling more at home near the barn than near the mansion. In the dimly lit aisle of the stable, a dirty, tattooed ranch hand unsaddled the Appaloosa she had ridden. The man watched her over the gelding’s back for a moment, the gleam in his eyes making her skin crawl. She frowned at him and his mouth twisted in amusement, revealing a glimpse of discolored teeth.
Bryce rubbed his fingertips along his jaw, idly contemplating shaving before the party. He studied Samantha at the same time. He stood behind her and to the side, out of her line of vision, very coolly, very calculatingly assessing her emotional state. She looked more like a stable hand than his usual sort of guest. The jeans she wore were old, the blouse cheap cotton. She had pulled her hair back into its serviceable braid again and secured it at the end with a pink rubber band.
“He needed shocking, sweetheart,” he said with just the perfect touch of consolation and paternal wisdom. “Now maybe he’ll wake up and see what a fool he’s been for neglecting you. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t deserve you.” He picked up the end of her braid, slipped the band from it, and began to sift the strands free with his fingers. “Personally, I’m quite certain he doesn’t deserve you,” he murmured. “Any sensible man would cherish you, pamper you, encourage you to come into full bloom instead of leaving you to wither on the vine.”
He lifted her hair, spread it out across her shoulders. When he turned her to face him, his expression was one of fatherly concern, gently chastising. “Your hair is gorgeous, Samantha. You should wear it loose, show it off. Don’t hide your beauty, sweetheart. Glory in it.”
Uncomfortable with his flattery, Samantha tried to glance away from him, but his pale eyes had a way of mesmerizing her, and she kept glancing back at him like a nervous horse. He had to think she was a stupid, naive kid. She had never been anywhere or done anything. She didn’t have a clue how to act around his kind of people. And yet he was still taking the time to be nice to her. She may not have liked his methods, but he was trying to help her with Will, even though he didn’t think much of her choice of husbands.
“I’ve never really thought of myself as beautiful,” she admitted shyly, feeling as if she at least owed him her honesty and her confidence. He was only trying to be a friend to her, and God knew she didn’t have many of those.
Her confession actually surprised Bryce. A rare shock showed on his face. She had the bone structure of a model, and an exotic quality that had the potential to be stunning. How could she not know that? He didn’t know a woman who wasn’t fully aware of every weapon in her arsenal. But Samantha was not being coy or fishing for compliments. He could easily read the uncertainty in her eyes, and it touched him as very few things could.
Gently he hooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. “Honey, you could set the world on its ear,” he said sincerely. “All you need is someone to point you in the right direction and encourage you. Didn’t your parents encourage you?”
The bitter laugh was automatic, though it mortified Samantha and she immediately wished she could have sucked it back into her lungs and held it there. She couldn’t talk about her family with Bryce. They were poor and dirty. Trash. That was what everyone around town said. That was what she had grown up hearing sneered behind her back. The Neills were nothing but half-breed trash. The shame of that clung to her still, like a film of grime she could never wash off no matter how hard she scrubbed.
“I should go home,” she mumbled, glancing at the cheap oversize watch she wore strapped to her wrist, the band wrapped twice around. It was Will’s. She wondered if he missed it any more than he missed her. “I have to feed my dog.”
“I’ll send Morton to take care of it,” Bryce said. He didn’t want her slipping away now, when she was in this melancholy mood. She would likely talk herself out of returning for the party, and he couldn’t have that.
“You don’t have to. I’ll need to change clothes anyway,” Samantha said, doing a bleak mental inventory of her wardrobe. She had nothing good enough to wear to a party the likes of this one. Because she didn’t belong here, she reminded herself. She wasn’t Cinderella. She had no fairy godmother. Her Prince Charming had dumped her for a chance to ride off into the sunset with honky-tonk heroines night after night.
Bryce waited, letting the moment ripen, stepping forward just as the first glitter of tears glazed across her eyes. Taking hold of her hand, he granted her a subdued version of the Redford smile. “Wait here just a minute. I have a little surprise for you.”
He went into the stable and gave instructions to the hired hand brushing down the Appaloosa to drive into town and see to Samantha’s dog. When he came back out, he took her by the elbow and led her up the path to his house. Samantha thought it was nearly as large as the Moose, all gray wood and fieldstone, sparkling windows and soaring roof lines. Passing by a living room, she caught a glimpse of sparkling windowpanes that rose to a peak in the center of the wall, making her think of a cathedral, as did the beamed, vaulted ceiling. Seemed like a lot of wasted space, but it was beautiful. The view was incredible. It was like standing in heaven and looking down on paradise. She could have fit her whole house into this one room.
Bryce led her up a curving open staircase to the second floor and down the quiet, elegant hall of the guest wing. Five of the ten guest rooms were occupied, though there was no sign of the guests. Everyone had retired to get ready for the party.
The suite of rooms Bryce took Samantha to far out-stripped anything she had ever encountered in terms of luxury. Thick beige carpet, antique furnishings, real paintings on the walls, a huge bouquet of fresh flowers in a Chinese vase on a table in the small sitting room. In the bedroom a pine wardrobe stood open near the bed with an array of jeweltone clothing hanging inside.
“Take your pick,” Bryce said, brushing a hand across the dangling sleeves and setting the garments swinging. “I had Sharon stop in at Latigo Boutique and pick up a few things in your size. The colors are perfect for you. You’ll find whatever else you might need in the bureau.”
“I can’t accept this,” Samantha whispered, too stunned to speak louder-or too afraid that he might agree with her. One blouse from Latigo was enough to swallow her whole paycheck. There were half a dozen in the wardrobe.
“Of course you can,” he insisted, grinning. “We’re friends.”
“Yeah, but-”
“But nothing. I’m a generous man. I enjoy giving things to my friends, especially those in need of a little something special in their lives.” He softened his expression and brushed the knuckles of one hand down her cheek. “This is my gift to you, sweetheart. Enjoy it. Enjoy the rooms. Enjoy the clothing. Enjoy the party tonight. My payment is getting to see you smile and have a good time.”
Samantha backed away from him, a grin tugging at her mouth. Laughter bubbled up inside her as the pendulum of her emotions swung upward again and the shift of momentum threatened her equilibrium. She turned around, taking in the room, the clothes. Through the partially open door to the bath she caught a glimpse of marble and gold fixtures. “It seems too good to be true.”
“Not at all,” Bryce murmured, curling his fingers around the doorknob. “This is opportunity, Samantha. The doors to the whole world are open to you. You have only to choose to go through them.”
He left her on that note, pleased with his flair for drama, certain Samantha would soak it in like a dry sponge. Poor kid. He knew what it was to be stuck in a life devoid of quality; financially, culturally, socially bankrupt. That was the life to which Will Rafferty would anchor her. She had to be allowed to glimpse the world she could have if she would cut the anchor free.
He glanced at the watch he’d had crafted by a silversmith in Missoula-a platinum Rolex set in a wide cuff of sterling that was shaped and engraved into the likeness of an eagle with its wings spread to encircle his wrist. Two hours to prepare. Ample time. Everything was under control.
Except J. D. Rafferty. Bryce scowled at the reminder. Damned cowboy. So pious, so smug, wearing his air of entitlement like a king’s robe when it was nothing more than a shabby rag handed down by another dirty cowboy. He thought his humble Montana birth somehow elevated him morally. The idea made Bryce want to choke.
“I’ll bring you to your knees, Rafferty,” he snarled beneath his breath. “I’ll have your damn ranch.”
The knowledge that he already had the key brightened his mood and the anger rolled away like storm clouds that had threatened, then moved on. He was smiling by the time he reached his suite. The smile turned carnal as he walked into the bedroom and found Sharon lounging back against a mountain of suede pillows, naked except for one of his narrow, silver-tipped western belts and a pair of tall snakeskin cowboy boots.
“How’s our little pigeon?” she asked as he came to a halt at the end of the bed and began to undress.
“Roosting. She likes your taste in clothes.”
“I should hope so,” she said with a wry smile. “You spent a small fortune on her.”
“Investment.” He slipped his shirt off and tossed it onto the seat of a caramel-colored leather chair. “You have to spend money to make money. Samantha won’t cost me a fraction of what I’ll gain.”
“Rafferty’s land.”
“Mmmm…” His mind drifted a bit, down the hall, to the beauty who couldn’t see past her own sense of inadequacy.
“Have you touched her?” Sharon asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. She rose on her knees on the bed and moved toward him, the long tail of the belt hanging down across her patch of carefully trimmed dark pubic hair.
“Of course not.”
Laughing, she closed the distance between them. Her hand shot forward and she grabbed him by the balls through his jeans, squeezing. Her wide painted mouth twisted up at the corners and her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Swear it,” she demanded, teasing him, taunting him.
Bryce groaned, letting the pain throb through him. He snatched a handful of her blond hair and jerked her head back, his eyes locked on the almost masculine features of her face, and lust burned through him. “I swear. Why would I want a girl when I can have you?”
She smiled darkly and released him, her fingers turning to the task of unfastening his belt and unzipping his fly. “Why wouldn’t you? She’s beautiful. Innocent. I know I would enjoy her.”
“I’m sure you would,” Bryce whispered, stroking her head as she took his swelling penis into her mouth. “But you can’t have her, cuz. Not until I get what I want.”
Mari climbed out of her Honda, making one final check of her appearance. She wouldn’t knock anybody off their feet with her fashion statement, but then, she hadn’t come here to attract attention to herself. Out of the limited clothes she had left, she had selected a purple silk blouse with a square-cut bottom that she let fall over a short slim black skirt. Having thrown out all her heels before leaving Sacramento, she wore simple black flats. Having burned all her panty hose, she had made a quick stop at the Gas N’ Go for a pair of L’eggs that some diabolical man had designed so that one leg was perpetually twisted. She scowled now as she glanced around for witnesses and tried to adjust the stupid thing with a discreet tug.
The paved parking area of Bryce’s little homestead was lined with an incongruous assortment of European imports and American four-wheel muscle. A bass rhythm thumped on the early evening air, carrying out from somewhere behind the enormous lodge-style log house.
“God, he must have felled half of Oregon to build that,” she whispered, staring in awe at the sheer mass of the place. It looked big enough to house Congress. A turret rose on one end like a rocket pointing to the big Montana sky. The roof was slate, the foundation massive fieldstones. The overall impression was of one thing: power.
A shiver skittered down Mari’s back. She called it a chill and strode around the side of the house in search of the source of the music and in search of some answers.
Bryce met her at the edge of the terrace as if he had been waiting especially for her. Dressed in loose-fitting navy raw silk trousers and a billowing white silk shirt worn open down the front, he was the picture of elegant hip. His hair was swept back into a neat queue, emphasizing his towering forehead. He beamed a smile at her that was almost iridescent in his tanned face.
“Marilee, I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “I was afraid your friend Mr. Rafferty might have talked you out of it.”
“Rafferty doesn’t tell me what to do,” she replied, dodging the kiss he tried to brush across her cheek. She ducked around him, making a show of taking in the terrace and pool area that was cluttered with major and minor celebrities. “Quite a spread you’ve got here, Mr. Bryce.”
“Well, it’s home,” he said, chuckling with false modesty. A waiter appeared beside him, and Bryce took two slim flutes of champagne from the tray, handing one to Mari. “Call me Bryce. All my friends do.”
“Did Lucy?” she asked baldly, glancing at him from beneath her lashes as she raised the glass to her lips.
“Of course. Lucy was a regular here.” He made a mournful face, shaking his head, clucking his tongue. “Such a spirit. God, it’s a pity we had to lose her so young.”
“Yes. I’m beginning to feel I hardly knew her.”
He sipped his champagne and watched her, his pale eyes keen. “You weren’t close? She spoke of you. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you everything about her life here.”
“We shared a profession once. We were friends. But we weren’t very good about staying in touch after she moved here. As I said, I almost feel as if I didn’t know her at all anymore.”
Her gaze drifted across the small sea of faces, the thirty or so chosen elite who mingled on the flagstone terrace, talking, drinking, looking gorgeous. She recognized the redhead who had been in Bryce’s company at the Stars and Bars-Uma Kimball, Hollywood’s latest find who had been described as a cross between Tinker Bell and Madonna. She stood along the low stone wall that edged the terrace, wearing what looked to be a burlap sack with a belt of twine. A fortune in diamonds hung from her earlobes. She was stuffing her skinny face with canapes while a male model bimbob with a flowing golden mane tried to impress her with the size of his naked pecs.
Near the pool, the blond Rhine maiden stood in a stark black knit tank dress that hugged her body and dispelled any thoughts that she may actually have been a guy. Her eyes locked on Mari like a pair of lasers, beaming cool amusement.
“For instance,” Mari said, turning back to Bryce, “the sheriff told me Lucy was off riding by herself when she was-when she had her accident. I never knew Lucy to be the solitary type. I honestly can’t picture her communing with nature.”
“Yes, well, Lucy was full of surprises. Let me introduce you to some people,” Bryce offered, steering her by the elbow straight for the towering blonde at poolside. The woman was able to look down her nose at Bryce even in his high-heeled boots, something that brought a nasty gleam of satisfaction to her eyes. “Marilee, this is my cousin, Sharon Russell. Sharon, this is Lucy’s friend, Marilee Jennings.”
Sharon’s gaze raked down Mari from her unruly mane to the tips of her cheap flat shoes and back again. “Oh, yes,” she said, her wide mouth twisting sardonically, “the little singer.”
A razor-sharp smile cut across Mari’s face. “How nice to meet you,” she said sweetly. “You’re Bryce’s cousin? My, the two of look so much alike, I thought you were brothers-I mean, brother and sister.”
“You didn’t bring your guitar?” Bryce said, his mouth curving in disappointment.
“Were you going to make me sing for my supper?”
“Not at all. There are some people here from Columbia Records. I thought this might be an opportunity for you. You have a rare talent, Marilee.”
Which he had heard exactly once across a crowded room. Mari met his cool blue gaze for a moment, trying to figure out his game. Was he really so benevolent? Or was it a matter of playing God, manipulating people, bestowing blessings, then basking in the afterglow of their gratitude?
“Some other time, maybe,” she said as a glimpse of dark hair and handsome features flashed in her peripheral vision. Ben Lucas. “I’m still too shaken over everything that’s happened with Lucy and all to even think about my future. I just came to mingle, you know, meet some new people, eat some free food.”
“By all means.” Bryce flashed his teeth and gestured to the crowd around him. “Enjoy yourself.”
She nodded to him, ignored Sharon, and strolled away, snagging a stuffed mushroom off the tray of a passing waiter as she went.
Lucas was busy charming the black-haired girl from the riding party. They stood at the end of the pool, the underwater lights shimmering up on them in rippling waves. He was a good-looking man, a fact that had not escaped his own notice. Like most of the high-powered trial lawyers Mari had known, he was vain and arrogant to the point of megalomania. He had chosen his audience tonight unerringly. The young woman was hanging on his every word. She looked all of twenty, too fresh-scrubbed and innocent to be running with this crowd. Fresh meat. And Lucas was sniffing after her like a hungry wolf.
“… The press had Lana Broderick tried, convicted, and executed,” Lucas announced. “They were stunned by the acquittal.”
“But was she really innocent?”
He gave the girl a finely honed look of combined wisdom and compassion that had swayed many a juror, letting it soak in just right before dropping the dramatic finish line. “She should have been.”
Mari rolled her eyes and tried to keep from gagging on her mushroom. “I’m sure the unfortunate late Mrs. Dale Robards wished your client had been innocent,” she said dryly as she made a trio of their little duo. “If Lana Broderick had stuck with the baton-twirling squad instead of opting for extracurricular activities with Mr. Robards, Mrs. Robards might be alive today.”
The muscles in Lucas’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed slightly, but he took her counter and parried smoothly, expertly. “My point exactly. If Dale Robards hadn’t seduced an innocent sixteen-year-old girl, the entire tragedy could have been avoided. Robards should have been the one on trial for crimes of moral corruption.”
Mari polished off her mushroom and flashed him a smile, enjoying the sparring match, enjoying the idea that she could mouth off to an attorney and no longer have to worry about him ruining her career for it. “Dale’s moral corruption didn’t pull the trigger. Sweet little Lana did that all by herself.”
“I guess I should be glad you weren’t on the jury, Miss-?”
“Jennings. Marilee Jennings. We’ve met, actually. A couple years ago. I used to be a court reporter in Sacramento. I did some work for one of your partners once. State of California versus Armand Uscavaro. He claimed voices from hell compelled him to murder his parents in their sleep, then make it look like a robbery so he could inherit two million dollars. Poor kid. Turned out they wouldn’t let him listen to heavy metal. I suppose they deserved to die.”
Lucas ignored the bite of her words. Her sarcasm slid off him like oil on Teflon. “Small world.” He flashed her a bright smile. “I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember our meeting. I like to think I never forget a pretty face.”
“You probably remember my friend better. She used to do quite a bit of work with your firm. Lucy MacAdam?”
He blinked at the mention of Lucy’s name, as if some invisible hand had slapped his face. Mari catalogued the reaction and turned to the young woman with an apologetic smile. “In the midst of all that weirdness and macho stuff going on this afternoon, I didn’t get your name.”
Samantha looked down on the little blonde with the husky voice and curvy body and felt like a giant wooden totem, oversize with exaggerated features, big and clumsy. The beautiful teal silk blouse and slacks she had chosen from the wardrobe suddenly felt garish and huge on her, the makeup she had so carefully applied, clownish. She wished fervently she could become invisible or wake up and discover this had all been a dream, that she was really in bed beside her husband and not standing at a posh party chatting with one of his mistresses. But she didn’t become invisible and she didn’t wake up, and Marilee Jennings and Ben Lucas were staring at her, waiting.
“Samantha,” she mumbled, clutching the stem of her wineglass as if she expected it to snap and fall with a crash to the blue tile that edged the pool. “Samantha Rafferty.”
It was Mari’s turn to blink in shock. “Rafferty? Are you Will Rafferty’s wife?”
“Yes.”
The answer came complete with a stony look Mari didn’t immediately interpret. She was too busy putting together the pieces of the afternoon’s little drama. Suddenly Will’s reaction made some kind of sense. J.D.’s remark to his brother played over in her mind-We got a big problem here, little brother. Will’s estranged wife in the company of Evan Bryce, the man who would be king of the Eden Valley. Oh, boy.
She cut a glance across the pool at Bryce. He was laughing, pinching the bimbob’s pecs as Uma Kimball shoveled another cheese puff into her mouth. In her mind’s eye she imagined him suddenly levitating above the crowd, shooting lightning bolts down from the tips of his fingers. He had that air about him, that he was a warlock who had taken human form just for sport. Was it really all a game to him-playing with people’s lives? Was that why he had brought his little retinue to the Stars and Bars-to watch the drama of human life unfold before his eyes? The thought gave her a chill.
The feeling of Samantha’s petulant gaze on her brought Mari’s attention back to the matter at hand. The source of that look booted her mentally. Jealousy. God, the poor kid probably thought she was one of Will’s many conquests. She called him half a dozen slanderous names in her head. He’d gotten her into enough trouble already, the jerk.
“J.D. invited me to watch the branding,” she lied. “He’s been helping me out with Lucy’s animals. My animals, now, I guess. I can’t quite get used to that idea.” She turned back to Ben Lucas, who seemed as well composed as a Mozart quintet. “I suppose you heard about Lucy’s accident?”
“Yes. It was a terrible tragedy for all concerned. Graf-Dr. Sheffield-was beside himself with grief.”
“Too bad he wasn’t beside himself while he was out hunting. One of him might have seen it was a woman he was shooting at.” The words came out as sharp as knives, as sharp as her resentment. Mari knew she should have tempered them, but the feelings weren’t dulling with time. Just the opposite. The shock was burning off like fog in the face of a strong morning sun. Every day the irony and the stupidity came a little clearer into focus, a little brighter, a little more painful.
Lucas was frowning at her.
“You know Dr. Sharpshooter?” She took a swallow of champagne, hoping in vain to cool her hot tongue a little. She wished fervently for a cigarette.
“I’m his attorney.”
Oh, God, what have you stuck your foot in this time, Marilee?
All around her she could hear the noise of the party like the distant sound of bees swarming. The music boomed out of hidden speakers, all thumping and discordant static. The light from the pool flickered and rippled across Ben Lucas’s handsome features in bars of bright and dark like moonglow through a venetian blind. His mouth was moving. Mari could barely hear him above the pounding in her temples. Something about having a second home across the valley and belonging to the Montana bar.
“How convenient,” she said tightly. Lucy had worked for Lucas. Lucas had been her lover at one time. Lucas worked for Sheffield. All of them knew Bryce, the puppet master. Wasn’t that nice and cozy? All the bits and fragments of information swirled around inside her head like colored glass in a kaleidoscope. “You must be proud of yourself, pleading the value of a human life down to a misdemeanor and pocket change.”
His dark eyes took on a flat quality. Like a shark’s, she thought. How apropos. “It was an accident, Ms. Jennings.”
“Yeah, I know the drill,” she said bitterly. “No malice, no premeditation. If he wasn’t innocent, he should have been.”
She glared up at him, hating him, hating his kind. He was the breed of lawyer who made a mockery of the system. He played the courts like an elaborate game of Let’s Make a Deal. The only thing that mattered was his record of acquittals. Not the law. Not justice. Not innocence or guilt.
“Pardon me, but I’ve had it up to here with lawyers,” she said, slashing a hand across her throat.
She flung her glass into the pool and strode for the house, ignoring the curious looks that turned her way.
A pair of French doors stood open, leading into a huge room in the center section of the house. Mari waded across a sea of champagne-colored carpet, taking in only peripherally the white leather sofas and earth-tone pillows, the Georgia O’Keeffe prints on the walls, the Native American artifacts displayed in tall lighted glass cases.
Stepping up into a foyer area of glazed Mexican tile, she took a left and headed down a wide hall, looking for a bathroom. She needed a few minutes alone and she had the most overwhelming need to wash after her conversation with Lucas. Beneath the male-model looks, inside the $1,500 suit and the Cole-Haan loafers, he was an eel, a slimy, ugly, beady-eyed eel. He was the kind of man who billed his clients $300 an hour for thirty-hour days and refused to pay his court reporter until the final gavel had fallen on a litigation that had taken eighteen months to complete.
A door swung open in front of her, nearly smacking her in the face, and Uma Kimball staggered out, giggling and glassy-eyed, a demented pixie in sackcloth. Her skin had a translucent quality, as if it were stretched very thin and very tight over her small, fine bones. Her red hair was short and ragged, looking as if rodents had chewed it off while she slept. She wiped her collagen-plumped mouth on the back of her hand, smearing her lipstick.
“Hi!” she gushed, as excited as a cheerleader at a pep fest. “Hey, great party, huh? Have you met Fabian yet? God, he’s got like the biggest tits I’ve ever seen and they’re really his! Isn’t that wild!”
“Is this the bathroom?”
Uma giggled, setting the cascades of diamonds swinging on her earlobes. “It better be. I just hurled about a pound of hors d’oeuvres. Eat till you puke-that’s my motto.” She nearly fell over laughing, grabbing on to Mari’s shoulder to keep herself upright. Her breath reeked of Binaca.
“Oh, yeah, that’s catchy,” Mari said, her sarcasm lost on the actress, who had suddenly become fixated on Mari’s hair.
“This is so radical!” She reached up to rub a strand between her fingers. “Where did you get this color? José?”
“DNA.”
“Where’s that?”
“In my genes. It’s the real thing. I was born with it.”
Uma looked confused for a few seconds, then amused again. “People still do that?”
“Call me old-fashioned,” Mari said on a sigh. Her temples were throbbing like a pair of hammer-struck thumbs. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”
“God, no.” Uma’s overinflated lips bent into a huge sad-clown frown. “Smoking’s like bad for you. But ask Brycie if you really need one. Brycie can get you anything you want.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet he can.”
“No shit. Like he’s got the best blow I’ve ever had. Want some?”
Mari started to tell her newfound friend she preferred to stay on planet earth, but she bit her tongue at the last second. She wanted to know more about Bryce. She wanted to know more about the crowd Lucy had run with before she died. Somewhere along the line, the answers were going to start making some kind of sense instead of leading her deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole.
“Come on!” Uma grabbed her arm and led her down the hall, her pale, thin face polished by excitement and the burnoff of cocaine. They turned a corner and came to a set of tall carved double doors. She gave Mari a look brimming with conspiracy. “You have to know the secret knock.”
She pounded out a beat that sounded vaguely like “The Rain in Spain,” and fell against the door in a fit of giggles. Mari watched her, thinking that if Uma got any more wired than she already was, something was going to short-circuit. She didn’t wait for anyone to answer her secret code, but turned the knob and stumbled into the room with the swing of the door.
“Trick or treat! Got any nose candy?”
Uma righted herself and made a beeline for a huge billiard table with carved mahogany legs. The only light in the room came from the hanging brass fixture above the table. The light shone down in three perfect cones on a long mirror that had been situated on top of the slate, illuminating a dozen neat white lines of cocaine just waiting for some itchy noses.
Mari came to a dead halt three feet into the room as she recognized the man bent over the table with a rolled hundred-dollar bill poised under one nostril. Her heart slammed into her breastbone and bounced back and forth between her ribs.
MacDonald Townsend. U.S. District Court judge Mac-Donald Townsend.
He glanced up and their gazes collided with all the force of a pair of trains.
“I just came looking for cigarettes,” Mari mumbled, turning away from the puddle of light around the table. Someone handed her a pack of French Gauloises. Instead of shaking one out, she took the whole thing, stumbled over a thanks, and ducked out the door into the dimly lit hallway.
MacDonald Townsend was one of the most highly respected men on the bench in northern California. Rumors already had him placed on a seat in superior court. He had the governor’s ear, a wealthy wife, and, apparently, an appetite for Colombian snow.
And for one long, hot summer, MacDonald Townsend had been Lucy’s lover.
The questions loomed larger, boomed louder with every beat of her pulse in her temples. She hurried down a maze of halls, finding an exterior door just when she was sure she was hopelessly lost. Desperate for fresh air, she let herself out and stood a moment to get her bearings. She was downhill from the parking area, nearer to the stables than the cars. Still trembling a little, her heart still pounding, she walked down a paved, landscaped path toward the dark barnyard. The smell of horse manure and pine trees seemed a big improvement over the stench of greed and power that hovered like smog around Bryce’s crowd.
She wandered down along the end of the long building where a big sliding door had been left rolled back. She leaned a shoulder against it and stared in at the row of box stalls. Music from the party drifted down the hill, diluted enough to be pleasant. More comforting were the sounds of the horses eating and stamping flies, but not even that could loosen the tension in her nerves.
Christ, what a party. Lawyers trolling like sharks in a swimming pool. A pillar of the bench snorting coke. She felt like Alice down the rabbit hole on LSD. The sinister quality of it all crept over her flesh like a thousand worms. It grew and pressed in on her until it felt as if it had taken a solid form and stood staring out at her from the shadows of the stable.
Mari straightened away from the building, unable and unwilling to stop herself from overreacting. All she wanted was away from this place. Wonderland had offered her all the revelations she could stand for one night.
She hurried up the path for the parking area, headed for her Honda, never thinking the feel of eyes on her back was real.
Judge Townsend paced the elegant confines of Bryce’s private lair. He was fifty-two and favored Charlton Heston. Many said he was a man with a brilliant future ahead of him. At the moment, that future was going up in flames in his imagination. His nerves were strung tighter than piano wire.
“Dammit, Bryce, how could you invite her here? She could be another Lucy-or worse.” He stopped his pacing at the window that overlooked the valley and stared out into the darkness for a moment. His thin mouth quivered. He brought a hand up and pressed it against his forehead as if he were feeling for a fever. “Jesus, I don’t believe this is happening to me.”
Bryce watched him from a casual perch on the edge of his desk. He held his expression calm and vaguely amused, but inwardly he sneered at Townsend. Spineless. The man didn’t have the nerve to play in the big leagues. He was weak-weak of mind, weak of spirit. He constantly succumbed to temptation-women, cocaine, money. He succumbed, he did not indulge. The difference was huge. Bryce might have admired Townsend if he had plunged himself into his vices with joy and verve. But MacDonald Townsend was like a tight-rope walker afraid of heights. Every time he slipped from his lofty position, he screamed and sweated and soiled himself. Bryce despised him and enjoyed pushing him, shaking the wire, luring him over the edge.
“We don’t know what Lucy might have told her,” Townsend said. “We don’t know what evidence she might have left.”
“We searched the house,” Bryce said calmly. “There was no videotape. Lucy was playing games with you, taking your money and laughing at you behind your back.”
“That bitch.” His whole body was trembling now. He squeezed his hands into fists at his sides. “I never should have touched her.”
“No,” Bryce commented mildly. He slid off the desk and sauntered to the window with his hands steepled before him like a priest. Ignoring the view, he turned toward Townsend, his pale eyes glowing with contempt. “No, my friend, you should never have touched Lucy. You didn’t have the nerve to play her kind of games. You are, however, very fortunate to have me to look out for your well-being.”
“You’ll take care of the Jennings woman?”
“I’m keeping an eye on her. I’ll take care of everything. I always do.”
Bryce started for the door, eager to rejoin the party. Townsend was tedious. He wanted to turn his attention over to Samantha. Her innocence was genuine, her beauty fresh. He wanted to stand beside her and watch the wonder in her eyes as she took in the experience of meeting famous people and living the good life for the first time.
The judge’s voice bit into him as he reached the door.
“Bryce, do you know who killed Lucy?”
Bryce gave him a hooded look. “Of course. Sheffield. It was an accident… Wasn’t it?”
Mari sat on the deck, curled up in an Adirondack chair, covered with the serape from the sofa. Staring down at the moon-silvered creek, she let her mind tumble and race. She smoked the expensive French cigarettes one after another, not tasting them, just grateful for the nicotine. She would quit-just not tonight. She would have that fresh start-if her old life would ever give up and let go.
God, Townsend snorting coke, Lucas representing the man who shot Lucy. All of them slithering around in Bryce’s den of vipers. Watch yourself with Bryce, luv… Lucy enjoyed playing with snakes, but then, she had fangs of her own…
Snakes in the Garden of Eden. The image sent shivers crawling down her spine.
“What the hell were you into, Lucy?” she whispered, staring through tears at the Mr. Peanut tin she had brought out and set on the table.
In one hand she clutched the letter her friend had left behind. She didn’t try to read it. She only held it, as if it were a talisman, as if merely touching it might give her the power to see into its author’s past. But all that came was a sense of dread and a sense of confusion, and she didn’t know if she wanted to try to reach past either of them.
What she wanted was someone to confide in, a shoulder to lean on. She felt so alone. She had cut herself free of her family, free of everyone she had known. Somehow it only made her feel worse to think that no one from that life would have understood or helped her anyway. She could hear her mother’s voice ringing with disapproval. Well, Marilee, what do you expect? The people you run with. Honestly, it isn’t any wonder one of them was shot dead. If you’d listened to your father and me and gone to law school… if you’d married that nice Enright boy… if you were more like your sisters…
In the private theater of her mind she could see Lisbeth and Annaliese sitting primly, their legs crossed, arms folded, smug spite shining in their eyes. It was a cinch no one Lisbeth or Annaliese knew had ever been shot or had an affair with a married district court judge or screwed a top trial attorney on his desk while his client waited in the anteroom. They wouldn’t understand or offer support. She thought of Brad and knew his biggest concern would have been the possibility of her getting him an introduction to Ben Lucas.
She thought of the people she knew here. Drew would listen to her, but what would she say? All she had were fragments and hunches and bad feelings. Then there was the ugly possibility that he would tell her something she didn’t want to hear. What she wanted most was a pair of arms around her, reassurance, and the awareness of strength. Someone well-grounded in sanity. Someone there to catch her. Someone to hang on to.
J. D. Rafferty came to mind. She didn’t want him to, but he came anyway, which was just like him. What a joke that she would want to turn to him, she thought, trying in vain to muster up a sense of humor. He didn’t even want her in the state.
He wanted her only in his bed.
J.D. stood at the rail of the corral and watched the horses by moonlight. They ignored him now that his supply of butter mints had run out. The little palomino mare turned and looked at him every once in a while, curious about him, but the others all stood with their hind legs cocked and their ears back, dozing. For the horses that had worked, the day had been long and hard. They weren’t interested in losing any sleep over J.D.’s presence.
J.D. knew how they felt. Physically, he was beat, his body aching, muscles protesting even necessary movement. Mentally, he felt as though someone had taken a lead pipe after his brain. Spiritually, he had a big old stone tied around his neck, and he was going under in deep, deep water.
The sight of Will’s wife with Bryce’s crowd had scared the hell out of him. He had been able to fool himself up to then, believing he could thumb his nose at Evan Bryce, play his game, and beat him. But Bryce had just been toying with him, amusing himself. Now he was upping the ante and J.D. was playing with a busted hand.
If Samantha divorced Will-and God knew she had grounds for it-she could drag him to court and sue him for his part of the Stars and Bars. If she won, Bryce would be standing right there beside her, ready to stick his foot in the door. And once Bryce got a toehold, that would be the end. Four generations of Rafferty stewardship would be over, and J.D. would be the one who let it happen. The burden of guilt, the shame, would be his to bear. Beyond that, if he didn’t have the Stars and Bars, he had nothing at all.
He looked out over the horses to the hills and trees beyond, and felt as bleak as a sun-parched bone.
He would have nothing.
He had no one.
He thought of Mary Lee and couldn’t quite steel his heart against the insidious desire to pull her close and just hold her.
Fool.
“You were mighty hard on the boy today.”
J.D. glanced over as Tucker hobbled up to the fence and hooked a boot over the bottom rail. The old man met his glare, unblinking, then turned and spat a stream of Red Man into the dirt.
“He’s not a boy. He’s a man,” J.D. said. “It’s time he acted like one.”
“He’s going through hard times, J.D.”
“Aren’t we all? It’s a hard life.”
“You don’t make it any easier-on yourself or anyone else.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Tuck,” J.D. said wearily. Hanging his head, he looked down at the hands he dangled between the bars of the fence. Workingman’s hands, thick, tough, callused. “I’m hanging on by the skin of my fingertips. Like those idiot rock climbers who come out here on the weekends.”
Tucker was silent, working his chaw, thinking. The pharmacist’s palomino mare wandered over and sniffed at him, rubbing her nose against his beard stubble. He pushed her away with a gentle hand. “You’re not the only one hanging on, son. We’re right there with you-me, Chaske, Will.”
“What if he just lets go, Tuck?” J.D. said, for the first time giving voice to a fear that went deep and well beyond thoughts of the Stars and Bars. The thread that bound them as brothers had always been strained as their parents had pulled them in opposite directions. What if it broke? What would he feel? Relief?
“He won’t,” Tucker said with more conviction than he felt. He stepped back from the fence, spat, and wiped his chin on the sleeve of his shirt. “He won’t. He’s a Rafferty.
“You oughta get some sleep, son,” he ordered.
He moved off toward the house, his gait the pained shuffle of an old cowboy. J.D. stayed at the fence, knowing he would feel more peace with the horses than he would in his bed. In his bed his thoughts would drift toward Mary Lee and dangerous longings for things he could never have.
He turned toward Bryce’s place, imagining that he could catch snatches of music on the wind. She was there tonight, drinking Bryce’s champagne and laughing at his jokes. She was one of them, which quite simply meant she could never be anything more to him than temptation.
Too bad. On nights like this one it would have been nice to have someone to rub his shoulders and share his concerns, warm his bed and ease his needs. And the taste of Mary Lee Jennings lingered in his mouth, and the feel of her lingered against him. On nights like this one, when dawn seemed a long way off, temptation was damn hard to resist.
Will sat on the back steps of the little house he had once shared with his wife. Ex-wife. Ex-wife. The word still pulsed in his brain. The moon was up, shining down on the fenced backyard. Rascal had been busy excavating. The place looked like the site of a treasure hunt. The pup lay on the steps beside him with his big head on his big clumsy paws, twitching as he dreamed puppy dreams.
The house behind them was dark and empty. Sam had abandoned it. Will wondered if she would ever come back once she’d gotten a taste of life on Mount Olympus.
“What’s she got to come back to, Willie-boy?” he asked, Jack Daniel’s turning his speech to a molasses drawl. The bottle stood between his booted feet, empty. He wasn’t drunk. He couldn’t seem to get drunk tonight. The liquor couldn’t penetrate the fear, it only slowed down time, an ugly trick. He didn’t want more time to think. His thoughts ran around and around, like a pup chasing its tail.
He didn’t want a wife. Marriage was a prison sentence. He’d seen that growing up. His father had sentenced his mother to a life she’d grown tired of, then held on to her anyway. Marriage was stupid. He’d thought so all along. People should be free to move in and out of relationships as the tides of attraction dictated. No ties, no guilt, no hard feelings.
So why did you marry Sam in the first place, Willie-boy?
And why did that word stab at his chest like a dagger? Ex-wife. Ex-wife. Ex-wife.
And why did he sit there feeling so damn scared and so damn lonely when the moon was bright and the night was fragrant with the perfume of other women?
Because you love her, stupid.
“You screwed up again, Willie-boy,” he whispered as two tears swam over his lashes and streaked down his face.