She walked over to Alison and touched her cheek. “Are you all right, darling? Your face is red. Are you coming down with something?” As she talked, Julia glanced around the space. “Was someone just here? Bret thought he heard voices. This foyer is such an echo chamber.”
Alison pulled away from her mother’s touch. “It’s not a fever,” she said. “I have a skin condition, probably a reaction to all the surgery. I can get something for it at the drugstore.”
Julia seemed to approve of that idea. “Your little BMW convertible is still in the garage. It’s the only car Bret hasn’t wrecked,” she added dryly. “I’ll get the keys for you.”
Julia pressed the back of her hand against Alison’s forehead, apparently not convinced that she didn’t have a temperature. A moment later she was off in search of car keys.
Alison fanned herself with her hands to cool her skin—and looked up to find Andrew staring at her.
“What the hell was that about?” he asked, his voice harsh.
“You mean Julia?”
“No, Tony Bogart.”
She shook her head. She didn’t know. She truly didn’t know.
7
Tony gave the key of his rental Corvette a gentle turn, and soft jazz music oozed from the speakers. Eyes closed, he rested his head against the seat back. Jazz had always reminded him of women. It was sensual and complicated in a way no other music was. Good jazz relaxed him and cleared his head. Bad jazz taunted and irritated. It confused. But it all reminded him of women.
He’d locked in his favorite FM stations when he picked up the car so he could have what he wanted at the touch of a finger. He’d also programmed a shock jock and a bellicose political commentator for entertainment value. For the amount of time he spent in a car, he wanted some perks. Corvettes were pricey, but the agency wasn’t paying for this trip, he was—and he’d coveted a Vette since high school, like every other speed-crazed teenage male of his generation.
Tony was still parked across the street from the gates of the Fairmont compound, within easy eyeshot of the grand portico and the front door. He needed to think, and this was the perfect place to do it. If it made the rich folk nervous to have him parked outside their front door, too fucking bad.
Alison looked good in bright red blotches, anyway. A couple more wouldn’t hurt her. Abruptly, he switched the music off and rolled his head, stretching his neck. He wouldn’t have thought it possible that she could look more beautiful—or that she would ever have turned her perfect golden locks into something dark and wild. Jesus, what a vixen. Her eyes were big and soulful, her mouth a work of pure, unadulterated sensuality. They’d called her the ice princess when she was a teen. He wondered what they would call her now.
He still couldn’t think of her as Alison Villard. But at least he’d stopped seeing her face on the targets in the firing range. He was no longer obsessed with the trust-fund babe, his pet name for Alison in the old days, but the thought of her with Andrew still rankled. The smug bastard probably thought he’d just faced Tony Bogart down.
Make that stupid bastard, Tony amended. He’d been keeping tabs on Villard for a while now, which was how he’d learned about their trip to Mirage Bay. He’d called Villard’s assistant, pretending to be a rep with a Fortune 500 company that wanted to sponsor a charity concert. She’d volunteered that Andrew and his wife were taking a trip to southern California on personal business. The local newspaper item had confirmed their destination as Mirage Bay.
He glanced over at the house. He had a reasonable view of the grounds through the iron bars of the fence. Alison’s bedroom window was around the other side. He could remember climbing the trellis and scrambling inside to be greeted by her wearing nothing but a sexy smile. She was hot, and she knew it. What had pissed him off was the way she’d amused herself with him until someone better came along, and then dismissed him like he was a joke.
He’d known he was losing her when she started making excuses not to see him, and then when she turned eighteen she’d begun to travel on her own, making trips to the Fairmont’s apartment in New York. Tony had seen her hanging around with Villard in Mirage Bay, but she’d sworn he was just a sailing friend, and Tony had believed her. He’d figured the problem was that he, Tony, had nothing to offer. Desperate, he’d convinced her to meet him at a local restaurant, and he’d poured out his heart. He would go to college, make something of himself. He wanted to marry her.
She’d thought he was joking, and her laughter had cut him apart. Worse, there’d been no chance to explain himself. Villard had walked in and Alison had called the man’s name with an excitement she couldn’t conceal. Tony had seen it instantly. They were in love, or at least she was.
The bitch had cheated on him. She’d laughed at him for his feelings and his dreams. She was probably still laughing. He’d sworn to get her for that.
Was she sleeping in that bedroom with her husband? The man everyone thought had killed her? Tony was still suspicious about her miraculous return from the dead. Fucking convenient that was, especially for Villard. He might be on death row now if Alison hadn’t come floating to the surface.
Men like Villard lived a charmed life.
And so did she. Or had. Once upon a time.
All that was going to change.
Tony pulled his cell from the belt clip and dialed his voice mail. He’d already listened repeatedly to the anonymous snitch’s messages, but there was always the chance he’d hear something he hadn’t heard before. A clue to the snitch’s identity. A hint at the motive for the calls.
The first tip had come in as a voice mail message, which Tony had saved. After that, he’d inserted a modified subscriber identity module, otherwise known as a SIM chip, in the Global System for Mobile Communications slot on his cell. The spy-tech gadget, which he’d learned about during his FBI training, had allowed him to record conversations and permanently save each call. But right now he was only interested in the last message.
He touched a key to play it back.
“The police got everything wrong,” the whispering voice said. “Two people died on February second. Marnie Hazelton didn’t kill Butch. She was murdered, too, and then framed for killing him.”
The caller went silent, and Tony remembered thinking the call was over. But the real motive had been to create anticipation, he’d realized.
“Mirage Bay’s real monster is an old friend of yours,” the voice said. “Alison Fairmont Villard is the double murderer. She did them both.”
Tony clicked off the phone. He didn’t smile, but he wanted to. He had a very personal stake in this case, and he hadn’t told anyone yet, including local law enforcement. Considering how they’d handled the investigation so far, he didn’t trust them with information this vital. He had more work to do first. With the tipster’s help, he hoped to break this case before he told the cops anything.
Unfortunately, the tipster had never once mentioned motive. No one would be able to make a case against Alison without that, and Tony had no idea what her motive might be. No idea in hell. That’s why he was here.
He closed his eyes, imagining the face of the woman he’d just confronted. The accident hadn’t made her less beautiful, but it had changed her. He’d watched her throat blotch and her hands shake like anyone else’s. That could not have happened to the preaccident Alison. She’d been above it all, supernatural. Now she knew what it was like to be human, and breakable.
She hadn’t walked the same earth as everyone else. She’d floated on a cloud of perfection. Her whole family had. And if Tony couldn’t have been the one to bring her down, he was glad something had. Maybe there was some justice for those born less fortunate than Alison Fairmont, which was almost everybody.
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