“The almost late Mrs. Winfield was on time for her flight today,” one tabloid report quipped darkly.
The story went on to say no one was sure where she’d gone in the jet, which had made several stops before returning to California without her on board. Some speculated she was in Michigan, in the affluent Detroit suburb listed in her official biography as home.
But Seth thought differently. Through his meticulous research he’d discovered that Audra actually hailed from a small island community off the northern Michigan mainland. He’d bet his Nikon and every last lens he owned that she was going home. After all, wasn’t that where people always went when they needed to lick their wounds?
In the pictures she wore dark glasses, a scarf and the same sexy outfit she’d had on the night before. But she didn’t wave to the cameras, flash that wide smile of hers or even acknowledge the flock of photographers. That certainly was out of character, but then it was harder to flirt while riding in a wheelchair. Besides, a near-death experience tended to have a chilling effect on most folks. Apparently Audra was no exception.
“Attack subdues Hollywood’s flamboyant party girl,” a photo caption read.
Not for long, Seth thought. People like Audra didn’t change. Why would they? No one expected them to. No one demanded it. As Seth knew most painfully, the rules the rest of the world observed didn’t apply to celebrities, even someone like Audra, who was famous for being infamous. They did as they pleased, often without paying any meaningful price.
Audra certainly hadn’t paid. The old anger and bitterness resurfaced, shredding the veil of compassion he’d felt for Audra the evening before. While Seth had been busy burying his stepfather and half sister, and sitting vigil by his mother’s bedside, Audra’s high-priced lawyer had seen to it that she hadn’t been charged in the accident, even though her actor boyfriend, Trent Kane, had been at a party at her house and had left drunk and high behind the wheel of her car.
She’d worn black to Kane’s funeral, Seth recalled from the tabloid photographs, and then a year later she’d marched down the aisle for the third time as Henry’s bride, expanding her wealth by a cool couple billion dollars when he’d kicked the bucket before the couple had celebrated a single wedding anniversary.
“You’re going to pay, sweetheart,” Seth murmured to one of the grainy black-and-white photographs, relieved he was over whatever weakness he had succumbed to while she’d lain unconscious in his arms the evening before.
After he’d handed her over to the emergency medical technicians, Seth had spent half the night giving his statement to the police. Then, he’d wound up missing Audra’s exit from the hospital because he’d spent half the morning having his busted-up camera repaired.
“Too bad you didn’t get that shot of her being choked,” the repairman, who knew him only as Smithfield, had said. “I bet the tabloids would have paid out big for it. You could have retired.”
Seth had merely smiled. He was not ready to hang up his camera just yet, and money wasn’t the issue. He had plenty of it, thanks to various insurance settlements from his family.
Taking another gulp of his beer, he glanced at the photograph of his family that hung on the wall. He’d taken that picture two years ago, just hours before the fatal accident. Later, he’d had it enlarged, professionally matted and framed. In it, his sister and mother wore smiles, although the smiles didn’t reach their eyes. His stepfather stared back, no hint of a grin in his tightly compressed lips.
The old argument echoed in his Seth’s head for a moment. The raised voices taunted him because one of them was his own. The familiar pain lanced through him as it always did, leaving that hopeless ache in its wake. Three hours after he’d snapped that shot, his stepfather and half sister were dead, and a serious and eventually fatal injury had left his mother comatose.
He’d never said goodbye to any of them.
I never got to tell them all how sorry I was.
The guilt jabbed again, but Seth ignored it.
He had a job to do, a crusade to finish. Booting up his computer, he connected to the Internet. Fifteen minutes and a few clicks of the mouse later, he was booked on a nonstop flight to Detroit Metropolitan Airport that would leave Los Angeles in less than eight hours.
CHAPTER THREE
IT LOOKED the same.
Audra stood at the ferry’s rail and watched the island grow larger in the bright morning light. There were more houses north of the boat dock than she recalled. Big houses with huge windows to take advantage of the incredible view of the lake. But so much of it was still the same, as if the island were some sort of Brigadoon, untouched by time.
She’d been in Michigan for four days and it had taken her that long to screw up her courage. The trip over from Petoskey only took about half an hour, and all the while she kept wondering what she would say to her sister when they finally stood face-to-face.
Sorry for disappointing you.
Sorry for hurting you.
Sorry for running off…with your boyfriend.
It hadn’t been as sordid as all that, of course, not that Ali would believe her. Or that Audra had ever tried to convince her otherwise.
Audra had merely accepted a ride from Luke Banning. He’d been leaving the island, too, heading for the ferry at the same time. She’d hopped on the back of his Harley and neither of them had looked back. They’d parted ways on the mainland. He’d headed east to New York, driven as always to prove his worth. Audra had gone west to Hollywood, seeking fame. She wasn’t quite sure when she’d decided to settle for infamy.
She felt the ferry’s great engine reverse, slowing the big boat’s forward motion so that it bumped gently against the dock before stopping. The steel gangplank lowered with a mechanical hum and the cars began to drive off. Audra followed them on foot. She’d left her rental back on the mainland to slow her escape just in case she gave in to her nerves and tried to retreat.
Scanning the crowd, she sucked in a breath and bit her lower lip. So many faces. A lot of them were familiar despite the passage of ten years. Some of the people recognized her as well. She could tell by the way their gazes swiveled back to before their expressions twisted in censure. Otherwise they didn’t acknowledge her. No surprise there. None of the islanders had ever gone public about her ties to Trillium, apparently too disgusted by her to admit she’d been born and raised here.
Still glancing about hopefully, she walked past the queue of cars waiting to board the ferry for its return trip to the mainland. In her heart, though, she knew Ali hadn’t come to meet her. Audra had called ahead last night and left voice mail messages for her sister both at home and at the resort where she worked. Ali knew Audra was here.
Oh, well. She hadn’t expected this to be easy.
The walk to the resort wasn’t that long, but it was mostly uphill. Despite the fact that she smoked—or had until a week ago—Audra prided herself on being in shape. She routinely did five miles on her treadmill and twenty minutes on her StairMaster. Two miles, even uphill, wouldn’t be a big deal, she decided. Half a mile later, she revised her opinion.
And cursed her designer heels.
The temperature hovered in the low-sixties, but it felt cooler thanks to the lake. Even so, Audra shucked off the pricey black leather boots, casting a rueful glance at their lethal four-inch heels. In her stocking feet, she set out again, careful to dodge the rocks that dotted the surface of the asphalt.
Seth saw the gorgeous blonde limping along the side of the road as he rounded the curve. He was already pulling the feisty little Pontiac he’d rented to the shoulder when he realized who she was. Audra Conlan Howard Stover Winfield, in the flesh. He could hardly believe his luck.
He had scoured the island looking