would swear that she’d found her as a baby, in a creek near her house that emptied into the ocean. The infant had been swaddled in blankets and floating downstream in a willow basket, like Moses in the Bible.
Even Butch’s friends had been interviewed for the article, and every one of them believed Marnie had killed him because he’d made fun of her disfigurements. Her face was off-kilter. Her eyes didn’t line up right, and her smile twisted into a grimace, on those occasions when she did smile. She also had a ruby birthmark that emerged from the nape of her neck and crept around her throat like fingers, as though trying to strangle her.
Marnie’s macabre looks had made her a target since earliest childhood, and when the town’s fear and loathing became unbearable, she’d taken to hiding. But Butch and his ilk had hunted her down for sport. He’d teased her so mercilessly many people believed she had reason to kill him, except that Butch was the most feared linebacker on the high school team. It took a pile-on to hold him down, and Marnie was no bigger than a mosquito.
She’d had a body, though. The article had quoted locals who’d sworn she’d had the breasts of a Botticelli Venus, lithe limbs and a firm bottom. Alison remembered the references word for word. The boys from town all knew about Marnie’s figure because she’d loved to soak in the tidal ponds on her gramma’s property—and she hadn’t worn much beyond what God gave her.
That’s what had started the other rumor—that Butch had seen her bathing and tried to force himself on her, and Marnie had stopped him with the pitchfork. Brutally, viciously stopped him.
And now, for some unknown reason, Tony Bogart thought Alison had something to do with that monstrous crime?
She angled a glare at him. “What is this lead you have? If you’re going to accuse me of something, you’d better be able to back it up.”
“I haven’t accused you of anything. I asked you a question that you haven’t answered. Where were you when my brother died?”
A door hinge creaked and Tony stopped talking. He looked beyond Alison, searching the foyer, where the sound had come from.
“Villard, is that you?” he said. “Come and join us. I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on your marriage to our fair Alison.”
Andrew stepped out of the shadows. As he came over to the door, Alison watched the malevolence seep into Tony’s expression. He truly hated Andrew—and probably her, as well.
Andrew’s voice was cold. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“You should know,” Tony said. “You were listening to every word.”
Andrew strode over to the other man as if he were going to get physical. Alison almost wished he would. Someone needed to back Tony off. Andrew wasn’t trained in deadly force, as Tony must have been, but he was several inches taller.
“My wife is off-limits,” Andrew told him. “I don’t care what agency you’re with, if you have something to say to Alison, you go through me first.”
Nothing moved except Tony’s trigger finger. It twitched, as if he was firing a gun. His smile was as cold as his eyes.
“How did you get through the gate?” Andrew asked.
“Someone was kind enough to leave it open.”
“Then you won’t have any trouble getting out.”
“None whatsoever.” Still smiling, Tony excused himself with a tip of his head. As he strolled down the marble expanse of the grand portico, he called over his shoulder, “I hope this wasn’t inconvenient for either of you. Have a nice day.”
Andrew shut the door, and Alison sank onto the nearest settee. Her legs felt weak, but she shook her head, refusing his hand when he offered it.
“We should go down to breakfast before the rest of them come looking for us,” he said.
Alison couldn’t even think about food. The image of Butch’s mangled body kept coming back to her.
“There you are!” Julia came into the foyer, looking fresh and immaculate in a white crocheted slacks and top. “If you want something to eat, you’d better hurry. Bret has almost finished off the almond biscotti.”
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
