A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) (43 page)

Kyle rinsed her hair and let her thoughts drift back to the previous night's breakup with the developer of Esperanza Shores. Neither one of them had seemed truly surprised, nor were they overly
regretful. Their affair had run its course, the passion and intensity
waning over the weeks as both realized there was nothing more to
be gained than an hour of illicit pleasure once or twice a week. Even
if he had been single, Kyle was not interested in marrying Foster
McFarlin. After being wined, dined, and eventually seduced by the
man, Kyle had nothing more to gain by continuing the liaison, and
had gently initiated the discussion following a hop to Miami for
dinner in Foster's private jet.

McFarlin had taken the news well. He seemed to share Kyle's
feelings that it was time to end the relationship. He had achieved his
conquest of the desirable and driven Kyle Cameron, and with that mission accomplished, had acted only too happy to part romantic
ways. He agreed we'd keep our professional relationship cordial, and
today will be the test.

Months before, she'd secured his business, chiefly several extremely lucrative real estate projects for which she, Kyle Cameron,
was the exclusive agent. Those are what I need to safeguard at all
costs.

Half an hour later, Kyle had put all thoughts of Foster McFarlin
out of her mind and was dressed and ready to leave. Her makeup
was expertly applied, the navy blue suit clung perfectly in all the
right places, and her new purse was ready for its evening tour of
duty. She glanced critically at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her chin-length bob looked chic and smooth. But something
was needed to offset the pearls ...

Her jewelry box yielded nothing satisfactory and Kyle was about
to give up when she noticed a small box tucked behind some beads.
With a stab of recognition, she opened the velvet lid and removed
the ring inside. It was an unusual little piece: antique rose gold
with four sapphires set two on either side of an old European-cut
diamond. The design was unique. Rather than a circular setting, the
sapphires formed a long oval that accentuated Kyle's tapered fingers. It was striking-old-fashioned, yet strangely modern too-and
never failed to elicit compliments.

Kyle slipped the ring on her little finger and thought once more
of Grandma Anna. This had been her treasured cocktail ring, one
of her favorite pieces of jewelery. She sighed and closed the box.
Moments later she gathered up her PDA, clutch, and briefcase, and
strode out the door.

Her blue Miata waited outside the condo, and Kyle noted with
annoyance that it needed a wash. No time for that now, she thought
as she revved the engine and sped down the streets of the develop ment. She glanced at the neighboring properties with the practiced
eye of a real estate agent. Green, well-kept lawns, pedestrian-friendly
sidewalks, pleasantly curved landscaping, and ample street lighting-it all added up to a feeling of well-being and security. Somerset Sound, one of Foster McFarlin's earliest projects, was aging well.

Passing by the Somerset Sound gatehouse, Kyle waved to the
uniformed man on duty, who gave a friendly smile and waved back.
She sped out onto the two-lane highway, cruising past a few small
shopping centers, relieved to see that the late morning traffic was
light. Driving through several small beach towns, she went over
a causeway and onto Serenidad Key, passing a few offices and the
town's post office. She smiled as she drove by the office of Near &
Farr Realty. Her appointment with the firm's owner was later in the
day; "cocktail hour" as Helen Near called it, and Kyle knew there
would be some sort of frothy-and alcoholic-beverage waiting
when she arrived.

Esperanza Shores was at the end of the key, tucked onto a gently
curving swath of waterfront land McFarlin had purchased twenty
years ago. Construction was nearly complete, but the project was
not the blazing success its creators had hoped. Out of forty-eight
condominium units, only a dozen were sold and occupied. Esperanza Plaza, in the center of the development, boasted several boutiques and a four-star restaurant-none of which were finished,
much less open for business. Kyle tried not to think of the many
lawsuits against McFarlin and whether she, also, would come under
investigation. What was the point? Better to focus on staying positive. "Don't let your mind dwell on bad thoughts," Grandma Anna
would have said. Kyle turned into the model unit and began unloading the Miata. Perhaps today's open house would mark the end
of Foster McFarlin's streak of bad luck.