If Looks Could Kill (4 page)

He lifted his beer glass to her. “Sing,” he mouthed.

Her fellow band members were staring at her, nimbly covering, playing the same beat and chords over and over. Madison seemed to give herself a mental shake, and her eyes left his.

She flashed the audience that pure-charm smile of hers and picked up again, singing her heart out.

Then the music ended, to a burst of applause, and Madison promising that the group would be back.

Kyle thought she might just ignore the fact that he was there. He was somewhat surprised that no one had told her he was coming.

Maybe everyone had just assumed that she'd
know
he was coming down to Miami to work. Hell, Jimmy should have told her. Her father should have told her. But maybe Jordan Adair had thought it wouldn't mean anything to her, one way or the other.

And maybe it didn't, though the look she'd given him suggested otherwise.

But she didn't ignore him. She threaded her way through the crowd, acknowledging those who stopped her to speak or compliment her and the band, until she reached his table. By that point he'd moved his legs from the chair where he'd been resting them, but he was still wearing his dark glasses and baseball cap, so she couldn't have seen much of his features in the darkening shadows of the coming night.

She stood in front of the table, looking down at him with her perfect features composed in a cold and aloof expression. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Hello, Madison. It's great to see you, too.”

“Right. What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, smiling. Lifted his hands. “Drinking beer. Listening to music.”

“What are you doing
here,
in Key West? In my father's place?”

“I'm in the Keys on business. I'm here because your father invited me.”

He heard a whistling sound as she sucked in her breath with involuntary surprise.

He used his foot to push out the chair opposite from him. “Have a seat, Madison.”

She sat. Not because she wanted to be with him, he thought, but because she was so shaken.

“Want a drink?” he asked.

She shook her head, blue eyes intently on him. “I'm still working. So…when did this all come about?”

He shrugged. “I was told last week I was coming down to give some assistance on a local investigation. Your father invited me here for the weekend.”

“You're staying at my father's house?”

He nodded, wondering why her blunt hostility was so disturbing to him. He ignored that question and instead said, “Your band is good.”

“Yeah,” she said, still just staring at him.

“I heard about your divorce. I'm sorry about that. I thought you kids were good together.”

“It's all been over quite a while now. You needn't be concerned.”

“Look, Madison, I'm really sorry if you have a problem with this. Your dad invited me down. I didn't know you'd be here, and it wouldn't have occurred to me that it would upset you even if I
had
known you were here.”

“I'm not upset,” she snapped quickly.

“Angry,” he said.

“Surprised, is all.”

“I can't imagine why your father didn't mention it to you.”

Her lashes lowered. Maybe
she
knew why, he thought. Maybe she and Jordan weren't getting along. They were both temperamental, and sometimes argued passionately, though they loved one another dearly.

“Have you talked to your dad this week?”

Madison didn't answer. The waitress was hovering near, watching her. “Did you want a soda, Madison? Some mineral water?”

Madison kept staring at Kyle. “No, I'll have a draft.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“A draft, please,” Madison repeated.

“But—” the waitress began. Madison looked at her, and the other woman shrugged and walked away.

Kyle grinned. “I was trying to buy you a drink. Let me put it on my tab.”

“This is my father's place. I don't need to put my drinks on your tab.”

Kyle straightened in his seat, then leaned forward. “Look, Madison, I'm at fault here. I was pretty rude the last time we met, but—”

“You weren't rude, you were hateful.”

He shook his head painfully. “Madison, my wife had just died.”

“And I was very sorry,” she said quietly. “And you treated me as if were the Wicked Witch of the West, straight out of Oz, as if I'd somehow caused it to happen.”

“Look—”

“No,
you
look, Kyle. I don't understand my sense of second sight. God knows, I don't want it. But I can't make things happen, and I'm not—” She broke off, a look of pain flashing across her beautiful features.

“You're not what?”

She shook her head.

The waitress returned, setting her beer in front of her. Madison thanked the woman as Kyle leaned forward.

“I'm not different from anyone else,” she said through gritted teeth. She picked up the beer and drank it down. She didn't chug, he noticed. Or, if she did, it didn't look like chugging. Madison was too elegant for that.

“Madison, I'm trying to say I'm sorry. We were family once, close family—”

Her mug landed back on the table. “You're not my family, Kyle. You were my stepbrother, but my mother died. You're not my family. We're not related—”

“We
were
family, a totally dysfunctional family. Remember? That's what you always called us. But you're right, I'm not your brother. Still, death doesn't change relationships, and I'd like to make peace—”

“You were the one firing off the ammo,” she reminded him politely.

“And I'm asking for your forgiveness.”

“What? Won't Dad let you use his boat if I don't think it's just great that you're back?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Madison, you're acting like a brat. First, my job pays decently—I could rent a boat if I needed one. Secondly, you're overestimating your power over your parent. He has his own mind.”

“Oh, really?” She started to sip her beer, then realized her glass was empty. She looked around, as if she wanted another. Quickly.

Kyle leaned closer, somewhat amused. “I don't think you should be drinking yourself silly—over me. Don't you have another set to do?”

“I'd never drink myself silly over you, Kyle Montgomery. I'm just so damned mad—”

“Ah! So you
are
hostile.”

“Hostile? That's an understatement.”

“I hurt you, Madison. And I'm sorry.”

“Since we're talking about overestimating things, I think you're overestimating
your
power, Kyle. You don't have the power to hurt me.”

He shrugged, looking around. He saw the waitress and motioned to her. “I'll take another beer, please—honey.”

He'd added the last on purpose. The waitress didn't notice, but Madison winced.

“Madison…?” the girl asked.

“Ms. Adair is still working,” Kyle said pleasantly.

“I'll have another draft, Katie, thanks,” Madison said.

Katie walked away to fill their order. He couldn't help smiling as he stared at Madison, except that, as he looked at her, he felt a sudden tremor streak through him, hot as fire, constricting something vital in him. She was angry, nasty, could be bitchy as hell.

God, he wanted her.

He exhaled a long breath, staring at her, glad of his roomy denim cutoffs and the table hiding his arousal from her.

She'd been cute and clever at thirteen. Beautiful in college. He'd felt affection for her when she was a kid, pride when she was older, and, always, a strange pull. Now she was pure, sensual elegance. It was startling to realize the strength of what he was feeling for her at that moment.

She'd been his stepsister, for God's sake, he reminded himself. But they weren't biologically related, for which he was grateful, considering the purely physical reaction she was causing in him now.

Except that he cared about her, too. Even though part of him wanted to be a million miles away from her. Even if he was…

Unnerved.

That was it. Completely unnerved by her.

He cleared his throat. “Did you drive here, Madison?” he asked her.

“Yes, why?”

“Because you shouldn't drive home. I'll wait for you.”

The beers were set before them. Madison stared at him, her eyes hard. “You're not my big brother. You don't need to wait for me.”

“You're drinking too much.”

“Oh,
I'm
drinking too much. So I should ride home with a beach bum who's been sitting here drinking for hours?”

Kyle grinned slowly. “I'll go to coffee next.”

“Don't bother on my account.”

“Are you staying at your dad's place?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then I'll wait.”

“Maybe I have a date.”

He looked past her, studying the band members, who were again readying their equipment.

Kyle lifted his beer. “Are you sleeping with one of them? Joey King, maybe? He looks like your type.”

“He's married, with kids.”

“Glad to hear that would stop you.”

“Damn you, Kyle—”

“Sorry, sorry, I just haven't seen you in a long time.”

“Who I sleep with is none of your business.”

“Maybe it's the natural concern of an older brother.”

“I thought we'd established that you're not my brother.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way. Old habits die hard. I'm just trying to ascertain who you'll be seeing after your gig.”

“Maybe I sleep with the whole band. At the same time.”

He smiled, lowering his head slightly. “Madison, you have the tolerance level of a baby when it comes to alcohol.”

“Really? You haven't seen me in more than six years! You think I'm drunk already? You think you know my tolerance levels? Then maybe you don't want to stick around. I'm Lainie Adair's child, remember? If I'm so loaded, you should watch out. I might resort to some kind of wild strip show up there.”

He grinned, tugging on the brim of his baseball cap. “Well, cool. You did just remind me that there's no blood relation between us. Our kids wouldn't have two heads, or anything like that. I'll be watching and waiting.”

“Our kids? Oh, Kyle, never, not even if the survival of the species depended on it.”

“I think they're waiting for you, Madison.”

She stood up with sudden anger, then bent down, whispering vehemently, “Don't wait for me.”

“I'm not having any traffic fatalities on my conscience. I'll be here when you're done.”

“Kyle—”

“I'll be waiting, Madison.”

She straightened. Turned. Wavered.

She really didn't have any tolerance for alcohol. None whatsoever.

She banged into a table on her way back to the stage.

But she sang just fine. Her voice was great. She moved sensually to the music.

And when she finished, he was waiting.

M
adison could have kicked herself. She prided herself on looking at life with level, matter-of-fact vision, and here she was, behaving like a two-year-old.

Because Kyle Montgomery had suddenly stepped back into her life.

To make it worse, she reflected, he was behaving well. Apologizing. Putting the past in the past, trying to establish a friendship.

She could be mature, too. She
could.
He had just taken her by surprise, that was all. And, of course, he did know her. She had no tolerance for alcohol whatsoever—which seemed absurd, considering what her father could put away without the slightest slur in his voice. But that didn't matter; she had a handle on that now. During the second break, she had laced herself with strong black coffee. By the time the group finished for the night, she was clearheaded. Tired, but clearheaded. So much so that she was able to insist with quiet, mature dignity that she could drive her own car home.

Still, when she drove through the gates to her father's Key West “bungalow,” Kyle was right behind her. It would have appeared rude to rush in ahead of him and slam the front door in his face, so she stepped from the driver's seat of her Cherokee, closed the car door and waited. She wasn't going to appear rude. And she wasn't going to fight with him like a child. She wasn't going to embrace him with enthusiasm, however; she was going to be cool, aloof and unerringly polite. Courteous. Naturally, he was welcome in her father's house. At one time, as he had said, they had been a family, however dysfunctional.

“So, how is being back home in the land of sun and fun?” she inquired as he stepped from his rented Honda and started along the path toward her. He looked good. As if he spent lots of hours in the gym. There were the larger touches of silver in his dark hair than the last time she'd seen him, as if life had beaten him up a bit. It had; she knew that. His face was more striking now, with a few sun lines working their way around his mouth and eyes. He was tanned. He might use good sense and sunblock now and then, she thought, but vanity would never keep him from the outdoors, which he loved. It was, in fact, strange to think of him spending so much time in the Washington area without coming home. She knew that his house was actually in northern Virginia, near Quantico and the office where he worked most frequently, with a lot of beautiful scenery nearby, as well as museums, theaters and sporting events. But he loved the sun and the things to be done in the sun, swimming, boating, diving, fishing. Maybe staying away had been some self-imposed punishment after Fallon died.

Nearing her, he arched a dark brow, apparently surprised by—and perhaps wary of—her conversational tone of voice.

“It's good to come home,” he said, staring up at the “bungalow.” Jordan Adair's “Key West shack”—as he referred to it on talk shows—had eight bedrooms and baths, and sat on a patch of man-enhanced private beach. “Not that I would presume to call your father's house
my
home,” he said, a small smile curling his lips.

Madison shrugged. “Well, we were definitely the strangest family in the world. My father and your father used to play at being rivals, now they're each other's best friends.” She hesitated, determined to keep a grudging tone from her voice. “I'm sure my father considers this place home for you.”

“That was quite magnanimous of you.”

She shrugged. “Well, I'm exhausted. And five-year-olds wake up early.”

“Your daughter is here?”

“You didn't know that?”

He shook his head. “I drove in, dumped my gear in an empty guest room, saw your father briefly—he had one of his Enter at Your Own Risk, Madman Working signs on his door. He said I should go on over and have a few beers, he'd probably show up.”

“He didn't mention that the group would be there tonight?”

“No.”

“Sounds like Dad—he also didn't think to mention to me that you were coming in.”

Madison turned, walking along the gravel drive that led to the tile path to the house. A few steps brought her to the rustic front door—the place was a mansion with every conceivable luxury on the inside, but the weathered wood exterior made it look like something of a crab house. Kyle followed her inside.

The foyer led straight through to a massive living room that opened out onto the patio and pool. On either side, the house sprawled out, kitchen and four bedrooms to the right, Jordan's office and another four bedrooms to the left. Beyond the pool was a separate building that housed a Ping-Pong table, a billiard table and a multitude of games and coin operated machines. Next to it was a storage facility for scuba and fishing equipment. The patio was always lit, so even though the house was darkened, there was plenty of light for the two of them to see one another.

“Well, as I said, welcome back.”

“And as I said, I'm sorry.”

She shrugged. “Apology accepted.” She hesitated. “How long are you down for?”

“I don't know yet. I have to be in Miami on Monday. From there, it depends on how things go.”

Miami on Monday.

Madison felt an instant chill, but she didn't intend to say anything to Kyle. She didn't want him asking her what kind of a witch she was again.

“What's going on that you've been called down?” she asked casually.

He shrugged. “You don't know?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't know.” That was the truth. “I don't see everything, and I don't control what I see, and I wish to hell that you'd stop treating me like some kind of freak!”

“What?” He seemed startled.

“I'm not a freak.”

He frowned. “I never said you were.”

“Well, you've acted like it.”

He shook his head again. “No…I…No. Madison—it was just a bad time. Hell, I've said I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, well, welcome home. I guess I'll see you around.”

“Good-night.”

He didn't move, continuing to look at her.

She hesitated, wishing she knew more. “You still didn't tell me exactly why you're down here.”

“No, I didn't. It's a long story. Want to go out on the boat with me tomorrow?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Well, a boat is a good place to tell a long story.”

“Maybe I'm not that curious. And maybe I could just ask Jimmy—or Jassy—what's going on in Miami.”

“Maybe you could. Suit yourself.”

“I can't just take off with you in the boat. I have a five-year-old. And we always spend Saturdays together, unless she's with her dad.”

Madison thought that a streak of pain flashed through his eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she decided she might have imagined it. But then, he should have had a little girl, too.

But he was smiling at her then, so guilelessly that she was sure she had imagined the darkness in his eyes and soul.

“Your five-year-old is Jordan Adair's granddaughter. I'll bet she just loves a day out on the boat.”

She hesitated.

“Hey, sis, come on. I'm just trying to make peace. Honest to God, once upon a time, we were friends.”

“Maybe. We'll see. It depends on when you're leaving.”

“Early. By eight.”

“You're out of your mind.”

He smiled again with a casual shrug, tugging on his baseball cap. “Maybe. We'll see.”

He turned then, walking toward the left wing of the house. She was glad that her bedroom was to the right.

Get a grip, Madison, she warned herself, hurrying through the shadowed house. Her fingers were trembling. Great. All those years. She'd married, then divorced. She'd found a life; she was happy. Or at least, she got on just fine. And here he was, back for a matter of hours, and she was shaking.

Fuck him.

She winced and tiptoed toward Carrie Anne's room, cracking the door and looking in on her sleeping daughter. She walked into the room, stood by the bed and smoothed back her daughter's hair. Carrie Anne was beautiful. She was blond, like her dad. Her features were fine, like Madison's own. She had wide, generous lips, and the best smile in the world.

She'd made a lot of mistakes, Madison thought, for a lot of reasons. But even if her marriage had been a pathetically bad mistake and her own fault, it had surely stood a purpose, and she knew that her ex-husband thought so, too. Carrie Anne was worth whatever heartache they had caused one another. And oddly enough, they were doing a fine job of keeping Carrie Anne's best interests at heart.

She planted a kiss on Carrie Anne's forehead, then walked through the expansive bath that connected their two rooms. She entered her own room, allowing the night-light from the bathroom and the patio lights from beyond to serve as illumination. She flung herself back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She loved her dad's “shack.” Her room was large, her bed was plush, and she—like her other siblings—had a complete entertainment center, as well as a working fireplace for those few nights each year when the temperature dipped as far down as the low forties. Her father had spared no expense on his children's part-time rooms. Carrie Anne's decor was handsomely Disney, with a little Dr. Seuss thrown in. Madison herself had opted for a white-marble floor with ebony throw rugs and a red-black-and-blue motif that was vivid and passionate. Roger Montgomery, a frequent visitor, had applauded her taste, telling her that she was far more artistic than she was willing to admit.

“Just like my—” he'd begun.

“Your what?” she'd asked with a smile.

“Son,” he said quietly, looking away. “Kyle. He can draw like a son of a gun.”

“I didn't know that,” she'd murmured, straining to maintain her smile.

“My point exactly. Kyle doesn't like to let people know he can draw. That might make him too much like his old man.”

“I'm sure he loves you very much.”

“Well, I guess you can love someone and not want to be like them.”

“Maybe. What about Rafe?”

Roger had shrugged. “Rafe's a great kid, but he can't manage a stick figure. He's a mathematician, like his mother.”

“Ah. Well…”

And then she'd managed to change the subject.

She sat up now and slid off the bed. She stepped out of her shoes, slipped off her skirt, blouse and bra, and dug under her pillow for her nightgown, a tailored cotton confection from Victoria's Secret. As she did up the buttons, she caught sight of herself in the mirror over her dresser.

For a moment she felt a terrible chill and stood dead still.

Oh, God, she did look like her mother! So much so that it was really frightening.

She turned away from the mirror and curled into bed. She put her head down and reminded herself that her life was good. She adored her daughter; she had a good job and good times, and everything was great.

Everything was great, and yet…

All right, there was a lot that sucked, too. Somehow, she hadn't noticed that. Not until Kyle came striding back into her life tonight.

She prayed for sleep. Kyle was here. He would help solve whatever crime he was here to investigate—or the killer he was after would move on and remain a mystery to everyone. One way or the other, Kyle would leave. Maybe he would keep coming home for holidays, now that he'd been here, but he wasn't really a part of her life again.

She tossed and turned.

Kyle was here. After her dream. Reporting to work on Monday. And Jimmy was going to pick her up on Monday. She wished she knew what was going on.

She wanted to sleep; she didn't want to sleep. She was afraid she would dream. She shivered. One way or the other, she had to sleep.

Eventually she did.

And no dreams invaded her slumber.

 

She loved weekends. Adored them. Not that her schedule was such a brutal one—she knew many women who worked much harder!—but she did have a child in kindergarten, and she did wake up at six-thirty most mornings to get Carrie Anne to school on time. That made Saturdays and Sundays great days, when the alarm didn't buzz rudely in her ear and she could sleep as late as she wanted.

Not that morning.

It was as if her eyelids had been fixed with robotic alarms themselves. They just suddenly sprang open, and she was wide-wake, staring around her room, where light was just beginning to filter in.

She closed her eyes and wiggled down into the covers. She told herself how deliciously comfortable her bed was. How she could sleep for hours if she wished.

No good.

After a minute, she sat up. She glanced at her watch and swore softly at herself in disgust. It wasn't even six yet. She wondered bitterly if there wasn't some silly system inside of her that wanted to go out on the boat with Kyle.

Too bad. She wasn't going. Carrie Anne was still sleeping, after all.