Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive Star\Hidden Star\Secret Star (40 page)

“Worth killing for,” he said quietly, looking at the stone in his hand. “Dying for.” Then, annoyed with himself, he set the stone down again. “Your stepbrothers had a client.”

“Yes, they spoke of a client, argued about him. Thomas wanted to take the money, the initial deposit, and run.”

The money was being checked now, but there wasn't much hope of tracing its source.

“Timothy told Thomas he was a fool, that he'd never be able to run far or fast enough. That he—the client—would find him. He's not even human. Timothy said that, or something like it. They were both afraid, terribly afraid, and terribly desperate.”

“Over their heads.”

“Yes, I think very much over their heads.”

“It would have to be a collector. No one could move these stones for resale.” He glanced at the gems sparkling in their trays like pretty stars. “You acquire, buy and sell to collectors of gems.”

“Yes—certainly not on a scale like the Three Stars, but yes.” She skimmed her fingers absently through her hair. “A client might come to us with a stone, or a request for one. We'd also acquire certain gems on spec, with a particular client in mind.”

“You have a client list, then? Names, preferences?”

“Yes, and we have records of what a client had purchased, or sold.” She gripped her hands together. “Thomas would have kept it, in his office. Timothy would have copies in his. I'll find them for you.”

He touched her shoulder lightly before she could slide from the stool. “I'll get them.”

She let out a breath of relief. She had yet to be able to face going upstairs, into the room where she'd seen murder. “Thank you.”

He took out his notebook. “If I asked you to name the top gem collectors, your top clients, what names come to mind? Off the top of your head?”

“Oh.” Concentrating, she gnawed on her lip. “Peter Morrison in London, Sylvia Smythe-Simmons of New York, Henry and Laura Muller here in D.C. Matthew Wolinski in California. And I suppose Charles Van Horn here in D.C., too, though he's new to it. We sold him three lovely stones over the last two years. One was a spectacular opal I coveted. I'm still hoping he'll let me set it for him. I have this design in my head….”

She shook herself, trailed off when she realized why he was asking. “Lieutenant, I know these people. I've dealt with them personally. The Mullers were friends of my stepfather's. Mrs. Smythe-
Simmons is over eighty. None of them are thieves.”

He didn't bother to glance up, but continued to write. “Then we'll be able to check them off the list. Taking anything or anyone at face value is a mistake in an investigation, Ms. James. We've had enough mistakes already.”

“With mine standing out.” Accepting that fact, she nudged her untouched soft drink over the table. “I should have gone to the police right away. I should have turned the information—at the very least, my suspicions—over to the authorities. Several people would still be alive if I had.”

“It's possible, but it's not a given.” Now he did glance up, noted the haunted look in those soft brown eyes. Compassion stirred. “Did you know your stepbrother was being blackmailed by a second-rate bail bondsman?”

“No,” she murmured.

“Did you know that someone was pulling the strings, pulling them hard enough to turn your stepbrother into a killer?”

She shook her head, bit down hard on her lip. “The things I didn't know were the problem, weren't they? I put the two people I love most in terrible danger, then I forgot about them.”

“Amnesia isn't a choice, it's a condition. And your friends handled themselves. They still are—
in fact, I saw Ms. Fontaine just this morning. She doesn't look any the worse for wear to me.”

Bailey caught the disdainful note and turned to face him. “You don't understand her. I would have thought a man who does what you do for a living would be able to see more clearly than that.”

He thought he caught a faint hint of pity in her voice, and resented it. “I've always thought of myself as clear-sighted.”

“People are rarely clear-sighted when it comes to Grace. They only see what she lets them see—unless they care enough to look deeper. She has the most generous heart of any person I've ever known.”

Bailey caught the quick flicker of amused disbelief in his eyes and felt her anger rising against it. Furious, she pushed off the stool. “You don't know anything about her, but you've already dismissed her. Can you conceive of what she's going through right now? Her cousin was murdered—and in her stead.”

“She's hardly to blame for that.”

“Easy to say. But she'll blame herself, and so will her family. It's easy to blame Grace.”

“You don't.”

“No, because I know her. And I know she's dealt with perceptions and opinions just like yours most of her life. And her way of dealing with it is
to do as she chooses, because whatever she does, those perceptions and opinions rarely change. Right now, she's with her aunt, I imagine, and taking the usual emotional beating.”

Her voice heated, became rushed, as emotions swarmed. “Tonight, there'll be a memorial service for Melissa, and the relatives will hammer at her, the way they always do.”

“Why should they?”

“Because that's what they do best.” Running out of steam she turned her head, looked down at the Three Stars. Love, knowledge, generosity, she thought. Why did it seem there was so little of it in the world? “Maybe you should take another look, Lieutenant Buchanan.”

He'd already taken too many, he decided. And he was wasting time. “She certainly inspires loyalty in her friends,” he commented. “I'm going to look for those lists.”

“You know the way.” Dismissing him, Bailey picked up the stones to carry them back to the vault.

 

Grace was dressed in black, and had never felt less like grieving. It was six in the evening, and a light rain was beginning to fall. It promised to turn the city into a massive steam room instead of cooling it off. The headache that had been slyly brew
ing for hours snarled at the aspirin she'd already taken and leaped into full, vicious life.

She had an hour before the wake, one she had arranged quickly and alone, because her aunt demanded it. Helen Fontaine was handling grief in her own way—as she did everything else. In this case, it was by meeting Grace with a cold, damning and dry eye. Cutting off any offer of support or sympathy. And demanding that services take place immediately, and at Grace's expense and instigation.

They would be coming from all points, Grace thought as she wandered the large, empty room, with its banks of flowers, thick red drapes, deep pile carpeting. Because such things were expected, such things were reported in the press. And the Fontaines would never give the public media a bone to pick.

Except, of course, for Grace herself.

It hadn't been difficult to arrange for the funeral home, the music, the flowers, the tasteful canapés. Only phone calls and the invocation of the Fontaine name were required. Helen had brought the photograph herself, the large color print in a shining silver frame that now decorated a polished mahogany table and was flanked with red roses in heavy silver vases that Melissa had favored.

There would be no body to view.

Grace had arranged for Melissa's body to be released from the morgue, had already written the check for the cremation and the urn her aunt had chosen.

There had been no thanks, no acknowledgment. None had been expected.

It had been the same from the moment Helen became her legal guardian. She'd been given the necessities of life—Fontaine-style. Gorgeous homes in several countries to live in, perfectly prepared food, tasteful clothing, an excellent education.

And she'd been told, endlessly, how to eat, how to dress, how to behave, who could be selected as a friend and who could not. Reminded, incessantly, of her good fortune—unearned—in having such a family behind her. Tormented, ruthlessly, by the cousin she was there tonight to mourn, for being orphaned, dependent.

For being Grace.

She'd rebelled against all of it, every aspect, every expectation and demand. She'd refused to be malleable, biddable, predictable. The ache for her parents had eventually dimmed, and with it the child's desperate need for love and acceptance.

She'd given the press plenty to report. Wild parties, unwise affairs, unrestricted spending.

When that didn't ease the hurt, she'd found
something else. Something that made her feel decent and whole.

And she'd found Grace.

For tonight, she would be just what her family had come to expect. And she would get through the next endless hours without letting them touch her.

She sat heavily on a sofa with overstuffed velvet seats. Her head pounded, her stomach clutched. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relax. She would spend this last hour alone, and prepare herself for the rest.

But she'd barely taken the second calming breath when she heard footsteps muffled on the thick patterned carpet. Her shoulders turned to rock, her spine snapped straight. She opened her eyes. And saw Bailey and M.J.

She let her eyes close again, on a pathetic rush of gratitude. “I told you not to come.”

“Yeah, like we were going to listen to that.” M.J. sat beside her, took her hand.

“Cade and Jack are parking the car.” Bailey flanked her other side, took her other hand. “How are you holding up?”

“Better.” Tears stung her eyes as she squeezed the hands clasped in hers. “A lot better now.”

 

On a sprawling estate not so many miles from where Grace sat with those who loved her, a man
stared out at the hissing rain.

Everyone had failed, he thought. Many had paid for their failures. But retribution was a poor substitute for the Three Stars.

A delay only, he comforted himself. The Stars were his, they were meant to be his. He had dreamed of them, had held them in his hands in those dreams. Sometimes the hands were human, sometimes not, but they were always his hands.

He sipped wine, watched the rain, and considered his options.

His plans had been delayed by three women. That was humiliating, and they would have to be made to pay for that humiliation.

The Salvinis were dead—Bailey James.

The fools he'd hired to retrieve the second Star were dead—M. J. O'Leary.

The man he'd sent with instructions to acquire the third Star at any cost was dead—Grace Fontaine.

And he smiled. That had been indiscreet, as he'd disposed of the lying fool himself. Telling him there'd been an accident, that the woman had fought him, run from him, and fallen to her death. Telling him he'd searched every corner of the house without finding the stone.

That failure had been irritating enough, but then
to discover that the wrong woman had died and that the fool had stolen money and jewels without reporting them. Well, such disloyalty in a business associate could hardly be tolerated.

Smiling dreamily, he took a sparkling diamond earring out of his pocket. Grace Fontaine had worn this on her delectable lobe, he mused. He kept it now as a good-luck charm while he considered what steps to take next.

There were only days left before the Stars would be in the museum. Extracting them from those hallowed halls would take months, if not years, of planning. He didn't intend to wait.

Perhaps he had failed because he had been over-cautious, had kept his distance from events. Perhaps the gods required a more personal risk. A more intimate involvement.

It was time, he decided, to step out of the shadows, to meet the women who had kept his property from him, face-to-face. He smiled again, excited by the thought, delighted with the possibilities.

When the knock sounded on the door, he answered with great cheer and good humor. “Enter.”

The butler, in stern formal black, ventured no farther than the threshold. His voice held no inflection. “I beg your pardon, Ambassador. Your guests are arriving.”

“Very well.” He sipped the last of his wine, set
the empty crystal flute on a table. “I'll be right down.”

When the door closed, he moved to the mirror, examined his flawless tuxedo, the wink of diamond studs, the gleam of the thin gold watch at his wrist. Then he examined his face—the smooth contours, the pampered, pale gold skin, the aristocratic nose, the firm, if somewhat thin, mouth. He brushed a hand over the perfectly groomed mane of silver-threaded black hair.

Then, slowly, smilingly, met his own eyes. Pale, almost translucent blue smiled back. His guests would see what he did, a perfectly groomed man of fifty-two, erudite and educated, well mannered and suave. They wouldn't know what plans and plots he held in his heart. They would see no blood on his hands, though it had been only twenty-four short hours since he used them to kill.

He felt only pleasure in the memory, only delight in the knowledge that he would soon dine with the elite and the influential. And he could kill any one of them with a twist of his hands, with perfect immunity.

He chuckled to himself—a low, seductive sound with shuddering undertones. Tucking the earring back in his pocket, he walked from the room.

The ambassador was mad.

S
eth's first thought when he walked into the funeral parlor was that it seemed more like a tedious cocktail party than like a memorial service. People stood or sat in little cliques and groups, many of them nibbling on canapés or sipping wine. Beneath the strains of a muted Chopin étude, voices murmured. There was an occasional roll or tinkle of laughter.

He heard no tears.

Lights were respectfully dimmed, and set off the glitter and gleam of gems and gold. The fragrance of flowers mixed and merged with the scents worn by both men and women. He saw faces, both elegant and bored.

He saw no grief.

But he did see Grace. She stood looking up into the face of a tall, slim man whose golden tan set off his golden hair and bright blue eyes. He held one of her hands in his and smiled winningly. He appeared to be speaking quickly, persuasively. She shook her head once, laid a hand on his chest, then allowed herself to be drawn into an anteroom.

Seth's lip curled in automatic disdain. A funeral was a hell of a place for a flirtation.

“Buchanan.” Jack Dakota wandered over. He scanned the room, stuck his hands in the pockets of the suit coat he wished fervently was still in his closet, instead of on his back. “Some party.”

Seth watched two women air kiss. “Apparently.”

“Doesn't seem like one a sane man would want to crash.”

“I have business,” he said briefly. Which could have waited until morning, he reminded himself. He should have let it wait. It annoyed him that he'd made the detour, that he'd been thinking of Grace—more, that he'd been unable to lock her out of his head.

He pulled a copy of a mug shot out of his pocket, handed it to Jack. “Recognize him?”

Jack scanned the picture, considered. Slick-looking dude, he thought. Vaguely European in
looks, with the sleek black hair, dark eyes and refined features. “Nope. Looks like a poster boy for some wussy cologne.”

“You didn't see him during your amazing weekend adventures?”

Jack took one last, harder look, handed the shot back. “Nope. What's his connection?”

“His prints were all over the house in Potomac.”

Jack's interest rose. “He the one who killed the cousin?”

Seth met Jack's eyes coolly. “That has yet to be determined.”

“Don't give me the cop stand, Buchanan. What'd the guy say? He stopped by to sell vacuum cleaners?”

“He didn't say anything. He was too busy floating facedown in the river.”

With an oath, Jack's gaze whipped around the room again. He relaxed fractionally when he spotted M.J. huddled with Cade. “The morgue must be getting crowded. You got a name?”

Seth started to dismiss the question. He didn't care for professions that stood a step back from the police. But there was no denying that the bounty hunter and the private investigator were involved. And there was no avoiding the connection, he told himself.

“Carlo Monturri.”

“Doesn't ring a bell either.”

Seth hadn't expected it would, but the police—on several continents—knew the name. “He's out of your league, Dakota. His type keeps a fancy lawyer on retainer and doesn't use the local bail bondsman to get sprung.”

As he spoke, Seth's eyes moved around the room as a cop's did, sweeping corner to corner, taking in details, body language, atmosphere. “Before he took his last swim, he was expensive hired muscle. He worked alone because he didn't like to share the fun.”

“Connections in the area?”

“We're working on it.”

Seth saw Grace come out of the anteroom. The man who was with her had his arm draped over her shoulders, pulled her close in an intimate embrace, kissed her. The flare of fury kindled in Seth's gut and bolted up to his heart.

“Excuse me.”

Grace saw him the moment he started across the room. She murmured something to the man beside her, dislodged him, then dismissed him. Straightening her spine, she fixed on an easy smile.

“Lieutenant, we didn't expect you.”

“I apologize for intruding in your—” he flicked
a glance toward the golden boy, who was helping himself to a glass a wine “—grief.”

The sarcasm slapped, but she didn't flinch. “I assume you have a reason for coming by.”

“I'd like a moment of your time—in private.”

“Of course.” She turned to lead him out and came face-to-face with her aunt. “Aunt Helen.”

“If you could tear yourself away from entertaining your suitors,” Helen said coldly, “I want to speak to you.”

“Excuse me,” Grace said to Seth, and stepped into the anteroom again.

Seth debated moving off, giving them privacy. But he stayed where he was, two paces from the doorway. He told himself murder investigations didn't allow for sensitivity. Though they kept their voices low, he heard both women clearly enough.

“I assume you have Melissa's things at your home,” Helen began.

“I don't know. I haven't been able to go through the house thoroughly yet.”

Helen said nothing for a moment, simply studied her niece through cold blue eyes. Her face was smooth and showed no ravages of grief in the carefully applied makeup. Her hair was sleek, lightened to a tasteful ash blond. Her hands were freshly manicured and glittered with the diamond wedding band she continued to wear, though she'd shared
little but her husband's name in over a decade, and a square-cut sapphire given to her by her latest lover.

“I sincerely doubt Melissa came to your home without a bag. I want her things, Grace. All of her things. You'll have nothing of hers.”

“I never wanted anything of hers, Aunt Helen.”

“Didn't you?” There was a crackle in the voice—a whip flicking. “Did you think she wouldn't tell me of your affair with her husband?”

Grace merely sighed. It was new ground, but sickeningly familiar. Melissa's marriage had failed, publicly. Therefore, it had to be someone else's fault. It had to be Grace's fault.

“I didn't have an affair with Bobbie. Before, during or after their marriage.”

“And whom do you think I would believe? You, or my own daughter?”

Grace tilted her head, twisted a smile on her face. “Why, your own daughter, of course. As always.”

“You've always been a liar and a sneak. You've always been ungrateful, a burden I took on out of family duty who never once gave anything back. You were spoiled and willful when I opened my door to you, and you never changed.”

Grace's stomach roiled viciously. In defense, she smiled, shrugged. Deliberately careless, she
smoothed a hand over the hair sleeked into a coiled twist at the nape of her neck. “No, I suppose I didn't. I'll just have to remain a disappointment to you, Aunt Helen.”

“My daughter would be alive if not for you.”

Grace willed her heart to go numb. But it ached, and it burned. “Yes, you're right.”

“I warned her about you, told her time and again what you were. But you continually lured her back, playing on her affection.”

“Affection, Aunt Helen?” With a half laugh, Grace pressed her fingers to the throb in her left temple. “Surely even you don't believe she ever had an ounce of affection for me. She took her cue from you, after all. And she took it well.”

“How dare you speak of her in that tone, after you've killed her!” In the pampered face, Helen's eyes burned with loathing. “All of your life you've envied her, used your wiles to influence her. Now your unconscionable life-style has killed her. You've brought scandal and disgrace down on the family name once again.”

Grace went stiff. This wasn't grief, she thought. Perhaps grief was there, buried deep, but what was on the surface was venom. And she was weary of being struck by it. “That's the bottom line, isn't it, Aunt Helen? The Fontaine name, the Fontaine reputation. And, of course, the Fontaine stock.
Your child is dead, but it's the scandal that infuriates you.”

She absorbed the slap without a wince, though the blow printed heat on her cheek, brought blood stinging to the surface. She took one long, deep breath. “That should end things appropriately between the two of us,” she said evenly. “I'll have Melissa's things sent to you as soon as possible.”

“I want you out of here.” Helen's voice shook for the first time—whether in grief or in fury, Grace couldn't have said. “You have no place here.”

“You're right again. I don't. I never did.”

Grace stepped out of the alcove. The color that had drained out of her face rose slightly when she met Seth's eyes. She couldn't read them in that brief glance, and didn't want to. Without breaking stride, she continued past him and kept walking.

The drizzle that misted the air was a relief. She welcomed the heat after the overchilled, artificial air inside, and the heavy, stifling scent of funeral flowers. Her heels clicked on the wet pavement as she crossed the lot to her car. She was fumbling in her bag for her keys when Seth clamped a hand on her shoulder.

He said nothing at first, just turned her around, studied her face. It was white again—but for the red burn from the slap—the eyes a dark contrast
and swimming with emotion. He could feel the tremors of that emotion under the palm of his hand.

“She was wrong.”

Humiliation was one more blow to her over-wrought system. She jerked her shoulder, but his hand remained in place. “Is that part of your investigative technique, Lieutenant? Eavesdropping on private conversations?”

Did she realize, he wondered, that her voice was raw, her eyes were devastated? He wanted badly to lift a hand to that mark on her face, cool it. Erase it. “She was wrong,” he said again. “And she was cruel. You aren't responsible.”

“Of course I am.” She spun away, jabbing her key at the door lock. After three shaky attempts, she gave up, and they dropped with a jingling splash to the wet pavement as she turned into his arms. “Oh, God.” Shuddering, she pressed her face into his chest. “Oh, God.”

He didn't want to hold her, wanted to refuse the role of comforter. But his arms came around her before he could stop them, and one hand reached up to brush the smooth twist of her hair. “You didn't deserve that, Grace. You did nothing to deserve that.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does.” He found himself weakening,
drawing her closer, trying to will her trembling away. “It always does.”

“I'm just tired.” She burrowed into him while the rain misted her hair. There was strength here, was all she could think. A haven here. An answer here. “I'm just tired.”

Her head lifted, their mouths met, before either of them realized the need was there. The quiet sound in her throat was of relief and gratitude. She opened her battered heart to the kiss, locking her arms around him, urging him to take it.

She had been waiting for him, and, too dazed to question why, she offered herself to him. Surely comfort and pleasure and this all-consuming need were reason enough. His mouth was firm—the one she'd always wanted on hers. His body was hard and solid—a perfect match for hers.

Here he is, she thought with a ragged sigh of joy.

She trembled still, and he could feel his own muscles quiver in response. He wanted to gather her up, carry her out of the rain to someplace quiet and dark where it was only the two of them. To spend years where it would only be the two of them.

His heart pounded in his head, masking the slick sound of traffic over the rain-wet street beyond the lot. Its fast, demanding beat muffled the warning
struggling to sound in the corner of his brain, telling him to step back, to break away.

He'd never wanted anything more in his life than to bury himself in her and forget the consequences.

Swamped with emotions and needs, she held him close. “Take me home,” she murmured against his mouth. “Seth, take me home, make love with me. I need you to touch me. I want to be with you.” Her mouth met his again, in a desperate plea she hadn't known herself capable of.

Every cell in his body burned for her. Every need he'd ever had coalesced into one, and it was only for her. The almost vicious focus of it left him vulnerable and shaky. And furious.

He put his hands on her shoulders, drew her away. “Sex isn't the answer for everyone.”

His voice wasn't as cool as he'd wanted, but it was rigid enough to stop her from reaching for him again. Sex? she thought as she struggled to clear her dazzled mind. Did he really believe she'd been speaking about something as simple as sex? Then she focused on his face, the hard set of his mouth, the faint annoyance in his eyes, and realized he did.

Her pride might have been tattered, but she managed to hold on to a few threads. “Well, apparently it's not for you.” Reaching up, she smoothed her
hair, brushed away rain. “Or if it is, you're the type who insists on being the initiator.”

She made her lips curve, though they felt cold now and stiff. “It would have been just fine and dandy if you'd made the move. But when I do, it makes me—what would the term be? Loose?”

“I don't believe it's a term I used.”

“No, you're much too controlled for insults.” She bent down, scooped up her wet keys, then stood jingling them in her hand while she studied him. “But you wanted me right back, Seth. You're not quite controlled enough to have masked that little detail.”

“I don't believe in taking everything I want.”

“Why the hell not?” She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “We're alive, aren't we? And you, of all people, should know how distressingly short life can be.”

“I don't have to explain to you how I live my life.”

“No, you don't. But it's obvious you're perfectly willing to question how I live mine.” Her gaze skimmed past him, back toward the lights glinting in the funeral home. “I'm quite used to that. I do exactly what I choose, without regard for the consequences. I'm selfish and self-involved and careless.”