Slow Burn
Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

1

“Wait!”

Danny Huntington paused at the foot of the stairway, looking back.

Spencer was standing on the marble landing, both hands gripping the mahogany banister. She was wearing a cobalt silk nightshirt, and her hair was sleep-tousled and wild and spilling all around her face. She had an exotic look about her, as if she belonged in one of her own promo pieces, beauty against a backdrop of elegance. Behind her in the hallway was the Victorian love seat, above it the handsomely carved mirror. A maroon runner, picking up the shades in the brocade tapestry on the love seat, ran beneath Spencer’s bare feet and manicured toenails. It drew attention to the length of her legs. In the old Mediterranean house Spencer had salvaged and brought back to glory, Spencer herself looked like a million bucks. Sometimes Danny thought that she’d been born perfect. She had crystal blue eyes, corn blond hair and classical, delicate, stunning features. He’d known her most of his life and been in love with her for half of it. It probably hadn’t been much of a surprise to others when she married him, but it had been a shock to Danny. And not only had she married him, but she’d understood him, his need to be something other than what was expected of him, to join the police force instead of the family business. And when the chips were down—or at least scattered all over—she had come to the fore with a smile and a laugh, and done everything in the world to make sure that he didn’t feel the least bit badly about anything. Sometimes, when he thought of all Spencer had been willing to go through for him, he felt a sweat break out on his palms and he shook a little bit inside just to think about how much he loved her, and how good she had made his life.

“Danny, I’m blue!” she said the words with tremendous excitement.

“What?” He arched a brow, looking at her with confusion.

“The test, Danny, the little line on the ovulation predictor test turned blue!” she said, smiling at his confusion.

“Oh. Blue!” he repeated.

Then he stared at her blankly for a moment. He was due at David Delgado’s house. They were going to jog together before combining their information on the Vichy case. But if Spencer was blue…

He was the one who wanted children so badly. He and Spencer had been only children themselves, both born to wealthy parents, what they called old money families, though, frankly, some of the money on his side wasn’t all that old. But enough years had passed for the world to forget that it had originally been made in heavy-duty bootlegging. They’d both grown up in Miami, as well, down in Coconut Grove, where what there was of old-time Southern gentility and Northern snowbird affluence sat side by side with poverty and the ghetto. He’d always had the best of everything, and gone to the best schools. What he’d lacked was people to love, and as he’d watched friends with their sisters and brothers, he’d realized from a very early age that happiness wasn’t something that could be purchased from a store. He’d promised himself then that his own children would never be lonely—he would have a dozen if he could. He’d gotten over the concept of having a dozen, but he still wanted a family, two to four children, whatever Spencer thought best.

They’d started out the marriage trying, but after two years, when they still hadn’t become parents, Spencer had suggested they start testing. She had quietly gone about getting every test possible, and she hadn’t cared that a few were painful and humiliating. He’d sat in a little cubicle himself, chagrined to discover that the setting made his penis as limp as overcooked fettucini, but he’d needed to be tested, so he’d endured whatever procedures the doctor ordered. The only good thing about it all was that, in the end, he had been told they were both normal—the doctor’s suggestion had been that they were just too busy, too tense. Since her grandfather, Sly had semiretired, Spencer was all but running Montgomery Enterprises herself; and his schedule was worse than hers. They just might be missing the right time to try for children, and that could well be all there was to it.

“Can you take the day off?” he asked her.

“You bet,” she told him. “What about you?” She hesitated just a moment. “I thought you had set up a meeting with David Delgado?”

“I had,” Danny told her. “I’ll get out of it.”

“Can you?”

Danny grinned at her good-naturedly. “I’ll just tell him the truth. That you and I are trying to be fruitful and multiply.”

“Danny—”

“Spencer, I’m kidding. I’ll find a way to reschedule. Don’t worry about it.” He wished she hadn’t turned quite so dark a shade of crimson, but, in truth, he was more amused than anything else. Once upon a time his wife and his best friend had been one of the hottest things going—but hell, that had been all the way back in high school, for Christ’s sake! Spencer wouldn’t talk about it on pain of death, and David Delgado was just as much of a clam about the whole thing. Until recently, David and Danny had been partners on the force as well as longtime best friends. But then David had quit being a cop because he had saved up enough money to open his own security business, and so far, with his experience, he had done very well. They still saw each other frequently on a professional basis, though, because David sometimes did work for the city, and then they needed each other’s files—and opinions.

Spencer and David were always polite when they met. He knew they both worried about his feelings regarding the past, so they avoided each other as much as they could. And when they did meet, they were civil and cool, and managed to make him feel like hell over their damned determination to be honorable.

They were honorable; he knew that. And he loved them both all the more for it. But every once in a while, when they had no choice but to meet, the tension in the air was as hot and heavy as the August humidity in this searing place they all called home, and he had to admit that he was afraid—just in a little tiny corner of his heart—that if the two of them weren’t so damned moral, they would be naked, in the heat and crawling all over one another, and it wouldn’t matter one bit that they didn’t have a thing to say to each other anymore, that they’d broken up explosively all those years ago, and that even back then they’d been as different as night and day, Spencer so fair, David so dark, Spencer the height of society, with ancestors who had all but stepped off the Mayflower, and David the child of an immigrant and a refugee. But if twelfth-grade rumor had been true…

He’d been in twelfth grade with them, known them both all his life. And now Spencer was his wife, David was still his best friend, and one day he would manage to turn the two of them back into good friends, too. Maybe if he and Spencer could actually get this parenthood thing going…

He was already in his jogging shorts, T-shirt and sneakers. He’d been eager to get all the help he could from David on the Vichy case, but nothing in the world was more important that sharing this morning with Spencer. “I’m supposed to meet David right out on Main Street. We were going to jog over to his place and then go through the files over breakfast. I’ll meet him on the street like we planned and give him some excuse. It won’t matter what—he won’t press me. I’ll be gone about twenty-five minutes, then I’ll be home. How about it?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Spencer promised solemnly.

He grinned, gave her a thumbs-up sign, then started walking to the door. He was jogging before he reached it.

Twenty-five minutes! Spencer pushed herself away from the staircase and tore into their bedroom. In seconds flat she arranged the covers and pillows invitingly on the bed. Then she spun around and headed into the shower. This was going to be Danny’s day, and she was going to make it the best one he had ever lived.

Work! She raced for the phone.

She told her secretary she had a touch of flu, but would be in the next morning. She felt a blush touch her cheeks as her secretary sympathized and told her that she hoped Spencer would feel better. How strange! She was married—not to mention the president of Montgomery Enterprises—and Audrey was a good friend, but she still couldn’t quite manage the truth. You see, we’re trying to procreate here, but our schedules are so screwed up that Danny’s at work on the nights that count, and I’m usually in another city when it matters most. I’m staying home just to spend the entire day screwing around.

“Do you need anything, Spencer? Can I bring you something?” Audrey asked with concern.

“No, no, Danny will be back after he’s done jogging. I’ll be fine, thanks,” she said firmly, a touch of guilt stirring within her again. She was the boss! she reminded herself. She worked long, hard hours, and she deserved a day off with her husband.

“Stay in bed now,” Audrey warned her.

“I, ah—yes, I will,” Spencer said, stared at the receiver, then set it down.

So what was Danny telling David?

A hot flush crept over her body; she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about David. She tried so damned hard not to think about David most of the time.

She turned on the water full blast.

“I love Danny Huntington!” she said fiercely out loud. And it was true. She did. Very much. There just seemed to be so many levels of love. Sly had told her that once. And it was true.

“I love Danny!”

She loved him; their life was good. They laughed together; they talked together. Danny was kind, concerned, wonderful, gentle. She was lucky, so lucky. She stepped into the shower. Danny wanted a baby. This time they were going to do it the right way—and at the right time!—to have one.

The water rushed down on her.

Danny left his house behind and inhaled the clear morning air. The day was going to be a scorcher, but it wasn’t dead hot yet. He loved the early morning and the late night, when the sun hadn’t gotten its grip on the city yet. He loved to run when even the early birds weren’t out, when dew still touched the grass and the leaves of the gnarled trees that lined the road.

He smiled. Just what the hell was he going to tell David? The truth would be best, but he had told Spencer he would think of something else. How the hell was he going to manage when he was grinning from ear to ear, anticipating the day? They hadn’t had a chance to do anything like this since their honeymoon. Since that day in Paris when they had watched the sun rise over the gargoyles, gilding the City of Lights. He quickened his pace, anxious to get back home.

He came out of his private road and rounded the corner. To his amazement, he saw a familiar figure jogging toward him. Curious. Talk about someone he’d never expected to see here…

David Delgado ran in place by the street sign, then looped around a few times on the jogging trail that ran alongside the road. Six foot two, black-haired, and with eyes so dark a blue that they appeared black at times, he was an arresting figure. But then, in Coconut Grove runners came in all kinds, the squat and the lean, the muscled and the nearly anorectic. But even amidst the healthy, muscled, tanned and sometimes very young and almost bare bodies that jogged through this old but still-trendy section of Miami, David was a striking man. The best of a strange mixture of genes had combined to make him as tall and broad shouldered as the Highlanders of his mother’s Scottish kin, while his raven dark hair and clean-lined, classical features had come from his father’s side, Spain by way of Cuba. Thanks to his Hispanic heritage, he was a natural in the sun, bronzing quickly, and since he had spent most of his life in that sun, he didn’t notice the heat too badly while he jogged around in another circle, glanced at his watch and considered heading to the house and giving Danny a call. It wasn’t like him to be late. Especially when he didn’t have far to come to meet David. David’s house didn’t compare to the old Twenties manor Spencer and Danny had bought and fixed up. Though he was doing well at his new business—so well, in fact, that it almost scared him at times—he didn’t have the kind of income to purchase such a place, not to mention keeping it up. He had to hand it to the pair of them, though. There was nothing ostentatious about their home. It was in a quietly affluent neighborhood, and it had lots more character than it did dazzle. It was a warm house to walk into, with a good feeling about it, it just felt a little bit too much like Spencer Anne Montgomery—Spencer Anne Huntington, he reminded himself. But there hadn’t been anything between him and Spencer in well over a decade, and Danny was one of his best friends. It was still amazing to him that someone who had been born with a silver spoon—hell, a silver knife and fork, as well—in his mouth could have grown up to become such a decent human being. But Danny had always been good, ever since they had first met, and Spencer was as cold as ice to him now. Hell, it was ancient history. They were long past whatever feelings they’d shared, and they’d both built their own lives. It was something they could all laugh about. Except that they never did. Maybe, David thought, it was because there had been something vulnerable about all of them way back then. As kids, they had all learned each other’s weaknesses, and maybe some of those weaknesses hadn’t gone away. He and Spencer were still, after all these years, wary of one another, though they both tried, for Danny’s sake, to be civil.

Just as he tried like hell not to let his best friend know how much he remembered about Spencer Anne Montgomery.

Spencer Anne Huntington.

He jogged around the loop again, looking down the street. Things hadn’t changed much here since he’d been a kid. The foliage still grew right up to the edge of the winding road, and the old houses still stood almost on top of it, except where long drives led to mansions unseen by the general public. From the time he’d come here as a kid not quite four years old, he’d loved the Grove, even if life there hadn’t always been easy. Back then, in the early sixties, it had been a laid-back place, not at all ready for the boom that was about to seize Miami and erase its small-southern-town status forever, turning it into a huge metropolis with an international flavor. Back then, they’d had lots of snowbirds, Northerners down just for the winter. They still came, but now they mostly went over to Naples, up to Palm Beach, down to the Keys, or to the dead center of the state, to Disney. But Miami still thrived, and the Grove had grown right along with it. In the late sixties and early seventies, the Grove had gone right along with the hippie movement. The shops had sold Nehru jackets and incense and black lights. Artists had thrived, smoking pot in back rooms, and psychedelic music had filled the air. But then things had moved upscale; the yuppies had moved in, and now the trendy shops sold high-priced jewelry and expensive collectibles, while the restaurants offered the height of nouvelle cuisine. He thought rather affectionately of his home as a very bright whore—Coconut Grove twisted whichever way the money came and the wind blew, doing whatever it needed to do to survive. It was one of the oldest sections of Miami, right on the bay, and there were still a few old-timers around to tell him what it had been like in the early days. Spencer’s grandfather, Sly, could talk about the old days with the ability of a born storyteller, and there were still times when David missed the hours he had spent with the old man almost as much as he missed Spencer.

He swore at himself. He didn’t miss Spencer. How could you miss someone who had been out of your life for most of it? He just missed the feelings he remembered. She was part of all the other nostalgia about growing up, certain music, the sight of bougainvillea, the salt scent of the sea on a balmy day. It was just his bad luck that they’d all been friends forever.

David jogged farther and found himself looking down the street where he’d first lived when he’d come here. God, what an awful year that had been. Spanish had been his first language, and the only thing he could remember being called for years had been “refugee.” Not boy, just refugee. He’d had it better than most, though. His father had been in the Cuban prison where he was destined to die, his mother had passed away soon after Reva’s birth, but his mother’s father, old Michael MacCloud, had managed to swoop down right in the middle of the crisis days to help them. He had taught David and his sister, Reva, English. At least then David had been able to understand the Americanos who looked down their noses at him, though what English he did speak he spoke with the old Scotsman’s accent. His folks gone, thrown into a world that didn’t want the upheaval coming its way, he’d started off fighting. That was when he’d met Danny Huntington. Danny had left his pristine public school to walk over to the yacht club to meet his folks, but he’d been stopped by a group of toughs. David had seen it from the small park where he’d been playing, and there had just been something about Danny that had gotten to him. He’d been a skinny kid, and he’d obviously known he was about to take a beating, but he’d stood his ground. Then David had moved in. He’d taken a black eye himself, but he’d still managed to come out on top. The fight had been one of those “you should see the other fellow” occasions, and when it was over, Danny had just stared at him as if he was some kind of hero.

“Hey, thanks, man!”

David had shrugged, determined that no one was going to see that he was hurting like hell himself. “You’re just a skinny little rich kid. I could see you needed help.”

“Jeez, that’s some shiner!” Danny had told him, taking no offense at his comments. “You’d better come with me and get it taken care of.”

That had been the first time David had entered Danny’s world, and it had been a strange time for him. Bloodied, ragged, he had been drawn into the club with its spotless windows looking out on the bay, its rows and rows of sleek, beautiful boats. Everyone had stared at him. The ladies in their pristine white, the gentlemen in their leisure suits. He hadn’t been able to look at the people, the men and the women talking about how the riffraff and the refugees were bringing down the neighborhood. He’d looked out at the boats, instead, and decided he wanted a boat right then and there—more, even, than he wanted a life where he could eat all the mouth-watering food being served around him, play tennis on the perfect courts or dive into the pool. Just a boat, that would have made him happy.

He hadn’t been too fond of Danny’s parents, but he’d met Sly that day, and though he’d had a few opinions about the rest of the lot at the club, he’d known right off that he liked Sly, just as he’d known that one day he would buy a boat.

Sly knew something about politics. He’d heard of David’s father and even knew his grandfather. He’d bought David a meal, and when he’d seen the boy’s eyes, huge and a little overawed, he’d told him, “America, boy. This is America. Trust me. You reach out and get what you want here. The only difference between you and these folks is that their folks got here and did it for them!” And then he’d winked.

When David left that day, he’d thought he would never see Danny or Sly again. But two weeks later out of the blue, he’d gotten a scholarship to Danny’s prestigious grade school, and Michael MacCloud had insisted he take it. When he’d been on the outs, an object of fun for some of the rich kids, Danny had been there, stuck to him like glue, his best friend. Luckily he’d been a damned good athlete, and it was amazing what that could do for a poor boy. A refugee. Soon after David’s strange scholarship had come through, David’s younger sister, Reva, had received one, as well. And Danny had been just as great to Reva.

Spencer had come…later.

He glanced at his watch again and thought about jogging to Danny’s, then decided to jog home, instead. He would call Danny rather than appear. It would be easier to talk to Spencer on the phone. But maybe Danny would answer himself—still there for some reason—or the housekeeper would be in.

It was a strange situation. Danny, the kid born into a world of wealth, was a cop. A homicide detective. That was where they had met up again, after years of going their separate ways after high school. Danny wanted to be D.A. someday. Actually, he wanted to go much higher, but he wanted to take the long route into politics. He wanted to know how the working stiff on the street managed; then he wanted to buck the system all the way, not just catching the criminals, but managing to put them away. Spencer had been upset at first about Danny going into homicide, but Danny had been quick to tell her that it was all right. “The cases I’m called to are really safe. Spence. What are the victims going to do to me? They’re already dead!”

Spencer had reminded him that they had gotten that way through the ill will of others, but it seemed that Spencer really did love and support her man, because Danny was still working homicide. And sometimes the thought that she was there for someone else, not for him, brought a little twist of bitterness to David’s heart. Maybe he hadn’t been quite fair to Spencer Anne Montgomery all those years ago. Or maybe Spencer had changed; he didn’t know. Anyway, it didn’t matter anymore. She was Danny’s wife, and theirs was a good marriage. She and Danny had come from the same world. They knew how to live in it, and also how to fight it. Everyone had probably expected the two of them to wind up together, just as they had shaken their heads at the thought of Spencer Anne Montgomery winding up with David Delgado.

It was the past. Ancient history. David had his own life. He lived it. But sometimes it seemed that no matter how fast he ran from times gone by, they still caught up with him in the end.

Hell, where was Danny? The sun was beating down mercilessly on his head. He gave a final look around and started jogging to his own house.

A good house. Modern, three bedrooms, on the water, his boat docked in the back. He pushed open the front door and strode to the phone.

“What’s going on? What the hell are you doing here?” Danny demanded.

The answer came quickly in the form of three hastily fired bullets. One burned by his ear. The other two sank into his middle.

The figure raced on as Danny Huntington opened his mouth to protest. No sound came. He fell to the ground.

He didn’t lose consciousness. Not then. He started to crawl. Blood trailed from his wounds, over the dark earth, over tree roots, fallen leaves. Over dirt and pavement.

He kept crawling. David’s house was straight ahead. The door was open. Sweet Jesus, but he was in pain. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, how could one person lose so much blood? His life, oh, no, not yet, he couldn’t die yet….

Spencer…

“Danny!”

David dropped the receiver he’d just lifted and raced to the doorway. Danny was there, crawling toward him, covered in blood. David started to pick up his best friend, registering almost blankly that Danny had been shot. Years of training sprang into his mind, and he ran for his phone again, dialing the police dispatcher.

“Three-fifteen!” It was the code for Emergency! Officer needs assistance. “It’s Danny Huntington, and he’s been shot.” He gave his address, then added, “Hurry, damn it!” He’d already said enough, he knew they would hurry for any officer, but this was Danny. In his heart he kept pleading. Christ-oh-God-please-get-here-it’s-really-bad.

He raced to Danny and cradled his friend in his arms, trying to discern just where the injuries were. Shot, oh, hell, Danny had been shot twice, and he’d lost a lot of blood, but he still had a pulse, his heart was beating, and his lungs were still laboring. If the trauma unit could just get here and get him over to Jackson, they worked miracles there.

Staunch the blood, you asshole, staunch the blood. You’ve got to keep him alive, David told himself.

But the bleeding wouldn’t stop, no matter what he did.

Suddenly Danny’s eyes opened. He reached out a bloody hand, circling it around David’s neck. He tried to form words.

“Easy, Danny, easy. Help is almost here. You know the cops, you know how fast they come for one of their own.”

“Spen…cer,” Danny croaked.

“Yes, yes, I’ll get Spencer. Danny, listen to me, you’ve got to help us. Come on, buddy! Danny, who did this? Who—”

“Spencer!” Danny managed again. Blood oozed past his lips. He tried to form words again. “Spencer!” Danny mouthed. His eyes were glazing.

“Hold on, Danny, hold on. Don’t you die on me. I love you, you skinny little rich kid! Danny!”

He could hear the sirens. He could even hear the chopper blades. He’d said he needed the trauma unit, and they’d believed him. Help would be there in a matter of seconds.

The med techs arrived, already ripping open packages of bandages, starting an IV. There were hands on David’s shoulders.

“David!”

He turned.

Lieutenant Oppenheim, Danny’s superior, once his own, stood behind him. “David, let them do their work. If anyone can save Danny, it’s these guys. What happened? Who did this?”

Oppenheim was an old-timer on the force, white-haired, tall, solid as a barrel.

“I don’t know—he was supposed to meet me on the street. He was late. I came back to call and turned around—”

He looked at Danny. His friend was on a stretcher. Someone was radioing to the helicopter, and they were choosing a place for it to land.

“David, what the hell happened. Do you know? Did Danny say?”

David shook his head, staring at Danny as if he could keep him alive by watching him. “He was supposed to meet me. He was late. I came in to call his house and he was at my door. Just like that.”

“Did he say anything?”

David shook his head. “Just Spencer. His wife’s name.”

Ten minutes to go! Spencer switched off the water and stepped from the shower, toweling herself strenuously, a slight smile curving her lips. She dropped the towel and picked up her brush and hair dryer, fluffing up the heavy blond mass on her head as best she could in the time she had left. It was going to be perfect, she determined. Just perfect. And she knew just what she was going to do.

Seconds later she was slipping into a black garter belt with sheer black stockings and a pair of black heels. She found Danny’s black silk tie in the closet and tied in loosely around her neck. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Basic black. Danny had told her once that he liked her in black, and that he would like her best in a black tie and nothing more. Well, that was what he was getting today, because this was going to be special.

She turned quickly from the mirror and hurried down the stairs, pausing only to make certain that the drapes were drawn.

They were.

She rushed into the kitchen, dragged out and filled the ice bucket and grabbed a special bottle of Dom Perignon, then ran to the living room. She threw a lace cover over the Victorian coffee table, plopped the ice bucket on it with the champagne, and raced to the kitchen to fix two crystal bowls of grapes, one bunch green, the other purple. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes. He should be back within five minutes.

She arranged herself on the coffee table, sitting between the two bowls of grapes, the champagne behind her and just to the left. She jumped up, glanced at her watch again and hurried to the front door. It had to be open. She would ruin the whole effect if she had to open the door for Danny, which she would, since he didn’t carry a key in his jogging shorts.

She raced to the coffee table and sat down again, legs crossed Indian fashion. She waited, her heart ticking furiously. Did she look sexy? Or foolish? She smiled and decided that it didn’t matter; they would laugh one way or the other. And if they managed the desired result, then anything was worth it! Danny wanted kids so damned badly. He’d been a lonely little boy, which so few people understood. And she felt uncomfortably as if she had failed him in so many ways, and yet she wanted what he wanted more than anything in the world.

She stared at the door a bit uneasily. What if the mailman opened the door? No, the mailman never came until past noon. Never. UPS? No, they rang the doorbell, they didn’t just walk in.

A bum? A psychopathic murderer?

Spencer! she chastised herself. It would be just minutes until Danny came back. Maybe he was having coffee with David. Maybe, being Danny, he’d felt guilty about canceling an appointment. Maybe—despite what he’d said to her—he was even telling David the truth. They were best friends. Always best friends. Nothing had come between them. Not even her.

She’d never wanted to ruin anyone’s friendship; it was just that she had been so certain that David Delgado was out of her life. That the hurt was gone, that the tempest was over. She’d been so young when she’d fallen for David. She’d never imagined that anything could be as wild as it had been with David, as passionate, as hateful, as…

“Stop!” she charged herself out loud, closing her eyes tightly. She was sitting all but stark naked on a coffee table waiting for her husband to come home so that they could make a baby together. A baby they both wanted. A husband who was one of the best men in the entire world.

She was waiting for Danny, but if she didn’t get a grip on herself, she would be remembering the first time she’d ever made love. With his best friend.

David Delgado.

“If it’s a girl, I think I like the name Kyra,” she said out loud. “I wonder what Danny thinks of it? He’ll never tell me, I know. He’ll be so happy we’re going to have a baby that he won’t give a damn about a name at all.”

It had been at Sly’s house. She’d been sixteen years old at the time, and he hadn’t been much older. And, like everything that had happened between them, she’d forced the issue. He never wanted to touch her; she was Sly’s granddaughter, and he’d loved Sly ever since he’d met him. But Terry-Sue was after him big time, and Spencer just hadn’t been able to bear it. She had known what she wanted all the time she was forcing the fight and pushing him into a corner. She had known what she wanted….

She just hadn’t been prepared for what she had gotten. Or what would follow…

“If it’s a boy, it will be Daniel, of course,” she said loudly.

Then she heard the tapping at the door. She smiled. Danny was home, and she really did love him. Together they always dispelled all the demons of the past. Almost made them go away for good.

“It’s open, come right in!” she called.

The door swung inward, and she saw a tall silhouette framed there against the rising sun. He took a step into the house, and even before she saw his features, she knew he was all wrong, too tall, too broad shouldered to be Danny, wire muscled, tense—and dark where Danny was blond. This man had ebony dark hair and bronzed, taut features.

“David!” she gasped. Her breathing seemed to cease, her heart to stop beating. She felt like an idiot, cross-legged, naked on the table—her black tie perfectly in place.

She leaped up and all but hurled herself across the room, tearing an afghan from the back of a sofa and wrapping herself in it, then staring at the man who was staring at her in return. She wished that she could crawl beneath the coffee table.

Then she started babbling. “I’m—ah, I was just waiting for Danny to get back. He was going to talk to you. Did you miss him? There’s coffee in the kitchen. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go get dressed—”

“Spencer,” he said. Just that, and nothing more. His tone was level, but it held a wealth of agony. He didn’t tease her, didn’t even make an offhand comment. He just stared at her, and suddenly she felt a gripping chill. And she knew. She knew from the raspy sound of his voice, from the look in his eyes.

“Danny?” she whispered. And then it all fell into place. There were red splashes on the Marlins tank top he wore, on the white trim of his black jogging shorts. And there were tears in David’s eyes. Tears. The only time she’d ever seen David Delgado with tears in his eyes was the day they’d buried Michael MacCloud….

“Danny. Oh, my God. Danny!” she breathed. She’d never been so afraid in her whole life. She was going to be sick; the world was starting to spin; it was going black.

“Spencer, you’ve got to come with me. Quickly.”

She heard the words, but just barely. She wanted to fight the encroaching darkness, to go with him. No good. Consciousness was slipping away from her. Black heels, stockings, tie and afghan, she sank to the floor, and everything went black, just as if someone had turned out a light….

She made it to the hospital in time. David had brought her to with a cool cloth and a few shakes, and she had immediately wished that she could plummet back into the darkness. Danny hadn’t even been at work! He hadn’t been in uniform, or even on plainsclothes duty.

“Spencer, he’s alive. Come on, hurry.”

That had brought her up short. She’d found some strength and some dignity and taken only minutes to dress. A police escort had brought them to Jackson Memorial in less than ten minutes.

Danny had already been taken into surgery. For hours she and David paced the hospital corridors, drinking bad coffee out of paper cups from a machine, waiting.

Danny lived. Amazingly, he survived the surgery. The list of things the bullets had done to his body was endless, ripped and torn pancreas, liver. Damaged lungs and intestines.

But he held on. For days he held on. Day by day, she held his hand as he lay in the trauma unit.

Then, three weeks to the day after the shooting, the doctors told her that he had gone into a coma. David was there with her, standing behind her along with Sly as they explained what had happened, what she hadn’t wanted to understand. None of the injuries to his body had really mattered. Somehow an infection had gotten started and spread to his brain. And the brain was the one thing they absolutely couldn’t bring back. So Danny was alive. But he was dead. They wanted her permission to take him off the machines.

She signed the papers. And she sat by him again in the hospital. She held his hand. His hand looked so good! So strong, so normal! Long, still bronzed fingers. Clipped nails. Those hands had touched her, loved her. She could still draw them to her face, feel his knuckles against her cheeks. It wasn’t fair that he should still be the same….

Four weeks after the shooting, he drew his last breath. David was with her again, not speaking, just watching, waiting. He’d been there all along. There were always cops around, too—waiting, praying, guarding. David wasn’t a cop anymore, but it didn’t seem to matter. He’d let his business go straight to hell to sit with Danny. With her. He was silent most of the time. But he was there. And the past remained buried. A silent truce held between them. They both loved Danny, and for his sake, everything else was set aside. Her family came; her friends came. They offered words of comfort, words that, despite the very best of intentions, could do little. David’s silent presence was the only thing that mattered. She heard him talking sometimes to the cops who came. They were completely baffled as to who had done this to Danny. It hadn’t even really hit her yet that he was going to die, was already dead in the only way that mattered. She still thought that he would twist, turn, move, listen to her, awaken. They had said that he was brain-dead, but his heart was so strong. It kept beating. And David kept his quiet vigil behind her.

And after it was over, he was there to hold her when they came for the body, when she shrieked out, unable, after everything, to believe that Danny was really gone.

David was the one to give the eulogy when hundreds of people appeared at Danny’s funeral. He talked about Danny the boy, and Danny the man, and what Danny had meant to those who loved him. He talked about how he’d been a good cop, too, always there, the most moral man David had ever met, the finest.

When he was done, he stepped away from the microphone while the dispatcher stepped up to it.

“Detective Daniel Huntington is now oh-six,” she said softly.

Officer off duty, out of service. A twenty-one-gun salute exploded in the air.

And then it was over. Danny was, at last, at rest.

2

He’d been reading the file on his desk when she suddenly swept in, just like a relentless breeze. No, just like a damned hurricane, was more like it. She threw the morning paper down on his desk, and those beautiful, crystal blue and accusatory eyes stabbed into him like twin knives.

David looked up, arching a brow. “Spencer. How nice to see you,” he said dryly. It was nice to see her. No matter that she looked like a lioness on the hunt—ready to go right for the jugular. No matter what, Spencer looked good. The last year had take its toll on her, her face was leaner, her cheeks a shade more hollow, but even tragedy looked good on Spencer Anne Montgomery. Huntington, he reminded himself, as he so often seemed forced to do.

He’d been avoiding her, and he knew it. She’d made it easy for him at first. Right after the funeral, she’d gone to one of her mother’s family’s estates in Newport; then she’d come back and worked in her own West Palm offices for a few months. But she’d been in Miami for nearly two months, and now she was standing in his office, staring at him with barely suppressed fury.

“I take the Miami Herald,” he told her.

“Taking it doesn’t mean you read it,” she said. She inched the paper closer to him with a long, slim, beautifully manicured finger, and he was convinced that if he didn’t pick it up soon, she would press his nose right into it. He knew the article; he’d already read it—and ached over it.

All this time, in the year since Danny’s murder, there hadn’t been an arrest. There still wasn’t even a solid suspect. The police had worked on the case continuously, and David had put all his energies into it, called in favors, prowled the streets. They still didn’t even have a firm motive, though a number of them had been conceived and then dismissed. Hell, he’d even been questioned. So had Spencer. Wives were automatically number-one suspects, just as best friends were often number two—unless, of course, there were a number of ex-wives or mistresses running around in the background.

“Want to sit, Spencer?” he asked her, indicating the leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Or do you want to keep standing there, glaring at me.”

“I want you to do something!”

By that time Reva had come to the doorway. “Spencer’s here, David,” she informed him cheerfully. No one else could have gotten past his kid sister. Reva knew how to stop anyone in his or her tracks—except Spencer. He almost smiled. It had been like that even when they’d all been kids.

“Thanks, Reva. Why don’t you suggest to Mrs. Huntington that she sit down?” David said.

“Spencer—”

“Reva, have you read this article?” Spencer demanded, swinging around. She and Reva were both of an age, and both striking women, David thought, watching the two of them, a bit distracted for the moment. He’d been feeling that way lately. Frustration did it, he thought. They looked a little like a pair of modern-day fairy-tale princesses, Rose White and Rose Red, Spencer with her sweeping golden hair and sky-colored eyes, Reva with a curling mass of nearly black hair, tanned to the hilt, and though her eyes were really a very deep blue, just like David’s, they often looked as if they were black. They had always liked one another, but their relationships with him, he knew, had kept them from ever becoming close friends.

“I’ve read it, Spencer,” Reva said. “But you’ve got to know that David has done everything in his power—”

“It’s not enough!”

“But, Spencer—”

Spencer turned to face David again. “He was your best friend. How can you just forget him? Read the article! The reporter is claiming police incompetence, that no one seems to care anymore.”

David stood. “Spencer, I did read the damned article. And in case you didn’t notice, that reporter is also suggesting that you should have been more thoroughly investigated.”

“And all the while the real murderer is walking around at large, laughing at everyone.”

“Spencer,” Reva said, beginning to grow protective, “David almost allowed his entire business to fall apart, he was so desperate to find Danny’s killer. You’ve got—”

“Then I’ll hire David and the entire damned agency, and that way no one will be worrying about anything falling apart.”

David stood. He’d had it with Spencer carrying on, and he would be damned if he’d have his little sister fighting his battles for him, even against Spencer.

“I won’t work for you, Spencer,” he said flatly. “And for the moment, you can either sit down, in which case I’ll go over everything I know, or you can get out.”

“Damn you, David, I will not leave.”

“You will leave, because I’ll set you out bodily, then call the cops and tell them you’re harrassing me and affecting my business,” he told her, then sighed with exasperation as she continued to stare at him as if she were about to explode any second. “Spencer, please, sit!”

She sat. Reva caught his eye. “I’ll get some coffee,” she said.

“If it’s for Spencer, make it decaf. She certainly doesn’t need the caffeine!” David said.

Spencer let that pass. When David sat down behind his desk again, he felt a wave of guilt and sorrow sweep over him. She was so pale, and so damned thin. All her life, she had dressed beautifully but simply, and that hadn’t changed. She was wearing a sleeveless dress that stopped just above the knee. But the cut was perfect, and David assumed it was some kind of designer original, although Spencer also made a point of buying things just because she liked them, not because there was a name attached to them. Spencer had never acted as if she came from money, but it was always there in the background, just the same. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t sure just who had buckled to the family pressure, him or her.

Whatever, the dress, simple, perfect, looked wonderful on her. One minute she seemed like a tempest, and now she seemed all but ethereal. She needed more meat on her bones, more color in her face. Her eyes were haunted. Hell, his probably looked that way, too. It had been rough, learning to live with Danny gone.

And hunting for his killer.

“It’s been a year, David,” she said almost tonelessly.

“Spencer, have you been to the police—”

“Of course. Lots of times. They’re always as nice as they can be—except, of course, when they start questioning me again.”

“They have to do that, Spencer.”

“How could I have killed him?” she asked bleakly.

He hesitated. “The way they see it, anything is possible. You might have run out, shot him, run home, then waited for someone to come and give you the news.”

“But you know—”

“I’m telling you what the D.A.’s office could come up with in terms of motive. You were his wife. You inherited a sizable fortune on his death.”

“But you found me—”

“Stark naked. What a great way to shed bloody clothing.”

She was standing again, staring at him as if he were a cold-blooded killer. “You bastard! What about you? He died in your arms!”

“Spencer, sit down, or I’ll make you sit down in about two seconds!”

She didn’t sit. He swore, rising. She sat, teeth grating, staring at him. “Spencer, damn you, they questioned me, too, over and over. Guys I worked with for years. They had to explore all the possibilities.”

Tears were hovering in her eyes. She was trying very hard not to shed them. “I loved Danny.”

“I know that, Spencer.” He clenched his teeth, feeling as if he’d been punched in the heart. He’d loved Danny, too. Just about everyone who ever met Danny Huntington cared about him. Except, of course, the killer. Or killers?

“Spencer, remember the case just a few years ago? Right on Bayshore Drive. Wife calls in, her husband’s been shot. Says some men broke in and killed him. Turned out she hired the men who shot them, let them in and out, waited long enough for them to disappear, then called emergency. Remember, Spencer?”

“Yes, I remember,” she said impatiently. “She was also much younger than he was and wanted his money. The two cases are nothing at all alike.”

“Spencer, the police can’t help it. Most murders are committed by people close to the victims. Wives rank right on top.”

“Damn you, David, I didn’t come here to listen to you explain why the cops questioned me. Danny has been dead for over a year. A cop, David, a cop murdered—and no suspect in sight! And you sit there justifying why they questioned me! I want to know what else they’ve got! And all anyone will ever tell me is that, oh, we’ve a few leads, we’re following this one or that one! They humor me. They pat me on the back, but nothing happens!”

“Spencer, they’re trying. It takes time—”

“I want to know what you’ve got.”

“Spencer, go home. Reconstruct something,” he told her. Was reconstruct the right word? He wasn’t sure. Montgomery Enterprises wasn’t really a construction company, nor was it a decorating firm. Sly had begun the business in the very early days of the city’s existence. Back then he’d done detail work, cornices, moldings, mantels, working with the best architects and builders. He had liked to remember those old times, when the now bustling, international city had been nothing but a small southern settlement carved out of a swamp. Now they preserved the old, making it as good as new. They restored buildings, down to the small details, the tiles, moldings and cornices. David found it hard to imagine that there was enough here to keep them going, but it was remarkable to see sometimes, through Sly’s eyes, just how much was considered to be of historical value. Especially in the last decade or so, with the Art Deco boom, the refurbishing of the beaches and certain other areas of Greater Miami, the old had become in. Montgomery Enterprises was doing extremely well.

“Go home, or go repair a quaint old bathroom or something,” he told her, rubbing his temple.

Her eyes narrowed. “I went home, David. I went away for a year, and I left everything to the cops and to you, his best friend, the hometown boy who could find out anything! I went away, but damn it, it seems like I’m the only one who really cares! I have to stay on this if we’re ever going to find Danny’s killer. The eulogy was just great, the cops who turned out were wonderful, the twenty-one-gun salute was grand! But that buried him, and he’s stayed buried. And the case has stayed buried with him. I want something done now. I want to know what you’ve got. He was a homicide cop. What was he on to? Why was he meeting you that morning?”

Reva cleared her throat from the doorway. “Coffee!” she said cheerfully.

David was glad for the interruption. It bought him a little time as his sister came into his office and set the tray on his desk. He was deterred from his thoughts by the tray, though. They kept mugs in the office. Good sturdy mugs. But there were china cups sitting on a silver tray, and the coffeepot was silver, as well, along with the creamer and sugar bowl.

He stared at Reva, who glanced at Spencer and shrugged. He smiled, shaking his head.

“Thanks, Reva,” Spencer said, restlessly standing again, approaching the tray.

“Spencer, please, relax!” David said.

“I can’t just sit still!” she exclaimed, reaching for the coffee server. She glanced at Reva. “I don’t mean to be difficult—yes, I do, except not about the coffee—but do you still have those great mugs around here anywhere?”

“I—” Reva said blankly, then stared at David again. “Yes, sure, of course.”

Reva went out. David leaned back in his chair, not knowing whether he wanted to grin or pick Spencer up bodily and remove her from the office altogether.

He leaned forward, fingers folded on his desk. “Spencer, if you believe that I cared about Danny, then you know that I’m doing what I can. Everyone in the world knows that cops will do anything they can to catch the killer of another cop—”

“Why was he meeting with you that morning?” Spencer interrupted determinedly.

“To go over the Vichy case.”

“I want to know about the Vichy case.”

Reva returned with the mugs. Spencer flashed her a smile of gratitude. “Thanks. I don’t know why, but coffee always tastes better in a mug.”

“A quick cup of coffee shouldn’t matter much,” David said.

“But it may not be quick,” Spencer warned.

How the hell was he going to be able to get rid of her?

He stood up. “I’ll pour the coffee.”

“None for me!” Reva said, casting David a quick glance and grinning. “My work is looking good at the moment.” She made another quick departure.

“Spencer, damn it, if you’re staying, sit down!” David said, his tone carrying the rough edge of aggravation. Spencer sat, and he poured coffee into two mugs. “Still black, one sugar?” he asked her.

“Yes, please.”

Still black, one sugar. Exactly the way she’d been drinking coffee since high school.

Some things just didn’t change. Like the way he had always felt about her.

He almost slammed her mug down in front of her before returning to the chair behind his desk. He opened a drawer and threw a mile-high pile of folders on top of his blotter. “This is what I’ve been doing all year, Spencer. There are over two hundred interviews in here, notes on people, places, stakeouts. Five of the files are completely closed—they concern homicides Danny was working on that have been solved and could in no way have anything to do with his death. The Vichy case remains open and may remain open forever.”

“Why?”

“You know Eugene Vichy.”

“I know him?”

“He belongs to your yacht club.”

Spencer frowned. He realized that she probably hadn’t been to the yacht club in a very long time.

“He’s fifty-something, white-haired, good-looking, always looks like he just walked off a movie set. His wife, the late Mrs. Vichy, was sixty-something, and not quite so good-looking but very rich. She expired from a knock on the head. The house had been ripped up, some diamonds were missing. Vichy claimed to have come in and found the place in disarray and to have been brokenhearted at the loss of his beloved Vickie.”

“Vickie? Vickie Vichy?” Spencer said.

“You know her?”

She shrugged. “The name sounds vaguely familiar—and absurd—but then, maybe Danny talked about the case. I don’t remember. But why do you think the case will remain unsolved?”

“Because Vichy passed a lie detector test and he still holds to his story.”

“Maybe he’s innocent.”

David shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not for a minute. And neither did Danny.”

Spencer sat forward, suddenly very intense. “So Danny was pressuring this man. And Vichy knew that Danny wouldn’t quit. And he’d already proven himself adept at murder—”

“Spencer, the cops have to have some kind of evidence to make an arrest.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“Go on?”

“Who else is in the suspect lineup?”

“Spencer, you should go home—”

“I’m not going home until you tell me exactly where you are in this investigation.”

“Spencer, I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m not working for you.”

“Then start working for me.”

“No.”

“David, financially I can compete with any other clients you have. I need—”

“Damn it, Spencer!” He’d been planning to remain calm. Understanding. They weren’t kids anymore; too much of life had already cracked them over the head. But there was something about Spencer. He wanted to either hold her or shake her. Shaking her was a whole lot safer. “I can’t be bought, Spencer. You know that.”

“You shouldn’t have to be bought!” she lashed back, trying to keep her anger in check. “He was your best friend. He—”

“Spencer, get out.”

“I won’t leave until you finish.”

“Spencer, I’ll pick you up and put you out!” he warned her.

Her eyes narrowed sharply. “I’ll leave on my own accord. I just want to know what else you’re doing, who else you’re watching.”

He groaned. “They threw you out of the police station, so you’ve come to torture me.”

“David—”

“Yes, Vichy might have been tired of Danny’s determination to prove him guilty,” he snapped coldly, staring out the huge plate-glass window to the garden beyond. A slatted wood fence surrounded the garden, making it private and quiet. A mass of deep purple bougainvillea grew clinging along the fence. Wood chips filled in the space around deep green ferns and impatiens. It was a pleasant and peaceful view, but he felt anything but pleasant or peaceful now. “There are only two other people Danny was investigating who might have had the motive and method to kill him. The first is Ricky Garcia, who—”

Spencer gasped, interrupting him. “I’ve seen the name. In fact, I definitely remember Danny talking about him. He’s a crime boss, the head of a Cuban Mafia-type ring. He controls drug rings and prostitution, gambling—”

“Exactly. He’s as slippery as an eel, as well. He can snap his fingers and find a dozen hit men.”

“Then it must be him,” Spencer whispered, her eyes steady on his. “And there must be a way to trap him.”

“If there is, Spencer, the police—or I—will find it. And there’s no guarantee that Danny actually had anything on him, or that he had anything against Danny. In fact, he liked Danny.”

“He liked Danny?”

“It’s more common than you think for criminals to like the cops who are after them,” he said with a shrug.

“But—”

“Then there’s Trey Delia. You must know that name, as well.”

She nodded, frowning. “He’s the cult leader.”

“He’s not exactly a cult leader.”

“He was the one accused of raiding graves for body parts!” Spencer exclaimed. “For his rituals.”

“He was accused of grave robbing, but the police weren’t so certain he was after body parts. They think he might have been trying to hide evidence. A number of his church members were dying inexplicably. He managed to get most of them cremated. Danny thought he was behind the vandalism in several cemeteries. He was digging up some of his own people and making sure nothing could be found if the police did decide to exhume a few bodies. Now, that’s it, Spencer. I’ve given you every name I’ve got left on my list of possibilities. I haven’t been sitting back idle, I’m doing everything I can. Now I want you to get up, go home and forget it.”

She was up, hands on his desk, staring at him as he stared at her. “I can’t forget—”

“You have to.” He gritted his teeth, wishing again that he didn’t feel the awful urge to either shake her or wrap his arms around her. The last would be one dreadful mistake. She would welcome him with all the warmth and comfort of a porcupine. Nothing would ever be right between them again; Danny’s death had made that an even greater certainty. He needed to keep her away from him. He’d always needed to keep her away from him. Temptation was too great when she was near. And temptation with Spencer was pure torment. He’d learned the hard way that there was nothing in the world quite like wanting Spencer. And nothing in the world quite like the way a man could find his soul wrenched right from his being by the void she could leave in his life. She looked as if she belonged on a pedestal. A blond goddess with her perfect alabaster skin. An Anglo goddess with a perfect pedigree. Yeah, Danny had matched her just perfectly.

“Get out, Spencer.”

“Damn you, David!”

“When I know something, I’ll tell you. If you can do something, I’ll tell you. Until then, leave me the hell alone so that I can keep working.”

“David…”

She fell silent as he approached her with pure menace. He forced himself to close his hands around her arms with some control—but not a lot of it. He turned her bodily around and ushered her out of his office as quickly as he could, wishing even for those few seconds that he didn’t have to touch her at all. He could smell her. He didn’t know what the scent was, only that she had worn it as long as she had worn a bra, that it wasn’t just cologne or perfume, it was soap and body lotion, as well. It was subtle, mixed with something that was just plain Spencer, and it was also intoxicating and sensual. Feelings of guilt instantly began to creep over him, like a crimson tide. He felt the attraction just as he had felt it when Danny was still alive, just as he had felt it when he and Spencer had both been young and a little bit wild and alive with the sheer power of their youth and growing sexuality. He wanted Spencer, he’d always wanted her, had never stopped wanting her, even when she had been married to his best friend. But he would never have touched her when she was Danny’s wife, and as Danny’s widow, somehow she seemed twice as taboo.

“David, damn you,” she began again, as he escorted her past Reva’s desk and through the reception area.

“Say goodbye to Spencer, Reva. She’s got to go out and get on with her life now.”

Reva looked up miserably from her desk. Furious, Spencer snatched her wrists away from David. “Thank you, Reva,” Spencer told his sister; then her eyes, ice blue now, met his. “And thank you, of course. For your unconditional support and assistance!”

“Spencer, how many times can I say this? I swear, I’m doing everything I can!”

“It’s not enough, David. It’s just not enough.”

But that was Spencer’s final volley. She was out the front door of his office. He watched her heels click smartly on the pavement as she marched to the small parking area just off Main Street.

Maybe he should have put his office out on the beach, he thought. Up in Miami Springs, or over on Key Biscayne. Somewhere other than where Spencer had always lived. No, he had always lived here, too. And Spencer and he would be entangled now even if he’d moved his office to Never Never Land.

He turned around. Reva was staring at him. Something seemed to close around his heart. “What?” he snapped to his sister. “You think she’s right? You think there’s something else I can do that I haven’t?”

Reva shook her head, watching him almost sadly. “I know that you’ve spent more than a year trying to trace Danny’s killer,” she told him flatly. “I just feel so sorry for her.”

“Wonderful. She bursts in here like hell on wheels, and you feel bad for poor, poor Spencer.”

Reva ignored that with a shrug. “None of us could believe what happened to Danny. It seemed that everyone in the world loved him. I mean, can you remember a time in our lives when Danny didn’t come through for anyone? And Spencer was married to him. The rest of us may be able to accept that, as awful as it is, the killer will never be found. But Spencer…Spencer will never be able to rest until the case is closed.”

David swore softly, turned away from his sister and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Reva asked him.

“Somewhere quiet. To visit Danny.”

To visit Danny…

Well, at the very least, it really was quiet. After he’d stopped the car, at least. He drove an accelerated Mustang, not ostentatious, not a junk pile, and fast enough to follow just about anything on the road. And besides, Michael MacCloud had always believed in buying American.

The cemetery wasn’t far. Just through Coconut Grove and north past downtown Coral Gables, then to the right where it became the City of Miami again. Danny’s grave was almost at the center of the graveyard; he’d been laid to rest beneath a marble angel. David stood over the grave. The grass was all grown in, and a bouquet of fresh flowers sat in the brass vase just above the headstone that stated Danny’s full name, his rank and “best friend, beloved husband, always cherished within our hearts.”

Sometimes, he still couldn’t believe that Danny was gone.

“Why couldn’t you have talked to me, buddy?” he said softly. “You didn’t tell me anything about the killer—you had to whisper her name! Well, I suppose I just might have done that, too. But it would have helped me a hell of a lot now if you’d just given me a clue.”

There was a slight motion behind him. He wore a gun beneath his jacket, but instinct told him that he wasn’t in any real danger in this realm of the dead. He turned around slowly, expectantly.

Sly was there. Sly Montgomery. David wasn’t sure just how old Sly was—but it was definitely very. He’d come south with some of the earliest pioneers, not too long after Julia Tuttle had sent Henry Flagler an orange blossom to convince Flagler to bring his railroad south. Sly was somewhere in his nineties—unless he’d hit a hundred—but age didn’t seem to affect the man much. He was slim as a reed and straight as an arrow. He’d never lost his hair. It was snow-white, but there was a lot of it. And he had the most intense blue eyes David had ever seen anywhere—unless he compared them to Spencer’s. Sly had made enough money to retire anywhere on earth, but this was his home, working with his hands was his craft. When David had been young, Sly had told him that he intended to die working. He’d meant those words.

A smile curved old Sly’s lips. “David. How nice to see you.”

David arched a brow. “We just happen to be out here at the same time?”

“Of course not.”

“Then…?”

“Reva told me where you were.”

“Why were you looking for me?” he asked, then sighed, staring at the grave again and speaking once more before Sly could answer the question he’d been asked. “Spencer was by, and I’ve got to tell you the same thing I told her. You can’t hire me to look for Danny’s killer. I’m already doing everything I can. You’ve both got to believe that. He was my best friend. I don’t need to be paid to put everything I’ve got into it.”

“Oh, I believe that,” Sly said. “And I didn’t come to ask if I could hire you.”

David turned to Sly, arching a brow. “Surely this isn’t a social call, not in a cemetery, Sly.” Sly grinned. They couldn’t be his own teeth, David thought, but whether they were or not, they were perfect.

“I didn’t come about Danny.”

“Then…”

“I came about Spencer.”

“What?”

“I want to hire you to look after Spencer.”

“Why?”

“I think that someone is following her. No, that’s not right. I’m sure that someone is following her, stalking her. In fact, David, I think that someone is trying to kill her.”

Jerry Fried, Danny Huntington’s last partner in homicide, drummed his fingers on the table, staring unhappily at the headlines on the front page of the Miami Herald.

More Than A Year After His Death, Humanitarian Cop’s Killer Remains At Large

The reporter had done one hell of a slam job, throwing suspicion on everyone, including the untouchable Mrs. Huntington, David Delgado, half the crooks in the city—and half the police force.

Jerry groaned and reached across his desk for the large bottle of cherry-flavored antacids he kept there. He took a huge handful as if they were candies.

It was Spencer being back in town that was causing all this brouhaha again. Why couldn’t they just let Danny stay buried? Everyone knew that cops did everything they could when another cop went down. Just like everybody knew there were some crimes that were destined to go unsolved. Maybe everybody didn’t know quite how many there were, but people had to know they existed, especially in a city as big as Miami.

A queasy pain swished in his stomach again; he chewed another handful of antacids. Damn Spencer. Why hadn’t she just stayed in Rhode Island? It would have been better for all of them.

Gene Vichy read the headline at the breakfast table while enjoying the elegant view of water and yachts at his club. He smiled slightly, shaking his head. It was one self-righteous reporter who had done the job on this one! The police were, it seemed, a handful of incompetents. His smile deepened. The general public didn’t always understand the law. Take the case of his poor murdered wife. The cops sure as hell thought he had done it, but they didn’t have a shred of proof. The D.A.’s office could never prosecute him; they had nothing but their certainty that the motive had been money. Now, as to Danny…

The poor cops. They didn’t even have an obvious motive. In the murder of a husband or wife, as he well knew, the cops instantly looked to the surviving spouse.

Spencer had inherited a fortune on her husband’s death, but what did that matter to a woman who had several fortunes of her own already. Then there was jealousy. A lover, perhaps?

But, alas again for the poor cops! Spencer Huntington seemed purer than the driven snow. Where to go from there. To a best friend?

To all those crooks Danny Huntington had been after?

A friend, a foe—a snitch?

He laughed out loud softly. He could almost feel it in the air. Fur was going to fly again.

Ricky Garcia swore violently in his native Spanish and threw the paper on the floor.

¡Merde! The cops were going to be crawling all over him again. Coming down on his gambling, on his prostitutes.

All because the wife was back in town, stirring up trouble!

Jared Monteith hadn’t read the paper at home that morning. He didn’t see the headline until he sat down behind his desk. Even as he sat, his line rang. He winced before picking up the receiver, knowing full well that it was going to be his wife.

“Did you read the damned paper?” Cecily could screech extremely well when she wanted to.

“Yes, I’m looking at it right now.”

“I told you Spencer was trouble.”

“Cecily—the reporter is down on Spencer!”

Cecily sniffed. “As if Spencer is going to worry!”

“Sly’s calling me,” Jared said and sighed. “Cecily, no big deal, okay? Gotta go.”

Trey Delia read the paper in his incense-filled room. He was sitting cross-legged and naked on his floor. The two young women who had recently come to fulfill his needs giggled softly from somewhere behind him as he sipped herbal tea laced with ox blood. Raw chicken hearts sat on a plate before him.

Something human would have been better.

The ancients understood. Consuming an enemy gave a man his enemy’s strength. A heart offered courage and wisdom. Some organs gave strength. Bone-meal gave a man physical and mental powers.

Ah, and now this….

Everyone would be up in arms again.

The cops would be going crazy. It must be Danny’s widow stirring up the dust. Spencer, the beautiful wife. Trey had seen her picture. Very blond, elegant. Tempting.

He popped a chicken heart into his mouth and drew a deep breath from the hashish pipe at his side. The girls were still giggling.

Spencer…

She was trouble. So pretty. So much trouble. So pale, slim, elegant.

He wondered how she would taste.

In his office, Sly read the headline and groaned.

Audrey was sipping her coffee and reading, as well. Poor Spencer. The wound Danny’s death had left was being ripped open all over again. Of course, Spencer was doing it herself, but still, it was sad.

So many people would be upset! Dangerous people. But there would be no stopping Spencer. Audrey knew her well, and she didn’t really blame her.

Audrey bit her lip and continued to scan the paper.

Jon Monteith, Jared’s father, Spencer’s uncle, lay his head wearily on his pillow.

If only they could let matters rest!

After all, it hadn’t been a drive-by shooting, and any fool knew Spencer wasn’t guilty. It hadn’t been robbery.

So why kill a cop?

It was simple. The way he saw it, the cop had known too much.

A cop learned things on the streets. He was an investigator. He found things out, and sometimes he was careful about telling even his associates what he knew.

And pursuing what was going on could be dangerous. Danny had been bright. Danny had been on to so many things. And with Spencer raising a fuss and the newspapers going crazy, things were bound to happen.

Yes…

A veritable Pandora’s box could fly right open.

He swore and groaned.

Spencer had come home, and she wouldn’t let things rest. She just didn’t know what was good for her.

Spencer was one royal pain in the ass.

He picked up the phone and waited for an answer. “Have you seen the headline?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “I’m on it. I’ve been on it, damn it!”

“Make sure you stay on it. Make damned sure, because if you don’t…”

He let the force of the husky threat fade, then replaced the receiver with a sharp click.

Accidents did happen. Oh, yes. Accidents did happen.

3

There were at least a hundred good reasons she shouldn’t be in a cemetery in the dead of night, Spencer thought.

And the longer she stood in the darkness, the longer the list became and the more foolish her errand seemed to be.

It was just that…she had to do something. Someone had to do something. She had tried very hard to let the police do their work. She had even understood when they had grilled her, relentlessly, apologetically, relentlessly again. She applauded their efforts—at least it had seemed as if they were traveling along every possible avenue.

And she even believed—no, she knew—that David Delgado would have stopped at nothing to catch Danny’s killer.

It was just that they weren’t doing enough.

She’d gone away for a long time. She’d stopped working for a while, but idleness had been sheer misery. She knew that she couldn’t bring Danny back. But she also knew that she would never be able to live the new life David was ordering her to until she had laid Danny’s ghost to rest by seeing his killer caught.

But this…this was probably sheer stupidity. She might not find out anything, and she might well be mugged by some petty thief. Or worse. The casual crime in South Florida was as scary as the acts committed with premeditated malice.

Sly was worried about her, she knew. It was because of the beam that had collapsed in the old house she’d been working on last week. But the place had practically been condemned, and she’d only agreed to work on it because her cousin Jared had set up a meeting with an ace architect and one of the best builders in the city. And it had been a gracious old place, designed by DeGarmo, with fantastic huge beams in the ceiling, the original tiles and stenciling—all crying out to be saved. The beam could have fallen on anyone, and it hadn’t actually fallen on her. It had missed her by several inches. She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, herself, but Sly had been with her….

A cloud rolled over the moon. It was very dark. A breeze suddenly stirred against the humidity and heat of the night, and she was startled to feel a creeping sensation of cold sweep over her.

The paper today had carried a wealth of information. The grave robbers were at it again, and the police again suspected Trey Delia’s offshoot of Santeria. Santeria was indeed a strange religion, from what Spencer knew of it. It was a form of Catholicism mixed with some very odd theologies from the islands. Its rituals often called for live sacrifices—chickens and goats, usually, although human body parts were also considered useful, especially by some offshoot groups. Grave robbers had absconded with fingers and toes and the like before.

Today in the office, Audrey had idly pointed out how the grave robbery had seemed to follow a pattern the first time, a pattern that circled the city, then came dead center back into it. And now it seemed that things were happening just the same way again.

Was that what had brought her here?

She had one contact left who no one knew about. Not the police, not anyone. His name was Willie Harper; he lived on the streets in downtown Miami, and though he didn’t have a drug problem, he did like a good bottle of Scotch. Spencer had once been very unhappy about Willie, telling Danny that he was paying the man just to help him kill himself with his alcoholism. But it wasn’t really that bad. Willie was a good sort. Danny paid him well, and before he drank any of it away, he bought food for all his friends, blankets, sometimes even a cheap hotel room for the night. But Willie liked living on the streets. He liked to make money, too. When he’d contacted Spencer, she’d promised to keep paying him for any information he could give her that might help find Danny’s killer.

He’d called her that afternoon—with the same observation that Audrey had made.

She exhaled, leaning against the edge of the small family mausoleum that sheltered her from the view of anyone who might have been driving along the twisting roads that led through the cemetery. The stone felt very cold, and she felt like an absolute idiot for being here. It wasn’t as if she was carrying a gun—or as if she would know how to use one if she did. She had pepper spray in the car—Danny had always insisted she carry it, and he had shown her how to use it. But she hadn’t thought to bring it with her; she wasn’t planning on accosting anyone. She had just come to see what was going on, to make sure that if any grave robbers did come, they wouldn’t touch Danny’s grave or desecrate his tomb in any way.

She started to shiver.

This was nuts. What did she think she was going to do, if someone did show up? Was she going to yell at some ghoul in the middle of a dark cemetery and tell him to stop?

Especially when he might be her husband’s murderer?

It was an old cemetery, filled with trees and foliage. She tried to tell herself that her car was parked relatively close by at the doughnut shop just across Eighth Street, that even though it was very late, the main streets were teeming with people—even though the cemetery did seem unbelievably dark and still and silent, and far from civilization. In fact, there were probably a number of cops eating doughnuts right by her car. But then, that was at least half a mile away.

An owl let out a hoot, and a nearby tree rustled, and she nearly jumped into the mausoleum. She forced herself to remain still and stare toward the tree. Images of Dracula came to her mind. Creatures breaking out of their tombs. Maybe the human monsters from Night of the Living Dead. Werewolves, mummies…

But this wasn’t Egypt, and there was no full moon. In fact, with the clouds, there was barely a moon at all. She felt like an idiot. And she deserved to. She shouldn’t be here. A squirrel had rustled the tree—she could see it now, even in the shadows, leaping from the ground to a monument, and then to another tree. No creatures from beyond the grave were going to come after her. In fact, she’d gone through a period of mourning when she’d lain awake at night just praying that Danny could come back as a ghost, in voice, in spirit—in anything. But Danny hadn’t come back. It was just as her father had once told her, the dead were the least threatening people in the world.

No, it wasn’t the dead she had to fear. It was the living.

The cloud broke over the moon, and a silver light fell down on the cemetery. It was time to go home, she told herself. A very light fog was rising, and it was growing cool and damp and uncomfortable here. It was time to go crawling over the wall and go home. Nothing was going to happen. Unless she was arrested in her black jeans and black denim shirt and sneakers for breaking into the cemetery. No, the cops would never arrest her. They would just suggest to someone in her family that Danny’s death had been her undoing, and that it was sad, but she really ought to be put away somewhere—fast.

She started to move, but then a chill swept over her again, and for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she stood dead still. She tried not to give way to flights of imagination, but the fog had added a strange feeling to the graveyard. It was a ground fog, deepening, swirling around marble images of Christ and praying angels. She heard a rustling sound again, and this was different. Something much larger than a squirrel was coming around one of the old oaks just down the trail past the vault she was leaning against.

She breathed quickly, her heart hammering. She could hear footsteps; then a figure appeared. Then another figure, and another, all dressed in black. Carrying spades and picks. They emerged in silence from the fog, walking her way. Walking as if they were staring right at her.

They couldn’t possibly see her; it was just coincidence that they were heading in her direction. Her fingers icy, her heart slamming so loudly that she was certain someone would hear it, she ducked very low against the mausoleum.

“Where?” someone demanded in whisper.

“There, in the center,” someone whispered back.

Keeping low, Spencer swung around. She noticed what she hadn’t seen before in the darkness—a new grave, the earth just packed over it. This was crazy, she thought. They were living in the twentieth century, and people weren’t just dumped underground, they were well protected before being placed in their graves. But apparently these grave robbers knew what they were doing. They moved furtively and quickly, six of them, she counted, and every one of the six carrying a tool with which to dig—or to break open a coffin. She wasn’t even sure just what all the tools they carried were, exactly.

She couldn’t tell one man from another—if they were all men. They were dressed much like she was, in black, but they wore black caps, as well, and ski masks. They looked like bank robbers, she thought, and realized that hysteria was bubbling up inside her. The way they were moving, she had to inch around the mausoleum to keep from being seen. When she had rounded a corner, she sat on the earth, her back flat against the stone, staring into the night. She couldn’t get up and run now; she would be seen. She could only sit where she was, barely daring to breathe, listening.

She heard the sound of spades hitting the earth. Somehow, just the sound made her flinch. She twisted to peer around the corner of the small mausoleum. As she did, her sneakered foot scraped against a rock.

It was a small noise. It shouldn’t have been heard, not against the determined shoves of the spades digging into the earth. But somehow…

One of the diggers went very still, staring in her direction.

“What is it?” a husky voice asked.

“Don’t know…something,” was the muttered reply.

She flattened herself against the stone, afraid to exhale her pent-up breath. She had to look. She peered around again. One digger had remained standing perfectly still, staring in her direction. It was dark, she was in shadows…and she’d been seen.

She stared at the figure in black and felt the figure’s stare in return. Felt the eyes, felt the danger…

She didn’t think—there was no time to think. She stood and ran, tearing down the central path, aware that her best bet would be to head for the main street. She was fast, she’d always been fast. And she knew the layout of the cemetery well enough.

But figures were tearing after her at tremendous speed.

She veered off the main path, around the huge, central mausoleum. She tore along a pathway to a gate but found it locked.

She could hear footsteps coming closer. Furtive, but moving quickly, coming in her direction.

She burst away from the mausoleum, ducking low to run behind angels and Madonnas that rose high against the shadows and the fog. She ducked behind one and listened. Running footsteps passed her by. She remained where she was, thinking herself an absolute idiot for the thousandth time. There was enough danger in Dade County. She hadn’t needed to go looking for it. And these people had come to rob a new grave for body parts. They seemed to like them fresh. The fresher the better.

Hers would be very, very fresh….

She leaped up, bordering on panic. She could see a figure farther along one of the trails. She turned to run the other way.

Fingers suddenly curled around her ankle.

A scream of sheer terror rose in her throat, but she never managed more than a strangled gasp. Even as she inhaled, she was falling to the earth, falling into a hole, into darkness, into what seemed like an incredible void.

She landed against flesh. Terror wound more tightly within her, but she couldn’t catch her breath to scream. It was like a nightmare.

A hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and horrible visions of the living dead raced into her panicked mind. The scent of the fresh damp earth filled her lungs, and it seemed as if it was the smell of death.

She felt herself being lifted and righted. Then she heard a whisper, hushed, dictatorial. “Shush! Whatever the hell you do, don’t scream. It’s me. David.”

She was shaking. She’d probably never been more frightened in her life. She registered slowly that it was David—she really had run into David in a freshly dug hole in the middle of the cemetery in the middle of the night. It seemed impossible.

“Get down!” he told her.

Easy to do—her knees were buckling beneath her. She could scarcely breathe, and she was willing herself not to pass out.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she demanded in a whisper. It felt as if the blood had drained from her body. Her hair had probably turned completely white.

She clenched her fingers tightly. Wound them into white-knuckled fists.

“Damn it, David.”

“Shut up, Spencer!” he repeated in an emphatic whisper.

She managed to make a few observations. Basic black was really in. David, too, was in black. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black cotton jacket. She had a feeling that he was wearing a shoulder holster beneath the jacket.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, barely mouthing the words. Despite the darkness, she was sure he heard her.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded in return.

“Watching for the grave robbers,” she admitted flatly.

“Well, they’re watching for you now, Spencer, so please, can we talk later?”

She gritted her teeth, and leaned back. She came against a wall of dirt. Very damp dirt. She looked up at the night sky and realized that she was six feet under. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

It was very dark. She could barely see David, but she could sense his movements, at least. He’d reached into his jacket. For his gun, she was certain. But then she heard him talking. Softly, barely a whisper.

Number sequences, the name of the cemetery, the address. “Southeast of the main mausoleum,” he said at last.

He was on a very small cellular phone, she realized, and stared at him incredulously.

“A phone, no gun?” she said softly.

He replaced the phone and pulled his gun, arching a brow at her. “Six of them, one of me. I’m good, Spencer, but, hey, cut me a little slack here, huh?”

She started to answer then went still again as they both heard trees rustling nearby and felt the tremor of the earth near them. Loose particles fell around them. Spencer felt the blood draining from her face.

David motioned to her to get down. She shrank against the wall of the grave, hunching as low as she could. Someone came nearer and nearer, very near. So near that he was looking into the open grave…

Suddenly David pressed away from the opposite wall, catching the man’s ankle as he had caught hers, causing him to plummet wildly into the grave. He landed with a hard whack, sending dirt flying into Spencer’s face. In the darkness she barely saw him raise his head. A moonbeam caught the light of his eyes against their frame of knit ski mask, making them glitter. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Spencer heard a click as David cocked his gun.

“Rise slowly, quietly—and carefully,” David warned.

The figure began to follow instructions. Even as he did, Spencer could hear the sound of sirens in the night. Closing in. But she was still standing in an open grave—empty other than the living, she prayed—with David and a grave robber. The space seemed to be way too small for the three of them.

She became aware of shouting, the grave robbers calling out in anger, warning one another, some cries in English, some in Spanish. Lights were flaring, and there were other calls now. “Halt, police! Stop, or we’ll shoot!”

The cemetery suddenly seemed ablaze as the beams of flashlights cut across it.

“Can we get out of here?” Spencer asked David.

David shrugging, keeping an eye on the robber who was sharing their hole in the earth. “Since the police have just warned everyone that they’ll shoot, we might be better off down here for a few minutes.” He grinned. “Then we can let our friend crawl up first.”

Was it seconds, minutes or eons longer? Eventually someone called out, “Delgado, where are you?”

“Here!” David cried.

In a few moments a uniformed officer was staring down at the three of them, perplexed. Spencer realized that she knew him. She had danced with him one year at the policemen’s ball. His name was Tim Winfield. “Mrs. Huntington?” he inquired incredulously.

“Give the lady a hand up, Officer Winfield,” David suggested.

“Oh, yeah, of course.”

Tim Winfield was young but strongly muscled. He clutched Spencer’s hands, lifting her easily out of the grave. He kept staring at her once she was standing by his side.

“Now you,” David told his captive. He looked at the young cop. “Might want to give this fellow a hand, too, Winfield. But keep an eye on him while you do.”

David hopped out of the grave even as Tim Winfield pulled the ski-masked culprit up to ground level. When they were all standing, a plainclothes man Spencer hadn’t met before came forward. She might not know him, but David did.

“Lieutenant,” David acknowledged.

“Mr. Delgado,” the cop said, offering him a handshake and staring at Spencer. “We’ve been after these guys for a long time. Thanks for the call.” He stared again at Spencer, taking in her black outfit, smiling.

“A new investigator on the payroll, David?” the lieutenant inquired, amused as he assessed Spencer. He was tall and lean, with thinning brown hair, but he had a decent enough smile.

Officer Winfield gasped, letting out a choking sound, then pretending to cough.

“No, Lieutenant Anderson, this is Mrs. Huntington. Mrs. Daniel Huntington.”

“Oh!” the lieutenant said, looking at Spencer in a new light. He was, she knew, wondering what the hell she was doing dressed up like one of the grave robbers.

“Spencer likes to walk at night. In strange places,” David offered.

“Dangerous places,” Anderson said, looking Spencer over very seriously once again. “How did you know that something was going to go down here tonight?” he asked David suddenly.

“I didn’t,” David answered flatly, holstering his gun as a uniformed cop came to take the grave robber away. The cop instantly began to read the man his rights.

“Then—”

“It was Spencer,” David said politely. “You see, I followed her here,” he told Anderson, watching Spencer from the corner of his eye. “It seems that Mrs. Huntington doesn’t believe that either I or Miami’s finest are really doing our jobs to the best of our abilities.”

“Mrs. Huntington,” Anderson said, and now he sounded worried, “you can’t take these things into your own hands, you know.”

“I don’t actually want them in my own hands—” she began, but Anderson interrupted.

“What were you doing here, then? Who tipped you off? What is going on?”

“I came here because…” She paused. She was never going to tell them about Willie. Never. And it didn’t matter. Audrey had drawn the same conclusion. Anyone could have. “I came because I thought the grave diggers might show up here. I didn’t want them digging Danny up.”

“And how did you intend to stop them, Mrs. Huntington?”

Spencer opened her mouth, then shut it. They were both staring at her. David was delighted to see Anderson harassing her—he wouldn’t have to do it himself.

“Yes, Spencer, just what was your intent?” David asked, his tone irritatingly polite.

She stared at Anderson. “I—”

“Withholding information from the police is against the law, Mrs. Huntington. You must know that.”

“Withholding information?”

“Where did you get your tip?” Anderson asked impatiently.

Spencer inhaled deeply. “No tip-off, Lieutenant. My secretary happened to notice the way the last wave of grave robbings made a circle around the city. All she did was read the newspaper. Maybe the police should try taking that direction on occasion!”

“Mrs. Huntington, I’m afraid that we’ll have to ask you to come down to the—”

“Anderson,” David interrupted, “I really don’t think that will be necessary. There’s nothing more Spencer can tell you, and you’ve got at least one of these ghouls to grill. Maybe your men have come up with a few more. I’ll take Mrs. Huntington home.”

“You two know each other, huh?” Anderson said.

“Not that well—” Spencer began.

“For ages,” David interrupted.

Anderson grinned. “Well, you sure do dress alike. I guess I don’t need anything more for tonight. I know where to reach you, Delgado. And Mrs. Huntington—”

“I haven’t moved, Lieutenant. I’m still at Danny’s address, and you can reach me at the same number. And I’ve been down to the station plenty of times, so I’ll know where to go if you decide you do want something from me.”

“We just want you to let us do our jobs, Mrs. Huntington,” he said, taking her hand. She thought for a moment that he was going to kiss it. She almost wrenched it away.

“Come on, Spencer, let’s go home,” David suggested.

They started walking. She resented his hand at the small of her back, but she resented Lieutenant Anderson more. Even as they started walking away, he called her back.

“Mrs. Huntington, it is illegal to trespass in graveyards at night, you know. Don’t make a habit of it.”

She swung around. “Ah, but I did catch a few crooks for you before they could chop up any more bodies, didn’t I?” she inquired sweetly.

Anderson suddenly seemed to have run out of taunts. Spencer turned and started walking again, David close on her heels. He caught her arm as they neared the wall and the row of patrol cars parked next to it.

“Spencer…”

She shook off his arm. She felt as if she were on-screen, in front of all those headlights. “So I shouldn’t have been here, David. At least something happened.”

“Hell, yes, something happened. And we could have found pieces of you all over this place in the morning.”

“It’s over, David. I just want to go home. Will you please leave me alone and let me go?”

She wrenched free and started walking again. He remained right behind her. She came to the wall and realized that the gates hadn’t been opened, all the cops had jumped in the same way she had. She reached for the wall and found herself being assisted. David’s hands were on her hips, and then his palm was on her rump, pushing her up. He leaped up beside her, dropping to the sidewalk on the other side and helping her down before she could protest.

“My car is over there,” she said, pointing.

“I’ll follow you home.”

“There’s no need for—”

“Spencer, it’s past two in the morning. There’s every need.”

“I’m sure I can get home safely. There aren’t any more cemeteries between here and my house.”

“Actually, there is one, that small one in the Grove,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll follow you, Spencer.”

“I’m telling you—”

“God damn it, Spencer, I was Danny’s best friend! I am going to follow you home. Let’s go!”

She stiffened her shoulders and started for the doughnut store. He followed. Cops were everywhere, calling out curious greetings to David, staring at her, the ones who knew her offering awkward hellos.

Well, she was glad of the cops. She remembered thinking that they were so far away.

And they might have been. But David had been there. And his car was parked right next to hers.

She ignored him, ignored his car. But as soon as she was driving, she knew that he was right behind her. And that he would stick to her like glue. Well, she was grateful. It was a big city; night could be dangerous.

In her driveway, she slammed out of her car and walked to the driver’s side of his. He rolled down the window. “Get in the house, Spencer,” he told her. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Why were you following me tonight?” she demanded.

“Spencer, I’m not leaving—”

“Good. We’ll just both stand here all night.”

She jumped back, because he suddenly swung his car door open. “Give me the keys.”

“David!”

He took them from her and walked up the tile path to her door, which he opened, then stepped into the house. He looked around the foyer and up the stairway. She thought she saw a small smile curving his lips, and she wondered if he was sniffing at Montgomery elegance, Montgomery money. The house wasn’t ostentatious in any way, she thought resentfully. It was sleek, warm, inviting.

She held out a hand. “My keys, David.”

He handed them over. “Don’t forget to set the alarm when I leave,” he told her.

“I’ve been managing on my own for over a year now,” she informed him briskly.

He nodded and turned to walk out. She was appalled at herself when she suddenly slammed a fist against his back, causing him to turn with a look of surprise on his features.

She swallowed hard, determined not to back down. “What were you doing there?” she demanded.

“I told you. I was following you, Spencer.”

“Why?” she exploded.

He shrugged. “Sly asked me to.”

“You’re—you’re working for Sly?” she gasped.

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged again. “Yeah, I’m working for Sly.”

“As of when?”

“As of this afternoon.”

“I don’t want you following me.”

“Take it up with Sly.”

“Damn it, David—”

“Take it up with Sly, Spencer. He thinks you’re in danger.”

“But I’m not!”

“And as of tonight, I agree with him. Hell, Spencer, you’re a damned danger to yourself, if nothing else. Don’t forget the alarm,” he said again.

“David, I’m telling you—”

“Don’t tell me, Spencer. Tell Sly.”

“Damn you—” she began, but he’d managed to exit, pulling the door shut behind him. She slammed the door, just as she had slammed his back, swearing.

“The alarm, Spencer!” he called back to her.

She told him what he should go do to himself.

“The alarm!”

She set the damned alarm, then turned away from the door, hurrying for the kitchen. She had good brandy somewhere, and she had never wanted a swallow of it more.

She downed half a snifter in a gulp, then stood there as it warmed her. Dear God, what a night. She knew what a stupid move she’d made. She’d been scared out of half of her hair pigment, but in the end they’d caught someone, and something might be solved because of that.

Might be. They hadn’t been after Danny’s grave, no one knew yet what had really been going on. But…

But something might come of it.

David was following her. Sly had hired David to follow her. Oh, God. Sly had paid David to watch her. The last thing she wanted in her life was David following her, watching her.

Oh, God. She poured more brandy and gulped that down, too. And then she had some more.

It might be nearly three o’clock in the morning, but brandy was the only way in hell she was ever going to get to sleep tonight.

4

Sometimes the past seemed forever away. And sometimes, especially in dreams, it felt as if it had never gone away.

It was almost as if she was there again, on that long-ago day by the rock pit where they all congregated after school. She had been sixteen, David and some of the others were almost eighteen then. The dream had texture and taste. She could feel the stinging warmth of the sun.

It probably wasn’t such a great place for them to be. There certainly wasn’t any kind of supervision. The water was very clear, so clear that you could swim down and see all the wrecked cars that had gone off or been dumped. The boys liked to tease the girls and tell them that there were still bodies in the trunks of the cars, that there were a few skeletons still sitting right in the front seats, as well. “But we all know that’s not real,” Cecily would inform them regally. “Boys just like to scare girls. It’s easier to get into a girl’s pants if she’s scared. At least, that’s what boys think,” she assured them all.

“All” meant their group, one they had formed when they were around twelve and pretty much kept together ever since. Danny Huntington was the leader of the male pack, with Spencer’s cousin Jared coming in a close second. Then there were Ansel Rhodes and George Manger, followers to the core. And then, paradoxically a part and yet not a part, there was David Delgado.

It wasn’t that they didn’t want him in their group—they did. It was funny. When they had been even younger and Danny had first dragged him in, they’d all stuck their noses up just a bit. David just didn’t come from the same kind of family. He spoke Spanish as easily as he spoke English. He was dark; even his eyes were dark, though they were blue, not the black they often appeared. His clothes were mended and remended, and a lot of the time he couldn’t do things because he had chores to take care of for his grandfather. But he didn’t seem to resent not having a good time.

Then, suddenly, he was in school with them. He worked hard; Spencer saw him staying after school to study almost every day. It was a hard school; homework took about three hours a night. Unless, of course, you were Jared and skimmed by, paying other kids to do the work for you. But it wasn’t academics that really got David Delgado noticed—it was sheer athletic ability. The small private school had never had great baseball or football teams. With David playing, they suddenly began to win a few games. By the time they got to the rock pit on that particular afternoon, David was probably the most popular kid in the school. He could accept the acclaim that came his way, but he never sought it. He still did chores for his grandfather. He came to things when he chose and backed away when he chose, too. He was never with them at the country club dances or some of the other social events their parents planned for them.

None of that mattered, or maybe it helped. To Spencer, just like the other girls in her circle—Cecily, Terry-Sue and Gina Davis—David Delgado was even more appealing because of that little touch of something different about him. He was the kind of boy their folks didn’t quite approve of; he wasn’t one of them. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t into drugs, didn’t rob convenience stores and was a hell of a lot more moral than most of the kids in their circle. What mattered was that he didn’t come from the old guard—that he was a refugee.

Spencer didn’t give a damn. She thought it was wonderfully romantic—and erotic, a word she was beginning to find fascinating. Maybe there was something else a little bit deeper than those feelings, as well. She knew that Sly liked David. Really liked him. Not conditionally, the way her parents did. Sly just out and out liked David; it didn’t matter one iota to him whether David had come from Cuba or the moon. And for all her life, Sly had been Spencer’s favorite person. So if Sly approved of David…

Actually, that day, thinking hadn’t really entered into it. It was summer, and the heat was piercing, and they’d packed picnic lunches. Spencer had gotten a brand new cherry red Jeep for her birthday, Jared had his mom’s last-year’s Volvo, Ansel Rhodes had a new Firebird, and David had a great ‘57 Chevy he had bought himself, earning the money at a photo lab where he worked Saturdays and some afternoons.

Spencer almost wished she hadn’t gotten the damned car. She had driven that afternoon while Terry-Sue had all but crawled on top of David in the front seat of his car.

Reva was with them that day. She was in Spencer’s class, but she’d become part of the gang because of her brother. She was in school due to the same strange magic that had gotten David in, the same “scholarship.” Sly denied that he was paying their tuition, but Spencer knew in her heart that he denied it only because he didn’t want David’s hardworking grandfather to think that he couldn’t do the best for his grandchildren on his own. Sly was great about that. He never needed accolades for doing what he thought was right.

And Reva was sweet, so everyone enjoyed having her around. She had a disposition like gold; she laughed at everyone’s jokes. She was also an incredibly pretty girl, and the guys certainly appreciated that—not that any of them would consider touching her, or even cracking any of their adolescent jokes about her. Maybe David was being raised by a strange old Scottish grandfather, but he showed no lack of Cuban machismo where his sister was concerned. He watched over her like a hawk. But there was really no need, anyway. They were all friends. Just friends. Nobody was actually with anybody else.

Except for Terry-Sue, who was still climbing all over David once the cars were parked, the blankets laid out and the food baskets set up.

In her crimson bikini, lathered in suntan oil, Spencer was stretched out on one of the blankets, half in the sun, half out of it. She could feel her flesh turning hot, sticky. She could feel the heat beating down on her, then the coolness of the breeze whenever a stray cloud wandered over the sun and the pines that ringed the rock pit began to bow and sway. She pretended to be oblivious to anything but her lazy sunning. Her head was down, her back exposed, and she had an arm stretched carelessly over her eyes.

Not really.

She was watching.

Watching—and seething.

Terry-Sue was having the time of her life.

She was a cute girl with a cap of rich dark auburn hair. She was short, petite—with a chest that didn’t quit. In fact, Spencer thought, just a little bit maliciously, that Terry-Sue was just one gigantic set of boobs. It wasn’t that her bikini was any more daring than anyone else’s, but…

It was just that she spilled out of the damned thing. All over. And she had her chest just about shoved beneath David’s nose every other second.

A giggle, shrill, very feminine, crossed the air and seemed to rip right along Spencer’s spine. “David!” Terry-Sue called out in laughing protest. He’d lifted her up, her hands on his shoulders, and he was about to dunk her again. He was laughing good-humoredly. None of the guys looked as good as David. One day they might. One day. But David had matured first. His shoulders were broad, he was deeply tanned—he even had hair on his chest. His stomach was rippled, hard and flat. They were all very nearly adults, but physically, David Delgado was there, and his appeal was both sensual and sexual. Spencer had always liked him; she’d thought he’d always liked her. She’d even helped him a few times with English grammar, a subject that came to her naturally.

And since they all had to take Spanish in school, she’d sweetly asked for help back. And gotten it. If anyone was going to get any closer to David, it should be her. He didn’t spend all his time with their group; he had dated other girls, she knew. She had even spent a few nights staring at the ceiling, wondering what he did with other girls—no, women. David would go after women. He was almost two years older than she was, but girls matured faster, or so she had always been told.

Like Terry-Sue. She was definitely mature. She was so damned mature it looked like she might just topple forward with maturity at any second.

“They’re just fooling around, you know,” Spencer heard someone say. She moved her arm, startled. No one should have been able to realize that she’d been watching the horseplay in the water, but someone had. Reva. Still a little shy around them, and just a shade too darn intuitive.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Spencer said flatly. She stretched and sat up, yawning. She wasn’t about to admit to Reva that she had been watching her brother. “Hand me a Coke, will you, please, Reva?” she asked, determinded to coolly dismiss the subject.

Reva, on her knees on the blanket, reached into the cooler for a Coke. She might be shy, but she wasn’t about to be so easily dismissed. “He really likes you, Spencer. He always has.”

“Sure, we’re friends. We like each other,” Spencer said. She stood up restlessly. “Never mind the Coke. I’ll just cool off in the water.”

She could swim well, and she knew it. She could dive like an expert, as well—she should be able to, her mother had insisted on enough lessons. Now she was determined to use a little of what she knew how to do. Through training—and instinct. There was a small overhang that jutted out high over the water. A dive from there was dangerous, because there were jagged outcrops of rock surrounding very deep water. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea, since there were so many wrecks in the water.

But it was the only place where she could get any height. She strode up to the overhang with a lazy, long-legged stride. She wasn’t stupid, and not only did she not want to die, she didn’t want to wind up maimed or in pain, either, so she took a very careful look at the water as she got her bearings.

“Spencer Montgomery, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” came a shout.

She was so startled that she almost took a misstep. It was David. He was still in the water.

And Terry-Sue still had her arms around him, her “assets” crushed to his chest.

“Diving!” she called irritably.

And before he could stop her, she took the plunge.

The water, cool and fresh, enveloped her, and she knifed downward at a fantastic speed. She just missed the edge of a crashed Valiant, then managed to reverse her direction and move toward the surface. She was almost there when she felt hands on her shoulders, wrenching her up.

David.

Well, that had been the idea, hadn’t it? To attract his attention? She had it now.

Except that she didn’t want it this way.

He was glaring at her, hair wet and slicked back, features harsh. “What the hell did you think you were doing, you little fool?”

“I knew what I was doing. I can swim, I can dive!”

“And you were being a snot-nosed little show-off!” he assured her. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“And if I had,” she returned, humiliated, infuriated, “it would have been none of your goddamned business.” For a moment she thought incredulously that he was about to slap her across the cheek right then and there, while they were treading water.

“You’re right, Miss Montgomery. It’s none of my damned business. But Sly would have been upset if something had happened to you, and I happen to care a whole lot about Sly. So if you have to show off, try not to do it in front of me. We all know you’re just about perfect, Spencer. You don’t have to prove it to anyone.”

He let go of her, leaving her shaking. At least, with the water to hide her, no one could tell. Everyone was watching them from the banks of the pit, but, she thought gratefully, David hadn’t shouted. His words hadn’t been heard.

He was getting out of the water, all six feet plus of him, asking someone to toss him a towel. Spencer got out, too, chin high, determined to keep her dignity intact.

Danny came toward her, offering her a towel, a grin and a thumbs-up sign. “I wasn’t worried,” he teased softly. Like Reva, he had a disposition like gold and an encouraging grin for everyone. He could be very serious, though. Danny wanted to change the world. He had always been the idealist in their crowd. “I guess I know you too well.”

He made her smile as she accepted the towel. “I’m not feeling much like a picnic anymore. I’m going to sneak away,” she told him.

“I’d sneak away, too, except I don’t want to go home,” he admitted. He wrinkled his nose. “Mom’s there with her bridge club discussing the charity auction.”

She grinned. “I’m not going home. I’m going to Sly’s. He’s down in Key West, looking at an old place some eccentric intends to save. I’ll have the house all to myself.”

She wanted to be alone. To lick a few wounds. Danny seemed to understand. Danny always seemed to understand everything. She never got an argument from him.

She slipped away quietly.

Sly didn’t live in a rich neighborhood, certainly not like the one her parents had chosen. His house was like his business—old. It was a testament to all that he did.

It was on one of the city’s oldest golf courses, with nice—but not outrageous—houses surrounding it. It was what they called “Old Spanish,” with lots of arches, balconies and a courtyard entrance, and another courtyard to the side, surrounding the pool, which was a fairly new addition. Sly liked golf, but he liked his privacy more.

Despite the air conditioner in her brand-new Jeep, Spencer arrived at the house feeling hot and sticky and cranky. She left the car in the driveway, brought in her grandfather’s mail and set it on the Victorian buffet in the entry. Sly lived quietly, without live-in help. And he believed strongly in the work ethic, though he had told Spencer he agreed with her parents and was glad she hadn’t taken a job through high school, because keeping her grades high was just too important. “Money can be lost, young lady,” he used to tell her. “I had friends who lost everything in the Great Depression, but you know what? Even then, some of them were left with something—and that was an education. They had the know-how to pick their fannies back up out of the dirt and get going again.” But he didn’t mind letting her work a bit for him, house-sitting when he needed it, keeping an eye on his mail and bills when he wasn’t there. She fed Tiger, his fat alley cat. The arrangement worked well for her. She loved his old place; she’d learned a lot about building from him, and she appreciated the craftsmanship of the place.

She climbed the stairs to the guest room and found one of her sleeveless summer dresses in the closet, and underwear in a drawer, and ducked down the hall to the main bath, where Sly had installed a whirlpool to add to the value of the home. She turned the water to hot and the jets up as high as they would go, then stripped off her bikini and sank in, hoping the warm water would ease away some of humiliation of her encounter with David. She sank down beneath the water, letting it soak her hair.

The next thing she knew, there were hands on her shoulders. She nearly inhaled the water, she was so frightened, but he jerked her out of the water too quickly. To her amazement she found herself staring at David Delgado, still damp, still in swim trunks, but unarguably right there with her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing now?” he demanded.

She stared at him, incredulous. “I was about to wash my hair!” she responded furiously.

“What?” He sounded stunned.

“What did you think I was doing?”

He looked taken aback. Abashed. Even embarrassed. “Damn it, Spencer, I knocked about twenty times. And when I came in and found you, you were underwater and you weren’t coming up!”

“You thought I was trying to drown myself. Over you? Oh, my God! And you’re supposed to be so wonderfully humble!” she seethed.

He sat back, balancing on his ankles. His teeth were clenched, his eyes narrowed. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you, Spencer Anne Montgomery?”

She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to feel or hear his contempt. She stared straight ahead, belatedly realizing that she was naked and feeling terribly vulnerable. She hugged her knees to her chest. “Since you think so little of me, David Delgado, I’d appreciate it if you would let yourself back out of my grandfather’s house and leave.”

He stood. He was going to leave, she realized. Just like that. He was walking away. Of course, it was what she wanted him to do. Wasn’t it?

She stood up, wrenching a huge white towel from a nearby rack and winding it around herself. He was already out in the hallway, and she followed him. “Rich doesn’t mean evil, you know!” She felt as if she were choking. She didn’t know whether she wanted to hit him or to…

He turned around, staring at her. “I came to see if you were okay. You left so quickly, I was afraid you might have hurt yourself, and I know you would have been too proud to let anyone know.”

She waited a second, trying to decide whether he was insulting her or offering her a strange compliment.

“I really did know what I was doing.”

“It was dangerous, Spencer.”

She exhaled. “Maybe. But just a little.”

They stood there in the hallway then, staring at one another. Though Spencer could feel her wet flesh growing cold in the air-conditioning, she felt hot and flushed at the same time.

“Are you going back to the rock pit?” she asked him finally.

He shrugged. “I guess not. The party’s probably broken up by now. Did you want to go back?”

“I guess not. I imagine everyone’s gone off to get something to eat by now.”

He grinned. “We were having a picnic.”

“Yeah, but you know that crowd. No ice-cream sundaes on a picnic. Too many bugs.”

“No doubt,” he agreed. He paused again. “You want to try to find them?”

She kept staring at him, wishing she knew what to say. She didn’t really want to do anything. She wanted him, his attention. No distractions.

No Terry-Sue.

She shook her head. “No. Umm, Sly’s fridge is always full.”

David nodded. “He’s got a great pool out there, too.”

“Yeah, he does. You’ve been in it, haven’t you?” She didn’t quite know David’s relationship with her grandfather, but she knew he’d been to the house.

“I’ve never been swimming here,” David said simply.

“Well, there’s always now.” She tried to say the words lightly.

“Look, if you wanted to be alone…” he began.

She shook her head. “No, really. Sly is gone for the weekend, so the place is mine. Go on out the side door. I’ll just put my suit on and join you.”

He shrugged and headed for the stairs. Spencer dived into the bathroom and plucked her bikini from the floor. She donned it in two seconds flat and went flying after David.

He was already in the water, swimming cleanly from one end of the pool to the other. She dived in after him, recklessly going straight for him. She caught his ankle, dragging him under just after he surfaced for a breath.

She jackknifed as far from him as she could while he came to the surface, sputtering, deep blue eyes glittering with laughter as they touched on her. “You do like to live dangerously, don’t you, Miss Montgomery?” he asked her.

“It’s the only way!” she called back. He kicked off the bottom, coming after her. Spencer let out a little shriek and started down the length of the pool. She was good, but he was stronger and caught up with her just as she reached the deep end. He let her get a breath, then dragged her down.

She would gladly have given up breathing altogether. His arms were around her, her body crushed flush against his. She could feel the muscles in his arms, the bones in his hips, the shape of his sex beneath his swim trunks. It was intoxicating. She’d never in her life felt anything like what she was feeling now. A strange, almost unbearable excitement.

They came to the surface together. He could stand where they were; she couldn’t. His arms remained around her, and he was looking at her. It was different from his angry look or his amused look. The water reflected a strange light in his eyes. “Spencer,” he said huskily. “You should—”

He was going to push her away. She couldn’t let it happen.

She smiled, pressing closer and parting her lips just slightly, almost whispering against his.

He groaned, and then his lips touched hers. They were incredibly hot, hungry. They brought a tidal wave of sensation. She had never felt so flushed, nor so very sure of what she wanted. She felt his tongue press into her mouth, then all but devour it. The world faded away as they kissed. It came back when she felt his hand covering her breast, holding it, feeling the weight and texture, his thumb rubbing over her nipple through the thin material of her bikini top. Something hot pulsed through her body, centering between her thighs. She had never felt so wonderful, nor could she remember ever wanting anything so badly, even though she wasn’t exactly sure what it was she wanted. Him. More and more of him. Touching her. Making her feel this wonder.

He broke the kiss, still holding her. “Oh, God, Spencer, I can’t…”

She didn’t want to hear it. “David…”

He pushed her away, swimming hard for the edge of the pool, then jumping from the water to the deck. Spencer followed him, feeling a flood of brilliant red embarrassment rush to her face. Well, that was it. She had practically thrown herself at him, and he was walking away.

She leaped from the pool, completely humiliated again—and crushed. She almost turned away to run up the stairs and throw herself on the guest bed to cry herself into oblivion. But she didn’t back away from things. And she was mad enough to have it out then and there.

“What is it, Delgado?” she demanded, keeping her voice as low and scornful as she could, her hands on her hips, her head tossed back. “I don’t come with equipment big enough to rival Terry-Sue’s?”

He’d been walking away, but that stopped him. He turned to her, dripping wet, his hands on his hips, the length of the pool between them. Then he started walking to her. “You know Spencer, I’m trying to remember that you’re younger than I am. That you’re just a naive little rich kid trying to get her own way.”

“How dare you say such a thing to me? I’ve never acted like that!”

“The hell you haven’t! You put your nose in the air every time your back is against a wall.”

“I fight any time my back is against a wall.”

“You’re Sly’s granddaughter!” he lashed up harshly.

“You’re afraid of my grandfather!” she said incredulously.

He took two menacing steps toward her, but she held her ground. “I’m not afraid of anybody, Spencer. I like Sly. I like him a hell of a lot.”

“He’s a good man,” she said coolly. “A kind one. Kind to refugees.”

It was a low blow, but she wasn’t able to stop herself.

And it had an effect on him. She could see his pulse beating furiously in his throat as he took the last few steps toward her. She was almost five foot eight, but David could stare down at her, and he did, so close that he was almost touching her, but not quite.

“What is it, Spencer? What do you want? ¡Que tu quieres?” Then his hands were on her shoulders again, forcing her to back away. “You want something different from the other light-skinned gringa girls, don’t you? You think I’ll give you something hotter? Something better? Fine, let’s go. There’s the floor. Is that what you want?”

“Stop it!” she shouted at him, shaking, longing to shove him but suddenly afraid to. She wasn’t quite sure what she had let loose. She hadn’t known that he was aware that their folks talked about him sometimes, that they hadn’t quite accepted the fact that Miami was becoming an international city. She’d never imagined that he might be sensitive about it, not David Delgado.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.