“You don’t understand.”

“My sister Ariel and I haven’t spoken in six months,” Melanie went on. “I never wanted to see her again after what she did. When Stephanie called and begged me to come to dinner to celebrate the birth of Ariel’s little girl, I…I hung up on her! Oh, God, she was my best friend. That was the last time we talked…”

Kent had to resist the urge to take Melanie into his arms when she buried her face in her hands and painful sobs shook her. Instead, he racked his rattled brain for something soothing to say while he was processing what she’d told him. Melanie wasn’t making any sense, but she was obviously distraught.

“I’m sure she realises why you were upset,” he said. “That’s what best friends are for. Whatever happened between the two of you, it’s never too late to make amends.”

“You don’t understand,” Melanie repeated. “I’ve known Stephanie for years. She was my best friend, yet I lost my temper with her because she befriended my sister. I can’t ever make amends for that, because she’s lying on the floor of that bedroom dead. My best friend is dead.”

Dear Reader,

Who among us has not longed for the opportunity to turn back the clock for a second chance at something? Whether it has to do with a relationship, career choice or some other life-altering decision, there have certainly been times I have longed to go back and get it right this time.

That’s the dilemma facing Melanie Harris and Kent Mattson, the characters you are about to meet. Like the rest of us, they learn that while it is impossible to redo the past, it is very possible to meet the present head-on when life offers unexpected opportunities. It’s been my experience that getting that second shot at happiness is only the first step. In the end, as Melanie and Kent find out, it’s what we do with that second chance that can make all the difference.

Enjoy the ride these two people are about to take you on. You’re going to find they keep you guessing until the very end.

Happy reading!

Julia Penney

Her Sister’s Keeper

JULIA PENNEY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To all who go above and beyond the call of duty.

We owe you our thanks.

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN MELANIE HARRIS had envisioned celebrating her six-month wedding anniversary, she never imagined she would spend it sitting in an impersonal office, waiting for an appointment with the renowned Dr. Kent Mattson. Then again, she hadn’t anticipated how quickly things could have turned bad. She glanced at the unmoving hands of the wall clock, then tried to read the magazine in her lap, but the words on the page were a meaningless blur.

She sighed, bit her lip and, for the hundredth time, wondered what was keeping her in the chair. All she had to do was get up, walk out into the bright California sunshine and put the whole sorry chapter behind her.

There was the door.

She stared at it for a moment, then set the magazine down and stood with sudden resolve. She’d just taken her first step toward freedom when the receptionist entered the waiting room.

“Dr. Mattson will see you now, Ms. Harris,” she said with a pleasant smile. The receptionist was a middle-aged woman with a calm, patient expression, obviously accustomed to dealing with the steady stream of emotional wreckage that flowed through Dr. Mattson’s office. “I apologize for the wait.”

Melanie, a mere two feet away from the door, froze with indecision. She could hear her heart beating in the stillness of the room. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp. She didn’t belong here, but, after all, she’d promised Stephanie that she’d endure at least one visit. She owed her best friend that much. It was Stephanie’s enviable strength that had propped Melanie up for the past six months. Six months of wishing she were dead rather than face another sunrise.

“Promise me you’ll see Dr. Mattson. He’s the best there is and he can help you,” Stephanie had pleaded. “You have to put this behind you. None of what happened was your fault.”

Wasn’t it, though? Wasn’t she standing here in this office, hand reaching for the doorknob, because she’d blindly and willingly believed everything Mitch had told her, in spite of the warnings from those who’d known him so much better than she had?

“Ms. Harris?” the receptionist said, a concerned frown furrowing her brow. “Are you all right?”

Melanie felt herself beginning to crumble. In spite of her resolve not to show any weakness, her eyes stung and her voice trembled when she spoke. “If I were all right, would I be here?”

The receptionist never missed a beat. “Ms. Harris, there isn’t one among us who doesn’t need someone like Dr. Mattson at some point in our lives,” she soothed, stepping forward to touch Melanie’s arm. “Please, come with me.” She guided Melanie across the waiting room to another door and gave her a reassuring nod before opening it. Melanie drew a deep breath, shored up the last of her resolve, and entered Dr. Mattson’s inner sanctum.

Expecting an older, overweight man with gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a placid, patronizing expression, Melanie was surprised by the sight of an athletically built man dressed in blue jeans and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled back to reveal powerful forearms. A man whose dark, tousled hair showed not a hint of gray, whose keen blue eyes were offset by the weathered tan of his face and whose strong masculine jaw looked as if it hadn’t felt a razor since erasing the five o’clock shadow of the night before. In fact, he looked much more like a cowboy who had just come in from a hard morning’s work in the saddle than a clinical psychologist. She wondered for a moment if she were in the right place, but before she could retreat, the receptionist closed the door behind her with a firm click.

She was trapped.

KENT MATTSON KNEW he was running behind, but he was distracted. He couldn’t stop thinking about the murder scene he’d been called to that morning. But, unfortunately, his work with the LAPD paid peanuts compared to his private practice. Two days a week he listened to clients who were victims of Hollywood; it was a shallow world by most counts, juicy by others, yet immensely profitable to those in a position to help them. Without that extra income he’d have lost Chimeya long ago.

Too, he derived an ironic satisfaction from an increasingly healthy bank account bolstered by these movie industry casualties. It was these very same stars and starlets moving into the valley who had sent property taxes soaring and jeopardized the long-term survival of the historic ranch that had been in his family for three generations.

He glanced down at the latest file his receptionist had placed on his desk. Melanie Harris. The name was vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place it. He scanned through the file but his mind kept returning to the morning’s murder.

A soft rustle of movement interrupted his thoughts and he glanced up to see a woman standing in the doorway. She seemed uneasy, which wasn’t unusual for a client’s first visit. He rose to greet her.

“Ms. Harris. Please, come in. I’m Kent Mattson,” he said, crossing the room.

Melanie Harris was a tall, attractive young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her clothing was predictably fashionable, her hair a deep, lustrous shade of mahogany and swept back. She wore no makeup, which was highly unusual in this part of town, but the best makeup artist couldn’t have hidden the dark smudges beneath those tragic green eyes, nor mask the fact that she was at least ten pounds underweight.

Kent gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I was just reviewing your file,” he said, waiting for her to sit, but she remained standing just inside the door. “I see you were referred by your regular physician, Patricia Phillips. Won’t you have a seat?”

She hesitated, and he sensed that she was very near to bolting. Her eyes held his for a moment, like a startled doe caught in the headlights of a car, and he was struck by her expression. He turned away and moved toward the side table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have several bad habits,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “One of which is drinking too much coffee. Could I fix you a cup, or would you prefer tea? I have black, green or herbal.” He noted that some of the initial anxiety had left her eyes, but the wariness remained, and he doubted very much that the sadness would ever leave.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said in a quiet voice.

Good. At least she could talk. Be a tough job for him if she couldn’t. He carried his mug to the window and stared out at a skyline smudged with brown haze. “I see from your file that Dr. Phillips was concerned about your weight loss and chronic insomnia.” He took a sip of coffee, wondering why her physician hadn’t just prescribed Prozac or Valium. The movie industry was hooked on those pills. Still no response from Ms. Harris, who remained standing just inside the door, poised to flee. “So,” he said, turning to face her, “we know why Dr. Phillips thinks you should be here. I guess what I need to know is why you think you should be here.”

He felt another jolt as his eyes locked with hers. If she wasn’t a big-name movie star yet, she would be. Those eyes alone would guarantee that, even if she couldn’t act worth a damn.

“I’m here because I’ve been told I need your help,” she replied.

He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “That’s something you’re not going to get from me until you’re ready for it. When you’re here because you want to be here, you’ll be ready. Until then, you’re just wasting your time and mine.”

Her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, but he noticed a quick flash of pain in her eyes. “In that case, Dr. Mattson, I’ll be going,” she said, and turned toward the door.

Kent might have let her walk out except for that flicker of anguish. She was in trouble, real or imagined, and needed help. That was, after all, why he was there, despite his current preoccupation, which he did his best to shake off. “Once you start running from your past, Ms. Harris, it becomes very hard to stop,” he said. “How much longer do you want to live like this?”

His words made her pause, her hand closed around the doorknob. He saw the determined set of her shoulders as she stood motionless, and then she leaned forward until her forehead touched the door, her body rigid. After several long moments she straightened, turned and looked at him.

“I’m tired of running.”

“Good,” Kent said, relieved that he hadn’t driven her away. “You’ve just taken the first step. If you choose to stay, we can begin.”

FOR MELANIE, remaining in Dr. Mattson’s office meant returning to a place in time that she never wanted to revisit again, yet she knew instinctively that to silence the demons, she had to confront them. She also realized that alone, she was incapable of fighting that battle. As much as she wanted to walk out, she knew it would be a mistake. For six months she’d suffered.

Ever since her wedding day.

She remembered every detail as if it were yesterday. The original DiSanto gown, a slim, strapless shiver of satin and pearls. Stephanie helping her with the tiny buttons up the back. The sweet-spicy scent of the old-fashioned pink roses that made up her bridal bouquet. The deep, rhythmic rumble of the Pacific Ocean and the golden afternoon sunshine spilling through the tall Palladian windows while Ariel wove pearls into her hair….

It was perfect, until the tap came on the door and Janet, the wedding director, peered into the room. “It’s almost time. Two minutes until they start the wedding march. Victor’s waiting to walk you to the rose arbor. You look just beautiful, Melanie.”

Would she ever forget that moment? Stephanie had finished fastening the last button and had gone to gather up the bridesmaids, leaving her alone with Ariel, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the endless preparations. Ariel, her hands full of pearl hairpins, her face as pale as Melanie’s gown, her fingers trembling so badly that Melanie, noticing all of this for the first time, reached her own hand to close on her sister’s.

“Ari, for heaven’s sake, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Ariel pulled away from her, shaking her head, denying that anything was amiss, but something very definitely was. Melanie rose to her feet, concerned. “Are you ill? Please, Ari, tell me. What is it?”

Her sister’s blue eyes had filled with tears. “It’s nothing,” she said with such dramatic pathos that Melanie knew her sister thought her world was coming to an end.

“Ari, this isn’t the time for theatrics.” Melanie put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

The tears spilled over. “Oh, Mel, I’m pregnant,” Ariel blurted out around a choked sob. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t want to tell you!”

This was hardly the moment for Ariel to be breaking this news. In five minutes Melanie was supposed to be walking down the petal-strewn path to her wedding ceremony.

“I’m happy for you, Ari,” Melanie managed, hugging her sister. “Now stop crying. This isn’t the end of the world. You’re not the first unmarried woman on the planet to get pregnant.” Ariel began to weep in earnest and Melanie’s patience grew thin. The minutes were ticking down, and Mitch was waiting. “Ari, who’s the father? Does he know about this?”

Ariel buried her face in her hands and cried out in despair. “Oh, God, Mel, it’s so awful. I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I would have guessed sooner or later. It’s pretty hard to hide a pregnancy after a while, kiddo. Look, we’ll talk more about it at the reception, okay? It’s going to be all right, Ari,” Melanie said, stroking her sister’s hair back from her flushed face with genuine affection, because as much as Ariel could drive her crazy, Melanie wanted the best for her. “I’ll help you through this. Trust me. You’ll be a great mom.”

Ariel was not reassured. “I wasn’t going say anything, except for being pregnant. You’re my sister and I love you. I would never hurt you, Mel. Never.”

Melanie felt a twinge of unease. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re not making any sense at all.”

Another tap at the door, and Janet looked in. “We’re waiting on you, Melanie.” She frowned. “Is everything all right?”

“Just give us a few more minutes,” Melanie said, and when the door closed she gripped Ariel’s shoulders and leveled her gaze. “Talk to me, Ari.”

Ariel shook her head again. “I’m three months pregnant. I was going to get an abortion. I went to the clinic and I…” Fresh tears brimmed over and Melanie released her to grab a nearby box of tissues. “I just couldn’t go through with it,” Ariel said, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes.

“That’s all right. Does the father know?” Melanie repeated.

Ariel gulped and nodded. “He said I was trying to trap him, that the baby wasn’t his, and then he dumped me.”

“Sounds to me like you didn’t lose much when you lost him,” Melanie said, hugging her sister again. “Paternity tests would prove he’s the father if you really want to go that route, but you certainly don’t need financial help raising a child, and you’re a whole lot better off without that kind of man in your life. Blow your nose and try to forget the jerk for a while. We have a wedding to attend, and you’re my maid of honor.”

“God forgive me, Melanie, I don’t deserve any honor at all, least of all that one.” Ariel fell to her knees, taking two handfuls of Melanie’s gown and pressing them to her tear-streaked face for a moment before looking up at her sister. Her words tumbled out in a rush. “I can’t forget the baby’s father because… because it’s Mitch. I wanted to tell you, but you seemed so happy, happier than I’ve ever seen you.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, I wasn’t going to say anything, but then…last night at the rehearsal dinner, I overheard him talking to one of his friends. He was saying…he was saying that he thought you were worth marrying because you’d be the one who could break him out of being a stunt man, and get him the acting roles he wanted. You were so close to Victor, he was sure you could make it happen. Before I got pregnant he was always after me to talk to Victor about getting him an acting role, but I never did because Mitch couldn’t act. He was awful. Oh, Mel, don’t you see? He used both of us the same way. You can’t marry him. He’s a no-good bastard!”

As her sister spoke, a chill swept through Melanie. Three months ago she and Mitch had fallen in love. Three months ago Mitch had been sleeping with Ariel… until he found out she was pregnant. “No,” she whispered.

“Oh, Mel. I’m so sorry.” Ariel rose to her feet and reached for her, but Melanie jerked away.

“No,” she repeated. “That can’t be true. Mitch loves me….”

Ariel shook her head, tears still streaming. “Mitch doesn’t love anyone but himself. I know you’ve heard the rumors. Believe them, Mel. He’s a womanizer, a user. He’s handsome and he’s daring, but he’s no good. Don’t marry him. Don’t let him hurt you the way he hurt me!”

Melanie turned away from her sister and found herself staring at her reflection, at her beautiful Ines DiSanto wedding dress.

She reached her hands to smooth the satin gown and lifted her chin, defiantly eyeing the woman in the mirror. She would not cry. She would never, ever cry. Let them stare and let them talk. Melanie Harris would hold on to her pride, if nothing else. “Let’s go,” she said to Ariel.

“Mel, please, let me tell Janet the wedding’s off,” Ariel begged, holding back. “She can talk to the wedding party, she can tell Mitch…”

“This wedding’s not off, baby sister,” Melanie said, reaching for Ariel’s hand. “We can’t disappoint all those guests, can we? Come on.”

With a cry of protest, Ariel was tugged along as Melanie exited the bedroom. Holding her gown up in one hand, she strode determinedly past an open¬ mouthed Janet, wide-eyed bridesmaids and a shocked Stephanie and Victor, and down the wide granite steps of Blackstone toward the rose arbor in the formal garden overlooking the Pacific.

The guests were standing as the quartet played the wedding march, waiting for her entrance. Their faces mirrored the pleasant anticipation of such moments— expressions that faltered when Melanie came into view, dragging a wildly sobbing Ariel behind her. The quartet stopped playing and lowered their instruments, as startled as the wedding guests, but Melanie only had eyes for the man waiting for her at the arbor.

Mitch Carson.

He watched their approach with amazing calm for a man who had to have sensed impending disaster. Ariel was wrong about him. He was a damn good actor.

“Here’s the woman you should be marrying, Mitch,” Melanie said with icy calm, thrusting her weeping sister forward. “For the life of me, I can’t quite imagine you as a doting father, but I understand you have six more months to prepare. I wish the two of you a very interesting relationship.”

She barely remembered leaving Victor’s estate and climbing into her car wearing the gown that had cost her nearly half a year’s salary as a location scout. She drove along the coastal highway, clutched in the depths of a nightmare she couldn’t escape. A nightmare that hadn’t passed in six long months. Six months of her sister’s hysterical phone messages imploring her forgiveness. Six months of Stephanie begging her to reconcile with Ariel. Begging her to get professional help. Six months of deteriorating job performance, sleepless nights and deepening depression.

And then the latest message from her sister on her answering machine, just one week ago. Ariel’s voice had been shrill, barely intelligible. Mitch was dead, killed on location during the filming of the latest Kellerman thriller. A routine stunt had somehow gone wrong and there was an explosion, a terrible fire. The police would be investigating, the whole thing was so suspicious.

Ariel was devastated, because she and Mitch had been trying to work things out. Apparently she had discovered something below the man’s shallow layer of womanizing self-indulgence. Something that had made Ariel believe he was ready to settle down with her and the baby.

The shock of Mitch’s death had no doubt triggered the birth. Melanie learned of the frantic rush to the hospital from Stephanie, who had driven Ariel and stayed with her for the birth. Stephanie, who only two days ago had begged her to attend the special dinner Vic and Tanyia were hosting to celebrate Ariel’s newborn baby girl.

“Please come, Mel,” Stephanie had pleaded. “It would mean so much to Ariel. She needs you right now. And the baby…your niece…is so beautiful. You have to see her.” Melanie hadn’t gone to the dinner, of course. No way in hell could she bring herself to do that…yet.

Suddenly, Melanie dropped her head into her hands. She was so terribly tired. This wasn’t like a movie set, where the director could call out, “Cut! Let’s try that again.” This was real life, and there were no second takes. Her life was a mess. She would never be able to forgive Ariel for her betrayal. She no longer liked her job, because as long as she worked for Victor, she was constantly reminded of her wedding day. She didn’t want to be in this place, this office. She disliked Dr. Mattson for making her relive this nightmare, disliked the muted beige tones of his office, designed, no doubt, to comfort, and she even resented Stephanie for getting her into this situation in the first place.

Melanie drew a shuddering breath, straightened in her chair and gazed about her with dismay. She glanced at her watch. Exactly ten minutes had passed since she’d taken a seat in Dr. Mattson’s office, and she hadn’t uttered a single word. He was sitting there patiently, waiting for her to spill her guts and cure herself, but she just couldn’t bring herself to tell the story to a stranger. No way she could ever confess to a three-month whirlwind romance with a renowned womanizer that her friends had all quietly warned her against. No way could she ever talk about her sister’s treachery, the same sister she’d worked so hard to protect and support after their parents had died.

She’d fulfilled her promise to Stephanie by coming here today, but she was done with it. She would pull herself together and keep her secrets buried in the past. If the past haunted her for the rest of her life, running from it was a price she deserved to pay. Fools deserved to suffer.

Dr. Mattson said nothing when Melanie rose and started for the door. She paused for a moment, as out of breath as if she’d just run a mile in soft beach sand.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized before leaving his office, fighting for control. “I guess I’m not ready for this, after all.”

Kent knew he should say something to stop his client from going out that door. Instead, he sat rooted in his chair, unable to move or speak as she swept out of his office, closing the door firmly behind her. He’d been glad that Melanie Harris had remained silent, allowing him to think about this morning’s murder…but by doing so he had failed his client miserably.

Kent leaned forward on his elbows and ran a hand through his hair with a weary sigh. This conflict of jobs was impossible. He’d just let a client leave without receiving any help from him whatsoever. He had to decide between his job with the police department and his growing affinity for a healthy bank account. A knock roused him, and his receptionist stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but Ms. Harris insists on paying before she leaves.”

“Tell her that’s not our policy. Get the insurance information from her and…”

Melanie herself appeared, edging around the receptionist. She had her checkbook in hand and a determined look in her eye. “I prefer to pay as I go, Dr. Mattson. What do I owe you for that session?”

“I’m afraid your money’s no good here, Ms. Harris. If you couldn’t share this office for thirty minutes with me, then I obviously don’t deserve payment. Should you at any time change your mind, give me a call.” Kent pulled a business card out of the brass holder on his desk, rose to his feet and extended it toward her.

“You should probably know that I’ve never believed in…therapists. Half the people I work with see one regularly,” she said with a flash of rebellion, but she took the card.

“And you think they’re being weak for seeing a…shrink?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, as well as extremely self- centered,” she replied with a faint flush of embarrassment. “If I stayed for the allotted time, would you accept my payment?”

“Not for your first visit. The rules are the rules. However, you’re more than welcome to stay. I’ll even fix you a cup of coffee or tea, and you don’t have to say a word. At least that way, if you do come back, you’ll be officially into your second visit and I can charge you an arm and a leg.”

“I won’t come a second time, Dr. Mattson. I can guarantee you that.”

Kent walked over to the side table. “Coffee, or tea?”

She hesitated, and he knew he’d won when her chin dropped fractionally. “I’ll take green tea, please,” she said, and resumed her seat. While Kent fixed her tea and replenished his coffee, she sat gazing at the office walls. “Thank you,” she murmured as he handed her the mug. She rose from her seat and walked to the bookshelf, perusing the leather-bound volumes. She studied the framed photographs on the wall. His diplomas from grad school and the criminal justice academy. She stepped closer to read the assorted plaques, lifting her cup to sip her tea. Her eyebrows raised and she glanced at him.

“You won a national police pistol-shooting contest?”

“Three years in a row,” he said. “The fourth year my boss sent me to a symposium on forensic psychology in New York City, so I couldn’t enter.”

“And did he win, with you out of the picture?”

Kent grinned and nodded. “She won. My boss at the police department happens to be a woman, and a damned fine shot.”

“Then, you’re a police officer?”

“Only part-time, for now,” Kent said. “I divide my time between my office here and the LAPD.”

“ Interesting,” Melanie said. “This is quite a trophy wall you have here, Doctor. I wouldn’t expect such hobbies from a…psychologist. But then again, this is Beverly Hills.”

“You betcha. We shrinks gotta get our thrills in while we can.” Kent took a swallow of coffee, kicked back in his chair and glanced at his watch. Five more minutes until she bolted. Five more minutes to make her realize she needed him so he could pad his bank account a little more.

“Your parents?”

She’d returned to the photographs. “Yes. That picture was taken ten years ago. They’ve both passed away since.”

“I’m sorry. I know how hard it is to lose your parents. I lost both of mine when I was eighteen. Car accident.” She glanced back at the photograph. “That looks like an old Mexican ranch in the background.”

“Chimeya. One of the oldest in California. Authentic, right down to the two-foot-thick adobe walls. I was raised there.”

“That must have been nice,” she said, studying the photograph closely. “Horses, dogs, cattle and lots of wide open space. A good place for children to grow up… I suppose it’s been sold off and developed, like everything else worth preserving in this day and age.”

Kent was surprised by the bitterness in her voice. “Actually, the ranch is still very much in the Mattson family. I live there.”

Her eyebrows raised again. “Then the ranch must not be around here, that’s for sure. There’s no smog in that picture.”

“Nope. Chimeya’s far enough away to escape the smog, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas.”

“And you commute?”

“The ranch has a decent landing strip.”

She gave him an appraising stare, then turned her attention back to the pictures. “Your horse?”

“His name’s Seven. He likes Budweiser beer, doggin’ steers and long rides into the hills.”

“Ah, so you’re a cowboy at heart.” The faintest of smiles warmed her pale features as she spoke.

“I guess you could say that. I started out giving psychotherapy to the horses, but it didn’t pay, and on several occasions my efforts got me kicked. So I went to school to learn how to psych out human beings.”

She laughed, a beautiful sound. He caught a faint whiff of her subtle perfume and wondered if something had happened to the air-conditioning in his suddenly very warm office. Just as he was pushing out of his chair to check the thermostat, Melanie set her teacup down and faced him.

“Thank you, Dr. Mattson. I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier. It wasn’t easy for me to come here.”

“You survived the experience with flying colors,” Kent said.

The faint smile warmed her face once again. “I fulfilled a promise to a friend and a recommendation from my doctor,” she amended. “My allotted time is up. Thank you again. Please, let me pay you.”

Kent shook his head. “Against policy. If you want to come back, by all means, do so, but you don’t pay a cent until your second visit.”

“Then I’m afraid this is goodbye,” Melanie said, extending her hand.

Kent took it in his own, surprised at the firmness of her grip. The tremble he’d detected earlier was completely gone. “Goodbye, Ms. Harris,” he said. “You have my card if you should have a change of heart.”

She pulled her hand out of his and left him standing there, still marveling at the idea of a woman sitting in silence for ten whole minutes. He wouldn’t have thought such self-restraint was possible. Too bad to have lost that potential gold mine, but there’d be others. Not nearly as pretty, though. Not by half. The woman’s legs would stop the most jaded drivers on Santa Monica Boulevard. Kent’s phone rang as he was tucking his very brief notes into the Melanie Harris folder.

“Murphy here. We have a situation.”

“Damn, Murph, gimme a break. This is my day of raking in the big bucks so I can afford to keep working for you,” Kent said, pushing the file aside and rocking forward in his chair. “What’s up?”

“We’re at the Beverly Hills Regency. A young woman was found dead in her room an hour ago by maid service.” There was a brief, ominous pause. “There are no signs of foul play, but I’d like you to have a look at the scene if you can. T. Ray’s still with the body. This looks very similar to that young woman who was found earlier this morning.”

“Say no more. I’m on my way.”

“Kent?” There was a hiss of static as Captain Carolyn Murphy paced with her cell phone the way Kent had seen her do on many occasions. He could picture the rigid set of her shoulders and that dark gaze gathering like a storm. “The thing is, according to the desk clerk, this victim checked into the hotel last night with a newborn infant. There are baby things scattered around the room, but the baby’s missing.”

His heart rate accelerated and his adrenaline level soared. “Don’t let them disturb anything at the scene, Murph. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Kent hung up the phone, buzzed his receptionist and informed her he was leaving early.

“You have three more appointments, Dr. Matt¬ son,” she reminded him with disapproval. “Mrs. Forsythe, Sienna Bernstein and…Wanda Wendell.” The latter name was spoken with understandable trepidation. Wanda Wendell’s sole reason for living was to make other people’s lives miserable.

“Call them and reschedule. I have a police emergency.”

Kent reached for his jacket and grabbed his car keys and briefcase on the way out the door. His mind was racing even as he descended the stairs two at a time, the five flights faster by far on foot than by elevator. He burst out the ground floor stairwell and took the basement shortcut to the parking garage, running to his reserved parking area. He was out of breath by the time he reached the place where his new Audi should have been, and stared at the dark, vacant slot in disbelief. What the hell? Grand theft auto wasn’t supposed to happen in this garage, which was precisely why he’d paid an outlandish fee for a reserved space in a place that had an armed security guard controlling access. Kent began a fresh sprint toward the gate, heart hammering.

The security guard was young and ignorant, professing no knowledge of Kent’s Audi leaving the garage without him. Kent didn’t have time to argue. “Call me a cab, and make it quick,” he snapped. He heard a car approaching the gate from behind and stepped out of the way, glancing at the driver as the window lowered and a slender, graceful hand extended with the ticket. Melanie Harris. Her timing was a minor miracle, considering the infamously slow office elevator. Kent threw his arms up to stop her. “Ms. Harris! Could you give me a ride to the Beverly Hills Regency? My car’s been stolen and there’s a police emergency.”

Those turbulent green eyes met his, and she didn’t hesitate. “Get in,” she said, and as Kent climbed into the passenger seat of her silver Mercedes sports coupe, breathing the mingled scents of leather upholstery and perfume, hearing the muted strains of Handel’s Water Music from the stereo, she waved off his thank-you. “Think nothing of it,” she said, pulling out into the midday traffic and accelerating smoothly ahead. “Consider my thirty-minute debt to you repaid.”

CHAPTER TWO

MELANIE HARRIS drove with the practiced skill of someone accustomed to navigating busy city streets. They had spoken barely five words since he had hopped in the car and given his destination. As she deftly shifted the Mercedes into gear and pulled into the light prelunch traffic, Kent flipped open the file he had been reading when Melanie first stepped into his office. He wanted to glean as much from the notes as possible before he had to process the second scene.

Try as he might, he found it difficult to concentrate. He found himself distracted by the woman sitting just inches away. There was the perfume, for one thing. Subtle and pleasant, it kept wafting over from the driver’s side of the car. It was one with which he was unfamiliar, but he had a suspicion it would be forever linked with Melanie. He gritted his teeth and began reading the notes, but his eyes kept skipping from the words in front of him to Melanie’s legs. Tanned, shapely and in perfect range of his peripheral vision. After several minutes he gave up and stared out the window, trying to put his thoughts in order. He might have succeeded but for the fact that Melanie seemed to feel it was her duty, as driver, to initiate polite conversation.

“I hope you don’t mind classical music, Dr. Matt¬ son,” she said, in reference to the CD playing in the car’s state-of-the-art sound system.

He turned from watching the passing scenery to look at her. “Water Music’s definitely one of Handel’s all-time classics, but I guess I’m more of a rock and roll kind of guy.”

He went back to glancing at his notes, silently damning himself for sounding so Neanderthal. Still, his response had obviously discouraged Melanie, because she gave up on the small talk and concentrated on her driving instead. Too bad Kent couldn’t do the same with his notes. It was those legs of hers. What red-blooded man could possibly concentrate on the details of an unsolved murder when such a pair of legs was sitting a mere thirty inches away?

MELANIE WAS no stranger to the Beverly Hills Regency, and this was by no means her first visit to the city landmark, a place she had often seen at its busiest times. The luxury hotel was a longtime meeting place of the famous. It was where the rich came to play, to see and to be seen. As such, it was a popular spot for tourists and paparazzi ever on the prowl for celebrity sightings. Melanie had often dined at the formal Green Palms Restaurant or lunched at the trendy Brick Oven Cafe. Part hotel, part spa, part culinary destination, the “Beverly,” as the locals called it, was always crowded, so a packed driveway was to be expected. But as she turned off Wilshire Boulevard, Melanie wasn’t prepared for the sight of dozens of police cars, emergency vehicles, satellite trucks and television vans parked haphazardly on the driveway and even on the hotel’s prized gardens. When she slowed to a stop at the entrance, a squad car was blocking the way. She turned to her passenger, who was already holding out an official ID card for the uniformed officer, who waved them through. Melanie drove slowly between the police cars while Dr. Mattson scanned the scene.

“Park there,” he said, pointing to a slot between two police cruisers scarcely wider than her own car.

She barely managed to squeeze into the space and wondered how she’d ever get her car out of this chaotic maze. A tall black woman with close- cropped hair was coming out of the Beverly’s front doors and scanning the crowds. She spotted Dr. Mattson climbing out of the car and strode over.

“Hey, Murph,” Dr. Mattson said. He reached back into the car to collect his battered leather briefcase.

The handsome, well-dressed woman was obviously in no mood to exchange pleasantries. “Follow me, Kent,” she said, turning and striding briskly back toward the main doors.

Dr. Mattson left without so much as a goodbye, a thank-you or a backward glance. Melanie watched until they both disappeared into the building. In her rearview mirror she spied another cruiser, lights flashing, parking directly behind her and blocking her exit. She sat for a few moments as the engine idled, then switched off the ignition and blew out a breath.

“Now what?” she said.

KENT HAD WORKED with Carolyn Murphy for five years, and the two had become almost instant friends. Together, they had worked on numerous cases, and while Murphy at times had displayed disgust, frustration, anger and sadness at the varied degrees of human degradation they had come across, she always took it in stride, keeping her “eyes on the prize—catching the bad guys.”

A good team, they’d caught a lot of bad guys. Murphy had the hard, no-nonsense approach of a career cop. She gave no quarter and asked for none. A crack shot, she held a black belt in karate, was fluent in several languages and was the product of the meanest streets of South Central L.A. When necessary she could schmooze with the lackeys at Police Central, but she much preferred working in the trenches with her squad of detectives. For a grandmother of two, Kent had discovered early on, she was one hot-shit woman.

As they crossed the lobby toward the bank of elevators, Murphy glanced at him. “Your car. Did I hear over the radio that it had been stolen?”

Kent had been hoping to keep the information from her, but the garage attendant must have called it in. Too bad he hadn’t been that on the ball before the Audi had been stolen. “Yeah, they took it right out of the parking garage. Imagine that.”

He waited for her to chide him, but her grim expression never altered as she hit the elevator button, an indication to Kent that she was preoccupied. Otherwise she would most definitely have rubbed his nose in I-told-you-so’s. Murphy was the one who had cheerfully read him chapter and verse of the California crime stats on the Audi as soon as she learned he’d purchased one.

“The Audi TT convertible?” she’d said, arching her eyebrows with wicked intent. “Nice car. Do you know how many stolen cars were reported to the LAPD last year? One thousand, one hundred and fifty-two. Know how many were sports cars? Eight hundred twelve. I predict your fancy little set of wheels will last two weeks, max.”

Kent had managed to keep it for three whole months. Small consolation, he thought as he stepped into the elevator. If Murphy’s behavior was any indication, Kent had a pretty good hunch his missing car would be the least of his worries by the day’s end.

“So, do we have a name?” Kent asked as the elevator climbed.

“As a matter of fact we have two,” Murphy said. “Does the name Ariel Moore mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“Just what rock were you hiding under this week, cowboy?” Murphy asked.

Kent just looked at her, waiting.

“If you paid attention at the supermarket checkout line, you’d know Ariel Moore is the hottest rising star in town.”

“And you know this how?”

“I know this because my grandson has her poster pinned up above his desk. That, and the hotel manager filled me in. Apparently she stays here frequently in this same two-bedroom suite. The reservation was made under Ariel Harris, which is her real name. But,” she added, “here’s the interesting twist. The dead woman is Stephanie Hawke, and no one has seen Ariel Harris, aka Moore, or knows what happened to the baby that checked in with Ms. Hawke. We assume the baby was Ariel’s, since she gave birth only a week ago. Which you’d also know if you paid attention to the supermarket tabloids.”

Their arrival at the eleventh floor halted any further conversation and they exited the elevator. The hallway was silent. As Murphy strode briskly down the carpeted corridor, she told him that all the guests on that floor had been escorted into a large conference room soon after the police had arrived. When Murphy stopped to speak to a group of uniformed officers, Kent continued to the suite.

He was glad to see a minimal number of people in the room itself. His captain had done a good job of keeping the scene clear of extraneous badges, not always an easy task. This suspicious death had all the indications of becoming a high-profile case and Kent knew high-profile cases brought the promotion and publicity seekers out of the woodwork. He hesitated at the door of the suite and paused for a moment to clear his mind and center his focus.

Kent had once had a university professor tell him that crimes and crime scenes were all about patterns. Find the pattern, and the answer would naturally follow. From his own experience, Kent knew that could take skill and patience. By their very nature, crime scenes were chaotic. Trying to take one in all at once would be overwhelming, so Kent liked to break it up into manageable chunks. First, he eyeballed the entire scene, committing everything to memory. These first impressions would later be compared alongside the official crime-scene photos, police logs, investigating officer notes, forensic notes, medical examiner reports and his own written log.

Much of the official information and reports would arrive via fax or computer to his office at Chimeya. It was there, notes and photos spread around his desk, a fire blazing, Loki curled up on his favorite rug next to the hearth, that he would start the detailed and painstaking review and let the patterns emerge. When he hit an impasse, and it happened from time to time, then he talked to Susan. He was too much the scientist to believe in ghosts, spirits or the hereafter, but that never stopped him from posing questions to the one woman he had loved and who had been taken from him seven years ago. Now, as then, she could still guide him to the answers, but before there could be any answers, he had to collect the information necessary to pose the questions.

Kent drew a deep breath and stepped into the suite, crossing to the bedroom. There was the bed, still neatly made. The curtains were drawn, a sliver of sunshine coming in through the crack between the two drapes. The television was on, but muted. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp he could just make out the figure on the floor. He moved in closer to examine the body of a young woman with dark, shoulder-length hair, fully dressed in gray slacks and a white linen shirt. She lay curled on her side as if she’d lain down there to sleep, but her eyes were half open, gazing into infinity the way the eyes of the dead sometimes did. One hand was reaching out as if to gather up the small beaded purse that had fallen to the floor beside her. Kent squatted on his heels, looking for jewelry on her person and remembering with a stab of pain how they’d tried to take Susan’s wedding band and engagement ring. How they’d nearly torn her finger off, trying to remove them…

The memory caused his stomach to twist. After five years he still wasn’t used to this routine. He hoped to God he never got used to it. This young woman was still sporting three rings and a necklace, and he mentally ruled out robbery as a motive. He shook his head, rose to his feet and resumed scanning the room. No sign of a struggle. Nothing appeared to be out of place. He looked closer at the victim, seeing no evidence she had been restrained or physically abused. Kent jumped as a hulking figure lurched up from the other side of the bed. “Shit, T. Ray, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” T. Ray Boone laughed as he rose, and as Kent willed his heart to slow its beating, he found himself wondering how he had not seen T. Ray on the other side of the bed. The medical examiner’s bulk was not easy to miss.

“Sorry ’bout that,” T. Ray said, his Southern accent as deep and mellow as the tupelo honey produced by his native Mississippi.

By this time, Murphy had rejoined Kent. “What do you have, T.? Anything new?” she asked.

T. Ray consulted the clipboard in his latex-gloved hands. “Tell you what, y’all just change the name and location and it’s the same as that lady you dragged into my carving room this morning.”

“Not quite,” Murphy said. “According to the desk clerk, when this one checked into the hotel last evening, she was carrying an infant. The night auditor had a guest call down to complain about a baby crying shortly after midnight. Obviously, the baby is now missing.” T. Ray shook his head. “Well, I can’t speak for that, but what we have here is a female, Caucasian, age twenty-three to twenty-six, dark hair and eyes. Dead at least twelve hours, which puts time of death right around midnight. I’m going with dehydration and possible acute organ failure as a cause of death, which screams poison to me, same as that other one, but that could change with the autopsy. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find something in the blood chemistry, but I gotta warn you guys…” T. Ray’s brown eyes took on a somber look. “If this does turn out to be some kind of viral thing, you might not want to be gettin’ too close without a haz-mat suit.”

“Thanks for the belated warning,” Kent commented. “Did you find any evidence of viral or bacterial infection in the other woman?”

T. Ray shook his head. “Nope, I didn’t, except for the secondary pneumonia. No reason why that young thing should’ve gotten so critically sick and died all alone at night. No reason at all for her vital organs to just shut down, that I could find. That’s why I’m thinkin’ poison.”

“But no evidence of foul play?”

“None. Blood was clean, body was clean. If it was poison, I don’t know what the hell it was, but give me five minutes with this one in the morgue and I can tell y’all whether it’s the same as the other,” T. Ray said.

Kent glanced around. A pacifier lay on the floor near the body. A baby blanket was draped over the desk chair. And a baby bottle half-full of milk was on the side table. “What the hell happened to the baby?” he muttered to himself.

“That,” Murphy responded, “is something we’re trying to find out as soon as possible. We’re hoping the infant is with its mother, but we can’t locate Ariel Moore to confirm that.” Murphy’s cell phone rang, and she turned away to answer it.

Kent didn’t bother to listen in. He was far more interested in gathering as much information, tangible and intangible, from the scene as possible. The two deaths bore too many similarities not to be connected. If T. Ray suspected poisoning, that meant someone had killed them. He knew the sooner he could start building a behavioral profile of the killer, the faster they could capture whoever was doing this and, hopefully, prevent more killings.

Members of the crime lab were entering the room in a steady stream, dusting for prints, shooting photos and hunting for any trace evidence the killer may have left behind. Soon, Kent knew, he would be perceived as in the way. Even in a state where people routinely took their pets to animal psychics, Kent’s particular contributions to the efforts of law enforcement were not always appreciated. Not everyone in the LAPD had reacted with enthusiasm to the addition of a forensic psychologist. Kent had been surprised and flattered when Murphy had stepped forward and requested he be assigned full-time to her department and, after a grueling six-month stint at the FBI facility at Quantico, given the official designation of a homicide detective to quell the growing departmental dissent. It was a move neither had ever had reason to regret.

He saw Murphy was off her cell phone and walked over to her. Knowing that her take on things was oftentimes dramatically different from his own, he wanted her initial reactions to the scene. Kent’s back was to the door and before he could ask the captain his first question, he saw Murphy glance over his shoulder and a look of irritation flash across her face.

“What’s she doing in here? This is a crime scene, not a sideshow.”

Kent turned and saw Melanie Harris standing just inside the suite’s bedroom door. It looked like he had caught her in midwave; her hand was raised but something had diverted her attention, leaving the elegant fingers floating in midair. Even as he turned toward her, he could see her eyes widening in shock. She took a sudden step backward, stumbled on the threshold and would have fallen if Kent hadn’t moved as quickly as he did.

It had been seven years since Kent had held a woman in his arms the way he was holding Melanie now. He carried the protesting woman from the room, vaguely aware of the wall of badges parting to allow him passage and Murphy’s angry voice demanding to know how a civilian had gotten access to the crime scene.

“Please, put me down, Dr. Mattson. I’ll be all right,” Melanie protested as he carried her into the adjacent bedroom. Kent set her down near the bed, aware that Murphy was right behind him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he said.

“Go scope out that room, Kent,” Murphy interrupted before Melanie could respond. “T. Ray wants to bag the body and get started on the autopsy. I’ll get the paramedics to check her out.”

Kent took advantage of Murphy’s orders and fled the room, Melanie’s distress affecting him more than he liked.

“The pretty lady okay, Doc?” T. Ray’s crooning drawl greeted Kent as he reentered the crime scene.

T. Ray was standing beside the bed, alternately staring down at the body and then scribbling in his notebook. “She’ll be fine,” Kent responded, pulling on the latex gloves Murphy had handed him in the elevator, and wondering if the same could be said of him.

“’Course she will, my man. You caught her before she could hit the floor. Smooth moves for a Beverly Hills shrink.” T. Ray lowered his pen and projected a solemn, patronizing air. “Look, I’m real glad you took my advice about getting back into the social scene, but if this is your first date, y’all could be in big trouble with that one. Pizza parlor would’ve been a better bet.” A mock frown concluded this brief lecture, then T. Ray said, “You let me know when you’re done snoopin’ around, Doc, ’cause I’m itchin’ to get to work on this one.”

There was a room-service cart draped with a white linen parked near the door. A single long- stemmed rose, apricot-colored, in a slender glass vase with a spray of baby’s breath and a sprig of leather leaf, was on the cart, along with a covered plate, a napkin, still folded and unused, several pieces of silverware and a teapot with accompanying cup and saucer.

“What did she order for room service, T. Ray?”

“Looks like a bowl of clear beef broth, some soup crackers and a pot of ginger tea. Didn’t touch any of it, though. I’m not surprised. She must’ve been pretty sick for a while, judging from how dehydrated she is.”

Kent checked out the bathroom, noting the neat array of feminine toiletries beside the sink, and the thick terry-cloth towel, damp and crumpled in a careless heap on the floor after the victim had apparently taken a shower.

“Has the bathroom been checked out?” he called to T. Ray.

“Head to tail with a fine-tooth comb. You know how Murphy is. They’ve vacuumed for hair samples and sprayed for blood, videotaped, photographed, measured and sketched. Paw around all you want, Doc, just don’t touch the body. That’s my domain.”

Kent pulled his own notebook out, annoyed by the tremble in his hand as he wrote. Melanie reminded him of Susan. There was no use denying the way she made him feel, and it wasn’t just the beauty and grace of her. There was something else, some intangible quality he couldn’t quite put his finger on…. He moved through the guest room methodically, jotting notes and making sketches, his years of police work inuring him to the buzz and bustle of activity around him until he heard Murphy speak his name. He glanced up as she strode into the room.

“How’s it going, Kent?” she said, her words terse and her dark eyes flashing with a restlessness he’d grown used to over the years.

“I’m about done here.”

“Good. Your young woman’s asking to speak with you,” she said. “The paramedics have checked her over. She’s in a state of moderate shock, not surprising considering that’s probably the first body she’s ever seen. The next time you ask a woman out, I suggest taking her to the movie theater instead.”

“She’s not my young woman,” Kent said with a flash of irritation. “She’s just a client who gave me a ride to the scene and for some reason followed me up here.”

Murphy’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Whatever you say. I’ll have one of the officers drive her home when she’s ready. She’s in no condition to sit behind the wheel of a car. She’s pretty shaken up, though she won’t admit it.”

“Thanks. And I’m sorry about her barging in like that. I don’t know how she ever got through the barricades.”

“The officer thought she was with you. You’re forgiven, just barely. What do you make of the victim?”

Kent crouched on his heels again to examine the body. “Looks pretty much like the victim we found this morning. I’m thinking we’re going to see the same cause of death.”

“If that’s the case it will be the first real clue that these two women have a common denominator.” She straightened with a frustrated shake of her head, then touched Kent’s arm. “Better go see your young woman. She could use some professional soothing, but make it quick. I’m going to ride along with

T. Ray to the preliminary postmortem.” Kent rose to his feet, too distracted to correct Murphy for a second time about his lack of involvement with Melanie. At the present moment he didn’t feel the least bit professional, or even remotely capable of soothing another human being. The two crime scenes today, plus Melanie’s involvement, had brought back too many memories of Susan. Nonetheless, he forced himself to return to the adjacent room, where Melanie was sitting up on the edge of the bed, refusing to take the hot drink that one of Murphy’s officers was offering. As soon as Melanie spotted Kent, she rose to her feet. Her face was still very pale. Murphy was right. She was badly shaken and appeared on the verge of tears.

“It’s all right,” Kent said to Melanie, giving the officer a nod of dismissal after retrieving the mug of hot cocoa from her. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but you shouldn’t have followed me up here. This is a crime scene, and civilians aren’t allowed.”

“I…I didn’t know if you wanted me to wait for you or not….” She sat back down again. “You left so suddenly, I didn’t know what to do. I was parked in and couldn’t leave, so I thought I should find you and ask….”

Kent felt a pang of guilt. He had left her abruptly, with no explanation. “You should drink some of this,” he said, extending the mug. “It might make you feel better.”

Melanie shook her head. “Thank you, but nothing will make me feel better right now.”

Kent sighed. He set the cup on the bedside table and drew up a chair. “Look, if you think it’ll help, I’ll write out a prescription, something that you can take when you get home….”

She shook her head, then drew in a sharp, gasping breath and covered her face. She remained rigid for a few moments, then dropped her hands. Her eyes burned into his, filled with the same nameless torment he’d glimpsed in his office…only this time it was far more intense.

“You don’t understand,” she said in a voice that trembled with emotion. “My sister Ariel and I haven’t spoken in six months. I never wanted to see her again after what she did. When Stephanie called and begged me to come to the special dinner to celebrate the birth of Ari’s little girl, I…I hung up on her! Oh, God, she was my best friend. That was the last time we talked….”

Kent had to resist the urge to take Melanie into his arms when she buried her face in her hands and painful sobs shook her slender, vulnerable form. Instead, he racked his rattled brain for something soothing to say while at the same time he was processing everything she’d just said. Melanie wasn’t making any sense, but she was obviously distraught. Hadn’t Murphy said the victim’s name was Stephanie Hawke? And the movie star with the young baby was Ariel something-or-other? Was it possible that Melanie was connected in some way with this crime scene? Kent’s thoughts were jumbled.

“I’m sure she realizes why you were upset,” he said, confused. “That’s what best friends are for. Maybe you should consider calling her back and accepting that invitation to dinner. Whatever happened between your sister and yourself, it’s never too late to make amends.”

Under the circumstances, this was the best Kent could manage, but if Murphy had thought his professional training would be of some comfort to Melanie, she’d been dead wrong. Never in his entire career had Kent’s words generated such a negative response. Melanie dropped her trembling hands, raised her streaming face and stared at him for a few moments in silent shock.

“You don’t understand,” she repeated. “I’ve known Stephanie for years. She was my closest friend, yet I lost my temper with her because she befriended my sister. I can’t ever make amends for that, because she’s lying on the floor of that bedroom, dead. My best friend is dead.”

CHAPTER THREE

TWO HOURS AFTER officially identifying Stephanie’s body at the Beverly Hills Regency, Melanie was waiting in numb silence at the police station, fingers curled around a cup of lukewarm vending machine coffee, staring blankly at the constant parade of officers, detectives and civilians that shuffled past the row of seats outside of Captain Carolyn Murphy’s office. She’d never been so cold in all her life, though she knew the chill she felt had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the station house.

Stephanie was dead. She’d died at the Beverly, in the same top-floor two-bedroom suite Ariel had booked every time one of her movies was released. According to the investigators, Ariel had allegedly made the reservation over the phone, using her Harris surname instead of her stage name to maintain privacy, but according to the hotel clerk, Stephanie had checked into the room with a young infant. Baby things had been strewn throughout the suite, the baby was missing and nobody had seen any sign of Ariel…but she had been there.

Nobody had seen her enter or leave the hotel, but the little beaded bag lying on the floor near Stephanie belonged to Ariel. Melanie had spent most of the past two hours telling investigators almost everything she knew about her best friend and the missing Ariel. But Melanie was exhausted and so emotionally drained that some of her memories felt almost dreamlike now. It was hard to recall that last distraught message from her sister, word for word, so she hadn’t volunteered any information about Mitch. When Captain Murphy had questioned her about who the father of Ariel’s baby was, Melanie had told her the father was dead—and repeated the fact that she and her sister hadn’t been on speaking terms for the past six months.

Could Ariel have had something to do with Stephanie’s death? Was her sister somehow involved? Why had Stephanie been at the suite with Ariel’s baby? Where had Ariel been with her fancy beaded purse? She only carried that when she was going out someplace jazzy for the evening. It was one of her favorite little costume extras. The forgotten purse and baby things bespoke an ominous degree of haste and panic in Ariel’s departure from the room.

“Melanie?”

She heard Dr. Mattson’s rough, masculine voice and glanced up, feeling a welcome jolt at the sight of him.

“Sorry this is taking so long,” he said. “I know how hard this must be for you, but we needed to compile your notes as soon as possible. The first twenty-four hours of an investigation like this is critical.”

“I understand,” she said, clinging to his every word. “Have you located my sister?”

“Not yet. She’s not at her apartment and hasn’t been seen there for some time. We’ve put out an all- points bulletin to locate her and the baby. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. Look, you’ve had a bad shock, and you really shouldn’t be alone. Is there someone I can call for you who could come pick you up? A relative or friend?”

“I’m fine, Dr. Mattson. Really.” To prove her point, Melanie tried to stand, but she sat back down abruptly as her knees betrayed her and a wave of dizziness darkened the edges of her vision. “I’ll be fine in a moment,” she amended, taking several deep, slow breaths.

In point of fact, the last place Melanie wanted to go on this ghastly day was home. She wanted desperately to talk to someone about Stephanie, but Rachel, her coworker and a friend of Stephanie’s, wasn’t answering her cell phone, and neither was Victor. He might be able to shed some light on Ariel’s activities. According to Stephanie, he had very generously offered Ariel the caretaker’s cottage at Blackstone to use until she and Mitch sorted out their lives, but to Melanie’s knowledge Ariel had declined. Ariel, addicted to the nightlife, was too fond of her apartment in the city, which was conveniently close to all the clubs and bars she loved to frequent.

Nonetheless, it had surprised Melanie that Victor had offered the cottage to Ariel. It had surprised her even more that Victor hadn’t mentioned this to her at all, that she’d had to learn about it from Stephanie. No doubt Victor had only been trying to help the struggling Ariel who, despite the high fees she’d commanded as a successful actress prior to her pregnancy, let money flow through her hands like water, saving little against just such a contingency as an unexpected maternal hiatus. And, of course, Mitch—damn the man, she still couldn’t think about him without feeling that sharp stab of pain— only made the big money when he was taking the big risks as a stuntman.

It was probable that the couple had faced grim financial restrictions as Ariel’s pregnancy had progressed. For the life of her, Melanie couldn’t imagine the two of them trying to make a go of it. Ariel was so ethereal, her head lost in the clouds, drifting and dreaming her way through life. Mitch was so animal, so basic and so dangerously sexual. Maybe that was what drew the women to him.

Melanie shivered and tightened her arms around herself, focusing on Dr. Mattson’s rugged face, the stubble darkening his jaw and making him look more masculine than ever. He was as weary as she, yet his eyes were clear and keen, and honest in a way that Mitch’s had never been. In spite of the horrors of the day, she felt drawn to him, safe in his presence, and she most definitely didn’t want to go home. Not yet, anyway.

“You really shouldn’t drive,” Dr. Mattson was saying. “Look, I’d be happy to drop you off at a friend’s house….”

Melanie was taken aback by his unexpected offer. “Thank you, Dr. Mattson. I’d appreciate that. And, if it’s not too much trouble…my car is still at the Beverly.”

“Not to worry,” Kent said. “I’ll arrange for an officer to deliver it to your house, just give the desk sergeant over there the address and your car keys.” He held up his hand as she began thanking him again. “It’s the least I can do, after all you’ve been through today. I’ll go round up an unmarked car, and you just point me in the right direction.”

BLACKSTONE WAS NEARLY an hour’s drive from the station house, not because it was all that far as the crow flies, but because the Santa Monica Freeway was choked with bumper-to-bumper traffic. Melanie was content to leave the driving to Dr. Mattson. Twenty minutes into the trip, as she gazed out the passenger window in a blank haze of exhaustion, he said, grinning, “Are we there yet?”

She cast him an apologetic look. “It’s not much farther. I’m sorry, Dr. Mattson. I should have taken a cab. You’ve had a long day, too.”

“I don’t mind.” He shrugged. “This is actually a pretty drive. Living so near the ocean you’d think I’d see it more often. Fact is, I hardly ever lay eyes on the Pacific, except when I’m flying to the ranch.”

“You’re lucky to have a place where you can get away from it all.”

“I couldn’t survive without it,” he said. “Especially with this job. There are days when it’s hard to find the good side of anything, kind of like today. But then I think about Chimeya at sunrise, when the sun rounds out of the east, the sky lights up from inside itself and the mountains glow like fire…. There’s nothing else like it, and no place better for centering the soul.”

Melanie felt the tension in the pit of her stomach ease as she listened to Kent. “It sounds lovely,” she said. “Are you really going back there tonight, with all that’s gone on today?”

“I do my best thinking there, and there’s no commuter traffic. Just a fast taxi and a straight one- hour shot to heaven.”

Melanie studied his profile as he spoke. She wanted to ask him if he was married, but didn’t know how to phrase the question without sounding nosy. How could he not have a partner in his life? He was damn near perfect. In fact, she was still searching for some annoying fault, some irritating quality that would reaffirm her belief that she was far better off without a man in her life. He had to have at least one or two bad habits, aside from drinking too much coffee.

“You told us that your sister had a lot of male friends,” he said, glancing at her, “and that you hadn’t spoken to her in six months, but maybe you could tell me a bit more about who the father of her baby was? Who knows? It might give us some clues to help us find her.”

His tone was casual, but Melanie felt the anxious knot form in her stomach again, even as a voice within whispered, Tell him. Tell him everything.

She wanted to. She sensed that Dr. Mattson knew she was withholding information. His long silences had been filled with the loudest unspoken questions that Melanie had ever endured. She bit her lower lip and stared out at the thinning blur of traffic as they sped away from the city. The irony of this situation was not lost on her. What she couldn’t, wouldn’t, talk about in Dr. Mattson’s office was no longer her secret to keep. Not as long as Ariel and the baby were missing. She drew a painful breath and released it slowly.

“The father was Mitch Carson, and he was my fiancé.”

AS KENT DROVE DOWN Blackstone’s private drive, access to which had been ensured by Melanie’s obvious acquaintance with the security guard stationed at the gatehouse, he was struck by how isolated and unique this property was. He liked the way the natural beauty of the place had been allowed to flourish, an unusual sight amidst this obsessive modern culture of manicuring every blade of grass.

He also liked the way Melanie had begun to open up to him, talking about her fiancé, her sister and her wedding day. It hadn’t been easy for her to broach the subject, but once she started, the words came faster and faster, tumbling out in a rush to release all the pent-up emotions of the past six months. When she had finished, she slumped back in her seat with a dazed look, as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d finally confronted the demons of her past. For the last five minutes she’d been silent, gazing out the window. Kent was glad for the break in conversation. It gave him a few moments to process her revelations and how they may or may not be connected to the day’s events.

“That’s the guest cottage,” Melanie said, rousing as he rounded a curve and a simple gabled dwelling tucked in a grove of eucalyptus trees came into view. “The mansion’s on top of the ledges, another quarter of a mile beyond here.” She sat up straighter. “Look, the door’s open. Maybe Victor’s inside. If you’ll stop here, Dr. Mattson, I’ll go check.”

Kent parked the unmarked police car and followed her to the cottage. The spicy sweet scent of the rose bushes lining the brick path mingled with the salty Pacific air. Grapevines adorned both sides of the arbored entry and a purple wisteria twined against the shingled outer walls. Six o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun’s rays were strong and golden, spilling into this small Tudor-style cottage as Melanie pushed the door completely open.

“Victor?” she called out as she entered. “Vic?”

Kent stepped over the threshold and into the dim coolness that smelled faintly of cedar paneling, leather and wood smoke. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light level, then followed Melanie into the living room, which was dominated by a beautiful fieldstone fireplace, the old andirons still cradling several half-burned logs. Built-in bookshelves lined both sides of the fireplace, and comfortable leather furnishings and a braided rug complemented the restful feel of the cozy space.

“We used to live here, Ariel and I,” Melanie murmured, looking around.

“For how long?”

“Three years.” Melanie walked to the bookshelves and scanned the titles. “Victor offered it to me a few months after I began working for him. He knew I was struggling to raise my sister and having a hard time making ends meet on a gofer’s pay. We lived here until Ariel landed her first big movie role and Victor’s wife had a few too many glasses of sherry and came here to tell us she thought it was high time we moved on.” Melanie glanced at him with a wry smile. “I never told Victor that the reason we left was because his wife was jealous of Ariel. At the time I thought that was ludicrous. Ariel was only nineteen. She was still just a baby…or so I thought.”

Kent followed Melanie up the narrow stairs, where four doors opened onto the landing. The first room Melanie looked in was big, with a queen-size antique sleigh bed and two dormer windows framing an ocean view over the treetops. “This used to be my room,” she said. “At night, with the windows open, I could hear the waves pounding against the Blackstone ledges.”

The bedroom was simply furnished and uncluttered. There was one framed picture atop the bureau, which Melanie studied for a few silent moments before turning away abruptly. Kent glanced at the photograph, a high quality black and white of a lean, athletic man on a Harley wearing an arrogant grin, leather pants and a dark T-shirt. Arms like Sylvester Stallone’s and features reminiscent of a young and virile Marlon Brando.

Melanie drifted out of the room and into the corridor. Kent followed as she passed a second door that opened onto a tiny bath. He glanced inside. Old-fashioned porcelain sink with brass bistro fixtures, small claw-foot tub, vintage pull-chain toilet. Everything clean and neat as a pin. A third door opened onto a smaller bedroom. “This was Ariel’s room,” Melanie said, stepping inside and looking around. “The wisteria vine growing against the cottage was so thick and strong that she’d climb down it like a monkey and spend the night raising hell with her friends. Ariel hated school, and couldn’t have cared less about her grades. It’s a wonder they graduated her.”

Melanie paused outside the fourth door off the landing. “This used to be what we called the study, but Ariel never used it for studying.” She was still smiling as she swung the door inward. She gasped and froze, hand still on the doorknob. Kent glanced over her shoulder and saw a charming nursery, painted in pale pastels, complete with a crib, baby toys and a changing table. A tiny writing desk set beneath the window and a day bed completed the furnishings. “Stephanie must have been wrong. Ariel did come back,” she said, gazing around the small space. “I knew she’d been trying to work things out with Mitch before he was killed. She must have hoped he’d move in with her here and help raise the baby.”

“What?” Kent burst out. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you tell Captain Murphy that your sister lived in Beverly Hills?”

“Yes. That’s true. She has an apartment there which she loves, but according to Stephanie, Victor offered the guest cottage to Ariel a few months before the baby was born. Stephanie told me she didn’t take him up on his offer, but she was obviously wrong.”

Kent stared, first at Melanie, then back at the baby things. He had to restrain himself from cursing aloud. “So you’re telling me your missing sister might have been living here?”

Melanie shook her head, puzzled. “It doesn’t really look like they were living here. I mean, there are no personal belongings, just that damn picture of Mitch and a nursery that looks as if it’s never been used. I’m sure Victor would have told me if Ariel had moved in.”

Kent stood beside her, analyzing every detail of the small room. The entire cottage had an empty feel to it, and this room was no exception. Even the desktop was bare, although… Kent spotted the small, cream-colored envelope propped against the base of the table lamp at the same time as Melanie did and they crossed the room together. On the face of the envelope, in a childlike scrawl, a name had been written and underlined twice.

Mel

Kent heard Melanie’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh, Ari,” she said as she reached to retrieve the message.

“Wait,” he said, staying her hand with his own. “You shouldn’t touch it. It’s evidence….” Her hand was ice-cold in his, and as she lifted her pleading eyes, he felt his resolve begin to crumble. After a few moments he sighed and reached into his jeans pocket for the fresh pair of latex gloves he’d grabbed earlier at the Beverly Hills Regency. “All right,” he said. “I’ll open the letter and lay it on the desk for you to read, but you can’t touch it. Understand?”

She nodded.

The envelope wasn’t sealed, which made things easier for Kent. He withdrew the folded sheet of matching stationery, acutely aware that Melanie was clinging to the edge of the desk and her face was even paler than it had been before. He hesitated, caught between knowing what was right and what his heart was telling him to do. Not only did he stand to lose his badge twice over for doing this, but Melanie was probably going to faint on him again.

And yet, she deserved to read the note. Hell, if it was his sister that was missing under suspicious circumstances and his best friend that T. Ray was examining probably at this very moment in the hospital morgue, wouldn’t he want to study the note before the investigators arrived and took it to the crime lab? Damn straight he would, no matter what it said, good or bad. And so Kent carefully unfolded the piece of stationery and laid it flat on the desktop.

Dear Mel, I’ve messed up everything so bad…

The words seemed to float up from the pages to her eyes. As she read, the unmistakable delicate scent of CK One, Ariel’s favorite perfume, wafted up from the paper. Melanie swallowed hard, blinked a tear from her eye and prayed that the letter would hint at Ariel’s whereabouts, and reassure her in some way that her sister was all right.

I’ve ruined my life and, worst of all, I’ve de¬ stroyed the lives of the people I love most. I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. I don’t even blame you for hating me. After what happened with Mitch, I guess it’s what I deserve. But, I have to tell you—beg you to understand— I never, ever meant to hurt you. What I did was selfish and stupid, I know, but when I first met Mitch it was love at first sight, or at least that’s what I thought. You must be able to understand that.

Melanie certainly could. It was the same effect Mitch had had on her when Victor had introduced them on the location of Hammerhead Row. The movie was full of explosions, fights, high-speed car chases and numerous other risky stunts, and Mitch had been the body double for the lead actor.

Melanie remembered the almost electrical charge she had felt when she and Mitch met. Hammerhead Row had been shot almost entirely on location in San Francisco, and that required Melanie’s constant presence. The initial mutual attraction between them had led to lunches, which soon evolved into dinner dates at various city hot spots. By the time the movie was into its third week of production they were sleeping together. In fact, Melanie could still blush recalling those first passionate encounters in Mitch’s trailer. By the time the film wrapped they were living together and by the premiere, they were engaged. And all that time, Mitch was playing both Melanie and Ariel.

Melanie forced the memories out of her mind and turned her attention back to the letter.

I don’t expect your forgiveness, but maybe one day you will want to meet your new niece. She’s so beautiful, and I hope she takes after you. Strong, smart, brave and dependable. All the things I’m not. All the things I admired so much about you. All the things I lost. And please try to forgive Mitch. I think, no, I believe, he realized how much he had hurt both of us. He wasn’t a bad man. He was just caught up in the Hollywood scene and he let it go to his head. He really wanted it to work between us and to support this baby. I regret she will never know her father.

Mel, I love you. If nothing else, please believe that. I would like to tell you that in person, and maybe someday in the future I can. We’re going away for a few weeks but maybe when I get back we can come visit you. Motherhood is going to be the toughest part I’ve ever played. It’s going to be hard and it’s going to be lonely, but I can do it. I have you for a role model, after all. You’re so strong, and I’ve been so weak, but that’s going to change, I promise you that. And I ask you to promise me one thing. No matter how you feel about me, if anything ever happens to me, please, I beg you, take care of my little girl.

So, for now this is goodbye. When we get back, I’ll call you. I can only hope it is a call you will take.

All my love,

Ari.

These were the most honest, self-aware and heartfelt words she had heard from her sister in years. And, thanks to Melanie’s obstinate refusal to talk to her sister, this last communiqué was one- sided. “What a fool I’ve been,” she whispered.

“Are you all right?” Kent asked.

He was standing very close. Probably ready to catch me again.

“Just give me a minute,” she said, not turning. Instead, she looked up from the letter and out the window. The sun was over the Pacific and the waters gleamed with a thousand jewels on the waves. It had been their favorite time of day. In happier times, it was the kind of late afternoon when she would have come home from a long day on set with a huge bag of Chinese takeout and a wealth of Hollywood gossip to share with her little sister. The two would take the food and a blanket down to the private beach below the estate and have a feast, staying until the last golden rays fell below the waves.

“We never did see it,” she said out loud.

“Excuse me?” Kent said.

“The green flash, we never saw it in all the time we were here.”

Kent was looking at her oddly. Perhaps he was thinking the letter was the final straw needed that day to break the back of her sanity.

Without turning from the window, she said, “You mean to say that you live and work on the California coast and you’ve never heard of the green flash?”

“Hey, I just work on the coast. I’m a mountain man, born and bred.”

She finally turned toward him. “Few people have seen it and lots of folks don’t even believe it ever happens. But the story goes, on evenings when the conditions are right, as the sun sets behind the ocean its last rays, just for an instant, shine through the waves far out to sea. In that instant the sunlight flashes green across the sky. Ari and I spent a lot of nights down on the beach waiting to see it.”

In the ensuing silence, Melanie was able to collect herself and, for the first time in those awful months since the aborted wedding, think clearly. It was as if a fog was lifting and she could look inside with brutal objectivity. She had spent the last six months foolishly blaming everyone but herself for her misery. She had blamed Mitch for his philandering, she had blamed Victor for introducing her to Mitch and most of all she had blamed Ari for ruining her life. Now she realized the only blame belonged on her shoulders. She had been faced with a choice: deal with what had happened and move on, or wallow in self-pity and melancholy, thereby punishing everyone around her.

Her choice had cost her dearly. One by one her friends, all but Stephanie, had given up on her, leaving her to her own state of misery. Her work had suffered to the point that even Victor had warned her that her career was in real jeopardy. And the heaviest toll of all had been the erosion of her relationship with Ariel. Well, no more. The dreadful, endless day that had started with the desperate move of seeking help from an outside professional had somehow brought her to this point of realization: The only one who could help her was her. On the spot she made a series of promises to herself. No more excuses. No more self-pity. No more wallowing in the past.

She straightened, squared her shoulders and turned to Kent. “Dr. Mattson, we have to find my sister as soon as possible.”

SOMETHING IN Melanie’s voice made Kent look closely at her. Gone was the vulnerable patient who had bolted from his office. Gone, too, was the bewildered woman who had just suffered through the discovery of her best friend’s corpse, the official identification of the body and nearly two hours of police questioning.

Instead, he had the distinct impression he was seeing the real Melanie Harris for the first time, and he marveled at the change. Kent would have predicted months, if not years of intensive therapy to put back together the broken woman he had met that morning. He raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know where she was planning to go?”

“No, I don’t, but at least we know she’s all right. This letter was dated two days ago. She knew she was going away and must have been planning to have Victor give me that letter,” Melanie said. “Victor might know where she’s gone.”

“Who’s this Victor you keep mentioning?”

“Victor Korchin. He owns this estate. He’s my boss, and a good friend.”

“Why is that name so familiar?”

“Victor’s a film director.”

“Ah, yes. Korchin Studios.” Murphy had mentioned that name to him earlier. This time, Kent did curse aloud. “No doubt Victor has close ties to your sister, who happens to be a successful actress,” he prodded.

Melanie hesitated. “Yes. Victor’s been like a father to her.”

“But somehow you just forgot to mention to us this little connection between the two of them?”

Melanie dropped her eyes from his accusing stare. “I’m sorry.”

“I hope he knows something about your sister’s whereabouts, since she didn’t leave many clues in that letter and the only other person we might have questioned is dead. I’ll have a couple of detectives dispatched here immediately to question him and search this place properly, now that we’ve messed up any potential evidence.” He reached for the cell phone clipped to a holder on his hip, but before he could make his call, it rang.

“Mattson here,” he said.

Melanie could tell that Kent was on the receiving end of a call from his boss.

“Hold on a sec,” Kent was saying as he fished a notepad out of his pocket and leaned over the desk, pen in hand. “Okay, what do you have?” He listened, scribbling furiously. “Got it. Thanks. And Murph? You might want to send a team out to Victor Korchin’s estate. Ariel Moore and her baby might have been living at the guest cottage here. We found a letter that she wrote two days ago to her sister, and she could still be somewhere on the premises. We haven’t approached the main house yet.” He gave her the address before ending the call and turning back to Melanie.

“Do they have any leads?” she asked.

“No, but they’ve made a positive ID of the other victim found earlier this morning.”

“There was another victim? Who?”

Kent paused. “What the hell. You’ll probably hear it on the evening news.” He flipped through the pages of his notepad. “Her name was Rachel Fisher, age thirty-seven, and she lived at…”

“Sixty-five East Corinth, right on the beach,” Melanie said, her mouth going dry as her heart skipped several beats.

Kent appeared stunned. “Don’t tell me you’re psychic.”

Melanie shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to rid herself of an all-too-familiar feeling triggered by one of her earliest childhood memories. When she was a little girl and Ariel just a newborn, their parents had taken them to a family gathering at an aunt and uncle’s farm in the country. It had been a day of picnics, games, cousins and, to a young Melanie, seemingly endless fussing over “baby Ari.” By midafternoon she had grown resentful of the fawning over her new sister. Determined to recapture some of the attention, Melanie was drawn to the huge and ancient apple tree behind the barn. She knew Uncle Tukey loved red apples and set out to prove her worth by scaling the tree and fetching the biggest, reddest apple she could find. As it happened, the biggest, reddest apple was hanging from the tree’s uppermost branches. With scarcely a thought to her mother’s standing admonishment to remain in sight of the grown-ups at all times, she skipped around the back of the barn and clambered up the tree.

Melanie had climbed higher and higher, until she was a full fifteen feet off the ground. She looked down only once, and that was enough. She was an accomplished tree climber, but this was certainly higher than she had ever gone before. Smiling in anticipation of the look of happy surprise on Uncle Tukey’s face when she presented him the trophy apple, she shinnied out onto the branch, which was swaying a bit under her weight. Clinging to the rough bark with one hand, she extended the other and, just as her fingers brushed the red fruit, the branch gave one last mighty sway and snapped.

She remembered feeling not as if she were falling, rather as if she were suspended in midair and the ground was rushing up to meet her. Everything was pretty hazy after that. She must have screamed because there was a knot of adults and cousins around when she came to, all with the same concerned look on their faces. Melanie’s plan to divert their attention from Ariel had worked, but the price had been a costly one—a broken arm and a month-long grounding. All of that was a dim recollection, however. What had stayed with Melanie was that feeling of inertia while inevitable events rushed toward her. It was one that had followed her all her life and, as she looked at Kent, she felt it again for the second time that day.

“Dr. Mattson, I know Rachel. I know her address because mine use to be Sixty-seven East Corinth. We were next-door neighbors until I moved closer to the studio. She’s one of Victor’s best screenwriters, and I’ve known her for years.”

A DOZEN THOUGHTS were competing for Kent’s attention, but rising fast among them were these: two young women had died mysteriously, mere miles and hours apart. Both were affiliated with the movie industry, and both knew the missing Ariel Moore and her sister, Melanie. It was obvious from the expression on her face that Melanie had made the same sinister connection.

“What’s going on?” Her eyes reflected her confusion and fear. “Dear God, do you think Ariel and the baby might be in some kind of danger?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Kent said, putting his hands on her shoulders as he looked at her. “But I can promise you this. We’ll find your sister and her baby as quickly as we can. In the meantime, I’m not about to let you out of my sight.”

CHAPTER FOUR

MELANIE TURNED AWAY from Kent and gathered her wits. “Was Rachel killed at home?” she asked. “Do you think the same person killed them both?”

“Rachel’s body was discovered on the beach below her apartment by a jogger early this morning,” Kent said. “This early in the investigation we can’t be sure, of course, but there’s a strong possibility the two deaths are connected.”

“But who would want to kill either of them?” Melanie bit her lower lip, damning the quiver in her voice.

Before Kent could respond, they heard the throb of an approaching engine and the crunch of tires on the gravel drive. A green-and-yellow John Deere garden tractor puttered into view, a spry-looking elderly man perched on the seat, dressed in drab workingman’s clothing and wearing a straw hat. “The gardener?” Kent asked.

Melanie shook her head. “Victor Korchin,” she said. “I’m hoping he can tell us where Ariel is.” She turned from the window and hurried for the door, but Kent reached for her arm to hold her back.

“Wait,” he cautioned. “Until Captain Murphy gets here, the less said about anything that’s happened, the better. You’d better let me talk to him.”

“That’s ridiculous. I just want to ask him about Ariel.” Melanie pulled out of his grasp and backed up a step. “Victor has a right to know about Rachel and Stephanie. You can’t possibly think he’s involved in any way.”

“This is a murder investigation. I’m talking about police procedure here and we’ve already violated a number of important protocols. I’d like to keep my job, if you don’t mind.”

“I won’t mention them,” she promised, inwardly seething at the way he was treating her. She wheeled around and exited the little nursery, dashing down the stairs in angry haste. As she rushed forward to meet Victor, she heard the faint sound of sirens approaching from the main road. Victor stopped the tractor and cut the ignition.

“Melanie,” he said, climbing off the seat. He seemed surprised and pleased to see her. “Have you come to see Ari? This is good, so good, but I don’t think she is here.” Victor’s eyes focused over her shoulder. “Come up to the house, bring your gentleman friend, we’ll share a glass of wine and talk….” His expression changed as he heard the approaching sirens. “What’s wrong, Melly? What is it?”

“Oh, Victor,” Melanie said, crumbling at his use of her pet name. “We were hoping you’d know where Ariel was. It’s very important that we find her.” Melanie turned as Kent stepped up beside her. “This is Dr. Kent Mattson, and he’s…”

“Is Ariel sick? Is the baby all right?” Victor interrupted, his face becoming pale. “Something terrible has happened. What is it? Dear God, tell me.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kent said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the police to arrive. Maybe you’d better sit down.” He guided Victor toward the passenger side of the unmarked car before walking away to meet the police cars, and Melanie’s heart broke at how old Victor looked as he half collapsed onto the seat with a dazed, apprehensive expression.

“Melanie?”

“I’m here, Vic.” She knelt beside him. “I’m right here.”

“What has happened? Why can’t you tell me? Is Ariel all right? And her baby?”

Melanie closed her hands around his, feeling their cold tremble. “I don’t know, Victor. I honestly don’t know. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“At her apartment, maybe? She spends most of her time there, now that Mitch is dead.”

“She isn’t there. We’ve checked.”

“I just cast her as the lead in our next production, Celtic Runes. Did she tell you? We were going to begin filming shortly…. Is she sick? Is she in some kind of danger?”

Victor was so distraught that Melanie was on the verge of telling him everything she knew when she felt Kent’s hand on her arm, drawing her to her feet as the police cars, a seeming platoon of them, careened around the corner and skidded to a stop, blue lights flashing, sirens cutting out one after another. Kent propelled Melanie along with him as he approached Captain Murphy’s car. She fixed Kent with a steely expression as she exited her vehicle. “Well?”

“The man over there is Victor Korchin,” Kent said. “According to Melanie, he was like a father to Ariel. All he knows is that she’s missing, and he learned that from us not five minutes ago. We told him nothing about the two murders, and we didn’t touch anything inside the cottage except for the letter in the nursery, and I wore gloves when I took it out of the envelope.” Kent glanced at Melanie, then ran his fingers through his hair. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get Melanie out of here. It’s been a helluva long day for her.”

Murphy gave Kent a curt nod of dismissal as she moved toward the unmarked car, signaling two other officers to accompany her. The three of them assisted the visibly shaken Victor to the captain’s vehicle. Halfway there he paused.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, removing his straw hat. “I will need to leave a note for my wife that I am going.” He reached into his trouser pocket and drew forth a large handkerchief to dab the sweat from his forehead.

Melanie took a step forward, but before she could voice a single word, Kent pulled her back. He escorted her firmly to the car and planted her in the passenger seat. “But, Dr. Mattson, I can’t just leave Victor like this….”

“Not another word,” he said, his eyes steely. He shut the door and returned to where Murphy stood, bending close for a brief conversation before returning and climbing behind the wheel.

Kent backed up carefully, threading through the maze of police vehicles. “Murphy’s aware of the details. She’ll handle the questioning from here on out. She’s an expert at that.”

He was heading back down the winding driveway as he spoke, driving cautiously and yielding the right of way as other police vehicles approached. Melanie stared at his calm, impassive profile, experiencing another wave of heated indignation at his words. “You talk as if Victor’s a suspect.”

“It’s standard police procedure,” he repeated. “Murphy might not take him to the station house, but we have to question everyone who has any connection to these women.” He paused, then glanced sidelong at her. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone else Ariel was close to that you haven’t told us about, or any other places she might have been living?”

Melanie faced front and laced her hands tightly in her lap. “No.”

“Okay.” He turned left when he exited Blackstone’s impressive gate. “Then I think it’s time we found you a safe haven for the night.”

“Just drive me home, please,” Melanie said, battling an overwhelming weariness. “I want to be there if Ariel calls. She could be in terrible trouble.”

“It’s not a good idea for you to be alone.”

“You can’t possibly believe that I’m in danger, too,” Melanie said.

“Until we know for certain that you aren’t, I’m not taking any chances. I’d like you to give us permission to stake out your apartment for a few days, just in case, and if you insist on staying there, I’d like you to consider having an undercover officer on the premises. A woman, of course,” he added, as if she might have thought he was volunteering himself.

“Absolutely not,” Melanie said with a firm head shake. “My apartment is in a very safe part of town and I’ll be fine there by myself. I’m not going to argue about this, Dr. Mattson. I appreciate your concern, but please, just take me home.”

AS HE ENTERED Melanie’s apartment for the first time, Kent fully expected that he’d be overwhelmed with Hollywood pretentiousness and was pleasantly surprised by the homey simplicity of the place. It was a small apartment—the kitchen, dining room and living room all blending into one open space— furnished in an inexpensive yet tasteful style.

“It’s small,” Melanie had said as she unlocked the door, “but I don’t need much.” She flung her purse on the sofa, ran her fingers through her hair and heaved an exhausted sigh that turned into a moan as her eyes fixed on a broken bowl on the kitchen floor. Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, no. That crazy cat of mine thinks he has the right to sample anything I accidentally leave out on the counter.” She knelt to gather up the broken pieces, her hair tumbling around her face in a soft glossy fan. “Trust Shakespeare to help himself. He knows the counter’s off limits, but apparently Anatanyia’s Mexicali shrimp dip was too much of a temptation. Never cared for it myself—too spicy. I’m sorry about the mess.”

“I’d like to check out your apartment before I leave, just to make sure everything is okay,” Kent said.

She glanced up at him, hands full of broken shards, and nodded. “All right. Thank you.”

It didn’t take him long to figure out that nobody lurked in the closets or hid in the bathroom, and no murderer lingered in the bedroom, but something caught his eye beneath the bed. The tail of a cat protruded from beneath the dust ruffle. “I found your dip thief,” he called to Melanie, “hiding out under the bed.”

“Typical,” he heard Melanie say, and he stood for a moment, wondering why the tail didn’t move. Cats were cautious creatures by nature. Kent knelt and lifted the bedspread. The cat was lying on its side—big, orange and unmoving. He reached his hand to touch the animal. There was no response, and he was not surprised. The cat was quite dead and he noticed a bit of white froth around the animal’s mouth.

With a surge of adrenaline Kent was on his feet, running to the kitchen. “Don’t touch that!” he snapped. Melanie had a wad of paper towels in her hand to wipe up the remnants of the dip that soiled her kitchen floor. She froze, then rose slowly to her feet.

“What’s wrong?” She stared at him, her eyes widening. “Where’s Shakespeare?” Kent closed the distance between them, as if by being near her he could protect her from the next bad shock of her horrible day.

“He’s dead,” Kent said. “I’m sorry. Wash your hands immediately and don’t touch the dip. We’ll need to get a sample of it to the lab and get it analyzed….”

“Dead?” she echoed faintly. “Shakespeare? Dead?”

“Did you eat any of that dip yourself? Even to be polite?”

She shook her head. “No. Like I said, I never cared for it. It was supposed to go in the trash this morning but I forgot to take it out with me when I left.”

“Where did it come from?” Kent asked.

“Stephanie dropped it off here the morning after the dinner party….” Her eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto her cheeks.

“Who is this Anatanyia? What dinner party? When?”

“Victor Korchin’s wife,” she said. “The party was at Blackstone the day before yesterday. It was held to celebrate the birth of Ariel’s baby. I was invited but I didn’t go, I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t ready to see her yet, I wasn’t ready to forgive her, and so Stephanie brought me the dip to tell me about the party and how beautiful Ariel’s daughter was and…” Melanie’s voice choked off for the second time and she leaned into him, pressing her hands to her face and drawing a deep, shuddering breath. She was trembling like a leaf in high winds. Kent supported her with one arm, while his other hand reached for his cell phone.

Murphy answered on the fourth ring. “This had better be important, Kent, because I’m in the middle of an interrogation that you should most definitely be witnessing.”

“I may have just discovered what killed those two women,” Kent said. “Send a crime team to Melanie Harris’s apartment, would you? Tell them there’s a dead cat in the bedroom and some dip on the kitchen floor that may contain a poisonous substance. And Murph? I think we’d better assign twenty- four-hour surveillance of her apartment, as well as an officer to stay with Melanie. I don’t think she’s safe here by herself, but she insists this is where she wants to be, in case her sister tries to contact her.”

Kent felt Melanie stiffen in his arms as he stuffed the cell phone into the holder on his belt.

“Dr. Mattson,” she said, drawing away from him and drying her cheeks. “I really don’t want to stay here now. Not after what’s happened to Shakespeare. If you could drop me at a hotel….” There was a flicker of dread on her face as she remembered that Stephanie had died in a hotel room surrounded by people. She shook her head, a small, helpless gesture. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where else to go.”

Kent hesitated. He could take her to a safe house. That could certainly be arranged. But he sensed that she needed more than just a safe place. She needed a sympathetic ear and companionship. “I know where,” he said. “You’ll come home with me tonight. Chimeya may be too remote and rustic for your Hollywood tastes, but you’ll be safe there.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she said. “Thank you for the offer, but it’s too much of an imposition.”

“Then I’ll assign Sergeant Bertha Dewburgh as your bodyguard. No one’ll bother you with Big Bertha nearby, and she’ll stick with you like glue. Takes her job real seriously. Guaranteed, Big Bertha and two plainclothes detectives’ll keep you safe in any hotel room. I’ll make the call, if you’re sure that’s the route you want to take.”

Kent reached for his cell phone again, and Melanie stayed him with a touch of her slender hand. “All right,” she relented. “I’ll go with you to Chimeya.”

Kent tucked the phone away for the second time with an abrupt laugh. “Good choice. Come on. If we hustle, we can be at Chimeya before dark.”

“All right, just give me a few minutes to pack some things,” Melanie said.

“I’m sorry, but that’s a negative. Nothing can be removed until the crew from the crime lab gets a look at it.”

“Crime lab?”

“Yes, unfortunately, your apartment has been classified a crime scene. But don’t worry, by tomorrow you should be able to send for a few things.” Kent offered a cryptic little grin. “In the meantime, I have a strong hunch you will be well taken care of and outfitted once my housekeeper gets a hold of you.”

KENT’S LOVE AFFAIR with flying had begun at an early age, and he attributed that love to strong genetic encoding on both sides of his family. His father had flown in the Navy and survived two tours and eighty-six missions in Vietnam. He called those his years spent “downtown.” His grandmother on his mother’s side had been one of the women pilots who served the United States military in World War II. In 1942 she’d been the youngest pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary, ferrying planes and supplies to frontline airfields in Britain and France. She’d flown Spitfires for the most part, though she’d been rated for multi-engine aircraft as well, and had piloted nearly a thousand planes with only one forced landing.

Kent had toyed with the idea of joining the military after graduating from college and following in his father’s footsteps, but as strong a temptation as flying the most sophisticated fighter jets was, his love of freedom was even stronger. Having grown up in faded Levi’s and worn cowboy boots, he couldn’t picture himself in a crisp white uniform, smartly saluting his way up the ladder. So he opted for the next best thing: first, his private pilot’s license, and then commercial training at the best facility in the nation. He could have landed a job flying for one of the big airlines, but again, his love of freedom won out. He’d bought his own plane and piloted his own dreams.

Kent was aware of Melanie’s trepidation as he pulled the unmarked police car into a parking space near the terminal at the small airfield.

She sat up, smoothed her hair and glanced out the window. “Oh, God,” she said, eyeing the fleet of private aircraft parked beyond the buildings. “You weren’t pulling my leg. You really do commute by airplane.”

“You betcha,” Kent said. “In an hour we’ll be at Chimeya. C’mon.”

He was out of the car and opening her door, waiting as she got out slowly and clutched her purse to her chest, a frown puckering her smooth brow. “Dr. Mattson, there’s something you should know….”

Suddenly enlightened, Kent reached for her hand. “Fear of flying is very common. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me.”

Melanie’s green eyes widened with surprise. “How did you know?”

“I specialize in psychic psychology.” She followed him as he entered the terminal. “Hey, Paulette,” he said to the woman sitting behind the counter, who was reading a paperback. “I’m heading home for the night.”

Paulette reached for the flight-plan log and tossed a set of keys on the counter. “Gotcha, Doc,” she said, staring at Melanie with interest. “She’s all fueled up and ready to roll. Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early,” Kent said, scooping up the keys and signing the log book.

“Doc?” Paulette said just as Kent was exiting the office. “Better watch your climb out. An FAA dude was here when you blasted off last Friday and we got written up for not busting your chops.”

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