Книга - One True Secret

One True Secret
Bethany Campbell


What if the truth doesn't set you free?Emerson Roth has one mission–protect her family by keeping their secrets. If the decision was left to Emerson, she would stop the lies and live with the consequences, but she has her sister and elderly grandparents to consider.Eli Garner has one job–uncover the truth about the Roths. And his reputation proves that he just might be able to do that. In the past, when Eli went after a story, nothing stopped him, and he has the scars to show for it. If Emerson thinks she can keep secrets from him, she's dead wrong.But what happens when Eli realizes that exposing the Roths means ruining the life of the only woman he's ever cared about?









“You know, for a guy who has Emerson Roth exactly where he wants, you’re in a rotten mood.”


Merriman narrowed his eyes as he continued. “You know what I think? I think you’re attracted to her. And you blew your chance with her—big time. Smooth, Garner.”

Merriman’s words annoyed Eli because they were true. Emerson was a beautiful woman. But more than that, she had spirit, she was smart—and loyal to a fault. He didn’t want her to be guilty, but he feared she was.

He wanted her to have a reasonable, moral excuse for the games her family played. He didn’t want her to hate him. But it was too late for that. The damage was done.

Eli was relentless; it went with his job. He could go beyond relentless to ruthless when he had to, and he had been ruthless with Emerson.

She would talk to him again tomorrow, because she had no choice.

And he would show her no mercy, because he couldn’t.


Dear Reader,

People often ask if my characters are based on real people. In One True Secret, the answer is yes and no.

Most of the characters are composites of the real and the imaginary. The heroine, Emerson, owes her beauty and boldness to one of my friends who has the good fortune to have both. But Emerson’s other qualities are drawn from a number of different people, some of them members of my family. And part of her is pure imagination.

Still, I confess that one character is drawn completely from reality. The only thing that is made up about him is his name.

This character is Bunbury, the overweight gray cat who chirps rather than meows. Bunbury is nearly identical to my overweight gray cat, Hodge, who chirps instead of meows. Hodge could sue me for invasion of privacy and libel, but he couldn't care less about being in a book. Outrage, even mild irritation, would be a waste of his preciously hoarded calories.

His passions are (a) eating (b) coveting the food of others and (c) being petted. He hates the vacuum cleaner, all doors that shut him in or out and, most of all, travel.

As this is being written, Hodge is lying on the dog’s cushion, hogging it as he manages to look both sleepy and superior. He will not answer to the name Bunbury, but he won’t answer to the name Hodge, either. He’s a real cat, but he’s also, in every sense of the word, a real character.

Best wishes,

Bethany Campbell and Hodge, a Very Fine Cat Indeed.

Bethany would love you to visit her at her Web site, www.bethanycampbell.com.




One True Secret

Bethany Campbell







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Wheels and Mrs. Wheels with affection and gratitude.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


“I DON’T WANT to talk to those men,” Claire said. She sat under the buttercup tree, glumly feeding almonds to the parrot.

“Then don’t.” Emerson lay stretched on the chaise longue beside the pool. She wore a purple bikini and a green baseball cap. “I’ll do the talking.”

“For them to come barging in this way? I think it’s just—rude.”

“Arrak!” said the parrot. “Rude! Rude!”

“They’re journalists. It’s their job to be rude. Pass me some almonds, will you? I’ve got the munchies.”

Claire rose and handed Emerson the bowl. Then she paused, furrowing her smooth brow. “What’ll you do if they get—you know—too pushy?”

Emerson shrugged disdainfully. “Cut ’em into little pieces and feed ’em to Gollum.”

Gollum was the alligator who lived in the pond on the back of the property, the acres their grandfather kept untouched and wild. Gollum was six feet long and had only one eye. It was yellow and gleamed with malevolence.

“That’s a thought,” Claire said, all seriousness. She moved back to the low stone wall under the yellow blossoms of the tree and sat beside the parrot again, crossing her legs. She put her chin on her fist and stared pensively at her sister. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll say the wrong thing?”

“Nope.” Emerson popped an almond into her mouth.

“Not at all.”

“I’d be,” Claire murmured. “I know I’d say too much. Strangers make me nervous. This whole situation makes me nervous.”

“Yarrk,” croaked the green parrot. “Nervous.” He climbed to a lower branch of the tree and hung upside down, cocking his head from side to side.

Emerson peered over her funky sunglasses to scrutinize Claire. Her younger sister was a pretty girl with a sweet face and a gentle air. The Florida sun had streaked her light-brown hair with gold, and her hazel eyes had a faraway look in them.

Emerson loved her sister, but she worried about her. Claire had always been shy, but lately, Emerson thought, her shyness was overpowering her. Claire went outside the estate as little as possible these days and then only to certain places on the Lower Keys.

She stayed home and saw to the needs of their grandparents, Nana and the Captain. She worked in the garden and walked on the beach and played with her pets.

Claire seemed content with her lot, almost serene. But Emerson didn’t want her to hide away from the world, like the Captain. One recluse in the family was more than enough, thank you very much.

After Emerson had fended off the damn journalists, she needed to get to work on Claire’s social life. That would take some first-class scheming and wheedling. Well, Emerson was up for it.

A fat blue-gray cat with a white belly and paws waddled out of the coleus and began to rub against Claire’s ankles. “Ah,” Claire said with real delight, “it’s Mr. Bunbury. Hello, Bunbury.”

Bunbury flopped onto his back, offering up the considerable expanse of his stomach for petting. Claire rubbed him, ruffled and smoothed him, then lifted him onto her lap and scratched his jowls. The parrot, wary, righted himself and climbed several branches higher in the tree.

Claire looked at Emerson over Bunbury’s ears. “When do you go to New York again?”

Emerson sat up and began to coat herself with a fresh layer of sunscreen. “In ten days.”

“How many paintings will you take?”

“Only the two small ones. I’ll take slides of the rest. See what Krystol thinks.”

“Krystol’s a very good dealer,” Claire said. “But Nana’s worried about him.”

“Why? Because he’s asking questions?” Emerson kept stroking the lotion on her thighs. “It’s all right. I can handle Krystol. I’ve been doing it for years, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but so many people are asking questions,” Claire said, hugging the purring Bunbury. “And now these men—”

Emerson sighed, put the sunscreen aside, and took off her cap. She pulled the pins from her hair, shaking it loose. Unlike Claire, Emerson had dark hair, nearly black, and it was so long it tumbled halfway down her back.

She took off the sunglasses, revealing eyes as dark as her hair. She narrowed these striking eyes at her sister.

“Look, I promised Daddy on his death bed that I’d take care of this family and the business. And I’ve done it.”

“Done it,” echoed the parrot, “Family. Done it.” He shot Bunbury a suspicious glance and edged still higher.

Emerson leaned forward. “And I’ll keep doing it. I know what’s at stake here. These paintings aren’t just paintings. What we have are works of genius. We have a legacy to protect. And I will protect it. So, relax.”

Claire bit her lip, her expression almost rebellious. “But why’d you have to say they could come to Mandevilla? It’s the first time anybody’s been allowed here in years.”

Emerson stood and made a sweeping gesture. She was tall and dramatic-looking, as their grandfather had been, and she could get away with such gestures, just as he had.

Her motion was meant to take in all of Mandevilla, the private beach, the pool and garden, the house itself, and the seven acres of tropical wilderness behind it.

“Mandevilla’s part of the legend,” Emerson said. “The greatest paintings were done here. Famous people came here to visit. Good Lord, Princess Diana came here.”

“That was then, this is now,” Claire said. “Nobody’s come for years.”

Emerson put her hands on her hips. “That’s why it’s important we let somebody see it. To see the place and the new paintings. To stop the damn rumors.”

Bunbury spied a lizard and slipped from Claire’s lap to stalk it in his ponderous way. Claire didn’t try to stop him. Bunbury was too fat and slow to catch anything.

She sighed and picked one of the golden blossoms from the buttercup tree. She twirled its stem between her fingers and stared at it moodily.

“I don’t know. An ordinary magazine would be bad enough. But Mondragon? Mondragon’s very, very classy—”

“That’s why I’m letting them come.” Emerson strolled to the diving board, her hands still poised on her hips. Mondragon, A Magazine of the Arts was sleek, costly and sophisticated. It didn’t shy from controversy or the dark side of the business.

Its managing editor hadn’t made a polite request of Emerson. He’d practically demanded that she allow a writer and photographer to visit Mandevilla.

Agreeing was a gamble, a great one, but Emerson took it because she intended to win. The people from Mondragon would not use her. She would use them.

“They’re classy,” Claire admitted. “But they can be ruthless. And this writer, Eli Garner. They couldn’t send anybody worse. You know what his specialty is.”

Emerson walked to the end of the diving board. She knew, all right. His specialty was investigation—and exposé. He had ruined reputations, lives and fortunes. And a few, a very few times, he had saved them.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she said.

The parrot worked his way down the tree and climbed onto Claire’s shoulder. He rubbed his forehead against her ear. He wanted a kiss.

But for once, Claire ignored him. She stared at Emerson with doubt in her golden-brown eyes. “Maybe you should be afraid, Em. I mean, we do have secrets.”

“I’m not afraid,” Emerson repeated.

“Awrk!” said the parrot. “Secrets!”

But Emerson paid no attention. She made a perfect jackknife dive that plunged her deep into the blue, blue water.



KEY WEST WAS NOT a quiet town. It was charming, it was artsy and hustling at the same time it was eccentric. But it was not quiet. The least quiet part was Duval Street, which was both famous and infamous.

Shops, restaurants, galleries, ice cream stands and antique stores squeezed together on both sides of the street, punctuated occasionally by a porn emporium or a church. Tourists swarmed, mingling with the tanned and laid-back natives.

Street performers performed, beggars begged and occasionally a chicken with gorgeous plumage strolled regally down the sidewalk. Wild chickens were protected in Key West. After dark, the rock and roll blasting out of nightclubs kept them awake, and the roosters crowed all night long.

So Eli Garner considered himself lucky. He’d found that rarest of things on Duval Street, a quiet bar. It was a big, dim, cavernous place, strangely uncrowded, and the only music came from a bearded man on a tiny stage in the corner. He sang mournful folk songs in a mournful voice, and he sang quietly, which was good, because Eli and Merriman could talk.

Eli and Merriman had never before worked together, but Eli had seen the photographer’s work and respected it. The two men had met for the first time a week ago in New York at the offices of Mondragon.

Today they’d joined up at the Miami airport and taken the bumpy and jammed commuter flight into Key West. Eli had come from New York, Merriman from Toronto. As soon as they landed, they’d checked into their hotel on the Atlantic end of Duval and dropped off their luggage. Now, sitting in this dimly lit bar, they had their first chance for a real conversation.

Merriman was a muscular, genial man with deep-set blue eyes and straight blond hair that looked perpetually rumpled. He went only by his last name because, he said, his first and middle names were too horrible to mention. He had the odd habit of wrinkling his forehead when he smiled, which was often.

Eli thought he would like Merriman. His only worry was that maybe the guy was too genial. This gig would be damn tricky. Was Merriman too easygoing to make the best of it?

Eli took a sip of beer and made his voice casual. “So what do you know about Nathan Roth?”

Merriman gave a good-natured shrug. “Just the basics. Giant of the art world. A golden boy in his heyday. Moved here twenty years ago. Lately, he’s gotten reclusive. Hasn’t granted an interview in six years. Or been photographed.”

Eli nodded. A lean, dark man, his face could seem handsome or dangerous, or both at the same time. He could have credibly passed himself off as an aristocrat or as a high-priced hit man.

He tried to pinpoint how much Merriman knew. “For a painter, Roth’s a rich man.”

Merriman licked the foam from his upper lip. “So much for starving artists.”

“Right.” Eli knew Roth’s canvases weren’t selling at the prices they’d once commanded, but they still sold. But for the past six years, speculation and gossip had circulated about both the work and the man.

Eli raised a dark eyebrow. “You know his son was his manager.”

“Till he died. Uh—five years ago.” Then Merriman flashed him an abashed grin. “But look. All I know is what I read last week. Modern art isn’t my thing. I’m an old-fashioned guy. I like pictures of naked ladies.”

Eli’s mouth crooked at one corner. Merriman had photographed a series of paintings celebrating women’s bodies. He’d done a hell of a job, and he obviously loved the subject. The book was called, simply, The Female Nude, and it was equally admired by esteemed scholars and horny teenage boys.

“Roth was an outgoing guy once,” Eli said. “But something happened. We don’t know what.”

“I knew a guy like that once.” Merriman lifted his beer mug, signaling for a refill. “News photographer. Real hell-raiser. One day he ups and goes into a monastery in Tibet. Go figure.”

Eli wouldn’t let the conversation stray. “Roth had a lot of acquaintances. Only one good friend. William Marcuse, another painter. But after Marcuse died, Roth closed himself off to everybody except his family. And they’re loyal to him. Absolutely. They don’t talk, and they don’t want to.”

“A wife and two granddaughters, right?” Merriman accepted a frosted mug of beer and nodded his thanks to the barman.

Eli’s expression grew more intense. “Roth’s son, Damon, handled his father’s business. All of it. And protected his privacy. He was good at it. Since he died, it’s the granddaughters’ job. They’re just as good. Maybe better.”

Merriman cocked his head. “What you’re saying is you want me to be aggressive. But discreetly aggressive.”

“Right. Take all the pictures you can. Don’t be intimidated. Don’t offend them if you can help it, but don’t let them push you around.”

“I take it nobody has to tell you to be aggressive.”

Eli let the remark pass. Anybody who thought the art world was stodgy, highfalutin and boring didn’t know it. He’d uncovered smugglers, forgers, black marketeers, thieves and killers. In his business, he’d dealt with everything from tomb robbers in Yucatán to looters in Baghdad.

He stuck to the subject of the Roths. “I hear the younger granddaughter’s the more pliable. Less worldly. You may be able to work her better than the older one.”

Merriman looked dubious. “Are you saying come on to her? Flirt with her? Me?”

“Whatever.” Eli kept his face and voice impassive.

“These women will pretend to cooperate. We’ve got to get past that.”

“So what’s she like? The younger, pliable, unworldly one? What’s she do?”

“The domestic stuff. She’s the stay-at-home one. The older one handles the business end.”

Merriman smiled, and the lines appeared across his forehead, under a lock of sun-gilded hair. “Oh, yeah. She comes to New York. I hear she’s a looker. What’s her name? Emilene or something?”

Eli’s face grew more guarded than usual. “Emerson. Yeah. She’s a looker.”

He’d seen her once, last year at a gallery opening in Soho. He’d caught only the briefest glimpse. But in that glimpse, Eli had seen she was a true beauty: flowing dark hair, the eyes of a gazelle and the long legs to match. But though she had a gazelle’s grace, the word was that she also had the protective instincts of a lioness when it came to her family.

Almost as soon as he’d spied her that afternoon, she’d left, simply vanished. Later he heard she’d left because of him.

Like her, he had a reputation. When he went after the truth, nothing stopped him, and he had the scars to prove it. If she thought she could keep things hidden from him, she was dead wrong.

“These people don’t live in this town, right?” Merriman asked. “They live on the next key or island or whatever you call these things.”

“Three islands up. Mimosa Key. About fifteen miles away.”

“Pretty isolated?”

“Fairly isolated. Mimosa’s been built up in recent years. But not much. The estate’s on a finger of land that juts away from the main body. No close neighbors. People who’ve seen it say it’s a little bit of paradise.”

Merriman grinned. “If they’re going to team us, this is the right assignment. A little bit of paradise? Couple of women with a rich granddaddy? Beats chasing after criminals and con men. Me, I’m allergic to danger.”

“The only danger is that these women hold us off.” Eli was concerned about this, but not worried. Not deeply.

“The older one? Emerson?” Merriman said.

“What about her?”

Merriman shrugged. “I heard she’s smart, that’s all. And she can be tough.”

“She’s not as smart as she thinks.” Eli finished the last of his beer and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“And she may be tough. But she’s not tough enough.”



THE NEXT MORNING, Emerson sat in the library, curled up in the ancient velvet armchair, her legs dangling over its arm.

The library was on the second floor of the house, and its large glass doors opened to a balcony that looked out on the ocean. The ocean tossed more than usual today because the wind was high, with long, gray clouds streaking the sky.

Books crammed the teakwood shelves, books of every sort, and they were piled on the desk and floor and on the antique sofa where no one ever sat.

A teak counter ran along the east wall, and the wall above it was covered with framed paintings, wild with color and boldly signed Roth. Beneath the counter were cabinets designed to hold magazines, some decades old.

Magazines were what interested Emerson this morning. A fallen stack of them spilled across the wine-colored ottoman, and others littered the carpet.

The library was Emerson’s favorite part of the house. It had its own fireplace for the rare spell of winter cold, and an old-fashioned ceiling fan to dispel heat. She loved the feel of being surrounded by books yet being only steps away from the sense of space and freedom offered by the balcony.

This room was Claire’s bane, for Claire was neat, and the room defied all her efforts to make it tidy. But Emerson did not mind that the place was a hodgepodge. She found its disorder as comfortable as a pair of old jeans.

A knock sounded at the library door. Emerson looked up from her magazine, her face brightening. She recognized that delicate knock; it was Nana’s.

“Come in,” she called. The door opened, and her grandmother entered.

Lela Roth was a tiny woman, seventy-three years old. Her hair, once ink-black, was now dark gray, and she wore it in one long braid down her back. Her black eyes, large and thickly lashed, were her most striking feature, and Emerson had inherited them.

Lela’s back was still straight, her movements slow but sure. She spoke with an accent, for she had been raised in Paris. Nathan had always teased that he’d kidnapped her from her strict father and made her his child bride. She was ten years younger than her husband.

“I thought I would find you here.” Nana moved to Emerson’s side and kissed her on the cheek. “What are you doing?”

Emerson kissed her back, then waggled her magazine. “My homework.”

“Phaa!” said Nana. “You’re reading things by that man, that Garner person.”

“It’s important to know your enemy.” Emerson rose, gesturing for Nana to take the armchair.

“You do not have much time to learn about him,” Nana said, sitting. “He and the photographe arrive in an hour. Your sister is going crazy.”

Emerson cleared the ottoman and sat by Nana’s feet. “My sister’s an alarmist.”

“I’m a bit alarmed myself.” Nana shook her head.

“You’re sure it’s wise to do this?”

“I’m sure.” Emerson took the toe of her grandmother’s embroidered slipper and squeezed it playfully. “How’s the Captain?”

“As usual,” Nana said with an expressive shrug. “I’ve been sitting with him.”

“How’s the painting going?”

“It goes well, I think.” Nana frowned slightly. She had been a great beauty in her day, and now she was an elderly beauty. Even her frown was becoming. It had style.

She tilted her head and gave Emerson a stern look. “But you’re changing the subject on me. This man, Garner. This is how you get ready for him? Only looking at magazines? Again?”

“By their works ye shall know them.”

Nana tapped her foot scornfully on a copy of Mondragon. “He is like le requin. The shark. From a distance I admire his strength. But close I do not want to see him. I do not want his sharp teeth going snap-snap at me and my family.”

Emerson took her grandmother’s gnarled hand gently between her own. Age had been kind to the older woman except for her hands. Arthritis had swollen and bent her fingers. “Nana, Mondragon gave us a choice. They’ll do the story with our cooperation. Or without it. We have far more control if we cooperate. Or seem to.”

Nana tapped a forefinger to her temple. “This Garner man, he is smart. I have read him. And he is hard. He has moved among criminals, masters of deception. You truly think you are his equal?”

Emerson smiled. “Why shouldn’t I be? I have the Captain’s blood in my veins. And yours, too.”

Slowly, the older woman smiled back. She reached out and smoothed Emerson’s long hair. “Ahh. Yes. But be careful. I have seen his picture. He is handsome. That is another weapon. He will not be above using it. Apel du sex.”

“Sex appeal?” Emerson’s eyes lit with mischief. “Two can play that game.”

Nana threw her head back and laughed. Then she grew serious. She gave Emerson a critical look. “You’re not wearing that, are you?”

Emerson wore very short red shorts and a white T-shirt without a bra beneath. “No. I thought the little white sun dress. With the low neck.”

Nana’s scowl was elegant in its disdain. She waved her hand in admonition. “Non, non, non. So obvious! Be subtle. The blue caftan. With the sleeves that flow. Cover yourself. It is much more provocative. Shouldn’t I know?”

With that, she got up and walked toward the door.

Emerson frowned. “I can’t. The caftan has a spot on it.” It did, a small but dark stain on the bosom.

“All the better,” Nana said loftily. “It will look less studied.”

With that, she was out the door and was gone.

Emerson rolled her eyes, thinking, I will not wear something with a spot on it. Why it’d look as if I didn’t care a bit what impression I made—

But then she grinned. “Damn,” she said softly. “She’s right. Exactly.”



WHEN IN THE TROPICS, rent a convertible and don Ray•Bans; this was Eli’s philosophy. Except, of course, in certain parts of the tropics, where it was more prudent to rent a Humvee and wear Kevlar.

He drove north, up Highway 1, while Merriman stared at a map of the Keys in perplexity.

“How many of these islands are there?”

“Around eight hundred or so.”

Merriman shot him a disbelieving look. “Get real. There aren’t eight hundred on this map. No way.”

“A lot are too small to chart. Only about thirty are inhabited.”

Merriman looked at the map again, frowning. The Keys stretched 120 miles from Key Largo, the northernmost, to Key West, the farthest south. “There’s only this one highway connecting them? That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Eli said. “One highway in and out.”

The convertible, a red Chrysler, was crossing a long bridge. Merriman grimaced uneasily. “These damn bridges go over the ocean, man.”

“Right.” Eli nodded calmly. “The Overseas Highway. Forty-two bridges. Great feat of engineering.”

Merriman was unimpressed by the great feat. “What if there’s a wreck or a traffic jam or something?”

“You’re stuck.”

“What if a bridge collapses? Or washes out?”

Eli shrugged. “Same thing. You’re stuck.”

Merriman’s expression became a bit queasy. “At breakfast I heard people talking about a hurricane warning.”

“Tropical storm. It was downgraded.”

“Technicalities,” Merriman grumbled. “I heard the word evacuation. That this thing might hit the Lower Keys.”

“And it might not. It’s been diddling around out there for a week. People are tired of worrying about it.” Eli gave him a measuring glance. “I didn’t take you for a worrier.”

“I’m from Toronto,” Merriman protested. “We don’t have hurricanes. Well, there was one, but it was before I was born. Look, if we have to evacuate, and planes are grounded, this is the only way out? One dinky road?”

“Relax. It’s hurricane season. There are always watches and warnings.”

Eli had played waiting games with hurricanes before. They could change course swiftly, and the storm Merriman was fretting about might never touch Florida.

But right now, the photographer was eyeing the sky with suspicion. It was blue, but gray clouds were sweeping in from the south. The wind made the palm trees bend northward, fronds streaming.

“Don’t worry about the damn weather,” Eli said out of the side of his mouth. “We’re nearly there. Another five minutes, we’ll be at Mandevilla.”

“Maybe they have a storm cellar there. Maybe they’ll share it.”

“Most people don’t have cellars on the Keys.”

Eli turned down a graveled road. Scrub pines and lingam vitae trees grew in a wild tangle on both sides of the road, blocking any view beyond them.

They came to a high iron gate. On either side of it stretched a wall of limestone, six feet tall. Its top was jagged with gray coral that had been cemented into place. Eli stopped beside a limestone kiosk with a speaker. Next to it was a mailbox with no name on it.

They were close enough to the ocean to smell the salt, and under the rush of the wind, Eli heard the murmur of the waves, low and even. Merriman looked about warily. “All of a sudden we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah.” Eli recognized the trees growing along the wall. They were poisonwoods, the Keys’ equivalent of poison ivy. Along with the sharp coral, they were there to discourage outsiders from climbing the wall.

Merriman said, “I get the feeling that they really don’t want visitors.”

“There’s a couple of million bucks worth of art behind those walls,” Eli murmured, gazing at them. “You can bet this place has some high security.”

He pushed the button beside the speaker, which crackled into life. “Yes?” A woman’s voice, low and rich, came through the static. “Who is it?”

“Eli Garner and Merriman from Mondragon Magazine. We have a ten o’clock appointment to speak with Miss Roth. Miss Emerson Roth.”

More static. Again the woman’s voice. “All right. Come to the front entrance.” The speaker went dead.

Half a minute passed, then the gate creaked open. The road grew narrower and bumpier, and then, as they rounded a curve, they clattered over a rickety metal bridge that crossed a gully. It was shaded by a grove of tall trees that stood like sentries.

At last they saw the house, almost completely screened by a row of royal poincianas and oleanders. The lawn had a scruffy look. It needed mowing, and its green came as much from weeds as grass.

Eli drove past the trees with their red and white flowers, and for the first time, saw the house clearly. He’d seen it dozens of times in photos, of course, but the photos were old.

The place, no mansion, was smaller than he’d imagined. Although not decaying, it had an air of having seen better days. Still, it was made of blocks of granite, and looked as solid as a vault.

It was the setting, not the dwelling that drew the eye and held it. The house stood on a slight rise, facing a magnificent view of the Gulf. For two hundred yards, the lawn extended, ragged and dappled with wildflowers. Then the lawn gave way to a stretch of clean, dun-colored sand.

The waves pounding the beach were more gray than blue today, but in the distance was a scattering of small islands so green that they seemed jewellike. Out in the cove, Eli saw a dolphin jump and smiled in spite of himself.

Merriman whistled. “What’s that they always say about real estate? Location, location, location.”

Eli didn’t answer. He stared out over ragged grass and flowers, past the beach to where the sea met the sky in a hazy blue-gray line.

“If you’re going to be a hermit, this is a great place to do it,” Merriman said. “A little piece of paradise is right.”

But paradise is showing signs of wear, Eli thought, his gaze drifting back to the house.

The paint on its wooden trim was peeling from the salt air, and a large crack zigzagged up the cement walk that led to the front stairs. The roof of the porch sagged slightly. The flame-of-the-woods shrubs flanking the porch on both sides sprawled untrimmed, an uncontrolled mass of fiery blossoms.

“Scenery’s one of the hardest things in the world to shoot,” Merriman grumbled almost to himself, his eyes still on the waves. He looked as if he was already calculating how he’d have to do it.

Eli put his sunglasses back on. “Come on. You can figure it out later. Let’s get the introductions over with.”

He got out of the convertible, and so did Merriman, who followed him up the walk with obvious reluctance. He wanted to play with his viewfinder so much that his face was pained as he stared at the vista.

Eli noticed hairline cracks in the floor of the porch and that the old-fashioned doorbell seemed tarnished by years of sea salt. The white paint of the front door was peeling, like the trim.

He pressed the bell. He heard it chime, echoing within the house. He glanced about the house and saw no sign of anyone. Surely there had to be a groundskeeper or yardman, with this much land.

No one answered. She knows we’re here, Eli thought with cold irritation. All right, baby, play your games. He rang again, leaning on the bell a little harder, just to annoy her.

They waited a full minute, Merriman still gazing at the sea and lost in silent concentration. Eli was about to hit the bell a third time, giving it all he had, when the door swung open.

There she stood. Emerson Roth.

Eli went blind to everything else. His ears buzzed, his forehead turned numb and a rush of excitement surged through his veins.

She was tall and— Great God, he was a writer, and he couldn’t think of a word for her. Yes, he could. Ravishing. She ravished him. She overwhelmed and bewitched him—for an eon that lasted fully a second. He yanked himself back to sanity.

Everything about her face was good, the rounded cheekbones, the straight nose and the intriguing mouth with its hint of a smile. Her hair fell in a dark, lush cascade. But it was her eyes that struck him. Depthless, exotic, they reminded him that her grandmother, too, was an exotic woman.

Emerson wore a long plain gown of something crinkly and silky. It was a vivid turquoise blue with full sleeves that came almost to her fingertips. The garment covered her from collarbone to ankle. It only hinted at the curve of her breasts, but the hint was excellent.

“Hello,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly human.

“You must be the people from Mondragon.”

She thrust out her hand with an air of stoic resignation. “I’m Emerson Roth.”

He took her hand and was relieved that it didn’t shoot sparks and lightning bolts through his system. It was a medium-size hand, firm and strong.

“Eli Garner,” he said gruffly. “And this is the photographer, Merriman.”

He actually had to elbow Merriman, who’d kept staring at the ocean. “Oh,” Merriman said. “Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand and went back to taking imaginary pictures of the sea.

“I won’t ask you to come in,” she said. “Not today. We’ll sit by the pool. Follow me.”

She passed him and descended the stairs. He smelled the fleeting scent of sandalwood. The wind lifted and tumbled her long mane of hair, fluttered her sleeves.

As she’d passed, he’d noticed a small dark spot on her gown, over the left breast. It was hard to pull his gaze away. Didn’t she know the spot was there? Or did she think so little of her visitors that she didn’t care?




CHAPTER TWO


HEAD HIGH, Emerson led the way to the patio’s gate and unlocked it. She did not so much as glance at the two men behind her, but her heart beat a herky-jerky rhythm.

Merriman, the photographer, didn’t alarm her. He seemed to have surrendered completely to the visual charms of Mandevilla.

But she sensed a menacing edge in Eli Garner. He had what she thought of as gunfighter’s eyes, keen and permanently narrowed in watchfulness.

Yet he was handsome, as well. Nana was right; this was a man with sex appeal, possibly more than should be legal. She must be on guard against it.

She let the men enter the patio, then followed, closing the gate behind her. She turned to face them. They both stood by the pool, whose water glittered and quivered like a live blue gem.

She walked to the white wrought-iron table and stood behind the master chair, setting her hands on its back to claim it for her own. It was the largest of the four chairs, thronelike. It would give her the air of command.

“Sit,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Please.”

Merriman, busy gawking at the foliage and flowers, mechanically sat in one of the smaller chairs. Giving her a calculating glance, Eli Garner took another.

He was lean with strongly carved features. His high cheekbones seemed sharp enough to cut diamonds. His dark hair waved nearly to his collar, and he was so tanned that he looked more like an outdoorsman than a writer.

She gave each man a cool smile. Merriman, gazing entranced at the hibiscus tree, didn’t notice. Eli returned the smile but made it several degrees cooler than hers.

Before they’d arrived, she’d placed a silver tray on the table. On it were a carafe of turquoise crystal and three matching goblets.

“Lemonade?” she asked. She meant to be hospitable, but only minimally.

“No, thanks,” murmured Merriman. He was absorbed by the garden’s flowers.

“Please,” said Eli, not taking his eyes from her.

She filled two of the goblets and handed him one. A gold pocket watch lay on the tray beside the remaining glass. She opened it and set it on the table so both he and she could see its face.

“I said I’d talk to you for an hour today. I’ll begin by stating the ground rules.” She turned to Merriman. “You can take all the exterior shots of the house and grounds you want. On your other visits, you may take pictures of the paintings, the studio and some of the more interesting family pieces. No pictures of the family itself.”

Merriman seemed to jerk back into reality. He blinked his cobalt blue eyes. “Not even you?”

“No pictures of the family,” she repeated.

He shrugged amiably and went back to contemplating the flora.

She faced Eli Garner, whose gaze stayed fastened on her with unnerving steadiness. “I’ll be the main person you’ll talk to. Day after tomorrow, my grandmother will speak with you for half an hour. No more.”

One of Eli’s brows lifted, just a trace. “I hope she’s not unwell.”

“No. Her health is fine.”

“Will I talk with your sister?”

“No. She doesn’t choose to speak with you.”

He sat back in his chair and sipped from the goblet. She noticed that he had a tattoo on one sinewy forearm. It was a picture of a dancing Hindu god with four arms and an elephant’s head.

Emerson recognized it—Ganesh. The sight unsettled her, for she had an expensive figurine of Ganesh in her bedroom. He was the deity invoked to help overcome obstacles. She’d bought the figurine when she’d made her first solo trip to New York to take over her father’s job.

It agitated her to see a symbol she’d chosen for herself etched on the arm of a man she thought of as an opponent. She pulled her gaze away. Don’t think about it.

He ran a knuckle over his chin thoughtfully. “Your sister is shy, perhaps. Maybe she’s picked up a reclusive gene from your grandfather.”

This was close enough to what Emerson feared about Claire that she blinked in irritation. “No. She doesn’t choose to speak to you. That’s all.”

His mouth crooked in a mocking smile. “This isn’t going to be much of an interview if you just keep repeating yourself.”

Don’t let him control this conversation, she told herself sternly. She tilted her head, gave him a flirtatious glance. “Why don’t you ask me questions that don’t force me to repeat myself?”

He nodded as if he were humoring a troublesome child. “All right. Your father was your grandfather’s agent. He knew he was a very sick man. He trained you to take his place. Did you know how sick he was?”

“Yes,” she lied. She hadn’t known. He’d always had a weak heart, but his decline had come swiftly and inexorably. Learning he was doomed had made her feel as if she were dying, too. But she would not tell that to this stranger, this intruder.

She was saved from elaborating on the lie by Merriman. “There’re some interesting cloud formations blowing in. If you don’t mind, I’d like to start those exterior shots. Go down and take a few from the beach. You’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” she said and gave him her most dazzling smile. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood and pulled his camera from its case as he went out the gate.

She turned her attention back to Eli, who was still watching her as a cat watches a particularly tricky mouse. She smiled at him, hoping coquettishness might make him forget that she was journalistic prey.

“We were talking about my father. We were a close family. And private. That’s why I’m not very good at being questioned. I’m afraid I give a bad interview.”

For all the effect it had on him, she might as well have smiled at a boulder. “Your father died of cardiovascular disease. Is this something that runs in the family?”

She sidestepped the question. “My father was born with a heart defect—congenital, not hereditary. He looked very healthy. Strapping, even. But he always knew he might not live to old age.”

She and Claire had known that, too, from the time they were little girls. But they hadn’t realized it. People would say, “Damon has a heart problem.” To Emerson and Claire, the words generated a vague fear about something that seemed far away and was not truly possible.

Eli frowned. “Your mother died when you and your sister were quite young. Would you tell me about it?”

Oh, hell, she thought, how can I try to flirt when he keeps asking questions about everybody I love dying?

She decided to use tears. She could cry at will if she thought of sad things. Her father had always said she could have been an actress. So she thought of her father’s funeral and her mother’s, and the tears welled up.

She tossed her hair as if exasperated at her own weakness. “I really don’t like to talk about those things.”

To prove it, she let a tear spill over and slide down her cheek.

He stared at the tear with the air of a scientist examining an interesting bug. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out to her. “Could you try? To say just a little?”

She let two more tears fall then, her voice breaking, said, “No.” Stalling for time, she added, “I’ll be all right in a few minutes.” She dabbed the tears away but kept clutching his handkerchief as if one more such question would reduce her to a sobbing heap.

The dark eyes studied her, but she thought she saw unexpected sympathy in them. He reached out and put his hand over one of hers. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. His touch sent unexpected tingles through her.

She looked down, astonished that he’d do such a thing. She found herself gazing at the Ganesh on his arm, dancing on one foot, his four arms waving merrily. Eli’s hand felt good wrapped around hers—it actually felt comforting—but she drew back as if unready for such intimacy.

“Excuse me,” he said frowning again. “I didn’t mean to be forward.”

“It’s all right. It’s just that remembering makes me emotional.”

His expression was slightly dubious, but he said, “Let me see if I have it straight. After your mother passed away, your family came here. You lived with your grandparents. Your grandfather’s agent retired that same year, and your father took over his job.”

Emerson nodded her head yes. She sniffled and squeezed the handkerchief. Her fingers still prickled from his touch. “Yes. Felix Mettler was the agent. We called him Uncle Felix. He died, too. Of pneumonia. Fourteen years ago.”

That, she thought, was information Eli probably had anyway, and it wasted his time. She stole a glance at the watch. He’d been here a full ten minutes, and he hadn’t pried anything out of her yet.

She was doing well, she told herself. She was doing just fine.

This man wasn’t so formidable, after all.



FOR TEN MINUTES Eli had let her fend him off. If he gave her five more minutes, she’d get cocky. And when she got cocky, she’d get careless. And then he’d spring his trap.

She was an amateur, but he had to admit she was good. For a few disturbing seconds, he’d believed her tears were real. Well, they were real, but his gut instinct was that she’d summoned them by willpower.

So she’d played the tears card, which was dirty fighting, and he’d played the sympathy card, which was just as dirty, but it gave him an excuse to touch her. Because from the moment she’d opened the door, he’d wanted to touch her. He wanted it so much his blood pounded with it.

Good Lord, but she was something. When she pulled her flirtatious act, he had to control his expression until his face ached from it.

Now he toyed with the blue goblet as it sat on the table, turning it first one way, then the other. For a moment he didn’t allow himself to look at her. Why hadn’t Merriman fallen down at her feet and begged to take her photo? Was he gay? Crazy? Was it possible he was the world’s only blind photographer?

“So,” he said, his voice neutral. “Your grandparents had a big part in raising you.”

“Mmm. Yes. They were wonderful. In every way. He was such fun, and she was so sweet—”

He cut her off as he kept playing with his glass. “Did you know, when you moved here, that your grandfather was a famous artist?”

“My sister and I knew he was an artist. I don’t think we understood he was famous. To me, famous meant being on television. Or in movies. Mickey Mouse was famous. Mel Gibson was famous. We knew the Captain was kind of important, but we didn’t know why.”

He let her babble in that vein a bit, knowing she thought she was running down the clock. He would treat her gently for a while, asking simple questions. He stared at the light dancing on the blue goblet and tried his best to look harmless.

“And his nickname was the Captain because he grew up around boats? In Maine, yes?”

“Yes. His father had a fishing boat. When he went off to college in New York somebody nicknamed him the Captain. It stuck.”

“But he didn’t finish college. A bit of a rebel, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Most good artists have a rebellious streak. He took off to see the world. He wanted to study non-Western art. And to go to Paris. Don’t all painters want to go to Paris?” She sounded relieved, as if these questions weren’t as bad as she’d feared.

Eli stole a look at her, and the sight of her slammed him like a blow. She sat in that ornate white chair, wearing that simple, perfect turquoise gown and holding a goblet the same color. Something really was wrong with Merriman. Very wrong.

His breath stuck in his chest, but he got his question out with no change in tone. “He went to north Africa first?”

She nodded, and he watched her lips as she answered. “Morocco. Egypt. Tunisia. Algeria. Oh, yes. He spent time in all of them.”

“And then he went to Paris and met your grandmother…”

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and Eli knew better than to push much further. Nathan Roth had always been vague about how he had met and married his wife. She had avoided the spotlight, even in the days her husband had gloried in it.

Still, Eli had to seem to try. “I’ve heard conflicting stories. That she wasn’t actually born in France. That her family came from Egypt? Algeria? Morocco?”

Emerson smiled vaguely. “That’s something you should ask her.”

He allowed himself to smile back. “Will she tell me?”

She raised the goblet to her mouth. “Perhaps.”

“Tell me,” he said, “when you were a child, what did you think of the paintings? Or is that too personal for you to say?”

The will-o’-the-wisp smile touched her lips again. “I thought they were squiggles. Pretty, but just squiggles. I didn’t know why people bought them.”

He nodded to encourage her. “Now you do. Because you sell them.”

“No. The dealer sells them. Gerald Krystol. He and I talk over the prices and so on. I’m only the agent.”

“What do you think of the paintings now?”

She sat a bit taller in the chair. A look of pride crossed her face. But there was something more, as well. He realized it might be love. “They’re great. They’re a national treasure.”

Suddenly, she rose. “Would you like to walk on the beach? It’s one of the Captain’s favorite places. This may be your only chance. The weather’s supposed to get worse the next few days.”

He gazed up at her, her gown rippling in the wind. His throat tightened. “Yes. I would.”

“Then come with me,” she said, moving toward the gate. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, then made a beckoning motion.

Suddenly he wondered if he really was the one in charge here. He followed her as if powerless to do otherwise.



COMING BACK from the beach, Merriman met Eli and the Roth woman on the path. He grinned, feeling uneasy. She was pretty, but in too flamboyant a way. He liked faces that were subtler; they were more interesting to him.

Besides, Emerson Roth struck him as too edgy. She and Eli had been engaged in a complex fencing match from the get-go. Eli might relish such games, but Merriman did not.

He said to Emerson, “I’d like to do some more exterior shots, but closer up. That okay with you?”

Her eyes went wary, but only for a split second. She gave him a nod of permission. “As long as there are no people. Not even the groundsman. And he’s been told not to talk to either of you.”

“I understand,” said Merriman, mentally adding Your Highness. He saw Eli looking her over, as if trying to figure out exactly who lived behind that glamorous face. Merriman shrugged a goodbye to them both, then trudged back up the path. The wind was rising, and the clouds rolling in thicker and darker.

The pool area had a garden next to it, and the garden lured him. He liked the lushness of its tropical flowers, their startling spectrum of colors.

But he stopped before reaching the house and glanced again at Eli and Emerson Roth. Their backs were to him. Beyond them, the sea stretched, colored like steel, and the sky had turned dark gray. Even the sand looked grayish.

Eli wore wheat-colored jeans and a red shirt. The woman was a splash of turquoise beside him. Except for the muted greens of a few plants, he and she offered the only bright colors; they caught the eye and held it.

To hell with it, he thought. Permission or no permission, he’d take a few shots. She couldn’t object to having her back photographed could she? He raised the camera and snapped them, one, two, three times.

Then he turned toward the house and let himself in through the iron gate. He sniffed the air and could scent the smell of oncoming rain mingling with the heavy fragrance of the flowers. He walked slowly through the garden until an unbelievable tree caught his interest.

The tree was huge, but looked as if dozens of smaller trees had grown together, fusing into one. From above it dropped dozens of new roots to the ground, so that it seemed like a one-tree jungle. It was surrounded by a colorful stand of other plants.

He tried to make his way around this bizarre tree, to see it more closely. But then a flower caught his eye, a peculiar flower of gold and purple and scarlet.

Momentarily distracted, he dropped to his knee and began to take shots of this odd blossom. Suddenly he heard a rustling in the foliage. It sounded like the rustling of something large.

Merriman went still as a stone, wondering if the Keys were so tropical that they harbored things like anacondas or man-eating pythons. He knew there were alligators or crocodiles, but would they come this near to a house?

The rustling came closer, and Merriman held his breath. Of course, alligators crept around buildings—weren’t there always horror stories in the paper about them eating pet poodles and the occasional hapless tourist?

He vaguely remembered, from watching Peter Pan, that alligators had yellow eyes and could move with lethal speed. Something made a scuttling sound, almost next to him now, and Merriman whirled and stared down—into a pair of glinting yellow eyes.

After a split second of horror, he was relieved to see that the eyes belonged to the fattest cat he’d ever seen. Blue-gray, with a white nose, breast and paws, it stared at him with a disdain as massive as its body.

Well, thought Merriman, if he couldn’t snap the family, he could snap the family cat. This rotund beast had a fancy collar, and a tag shaped like a mouse. Say cheese, thought Merriman, looking through the lens.

Then, from behind his tree, Merriman heard light footsteps. The cat heard them, too, and cocked its head in that direction. It hunkered lower to the ground, as if trying to hide.

“Bunbury! It’s no good. I see you.”

The voice was feminine and breathless—and nearby. More rustling, and the animal cringed lower, its ears flattening. A pair of slender hands struggled to grab the cat by its fat middle.

Merriman found himself looking into a young woman’s face. Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a small, perfect O of shock.

“Oh, goodness,” she breathed, and she looked paralyzed, crouched there, her hands motionless on the cat’s gray fur.

Merriman lowered his camera. The sight of her was like a kick in his chest. She was lovely. Her hair was the dark golden brown of honey, and so were her eyes. Her skin was a paler shade of honey, and she wore a T-shirt that matched her hair.

A woman made out of honey, Merriman thought illogically, but his system, ignoring logic, said Yum.

She seemed in dismay, almost terror. “You can’t take my picture.”

“I—I wasn’t,” he stammered. “Just the cat’s.”

“You can’t take the cat’s picture.” Her voice was panicky.

“I’m sorry,” Merriman said with all the sincerity he could muster. He meant it. She was such an appealing creature, the last thing he wanted was to upset her. “I didn’t know the cat was here. When I saw him, it was an automatic reflex. I didn’t mean—”

She snatched the cat up and clutched it protectively against her breast. She seemed too upset to gather her thoughts. “He’s not supposed to be out here. I was supposed to get everything inside.”

He couldn’t stop looking at her. “Everything?” he echoed.

“All the animals. I couldn’t find him. You know—cats.”

“I know cats. Yes. Independent. I used to be one. I mean, I used to have one. Do you want me to help you? He looks heavy.”

“No. No.” She struggled to rise, but she was trying not to crush the foliage and still balance the cat. She had her arms wrapped round him under his forelegs, so he was staring at Merriman over the great mound of his belly. He looked like King Henry VIII.

The woman almost lost her balance, so Merriman sprang to his feet, putting out a hand to steady her. She went stock-still. “I didn’t know you were out here,” she said. “I looked out and saw Bunbury—”

He kept his hand on her upper arm, just to make sure she was all right and to convey his concern. “Bunbury is?”

“The cat.” She swallowed. “I didn’t see any people. Why were you behind that tree?”

“I never saw a tree like that. I just wanted to look closer.”

“You were squatting down behind it, hiding,” she accused. Her cheeks had flushed an enticing pink.

“There was a flower. A strange flower. That one.” He pointed an accusing finger at it. “I was kneeling to take a picture, that’s all.”

She hugged the cat more tightly to her. It screwed up its face in protest and emitted a sound that was more like a hoarse chirp than a meow. Merriman realized the woman was staring just as intently at him as he was at her. He still had his hand on her arm, but she made no protest, so he was happy to keep touching her.

Her face was gentle, not flamboyantly pretty like her sister’s, but pretty with a natural sweetness that almost hypnotized him. Her hair was brushed in a soft wave away from her face and hung nearly to her shoulders.

“I’m Merriman, the photographer,” he said, extending his free hand. “Please shake hands so I know you forgive me for startling you. I apologize. From the heart.”

From a heart that ached oddly and pleasantly, he realized. She looked doubtful, but then tried to reach for his hand. But that entailed juggling the cat, who protested with another of his weird, grating chirps.

“Let me take him for you,” Merriman said, scrambling to get one arm around the cat. He managed, and Bunbury dangled like a sulky sack of grain in his hold.

Almost shyly, Merriman offered his hand again. She studied it, then, far more shyly, took it. He stared down at her, tongue-tied. Her grasp was light and cool, yet firm.

“I’m Claire Roth,” she said. “I—I saw you walking down on the beach. I didn’t know you’d come back here.”

Merriman reluctantly let her draw her hand away. She was edging back from him, clearly about to make a quick escape. He didn’t want her to go. Desperately, he said, “The flowers—the trees. I’m taking pictures, but I don’t know what I’m taking pictures of. This tree—what is it?”

“A banyan,” she almost whispered.

“It looks like sixteen trees grown together. Those things dropping down, are they roots, or just vines? How big will the thing get?”

“It’s all one tree. Yes, they’re roots. It could grow a hundred feet tall. But it probably won’t.”

Her eyes rose to the sky. “Storms.” She looked worried.

“Hurricanes?” He should have glanced at the sky, too, but he didn’t have to. He could sense the morning darkening and the wind rising. And he couldn’t stop taking in her face.

A gust of wind lifted her hair, revealing a delicate ear that had never been pierced. She nodded. “Hurricanes. Tropical storms. We lose branches.”

Something about her made him feel giddy as a schoolboy. “There’s a watch or a warning. Does it scare you?”

She nodded. “A little. I—I need to go in now.”

“I’ll carry the cat,” he offered.

Her expression went uncomfortable, and hastily he added, “Only to the door. That’s all. Do you have to go in? I’d sure like somebody to tell me the names of all these plants.”

He was pleased to see her hesitate. She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to talk to anybody.”

“I wouldn’t ask you anything personal,” he vowed, forgetting that he owed any loyalty to Eli. “If you could just tell me the names, and I could write them down. Like that thing— I don’t know what it is.”

Still clutching Bunbury in a one-armed hold, he pointed at the peculiar flower of purple and gold. “I’ll get back, develop all this stuff and not know how to look it up.”

She still acted as if she had reservations. But she said, “It’s a bird-of-paradise.” She paused, then said, “Some people say it looks like a bird in flight. It’s unusual, because it’s actually pollinated by birds, not bees.”

“Really,” Merriman said, as if this was the most fascinating fact he’d ever heard. Perhaps it was, coming from her lips, those words about birds and bees.

He rubbed the cat’s stomach so it would stay peaceful. Merriman tilted his head toward a climbing vine with ornate lavender flowers. “And those? Orchids?”

She pushed a wayward lock of hair from her cheek. “No. They’re passionflowers.”

He rubbed the cat harder. “Passionflowers. Why are they called that?”

“Well…” She still seemed torn about lingering, but clearly she loved the plants and wanted him to appreciate them. “It’s kind of a complicated legend…”

“I’d love to hear it,” Merriman told her with so much sincerity that it made him dizzy. He rubbed the cat until it had no choice but to purr in sensual pleasure.



EMERSON KICKED OFF her sandals so she could walk in the damp sand and dodge the surf when it came foaming onto the beach. It was a game she’d played since childhood, and she loved it.

This, she calculated, would force Eli Garner to keep his distance and try to question her against the wind and over the roar of the waves. That, or he’d have to shed his own shoes and a considerable amount of dignity to stay at her side.

She was surprised when he undid his sandals and set them next to hers. He rolled his jeans up to his shins, stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled to the sea’s edge beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But today the sea was not playful. The waves that came rolling in were rough, and they did not so much collapse in a froth on the sand as throw themselves on it in assault.

The wind was cool and whipped Emerson’s long skirt around her. She had to gather it up and clench its hem in her fist. This left her legs bare to the knee, and Eli gave them a glance that seemed coolly interested. She wished she’d worn capri pants.

The wind blew her hair about, and his, too. He had thick hair, longish and wavy. He reached into his pocket and put on his sunglasses. They gave him a masked look.

She sidestepped a wave more aggressive than the rest and accidentally bumped into him. The water surged around her calves, and she nearly lost her balance when the spent wave pulled seaward again.

His arm shot out to steady her, settling on her waist, bracing her so she didn’t stumble. It seemed a perfunctory gesture, brief and businesslike. His hand fell away almost immediately. She was glad. His touch implied an intimacy she found dangerously intriguing.

“Careful,” he warned.

“I didn’t realize you were that close,” she grumbled.

“I have to stay close to hear you. Looks like we’ve got some weather coming.”

She glanced at the far horizon. There, the clouds were almost black, and a gray veil seemed to spill from them: rain.

She said, “They’ve upgraded the storm back to a hurricane. It’s in the Caribbean and moving fast.”

He studied her from behind the mask of his sunglasses. “Hurricane? When did they upgrade it? It was still a tropical storm when we left Key West.”

“I heard it on the radio right before you came.” She tried to smooth her streaming hair. “It’s growing. And picking up speed.”

“Does that scare you?” he asked.

Few things frightened Emerson, and she hated to admit that anything could frighten her. But hurricanes did. She tried to sound philosophic. “Hurricanes are the price you pay for living here.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Damn, he must sense her uneasiness. “Only a fool wouldn’t respect a hurricane. But it doesn’t scare me until I know it’s close. I’ve seen what they can do.”

“So have I. So what do you do when one’s coming at you?”

“The usual. We have emergency supplies. A propane stove, lanterns, the whole disaster kit. Even a special room. We hope for the best and close the hurricane shutters.”

He looked at the dark horizon, then back at the house. “Maybe you should shut them soon.”

She tossed her head. “Frenchy will. As soon as you leave.”

“I see. And Frenchy would be…”

“The groundskeeper and maintenance man.”

“Frenchy, I take it, is French?”

“No. Frenchy is Norwegian.”

“Then why’s he called Frenchy?”

“I don’t know. Things like that happen in the Keys.”

He seemed to reflect on this. She added, “He won’t talk to you under any circumstances. He’s signed a confidentiality agreement. An ironclad one.”

Take that, she thought. But at that moment, she had to dodge another wave and once again nearly collided with him. Why did he have to stay so close?

But he didn’t seem to notice, and he changed the subject. “So this is the beach your grandfather loved so much.”

She caught his careful wording. “He still loves it,” she said. “There’s no need to use the past tense.”

“He still comes here?” Eli asked, just casually enough.

“Of course.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s the main reason he bought this place. Maybe we should turn back. This isn’t a nice day to be here.”

“I don’t mind.” His gaze swept up and down the beach.

“It’s private here. Very private.”

“Yes. It is.”

“No immediate neighbors. I looked at it on a detailed map. To the south, a mangrove swamp. To the north, a mangrove swamp. To the east, a long tract of wild country that your family owns. And to the west, the Gulf.”

She shrugged. He walked so close now that strands of her hair flicked and danced against the shoulder of his shirt. Her gauzy sleeve, damp with spray, blew against his tattooed arm.

She stopped. “The wind’s getting higher. I feel it. We’ll turn back now.”

She walked to his other side, no longer wanting to play tag with the water. She moved out of its reach, letting her skirt fall to her ankles again.

He kept even with her, and he tilted his head toward the cove. “You’d have a tough time getting here by boat, if I read the charts right. It’s shallow with a rough bottom. Almost impossible to land here.”

“That’s right,” she said, quickening her stride toward home.

“So if a sightseer should come—”

Or a snoop— she added mentally.

“—he could only see this spot from a distance. That wall of trees hides the house. All he could see is the top of the house rising over the branches. Or somebody on this beach.”

“Not many people come sight-seeing,” she returned defensively. “People come to the Keys to fish and boat and party. Not to see an aging painter.”

“I don’t know about that. I did.”

He smiled at her. He had an interesting mouth, a full lower lip for so lean a face. The smile was knowing, and there was a dare in it.

She ignored the dare. “My grandfather’s famous in the art world. But to the general public? He’s not a celebrity.”

His maddening smile stayed in place, bracketed by wry lines. “He used to be. People would see his pictures in the glossy magazines, Vanity Fair, Vogue.”

A prickle of apprehension rippled up her spine. “It got old for him. Stale. He found that sort of thing less and less attractive.”

He stopped, and she started to walk on without him. “Wait,” he said.

She stopped, but turned to stare at him in challenge. “What?”

The wind ruffled his hair, the clouded sky reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses. He held up his hand, as if signaling her to stay. “Hold on a minute. Seven years ago, your grandfather threw himself a birthday party. He’d done the same thing for years. The guest list was twenty-one people. If I remember correctly.”

He remembered correctly, all right, curse him. But Emerson gave him a smile of false sweetness. “Yes?”

“But six years ago, no party. None. And none since. He basically withdrew from the world.”

She’d known it was coming and was only surprised he hadn’t zeroed in sooner. She raised her chin. “He decided to focus more on his family and his work. His dearest friend, William Marcuse, died of a heart attack that year. It affected him deeply, especially since my father had a heart condition, too. So the Captain decided to devote himself to what mattered most. Besides that, my grandmother is a retiring woman. The social life was always a strain on her.”

It was a speech she’d rehearsed carefully and delivered just as carefully. She had said exactly the same thing before, and she never changed it. Still, she found her hands clenched into nervous fists and realized she held her back uncomfortably straight.

His gaze seemed amused. “It was very considerate of Marcuse to die when he did. He provided an excuse. It’s very convenient that your grandmother was always reserved. She also provides an excuse. But, Miss Roth, it’s time to stop the lies.”

“What lies?” she asked, feigning indignation.

He took off the sunglasses. His eyes, hard as obsidian, met hers. “No one outside your immediate family admits to talking to your grandfather for six years or seeing him closely. Something’s happened to him. Something bad. Everyone suspects it. It showed in his art then, and it’s showing more now. Much more.”

She clenched her fists harder. She felt her face turn stiff. The salt spray stung her eyes and pricked like tears.

He smiled at her like a man who holds all the winning cards and knows it. “What happened to your grandfather? What have you worked so hard to hide? Everyone knows there’s a secret, Miss Roth. Everyone. What is it?”




CHAPTER THREE


FOR A MOMENT, Eli thought his bluntness had caught her unprepared. He was wrong. She turned from him, laughing, and began to walk again.

“You’re trying to be dramatic, Mr. Garner. You talk as if we’re running some terrible conspiracy. You’re in the wrong field. You should write fiction.”

He caught up with her, but she wouldn’t look at him. She faced into the wind, chin high. She had a nice profile, with a nose that came close to being pert, especially when she stuck it up in the air, like now.

He bent close to speak in her ear. “Nobody’s talked to your grandfather for years. Not even by phone.”

She smiled as if to herself. “He never liked the phone much. Ask people who knew him.”

“I have,” Eli said. A strand of her hair blew across his cheekbone, tickling him. “That’s true. He wasn’t crazy about the phone. But he’d use it. Until six years ago, this coming fall. Sometime around September. What happened?”

She turned and looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you really want to know what happened? Time happened. My grandfather went deaf. It came on suddenly. It was irreversible. Hearing aids can’t help him. Deaf men, Mr. Garner, don’t use phones.”

“You’ve dropped hints in New York about that,” he accused. “It’s a nice excuse, but a little too pat. A man doesn’t withdraw from society because he’s deaf.”

She showed him her profile again, as if she found him tiresome to look at. “Deafness can be isolating. My grandfather was a wit. He enjoyed conversation, making jokes. Now he’s uncomfortable in social situations. He loses patience. He feels left out. He doesn’t like people seeing him that way.”

She said it with such passion and conviction that he almost believed her. “Did he consult specialists? If so, whom? Can they confirm your story?”

Her tone became one of weary impatience, as if she were talking to an imbecile. “Of course he did. In Palm Beach. Dr. Joseph Z. Feldman. One of the best. But Feldman died four years ago. Had a brain aneurism playing golf. On the eighth hole. You can check it out.”

Oh, Eli liked that, the little detail about dying on the eighth hole. He imagined it would check out. But he didn’t believe her. He brought his mouth close to her ear again, and again her hair tickled his face like silky feathers.

He said, “Four years is a long time. Doctors make breakthroughs all the time. Hasn’t your grandfather been to a specialist since?”

“No. He refuses. He’s resigned himself to his condition. He’s a stubborn man.”

And you’re a stubborn woman. Damn stubborn.

“He must see some doctor, a man his age. Does he have a personal physician?”

She shot him a disapproving glance. “Yes. But his name is none of your business. He wouldn’t talk to you anyway. There’s a little thing called the Oath of Hippocrates. His dealings with his patients are confidential.”

He wanted to stop, seize her by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her. He also wanted to stop, seize her by the shoulders and kiss her until…until he didn’t know what. He jammed his hands deeply into his pockets.

“I’ve been doing background checks for a month,” he said. “And I can’t find anybody in Key West who’s seen him up close for five years. Not even at a doctor’s office.”

She gave a small, derisive laugh. “There are doctors up and down the Keys. Not just Key West.”

He cocked his head in the direction of the ocean. “People boating used to see him from out there. Walking on this beach. Not anymore. Sometimes they see him riding in some sort of all terrain vehicle. There’s speculation that he can’t walk.”

“I told you, Mr. Garner—time. He’s eighty-three. He wears out more easily than he used to.”

Eli decided it was time to get tough. “When you or your sister or your grandmother needs a prescription, you get it filled at Killian’s Pharmacy in Key West. But you never get anything for your grandfather there. A man his age never needs a prescription?”

She stopped, wheeling to face him. “Excuse me—how in hell do you know about our prescriptions?”

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and the color in her cheeks rose even higher. He smiled, because he knew it would make her angrier still. “I told you. I’ve been checking.”

“How do you know we go to Killian’s?” she demanded. “How?”

He shrugged. “Claire’s picked up prescriptions there. And other stuff. Makeup. Perfume. Laundry soap. Even kitty litter. She must like one-stop shopping. And sometimes she pays by credit card.”

Her lips parted in disbelief. “My God, you’ve had a detective on us, haven’t you? Snooping in our credit cards. And you got somebody at Killian’s to talk about us. You bastard.”

“Six years ago your grandfather had sinus problems. He needed a prescription nasal spray. He also had a recurrent rash. He used a prescription salve. He was prone to backaches. He had a prescription painkiller for when it got bad. Has he been miraculously cured of all that?”

She made no answer. She glared at him so contemptuously that he was impressed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Or do you just make sure that you buy his prescriptions someplace else? And pay cash, so that you don’t leave a paper trail, the way Claire did?”

Her lip curled in disdain, and she made a sound deep in her throat like a small, warning growl. Turning from him, she stalked toward the path that led back to the house. He stayed by her side, and he didn’t let up. “You drive to Marathon at least once a month. You go grocery shopping there. Why? Why drive forty miles to Marathon instead of fifteen to Key West? Because the Winn-Dixie store there has a pharmacy? I think so. But the pharmacists there are a tight-lipped bunch. Not like a certain person at Killian’s. It’s amazing the information you can buy for a hundred bucks.”

She stopped in her tracks again, and this time he thought she was going to take a swing at him. “You’re a disgusting excuse for a human being. Low, rancid and disgusting.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re angry.” He smirked.

“A cliché. Sorry, but it’s true.”

“You had somebody follow me to Marathon?”

“No. The detective had somebody follow you.”

“Don’t play word games with me, you odious toad.”

“Then don’t lie. Why go to so much trouble to cover up what drugs your grandfather takes?”

“Go to hell,” she said. “This interview’s over. And don’t come back tomorrow. I’m not talking to a low-down sneak.”

“Ah,” he said with satisfaction. “But we have an agreement. You signed it with Mondragon.”

“Take your agreement,” she snapped at him, “fold it five ways and shove it where the sun won’t shine.”

She stamped toward her sandals, snatched them up and jammed them onto her feet. And she was off, walking up the path so fast she almost loped.

He didn’t have time to put on his own sandals; he went right after her. This was a mistake. The path was rough, and littered with burrs that cut his feet.

But he kept up with her anyway. “You have a contract, and you have to honor it,” he said, all teasing gone from his voice. “Besides that, you need to talk to me.”

“When we get to the house, you get in your car and get off our property. Or I’ll throw rocks at you. I swear it.”

He had no doubt she meant it. “You need to talk to me, because you need to know what else I know. If I can find these things out, so can other people. And I know some interesting things. You can discuss them frankly. Or I can publish them and say you refuse to explain. That would be damaging to you. And to your grandfather. To your whole family.”

She speared him with another of her killer glares. “I said don’t come back. I meant it.”

She lifted her skirt to avoid a short, burr-laden bush. He couldn’t stop himself. He grasped her by one forearm and forced her to halt.

She jerked as if he’d seared her with live wires. This time she was going to hit him. In a flash, she raised her open hand and drew it back to slap his face.

He caught her wrist. “Stop,” he warned, getting angry himself. “And listen. I’ll be back, and you’ll talk to me, and you’ll talk straight.”

She narrowed her eyes in pure malevolence. “And if I won’t talk?”

He brought his face close to hers. “In that case, I’m going to have to implicate you and your family in a million-dollar scam. So you need to talk to me if you want to prove that you aren’t in the middle of the biggest fraud in the art world.”



MERRIMAN FASCINATED Claire. He’d put Bunbury down so he could take notes on the flowers and shoot more pictures, but he’d patted and rubbed and caressed the cat so thoroughly that Bunbury was clearly in love.

He stayed next to Merriman, rubbing against the man’s leg and purring. Claire hadn’t thought the cat would take to strangers, for he hardly ever saw any.

But she saw few herself, and she, too, took to Merriman. He seemed shy and friendly at once, a mysterious combination. And he acted so interested in everything she said that she found it easy, even pleasant, to answer his questions.

“It’s a coral vine,” she told him as he knelt to shoot a vine covered with dark-pink blossoms. “The flowers look like a string of hearts. Some people call it the Chain of Love.”

He snapped three shots, then wrote the name in his notebook. He looked up and gave her a bashful smile. “Chain of Love. That’s a pretty name.”

His smile was intriguing. It was straight, not curved like the grin of the Cheshire cat. And when he smiled, for some reason, his forehead wrinkled, so that his smile looked…thoughtful.

He had thick dark-blond hair that wouldn’t stay put; it stirred constantly in the breeze. He was handsome in a way that was both boyish and rugged.

He pointed at a white-flowered vine, strung with similarly shaped blooms. “Is this another kind of Chain of Love?”

He looked so earnest that she almost smiled herself. “That’s a bleeding heart. In some places they use the flower to cast spells.”

The wind rippled his hair so it fell over his forehead. “What kind of spells?”

Maybe she shouldn’t have brought that up; a blush heated her face. “Spells to…attract something…that you, uh, desire.”

“Could I take a sprig?”

She tilted her head in puzzlement. “What for?”

“A souvenir. Something real. Not just pictures.”

She licked her lips nervously. He watched the movement as if it hypnotized him. “I guess,” she breathed.

“I’ll take the pictures first.” He moved nearer the vine, Bunbury pressing against his knee. He clicked the shutter three times and jotted a note in his tablet. Carefully, he picked a section of vine hung with delicate flowers. He tucked it in the buttonhole of his blue shirt.

Then he gave her such a long look that she felt more embarrassed than before. He said, “I don’t suppose you’d let me take your photo.”

“Oh, no,” she said, alarmed. “I couldn’t do that. We don’t want our pictures in any magazine.”

“Not for the magazine. For me. To remember you. Nobody else would see it. I promise.”

She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t do that.”

“I’d really like to,” he said. “On my word of honor, it wouldn’t be for publication.”

“No,” she repeated. “I can’t. I don’t even know why you’re taking pictures of the flowers. They could be anybody’s flowers.”

“They’re your flowers,” he said.

“Not really. I just help take care of them. They belong to my grandparents.”

“Maybe they inspire your grandfather’s paintings. His paintings are colorful. Strong colors.”

She turned and stared at the banyan tree. “I can’t talk about him. Or the paintings.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. He put his tablet aside and rubbed Bunbury’s back. His expression went solemn, as if he was thinking hard. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

Confusion filled her. “No. Probably not.” But she had wanted to say yes. She had wanted to say it very much.

“The next day?” he persisted.

“No. I shouldn’t be here now. I should go back inside.”

She got to her feet and went to pick up Bunbury, but the cat was pressed so affectionately against Merriman’s thigh that her hand brushed the man’s leg.

She’d knelt so that her eyes were now on the same level as Merriman’s. “Would you go out with me?” he asked.

She froze, her hands on the cat’s bulging middle. The question was extraordinary. “What?”

“Would you go out with me?” he repeated. “I wouldn’t pry into your family’s business, I swear. I’d just like to be with you. I know it—”

The gate clanged as Emerson burst through it. She stopped and stared in anger at Claire and Merriman kneeling so closely together. Beyond her, standing outside the gate, Claire could see Eli Garner, his expression fierce.

“What’s this?” Emerson demanded. “Claire, you were supposed to stay inside.”

Claire, usually mild-mannered, was offended by her sister’s tone. “I came out to get Bunbury.”

“Have you been talking to this person?” Emerson glared at Merriman.

“I told him the names of some plants,” Claire said.

“You—” Emerson pointed at Merriman. “Your hour here’s up. Leave now.”

“Emerson,” Claire objected, “there’s no need to be rude. He hasn’t done anything.”

Emerson ignored her. She shook her finger at the photographer. “I said time’s up. Leave. You and your sleazy friend.”

“Emerson!” Claire was shocked. She’d never seen her sister so imperious.

Merriman stood, picking up his tablet. “I’ll leave,” he said calmly. “And your sister’s right. I asked her about the banyan and the flowers. That’s all we talked about.”

Claire, too, rose, clutching Bunbury. Merriman turned to her. “Goodbye. And thank you. I hope I’ll see you again.”

“I—I hope so, too,” Claire stammered, amazing herself.

Then Merriman was leaving, and Claire felt a sense of something almost like bereavement. He nodded to Emerson. “Good day, Miss Roth. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

As soon as he was out of the gate, Emerson slammed it behind him.

“Em! Why were you so hateful?” Claire protested.

“He’s a nice man. He really is.”

“Nice?” Emerson fumed. “Those men are treacherous. They want to ruin us.”

Claire shook her head stubbornly. “I can’t believe that about him. I won’t.”

“You will when you know the truth. Come inside. Nana’s got to hear this. We need to have a council of war.”

“War?” Claire echoed, horrified.

“Yes.” Emerson said it with ferocious conviction. “War.”



“GOOD GOD,” Merriman complained, “what did you do to that woman? What did you say to her?”

As the car passed through the gates to the estate, rain began to fall in fat, cold drops. Eli glowered at the sky as if even the heavens had decided to punish him. “I told her the truth.”

“What truth?” Merriman asked, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Hey, put the top up, will you?”

“I told her that Mondragon had a detective investigating them. And he found out some strange things.”

He punched the button that brought the convertible’s top up. He punched it savagely because it suited his mood. The top rose with a smooth whir.

Merriman stared at him with an expression of disgust. “A detective? You never told me that. I’m surprised she didn’t knock your block off.”

“She tried,” Eli said from between his teeth. He still remembered how swiftly she’d drawn her hand back to slap him. And his feet hurt from walking on burrs. He was still barefoot, his feet scratched and bleeding.

“I don’t blame her,” Merriman said. “Why’d you tell her? It was sure to rile her.”

“I had to tell her so she’d stop trying to stonewall me,” Eli said. The car clattered over the rusted metal bridge.

“She doesn’t like it, but I’ve got her where I want her, and she knows it. That’s why she’s mad.”

“Great. I was just starting to get somewhere with the sister, and you make me seem like a…spy or something.” Merriman swore and stared glumly out at the rain.

Eli frowned at him. “Get somewhere with her? You mean you were actually getting information out of her?”

Merriman shot him a dirty look. “I don’t want information. I like her. I’ve never met anybody like her. And now you’ve queered it. She’ll think I’m a weasel.”

Eli grimaced in disbelief. “You like her? You’re supposed to be a professional. We’re here on a story. She’s part of it. If she talked to you, what in hell did she say?”

“We talked about flowers. I patted her cat. She seemed to trust me, but now—”

“You petted her cat? You talked about flowers? Does the word journalism have no meaning for you?”

“I’m just the guy who takes pictures. You’re the investigator.”

“Before you saw the broad, you were singing a different song,” Eli accused.

“She’s not a broad,” Merriman retorted. “She’s a lady. Now I’ll probably never see her again—thanks to you.”

“My heart bleeds.”

Merriman narrowed his eyes. “You know, for a guy who has Emerson Roth exactly where he wants, you’re in a rotten mood. You know what I think? I think you’ve got the hots for her. And you blew your chance with her—big time. Smooth, Garner.”

Merriman’s words annoyed Eli because they were true. Emerson Roth was a beautiful woman. But more than that, she had spirit, she was smart…and loyal to a fault. He didn’t want her to be guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors, but he feared she was.

He wanted her to have a reasonable, moral excuse for the games her family played. He didn’t want her to hate him. But it was too late for that. The damage was done.

Eli was relentless; it went with his job. He could go beyond relentless to ruthless when he had to, and he had been ruthless with Emerson.

She would talk to him again tomorrow because she had no choice.

And he would show her no mercy. Because he couldn’t.



THE THREE WOMEN sat in the living room. It was a large, airy room, and most days light flooded through the big windows.

But the sun was hidden in the gloom of fast-moving clouds, and rain beat against the glass. Emerson sat alone on the white couch, and Claire sat in the rattan rocker, looking atypically rebellious. Nana got up from the armchair and switched on the Tiffany lamp.

She turned to face the two young women. “So, Em, what did this detective tell the Garner man?”

“I don’t know,” Emerson admitted unhappily. “That’s why I have to talk to him again. To see how much he knows.”

Nana moved to the Queen Anne chair and sat down, looking small but regal. She twined her gnarled fingers together. “They looked at our credit card records?”

“Yes,” Emerson said bitterly. She’d warned them to be careful with credit cards. Emerson herself was careful even with checks. She paid cash whenever possible.

She cast an accusing glance at Claire. “Why did you charge our prescriptions so often? Why didn’t you think?”

Claire, clutching the arms of the rocker, kept her air of defiance. “I thought we only had to be careful about the Captain.”

“I worried for years that we’d slip up,” Emerson snapped. “I told you we couldn’t be too careful.”

Claire’s defenses wobbled. “Em, I made a mistake. I’m sorry. But my mind doesn’t work like yours. For me, it’s exhausting, watching every move I make. It’s confusing. It’s nerve-racking. It’s paralyzing.”

Nana shook her finger gently at Emerson. “She made an innocent faux pas, Em. Do not scold. It does no good to squabble.”

Emerson felt a surge of guilt for rebuking Claire. She knew that the family secrets preyed on Claire, that they gnawed at her nerves and undermined her confidence.

Claire was retiring, like Nana. Emerson took after the Captain. The Captain had been so bold it was breathtaking. But now he could no longer be bold, and his job fell to her. She was daring, she was quick-witted, and, like the Captain, she could play a part and play it well.

Yet Eli Garner was a formidable opponent. It was possible he was too formidable. Had she met her match? The thought terrified her. Not so much for her own sake, but for her family’s. Their future and their welfare depended on her. She was their protector, and she loved them passionately.

She let her gaze meander over the room’s walls. The paintings hung there, and she loved them, too. They were striking and so full of life they seemed to glow with it. It was her duty to protect them, too, all that vivid, glorious work signed Roth.

She turned to face Claire. “I’m sorry, too. It’s just…upsetting. To have people prying. Spying on you.”

Claire winced and nodded. Nana said, “Em, someone followed you to Marathon, when you went to get the Captain’s medicine. Do you suppose he even followed you to the pharmacy counter?”

“Yes. He must have.”

The thought of being stalked and watched gave Emerson a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. What else had the informer seen?

Nana squeezed her fingers together more tightly. “They may have watched the beach from out in the cove. They may have seen the Captain from there. They may have even photographed him.”

Emerson swallowed. “I know. A good telephoto lens— I wonder how much they could see, what they could tell about him?”

“Let’s hope very little,” Nana said. “We’ve always been discreet.”

But not discreet enough, Emerson thought bleakly. What else did Eli Garner know?

Claire said in a small voice, “What can we do?”

Emerson smoothed her hair, which was still tousled from the wind. At the front of the house, she heard a scraping sound, and then a rattling and banging. Now that the outsiders were gone, Frenchy must be fastening the hurricane shutters in place.

“The first thing,” Emerson said, forcing her voice to sound calm, “is to talk to the Captain. I’ll go to him.”

Nana shook her head firmly. “No. I will. It’s best if I do.” She started for the door. But she paused for a moment and stared at the paintings on the walls. Emerson thought she saw tears glint in the older woman’s eyes, and a knot rose in her own throat.

Slowly, looking tired, Nana left the living room.

When Claire was certain Nana was out of hearing, she looked warily at Emerson. “I suppose you’re going to tell me not to talk to the photographer again.”

Emerson remembered the sight of the two of them crouched by the cat, staring raptly into each other’s eyes. The photographer had initially struck Emerson as harmless. He’d seemed truly smitten by Claire, and she by him.

Merriman might be as bad a scoundrel as Eli. Or he might not. But it seemed wrong to give Claire orders as if she were a child or an incompetent.

“Suit yourself,” she told Claire. “But be careful. Do you want to see him again?”

Claire didn’t answer immediately. She sat looking up at the painting over the mantel. Then, softly, she said, “Em, don’t you get tired of it? Of living this way? Sometimes don’t you think it would be better if we could just…tell the truth?”

Emerson wanted to say yes. It would be much better for Claire, who was not a creature formed for deception. It would be better for her, too, because maintaining the illusion took all her effort and energy. It ruled her life.

But she and Claire were not the only people caught in this complex web. There was Nana, there was the Captain…and there was more, much more at stake.

“We’ll tell the truth someday,” she said, rising and going to the window. “But not yet.”

“But how can you throw this Garner man off the track?” Claire asked.

“I’ll find a way.” Emerson said it with a confidence that seemed perfect. But it was false. Secretly she was more frightened by Eli Garner than by anyone or anything she had ever encountered.




CHAPTER FOUR


ELI DROPPED Merriman off at the hotel, grabbed his swim gear, then drove back north. He spent the afternoon at the best stretch of public beach in the Keys, Bahia Hondo.

The wind was high, the rain intermittent. The beach was deserted, which suited him fine.

His scratched feet hurt. The sand irritated them, and the salt water stung them. He didn’t care. The pain distracted him. He didn’t want to think about Emerson Roth, or her sweet-faced sister. He thought of them anyway.

Neither did he want to think about his own life, but he couldn’t stop himself. For years he’d gone from place to place, trying to solve puzzles. Some of the puzzles were unsolvable. Others were foolish, mere hoaxes or pranks to be exposed.

On occasion Eli’s work was dangerous. He had a scar on his chest from a bullet and one on his back from a machete. He’d been shadowed in Kuwait, beaten in New Delhi and drugged in Paris. He was still recovering from the caper in Yucatán, and he was not recovering swiftly. The machete wound still ached, and sometimes his fever came back.

The life of an investigative reporter was much like that of a soldier. It could be ninety-eight percent boredom and two percent terror. Sometimes he was tired of both.

His work could be disturbing as well as dangerous. If he had been hurt from time to time, he’d hurt others in return. He’d stripped them of their honor and watched the law strip them of their wealth, and sometimes their very freedom. Some of the people involved were criminals, and he didn’t mind what happened to them. But others were misled or deluded or desperate, and some were simply innocent bystanders.

There was a puzzle about the Roths, and it was a troubling one. But what was its nature and how culpable was Emerson Roth?

Sick of brooding, he waded into the churning waves. The sea was too rough to swim in comfort. He did anyway, the salt stinging the soles of his feet. Then he sat alone on the beach, throwing pebbles at the choppy waves and letting the rain pelt him.

When the rain began to pour down in earnest, he put on his street clothes in the little changing room, then limped back to his car. He hadn’t eaten, so he stopped at a rustic restaurant on Cudjo Key.

Few customers were inside, and none out at the garden tables, where the tropical trees waved their branches in the wind and flowers were beaten down by the assault of the rain.

Outside, workers fastened hurricane shutters, cutting off the view of the garden. The waitress was blond, busty, middle-aged, tanned to a crisp and friendly. She called him “hon” and said her name was Brenda.

“You here on vacation?” she asked, setting a plate of red snapper before him.

“No. I deal in art,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He switched the topic to her. “You lived here long?”

“All my life,” she laughed. “Born and bred here. Where’re you from?”

“I’m based in New York, but I travel a lot,” Eli said.

She raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. “Art dealer, huh? Lotta galleries in Key West.”

“Yup.” That was no lie, either.

Brenda looked philosophical. “Well, hope you got your work done and are headin’ home. We’re gonna have a big blow, I’m afraid.”

“It feels worse,” he said. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the car radio.

“Looks like its headin’ for Cuba. Folks’ll be evacuatin’.” Brenda nodded in the direction of the highway.

“That road out there’s gonna be mighty crowded. Ugh. Head north now, and you can get a head start.”

He shook his head. “Can’t. I got an appointment tomorrow I can’t cancel. Took too much work to get it. Local artist.”

She looked curious, so he thought he’d push further. “Nathan Roth.”

Her expression went dubious. So did her tone. “You’re talking to Nathan Roth?”

“His family, not him.” Eli did a good imitation of looking sincere and troubled. “Something may be up with him. Nobody’s seen him around for a long time.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Brenda said. “He used to be in here every weekend. This was one of his favorite places. Liked the live music. Good-natured guy. Come here with that little wife of his. She hung back, but he’d get a few beers in him, be life of the party. Then…poof.”

“Poof?”

“He stopped coming. Just like that. Poof. Like he’d vanished.”

“Why?”

She gave an elaborate shrug. “I don’t know. There are rumors.”

He frowned and made his expression more concerned. “Can you say what? The outfit I represent is worried. They’ve heard rumors, too.”

Conflict played across her face. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “People think maybe it’s his health.”

“His hearing? One thing we’ve heard is that he lost his hearing.”

“No,” she said immediately. “More serious than that.”

He looked at her as if he’d just discovered his guardian angel. He’d given this look to women many time before, and it usually worked.

He said, “That’s what we’re afraid of. You’re the first person I’ve met here who’s actually known him. What do you think happened to him?”

She tapped her forehead. “His mind going? Something like that, maybe? He was kind of forgetful the last few times I saw him. And…sometimes he was different. Once he argued that I didn’t add up his check right. But I had. He got it all wrong.”

Eli felt his chest contract, and a chill played under his skin. The woman hadn’t said it outright, but she’d hinted clearly. This was the gossip growing and spreading through the art world about Nathan Roth: something had happened to his lively and creative mind.

And his family was hiding it.

Eli stared deeply into Brenda’s mascaraed eyes. “That’s what we’ve been wondering, too.”

She shook her head sadly. “He’s getting on in years. These things happen. What is he, eighty-something?”

“Eighty-three. Tell me, what do you think of his work?”

She made a gesture of exasperation. “Look, I liked him as a guy. But his pictures were just a bunch a wiggly lines. They didn’t look like anything to me. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“It’s okay,” Eli said. “Lots of people don’t care for modern art. It’s no crime.”

She shook her head. “I just don’t understand it, is all. Nathan’s, his was kinda pretty—the colors, the shading I guess you’d call it. But some of the stuff out there, it looks like a little kid did it. Or even a chimpanzee, for God’s sake.”

He gave her a half smile to show he understood. “You’re not the first person to think so.”

She pointed to a brightly colored ceramic fish on the wall. “That, to me, is artistic. You look at it, you know it’s a fish, right?”

“Right.” He paused. “Nathan’s granddaughter’s still putting his work on the market, you know. She says he’s still painting.”

Brenda’s face hardened. “Oh. Her.”

Her reaction pricked Eli’s interest. “Emerson Roth? You don’t like her?”

“She comes in here once or twice a month. To buy take-out for Nathan. He still likes our shrimp and scallops. I always ask her how he is, why he doesn’t come around. She just says he’s fine, then gives me the brush-off. Sometimes men try to get friendly with her. No dice. Guess she thinks she’s too high and mighty for the likes of us.”

Eli wondered. Emerson could give a fine impression of an ice princess. But was it snobbery that kept her from getting close to the locals? Or fear?

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If Nathan’s…not himself, could he really still be painting? Do you think so?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Hey, I said he painted wiggles. How hard is that? He could probably do it with his eyes closed. Oop. ’Scuze me. Those folks want to check out.”

She bustled to the cash register. He gazed after her, a sturdy, kindly woman full of common sense. Perhaps she had hit the nail on the head. Were Roth’s new works only parodies of what he’d once done, but nobody had caught the sad joke of it?

Were they the scribbles of a mind in dementia? But the dementia was a secret, and the paintings kept selling because once the man had been a genius?

Stranger things had happened in the art world. But if it was true, did it mean the paintings were worthless? And did that make Emerson Roth a first-class con artist?

He pushed his dinner away only half-eaten. He paid his bill and left Brenda a ten-dollar tip. Then he drove south toward Key West, into the darkness of the gathering storm.



MERRIMAN WANDERED alone around Duval Street. He’d bought himself a light raincoat, but hadn’t bothered with a hat.

The rain flattened his unruly hair, ran down his face. Plenty of people were in bars, forgetting their troubles or the weather reports or both. They forgot loudly. He could hear the blare of their conversation and music when he passed the open doors.

He wasn’t tempted to join them. His mind was on Claire Roth. He had a mind made for images, and hers had him enthralled and kept him haunted. Hers was more than pretty face. It was an innocent’s face.

Eli Garner couldn’t suspect her of anything…could he? Maybe the rest of the family was involved in something shady. Not Claire.

Merriman believed that he could read faces. In hers he saw something so unspoiled and guileless it almost gave him a religious experience, except she also set off the most primitive of his desires.

Had she been going to agree to see him again? Or refuse? He wanted to believe she felt what he did. Did he dare phone her? He walked faster to try to burn off his indecision.

The streets were not nearly as bustling today. They weren’t empty, but the human traffic was nothing like the throngs of yesterday.

Merriman made his way to Mallory Square, where crowds usually gathered every afternoon. They came to celebrate the sun going down and cheer when it sank beneath the rim of the ocean. Merriman had heard it was a carnivallike atmosphere, with street performers, vendors of crafts and souvenirs, popcorn stands, drinks and hundreds of tourists.

But this sunset celebration was clearly going to be a dud. The sun, hidden behind streaming clouds, was a no-show. So were many of the street performers. The flames of the fire-eater would be whipped too much by the wind. The man who suspended himself in the air from chains would have lashed back and forth like a pendulum. Dominique the Cat Man wouldn’t chance his beloved trained cats jumping through a fiery hoop—too dangerous.

The popcorn stands were battened down. The crafts tables had been folded up and carted away. Only a few acts played to small knots of people hunched against the rain. No drunken college boys would be leaping off the pier in an excess of celebration.

Then the rain began to pour more wildly. The man with the trained dogs packed up to leave; the bagpiper moaned and screeched his last and the spectators darted for the nearest shelter.

The weather was getting wild, all right, Merriman thought, and it made him nervous. He turned to slosh back down Duval to his hotel room. Now stores were shutting early, windows were being boarded up and the streets were nearly deserted.

The wind had torn loose palm branches and they swept along the street, like brooms being wielded by ghosts. Petals were flying off the flowers Claire had told him were bougainvillea. They reminded of him damp butterflies fluttering to escape.

What was this storm doing to Claire at Mandevilla? She’d said it frightened her a little. It was worse now. Would she and her family try to ride it out in the old house, or would they evacuate the way some people were talking about doing?

He had to phone her, to find out how she was. And to ask if she would see him again. He didn’t want to call from any of the bars or restaurants—they were too noisy. He made it back to the hotel and up to his room.

He was cold from the rain, so he took a hot shower, then wrapped a towel around his middle and padded to the bed. He sat down and dialed the number of Nathan Roth’s house. Eli had given it to him. He held his breath, hoping against hope that it would be Claire who answered.



CLAIRE COULD TELL that this storm had Emerson worried.

She knew because Emerson had been in the library, pulling together important paperwork and documents. She would not have done that unless she thought they might have to leave.

Now Emerson was in the kitchen, checking batteries in half a dozen different appliances and muttering to herself. When the phone rang in the living room, she called to Claire, “Get that, will you? Maybe it’s Frenchy.”

Frenchy was not a native of Key West, but his wife, LouAnn was. LouAnn had an eerie instinct about hurricanes, Frenchy claimed. He had promised to keep them informed if her hunches and vibes told her danger was coming.

Claire swallowed and picked up the phone. She’d brought the two guard dogs, Doberman pinschers, inside again. Emerson hadn’t wanted them running loose when Eli and Merriman were there. Fang, who hated storms, pressed against her knee, not wanting to leave her. Bruiser slept on the hearth rug, oblivious to the weather.

“Hello?” Claire said, expecting to hear Frenchy.

But the voice was not Frenchy’s. It was one she’d never heard on the telephone before, yet she recognized it immediately.

“Claire? Is that you, Claire?”

It was the photographer. Her heart bounded like a frightened hare. “Yes,” she breathed, her heart still trying to run away.

“This is Merriman. Are you all right out there? I was worried about you.”

She took a deep breath, eased to the living room door and shut it, so that Emerson wouldn’t overhear. “We’re fine. I—I’ve been worried about you.”

He laughed. “Me? Why?”

“We’re used to this. You’re not.”

“They say it could be headed right for us,” Merriman said.

Claire was touched. He sounded truly concerned. “They’ve said that before. And this one keeps stalling.”

“Has one ever hit? Head-on, I mean?”

“Not badly for many, many years,” she answered, echoing what Nana used to tell her. “Long before we were born.”

“I thought I heard that recently…” His voice trailed off, uncertain.

“Georges in ’98,” she admitted. “It wrecked some boats on Houseboat Row in Key West and that was sad. It did more damage to the neighboring Keys, but no fatalities, thank heaven. We’re not really all that hurricane prone. Honestly.”

She took a deep breath. She didn’t usually make speeches that long.

He didn’t sound convinced. “That’s not what I’m hearing people say.”

“People like to exaggerate,” she said. She smiled, realizing that she was reassuring him. It was a nice feeling.

“Then you’re staying put?”

Claire stole a look at the closed door and thought of Emerson’s gathering of papers and documents. But nothing had really been said yet about going.

“Probably.” Claire hesitated. “But if it bothers you, you should evacuate.”

“We’re supposed to be at your place tomorrow,” Merriman said, determination in his voice. “If you’re there, we’ll be there. I’ll be there. Will I see you?”

She felt her face burn, her stomach flutter. “I don’t know.”

His tone grew pleading. “Did your sister tell you not to? Look, I’m not the investigator on this story. I just take pictures. Would it help if I talked to her?”

Claire swallowed. “She said it was my choice. But…I don’t know if I should.”

“Yes,” he said with feeling. “You should. I know you should. I think you know it, too.”

Claire thought of him kneeling in the garden by Bunbury. She thought of the man’s tousled hair, his serious blue eyes, his forehead that furrowed so thoughtfully when he smiled. She remembered his kindness to Bunbury and his deference to her.

Claire had been pursued before, and she hadn’t liked it. The men had been arrogant or leering. Merriman was different. When he looked at her it was with a sense of wonder, as if he respected and admired her.

“I—I don’t even know your first name,” she said.

“I haven’t got one.”

“You don’t?” This revelation shook her slightly. What sort of person had only one name? She could think of only rock stars and cartoon characters.

“My first and middle names were horrible,” he admitted.

“I went to court and had them dropped. I don’t know what my parents were thinking. So I’m just plain Merriman.”

“Well…” She pondered it.

“Do I need to have a first name to see you?” He had a strange, endearing desperation in his voice. “I’ll get one.”

She smiled. “No. Merriman is fine. Don’t you even have a nickname?”

“No. But you can make up one if you’ll let me see you. Will you?”

“You’ll be too busy taking pictures. Emerson said you can look at the inside of the house tomorrow. At least, the first story.”

“Could you be the one to show it to me? Explain what I’m seeing? You were helpful with the flowers. You could do it again, inside.”

She paused. “Emerson will do it.”

Merriman persisted, but his persistence was gentle. “She’ll have her hands full with Garner. She’ll have no time for me. Would you?”

Do you want to see him again? Emerson had challenged. Suit yourself.

She did want to see him again. So much that she didn’t feel like her usual self at all. In two days he would be leaving, maybe forever. She couldn’t bear not to see him at least one more time.

“I—I’ll try,” she stammered, dazed by her own daring.

“But you can’t ask me about my family. You can’t. You have to promise.”

“I promise.” She heard a harsh rattling noise in the background. “Drat,” Merriman said. “Somebody at the door. Garner, probably. He’s been out wandering. I have to go. Claire, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, still feeling dazed. “Good night.”

She listened to the click as he hung up. Her chest felt as if it were full of winged things, struggling to be free. As she hung up the phone, she thought, What have I done?



“YOU’VE done what?” Emerson demanded when Claire told her.

“I’m going to help show Merriman around tomorrow. He phoned and asked. He was very nice about it.”

Emerson stood in the doorway to the living room, her hand on her hip. She wanted to snap that of course he acted nice; he was trying to dig up all the dirt he could.

But something in Claire’s face stopped her. A kind of radiance shone from it, and Emerson had never seen Claire’s cheeks so pink. So she didn’t zing out a sarcastic answer.

“Be careful what you say,” she muttered.

“I will, I promise. But he’s not like the other one. He’s not like Eli Garner at all. He’s…different.”

With mixed feelings, Emerson realized that Claire was actually taken by this man. Up to now Claire had never had a real boyfriend…and she was twenty-five years old!

The men who had chased Claire had frightened or repelled her. The ones she admired, she admired from afar and in silence. Over the years, the few male friends she’d had were gay. Not flamboyant sorts, but boys as sensitive and almost as shy as she was.

Yes, it was high time Claire got interested in a man. But, Emerson fumed inwardly, why this one? He might be “nice” and “polite” as Claire hoped, but his alliance with Eli Garner made him suspect.

She trained a gaze on Claire she hoped didn’t show her very real reservations about the man. “They’re only going to be here an hour, you know.”

A sly man can do a lot of damage in an hour, Emerson thought. Especially to someone like Claire.

“I know,” Claire said, with a hint of defiance. “And so does he.”

“Shall I tell Nana about this decision? Or do you want to do it yourself?.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Claire said in the same tone. “Is she upstairs?”

“Yes.” Emerson didn’t have to tell Claire not to discuss the matter in front of the Captain. Extreme weather excited him. When the wind was high, so were his emotions.

Claire started upstairs. Fang stayed pressed close to her, as if only she could protect him from the storm. Emerson sighed, shook her long hair and ran her fingers through it.

Nana’s reaction, like Emerson’s, would be mixed. For a long time Nana had been wanting Claire to mingle more. But with the enemy? Emerson knew Eli was the enemy. Merriman seemed a gentler, more head-in-the-clouds sort, but was he really trustworthy?

She gritted her teeth. If Merriman used or betrayed Claire, Emerson would kill him, just plain murder him in cold, vengeful blood.

On impulse, she snatched up the phone. She glanced up the stairs, making sure Claire was out of earshot. Then she looked at the number Eli had scribbled on his card and dialed it, stabbing the phone buttons militantly. She wanted him to know she was capable of skinning him alive and nailing his hide to the wall.

He answered on the second ring, his deep voice lazy. “Eli Garner here.”

Drat! His voice sent a quiver through her midsection. “This is Emerson Roth. I want to talk to you.”

“Ah,” he said, “I was just wanting to talk to you.”

“Me?” she asked, taken aback.

“You. And your family. I’m watching weather reports. The hurricane.”

“Oh, that.” She spoke as if the storm was trifling, although in truth it had her deeply worried.

“Yeah, that.” He said the word as snidely as she had.

“It’s getting worse, veering closer. There’s talk of an evacuation order for the Keys. It may come tonight.”

“They can’t enforce it,” Emerson said. “They call it an order, but they can’t make people with solid homes go. And storms are unpredictable—”

“Like women?”

She squared her jaw. “If the hurricane scares you, Mr. Garner, I suggest you run. Get out while the getting’s good.”

“Ah, but I have an appointment with you tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Providing your house is still standing, of course. And you’re still in it.”

“We’ll be here,” she vowed. But we may not stay.

“You’re determined not to evacuate?”

“I don’t plan on it.” This was a lie, because she’d spent all evening planning for it. Nana and the Captain wouldn’t like it, but she considered herself responsible for them. She would do whatever she had to do to keep them safe.

“On TV,” he drawled, “it said that usually twenty-five percent of the population wouldn’t leave, no matter how bad things get. You know what that tells me?”

“That we’re a hardy breed.”

“No. It tells me that at least twenty-five percent of you people down here are certifiably crazy.”

“Probably a conservative estimate,” she shot back. “But I didn’t call you about the weather. I want to talk about your photographer.”

“Oh. Merriman.”

“Yes. Merriman. He phoned my sister tonight.”

“Isn’t she allowed to take calls? Or is there a new law— Merriman can’t make them?”

Damn you, Emerson thought, wishing she could twist the phone cord around his neck. “They’re both adults. They can talk to whom they please.”

“That’s very generous of you. This afternoon you acted more like you were her keeper than her sister. And poor Merriman. You kicked him out. But now you’ve relented? How magnanimous.”





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