“Everyone’s asking for you,” David returned, glancing from her to Marshall and back again. The glance seemed hostile if not suspicious.
Claire hesitated, surprised. She looked from David to Ian again. Her husband hadn’t spoken to Ian, but he was regarding him coolly, and Claire knew jealousy had nothing to do with his coldness. David had never been jealous of her when it came to other men. He knew she would never betray him that way.
Ian smiled. “Hello, David,” he said. “Happy birthday. I brought you a little something I think you will appreciate. I left it in the hall.”
David’s nod was curt, his words tight and cut off. “Marshall. Thank you. Let’s go, Claire.”
Claire was bewildered. Clearly David did not like Ian Marshall. Had a deal gone bad? It wasn’t like him to be so rude. She walked over to her husband, but smiled at Ian Marshall. “Shall we join the others?” But what she really wanted to say was, thank you.
“Of course,” he said, with an answering smile. But his eyes were on David and they were filled with wariness.
Claire didn’t like it at all. The tension between the two men was unmistakable, and the only question was why.
Guests were finally leaving; the party had been a huge success. Claire judged it to be such because most of her guests were smiling and happy and pleasantly inebriated. After the buffet dinner, many of them had even danced to seventies rock ’n’ roll on the terrace beneath the glowing full moon. Most important, no one had seemed to notice her dismal mood or the fact that she and David hardly spoke to one another.
About thirty people remained. It had gotten cold outside, which was usually the case in the Bay Area, and everyone had clustered in the living area, mostly seated on the various couches, chairs and ottomans, after-dinner drinks in hand. David was playing a jazz tune on the grand piano. He was a gifted pianist, but he had never pursued his talent. Even having had more than his fair share of wine and vodka, he was playing splendidly.
Claire wished he hadn’t gotten drunk. Recently—or not so recently?—he had started to slur a little when he was drinking, and to stagger just a bit. Claire studied him as he switched to an Elton John tune and began to sing. Two women were standing beside him, the blonde clearly mesmerized by him. They started to sing, too.
Claire turned and saw Jean-Leon watching her. He glanced at David and then back at her, shaking his head with disgust.
Claire tensed. She gave her father a reassuring smile and turned away. She left the party, and at the stairs, she slid off her sandals. Her feet were hurting her.
The night seemed to have become endless; she was exhausted, yet eager for a new day. And with the eagerness was anxiety and fear. She was really going to ask for a divorce. She was going to leave David, and somehow, be alone.
It was frightening and it was thrilling.
Slowly, she went upstairs, gold sandals dangling from one hand. At least she could stop smiling now.
On the upstairs landing Claire came face to face with Ian Marshall. “Good God!” She cried, her hand on her palpitating heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, clearly as stunned to meet her as she was. “I didn’t mean to scare you—you surprised me, too.”
Claire’s pulse slowed, returning to normal, as their gazes met and held. He smiled at her. “Tough night, huh?” He glanced at the sandals with their precarious heels and tiny straps dangling from her fingertips, but then his gaze sharpened, moving quickly back to her face.
Claire could only stare at him, recovering some of her surprise. What was he doing upstairs? The party was downstairs. Claire smiled a little. “It’s insanity, isn’t it? What a woman does for glamour.”
“Not really. That dress is a knockout.”
Claire’s heart leapt at his words.
“But I’d bet anything you look great in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt,” he said, and his smile faded. “What’s wrong, Claire?”
She did not move. “What are you doing upstairs?”
His gaze moved over her features slowly. His smile faded a bit as he understood. “I’m not snooping, Claire. Someone was in the powder room downstairs and the staff directed me to the bathroom in the guest room up here.”
Claire shook her head. “There’s another bathroom in the den.”
“It was also occupied.”
She met his gaze. “I see.” She was relieved—but of course, what had she been thinking? He was too nice to have been snooping around her home. “What do you do, Ian?” she asked curiously, leaning against the wall.
“I’m a consultant. Generally for firms who do business in Europe or the Middle East. In fact, I just got back from Tel Aviv a few days ago.”
Claire nodded; that hardly gave her a clue as to what his profession was.
He touched her bare arm briefly. “You seem tired. Are you calling it a night?”
Claire shivered and looked up at him. The urge to ask him to drive down to his friend’s yacht suddenly overcame her. The evening had been a hard one. She hadn’t had a single chance to relax, and it would be relaxing, even fun, to sit with this man and sip champagne in peace and quiet. Of course, it was also an impossible and forbidden notion. “I wish I could. There’s still a good two dozen guests downstairs.”
“They’re pretty happy down there. I don’t think anyone would know if you slipped off to bed.” His smile faded.
Claire knew he hadn’t been making an innuendo, but the word “bed” made her flush, and she thought—but wasn’t sure—he was thinking about that word, too. Claire knew when men were attracted to her. She was aware of being a pretty woman, and she knew Ian found her attractive. With her marriage in its death throes, she felt vulnerable and even afraid of herself.
But she would never cross any inappropriate lines until she was divorced.
She swallowed. “Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Yes, I did. And thank you for asking.” His gaze found and held hers.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” she said fiercely, meaning it. Their gazes caught again.
This time, he didn’t speak. He just smiled at her, as if he liked her a lot and did not want to end the moment.
Claire felt herself flushing. It was time to go and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
His gaze wandered over her, lingering on her dangling sandals. “David is a very lucky man.”
“Are you flirting with me?” She smiled because he was and she needed it.
“Is it a crime? You’re blushing, Claire. It’s nice.”
“It’s nice to have a nice man flirting with me,” she said truthfully.
His eyes widened. “It must happen all the time!” he exclaimed.
“Not really,” she said.
He shook his head. “Go figure.”
Claire laughed. It was her first real laugh of the evening.
He smiled. “You even have a nice laugh.” His smile vanished. “I had better go.” And he gave her a long look.
Claire tensed, certain she knew what that look meant. Just as she was being swept away by a flirtation with him, he was being swept away, too. And he did not trust himself either.
As they stood there, sounds were drifting up from outside, coming around from the front of the house. Good-byes. Car doors slamming. Engines revving.
“Good night,” he said quickly, and turned and was gone.
“Good night,” Claire murmured as he disappeared down the hall. She leaned against the wall, feeling as if she had been run over by a truck. Would their paths cross again? She very much hoped they would.
It was a long moment before she moved. Instead, she replayed their two encounters over and over again in her mind, as if she were a teenage girl with a very severe crush. When she realized what she was doing, she laughed at herself, because she was thirty-two, not twelve. Claire went into her bedroom for another pair of shoes.
A moment later, Claire paused on the threshold of the living room. A dozen guests remained, but all were in t
he process of leaving.
She sighed. Jean-Leon was chatting with the Dukes in the foyer. The turquoise-clad blonde who had been hanging all over David for most of the night was slipping on a wrap. Claire suddenly realized that David was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, she walked to the foyer and said good night to the blonde.
Her name was Sherry. “I had a wonderful time,” she gushed.
“I’m glad,” Claire said, wondering if she were sleeping with David. It would not surprise her.
Sherry thanked her, glancing past Claire as if looking for someone—and Claire knew she was looking for David. A moment later she left.
“It was a great party,” Elizabeth said to her. “And it’s so late! We have to go. Claire, we will talk tomorrow.”
Claire nodded as William hugged her. “Dear, once again, you have outdone yourself. The food, the wines, everything was superb. More important, you are superb.” He smiled at her. “Have brunch with us on Sunday?”
“I’ll try.” Too late, Claire realized she had said “I,” instead of “we.” The Dukes stepped out to their waiting car and driver.
Claire said another series of good-byes, then turned to her father. “Have you seen David?” One more couple was putting on their coats, and the bartender was finishing breaking down the bar.
“No, I haven’t. He’s drunk, Claire,” Jean-Leon said with disapproval.
Claire sighed. “I know. Maybe he went up the back stairs and to bed.”
Her father kissed her cheek. “I hope David knows how fortunate he is to have you as his wife. The party went well, Claire. No thanks to him.”
Claire smiled, refusing to buy into the subject, and said good-bye. Finally, all of her guests were gone.
Promptly Claire kicked off her lower sandals as the last two waiters left the house with the last of their equipment. The caterer came up to her. “Everything’s done,” she said. “The leftovers are put away, dishes and glasses ready for party rentals to pick up first thing tomorrow, and the kitchen as clean as a whistle.” She smiled at Claire.
Claire thanked the slim, middle-aged woman, whom she used often for various events. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Lewis. Once again, everything was just perfect.”
Mrs. Lewis beamed. Then she said, “Do try to relax a bit, Mrs. Hayden. I can see you’re not yourself these past few days.”
Claire stared after her. Could everyone tell that her marriage was over? Could she no longer hide her true feelings? Disturbed, Claire went to the front door and locked it.
She sighed. The party was over. Everyone had enjoyed himself, even David. The night had been a success.
She thought about Ian Marshall and smiled a little.
Don’t go there, she told herself sternly. It was only a harmless flirtation.
But somehow, she knew it was more.
Claire turned off all the downstairs lights except for one in the hall. The house was so quiet and still after the party, when just moments ago it had been filled with conversation and music and so many people. She walked upstairs quietly, not wanting to wake David, but certain that he wouldn’t wake up even if she did make noise. The quiet engulfed her. It should have been peaceful. Instead, unease prickled at her.
She flicked on the light in the bedroom.
The king-sized bed was empty.
It wasn’t even slept on.
Claire stared at it, for a moment unable to comprehend that David wasn’t there, asleep. Where was he?
Claire was concerned. This was so odd. Her nape seemed to prickle again. Claire went back into the hallway, turning on the lights to chase the last of the upstairs shadows away. Now she was acutely aware of the house being too silent around her. The dogs were kenneled in the yard out back. She was alone in the house—but no, that wasn’t true. David was in the house. Except—the house felt empty.
That was impossible. David had passed out somewhere, she decided with a flash of anger. Gripping the railing, she hurried downstairs.
It was so dark, and there were shadows everywhere.
“David?” Claire called, turning on lights one by one as she entered the living room. She did not expect him to be there, and he was not.
She turned on the last hall light and walked down to the den. Claire pushed open the door, which was slightly ajar, and hit the wall switch, flooding the room with light. “David?” But he wasn’t there, either.
On impulse, she checked that bathroom—it was empty. Her heart began to thud in her chest. Where could he be?
He’s only passed out somewhere, she told herself, trying not to become frightened.
Claire hesitated before the home office they shared. What if he had fallen and hurt himself?
Then she pushed open the door, quickly fumbling for the light, praying that he would be asleep on the couch inside. It came on and she looked around, but the office was empty.
She felt unbearably alone. Worse than ever before.
Claire hugged herself. Somehow, she knew that she really was alone in the house. It was a sickening feeling. Panic assailed her, making her dizzy.
She needed to get the dogs. But to get to the kennels she had to cross the back yard, and she was afraid to step out of the house and into the looming night.
Claire thought she felt movement behind her. She whirled. The threshold was vacant. It had been her imagination, nothing more.
Where was David? Where could he be?
Was she really alone in the house?
Claire now ran through the entire house, to the kitchen and dining room on the other side. As the caterer had said, her kitchen was as clean as a whistle—no one would ever know that she’d had a party that night. And it, too, was empty.
Panicked, Claire stepped into the dining room. This time she didn’t bother to turn on the light; the illumination from the kitchen showed that it was empty. What was happening?
She rushed to the phone and called her father, but there was no answer. He lived in the city—he should be home at any minute. She decided not to worry him and did not leave a message. But she would kill David when she found him, she decided.
Claire hesitated, then unlocked the kitchen door, telling herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. She turned on the outside lights. The back yard brightened, and across it, she could see the wire kennels. The dogs had awoken and they began to bark.
Claire left the kitchen door wide open and ran across the yard to the kennels. She let out the dogs, hugging them all. She was shaking. “Where’s David? Hey, Jill? Help me find David,” she cried.
The dogs seemed very happy, oblivious to her worries, and they raced ahead of her and into the kitchen, all except for her beautiful purebred poodle.
Jilly paused, sniffing the air, and she began to growl.
Claire didn’t know what to think. Jilly was a very intelligent dog, and a great watchdog as well. “What is it?” she asked hoarsely.
Jilly growled again—and she took off.
Not into the kitchen, but behind the house, disappearing toward the terrace. The terrace where, just an hour ago, her guests had been dancing beneath the moon and the stars.
Frantic, territorial barking sounded from the terrace where Jilly had just disappeared. Claire needed a flashlight. She didn’t have one and she couldn’t think where one was. Filled with fear, Claire headed after her dog. She reminded herself as she turned the corner of the house that her neighborhood was absolutely safe. But she knew something had happened, otherwise her dog would not be so upset. It crossed her mind to call the police, but what would she say? She reached the terrace behind the house and fortunately, the lights she had turned on inside the living room shone directly upon it. Relief filled her.
David was passed out in a chair at the terrace’s farthest end.
Damn him! Claire thought furiously, not knowing whether to cry or shout.
Jilly had halted a dozen feet from him, and she continued to bark wildly. Now the other dogs came barreling over to him, and they began to bark as well, ca
using pandemonium. They were barking at David.
Claire stiffened. Why were the dogs so upset? “David?” Claire hesitated as the barking escalated in urgency. David did not move, and granted, he’d had a lot to drink, but shouldn’t the noise awaken him now? She broke into a run.
Claire reached David and had a flashing premonition, but she grabbed him anyway and his head fell back—and that was when she saw the blood.
His throat was sliced open. Bloody and sliced open.
Blood covered his neck, his shirt, his chest.
He was lifeless.
She screamed.
BRENDA LOVES TO HEAR FROM HER READERS. YOU CAN E-MAIL BRENDA AT WWW.BRENDAJOYCE.COM, AS WELL AS ENTER HER LATEST CONTEST. DON’T MISS IT!
DON’T MISS
DOUBLE
TAKE
BY
BRENDA JOYCE
AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER
IN JULY 2003
FROM ST. MARTIN’S PRESS
WATCH FOR
DEADLY
PROMISE
THE NEXT FRANCESCA CAHILL NOVEL BY
BRENDA JOYCE
COMING IN FALL 2003
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
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 Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Page 37
