by Adrianne Lee
She strolled through the open doorway and into the vast room. Despite the rack of clothes, the Chevalier mirror, the dressing screen, the desk and sewing machine hugging one corner, there was an abandoned feeling here that echoed the one in her heart. As she moved across the bare planking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, the hollow click of her footsteps emphasized just how alone she was, not only in the world, but here in this mansion. She hadn’t one true friend.
But what about enemies?
Nikki pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the sinking sun paint the sky in deep yellows, reds and purples. Her gaze skipped to the land mass across the glittering bay, a small private isle of rocks and trees. Protection Island. She had the unsettling sensation that she could use some protection herself. But from what? From whom? From whomever had attacked her with the chisel?
She turned her back to the glass. Was she in serious danger? Or had Dorothea tossed the chisel at her for what amounted to a publicity stunt? It had made such perfect sense when Chris suggested it. But on reflection, the idea seemed far-fetched. Ludicrous even. How could Dorothea have hoped the incident would lead to Jorge being taken away by the police?
But if not Dorothea, if not Jorge, then who? And why? Her blood flowed icy with denial. No, it had to be Dorothea. The publicity-hungry fool had probably stashed the flattened chisel in that desk. Nikki raced across the room, praying this assumption was correct. The alternatives were terrifying. She reached for the middle drawer.
“Oh.” Dorothea swept into the ballroom in a blaze of yellow and red that might have been torn from the sunset, her lemon jumpsuit blinding. “There you are. I worried you’d changed your mind.”
“No. I’ll go through with it.” Nikki yanked her hand back, her heart skidding sideways at nearly getting caught snooping. She drew a couple of slow breaths, regrouping, shifting mental gears. If she couldn’t find what she wanted by searching this desk, then she’d have to use plan A and gain Dorothea’s trust. Make her confess. She forced a smile. “I’m ready, if you are.”
She glanced at the mug Dorothea held. It was steaming and appeared to hold coffee. The perky redbead nodded. “Ready and excited.”
Striving to sound calm, Nikki said, “You know, I was wondering—”
“Are we late?” Marti strutted through the door, clutching her journal, a pen poked behind one ear. She was followed by Olivia and Lorah.
Nikki sighed to herself. So much for plans A and B. Her hands balled into fists as she bit down this newest frustration.
“We wanted to see. too.” Olivia sniffed. “You don’t mind, do you, Nikki?”
“No.” Yes! Nikki wanted to shout. Instead, she gave Chris’s sister a shrug.
Olivis’s eyes were overly bright “Good, good.”
“Let’s get started, then.” Dorothea set her coffee on the desk atop a coaster, then strolled to the clothes rack and began shuffling through the hangers. “Theresa’s character has three costume changes, but this is the pièce de résistance.”
An “ah” resounded from everyone when she plucked a three-tiered white lace wedding gown from the rack.
“Holy Joe,” Marti proclaimed. “Is that the original gown worn by Theresa?”
“The one in the portrait?” Inexplicably, Nikki was repelled by the possibility. She’d have thought she would find the dress appealing. Instead, she stepped away as though it were exuding some noxious odor. A clammy chill swept her flesh. Why had she agreed to standing in for the absent actor? It was insanity. “Is it Theresa’s gown?”
“Heavens, no.” Olivia twisted her hands. “That was never found.”
Lorah grasped a handful of the delicate lace. Her eyes glazed as though she were watching a closed-circuit TV only she could see. “The original was destroyed.”
“In the fire?” Marti asked, whipping her pen from her ear and flipping open her journal. She plopped down in Dorothea’s desk chair.
“No,.” Lorah shook her head, her gaze still distant, unfocused. “Someone cut it to shreds. A man.”
“Uncle Luis?” Olivia twitched as though her nerves had the hiccups.
“I’m not certain. I see a handsome, swarthy face etched in rage.” Lorah waved a hand. “No, sorry, it’s gone.”
As if she’d witnessed the deranged act of destruction Lorah suggested, Nikki shivered. But a part of her was relieved not to be wearing Theresa’s gown. Why?
Marti scrawled on a blank page, then asked Lorah, “Do you have any idea why Luis De Vega killed those three people? I mean, it was such a violent act...it seems to me the cause should have been something greater than a fit of jealousy.”
Lorah smiled her secret, all-knowing smile, a slight uplifting of the comrnrs of her full mouth. “I should think you of all people would know better than to underestimate the power of envy.”
Nikki had supposed Lorah was referring to jealousy as a motive for murder, that Marti, being a mystery writer, would have researched every homicidal inducement known to humankind. But Marti paled, her hand tightening on the pen until her knuckles shone white. The edges of her ears reddened like someone choking down incredible rage.
Apparently the reference was to something personal, and it reminded Nikki that she knew little or nothing about any of these women. That she couldn’t trust any of them.
Lorah snagged Dorothea with her perceptive gaze. “Maybe Luis was a secret drinker.”
Now Dorothea blushed. She fingered the lip of her coffee cup, making no move to drink, though clearly she wanted to. Instead, she tucked the wedding gown back into its place on the rack and extracted a blue summer dress. She handed it to Nikki, gesturing toward the screen. “Try this one first.”
The dress hung off the shoulders, a flounced bonier accentuating the bustline. Nikki. wished the mirror were behind the screen with her, so she could see how she looked in this.
“Show us,” Marti coaxed.
Nikki smiled to herself, recalling a favorite shopping trip with her mother, when Carmella had sounded as anxious as Marti about viewing the new purchases.
She stepped from behind the screen, catching a glimpse in the mirror, a vision of a tall blonde in a cloud of blue.
Olivia nodded her approval. “It’s very demure. Floaty.”
“I think it’s sexy.” Marti grinned.
“In a subtle way,” Lorah concurred. “Very nice.”
The psychic’s compliment surprised Nikki after the verbal jabs she’d given the others.
Dorothea beamed with obvious pride. “Wait until Chris gets a load of you in this.”
Nikki’s face flamed. She didn’t care what Chris Conrad thought of her in any of these clothes. Don’t you? a tiny voiced asked. No! she shouted silently.
Dorothea fluttered around her like a butterfly with pins in its mouth. “You’re thinner than Victoria, so I’m going to baste this here and here and here.” She jabbed pins into the fabric as she spoke, pulling the dress tighter at the waist and the middle of her back. “Then I can let it out easily later.”
The procedure was the same with the next outfit: a severe black dress with a high neckline, long sleeves and ankle-length hem. It so resembled what Olivia wore every day, Nikki wondered if it had been borrowed from her wardrobe. She felt decidedly uncomfortable in it, as though the dress were cutting off her oxygen. But from the approving response, she apparently didn’t look as ugly in the dress as she felt.
Lastly Nikki donned the wedding gown. As she slid her arms into the lacy sleeves, she was surprised to feel a lump in her throat She would never wear a gown like this. Would never marry. At least, not anytime soon. And when she did wed, her mother would not be there to witness her happiness. Would her father?
With her chest throbbing, she stepped from behind the screen. A collective gasp rang from the four women.
“Oh, I knew it,” Dorothea cried. “You are Theresa.”
“It’s eerie,” Olivia whispered on a sucked-in breath. She stood to one side, her eyes wide, di
stressed, her hands kneading together.
Marti eyed Nikki up and down. “Are you sure you aren’t related to the De Vegas?”
“Blood is thick in this house,” Lorah pronounced. “Thicker than anyone suspects.”
Nikki barely heard Lorah. She was caught by her own reflection in the cheval glass. She stood frozen, staring at the image, feeling as though she were peering at the portrait, as though it had leaped from the wall in the master suite and zipped into the reflecting glass. Her pulse jerked, and an icy cold spread through her, chilling her to the bone.
She couldn’t get out of the dress fast enough. “Are we done? I’ve got some work to do.”
“Well...sure, I guess.” Dorothea plucked at the waistline of the gown. “But this fits you like it was made for you. I’m probably going to have to let it out for Victoria.”
“I wonder if I left enough room in the seams?” Dorothea muttered as Nikki ducked behind the screen.
Nikki heard Lorah say, “You won’t need to take out the seams.”
That’s what she thinks, Nikki swore to herself. I’m not carrying this charade a second past proving Dorothea dropped the chisel on me.
When she came out from behind the screen this time, dressed again in her T-shirt and jeans, only Olivia and Dorothea remained in the room.
Nikki handed the gown to Dorothea, then addressed Olivia. “I spoke with your brother about using the pool for my nightly laps. He said it would be okay.”
“Of course, Nikki.” Olivia seemed more anxious than ever to please her, to affirm that they were great friends. “You’ll need a key for the house and the pool gate. We keep them locked after 9:00 p.m. I’ll leave them in your room.”
“Thank you.”
Dorothea stopped Nikki as she started toward the exit “Must you leave so soon? I was hoping to go over the script with you, so you’d have some idea what to expect at the rehearsal in the morning.”
Nikki hesitated. Rehearsal in the morning. With Chris. Every muscle in her body ached with the dread of facing him in the role of Theresa. But it might not be necessary, if she could find the flattened chisel She glanced at the desk, deciding in that moment to return and search it after Dorothea had gone home for the evening.
A tiny pain tapped her temples, threatening a full-blown headache. What if the chisel wasn’t there? A shiver climbed her spine. It had to be there. “Why don’t I just take the script with me?”
NIKKI WATTED until nearly eleven to head downstairs. It was a balmy night, and the swim would ease her tensed muscles. But first she wanted a look inside Dorothea’s desk. Wearing her short terry cloth robe, favorite one-piece swimsuit and sandals, she crept down the stairs, making her way as quietly as possible.
The doors to the ballroom were closed. No light shone from within. She glanced up and down the hall, peered over the railing. She seemed to be alone. Smiling to herself, she grasped the doorknob. It refused to turn. She tried the other.
Damn and double damn. It was locked. She groaned softly, then had an idea. Maybe one of the keys Olivia had given her would work. She dug them from her robe pocket. The first didn’t fit the lock. The second fit, but wouldn’t engage. She heaved a sigh and stood staring at the doors as though they’d spring open if she wished it hard enough.
The house creaked. Nikki jumped and spun around. Was someone coming? With her pulse thrumming, and grumbling under her breath, she hastened downstairs and slipped outside. Wispy clouds, like strips of shredded nylon, veiled the moon, and crickets chirped louder than she’d ever heard, muffling the slap of her sandals on the redbrick as she hurried down the path to the pool.
She unlocked the gate and inhaled deeply. The night air was rife with brine and chlorine, a swimmer’s favorite perfume. Here, at least, she thought, is something familiar. A true and trusted friend Draping her robe and towel over the diving board, she sat on the edge of the pool and lowered herself into the heated water. She never dived while swimming alone, wouldn’t risk knocking herself unconscious and drowning.
She’d swum half a dozen laps, her muscles beginning to ease up, when she felt it: that awful creeping up her neck like someone was watching her again.
She stopped and clung to the ladder, and glanced around, realizing how isolated she was. How vulnerable. She couldn’t see anyone, but there was lots of cover for someone to hide behind. Apprehensive, she decided she’d had enough for the night, and climbed from the pool.
Headlights shone through the trees surrounding the top of the driveway, and she heard a car move as slowly as a cat down the drive. Hopefully whoever was coming would scare off her watcher. She donned her robe and sandals, her wet hair dripping on her shoulders. She locked the gate and started up the path just as the Jaguar convertible pulled onto the parking area and cut her off from the house.
Chris, his hair windswept, his expression unreadable, gazed at her as though he wanted to ask her something. But neither spoke, that undefinable link between them holding each prisoner to its whim. They stared at each other for a long moment.
A flash of light beyond his shoulder jerked her attention. She glanced up and gasped. Chris spun in the car seat to where she pointed. In the open doorway of the mansion stood a bride, a veil hiding her face. She seemed to flutter, as though made of gauze, a giant silken scarf caught on a breeze. Then she disappeared.
Chapter Eight
“What the hell was that?” Chris gaped at the entrance to his home, then back at Nikki. She watched him grab his keys, turn off the car and scramble out of it. The night grew suddenly still, the only sound, his feet hitting the bricks. Even the crickets had ceased chirping. “It looked like a ghost.”
“Phooey!” Nikki stormed past him, her wet hair flicking droplets of water as she ran. “It’s someone dressed like the bride in the portrait..”
“Are you sure?” He caught up to her. “I mean, how...?”
“Yes. I’m sure—and I’ll prove it.” She reached the front door first, grabbed and twisted the knob, then stepped back, disgruntled. “Locked.”
“Locked?”
“Oh. don’t sound shocked.” She couldn’t see his face clearly. Someone had turned out the porch light, and the front stoop was nothing more than shadows. But she could read Chris just fine at the moment. “The ghost didn’t walk through a locked door.”
“Well, I didn’t hear the door close or the latch engage, did you?”
“Couldn’t hear anything over that sputtering car of yours, or the clamor you made shutting it off and banging out of it.”
“Sputtering?” he sputtered.
“Let’s get inside.” She dug into the pocket of her robe, her hand hitting the two strips of metal. “I’ve got a key.”
“So do L” His met the lock first The door sprang inward as though someone had wrenched it open from indoors. Chris blocked the entrance, protectively holding her back, his arm pressing against her breasts. She gasped and jerked back. Her heart slammed her rib cage, but she couldn’t have said if it was his touch she feared or an attacker waiting just inside the door.
He glanced down at her, his dark eyes like black ponds in the hazy light There seemed to be some sort of heat issuing from him. flowing straight from his gaze on a direct route to her belly. In that moment she knew he was more dangerous to her than any “ghost.”
She twisted to move past Chris. “Whoa,” he murmured, holding her at bay. “First let’s make sure someone isn’t lying in wait inside the door.”
“To do what—shout. ‘Boo’?” She ducked under his arm and rushed inside, then glanced over her shoulder at him.
He was staring at her legs as though the sight had him frozen in place. She tagged self-consciously on the hem of her short robe, anger heating her cheeks. She snapped in a loud whisper, “Do you think you could admire my legs some other time?”
His gaze snapped to hers. “What?”
“I need your help. Now.” She shook her head. “Come on.”
“Sure. Right behind you.”
The huskiness in his voice sent a sweet shiver through her, one that licked her temper a notch higher. She would not let this man undermine her again. The hell with him and his male magnetism. She wasn’t getting seduced by it anymore. She charged up the stairs.
As she climbed, Nikki’s gaze scoured every corner of the second floor and the landing above. No one seemed to be stirring at this late hour. But she knew at least one person had to be. Maybe Olivia. Maybe Marti. Maybe Lorah. Maybe even Dorothea, who might have sneaked back to pull off this latest trick.
Behind her, she heard the soft jangle of metal against metal as Chris obviously looked for the proper key. He asked, “Why the ballroom?”
“You’ll see.”
To her surprise, the door was locked.
“Hurry,” she told him, stepping to one side. But the second he opened the door, Nikki darted ahead of him, then stopped abruptly just inside the dark room.
Chris charged in, running smack into her backside. Reflexively he snaked his arms around her in an effort to keep them both upright. She pitched back against him, slender and curvy and feminine, and all of the images that had haunted his evening swept him anew. He closed his eyes, breathed in the enticing mix of shampoo and chlorine wafting from her damp hair, relished the feel of her body pressed to his, remembered her lips, so sweet and hungry. A sigh climbed his throat and cleared his mind. Her passion was the seed of his madness. His passion for her, the latchkey to a padded cell.
She tagged at his arms, and he released her as though he’d just realized she was dripping wet beneath her robe. Her muted voice seethed with fury and frustration. “Where are the lights?”
He reached for the switch from rote. A soft golden glow filled the room, illuminated her lovely face, her damp golden hair, the anger dancing in her aquamarine eyes. All held him a captivated audience of one.
“Over here,” she breathed, flying to a rack of clothing. “You’ll see. It’ll be gone.” She began rifling through the hangers, from the front to the back, halting with a sudden gasp. “Oh, my God, it is here. But...I...I don’t understand. No one could have gotten into this room, taken off this gown, hung it back up, then escaped leaving the door locked behind mem—all in the last few minutes.”
