Jayne Ann Krentz (7 page)

“Still feel that way?” She smiled sweetly. “Sell me your half of the house and we'll call it even.”

“Not feeling quite that grateful,” he said.

Rafe walked back into the solarium just as the September sky finally faded all the way to black. Hannah noticed that he did not turn on any lights. Winston, flat on his belly on the floor, looked up hopefully but lost interest when he saw the two snifters Rafe carried.

Rafe lowered himself into the wicker lounger next to Hannah and handed one of the glasses to her.

She watched the darkness settle over the bay and thought about the arugula, beet, blue cheese, and walnut salad and the pasta she had just finished. Rafe had glazed the walnuts with a little sugar and salt and heated them in the oven before adding them to the salad. The pasta had been flavored with an incredibly rich truffle-infused olive oil. A taste of heaven.

“Okay, so you can cook,” she said.

“Man's gotta have a hobby.”

“I'm with you on that.” She took a sip of brandy. “For the record, you can fix dinner for me anytime.”

“Thanks. I'll remember that.” He cradled his snifter in both hands and gazed out the windows into the deepening night. “Sorry about that scene with Dell Sadler this afternoon.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“Depends how you look at the situation, I think. If you hadn't been with me the night Kaitlin died, you wouldn't have had the run-in with Sadler today.”

“Well, there is that.” She was very conscious of him sitting there, not more than a few inches away. The darkness intensified the sense of intimacy. “About that night—”

He took a sip of brandy and waited.

“We never really talked about it.” She drew a breath and took the plunge. “You knew Kaitlin as well as anyone. What do you think happened? Do you think she committed suicide? Or was it an accident?”

He was quiet for a long time. “I'm almost positive that she did not jump.”

“What makes you so sure?”

He studied the brandy glass in his hands. “When she kicked me out of her car that night she was pissed as hell. She was angry, not depressed or desperate.”

“How angry?”

He tilted his head against the back of the lounger.

“Very. Said she'd had it with Eclipse Bay and everyone in it. Said she couldn't wait to blow this burg.”

“Making plans for the future.”

“Yes.”

“So her death must have been an accident.”

Rafe said nothing.

Hannah cleared her throat. “I said, her death must have been an accident.”

“That's certainly the most convenient explanation for all concerned.”

Shock held Hannah absolutely still for a few seconds. She finally found her breath and let it out very deliberately. “You want to elaborate on that?”

“No point.” Rafe sipped his brandy. “Not now.”

“You're probably right. I guess we'll never know what really happened that night.”

“No.”

Rafe was quiet for a while. She had the feeling that he had moved onto some other subject in his mind. Whatever it was, he did not seem to be inclined to discuss it, either.

She tried not to be so acutely aware of him reclining there so close beside her, but it was hopeless. Probably time to go home, she thought. Make that
definitely
. She was about to mention that it was getting late when Rafe spoke.

“Somthing I've been meaning to ask you.”

“Umm?”

“What went wrong with Mr. Right?”

For some reason that was the last question she had expected. She hesitated, not certain how far she wanted to go down that particular road.

“It didn't work out. What about you?” she added quickly to change the subject. “Heard you got married.”

“For a while.”

“What went wrong?”

“I told you that the men in my family aren't real good at marriage,” he said.

“As I recall, I told you that was an excuse.”

Without warning, Rafe sat up on the edge of the lounger and rested his forearms on his knees. “Mitchell called today.”

Hannah blinked. He could switch topics quickly, too. “Your grandfather?”

“He wants me to come to dinner tomorrow night. Octavia Brightwell will be there. Says he wants me to meet her.”

Hannah thought quickly. “Brightwell. The owner of that new art gallery near the pier?”

“Yeah.” Rafe set his glass down on the table. “Apparently they're involved, so to speak.”

“Good grief. I saw her on the street the other day. She's young enough to be his granddaughter.”

“So I'm told.” He met her eyes in the shadows. “The thing is, I need a date.”

She nearly fell out of the lounger. “You want me to go to dinner at Mitchell Madison's house?”

“Got anything better to do?”

“Well, gee, when you put it like that, I guess not. As you once observed so pithily, the entertainment options in Eclipse Bay are somewhat limited.” She paused. “Your grandfather won't be exactly thrilled to see you walk into the house with a Harte.”

“Don't worry. He'll be on his best behavior because of his new girlfriend.”

“Mitchell Madison making nice with a Harte.” She smiled slowly. “Now that should be interesting.”

“Well?”

“Okay,” she said.

It was his turn to be wary. “You'll do it?”

“Sure. On one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You have to promise me that afterward we'll have our little chat about how we're going to handle Dreamscape.”

He thought about that for a few seconds. One shoulder rose in a negligent motion. “It's a deal.”

She felt a distinct chill all the way down her spine. But it was too late now to wonder if she'd just been had by Rafe Madison.

She came awake very suddenly, listening to the silence with all of her senses. Her first thought was that an intruder had entered the darkened house. But in the next heartbeat she reminded herself there was no way anyone could have broken in without alerting Winston.

She sat up slowly. “Winston?”

There was no response. She could not feel his weight at the foot of the bed. It struck her that during the past two years she had grown very accustomed to his companionship at night.

She swung her feet to the cold floor and stood. “Winston? Come here, pal.”

She did not hear his claws on the hardwood in the hall. Anxiety raised the hair on her arms. She grabbed her robe and stepped into her slippers, listening all the while for the smallest sounds.

Nothing.

She went to the door.

“Winston.” Louder this time.

A soft, answering whine came from the foot of the stairs. Winston was in the living room. He did not seem hurt or scared. Instead she thought she caught the unmistakable anticipation of the hunter in the low sound.

The relief was shattering. Not an intruder, after all. Winston had heard some small creature foraging around outside and had gone downstairs to investigate. Here in Eclipse Bay life was rich for a dog who had been raised in a high-rise apartment.

Taking a couple of deep breaths to get rid of the light-headed sensation, she hurried out into the hall and went down the stairs.

Winston was poised in front of the door. He glanced briefly at her and immediately returned his attention to whatever was prowling around outside. He scratched at the wood hopefully.

“It's okay, pal. You're a city dog. You're not accustomed to the kinds of critters that hang around garbage cans out here in the boonies. Trust me—you don't want to actually catch one of them.”

She reached out to pat his head. As soon as she touched him she realized that predatory tension was vibrating from one end of his sleek little body to the other. He ignored her hand. Everything in him was concentrated on whatever it was that had awakened him and drawn him downstairs.

Hannah went to the window. She pulled the curtain aside and discovered that sometime during the night a heavy fog had rolled in off the bay. She had left the porch light on, but its glow did not penetrate far into the thick mist that enveloped the house.

She told herself that she ought to go back to bed and leave Winston to his nocturnal amusements. But for some reason that she could not explain, she lingered at the front door and waited for him to lose interest in whatever skulked in the shadows.

It seemed a very long time before Winston relaxed, licked her hand, and led the way briskly back upstairs.

“Think you can get Bryce to tell you about the trips to Portland?” Gabe asked.

“Not a chance.” Rafe propped the phone between his shoulder and his ear, freeing his hands for the job of chopping the onion that sat on the cutting board. “You know Bryce. He takes orders only from Mitchell.”

“And Mitchell has told him not to talk about the Portland trips.”

“You got it.”

Silence hummed briefly on the line. Rafe had a mental image of his older brother at his desk in the president's office at Madison Commercial. It was a good bet that Gabe was dressed in one of his hand-tailored shirts and a pair of expensive trousers. He would likely be wearing a silk tie and Italian leather shoes. He had no doubt arrived at his headquarters at seven-thirty that morning, right after the conclusion of his six a.m. workout at the health club. He would not leave until seven o'clock tonight at the earliest, and when he finally did go back to his austere condominium, he would have a briefcase full of papers with him. Madison Commercial was Gabe's passion. He had devoted himself to it with the sort of single-minded intensity that only another Madison could comprehend.

“It's been more than ten months,” Gabe said. “Every Friday. Regular as clockwork.”

Rafe finished cutting up the onion and tossed the pieces into the food processor. “I know what you're thinking.”

“You're thinking the same thing.”

“We might be wrong.” Rafe added the pitted olives, three different kinds in all, to the onion. He dumped the rinsed capers and some freshly squeezed lemon juice into the bowl. “But we both know that if he is getting some kind of regular medical treatments, we'll be the last ones to find out.”

“Trying to protect us, I guess.” Gabe hesitated. “How does he look?”

“Healthy as a bull, except for the arthritis. I'm going to see him tomorrow night at dinner.” Rafe paused. “I'll get to meet the new girlfriend.”

“Is she really young enough to be his granddaughter?”

“That's what I'm told,” Rafe said.

Gabe groaned. “It would be embarrassing if it wasn't so downright amazing.”

“Yeah.”

“Probably ought to look on the bright side,” Gabe said morosely. “If he's able to keep up with her in bed, he can't be at death's door yet.”

“There is that,” Rafe agreed. He snapped the lid onto the food processor. “Not to change the subject, but how did things go last Saturday night with the lovely Ms. Hartinger?”

“I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind.”

“Another disaster?”

“I don't like to admit it, but it was excruciatingly clear that she was interested only in my portfolio.”

“Thought you said she was perfect.”

“I was wrong, okay? Get off my case.”

“I still say you're going about this business of finding yourself a wife the wrong way.”

“I'm trying to approach it in a non-Madison way. I explained my theory to you.”

“I understand what you're trying to do. I'm just saying I don't think it's going to work. It isn't like acquiring a new office tower for Madison Commercial. You can't use the same techniques.”

“When did you become an expert?”

“Good point. Forget it.” Rafe drummed his fingers on top of the food processor. “I'm taking a date to Mitchell's house tomorrow night.”

“Someone local?” Gabe sounded only casually interested.

“You could say that. Hannah Harte.”

“
Hannah?
Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“She agreed to go with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure, if you want the truth. Probably thinks it's a step toward getting her hands on Dreamscape.”

“You, uh, led her to think that might be the case?” Gabe asked carefully.

“Sort of.”

“But you've got no intention of giving up your claim on that mansion.”

“No,” Rafe said, “I don't.”

“What the hell is going on there?”

“I'll let you know when I find out. I've got to go now. Talk to you later.”

Rafe hung up the phone and switched on the food processor. He thought about Hannah while the machine turned the mixture inside the bowl into
tapenade
. An old proverb flickered through his mind, something about bringing a long spoon when you dined with the devil. Madisons had used it to describe the risks of dealing with Hartes for years.