Playing with Fire

For Craig Walker,
an excellent keeper
of little secrets

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Preview

About the Author

Copyright

There were only two things Alison Rose knew she could count on: her best friend and cousin, Kelly, and the fact that everyone else in her family would stop at nothing to destroy one another.

Like now. Alison was in the middle of a battle with her made-of-steel mother. And this time she was not going to lose. Digging her orange-painted nails into her palms, she lobbed a verbal grenade.

“It's not like I expect you to come to anything I do,” Alison said. After fifteen years she knew better than that. She took a breath and did her best to keep her voice steady. If she lost her temper, her mother would refuse to discuss it any further.
Period. “But I can't miss this game,” she said evenly. “It's the championship. The last game of the season. Besides, people are relying on me—I'm part of a team.”

Halfway across the living room, Helen Rose sat in the wingback chair wearing her sky-blue cashmere bathrobe—the one that matched her eyes. Her short auburn hair was perfectly styled after a long day of work. It always was. After all, her illustrious career as a domestic trendsetter was based on being perfectly styled.

“Teams are for people who don't have the ability to get anywhere on their own,” Helen replied. She did not bother to look up from her laptop. It was a tactic Alison knew she used on her employees when she wanted them to feel insignificant. But Helen underestimated her daughter: Alison was tougher than your usual CEO's assistant—and better trained.

“Or for people who know how to cooperate,” Alison shot back smoothly.

Helen's eyes remained fixed on the computer screen, but Alison saw her face tighten. “I don't see why I should let you use the driver on Saturday when you're too busy to make an
appearance with me on Sunday,” she stated calmly. “After all, the book signing is a good opportunity for both of us.” She checked her manicure and waited for Alison to comply like she usually did.

There was no way. Not this time. First of all, Alison did not work for her mother. Second, she was not about to miss the championship game. And third, she was sick and tired of playing the perfect daughter at her mother's endless string of events.

“If you are so anxious for us to look like a normal family, maybe you should try acting like a normal mother,
Honey
.”

Alison knew her mother despised her real name, along with just about everything else Alison's grandmother Tamara Diamond had given her. Helen and Tamara had stopped speaking long ago—before Alison was born. Warm and fuzzy mother-daughter relations did not run in the family.

When Helen finally turned and looked Alison in the face, Alison could see the crow's-feet around her light eyes. She'd landed a hit. The wound was open—time for the salt. “I'm
already going to a ‘family' event on Sunday anyway. Why don't you tell your fans and TV crews that I'm at Grandmother Diamond's? You haven't forgotten her birthday, have you?” Alison's fingers uncurled as she gained the upper hand. Her mother pretended not to be bothered, but Alison could tell by her flaring nostrils that she was…and that she was calculating her next move.

Alison braced herself. It wasn't like she enjoyed this. What she wanted more than anything else was a normal life. A mother who cared about her. A father who bothered to show up. A family that got along…and didn't own half the town.

Helen was silent as she struggled behind her mask of calm. She didn't like to be reminded that she was the one who was too busy for Alison and not the other way around. More than that, she hated any reference to the Diamond/Rose family feud. The severed ties were a nasty blemish on Helen's otherwise perfect appearance. And Helen Rose cared about nothing more than appearances. She had, quite literally, written the book on it:
Helen Rose's Looking Good.
The book
had made her a household name, along with her magazine and the hundreds of
Looking Good
household items available at a fine retailer near you.

She'd just love to stick
me
on a shelf,
Alison thought. All too often she felt like one of her mother's products—stamped with Helen's name and her “busy” bumblebee emblem—made to “look good.” But Alison knew there was a big difference between looking good and feeling good.

Breathing through her nose, Helen slid her reading glasses back on and peered once again at her laptop. She was finished arguing and was now doing what she called “getting busy.” It was what she did whenever she didn't want to deal with something, especially her daughter.

Ding
. Alison had won the round, even if she hadn't really managed to win her mother's attention.

“So, I can take the limo?” Alison drummed her fingernails on the marble mantel and watched her mother turn away, as if Alison were dragging her nails down a chalkboard. Alison knew she could have the car. She just wanted to hear Helen say it.

She never would. At that moment the doorbell rang, followed by a pounding on the perfectly painted autumn-rust door. Helen turned her glare toward the noise—there was no way she was going to answer it.

Sighing, Alison went to the front hall. The pounding continued.

“One second!” she yelled.

Then she looked through the peephole and saw what looked like the entire FBI outside, lights flashing.

The next few minutes passed so quickly that Alison felt like they took place in the space of a single gasp. She opened the door. Badges were flashed. Someone asked where her mother was.

Alison couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She didn't tell them. (She hoped her mother knew this.) But the officers came in anyway. One of them even said, “Excuse me,” as she passed. Finally Alison managed to wrap her brain around what was happening. She followed the officers back to the living room just in time to see her mother being read her rights.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

As if.

“Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law—”

Helen Rose interrupted the officer. She was not about to remain silent. Besides, rules hardly ever applied to her. “What do you think you're doing?” she asked. “Get your filthy hands off me.”

Alison looked from her mother to the officers. She could see that Helen Rose wasn't going to be able to bully her way out of this one. The expressions on the officers' faces were not exactly friendly—or submissive.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Helen demanded.

“Yes, ma'am. We do,” a man in a dark suit replied flatly. “Now, I'm afraid you'll have to come with us.” He flashed a warrant. “The press will probably be here in a matter of minutes, so the faster we get you out of here, the better it will be for everyone.”

“You have
got
to be kidding.” Helen raised her chin slightly and stared venomously at the man holding the handcuffs. “She's behind this, isn't she?
She's
done it, right down to alerting the media. But mark my words, Officer”—Helen
leaned in and read a name off the officer's name tag—“Griffith, she won't get away with it. Not this time.”

Who in the world is Mother talking about?
Alison's mind was in an uproar. She couldn't process what was going on.
She who?
Helen certainly had plenty of enemies, but none powerful enough to have her arrested. Right? Then the more obvious question hit Alison square in the face:
What has my mother done?

Officer Griffith seemed as baffled as Alison about who Helen was accusing. “I'm not sure what you mean, Mrs. Rose. We're here to conduct a thorough investigation. You are being charged with embezzlement, grand larceny, and tax fraud. Now, I need you to come with me. We can do it with cuffs or without. What's your choice?”

Helen glared at the officer. “You are making the biggest mistake of your life.” She pushed past him, ignoring the dangling cuffs. “I'm calling my lawyer.” Grabbing her cell, she pushed a single button. When she got voice mail she snorted impatiently and snapped the phone shut.

Alison's heart hammered in her chest as she stared at the scene in front of her. Part of her wanted to scream at these intruders, to tell them to get out of her house and leave her mom alone. But another part wanted them to take her mother away and throw the book at her for…everything…anything. Just take her away.

No,
she thought.
Stop it. She's your mother.

She looked at all the waiting officers. With their polyester-blend uniforms and leather-holstered guns, they looked completely out of place in Helen Rose's extravagantly furnished mansion. The handmade carpet they were standing on probably cost more than four of them made in a year. This was a big catch for them, and they knew it. She could see some of the officers looking around, checking out the marble mantelpiece, the twelfth-century English chest, the state-of-the-art stereo designed to fade into the background—to fill the room with sound but not distract from the custom leather couches. Just like everyone else who hovered around Helen Rose, the officers who had come to arrest her probably hoped her fame and
wealth would rub off on them, if only for a minute or two.

Too bad for you it's not contagious,
Alison thought.
Just genetic.

Still trying to control the situation, Helen's ice-blue eyes scanned the room and finally fell upon Alison.

“Alison,” she said, reaching her arm out affectionately.

Despite the touching display, Alison knew that until that second her mother had forgotten all about her.

“I can't possibly leave my daughter!” Helen gasped.

“We'll make sure she's taken care of,” the lead officer said. “Now it's time for you to go.”

He nodded, and dark-clad officers swarmed around Helen like ants on a dying snail. Alison could only stare as they branched out, heading down the hall toward the kitchen and up the main staircase to the bedrooms…including hers.

“Mom, what are they doing?” Alison felt totally vulnerable. “Why is this happening?
What have you done?” The whole house was being overtaken, searched. But Helen stood perfectly erect, wrapped in her soft cashmere, surrounded by police and wincing at the panic in her daughter's voice.

Alison just watched as Officer Griffith steered Helen toward the door. “Call your father. He'll need to arrange bail,” Helen instructed. Then she was gone and another officer was telling Alison that everything was going to be okay, and she should just sit down. Alison barely heard. It was happening too fast. Her mother was being taken away. Words like
prison
and
indictment
were being used. Officers were going through files, moving artwork, looking for hiding places. Alison staggered back and landed on the sofa, knocking off the meticulously arranged pillows.

Bail?
The word hung in Alison's head, making her think of a sinking ship. Was that it? Her mother was done fighting? Did that mean she was guilty? Of what?

Alison felt like the water was closing over her head as she watched the scene in her driveway through the picture window. Still holding
the warrant, Officer Griffith led her mother to a black sedan. He opened the door to the backseat and guided Helen inside with a hand on the top of her head. It was just like a movie—like some cop film her aunt Christine would be in. But this wasn't Aunt Christine, it was her mom. And it wasn't a movie.

“Where is your father? Does he live here?” an officer asked.

Good questions. “Yes, he lives here.” Alison heard her voice like it was coming from outside her body. “He's probably at the country club bar,” she mumbled, not even bothering to hide the truth.

“You should call him,” the officer said gently. So Alison did. He freaked out immediately, of course. He demanded she pass the phone to the officer, who told him where Helen had been taken. Then he hung up without another word to his daughter.

“Don't worry, I'm fine,” Alison whispered to herself. She closed her eyes and listened to the officers tearing her house—her life—apart. She overheard one officer telling another
that all of the Rose accounts—personal and business—had been frozen pending investigation, and that Helen's offices were also being searched at that very moment.

Alison opened her eyes and saw officers carrying file boxes and other personal items outside to a big black van. The last guy had her mother's Coach bag.

“Hey, Frank,” he called to another officer. “Am I
Looking Good
?” He slung the pink leather bag in the crook of his elbow and pulled a Helen Rose magazine cover pose. His laugh died in his throat when he saw Alison staring right at him. “Sorry about that,” he said contritely as he passed her. Alison wished she had a quick retort that would leave him reeling. Her mother would have.

“Don't listen to them,” the nice officer said. “Do you want to call anyone else before your dad gets home? You can call anyone you want. You don't have to go through this alone.”

Alison was struck dumb by the tiny show of compassion and nodded stupidly. Call somebody. She stared at her tiny silver cell phone and flipped it open.

Her first thought was of her boyfriend, Chad. But his father confiscated his phone at nine every night and didn't give it back until the morning. Even in emergencies. Besides, she wasn't sure she was ready to talk to him about
this
yet.

Call someone,
Alison thought. She stared at the screen on her phone—it showed a picture of two girls, one with dark hair, one with light. They were grinning widely with their faces pressed together.

Alison's hands were shaking uncontrollably now. She hit the voice ID button and choked out the name of the only person she could talk to right now, her cousin—her best friend.

“Kelly.”