Secret Star (5 page)

The first woman doesn't panic. She trashes her own home to cover herself, then drives away. Puts distance between herself and the scene.

Was she a skilled enough actress to fake that stark shock, the raw emotion he'd seen on her face the night before?

He thought she was.

But despite that, the scene just didn't click. There was the undeniable connection of the diamonds. And he was dead sure that if Grace Fontaine had caused her cousin's fall, she would have been just as capable of picking up the phone and coolly reporting an accident.

“All right, that's all for now.”

“Well.” Her breath was a huff of relief. “That wasn't so bad, all in all.”

He stood up. “I'll have to ask you to stay available.”

She switched on the charm again, a hot, rose-colored light. “I'm always available, handsome. Ask anyone.” She picked up her purse, moved with him to the door. “How long before I can have my house dealt with? I'd like to put things back to order as quickly as possible.”

“I'll let you know.” He glanced at his watch. “When you're up to going through things and doing an inventory to see what's missing, I'd like you to contact me.”

“I'm on my way over now to do just that.”

His brow furrowed a moment as he juggled responsibilities. He could assign a man to go with her, but he preferred dealing with it himself. “I'll follow you over.”

“Police protection?”

“If necessary.”

“I'm touched. Why don't I give you a lift, handsome?”

“I'll follow you over,” he repeated.

“Suit yourself,” she began, and grazed a hand over his cheek. Her eyes widened slightly as his fingers clamped on her wrist. “Don't like to be petted?” She purred the words, surprised at how her heart had jumped and started to race. “Most animals do.”

His face was very close to hers, their bodies were just touching, with the heat from the room and something even more sweltering between them. Something old, and almost familiar.

He drew her hand down slowly, kept his fingers on her wrist.

“Be careful what buttons you push.”

Excitement, she realized with surprise. It was
pure, primal excitement that zipped through her. “Wasted advice,” she said silkily, daring him. “I enjoy pushing new ones. And apparently you have a few interesting buttons just begging for attention.” She skimmed her gaze deliberately down to his mouth. “Just begging.”

He could imagine himself shoving her back against the door, moving fast into that heat, feeling her go molten. Because he was certain she was aware of just how perfectly a man would imagine it, he stepped back, released her and opened the door to the din of the bull pen.

“Be sure to turn in your visitor's badge at the desk,” he said.

 

He was a cool one, Grace thought as she drove. An attractive, successful, unmarried—she'd slipped that bit of data out of an unsuspecting Detective Carter—and self-contained man.

A challenge.

And, she decided as she passed through the quiet, well-designed neighborhood, toward her home, a challenge was exactly what she needed to get through the emotional upheaval.

She'd have to face her aunt in a few hours, and the rest of the relatives soon after. There would be questions, demands, and, she knew, blame. She would be the recipient of all of it. That was the
way her family worked, and that was what she'd come to expect from them.

Ask Grace, take from Grace, point the finger at Grace. She wondered how much of that she deserved, and how much had simply been inherited along with the money her parents left her.

It hardly mattered, she thought, since both were hers, like it or not.

She swung into her drive, her gaze sweeping over and up. The house was something she'd wanted. The clever and unique design of wood and glass, the gables, the cornices, the decks and the ruthlessly groomed grounds. She'd wanted the space, the elegance that lent itself to entertaining, the convenience to the city. The proximity to Bailey and M.J.

But the little house in the mountains was something she'd needed. And that was hers, and hers alone. The relatives didn't know it existed. No one could find her there unless she wanted to be found.

But here, she thought as she set the brakes, was the neat, expensive home of one Grace Fontaine. Heiress, socialite and party girl. The former centerfold, the Radcliffe graduate, the Washington hostess.

Could she continue to live here, she wondered, with death haunting the rooms? Time would tell.

For now, she was going to concentrate on solv
ing the puzzle of Seth Buchanan, and finding a way under that seemingly impenetrable armor of his.

Just for the fun of it.

She heard him pull in and, in a deliberately provocative move, turned, tipped down her shaded glasses and studied him over the tops.

Oh, yes, she thought. He was very, very attractive. The way he controlled that lean and muscled body. Very economical. No wasted movements. He wouldn't waste them in bed, either. And she wondered just how long it would be before she could lure him there. She had a hunch—and she rarely doubted her hunches where men were concerned—that there was a volcano bubbling under that calm and somewhat austere surface.

She was going to enjoy poking at it until it erupted.

As he crossed to her, she handed him her keys. “Oh, but you have your own now, don't you?” She tipped her glasses back into place. “Well, use mine…this time.”

“Who else has a set?”

She skimmed the tip of her tongue over her top lip, darkly pleased when she saw his gaze jerk down. Just for an instant, but it was progress. “Bailey and M.J. I don't give my keys to men. I'd rather open the door for them myself. Or close it.”

“Fine.” He dumped the keys back in her hand,
looking amused when her brows drew together. “Open the door.”

One step forward, two steps back, she mused, then stepped up on the flagstone portico and unlocked her home.

She'd braced for it, but it was still difficult. The foyer was as it had been, largely undisturbed. But her gaze was drawn up now, helplessly, to the shattered railing.

“It's a long way to fall,” she murmured. “I wonder if you have time to think, to understand, on the way down.”

“She wouldn't have.”

“No.” And that was better, somehow. “I suppose not.” She stepped into the living area, forced herself to look at the chalk outline. “Well, where to begin?”

“He got to your safe down here. Emptied it. You'll want to list what was taken out.”

“The library safe.” She moved through, under an arch and into a wide room filled with light and books. A great many of those books littered the floor now, and an art deco lamp in the shape of an elongated woman's body—a small thing she'd loved—was cracked in two. “He wasn't subtle, was he?”

“I say he was rushed. And pissed off.”

“You'd know best.” She walked to the safe,
noting the open door and the empty interior. “I had some jewelry—quite a bit, actually. A few thousand in cash.”

“Bonds, stock certificates?”

“No, they're in my safe-deposit box at the bank. One doesn't need to take out stock certificates and enjoy the way they sparkle. I bought a terrific pair of diamond earrings just last month.” She sighed, shrugged. “Gone now. I have a complete list of my jewelry, and photographs of each piece, along with the insurance papers, in my safety box. Replacing them's just a matter of—”

She broke off, made a small, distressed sound and rushed from the room,

The woman could move when she wanted, Seth thought as he headed upstairs after her. And she didn't lose any of that feline grace with speed. He turned into her bedroom, then into her walk-in closet behind her.

“He wouldn't have found it. He couldn't have found it.” She repeated the words like a prayer as she twisted a knob on the built-in cabinet. It swung out, revealing a safe in the wall behind.

Quickly, her fingers not quite steady, she spun the combination, wrenched open the door. Her breath expelled in a whoosh as she knelt and took out velvet boxes and bags.

More jewelry, he thought with a shake of his
head. How many earrings could one woman wear? But she was opening each box carefully, examining the contents.

“These were my mother's,” she murmured, with a catch of undiluted emotion in the words. “They matter. The sapphire pin my father gave her for their fifth anniversary, the necklace he gave her when I was born. The pearls. She wore these the day they married.” She stroked the creamy white strand over her cheek as if it were a loved one's hand. “I had this built for them, didn't keep them with the others. Just in case.”

She sat back on her heels, her lap filled with jewelry that meant so much more than gold and pretty stones. “Well,” she managed as her throat closed. “Well, they're here. They're still here.”

“Ms. Fontaine.”

“Oh, call me Grace,” she snapped. “You're as stuffy as my Uncle Niles.” Then she pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to work away the beginnings of a tension headache. “I don't suppose you can make coffee.”

“Yes, I can make coffee.”

“Then why don't you go down and do that little thing, handsome, and give me a minute here?”

He surprised her, and himself, by crouching down first, laying a hand on her shoulders. “You
could have lost the pearls, lost all of it. You still wouldn't have lost your memories.”

Uneasy that he'd felt compelled to say it, he straightened and left her alone. He went directly to the kitchen, pushing through the mess to fill the coffeepot. He set it up to brew and switched the machine on. Stuck his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out.

What the hell was going on? he asked himself. He should be focused on the case, and the case alone. Instead, he felt himself being pulled, tugged at, by the woman upstairs—by the various faces of that woman. Bold, fragile, sexy, sensitive.

Just which was she? And why had he spent most of the night with her face lodged in his dreams?

He shouldn't even be here, he admitted. He had no official reason to be spending this time with her. It was true he felt the case warranted his personal attention. It was serious enough. But she was only one small part of the whole.

And he'd be lying to himself if he said he was here strictly on an investigation.

He found two undamaged cups. There were several broken ones lying around. Good Meissen china, he noted. His mother had a set she prized dearly. He was just pouring the coffee when he sensed her behind him.

“Black?”

“That's fine.” She stepped in, and winced as she took a visual inventory of the kitchen. “He didn't miss much, did he? I suppose he thought I might stick a big blue diamond in my coffee canister or cookie jar.”

“People put their valuables in a lot of odd places. I was involved in a burglary case once where the victim saved her in-house cash because she'd kept it in a sealed plastic bag in the bottom of the diaper pail. What self-respecting B-and-E man is going to paw through diapers?”

She chuckled, sipped her coffee. Whether or not it had been his purpose, his telling of the story had made her feel better. “It makes keeping things in a safe seem foolish. This one didn't take the silver, or any of the electronics. I suppose, as you said, he was in too much of a hurry, and just took what he could stuff in his pockets.”

She walked to the kitchen window and looked out. “Melissa's clothes are upstairs. I didn't see her purse. He might have taken that, too, or it could just be buried under the mess.”

“We'd have found it if it had been here.”

She nodded. “I'd forgotten. You've already searched through my things.” She turned back, leaned on the counter and eyed him over the rim of her cup. “Did you go through them personally, Lieutenant?”

He thought of the red silk gown. “Some of it. You have your own department store here.”

“I'd come by that naturally, wouldn't I? I have a weakness for things. All manner of things. You make excellent coffee, Lieutenant. Isn't there anyone who brews it for you in the morning?”

“No. Not at the moment.” He set his coffee aside. “That wasn't very subtle.”

“It wasn't intended to be. It's not that I mind competition. I just like to know if I have any. I still don't think I like you, but that could change.” She lifted a hand to finger the tail of her braid. “Why not be prepared?”

“I'm interested in closing a case, not in playing games with you…Grace.”

It was such a cool delivery, so utterly dispassionate it kindled her spirit of competition. “I suppose you don't like aggressive women.”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, then.” She smiled as she stepped closer to him. “You're just going to hate this.”

In a slick and practiced move, she slid a hand up into his hair and brought his mouth to hers.

T
he jolt, lightning wrapped in black velvet, stabbed through him in one powerful strike. His head spun with it, his blood churned, his belly ached. No part of his system was spared the rapid onslaught of that lush and knowing mouth.

Her taste, unexpected yet familiar, plunged into him like hot spiced wine that rushed immediately to his head, leaving him dazed and drunk and desperate.

His muscles bunched, as if poised to leap. And in leaping, he would possess what was somehow already his. It took a vicious twist of will to keep his arms locked at his side, when they strained to
reach out, take, relish. Her scent was as dark, as drugging, as her flavor. Even the low, persuasive hum that sounded in her throat as she moved that glorious fantasy of a body against his was a tantalizing hint of what could be.

For a slow count of five, he fisted his hands, then relaxed them and let the internal war rage while his lips remained passive, his body rigid in denial.

He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of response….

She knew it was a mistake. Even as she moved toward him, reached for him, she'd known it. She'd made mistakes before, and she tried never to regret what was done and couldn't be undone.

But she regretted this.

She deeply regretted that his taste was utterly unique and perfect for her palate. That the texture of his hair, the shape of his shoulders, the strong wall of his chest, all taunted her, when she'd only meant to taunt him, to show him what she could offer. If she chose.

Instead, swept into need, rushed into it by that mating of lips, she offered more than she'd intended. And he gave nothing back.

She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, one quick, sharp nip, then masked an outrageous rush of disappointment by stepping casually back and aiming an amused smile at him.

“My, my, you're a cool one, aren't you, Lieutenant?”

His blood burned with every heartbeat, but he merely inclined his head. “You're not used to being resistible, are you, Grace?”

“No.” She rubbed a fingertip lightly over her lip in a movement that was both absent and provocative. The essence of him clung stubbornly there, insisting it belonged. “But then, most of the men I've kissed haven't had ice water in their veins. It's a shame.” She took her finger from her own lip, tapped it on his. “Such a nice mouth. Such potential. Still, maybe you just don't care for…women.”

The grin he flashed stunned her. His eyes glowed with it, in fascinating tones of gold. His mouth softened with a charm that had a wicked and unpredictable appeal. Suddenly he was approachable, nearly boyish, and it made her heart yearn.

“Maybe,” he said, “you're just not my type.”

She gave one short, humorless laugh. “Darling, I'm every man's type. Well, we'll just chalk it up to a failed experiment and move on.” Telling herself it was foolish to be hurt, she stepped to him again, reached up to straighten the tie she'd loosened.

He didn't want her to touch him, not then, not
when he was so precariously perched on the edge. “You've got a hell of an ego there.”

“I suppose I do.” With her hands still on his tie, she looked up, into his eyes. The hell with it, she thought, if they couldn't be lovers, maybe they could be cautious friends. The man who had looked at her and grinned would be a good, solid friend.

So she smiled at him with a sweetness that was without art or guile, lancing his heart with one clean blow. “But then, men are generally predictable. You're just the exception to the rule, Seth, the one that proves it.”

She brushed her hands down, smoothing his jacket and said something more, but he didn't hear it over the roaring in his ears. His control broke; he felt the snap, like the twang of a sword violently broken over an armored knee. In a movement he was hardly aware of, he spun her around, pressed her back against the wall, and was ravaging her mouth.

Her heart kicked in her chest, drove the breath out of her body. She gripped his shoulders as much for balance as in response to the sudden, violent need that shot from him to her and fused them together.

She yielded, utterly, then locked her arms around his neck and poured herself back.

Here,
was all her dazzled mind could think. Oh, here, at last.

His hands raced over her, molded and somehow recognized each curve. And the recognition seared through him, as hot and real as the surge of desire. He wanted that taste, had to have it inside him, to swallow it whole. He assaulted her mouth like a man feeding after a lifelong fast, filled himself with the flavors of her, all of them dark, ripe, succulent.

She was there for him, had always been there—impossibly there. And he knew that if he didn't pull back, he'd never be able to survive without her.

He slapped his hands on the wall on either side of her head to stop himself from touching, to stop himself from taking. Fighting to regain both his breath and his sanity, he eased out of the kiss, stepped away.

She continued to lean back against the wall, her eyes closed, her skin luminous with passion. By the time her lashes fluttered up and those slumberous blue eyes focused, he had his control snapped back ruthlessly in place.

“Unpredictable,” she managed, barely resisting the urge to press both hands to her galloping heart. “Very.”

“I warned you about pushing the wrong but
tons.” His voice was cool, edging toward cold, and had the effect of a backhand slap.

She flinched from it, might have reeled, if she hadn't been braced by the wall. His eyes narrowed fractionally at the reaction. Hurt? he wondered. No, that was ridiculous. She was a veteran game player and knew all the angles.

“Yes, you did.” She straightened, pride stiffening her spine and forcing her lips to curve in a casual smile. “I'm just so resistant to warnings.”

He thought she should be required by law to carry one—Danger! Woman!

“I've got work to do. I can give you another five minutes, if you want me to wait while you pack some things.”

Oh, you bastard, she thought. How can you be so cool, so unaffected? “You toddle right along, handsome. I'll be fine.”

“I'd prefer you weren't in the house alone for the moment. Go pack some things.”

“It's my home.”

“Right now, it's a crime scene. You're down to four and a half minutes.”

Fury vibrated through her in hot, pulsing beats. “I don't need anything here.” She turned, started out, whirling back when he took her arm. “What?”

“You need clothes,” he said, patient now. “For a day or two.”

“Do you really think I'd wear anything that bastard might have touched?”

“That's a foolish and a predictable reaction.” His tone didn't soften in the least. “You're not a foolish or a predictable woman. Don't be a victim, Grace. Go pack your things.”

He was right. She could have despised him for that alone. But the frustrated need still fisted inside her was a much better reason. She said nothing at all, simply turned again and walked away.

When he didn't hear the front door slam, he was satisfied that she'd gone upstairs to pack, as he'd told her to. Seth turned off the coffeemaker, rinsed the cups and set them in the sink, then went out to wait for her.

She was a fascinating woman, he thought. Full of temperament, energy and ego. And she was undoing him, knot by carefully tied knot. How she knew exactly what strings to pull to do so was just one more mystery.

He'd taken this case on, he reminded himself. Riding a desk and delegating were only part of the job. He needed to be involved, and he'd involved himself with this—and therefore with her. Grace's part of the whole was small, but he needed to treat
her with the same objectivity that he treated every other piece of the case with.

He looked up, his gaze drawn to the portrait that smiled down so invitingly.

He'd have to be more machine than man to stay objective when it came to Grace Fontaine.

 

It was midafternoon before he could clear his desk enough to handle a follow-up interview. The diamonds were the key, and he wanted another look at them. He hadn't been surprised when his phone conversation with Dr. Linstrum at the Smithsonian resulted in a testimonial to Bailey James's integrity and skill. The diamonds she'd gone to such lengths to protect remained at Salvini, and in her care.

When Seth pulled into the parking lot of the elegant corner building just outside D.C. that housed Salvini, he nodded to the uniformed cop guarding the main door. And felt a faint tug of sympathy. The heat was brutal.

“Lieutenant.” Despite a soggy uniform, the officer snapped to attention.

“Ms. James inside?”

“Yes, sir. The store's closed to the public for the next week.” He indicated the darkened showroom through the thick glass doors with a jerk of the head. “We have a guard posted at every en
trance, and Ms. James is on the lower level. It's easier access through the rear, Lieutenant.”

“Fine. When's your relief, Officer?”

“I've got another hour.” The cop didn't wipe his brow, but he wanted to. Seth Buchanan had a reputation for being a stickler. “Four-hour rotations, as per your orders, sir.”

“Bring a bottle of water with you next time.” Well aware that the uniform sagged the minute his back was turned, Seth rounded the building. After a brief conversation with the duty guard at the rear, he pressed the buzzer beside the reinforced steel door. “Lieutenant Buchanan,” he said when Bailey answered through the intercom. “I'd like a few minutes.”

It took her some time to get to the door. Seth visualized her coming out of the workroom on the lower level, winding down the short corridor, passing the stairs where she'd hidden from a killer only days before.

He'd been through the building himself twice, top to bottom. He knew that not everyone could have survived what she'd been through in there.

The locks clicked, the door opened. “Lieutenant.” She smiled at the guard, silently apologizing for his miserable duty. “Please come in.”

She looked neat and tidy, Seth thought, with her trim blouse and slacks, her blond hair scooped
back. Only the faint shadows under her eyes spoke of the strain she'd been under.

“I spoke with Dr. Linstrum,” Seth began.

“Yes, I expect you did. I'm very grateful for his understanding.”

“The stones are back where they started.”

She smiled a little. “Well, they're back where they were a few days ago. Who knows if they'll ever see Rome again. Can I get you something cold to drink?” She gestured toward a soft-drink machine standing brightly against a dark wall.

“I'll buy.” He plugged in coins. “I'd like to see the diamonds, and have a few words with you.”

“All right.” She pressed the button for her choice, and retrieved the can that clunked down the shoot. “They're in the vault.” She continued to speak as she led the way. “I've arranged to have the security and alarm system beefed up. We've had cameras in the showroom for a number of years, but I'll have them installed at the doors, as well, and for the upper and lower levels. All areas.”

“That's wise.” He concluded that there was a practical streak of common sense beneath the fragile exterior. “You'll run the business now?”

She opened a door, hesitated. “Yes. My stepfather left it to the three of us, with my stepbrothers sharing eighty percent between them. In the event
any of us died without heirs, the shares go to the survivors.” She drew in a breath. “I survived.”

“That's something to be grateful for, Bailey, not guilty about.”

“Yes, that's what Cade says. But you see, I once had the illusion, at least, that they were family. Have a seat, I'll get the Stars.”

He moved into the work area, glanced at the equipment, the long worktable. Intrigued, he stepped closer, examining the glitter of colored stones, the twists of gold. It was going to be a necklace, he realized, running a fingertip over the silky length of a closely linked chain. Something bold, almost pagan.

“I needed to get back to work,” she said from behind him. “To do something…different, my own, I suppose, before I faced dealing with these again.”

She set down a padded box that held the trio of diamonds.

“Your design?” he asked, gesturing to the piece on the worktable.

“Yes. I see the piece in my head. I can't draw worth a lick, but I can visualize. I wanted to make something for M.J. and for Grace to…” She sighed, sat on the high stool. “Well, let's say to celebrate survival.”

“And this is the one for Grace.”

“Yes.” She smiled, pleased that he'd sensed it. “I see something more streamlined for M.J. But this is Grace.” Carefully she set the unfinished work in a tray, slid the padded box containing the Three Stars between them. “They never lose their impact. Each time I see them, it stuns.”

“How long before you're finished with them?”

“I'd just begun when—when I had to stop.” She cleared her throat. “I've verified their authenticity. They are blue diamonds. Still, both the museum and the insurance carrier prefer more in-depth verification. I'll be running a number of other tests beyond what I've already started or completed. A metallurgist is testing the triangle, but that will be given to me for further study in a day or two. It shouldn't take more than a week altogether before the museum can take possession.”

He lifted a stone from the bed, knew as soon as it was in his hand that it was the one Grace had carried with her. He told himself that was impossible. His untrained eye couldn't tell one stone from either of its mates.

Yet he felt her on it. In it.

“Will it be hard to part with them?”

“I should say no, after the past few days. But yes, it will.”

Grace's eyes were this color, Seth realized. Not
sapphire, but the blue of the rare, powerful diamond.