The Arrangement (10 page)

Andrew was standing in front of the fireplace with his drink. He swirled the amber potion and brought it to his nose. His lowered lashes made her realize how long they were. When he finally took a sip it struck her as incredibly sexy. So did his pajama bottoms and cotton T-shirt.

A spark of desire startled her. She could feel it between her legs, as hot as the sparks from the fire. What would it be like to have a man like that look at you with heat in his eyes? Now, she was
too
warm. She wondered if he was as unnervingly attractive to all women as he was to her. And if any of them could have helped falling in love with him, as she had. Years ago, as a girl.

No longer. She couldn’t let herself be that vulnerable.

“I thought you wanted to know the truth.”

“About what happened to Alison?”

“About what happened to Butch.”

The cognac went down wrong, burning. “I saw it happen. I heard the gurgling sounds he made. It was grotesque.”

“Dreams aren’t reality,” he reminded her. “They distort reality. You really
don’t
know what happened.”

He hadn’t taken it far enough. Dreams had nothing to do with reality. She’d dreamed of being Alison Fairmont—or at least of having her life—since she’d first set eyes on her. Some of the happiest moments of Marnie’s childhood had been spent fantasizing about the debutante who wintered on the cliffs. LaDonna was right. The locals
had
called Alison an ice princess, but Marnie had never believed it. Everything about her had been graceful and glowing. Who wouldn’t have wanted to be the golden-haired princess with the silvery laughter?

And who wouldn’t have wanted to be married to the dark prince, even if in name only.

“Everything we’ve done in the last six months was in preparation for where we are now. It’s time.”

His low voice tugged at her, but she said nothing.

“We were falsely accused, both of us,” he added, “and we have a right to know what really happened. We may never get this opportunity again.”

She kicked off the throw and set her cognac on the table. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”

“And live with questions the rest of your life? I don’t care what that idiot Bogart says, no one’s going to charge you with Butch’s murder. You’re
Alison Fairmont.
”

Yes, God help me.

“I know you love your grandmother and are deeply worried about her, but are you certain that’s the only reason you came here?”

It was a good question. Why had she agreed to
anything
he’d offered, especially taking on another identity? Of course she wanted to avoid prosecution, but what if there was another reason? What if she’d also wanted to live out her dreams and know what it was like to be Alison Fairmont Villard, pampered and privileged wife of Andrew?

Not something to be proud of, but people weren’t always noble.

He brought a tray with the cognac and cider as he joined her on the couch. As he freshened both their drinks, she saw the fire’s flame reflected in the cognac’s honeyed swirls.

“At least you know you didn’t kill anyone,” she told him. Maybe she could still make him understand. “You don’t have painful memories of this place that began the day you were born. You’re only here to clear your name. I have no chance of clearing mine. I don’t even exist.”

“You need
answers.
How else are you going to start making peace with what happened, and move on?”

His conviction surprised her. She had no idea if he really believed in her innocence or was just trying to convince her to stay. If it was the latter, he had an ace he hadn’t played. He could use what he knew against her. She was a fugitive from justice. Everyone believed she’d killed Butch. If Andrew was telling the truth, he was guilty only of asking her to take the identity of his wife long enough for him to solve the mystery of her disappearance.

He could swear she’d never told him she wasn’t Alison, that she’d fooled him, too. How would she be able to prove otherwise? Or he might admit to knowing the truth, but throw himself on the mercy of the court, saying he hadn’t gone to the police because he was trying to protect her.

Andrew rose and walked to the fireplace, seemingly immersed in thought. When he finally did speak, his declaration caught her completely off guard.

“If you don’t want to go through with it,” he said, “I’ll take you back to Long Island, or wherever you want to go. It’s your choice. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“It’s that important to you?” she said. “You’d give up your investigation?”

“It’s not just the bracelet. You’ve changed your hair, and you clearly don’t want to go through with the plan. You’re trying to sabotage this. Maybe not consciously, but you are.”

She couldn’t deny that she didn’t want to be here, but sabotage?

“Marnie.”

The resonance in his voice raised the hair on her arms. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her by her own name. They’d both agreed not to use it again. Just as they’d both agreed to his master plan.

“I want you to stay,” he said, “but not for me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

She could feel herself weakening, but it nagged at her that she was being foolish. There was always the possibility that he was a master manipulator. That he’d killed his wife and was using this visit to ensure his innocence and get the trust fund. His real “plan” might have nothing to do with finding out what had really happened to Alison—and who’d tried to frame him for her death.

Marnie had to make a decision, and either way it would be a leap of faith. She studied the bracelet, its charms glowing like fire.

“I’ll stay,” she said. “I’ll do my best. We have an agreement, and I’ll honor it, but I won’t do it with blond hair—or with the bracelet.”

She sat forward on the couch and put down her cognac. The bracelet was never hers to begin with, and she was giving it back to him now. But he couldn’t have all of it. She took the penny ring and angled it against the marble tabletop, pressing as hard as she could. It snapped from the bracelet at the point where she’d fused it years ago.

She would stay, but it had to be on her terms.

J
ulia wondered what vile fantasy she was going to have to deal with this morning as she drove her Mercedes into the parking lot of the seedy motel. She really did loathe Jack Furlinghetti. Look at the risks he was forcing her to take—and for something that should have been hers anyway. At least he’d gone inland and picked a place nowhere near Mirage Bay. Still, she’d had to sneak out of the house right after breakfast, making jokes to Rebecca and Bret about an emergency shopping trip. No one ever questioned Julia’s shopping habit.

She’d been worried that Alison might want to come with her, but her daughter hadn’t shown up for breakfast this morning, or dinner the night before. Andrew had insisted last night that Alison was fine. He’d said her face was still breaking out, and he’d taken some food up to her room. Julia had planned to check on her this morning, just to make sure that Andrew, control freak that he was, hadn’t locked her up like a prisoner. But then she’d gotten the summons and she’d had to move quickly.

Anxiety fluttered in the pit of her stomach as she knocked on the cracked and peeling motel room door. She’d suggested the Four Seasons, but her much younger partner in crime had insisted on this place, the Luv Shack. She hoped he wasn’t into anything too weird. She’d heard about golden showers, flying snakes and three-ring circuses, but she certainly didn’t want to experience any of
them.

“Jack?” Julia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as the door opened. He was dressed in black leather, head to toe. Only a few strategic areas were exposed—his eyes, mouth, lips and his penis, which was fully erect and nodding like a bobblehead doll in livid shades of red and purple. What he held in his hand looked like a riding crop that she assumed was for her. He’d told her to wear a black thong and a sexy black dress.

“Come in, little fly,” he said with a lascivious smile.

“You’re damn lucky it was me.”
You bloody moron.

The small room looked like a triple X adult shop. There was a circular bed with a gaudy red sateen spread, a mirrored headboard and a pair of furry pink handcuffs on the night table.
Damn bed probably vibrates.
Worse, the room had mirrors everywhere else, including the ceiling, and it reeked of honeysuckle room deodorizer.

“I can see where this is going,” she said, indicating his riding crop, “but let’s not get carried away, all right? Someone could get hurt with that thing.”

His eyes glittered. “Oh, I hope so.”

Worse than she’d thought, if that was possible. She could always leave, but that wouldn’t get her what she wanted, and Jack Furlinghetti had what she wanted. He held the whip hand, literally.

Just get this over with,
she told herself.
Bend over and think about shopping.
At least she wouldn’t be able to see the ceiling mirrors. “Over here?” She walked to a device that resembled a portable pommel horse, with leather straps that were probably meant for the wrists and the ankles.

Grimacing, she flipped up the back of her dress and draped herself over the horse. He would have to strap her in, if that’s what he wanted. She braced herself, and her whole body flinched in anticipation. But nothing happened. What was the twisted little fiend doing? Admiring her thong?

She waited for the blows, refusing to say a word.

Finally, she looked over her shoulder and spotted him across the room, bent over the back of the room’s only chair. His leather suit had another exposure in the back. There were two cutouts for his buttocks.

“What are you doing, Jack?”

“Have I displeased you in some way?” he asked. His voice quavered. The riding crop lay on the carpet next to him, where he must have dropped it. Suddenly it dawned on Julia what was going on. The pommel horse had been meant for him.

“Displeased, Jack?” she said, putting some steel in her voice. “You’d better
believe
I’m displeased.”

It was all over very quickly. She’d only swatted him a couple times when his muscles clenched and he gave a surprised gasp. He dropped from the horse to his knees in apparent shame.

“Look what I’ve done,” he wailed. “I beg your forgiveness.”

Julia definitely did not want to look at what he’d done. Evidently it was that most dreaded of male accidents—and she was secretly thrilled. The obnoxious Mr. F. had a fatal flaw. She turned her back to give him some privacy while he attended to himself. Finding the right disdainful tone was a snap.

“Forgiveness, Jack? I’ll have to think about that.”

“Will you let me try to make it up to you?”

“I’ll consider it, but
only
if you honor our deal.”

“I will, I swear, but first I have to redeem myself in your eyes. Let me worship at the shrine of your womanhood, Julia. And if I don’t give you more pleasure than you’ve ever received before, you can punish me in any way you wish.”

Could be fun, she thought.

A moment later he was beside her, restored to his domineering persona. He kissed her fingertips and nodded toward the circular bed. “Could I interest you in a hot lunch? Or if you’re not hungry, possibly some kitten whiskers?”

“What are kitten whiskers?”

His laughter was positively wicked with delight. “You’re about to find out, my reluctant little slut.”

Damn, she’s beautiful.
Andrew forgot everything else but the power and grace of her lines as he made his way down the ramp and onto the dock. She had masts as long and sexy as a supermodel’s legs, but when it came to sailing yachts, he was into natural beauty. He couldn’t take his eyes off her lean, gleaming silver hull. She was built like a knife blade, and the way she cut through wind and wave took his breath away.

The waterfront cleared his head of clutter like nothing else, and after last night’s confrontation with Marnie, he needed a break. The woman was driving him nuts. She lived and breathed her own personal pain, and he had no way to combat that. She didn’t know how to compromise. Maybe she couldn’t.

So, her hair was dark and wild, and the bracelet…gone.

And she was calling the shots.

Andrew needed a rest. He needed the sea to wash him clean.

Seals were climbing onto the jetty rocks to sunbathe. You could see their glistening black coats and hear their throaty barking for miles. An outgoing tide coaxed rich, briny smells from the shoreline.

Just for the pure joy of it, Andrew tilted his head back and breathed in, filling his lungs. The midmorning haze had started to burn off, revealing the promise of a sapphire-blue sky, and the gulls were in full flight—all signs that it was going to be a beautiful summer day.

Sun warmed the back of his neck as he walked to the very end of the long dock. The planks creaked with his weight and the water beneath made soft, silky noises. The Mirage Bay Yacht Club was a tiny organization with either a big heart or a need for funds. Andrew wasn’t a member, but they’d agreed to rent him the guest berth indefinitely.

He’d decided to leave
Bladerunner
here for repairs after Alison’s disappearance. The work had been minor and finished within weeks, but Andrew hadn’t dealt with the yacht until now.
Bladerunner
had been dry-docked at the local boatyard until two weeks ago. Now he was glad he’d called ahead and had them put her back in the water.

A speedboat plowed by, churning the water. He watched the gentle waves rock his own vessel, and felt a familiar yearning. He wanted to take her out again. He wanted to bake in the sun, get burned to a crisp, and taste the salt wind. It was hard to imagine that sailing in Mirage Bay wouldn’t be tainted with bad memories, at least the first time out, but it had to be done. Someone was out to get him, threatening to go to the police. He had to have some plausible explanation for Alison’s disappearance. One way to do that was to recreate the incident in his mind and see if there was anything obvious that he’d missed.

Fleetingly, he wondered if Marnie liked the water, and then he corrected himself. Not Marnie, Alison—and of course she liked the water. The day his wife disappeared, she’d convinced him to go for a sail, despite the storm blowing in. He’d been questioning her motives ever since.

He’d asked her for a divorce earlier that week, and she’d taken the news so calmly he’d immediately been suspicious. Alison was larger than life, with insecurities to match. She’d never handled rejection well, and he’d expected icy outrage and a series of hysterical scenes, at the very least. Possibly their prenup, which compensated her nicely if he asked for a divorce, had eased her pain, but Andrew had sensed something was up. Alison was ruthless when it came to getting what she wanted and going along with the dissolution meant she wanted something. Somehow, he doubted it was the money. She’d walked away from a fifty-million dollar trust fund to marry him.

She’d even agreed their marriage was a mistake and admitted seeking him out to further her career. She’d hoped he would make her a recording star the way he had Regine. Alison had a pleasant enough voice, but no real musical talent, and she hadn’t taken it well when he’d told her, which might explain her calm reaction to the divorce. If she wasn’t going to get what she wanted, why stay with him? But he’d given her the bad news over a year ago. It didn’t make sense that she would wait this long—and disappearing off his yacht on a stormy night seemed a little extreme.

He’d been engaged to Regine when Alison reentered his life. She was living in the Fairmont’s upper eastside apartment and studying at Julliard, and she claimed to be serious about her singing career. She was also a huge fan of Regine’s. She volunteered her time, traveling with Regine when she was on tour, and eventually she became a regular fixture, even in their home. After the freak accident that took Regine’s life, Andrew had been shell-shocked and grateful for Alison’s compassion—and her companionship. Not love, gratitude. He’d been in denial.

When he’d asked for the divorce, he’d apologized for letting things go as far as they had. But Alison had insisted that she understood. He’d married her on the rebound. Of course she would give him a divorce. All she wanted was one last sail on
Bladerunner.
He’d made the mistake of agreeing, and it
was
their last sail.

With that night still on his mind, Andrew gripped the line and pulled the yacht close enough to the dock to climb aboard. He made his way to the port side bow, where the lifeline had given way. The repairs had removed all traces of the accident, but Andrew wouldn’t soon forget the sight of the snapped line. It was the first thing he’d seen when he came up from below.

He’d gone down for life jackets that should have been in the cockpit locker. The storm had blown up out of nowhere and the yacht was lurching violently. Possibly Alison was caught off balance and thrown over the side. It wasn’t until later that he discovered she had taken out a large insurance policy on her own life a month prior to the accident—and forged his name to the documents. If she was embittered about the divorce, she’d gone to a lot of trouble to seek revenge, even for a scorned woman, and may have paid for it with her life.

He’d already given some thought to the other Fairmonts’ motives. Alison had told him the family trust passed down from mother to daughter. If she was wrong and Bret was next in line, then Bret would have reason to get rid of his sister, and perhaps to frame the most obvious suspect, Alison’s estranged husband. It wasn’t totally impossible that Bret, or someone else, had stowed away below deck. But that hadn’t occurred to Andrew at the time, and he hadn’t searched the yacht, even after he brought it back on. Someone quick and agile could have slipped away unseen while Andrew was radioing the Coast Guard. Also, the weather reports had predicted the Devil Winds would blow in that evening, which was why he’d tried to talk Alison out of the sail. The conditions were perfect for a disappearance at sea.

Andrew wasn’t sure what Julia might have to gain, but that didn’t rule her out. Having Alison dead might clear the way for her to reclaim the trust. And then there was Tony Bogart, her old boyfriend. He seemed to have held a serious grudge all these years, which meant he might have it in for both of them, Alison and Andrew.

Andrew couldn’t rule out Alison herself. He doubted she was a strong enough swimmer to negotiate the seas in storm conditions. It would have required an accomplice and some advance planning, but it had been dark enough that night to conceal a small powerboat by the reefs. Nothing would surprise him where she was concerned, even the possibility that she was still alive and waiting to make her move, whatever that might be.

He’d gone through her checkbook, bills and credit card statements, but there’d been no activity since the accident and no evidence tying her to the insurance policy. He’d also gone through her clothing, her purse and her Blackberry. Nothing. But none of that was conclusive. She was plenty smart enough to have planned ahead and covered future tracks. It was easy to get credit cards in a different name, and she’d had accounts he’d never had access to.

All along, he’d been hampered by the possibility of triggering suspicions if he investigated too openly. Back in February he’d met with the insurance agent who issued the policy, but Andrew had known if he pushed for an investigation he would bring Marnie under suspicion of fraud and forgery, and he couldn’t risk that. He’d actually had to say that the forged signature on the insurance policy was his own, to avoid a probe.