Face of Danger

  “This is really a gorgeous suite,” Vivi said when they were near the top, to fill the uncomfortable silence. Her gaze moved to the oil painting on the wall, a huge canvas in a gaudy gold frame she’d barely noticed when they’d arrived. Now, however, there was something distinctly familiar about the landscape.

  “That’s the cranberry bog, isn’t it?” Vivi asked.

  “Yes,” Mercedes said. “The view from the front of the house.”

  “It’s beautifully done.” Vivi paused in front of the painting, noticing the shadows of two children holding hands near the fog-laden bog, the entire work rich with haunting tones of violet and indigo. “Did Cara have it commissioned?”

  Mercedes choked softly. “No.”

  Vivi turned at the strange tone in her voice. “Who painted it?”

  “I did.”

  “Really?” She scrutinized the work again, then the woman responsible for it. They so did not match. “It’s really”—emotional—“beautiful.”

  Mercedes’s blue eyes turned cold. “In the eye of the beholder, I suppose.”

  Whatever the hell that meant. “Does Cara ever think about reviving the bog? Growing cranberries again? Fixing the house?”

  Mercedes opened the door to the bedroom, ignoring the painting. “She did, once, but fortunately abandoned the idea.”

  “Fortunately?” Vivi followed her in, the old reporter instinct flashing with a noisy alert. “You said you’d like to go back there and visit, and that’s why the tunnels connect, right? So why wouldn’t you want to see the house and bog restored?”

  “That’ll never happen.” She marched to the windows and started flipping plantation-style shutters closed, blocking out the early evening light.

  Vivi put her bag down and sat on the armrest of a club chair, hoping to invite conversation. “Mercedes,” she said gently. “Have you ever thought about… going outside again?”

  The woman’s shoulders tightened. “Please, I’d rather not discuss it.” She moved to the next set of shutters.

  “When was the last time you were down at the bog?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “And Cara? When was the last time she was there?”

  “I don’t know. When she and Joellen had those architects and builders there, I guess.”

  “So she really has considered restoration?”

  “Joellen put a stop to it before they got too far.”

  “Why? Doesn’t Joellen want to see her childhood home beautiful and useful again? It would make a wonderful guesthouse, or just a place for parties—”

  “Parties?” Her eyes widened in horror, then she instantly reined in the out-of-character response. “Some things and some places need to stay just as they are,” she said sharply, a vein in her neck pulsing as she reached the last three windows. “Some people need to understand that.” Snap. “Some people who think they own something.” Snap. “Sometimes what’s on a legal paper, what’s signed, sealed, and in the bank, doesn’t make it right.” Snap.

  Whoa. Hot-button hit. “So Cara, as the owner of the house, wanted to fix the bog house, but Joellen didn’t? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She shut down, obviously realizing she’d said too much. “Do you need anything else?”

  Information. Evidence. The truth. And a couple of hours in that bed with Lang. “No, thank you. I appreciate the help.”

  She was barely out the door and Vivi had her phone out to text Chessie.

  Find out who owns this house and property.

  Chessie wrote back in less than ten seconds. Piece of cake.

  Smiling at her cousin’s style, she went back into the hall and studied the picture painted by the most unlikely artist. Sure enough, the tiny initials MG were painted in the lower right corner. Mercedes Graff. Only something was off about the initials. They didn’t blend, somehow, with the rest of the painting.

  Kneeling down to get closer to the corner, she rubbed her hand over the letters, feeling the thick bumps of paint underneath. A lot of coats of paint. Like it had been painted over and over.

  Maybe Mercedes hadn’t really painted this. That made sense to Vivi; nothing about the woman appeared to be capable of this much feeling. Not una tedesca like her. Vivi’s nails dented the thick coat of oil paint, and she glanced over her shoulder guiltily.

  Certain she was alone, she prodded some more. The first layer of paint peeled away, revealing different letters, painted in black, definitely meant to be part of the original painting.

  MM.

  Not Mercedes Graff, then, unless she had a different name at one point. Vivi hastily mashed the flap of paint back over the letters, making it look almost the same. You’d have to look very closely to see that it had been tampered with.

  She stood up and backed away, tsking softly when she realized she’d inadvertently tilted the painting. At least five feet wide and nearly as tall, framed in a heavy gilded wood, it wasn’t going to be a cinch to straighten. But she’d have to or Mercedes would know instantly that it had been touched.

  Gripping the side of the frame, she inched it up the wall, her hand sliding a little, her fingers gliding over a bump on the back of the frame.

  That was weird, too. Something was taped to the frame.

  Peering around and gingerly easing the frame away from the wall, she picked at the tape just as her cell phone vibrated with a text from Chessie. Ignoring the text, she flicked at the corner of the tape, which was pretty well glued and old. Finally, she managed to rip it off and a key fell to the floor with a clunk.

  A key? A key! The key Pakpao had been willing to kill for?

  She picked it up, turning it over a few times looking for any indication what the old silver key might fit. The phone text buzzed again, the words: What do you think of that???? From Chessie.

  She flipped back to the previous text.

  U r gonna like this. 2 owners. Big house: Mercedes Mugg. Farming property: RE Global!!!!!

  She stared at the words. The bog was owned by Roman Emmanuel? She almost screamed for Lang, pivoting to come face-to-face with Mercedes.

  “What are you doing?” the woman demanded, her eyes stormy and threatening.

  Mercedes Mugg. Holy shit. She was Cara and Joellen’s mother.

  Vivi met her direct gaze. “Just looking at your beautiful painting. Do you have any others you’re hiding away, Mercedes?”

  “No. That’s the only one.”

  “Too bad,” Vivi said calmly, the key tight in her palm, smashed against the phone. “I need to find Mr. Lang.”

  “He’s just leaving the guesthouse and coming into the kitchen.”

  Vivi almost laughed. “You are so adept at knowing exactly where everyone is at any given moment.”

  She didn’t even blink.

  “You are a woman of many talents,” Vivi added. “And many secrets.”

  She brushed by Mercedes, but the woman grabbed her arm with a vicious grip. “Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  “I know you have it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mercedes leaned in close enough that Vivi could practically count the tiny hairs on her chin. “What you have in your hand has nothing to do with—with what you want.”

  “What do you think I want?”

  “That Red Carpet Killer.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Vivi said, wresting her arm free. “But there’s a lot more going on around here than that, isn’t there?”

  “Don’t.” She barely breathed the word. “Please don’t do this to me.”

  Vivi searched her face. Why would a woman want to keep it a secret that she was the mother of a movie star? “What are you hiding, Mercedes?”

  “Everything,” she said softly, her voice cracking with raw emotion. Maybe she was capable of that kind of painting.

  “What does this unlock?” Vivi held up the key, willing to fight to keep it if she had to, but wanting the answers this woman had.

&
nbsp; “Nothing that will get you any closer to where you want to be.”

  “What does it unlock?”

  “The fireplace.”

  Vivi frowned at her. “What fireplace?”

  “In the bog house.”

  Vivi started to back away, so anxious to tell Lang she almost ran, but, one more time, Mercedes grabbed her arm. “Vivi,” she said.

  Vivi froze. “Yes?”

  “Never mind.” She let go. “Just, please, give me this chance. If you have a heart, you’ll leave this be.”

  “I have a heart,” she said softly. “But I also have a job to do.” And right now, that meant unlocking whatever this key hid.

  The scare of the night before had had a sobering effect on Cara. Unfortunately, it had just the opposite for her sister. By that afternoon, Marissa had left to run errands for them, Joellen was smashed again, and Cara watched the beach in the fading light by herself.

  Was she by herself, though?

  Or was one of Roman’s henchmen right around the corner, waiting to set up a death that looked like an accident?

  Or had that near electrocution by a hair dryer in the tub really been a freak accident? Some karmic retribution for her evil deeds?

  She sucked in a deep breath at the thought of Roman, a man she had once depended on for everything. He’d used her right back, no doubt about it. But now they were in a different vicious cycle, and the only way to break it would be if Cara came clean.

  Or one of them died. Not her, obviously.

  She liked that plan, but it wasn’t going to be easy. Murder never was.

  Her fingers around the weathered wood of the railing, Cara lifted her face to the sea air and took a breath. She’d done the right thing once.

  She’d also done some very wrong things.

  The crash of the surf forced her eyes open, the sweet smell of salt pulling at her. She needed to feel the water on her feet, the sand in her toes. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that her sister was still in the shower, gearing up for round two of drinking. Cara made an impulsive decision, grabbing a creamy pashmina shawl from the back of a chair to wrap over her T-shirt and jeans.

  The minute her bare feet hit the sand at the bottom of the stairs, she was happier. Liberated. Alive.

  Face to the darkening sky, she spread her arms wide and let the cool breeze lift her hair. Joellen would come running out like a raving lunatic if she saw Cara like this, utterly open and unprotected.

  But being trapped and scared—God, she didn’t want to live like her mother. And yet, as long as Roman was alive, that was how she lived.

  Climbing the first dune to the ocean, she almost laughed at the thrill of it. This section of beach was completely deserted, just a mile of rising sand and dune grass in either direction, and nothing but the ocean in front of her. The gunmetal gray water shimmered, the last of the sunset leaving a few peachy streaks on the froth of the surf.

  She had to put her foot in that icy water. Had to smell the salt and feel the chill in her bones. One more glance over her shoulder revealed only the top half of the house, the dune blocking much of the view.

  Joellen would have a cow when she got out of the shower. But Cara didn’t care.

  Certain it was desolate in every direction, she ran to the water, turning a full circle and almost tripping with joy. This was Nantucket Sound, she thought confidently. Joellen had tried to hide where they were, but Cara knew every grain of the wheat-colored sand on these islands, and this was Martha’s Vineyard.

  The first splash of surf was like ice water over her toes, instantly soaking the bottom of her jeans and pulling a childlike hoot from her throat. For a minute she just stood in the surf, letting the ebb of each wave create hollows around her feet, then gasping as the next wave of icy water rolled over her toes and up to her ankles.

  Once again, she spread her arms like imaginary wings, tilted her head all the way back, and closed her eyes.

  “Pretty.”

  She jumped at the man’s voice like a live wire had prodded her skin, shooting around so fast she cracked her neck.

  “You look like you’re praying to the goddess of the ocean.”

  She stumbled backward, blood singing in her head at the sight of a big, scary, murderous-looking man. Icy blue eyes sliced her, his stance far more predatory than his tone, his shoulders double the size of hers.

  “What do you want?” She backed away, a quick glance toward the dunes on one side, the ocean on the other. She’d never outrun this guy.

  “Just walking the beach.” He took a step toward her.

  “Leave me alone.” She danced to the left, choosing the dunes over the water, unable to take her eyes off him. He looked deadly. That was the only word she could think of. A killer. This man had killed—and would again.

  The laser-like look, the massive, lethal hands, the vein that throbbed on his neck, the slow rise and fall of his crushing chest, all confirmed that thought.

  Deadly.

  “Just leave me alone,” she repeated, stumbling like a clumsy idiot in the sand when she tried and failed to make her feet move.

  It was like he’d pinned her, and he hadn’t even touched her.

  Roman hired only the best to do his dirty work.

  “Do you know me?” she asked, her voice as flimsy as her legwork.

  “I’d like to.” The hint of a smile only made him… deadlier. “But you don’t seem to be inclined to talk.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not. Bye.”

  “Wait.” He reached out a hand and she jumped away as if he’d offered a burning sparkler. “Let me give you my card. Maybe when you want to talk, you’ll call me.”

  “Don’t bother. I won’t.”

  He reached back, into a pocket, the move lifting the bottom of his dark T-shirt.

  And revealing a gun.

  Holy God in heaven. She sucked in a breath and turned, breaking into a run, bracing her whole body for a bullet in the back.

  The deafening crack of a gunshot exploded, and Cara threw herself onto the sand with a scream, waiting for the blinding pain that must take a second to register in the brain. Where was she shot? Where would it hurt?

  “Get away from her!”

  She looked up to see Marissa standing wide-legged at the top of the dunes, a pistol held in two hands. Terrified, Cara managed to look over her shoulder.

  He held up both hands, away from his gun. “No harm meant, ma’am,” he said to Marissa. “You can put your weapon away.”

  But she didn’t, raising it instead, her hands remarkably steady. Where had Marissa learned to shoot like that? Cara ducked in anticipation of another shot, but Marissa just held him in her sights as he jogged forward.

  He passed Cara; he didn’t even slow, but slid her a look to the side. “If you ever need anything, Cara.” He flipped a card at her and took off as fast as the bullet Marissa had just fired.

  For a long minute, she just watched his body as it grew smaller, less threatening.

  “Are you okay?” Marissa came running down the dunes, the gun now pointed at an angle in one hand, like a professional.

  “I’m fine.” Cara gave her an assuring gesture with both hands. “Thanks for that.”

  She looked less fierce close up, more like scared Marissa. “What did he say to you?” she asked. “Who the hell was he?”

  Cara picked up the small white card from the sand, but Marissa’s focus was on the runner, who was little more than a figure in the distance now.

  “I don’t know.” Cara read the card. Ten digits, no name. “But he gave me his number.”

  “Was he trying to pick you up? Did he recognize you?”

  Yes, he most certainly had. If you ever need anything, Cara.

  If he worked for Roman, she was as good as dead. And if he was just a guy running the beach who discovered a movie star in hiding? Well, who could resist the chunk of change that information would get with the tabloids?

  Either way, her secret was o
ut. She looked at her assistant. “I don’t know,” she lied. “But we may not be as safe here as I thought. I may need to go back to Nantucket.”

  “Why?”

  To deal with Roman once and for all. “To settle a score,” she said vaguely.

  CHAPTER 16

  Let’s go,” Colt said, sliding his phone into his pocket after calling in this latest news to L.A. “I want to get down there before it’s dark.”

  Behind him, Vivi jogged to keep up, even though she’d changed into her jeans and “shit kickers.”

  Digging-around-for-trouble shoes was what they should be called.

  “Is that why you’re running?” she asked. “Because it feels more like you want to keep as much distance as possible between us.”

  And that, too. “You’re imagining things.”

  “Am I?”

  He ignored the question, snatching the keys from the hook on the garage wall and climbing onto the ATV without waiting for her. But she hoisted herself right up, smashing her breasts and legs against him, wrapping a familiar arm around his gut. The gut that was screaming: Colton Lang, are you a fucking glutton for punishment?

  “I thought you might fight me on this, or demand that half the Bureau accompany us to the bog house,” she said as he turned on the engine and maneuvered them out.

  “All the agents are at their posts, and this house has been thoroughly searched already. Anyway, you’d just bug me about it all night.”

  “All night?” she asked, plenty of implication in the question. “So you’re not sending Special Agent Iverson to babysit me upstairs?”

  “Upstairs?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Why did you move?”

  “Easier access to Cara’s clothes. And it’s more secure.”

  And private. So they could make all kinds of noise. He jammed his thumb on the accelerator and rolled over the brush and bramble, following the tracks they’d made the other day to the bog.

  “You know, Lang, I like it when you don’t fight me on things,” she said, her mouth close to his ear so he could hear her over the engine. And feel her warm breath right down through his whole body. Jesus, he might not make it upstairs.

  He might break into the bog house at nightfall.