She offered a hand and he took it with a motion that was almost warm.
“Good evening, Ms. Steele.” He still wore that puzzled look that gave him an intellectual air.
“Hello, Dr. Kennicot. Thank you for coming.”
He bent his head politely. “I only hope this evening turns out as you promised it might.”
“I’ll do my best.”
His wide-set eyes scanned the room. “Is he here?”
“Not yet.”
The same doubts she’d been having seemed to flitter across his weary face.
“Until he shows, why don’t you relax and make yourself at home.”
“That would probably be best.”
“Have something to eat.” She took his arm and walked him to the table holding large platters of appetizers.
Fanuzzi had outdone herself with prettier food than one of Parker’s classy restaurants. There were bits of parsley and fake crab on slices of cucumber Fanuzzi had scored, dates wrapped in bacon, seasoned cream cheese sitting in little crisps she called fricos, and colorful little cakes that looked like they were gift wrapped.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Steele. I’m not very hungry.” He nodded politely and sauntered across the marble floor to speak to one of the strangers. The way they shook hands and fell into easy conversation made Miranda believe the man was a colleague. Mr. P had probably invited another vet or two for Kennicot to schmooze with. Good thinking, Mr. P.
The bell rang again. This time, one of Fanuzzi’s staff got it.
Miranda slipped a cucumber cup into her mouth and turned toward the door. She could hardly swallow. Her heart began to pound at the sight of the reddish curls and catlike eyes as Delta Langford entered the hall.
The woman stood a moment, scanning the room. In a short, black fitted gown with horizontal draping, puffed sleeves, and long satin gloves, she looked as much the vixen as the little girl. The same contrast Miranda had noticed in Usher’s paintings of her sister.
She seemed tense, flustered. Was she ready to play her role? Then she caught sight of Miranda and closed her eyes in relief. She started for her, was halfway across the hall, when the front door opened again and Usher’s lanky figure appeared.
Delta stopped, turned toward him, as did half the guests. The man had presence.
He had on a lilac-colored suit with a matching vest, black shirt, spats on his shoes. His streaky, bleached-blond hair, which seemed freshly washed, spread out over his shoulders, like some medieval warrior, like he was trying to blend a look from the twenties with the fourteenth century.
As soon as he stepped inside the room, he spotted the woman and glared at her as if she were a spitting cobra. “Delta.”
She glared back. “Ferraro.”
He looked past her, spotted Miranda. His lip curled in hateful disgust. He’d better not turn around and leave.
Quickly, Miranda bypassed Delta and made a beeline for her secret guest of honor.
“Mr. Usher,” she gushed, putting a teen-swooning-over-Justin-Bieber note in her voice. “I’m so thrilled you decided to come. This party would be a disaster without you.”
He raised his nose in a move stiffer than Fanuzzi’s cake fondant and opened his mouth.
She cut him off. “There are so many art lovers here tonight.” She tugged on his arm like he was an old chum, led him away from the door. “They would have been so disappointed if they didn’t get to meet such a celebrity.”
As if on cue, two young women scampered up. One was a brunette and wore a black strapless number with a gathered skirt, along with an oyster bed of pearls around her neck. The other had highlighted hair that went from brown to blond to red. She was clad in diamonds and red satin. Both had legs like giraffes.
“Mr. Usher,” the one with the multi-colored hair squealed, handing the artist a brochure from his showing. “May I have your autograph?”
Miranda grinned. Good thing she’d stopped by the gallery this week and picked up some copies of that brochure to scatter around the room.
The brunette was bolder. She reached for his arm and started to gush. “I so adore your work.”
A few more ladies came scurrying up, and soon, Usher was surrounded by a small gathering of adoring female fans.
Once more, ego got the best of him. “I don’t normally do this, but I’ll make an exception tonight.” He signed the first brochure, then another and another.
Where did Mr. P find these people? Miranda owed him big time. She slipped away, was about to head for the kitchen, when Delta reached out for her.
She squeezed her arm tightly with her gloved hand. “Ms. Steele, I’m not sure this was such a good idea. I can’t stand to be in the same room with that man.”
Miranda patted her hand. “Relax, Ms. Langford. You just got here.”
She shook her red curls. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this.”
“Yes, you should. You’ll be fine.”
Delta glanced around and saw Kennicot, still talking to his colleague. She stiffened. “You didn’t tell me he would be here.”
“Just a little added pressure.”
“There are so many people here. I’m still in mourning. Really, I should go home.”
A zing of panic shot through her. Delta couldn’t leave. She forced herself to speak gently. “I need you to play your role. You do remember our plan, don’t you?”
She looked at her blankly.
Miranda lowered her voice. “You have to get him to confess. If you accuse him of killing Desirée to his face, he’ll crack.” At least, she was betting the house that he would. “I’ve got hidden surveillance equipment set up in all the rooms on this floor. Everything you say will be recorded. Once we get his confession, we can turn him over to the police.”
She rubbed her arms. “I’m not sure I can do it, Ms. Steele. I’m not sure I can face him.” She narrowed her catlike eyes at Usher and his new fans and Miranda saw a vicious fire in them. She really despised the man, didn’t she?
“Yes, you can. Trust me. Remember, this is for Desirée.”
She closed her eyes dramatically. “Very well. I’ll do my best. Can we do it soon?” She sounded like a child begging to stay up for five more minutes.
“Not too soon, or it won’t look natural. He can’t suspect it’s a setup.”
Delta just stared at her.
“Maybe in an hour or so. Give Usher the chance to loosen up. Take him off guard.”
She didn’t like the answer, but she nodded. “Just be as quick as you can.” She moved away and sat down on a chair near the staircase.
Exhaling her nerves, Miranda stationed herself near a carnation-decked pedestal to keep an eye on her fidgety guests.
Usher was at the bar now, trying to get a drink while pretending to fend off the devotion of his fans. When he’d finally gotten his hands on a martini, he turned and saw Kennicot, who was sampling one of the finger sandwiches. Kennicot caught his stare.
Daggers flew between them.
With a few long strides, Usher left his groupies and headed for the vet.
No. Miranda started for the artist. They met in the middle of the room.
“What is the meaning of this, Ms. Steele?”
She tilted her head. “Something wrong with your martini?”
He brushed his long hair away from his drink with an arrogant flip. “You know what I’m talking about. What are Kennicot and Delta Langford doing here?”
“Aren’t they your friends? I thought you’d be more comfortable with people you knew. Though everyone seems to want to be your friend.”
The honey coating didn’t work this time. “Comfortable? This is an outrage. I have a good mind to—”
She slipped her arm around his. “Please, Ferraro. Don’t make a scene. You wouldn’t want your fans to see you in a bad mood.”
He caught her meaning. If he acted like a jerk, it wouldn’t endear his followers. And with Delta here, some of them might start gossi
ping about his connections to the Langford family. Some of them might even put two and two together about Desirée’s tragic death.
“All right, Ms. Steele, you win.” He spoke through gritted teeth, like a growling grizzly. “I’ll behave myself for now. But at the first opportunity, I’m leaving.” With a huff, he pulled his arm out of Miranda’s grip, slugged down his drink, and went back to the bar for another.
Well. That put a wrinkle in her plans. She’d wanted the narcissistic artist relaxed and in an open mood when it came time for Delta’s scene. And now she had to make sure he got that way before he decided to leave.
She gazed across the room. Maybe Mr. P could help out.
* * *
Through the Saturday night traffic, Parker drove up I-75 from Hartsfield airport, feeling bone weary and bitterly disappointed.
The first night he met Miranda Steele came to mind. The vision of the angry woman pacing in a Fulton County holding cell, her black hair wet with rain, her clothes torn and streaked with mud from her struggle with a cop. He’d had to coax the information from her about Amy. He’d been moved by her story, by her tenacity. She had such spirit, such strength, despite the years of frustration she’d endured.
He remembered the night she confessed what Leon Groth had done to her, melting into his arms with tears he’d thought would never end. And then she’d faced the bastard that had caused her so much pain, and nearly killed him. To protect others.
If only he could find Amy for her. But perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.
He’d had such high hopes when he met the daughter of Bill Malone’s client. She had curly dark hair, like Miranda. Bright, clear blue eyes, an infectious smile. It had taken longer than expected to convince the parents to help. When Parker revealed to them selected details of Miranda’s past, they agreed to let him take a DNA sample. For the match, he’d stolen another sample from Miranda’s toothbrush before leaving town. Not wanting to wait weeks for the results, Parker had called the lab and persuaded them to give him an appointment next Monday. Yesterday they called with an opening. The meeting was short.
Negative. The young girl was not Amy.
He took the exit onto Northside Drive. Almost home. The mansion he’d always thought of as his father’s house. Could it be a home for Miranda and him now? He thought of their tense phone call a week ago, her terse responses. She thought he was overbearing with his rules, but he had to protect her. As far as their relationship went, he’d decided he’d been pushing too hard and forced himself to stop calling, stop making arrangements for her. She needed her independence. Her space, as they say.
He’d even told Judd not to report in unless it was an emergency. That had taken all the strength he had.
She knew what his trip had been for. She’d figured it out. She was sharp. Intuitive. They’d both sensed the other knew, but neither of them had said anything.
The possibility of failure was too great. Parker couldn’t bear the idea of disappointing Miranda again. Of coming home empty handed. He wished with all his heart he could give her Amy back. But he couldn’t. All he could give her was himself.
Did she want him?
He could sense her feelings for him growing stronger the longer they were together. She trusted him more. They worked well together. But she was still skittish, restless, reluctant to settle down, to give in wholly.
Perhaps her longing for her lost daughter was the key to it. He hadn’t thought of the possibility of more children before he met Miranda, but if that would make her happy, he’d consider it.
Would that be enough? He didn’t know. He only knew that tonight, when he stepped inside the house, if he saw that glow in her eyes that told him she had missed him, he would take things to the next level. He would give her something he hadn’t imagined offering to anyone since Sylvia passed.
He only prayed she would accept it.
He turned onto Sweet Hollow Lane, glad to be home after the long week. He longed to be alone with Miranda. To feel her warmth and vitality in his arms once again.
Then he noticed a row of luxury cars along the curb. He turned the corner. The entire house was ablaze with lights. Music came from inside.
What on earth?
Miranda Steele was the least social person he’d ever known. It wasn’t like her to throw a party while he was away. Especially not with this set.
Where was Judd? He found a spot for his Mazda down the street. He searched for his employee, instead spotted his father’s Bentley and several vehicles he recognized. Then he saw a silver Porsche with a vanity tag reading simply “Usher.”
Now it made sense.
He got out of the car, stood rubbing his chin as irritation rumbled in his chest. She’d broken his rules. Again. Would she never learn? Why had she lured a man who might be a killer into their home? Obviously, she thought she’d set some kind of trap. At least there were other people around. Judd had better be inside watching over her or he’d be looking for a new job.
He decided to go in the back way.
Chapter Thirty
The guests were on their fourth round of appetizers and were hitting the open bar hard. Everyone was loosening up and getting louder. The music had gone from Barry Manilow to Bon Jovi and some of the revelers had started to dance.
Miranda wandered over to the table where Fanuzzi was busying herself making sure everyone had food and drink, and popped what her new friend called a Swiss Pear cracker into her mouth. Could use some spice, but it still tasted rich as a five-star eatery. Fanuzzi was something else with the faux haute cuisine.
Miranda scanned the crowd. Almost time for Delta to make her move.
Mr. P and Tatiana were flirting with each other and keeping Usher occupied at the bar, just like she’d asked them to. Though the artist still looked pretty surly.
The other two principals were sulking in their respective corners, trying to ignore each other. Three sullen party guests in a roomful of strangers. They were spoiling the mood.
The rooms on the mansion’s lower floor were open for viewing, but Fanuzzi had placed a red velvet rope across the stairway entrance to keep visitors from going upstairs. As people wandered through the elegant parlors and sitting rooms, Miranda could hear snatches of conversation through her earbud.
“Oh, look at this gorgeous vase,” said a female voice.
Another woman gave a low, cynical laugh. “Wade Parker was always an ostentatious bastard.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“I’m direct. And who is this bitch giving the party? Why is she buying a house from the Parkers?” Miranda had mentioned that little detail in her invitations to make the party more plausible.
Must be a couple of Parker’s jilted girlfriends. Focus, she told herself sternly, anger fluttering down her spine.
The anger quickly turned to nerves. She should give Delta the signal and get on with it. But something told her to wait a little longer. She was going on pure instinct now.
And where were Holloway and Becker? They were supposed to help monitor the surveillance equipment and should have been back an hour ago. She was going to introduce Becker to Fanuzzi so her buddy would get over his old flame. That, at least, ought to go right. They had a lot in common.
The only other person missing was Parker. He’d be pissed as hell if he could see this.
She looked across the room at Usher. Mr. P almost had him cracking a smile. Delta wandered in from the hall. It was time, Miranda decided.
Nursing a cocktail, trying to look sophisticated, she was about to give Delta a nod, when movement overhead caught her eye. She glanced toward the stairs—and nearly dropped her glass.
Speak of the devil…
Freshly showered and dressed in an elegant black suit, his thick, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, Parker descended the staircase.
Where in the hell had he come from? How had he gotten upstairs? He wasn’t supposed to be back until Monday. What would everyone think he was doing up there in her
house?
He lifted one end of the red velvet rope, stepped onto the main floor and deftly replaced it. Smooth as a silk worm, he began working his way across the room, greeting various guests as he went. All class and sophistication and good looks, he was the handsomest man in the room.
And yet, there was weariness behind his smile, disappointment in his eyes. He hadn’t found Amy. She fought back a sudden wave of heartbreak.
After a moment, he reached her side. “Good evening, Miranda.” His deliciously low, Southern voice reverberated with an all-too familiar rumble.
What are you doing here? she wanted to say. But all that came out was a weak, “Hi.”
“In case you’re wondering, there’s a back staircase you evidently haven’t discovered.” His hand went around her shoulders, slipped down to her waist, then to her butt. He gave her a hard pinch.
“Hey, buster.” She glared at him, but her heart leapt at his touch, in spite of his brash move.
He lowered his voice. “You must have forgotten my instructions.”
She bristled. “What are you talking about? Can’t I have a party in my own house?”
A sexy brow rose. “A party with Dr. Kennicot and Delta Langford?” He glanced toward the wet bar. “And Ferraro Usher as the guest of honor?”
“He’s not the guest of honor.”
“Not ostensibly.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, livid that he could see through her so easily.
“Why is my father here? And what is Detective Judd doing in the corner?”
“Mr. P’s my guest, and Judd’s keeping an eye on things, like you told him to,” she snapped, furious at the man. Why had he shown up now? And why was her heart doing cartwheels in her chest at the sight of him? She hadn’t missed him that much, had she?
He studied her with a dark, piercing gaze, then spoke in a whisper. “Have you found the Agency’s surveillance equipment satisfactory?”
She tilted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He brushed her cheek with his lips. “That’s a lovely bud in your ear.”
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