The Game of Love

by Heather Graham

  Jade flushed; Jeffrey grinned wickedly and bowed to them all. “Was that for the entertainment of the fight, or the kiss?” Jeff yelled to Toby.

  “Both!” Toby yelled back.

  Sean decided that the two of them looked beautiful then. Well, they were beautiful. His mother was, at least. Jeff was handsome. But together…

  Yeah, together, beautiful was the right word. They glowed with happiness, and that happiness touched everyone around them.

  “I wonder what it will be like with the new baby?” he asked Ryan.

  “Smelly, probably,” Ryan grimaced.

  Sean laughed. “That’s not what I meant. It will be strange. He’ll really be your brother—and he’ll really be my brother.”

  “If it’s a boy.”

  “Let’s be optimistic here, okay?”

  “Sure.” Then Ryan became serious, too. “It will be neat, `cause it will kind of bind us all together, you know?”

  “He’ll be a Martin, though.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the way they do it. A baby gets his father’s last name.” He hesitated. “It’s your mother’s last name, too, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “But dad was saying that he always liked the name Daniel; he thought you might like that for a first name. Kind of for your dad, too, in a way.”

  “Really?” Sean said.

  “Really. I wouldn’t make something like that up. Honest, I wouldn’t.”

  Sean felt like he was going to cry again. How dumb. He moved quickly to stick his head out the open car door.

  “Hey! Could you two please quit necking for a while? We’re going to miss the ice cream!”

  “Sean!” Jade snapped, but she said a little breathlessly to Jeff, “I think we’d better quit necking.”

  “For now.”

  “Are we making a date?”

  “You bet.”

  “Later.”

  “At the house.”

  “At the house.”

  “Tonight.”

  “Promise?”

  “You bet,” Jade said huskily. “I don’t mess with the Major Leaguers, Mr. Martin.”

  “You’re pretty Major League yourself, lady.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Mom!”

  “Dad!”

  “Ice cream!” Jade and Jeff said in unison. And with a last kiss, they broke away from each other with the wonderful assurance that they would never really be far apart. Before too long, night would come with its very personal, very private and special magic.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for a special preview of the next thrilling novel

  in the New York Confidential series,

  A PERFECT OBSESSION

  Coming soon from

  New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

  and MIRA Books

  Join FBI agent Craig Frasier and criminal psychologist Keiran Finnegan as they track a madman who is obsessed with perfect beauty.

  A serial killer is striking a little too close to home

  In the second novel in the New York Confidential series,

  A PERFECT OBSESSION

  Coming soon from

  New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

  and MIRA Books.

  A PERFECT OBSESSION BY

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  CHAPTER 1

  “Horrible! Oh, God, horrible—tragic!” John Shaw said, shaking his head with a dazed look as he sat on his bar stool at Finnegan’s Pub.

  Kieran nodded sympathetically. Construction crews had found the old graves when they were working on the foundations at the hot new downtown venue, Le Club Vampyre.

  Anthropologists found the new body among the old graves the next day.

  It wasn’t just any body.

  It was the body of supermodel Jeannette Gilbert.

  Finding the old graves wasn’t much of a shock—not in New York City, and not in a building that was close to two centuries old. The structure that housed Club Le Vampyre was a deconsecrated Episcopal Church. The church’s congregation had moved to a facility it had purchased from the Catholic Church—whose congregation was now in a sparkling new basilica over on Park Avenue. While many had bemoaned the fact that such a venerable old institution had been turned into an establishment for those into sex, drugs, and rock and roll, life—and business—went on.

  And with life going on….

  Well, work on the building’s foundations went on, too.

  It was while investigators were still being called in following the discovery of the newly deceased body—moments before it hit the news—that Kieran Finnegan learned about it, and that was because she was helping out at their family establishment, Finnegan’s on Broadway. Like the old church/nightclub behind it, Finnegan’s dated back to just before the Civil War, and had been a pub for most of those years. Since it was geographically the closest establishment to the church with liquor, it had apparently seemed the right place at that moment for Professor John Shaw. They’d barely opened; it was still morning, and it was a Friday, and Kieran was only there at that time because her bosses had decided on a day off following their participation in a lengthy trial. She’d just been down in the basement or cellar, fetching a few bottles of a vintage chardonnay for her brother, ordered specifically for a lunch that day, when John Shaw had caught her attention, desperate to talk.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I was, being called in as an expert on a find like that,” the professor told Kieran. “They both wanted me! They, I mean in Henry Willoughby, president of Preserve our Past, and Roger Gleason, owner and manager of the club. I was so honored. It was exciting to think of finding the old bodies—not the new body. But then…opening a decaying coffin and finding… Jeannette Gilbert! And the university was entirely behind me, allowing me the time to be at my site, giving me a chance to bring my grad students here. Oh, my God! I found her! Oh, it was….”

  John Shaw was shaking as he spoke. He was a man who’d seen all kinds of antiquated horrors, an expert in the past. He fit the stereotype of an academic, with his lean physique, his thatch of wild white hair, and his little gold-framed glasses. He held doctorate degrees in archeology and anthropology, and both science and history meant everything to him.

  Kieran realized that he’d been about to say once again that it was horrible, like nothing he’d ever experienced. He clearly realized that he was speaking about a recently living woman, adored by adolescent boys—and heterosexual males of all ages—a woman who was going to be deeply mourned.

  Jeannette Gilbert. Media princess. The model and actress had disappeared two weeks ago after the launch party for a new cosmetics line. Her agent and manager, Oswald Martin, had gone on the news, begging kidnappers for her safe return.

  At that time, no one knew if she actually had been kidnapped. One reporter speculated that she’d disappeared on purpose, determined to get away from the very man begging kidnappers for her release, her agent and manager, Oswald Martin.

  Kieran hadn’t really paid much attention; she’d assumed that the young woman—who’d been made famous by the same Oswald Martin—had just had enough of being adored and fawned over and told what to do at every move and decided to take a hiatus. Or it might have been some kind of publicity gig; her disappearance had certainly ruled the headlines. There were always tabloid pictures of Jeannette, dating this or that man, and then speculation in the same tabloids that her manager had furiously burst into a hotel room, sending Jeannette Gilbert’s latest lover—gold-digger, as Martin referred to any young man she dated—flying out the door.

  In the past few weeks the “celebrity” magazines had run rampant with rumors of a mystery man in her life. A secret love. Kieran knew that, but only because her twin brother, Kevin, was an actor—struggling his way into TV, movies, and theater. He read the tabloids avidly, telling Kieran that he was “re
ading between the lines,” and being up on what was going on was critical to his career. There were too many actors—even good ones!—out there and too few roles. Any edge was a good edge.

  While all the speculation had been going on, Kieran couldn’t help wondering if Jeannette’s secret lover had killed her—or if, maybe, her steel-handed manager had done so.

  Or—since this was New York City with a population in the millions—it was possible that some deranged person had murdered her, perhaps even someone who wasn’t clinically insane but mentally unstable. Perhaps this person felt that if she was relieved of her life, she’d be out of the misery caused by being such a beautiful, glittering star, always the focus of attention.

  It was fine to speculate when you really believed that someone was just pulling a major publicity stunt.

  Now, Kieran felt bad, of course. From what she knew now, it seemed evident that the woman had indeed been murdered.

  Not that she any of the facts other than that Jeannette had been found in the bowels of the earth in a nineteenth-century tomb, but it was unlikely that Jeannette Gilbert had crawled into an historic coffin in a lost catacomb to die of natural causes.

  “It was so horrible!” John Shaw repeated woefully. “When we found her, we just stared. One of my silly young grad students screamed, and she wasn’t the only one. We called the police immediately. The club wasn’t open then, of course—except to us, those of us who were working. I was there for hours while they grilled me. And now…now, I need this!” His hand shook as he picked up his double-shot of single malt scotch to swallow in a gulp.

  He was usually a beer man. Ultra-lite.

  It was horrible, yes, as Shaw kept saying. But, of course, he realized he’d be in the news, interviewed for dozens of papers and magazines and television, as well.

  After all…

  He’d been the one to find Jeannette Gilbert, dead. In a coffin, in a deconsecrated church now turned into the Le Club Vampyre. Well, that was news.

  The pub would soon be buzzing, especially since it was on the other side of the block from Club Le Vampyre.

  The whole situation, aside from the grief of a young woman’s untimely death, was interesting to Kieran. In her “real” job, she worked as a psychologist and therapist for psychiatrists Bentley Fuller and Allison Miro during the week. But, like her brothers, she often filled in at the pub; it was kind of a home away from home for them all. The pub had been in the family—belonging to a distant great-great uncle—from the mid-nineteenth century. Her own parents were gone now, and that made the pub even more precious to her and her older brother, Declan, her twin, Kevin, and her “baby” brother, Daniel.

  So, while Declan actually managed the pub and made it his life’s work, she was employed by doctors Fuller and Miro, Kevin pursued his acting career, and Danny strove to become the city’s best tour guide. And they all spent a great deal of time at Finnegan’s.

  The tragic death of Jeannette Gilbert would soon have all their patrons talking about this latest outrage regarding Le Club Vampyre. They’d been talking about it now and then for six months, ever since the sale of the old church to Dark Doors Incorporated. The talk had become extremely glum when the club had opened a month ago. A club! Like that! In an old church!

  The club had, of course, been the main topic of conversation yesterday, when the news had come out that unknown gravesites had been found—and Professor John Shaw had been called in.

  Of course, people were still talking about the old catacombs today. Not that finding graves while digging in foundations was unusual in New York. It was just creepy-cool enough to really talk about.

  Creepy-cool was fine when you were talking about very old gravesites.

  Because they were old—they were the earthly remains of people who’d lived—and died—long ago.

  Not the newly deceased.

  At the moment, though, Kieran was one of the few people who knew that the body of Jeannette Gilbert had been discovered. Kieran was among the first to find out; that was because she knew Dr. John Shaw, professor of archeology and anthropology at NYU, famed in academic circles for his work on sites from Jamestown, Virginia, to Beijing, China, very well. He and a group of his colleagues had met at Finnegan’s Pub one night a month as long as she could remember.

  When she’d see him looking so distressed, she’d ushered him into one of the small booths against the wall that divided the pub’s general area from the offices. She’d gotten him his scotch—and she’d sat down with him so she could try to calm him down.

  “Oh, my God! I can just imagine when it hits the news!” he said, looking at her with stricken eyes. And yet, she recognized a bit of awe in them…

  Of course, he hadn’t known Jeannette Gilbert. Kieran hadn’t, either. She’d seen her once, on a red carpet, heading to the premiere of a new movie in a theater near Times Square.

  Sadly, Jeannette hadn’t been an especially talented actress. But she’d been too beautiful for most people to care.

  “I’m so sorry you’re the one who found her,” Kieran said. That should’ve been the right thing to say; usually, people didn’t want to find others dead. Of course, John Shaw hadn’t known the woman, he did work with the dead all the time—the long-dead, at least—and he was going to be famous in the pop culture world now, as well as the academic world.

  But it was obvious that he was badly shaken.

  He was accustomed to studying bones and mummies—not a woman who’d been recently murdered.

  “I was—I am!—very excited about the project. I don’t understand how the church could have lost all those graves. Can you imagine? Okay, so, you know how they built St. Paul’s to accommodate folks further north of Trinity back in the day? Well, they built St. Augustine’s for those a little north of St. Paul’s. And, according to my research so far, the church was fine until about 1860, when way too many people went off to fight in the Civil War. It wasn’t deconsecrated—just more or less abandoned because the congregations were so much smaller. Then, according to records, Father O’Hara passed away, and it took the church forever to send out a new priest. Apparently, there was structural damage by then, which closed off that section of the catacombs. You see, there was—until about seventy-five years ago—an entrance to the catacombs from the street, and I suppose everyone—church officials, city organizers, engineers, what have you—believed all the graves had been removed. Of course, most of the dead were buried then in wooden coffins, and in the ground area outside, most of those became dirt and bone. But there’d been underground catacombs, too. Coffins set upon shelves… Some of the dead were just shrouded, but some were in old wooden coffins, and they were decaying and falling apart and I had workers taking them down so carefully—and then, there she was!”

  He sipped his scotch again and looked at her intently. “Kieran, you’re not to say a word, not yet. The police…they asked me not to speak about this until…until someone was notified. I don’t think either of her parents are living, but she must have family…” His voice trailed off. “My God. It was ghastly!” he said a moment later. “Gruesome—ghastly!”

  This time, he didn’t sip his scotch. He swallowed it down in a gulp.

  Kieran wasn’t sure why she turned to look at the front door when she did; it was always opening and closing. Maybe she wanted to look anywhere except at John Shaw. She was a working psychologist, and yet she wasn’t sure what to say to the man.

  She glanced up just in time to see Craig Frasier come in, blink, adjust to the light and walk toward the two of them.

  She wasn’t surprised Craig was there; they were seeing each other and had been since the affair over the “flawless” Capeletti diamond. They were talking about giving up their current situation, in which they each had dresser drawers at the other’s apartment, and moving in together.

  But while she had truly fallen in love with Craig, she was a little hesitant—and a little worried that the man she believed to be her soul mate also happened to be a s
pecial agent with the FBI. Her family was striving to be legitimate now, which hadn’t always been the case. Growing up, her brothers had had a few brushes with the law.

  And trusting her beloved brothers to behave wasn’t easy. They were never malicious; however, their ways of helping friends out of bad situations weren’t always the best.

  Then again, she’d met Craig because of the Capeletti diamond and Danny’s determination to do the right thing…

  And because of some criminal clientele.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured to John, assuming that Craig had come to see her.

  The door was still open; he stood in a pool of light and her heart leapt as she saw him. Craig was, in her mind, entirely impressive, tall and broad-shouldered, with extraordinary eyes that seemed to take everything in.

  But he had not, apparently, come to see her.

  He greeted Kieran with a nod, held her shoulders for a minute—and then offered her a grim smile as he gently set her aside so he could move past her.

  Something was up. Craig spent his free time here with her and her family. Her friends, co-workers and the usual clientele all knew that Craig and Kieran were a couple.

  Today, however, there wasn’t even a quick kiss. Craig was being very official.

  He was heading straight to the booth where John Shaw was seated.

  Kieran stood there for a minute, perplexed.

  Of course, Craig was FBI. But a local woman had been killed, and, no matter how famous she’d been, it should’ve remained a matter for the NYC police department. And John Shaw had left the old church-now-screaming-hot-night-club less than an hour ago.

  Why would Craig be here so quickly? And more to the point, why was the FBI involved?

  She didn’t get a chance to slide back in to the booth and find out what was going on; she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around.

  Her brother Kevin was next to her. Kevin was a striking man—in anyone’s opinion, she thought. He was tall and fit with fine features, dark red hair and deep blue eyes; their coloring was the same. They were twins, and it showed. She loved her brother and she felt that acting was the perfect career for him. Like all of them, however, he worked at the pub when he could.