LIAR’S MOON
Heather Graham
She'd been a wild teenager willing to risk anything for revenge. But when she seduced Leif Johnston, she hadn't counted on falling helplessly in love… hadn't believed her family would intervene and sweep her off to Switzerland.
Seven years later, Tracy Kuger was a successful, independent woman. But her determination to find her father's killer would carry her right back into New York's deceiving limelight… into the treacherous bosom of her powerful family… into Leif's lean, hungry arms.
Passion and peril bound them together even as doubts and dangerous secrets tore them apart. Tormented by the past, could Tracy face the truth and embrace the future—a love born under a liar's moon?
PROLOGUE
She came to him in the darkness, in the coolness of the night, and through the years it would be in the darkness, beneath the glowing cast of the moon, that he would recall her.
Of all the things that came and went in life—battles and peace, pain and triumph—of all these things, only she came back to haunt him. She came to him in his dreams, in vivid recall, so that he would wake, drenched with sweat, thinking that he could reach out and touch her again—smell the sweet aroma of her perfume, feel the curve of her breast, the whisper of her caress.
He remembered that very first night.
She was standing in the doorway, framed by the glow of the moon—a liar’s moon, they had laughingly called it. Shadowed and soft, a moon that hid sins and sheltered guilt and glowed with softest beauty.
She paused there in that doorway and slowly, slowly bent to cast her heels away. So clearly he remembered the grace of her feline stretch, the supple shape of her legs, the soft thud of her shoes as they fell.
She came into the room slowly and elegantly, her walk easy, luxurious, unhurried. So confident, so sensual. She came that way to the center of the room, where that liar’s moon could fall upon her from the bay window that opened to the garden and the night breeze. She reached for the string of her gown at her nape, releasing it, shaking back the lustrous waves of her hair as she did so.
The gown fell to become a pool at her feet. Beneath it, she was naked. No slip, no teddy, no lace, no stockings. Just bare and elegant beneath the moon glow—a glow falling upon the fullness of her breasts, the firmness, the slender curves of her body. Skin like satin, taut and sleek, so breathtaking. Everything—everything about her so perfect. The slope of her shoulders, the line of her back, the flare of her hip.
Her eyes were indigo—sparkling, reflecting, catching the moonbeams, so deep and dark, so touched by brilliance. He knew, because he came to her, scarcely able to breathe. Touched her shoulders and felt her shivering, trembling. Who was she? He had wondered then, but he hadn’t really cared. He hadn’t known…
She had danced with him, laughed with him. And when he had fled the party, she had come to him, telling him silently that she was through with it, too, that she longed to go with him.
He had forgotten Celia—forgotten the problems that had plagued him. And in the moments to come he forgot all else. Schedules and deadlines and tunes and commitments. Survival, fame and fortune.
He remembered that first kiss; folding her into his arms, letting his fingers play over her skin, curl into her tresses, caress her shape, and wonder again at its fullness and perfection. Her taste, her scent! These, too, he could remember. The feel of her small hands against him, touching him…
That kiss, that kiss…
She was so bold, it inflamed him; yet all the while she trembled. Bolder still, and he was stunned—and taken. Yes, oh, yes, touch me—the fever of his whisper, the depth of his fascination. Her touch, her tongue, her kiss, so refined, so abandoned…
She’d never made love before.
He’d tried to leave her, but she’d whispered out his name. Soft, plaintive, broken, and he was back. A groan echoed all his emotions, for she was a web of complexities—innocence and deepest knowledge, sensual beauty and quaking uncertainty.
Whispers throughout the night.
Lies and whispers, for none of her words were true. Not the need, not the reason—not even her name.
Still, it was what he remembered. That night. Each kiss, each caress. The feel of her hair against his chest, the soft pressure of her body, the cadence of her heart, of her breath, of her movement against him. There was more in the days to come—more of the fascination, more of the love. He taught her about love, and never knew that there could be such pleasure in teaching. And in teaching he learned. Laughed and teased, whispered and groaned. And fell… fell, deeper and deeper, until the loving was a natural thing. Each kiss, each caress, the sway of her hips, the eternal blue beauty of her guileless eyes…
Asleep then, he twisted and turned, the sweat beading upon his forehead, his breath coming too fast.
He woke, bolting up in his bed, crossing to the balcony.
Of all things to remember in life! Not the horrors of war, not the pain of loss. Not the magic of success.
Just her.
The streaking month of beauty, kissed by the liar’s moon. The nightmare that always woke him. Jesse standing there screaming—Leif amazed. Stunned. And looking at her in disbelief.
Tracy—is it true?
Her tears; her anger. Her screams against those who had so crudely burst in upon them…
That was all he could remember because the blow had come to his head then and he’d fallen unconscious to the floor.
Oh, God! It was so many years ago.
He didn’t know why the dream had haunted him so exceptionally vividly this night.
Or maybe he did. He’d been thinking about her. Wondering where she was. No, it had been more than that. If she didn’t surface soon, he was going to have to hire a detective to find her. He didn’t know if she was in danger or not—he only knew that in remembrance of Jesse, by God, he would see that no harm would come to her. Jesse—her father. And Leif’s best friend.
That much he owed Jesse. Oh, God… Jesse.
Leif stared up at the night sky. The moon was out. A half-moon, shadowed, cryptic. It seemed like a moon of foreboding that night.
A chill swept through him. He felt a sudden urgency. He had to find her. He had to know that she was near him, that he could watch her. Jamie, Jesse’s son, her half brother, was with him, beneath his wing. He wanted her here, too, but no one had seen her, no one seemed to know what continent she was on, much less what city.
Silly, he tried to tell himself. Nothing would happen to her; nothing would happen to Jamie.
He would have said the same thing about Jesse, and Jesse was dead. God, how he missed Jesse. More than Celia.
He stared up at the moon again. A silver crescent there in the sky, shadowed, elusive.
A liar’s moon.
Tracy…
He’d fallen in love with her then. And nothing had really changed that. Not the betrayal, not the pain. Not Jesse, not her mother, Audrey, or even his own wife, Celia. And he had loved his wife. A different love, a different caring.
He would have found Tracy, if they’d given him half a chance.
A man couldn’t stay in love with a mirage for seven years. And he hadn’t, of course. He’d married Celia, and it had been a good marriage, but Celia, sweet and gentle and lovely, was gone now, and for the life of him, his mirage held the greater recall.
A man couldn’t stay in love for seven years…
And he hadn’t. He just wanted to see her again. For Jesse’s sake.
And only maybe for his own.
Leif gave himself a severe shake and stared at the moon again. Foolish. He had debts to pay, nothing more. He’d loved Jesse, and Jesse deserved justice. There was a way… but Jamie and Tracy had to be protected and—
CHAPTER ONE
The curtains on the next balcony were open to the night, fluttering gently in the breeze. Tracy hesitated briefly— the two balconies were not a foot apart, but still, the ground was over forty stories below.
She shrugged, wryly admitting that anyone seeing a woman in a nightgown crawling from balcony to balcony this high in the air would have to assume that she was mad.
But she had to see Jamie, and she had to see him alone. He had bodyguards these days, and a host of personnel, and she didn’t want to go through any of them—not now. Not this first time.
She thought about running back into her room and dressing in something more substantial, but by then he might have locked himself into one of the suite’s bedrooms and she would never reach him. She should have stayed dressed, of course, but when midnight had come and gone, and then one a.m. and two a.m., she had about given up hope that he was returning to the suite at all.
It was really no big deal. Maybe eight inches.
She bunched her gown together, gripped the concrete railing across from her, and smoothly made the little leap. And well timed, too—he was still humming in the hallway, surveying his new domain. She grinned watching him. You little egotist! she thought affectionately. He was just twenty. A little ego wasn’t such a bad thing— when she thought of the things she had done in her youth, her brother was way ahead of her.
She leaned back, though, watching him. It had been years since she had seen him. He might not even remember her. But she was convinced that he would welcome her—and help her. They were both Jesse’s children, and she was certain that blood would win out.
There was a small, smug smile upon Jamie’s face as he closed the door to his luxurious suite and ambled into the salon, looking about himself, as if he were in awe.
Suddenly, he grinned deeply and leapt into one of the beautifully upholstered Victorian chairs—and planted his booted feet upon the gleaming oak coffee table. At his side lay an ice bucket containing an expensive vintage bottle of champagne. Jamie poured himself a crystal glass of the stuff, surveyed the bubbles, laughed delightedly, and downed the glass. Then he poured some more.
Watching him, Tracy hid a wry and secret smile. Oh, yes, he was smug! But why not—the world was his. Far below his penthouse windows, fans were still screaming on the street. All this—for him!
He started to sip his second glass of champagne, then paused, catching sight of himself in the mirror across from the chair.
He looked a lot like their father, Tracy thought, and wondered if he wasn’t thinking the same thing.
Jamie Kuger was thinking exactly that as he surveyed his assets. Blue eyes, blond hair, slim—artistic—face. Long, lanky build, a certain, melancholy and mysterious appeal. James, my boy, he silently told himself, you are just like the old man. Just like the old man. Oh, yeah…
But at that thought, he closed his eyes and swallowed back a host of tears. That was why he was here, wasn’t it? Because he was so much like his father!
Chills riddled him. He’d been feeling on top of the world when he’d come in, and suddenly it was all different. He didn’t feel like a twenty-year-old millionaire. He felt like a little boy—alone, lost, confused, utterly miserable. The loss was still such a horrible shock.
Jesse Kuger was dead, and had been dead for almost a year. But he had been a magic man. A magical music man. Together with Leif, Tiger, and Sam, Jesse had been part of the Limelights—a group to rival the Beatles, the Stones—any and every rock group that had ever come along. They were musicians who created songs and lyrics that were already considered classic—changing, flowing, growing constantly. And Jesse had been known and loved, admired and gossiped about the world over. He had been a personality belonging to everyone, to the world.
To Jamie, though, good and bad, he had been so much more. He had been his father. A comet, a burning, blinding star—but above all, his father. Loved and adored for his genius—and his faults. I’m going to start crying, Jamie warned himself. And I’ve already cried and cried, and it’s useless to do it again…
He started, hearing a rustling from the balcony. He frowned, wondering who could have gotten past the hotel’s security system and his own bodyguards to crawl around his balcony.
He stood with youthful and agile grace, then trod silently across the plush carpeting to the drapes that just whispered in movement from the soft breeze that came in from the park.
He parted the drapes slightly.
Night was upon the city. A haze of neon shed magical light upon the elegant balustrade, clearly outlining the slender form of the sylph of a girl who seemed to be awaiting him.
She was leaned against the wall, casually staring out into the night. Her hair was a rich mahogany, burnished and radiant, softly curling around her shoulders. Her eyes were blue, dark as India ink in the night, staring curiously into his. She wore the most entrancing outfit— some soft, slinky, silky thing that clung to her in the breeze. She was small but she was mature. Definitely mature. Slim and tiny but with curves, too, defined by the bedroom outfit—and stunning.
Jamie smiled slowly. “Hi,” he told her. He assumed that one of the guys in the band had sent her, as a present, or a gag. They’d been teasing him about his youth.
“Jamie. You’re back, at last,” she said with a note of annoyance.
“Ah, yes,” he returned, smiling and stepping out on the balcony. “ ‘At long last love!’ ”
She gave him a most peculiar look, then strode past him impatiently. Watching her, Jamie frowned again. This was certainly not the attitude he would have expected. He was adored—idolized!—by millions of screaming girls. He was supposed to have a smile that could kill—or captivate for life at any rate. And “bedroom eyes.” Hadn’t one of the magazines described him that way?
And a rich voice, of course. Just last week that senator’s daughter had told him that his voice alone could send her into spasms of ecstasy.
So what went? Someone had hired him a stunning and voluptuous little doxy—and she seemed to be clock-watching! He was irritated for a second, then shrugged, his natural humor coming to the fore. Ah, well. He’d be more charming—and she’d forget all about the time.
He followed her back into the room, watching her. She sat on the sofa rather primly, bare feet flat on the ground, hands folded on her knees. A sizzle swept through him again as he appreciated her assets. She was an “older” woman, he decided. At least twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight. Her face was a beautiful heart shape, with full red lips, small, slightly tipped nose, and rich mahogany brows that arched over her deep blue eyes. Sophisticated, yes—it was a sophisticated face, as elegant as the soft, silky material that floated around her. He could already imagine her lips damp and parted from his expert kiss, breasts heaving with the rush of her breath as she responded to his touch. Those eyes, soft and liquid…
Only they weren’t soft and liquid at all. They were studying him quite sternly.
Keep your cool, keep your cool, Jamie! He warned himself. And he did. Half grinning, he moved around the couch, keeping his eyes on her—bedroom eyes, of course. He’d take his time; she could make the moves.
“Champagne?” He asked her, coming around to the bucket.
She shrugged, then smiled at last. “Sure, why not?”
He managed to pour the champagne without taking his eyes from hers. Cary Grant couldn’t have done it a whit better, Jamie decided, congratulating himself.
He brought the glass of champagne around to her, handed it to her, procured one for himself, and sat beside her—giving her distance, of course.
But he rested his arm against the rise of the sofa, just beyond her back. Then he gave her his absolute best smile, inclining his head close to hers—and touching her, touching her at last. Just letting his fingertips dangle upon her bare flesh at her shoulder.
She seemed to freeze for a minute. Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed.
; She shook his hand impatiently away.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jamie! Are you trying to pick me up?”
“I beg your pardon!” To his horror, he flushed with embarrassment. “Hey—wait a minute, what is this? You were out there on the balcony. All dressed up for an intimate encounter!”
“I am not dressed up for an intimate anything!” she replied with irate indignity. “My, Lord, I’d about given up on reaching you tonight. I was ready to go to bed.”
“Your bed or my bed?”
“Oh, no, I don’t believe this!” she exclaimed.
Jamie shook his head in confusion. “You don’t believe this!” He swallowed down his champagne and shuddered, staring at her reproachfully. “I find a negligee-clad woman on my balcony and when I invite her in, she goes bananas! Who the hell are you and what are you doing on my balcony if you’re not trying to pick me up?”
She returned his gaze in amazement, then broke into laughter.
Jamie was suddenly on his feet. “What are you laughing at! Honest! Hey! You’re barely dressed, and in my room, and—”
“And it never—never!—in a thousand years occurred to me that you might try to pick me up!” she interrupted him, smiling ruefully.
God, was she lovely! he thought. But what on earth…
“Jamie—give it up. That lovely, lanky charm means nothing to me. I’m your sister.”
He gasped in startled surprise and staggered back. He reached for the champagne bottle and didn’t even think about getting a glass—he just chugged down a good swallow, which made him cough. She jumped up and started patting his back. Teary-eyed, he kept looking at her, in awe.
“Tracy?”
“Yes.”
“You’re Tracy?”
“Yes, I’m Tracy!”
“Oh, my God!”
“No,” she grinned. “Just your sister!”
“Oh!” He sank into the sofa. She sat beside him, curling her feet beneath her. Jamie stared at her, totally intrigued, totally fascinated; she studied him in the same fashion, as if they could absorb all the lost years by learning the little visual nuances of one another.
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