Snowfire

by Heather Graham

  She wanted to hate him. She wanted to hate him so fiercely. She wanted to keep her anger alive, because it mattered so much that he believe in her.

  It hadn’t been a full two days since she had seen him. It hadn’t been a full eight days since she had met him.

  But in that time, he had become her life.…

  He paused, meeting her eyes. “Good morning, Ms. Kennedy,” he said. His voice was husky, soft. It sent sensations sweeping down the length of her spine. And she waited.…

  Chapter 8

  She waited for nothing.

  Justin passed her by without blinking an eye. He walked on, ignoring her. He squatted down in back of the Cherokee to attach the hooks of the towline to her bumper. When he disappeared from her view there, she felt a flood of unreasoning fury rip through her. She hurried to the rear of the car.

  “I don’t need your help!”

  He glanced up at her, a dark brow raised. “I wasn’t helping you. I was helping Roger.”

  “I don’t want you touching my car!”

  “I don’t want your car in front of my house.”

  He finished with the hooks and rose. His eyes fell on her things in the back of the Cherokee.

  “Clothing,” he commented idly. His eyes met hers. “How nice. You did intend to wear some.”

  “You’ll certainly never see me without them again,” she returned sweetly.

  “Ah, but certain things will live on in memory,” he said lightly. Before she could think of a suitable rebuttal, he was commenting on the contents of the Cherokee again. “And my, my, what else? Could that be a computer? And a printer. What a way to visit relatives. Bring your work right along with you—or acquire it on the way.”

  “What a talent you have with words,” she said. “It’s easy to understand why you’re a successful playwright—and such an unsuccessful husband.”

  He stiffened at that, and his smile hardened even more. “I can’t wait to read this article. It’s easy to understand that you must be a very successful rag writer.”

  She kept her smile sweetly in place despite the storm raging inside her. “I’ve never written for any rag papers, Mr. Magnasun. I don’t write stories about people like you.”

  “That’s good to hear,” he said. His eyes were still fixed on her, but Roger was calling to him, and he turned around to head toward the Blazer. “Nice assortment,” he told her, gazing back at the lingerie spread across the back of the Cherokee. “I’d use that mauve piece on your next victim. It’s a winner.”

  In all her life she’d never felt anger sear through her so swiftly. She bent down and found a hard wad of snow and threw it for all she was worth. Just when it cracked against the back of his head, she remembered regretfully that this was exactly what they had been doing when they last parted.

  Except this was different now.

  This was war.

  Justin stiffened, then turned slowly.

  And despite Roger, despite her car, despite everything, Kristin decided it might be prudent to run.

  Definitely…

  Especially when he turned slowly and she saw his eyes.

  She ran.

  In seconds he was after her across the snow. She heard his footsteps right behind her. She tried to veer into the trees but knew she’d never make it. Her flight brought her closer and closer to the house. He was on her heels as she reached the front door. She managed to get inside it, and had almost slammed the door when his shoulders heaved against it, nearly sending her flying. She pushed back against it with all her might.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he called.

  “Locking you out!”

  “It’s my house!”

  “But you’re going to…”

  The words died away on her lips. Kill me. They held a different meaning here, and she couldn’t voice them.

  “You’re going to do…something to me,” she responded.

  “I’d like to do something to you, all right,” he muttered darkly. “Open the door! It’s my house.”

  “Promise you’re not going to—”

  “To what?”

  “Throw a snowball back at me.”

  “I promise I’m not going to throw a snowball back at you. Open the door!”

  But he didn’t wait for her to open it. He shoved his shoulder against it hard, and it burst open. In a second he had her by the arm and was dragging her back into the snow.

  “You promised!” she reminded him.

  “That hurt like hell!” he stormed.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, it hit me dead in the center of the neck because you didn’t mean to throw it?”

  “No…I…” She backed away from him. He made a flying leap at her as a tackle might, and she was flat on her back in the snow and he was straddling her.

  “You promised—”

  “I said I wouldn’t throw a snowball at you. This one is just going to drop down on your nose by accident!”

  “But you deserved it!”

  He had deserved it. And she hadn’t deserved this. His face so close, his hands upon her. His hips locked to hers while his thighs closed around her, hot, tight. Her breathing was coming impossibly fast, and her heart was beating like wildfire. She moistened her lips against the sudden dryness that seized them, and then she felt the touch of his eyes, watching her mouth. And she thought that he wanted to kiss her, and she wanted to feel that kiss so very badly. There was warmth within him, so much warmth, sweet and combustible.

  “I deserved it!” he grated. He didn’t drop a snowball on her. His gloved fingers curled around hers as he held her down in the snow. He leaned impossibly close. His lips almost touched hers. His breath fanned her cheek and she strained against him, only to feel more of his body despite the masses of clothing that covered them both. She could feel so much.…

  And she could feel that he wanted her then, as much as she wanted him. No matter what their words. Tension rose. They were both trying to speak. Words were lost.

  “What, Ms. Kennedy? Are you missing something that you need for your story?” he asked her huskily.

  “I could write what a bastard you are already!” she snapped back. God, make it matter! she prayed suddenly. Don’t let me forget what he’s saying in all this longing.…

  “Your computer is right in the car!” he challenged her.

  “And your life is public record!” she reminded him passionately. Oh, God, his mouth was so close, so very close.

  “You want more than public record, don’t you?”

  So much more, she could have said. But he’d never have understood.

  “Get off me, please.”

  “But I’m talking to you.”

  “I told you that I never wanted to talk to you again—that even if you dragged yourself through five miles of snow I’d never forgive you. Remember?”

  “There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that ever happening, Ms. Kennedy.”

  “Then get your two-ton body off mine, please!”

  But he wasn’t moving, he was watching her. Watching her eyes, his fingers closing more tightly around hers. He was going to kiss her. And she longed to feel his mouth again. The warmth and the searing liquid pleasure of his kiss…

  “Oh, come on, guys, please!”

  The mournful request came from over their heads. Roger was there.

  “Justin, she is my cousin. If you two are going to get into this thing hot and heavy again, just tell me and I’ll go away quietly. But if you’re trying to sacrifice her to the snow gods, then I’ve got to step in here!”

  Justin grated his teeth and stood, pulling Kristin up with him. They just stared at each other heatedly.

  “Well,” Roger murmured, “if anyone cares, I’ve gotten the Cherokee started.”

  “I care!” Kristin said quickly. She stared at Justin a moment longer, then turned and ran down the lawn. She hurried into the Cherokee, then sat at the wheel a moment, her hands shaking. She
had been ready to kiss him again.

  No, she had been ready to do anything with him again.

  And he hadn’t apologized; he had accused her all over again.

  She revved the Cherokee to life. Roger had backed it well onto the road for her. She touched the gas pedal, and headed for Roger and Sue’s.

  The next morning, the sky was actually blue. The weather remained cold, but the sky was beautiful and the snow on the ground remained white and beautiful, too. And the power and phones had come back on.

  Roger had driven to Athol where he was teaching, and Sue had a doctor’s appointment. Kristin was glad, because she didn’t feel like a confrontation with either of them when she decided go through the newspaper morgue in their small-town library.

  There was a single librarian there, a friendly, elderly lady. Kristin was careful not to say exactly what she was after—news traveled fast in a small town—but when she tried to hedge, the woman discovered what she was after anyway.

  “The murder, of course!” the librarian said smugly. “Well, it’s all that’s ever really happened out here, so it’s what people tend to look up. It is fascinating for a small place like this. Such interesting, famous people! He still has a home hereabouts, but then we keep it quiet, we do. Most of the time,” she added, realizing that she was talking away. “Well, he seems to be a fine man, he does. He’s always been good to the townsfolk, helping out, and more. He’s just plain friendly, no airs about him.

  “Now her…well, she was another cup of tea. If he did wring her neck, can’t say as how I’d blame him. Maybe he did. Such a good-looking man, but a powerful one, too, you know…?”

  “Yes, of course,” Kristin murmured.

  “They were all in here the day of that party of his, the day she died. If you want the truth of it, I think the agent, that Artie person, was halfway in love with her. She was disgraceful. But then, Mr. Magnasun himself was being so courteous to that young blond thing, Roxanne-whatever-her-name-is. She’s going to be in the play when it reopens on Broadway. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Kristin said.

  “The play is going to have the exact same cast—except for Myra Breckenridge, of course. Some say she’s haunting the rehearsals, though. Anyway, there’s speculation about the case all over again. Hasn’t hurt Mr. Magnasun’s career any, though, I must say. People do just love a good scandal!”

  “Yes, I see that they do,” Kristin said.

  Since the librarian knew what she was doing, Kristin went ahead and asked her for the exact files she wanted. The friendly librarian set her up with the microfiche and a viewer and then left her alone.

  It was just a two-room library, built in the late 1700s and not changed much since then. The librarian was out in the main room with all the books, and Kristin was back in the smaller research room. It was pleasant and homey. She was working at one of several old desks, and there were big leather chairs set before a fire. But there was no one there to enjoy them. Other than herself and the librarian, she had the place to herself.

  After a few minutes, even the librarian left. She came to tell Kristin that she was going for some lunch. “I’ll be at Tilly’s Room and Board place, picking up a sandwich, dear. Can I bring you one?”

  “No, thanks, but a cup of tea would be great,” Kristin said, reaching for her purse.

  “No, no, you’re Roger’s cousin, and he and Sue are always bringing me goodies. Let me get you a cup of tea.”

  Kristin thanked her, and the woman left. Small-town life was so very different. The librarian didn’t mind a bit leaving the place untended.

  Back to work, Kristin told herself. She had found the first of the newspaper accounts.

  The world Snowfire! blazed across one headline. She scanned the article quickly. It began with the discovery of Myra’s body in the snow. It went on to describe the party, Justin’s house and Justin’s fame. Suspicion was already cast upon him in the article. The names of the other guests were mentioned, but not much information was given about them.

  Kristin then found a number of interviews with the guests. The reporter must have loved Roxanne Baynes, the young ingenue, because he gave her a full head shot. There was also a photo of Artie Fein, his head between his knees, weeping.

  Kristin drew a pad and paper from her purse and began scribbling out names. Justin had mentioned them before, but she really hadn’t paid enough attention.

  There were the stars of Snowfire—Roxanne, the handsome young Jack Jones and the talented Harry Johnston. There was the film critic, Joseph Banks. Banks…he had commented to the reporter that Myra Breckenridge had chosen to “depart this life just as dramatically as she lived it.” Banks’s wife, Sara, pictured hanging on to his arm, was wide-eyed, soft, delicate, pretty. Also at the party had been Myra’s agent, Artie Fein, and Justin’s agent, Christina Anderson, a tall, slinky blonde.

  Christina was some agent, Kristin decided. But then she recognized the ugly pangs of jealousy rising in her heart. She had no right to judge Christina Anderson. She’d met several agents in her time, and many of them were bright and attractive young women.

  So where did she start? Kristin wondered. Two agents, three surviving cast members, a theater critic and his wife, And the maid, Consuela.

  She thought for a minute, and sincerely doubted Consuela would be worth investigating. She had merely been hired for the party, according to the article. There had been no previous connection with either Myra or Justin, and she surely had no reason to strangle Myra. Kristin doubted that Consuela could have hated Myra that much—even if the movie queen had made some disparaging remark about the food or drink for the evening.

  No, this was definitely more than burnt rolls!

  The single picture of Justin showed him dry-eyed and stoic. He hadn’t been going to break. He’d known he was under suspicion, and his defenses were already up.

  She tapped her fingers on the desk, then turned back to the information on Roxanne Baynes. Something in one of the articles had drawn her attention. She went back looking for it, wondering what it was.

  She scanned the paper and found a mention in one article that Roxanne’s hometown was Boston.

  They would be in the last few weeks of rehearsals for the revival, Kristin thought quickly. But still…

  On a hunch she stood up and dug through her purse for her Calling Card. She started to gather up her belongings, but then she shrugged. The librarian had left an entire library of books, a computer and other valuable equipment. Kristin decided to leave behind her things.

  She hurried out to the street and looked for a phone booth. There was one just outside the eighteenth-century building at the far side of the town square. She hurried over to it.

  After she got through to information in Boston, she thought that she was probably being a fool. She wondered if Roxanne Baynes was even the woman’s real name, and she almost hung up before she started. But an operator was already on the other end of the line, and she asked him for a listing for Roxanne Baynes. To her surprise, she was given a number.

  She dialed it, and to her further surprise, she reached a recording that gave her a number in New York. Thinking she was on a roll, she dialed again, calling New York City.

  She was on a roll. A woman with a husky voice answered the phone. A breathy, Marilyn Monroe type of voice, feminine, feline.

  “Miss Baynes?”

  “Speaking. How may I help you?”

  Kristin winced, wondering if she should identify herself as a reporter. She decided to plunge right into the water and see where Roxanne stood.

  “My name is Kristin Kennedy, and I’m a free-lance reporter, Miss Baynes. I’m interested in doing a piece on the reopening of Snowfire. I was so surprised to hear that the cast was being gathered to perform in it once again.”

  “Hey, it’s a job, and a good one.”

  “Do you mind speaking with me? I was rather surprised to be able to track you down so easily. I was afraid that you’d be…”


  “A little snob with an army of protection?” she asked in the breathy voice. “No,” she continued with a sigh. “I’m afraid I’m not a movie star, just a hardworking stage actress. And I don’t mind talking about Snowfire at all—that is, if you’re going to say nice things about me.”

  Kristin laughed softly. “Well, I don’t suppose I’ll find it difficult to rave about the play—I understand it’s excellent. I would like to find out more about—”

  “The murder,” Roxanne Baynes interrupted her.

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause.

  “Do you think Justin Magnasun was guilty?” Kristin prodded her.

  “Who knows? Perhaps she could have died from sheer nastiness alone.”

  “Was she…mean to you?”

  “Myra could be mean to everyone, but she was in seventh heaven when she died. The play was a smashing success and her notices were all raves. I’ve got to run, Ms. Kennedy, I’ve got a rehearsal.”

  “May I call you later?”

  “I’ll be home in Massachusetts this weekend. Try me then.”

  “Great!” Kristin said. She thanked the woman, then hung up the phone pensively.

  A streak of excitement ran through her. She was on her way to something at last. Smiling, she walked back to the library.

  The librarian was still gone, and Kristin’s things were right where she had left them. The newspaper microfiche was still in the machine.

  Thoughtfully, she looked through more articles. And pictures. There were more of Roxanne, then more of Jack Jones.

  Then there was a picture of Myra Breckenridge. Fallen in the snow. Beautiful, silent…dead.

  Staring at the screen, Kristin realized that a shadow had fallen over it. A large shadow.

  And she was alone in the small library.

  All alone.

  Panic filled her and she spun around and gasped.

  A man was standing before the fire. He must have been sitting in one of the chairs there. She hadn’t noticed him before now.