Mistress of Magic

by Heather Graham

  He had just wanted to hear it from her. And he had wanted to hear the nuances in her voice. There were so many things he could learn from Reggie that he’d never learn from a black-and-white typed police report.

  “They found prints,” he said.

  “Yes. In her apartment. Daphne’s, mine—I had been there a few times.”

  “And Max’s.”

  “Yes, and Max’s. And Ozzie’s and Rick Player’s and even Jesse’s. She had a party once, and had someone con them all into coming. The prints were all there.”

  “You really hated her, didn’t you?” he asked.

  He hadn’t even seen her pick up the lobster cracker again. It crunched loudly.

  A shell flew across the table. A mangled claw landed in his plate.

  He looked at her.

  “Can’t finish it all, huh?”

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  He smiled slowly. Her eyes were flashing. More dark hair was tumbling down. He was growing distracted. And damnably hot tremors were racing through his bloodstream.…

  For a brief moment he closed his eyes. God, he should feel good. Really good. If he could just forget the rest, and let the feelings wash over him! It had been so long since he had experienced anything like this.

  Even if it meant pain to come. Even the pain would be good. So much better than the numbness, the coldness, the emptiness that had haunted him for so long now.

  “Are you?” she demanded.

  “Reggie, you’ve got to look at everyone. Don’t you see, to clear Max, you find the real perpetrator of the crime.”

  “There may not have been a crime—”

  “You mean that Daphne may have trashed her own apartment and sunk Daphne’s Dare herself.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Possible, but—”

  “Give me a list. Give me a lineup of people who knew and loved her.”

  “Hated her.”

  “Fine.”

  Reggie stared at him balefully then set her cracker and lobster down. Her wrists rested tensely on the table.

  “All right, let’s see. There was Rick Player. He was always hanging around Daphne. He loved to be at the same spot with her any time Max might be around. He liked to torture Max.”

  “Did Max care? Was he bothered by Player’s attention to her?”

  Reggie shrugged. “I don’t think so. He seemed free from her once the divorce was over. But it was hard to tell.”

  “So go on.”

  “Um … ah, then there was Ozzie Daniels.”

  “The sensationalist reporter?”

  Reggie nodded. “He could have been a good reporter, I think. A really good one. Except that he was given much more money for working on a scandal sheet and given a free rein to do what he pleased. Daphne was a weak link to him. She’d always give him some kind of a story.”

  “What kind of a story did she intend to give him the day she disappeared?”

  Reggie shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Sounds like this Ozzie Daniels needed her around. She was good for him. And it sounds like Rick Player liked her, too.”

  “Meaning?”

  He shrugged. “Who really hated her? Who stood to gain by her disappearance?”

  Reggie sighed. “I don’t know!”

  He leaned close to her. “You have to know! There has to be someone.”

  She lifted her hands. “There’s Niles, there’s Jesse! Both of them despised the way she treated people.”

  “And then …” he murmured.

  “Then what?”

  “There’s you,” he said softly.

  “What?” she exclaimed furiously.

  “Max’s twin, determined to defend him against a black-widow woman.”

  “Oh, you are despicable!” She gasped, leaning close to him.

  God, he liked the way her eyes flashed. He liked the tick of her pulse against her throat.

  “Then there’s you!” she returned. “Max’s financial backer, a man who met Daphne at their wedding! A man who stood to lose and lose big if Max was dragged through the mud! An ex-military man, a man with the strength and purpose and coldness of heart to do anything to protect his own interests!”

  Her words sank over him like a sizzling blanket. This was not the way to make friends, he realized. But he wasn’t supposed to be making friends. He was supposed to be discovering the truth. But every moment couldn’t be a revelation.

  And the one discovery he was making was that he was fascinated by his partner’s sister.

  “Coldness of heart?” he queried, as if deeply injured.

  She threw her napkin on the table. “If you find this entire thing amusing—” Reggie broke off mid-sentence.

  She’d been so angry. So damned angry. He had an answer for everything. He’d sat there through the entire meal, amused, intense, watching her every awkward movement, pouncing upon her mistakes.

  It was his fault that a lobster shell had flown so damn far so damn many times!

  His smile had been quick and his easy charm had disarmed the couple who had spoken to them. But he was not easy or charming or amused now. His eyes glittered like cold metal as they fell upon her.

  And his fingers, around her wrist, were a vise that she couldn’t fight.

  “It isn’t amusing. None of it is amusing,” he assured her.

  “Then—”

  “Come on,” he said. He released her wrist and stood, signaling to the waitress for their check. He tossed a number of bills on the table, thanked the waitress and reached for Reggie’s hand again. “I’ll take you home.”

  “I can get home by myself.”

  “Don’t be absurd. If you called a cab, the driver would take you to the red-light district or the loony bin.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Not on your life. I brought you out—I’ll bring you home.”

  “I don’t need a protector—”

  “But maybe you do.”

  “I can manage on my own—”

  “I’m sure that you can. But I won’t let you.”

  His fingers tightened around her wrist. They didn’t hurt her. They were just firm. As firm as steel.

  She stared at him, then lifted her chin stubbornly. “You, Mr. Blake, are a pain in the backside. And if you don’t let go of me this instant, I just might be tempted to scream.”

  “Oh?”

  He still hadn’t hurt her. But suddenly she was standing—close to him. The scent of him seemed to be filling her, and flashes of heat seemed to be dancing up and down her spine. She could nearly feel the rough-hewn texture of his cheek. His voice touched and caressed her.

  “You’re going to scream?” he murmured. A slow smile was curling into his lips. “You’re the one dressed in red with fishnet stockings. Hmm. I should scream. Maybe you’ve been propositioning me. The outfit would impress the cops, I’m sure.”

  “You’re out of your mind!” she whispered.

  “Maybe. But I’m taking you home. Whether you scream or not. I’ll walk you out—or carry you out. But I will see you home.”

  “You are a truly arrogant bastard!” she said angrily.

  “Yeah. Maybe,” he agreed.

  His fingers curled around hers, and he led her out of the restaurant.

  And before she knew it, she had given him her address, and he was taking her home. And even as his car sped along the highway, she felt the growing tremor of her heart. And the heat that steamed and smoldered in her system.

  She would never let him stay, and yet she was certain he would try. But the really frightening part was …

  It was exactly what she really wanted him to do.

  Chapter 6

  Reggie’s house was somewhat away from the city and located in the surrounding farm, cattle and horse country that filled so much of the central part of the state. Her place wasn’t exactly a farm, but it was an old Colonial set back on about
three acres of land. There had been a house on the foundation as early as the 1840s when some of the first plantations had found their way down south, but that first house had burned to the ground in an Indian raid.

  Around the turn of the century some gentleman farmer had built a Colonial on the site. Reggie had fallen in love with the house the second she had seen it and—armed with some of the first real money she and Max had ever made—she had bought the place within forty-eight hours. Even Caleb had loved it from the start.

  Except that he had never been able to move into the house with her. The accident had occurred hours after she had signed the papers.

  She didn’t want to think about that tonight. The accident had been so long ago. But when she came upon the house in the dark like this—just as she and Caleb had come upon it that first time—she often couldn’t help but think of him.

  It was true that the pain was fading. No pain could last so intensely so long.

  But the hurt was still there. The emptiness and the hurt. The kind of feeling that made it all the worse to think that there might be nothing left in this world for her except for men like Rick Player.

  Well, she wasn’t with Rick Player tonight. And suddenly she was trying to think about Caleb.

  She couldn’t quite do it. She couldn’t quite summon his face to superimpose over that of the man beside her.

  “You can let me off at the foot of the drive,” she began, but quickly fell silent. He had taken her out; he was going to see her home.

  His car pulled up the long bricked drive and came to rest in front of the house. She had timers for the lights, and Mrs. Martin had been in today anyway, so everything would be alight and welcoming.

  He opened the driver’s door of his handsome, dark green Jaguar and came around to her side. He opened the door and politely reached out a hand to help her from the car. She hesitated briefly then took it.

  It wasn’t that she was trying to be petty at the moment. It was just that contact with him caused so many emotions and sensations to come cascading down on her.

  She wasn’t ready for them. She hadn’t felt the slightest tug of attraction in so long, and now …

  Her cheeks started to burn. She stepped from the car and hurried past him, fumbling in her bag for her key. “I’m really quite all right now—”

  He took the key from her fingers. “I can see that you’re just fine,” he told her dryly. He fit the key into the lock and pushed open the front door.

  She thought she heard a sound—muffled and soft like a door closing in the house.

  It was a sound that sent a river of chills sweeping along her spine. She was startled by the encompassing fear that suddenly seemed to blanket her.

  Had the noise been real? It had been so damn soft. But as she looked into Wes’s eyes in the bright light of the porch lantern, she knew instantly from his expression that she hadn’t imagined the sound at all.

  “Is someone else supposed to be here?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Unless Mrs. Martin stayed late. Except her car would be out here. What—”

  “There’s a back door?” he asked quickly.

  “Yes—”

  “Then that’s what!” he exclaimed harshly. He pushed past her and followed the center hall to the back and to the left, past the huge old-fashioned kitchen and family room to the door that led to the backyard and the open pool.

  Reggie ran along behind him. “Wait!” But he seemed to know where he was going. She ran after him, only vaguely aware that things seemed to be out of place. There wasn’t anything massively askew. Her home hadn’t been ravaged the same way Daphne’s had been; things were just slightly out of kilter. The bottom drawer of the big mirrored bureau in the entry-way was open just a hair. But she knew it had been closed that morning. And the seascape farther down the wall was tilted, as if someone had brushed it with a shoulder as he or she had rushed by it.

  “Wait!” Reggie called again, but Wes was already in her kitchen, at the back door.

  He had pushed it open. It hadn’t been locked. He stood in the doorway looking at her. “Close this behind me. Lock it. Don’t open it unless you hear my voice. My voice! No one else’s. Understand!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Lock the damn door behind me!”

  He was gone, and the door slammed sharply in his wake. She stared at it for a moment. A moment too long.

  “Lock it! Quickly.”

  She did so, then leaned against it, waiting, scarcely able to breathe.

  Then, just seconds later, she heard the sharp explosion of a gunshot.

  No, it could be a car backfiring.…

  But she didn’t think so. Her neighbors were too far away. She hadn’t seen anyone parked along the road.

  Someone was shooting. At Wesley Blake.

  She turned and threw open the door. “Wes!” she cried out. She heard another explosion and a whizzing sound. Close. Very close. Then she spun around, a scream escaping from her lips. The wood paneling on the wall behind her exploded with a soft thud as a bullet was embedded in it.

  Then she was suddenly flying and lying flat on the ground with a tremendous weight and strength over her. She started to scream, but the weight was quickly up, and she fell silent as she stared into a pair of furious gold eyes.

  “I told you to lock the door! You almost got yourself killed!”

  “I’m sorry! Forgive me for trying to make sure that you didn’t get yourself killed!”

  He straddled her. The door was closed behind them. He must have slammed it shut when he came flying in to bring her to the ground.

  It occurred to her, even as she met the fever of his gaze, that she very nearly had been killed. A bullet had flown by, just inches from her head. She swallowed hard, fighting the trembling that had begun inside her. And then, even as she felt the shivers of fear seizing her, she became aware of more. Of his thighs, clutched so tightly around her hips. Of his arms, pinioning her, to the floor.

  And though she was shaking, she was tempted to reach up and touch his face.…

  “Damn it! I had my chance! I might have caught him! If you hadn’t opened that door—”

  “Excuse me! I do apologize for thinking that any life—even yours—is valuable!”

  “I told you to stay inside!”

  “And I’m not in the military! I don’t take orders!”

  “This has nothing to do with the military! This has to do with common sense and living!”

  He was so angry. She wanted to explode in return, except that she had been wrong, however nobly, and her teeth were chattering, and more than anything she simply wanted to stand. “Would you get up, please?”

  He jumped up quickly, reaching down a hand to her. She didn’t take it, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet anyway. “I’m taking a look around. Call the police. The emergency number.”

  Once again, he was gone. She dialed.

  By the time he returned to the house, a patrol car was arriving. It had been a long day. The night promised to stretch into eternity.

  When the first officers arrived, the younger one went out with Wes to survey the back while the older of the pair asked Reggie questions.

  Within fifteen minutes, Sergeant Wiler, the detective in charge of Daphne’s disappearance, arrived. Then they went through all the questions again.

  Reggie made coffee.

  The fingerprint men came and dusted every imaginable surface.

  Wiler questioned Wes, but to Reggie’s annoyance, the two seemed to have met already, and if they weren’t exactly friends, they had acquired a wary respect for one another.

  The bullet was dug out of her wall—along with a piece of the paneling.

  “A .38,” Wes said, looking at the chunk of wood and the bullet.

  “Maybe ballistics can tell us a little bit more,” Wiler said. He wagged a finger at Reggie. “Are you sure you’re telling me everything, Miss Delaney?”

  Reggie sighed. “Detective
Wiler, if I could help in any way, don’t you think that I would?” Wiler was annoyingly silent. “This could be an unrelated event, you know,” she said with exasperation. “Maybe it was just a burglar.”

  “One who didn’t burgle anything,” Wes said lightly. He was leaning against the paneling at the rear of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Wiler, a fortyish man with iron-gray hair, a hard, trim body and face to match, glanced his way quickly, then stared at Reggie. “Exactly.”

  Reggie threw up her hands. “Maybe it was a thief-one that we interrupted!”

  “And maybe,” Wes suggested softly, “there is something in particular here that someone wants—and hasn’t managed to find as yet.”

  The sergeant frowned suddenly. Wiler had been staring at her strangely since he had arrived. He was seated at her breakfast table, and she was resting tiredly against the sink. He leaned toward her, his frown deepening.

  “Just where were you this evening?”

  “We went to dinner, Sergeant. We just went to dinner—”

  “Dressed like that?”

  Reggie stiffened, remembering that she was still in the garish red costume with fishnet stockings. No wonder they had all been staring at her. “It was a very late day,” she said flatly.

  One of the fingerprint men snickered, then quickly looked at his dusting.

  “Maybe this particular thief knew that you were going to be out. Did you tell anyone you were going to dinner?”

  “No,” Reggie said. “No, just—”

  Max. Max had known.

  And Wes was thinking the same thing. She could tell by the way he was looking at her.

  That was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Max would never hurt her, let alone shoot at her. Surely Wes knew that.

  “Just who, Miss Delaney?” Wiler persisted.

  “No one. I’m so tired, I really can’t think,” she said wearily.

  “Maybe someone did know that you would be out.”

  Reggie pressed her temples between her thumb and forefinger. “Maybe. I don’t know. But gentlemen, it has been a very long day, and I’m going to have another long day tomorrow. If you don’t mind …?” She let the implication trail as politely as she could.