“Because it isn’t mine.” She could barely control the pain in her voice. “Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?”
Six months ago the bracelet had saved her life. Today it was a symbol of her entrapment and her guilt.
“Wear it,” he insisted.
She stared at him, burning to refuse. He had refused to acknowledge her as anyone but Alison. He wouldn’t even utter her real name. Marnie Hazelton didn’t exist for him, so he couldn’t possibly know how hard this was for her. Nor did he care. They had an agreement, and he expected her to honor it.
Why couldn’t she? Why the hell couldn’t she just do this? The alternative was jail, certainly for her. A life sentence. The death penalty. It all loomed in Marnie Hazelton’s future.
Her throat tightened as she took the bracelet from him. But was she angry at him for her predicament, or herself? He had come up with the master plan, but she had agreed to it. He’d never once threatened her.
He’d come to her when she was still in the hospital, recovering from the surgery. Sitting by her bedside, he’d told her that Marnie Hazelton could hide in plain sight. She could assume Alison’s identity. He’d promised he would help her. He would coach her and tell her everything he knew about his wife and her history. Marnie hadn’t believed it could work, but she and Alison were remarkably close in body type, and Andrew had convinced her she could explain away any changes in her appearance and voice as a result of the surgery. And if she was asked questions she couldn’t answer, she could use her diagnosis as an excuse: transient amnesia, caused by head trauma.
Andrew had only had one binding condition: Marnie Hazelton must die so that Alison could live. She had to be Alison at all times, even when they were alone. Even when she was alone. She had to transform to the very marrow of her bones. Otherwise, no one would be fooled, and their plan would fail.
It should have worked perfectly. Marnie was well motivated, and with Andrew’s help she had become an uncanny facsimile of Alison. She’d transformed herself, inside and out, even capturing the watchful Mona Lisa smile that hinted at the mysterious inner workings of Alison’s mind. But then the dreams and flashbacks started. The past kept rushing back at her, and despite her condition of no intimacy, she could never have imagined that life with Andrew could be so barren. It felt more like a life sentence than a dream come true.
“The bracelet may have been Alison’s good luck charm,” she said, “but it’s not mine.”
“It saved your life.”
“And aren’t you glad?”
The bracelet’s charms slipped through Marnie’s fingers, glittering like sunlight, even at night. It was eighteen-karat gold, and each charm was a musical symbol, but the only one Marnie cared about was the worthless copper penny ring that she herself had attached to one of the gold links.
She’d had the ring since she was a kid. She and LaDonna Jeffries had been best friends in those days, and they’d often played at an abandoned train station not far from Gramma Jo’s house. One of their pastimes had been putting pennies on the track and letting the freight trains flatten them. If the penny was balanced just right when the train’s wheels hit, the middle could be punched out without destroying the rim, creating a perfect copper ring.
Marnie had worn her ring home that day, and Gramma Jo had told her never to throw it away. Penny rings not only brought good fortune to the wearer, she’d said, but kept them safe from evil spirits. Gramma had given her a chain to wear the ring around her neck, and Marnie hadn’t taken it off once, even while she was bathing, until the chain finally broke.
She’d learned the rudiments of jewelry making from her Gramma Jo, who did everything she could to bring in money, including making and selling agate jewelry at the flea market in town. Marnie had learned many things from her surrogate grandmother, and the most wrenching part of the agreement with Andrew had been losing contact with her. Marnie couldn’t imagine what Gramma Jo must have gone through when she learned of her granddaughter’s disappearance.
Eventually Marnie had started calling her grandmother’s number weekly, just to hear her voice. Marnie hadn’t spoken, except to say that she had the wrong number, but even that much contact had reassured her that Josephine Hazelton was alive and well.
“If you hate the bracelet so much,” Andrew said, “why didn’t you give it back to Alison?”
Marnie didn’t feel the need to tell him that she’d kept the bracelet because it had represented dreams she couldn’t articulate in those days, even to herself. The sparkling jewelry had symbolized everything she’d longed to be. Not that she’d really held out hope for a fairy tale life like Alison’s, but when it had looked as if Alison would never come back to Mirage Bay, Marnie had begun to wear the bracelet, pushed up on her skinny forearm and hidden under her long-sleeved tops. Only when she’d attached the copper loop had it felt as if the bracelet belonged to her.
“You and Alison ran off and got married,” she said. “You never came back. When was I supposed to return it?”
“We came back.”
“You mean last February? Years later? I would have felt a little foolish returning it then. Obviously, though, I should have.”
Andrew shrugged. “I’m sure Alison had forgotten all about the bracelet by then. She had bigger things on her mind.”
Like a fifty-million-dollar-trust fund? Marnie wondered. While she was still in the hospital, Andrew had revealed that it was Alison’s idea to come back to Mirage Bay. She’d wanted to reconcile with her mother, but Marnie still wondered if it had something to do with the trust fund.
Naturally, she was curious how Andrew felt about the fortune Alison had walked away from. He didn’t seem motivated by money. He was wealthy enough in his own right, and he’d already told Marnie that if the money eventually came to her as Alison, he would make no claim on it.
She’d sensed that he was using the trust fund as a carrot to lure her back to Mirage Bay. He wouldn’t have insider access to the Fairmont family without her, and there was also the question of who got the money if it didn’t go to Alison. If Andrew knew, he hadn’t mentioned it. He’d actually said very little about his plan to find out who’d framed him.
“Let’s go inside,” he said now. “I’ll light a fire and get you some cognac.”
Marnie shivered. Anything that would ward off the cold sounded good. There was an overstuffed couch in front of the fireplace, with a quilted throw that she could wrap up in. Maybe she could even make him understand that staying here wasn’t a good idea.
He stepped back, giving her room to go inside.
Light glowed from the bedroom as she passed him. Fleetingly, she wondered if it made her gown transparent. And if he was looking.
He went straight to the liquor cart and set about preparing her a drink while she curled up on the couch with the quilt. A moment later he offered her a snifter of warm cognac and a cocktail napkin.
She left the bracelet on the table and held the glass with both hands, letting it take the chill from her icy fingers. The mulled cider he’d poured himself was still on the warmer flame, flickering like a golden votive, while he got the fire going. It was a real fireplace with cedar logs, stacked in a heavy woven basket on the hearth. He piled several logs on the grate and lit them.
As the sparks caught and smoke curled up the chimney, Marnie remembered the times she’d stood on the beach and gazed up at the big house on the bluffs, watching wispy ribbons of gray come from one or another of the chimneys. It was a magnificent Mediterranean manse with several floors and ornate wrought-iron balconies, and she’d been completely fixated on what life would be like inside such a grand place.
It was nothing like she’d expected.
Still, she could feel herself relaxing as the logs began to crackle and spit. The bedroom smelled as sweet and redolent as a beach fire. She’d made her own fires as a kid, and slept next to them on the sand with nothing more than a blanket on cool fall nights when the beach was deserted.
<
br /> Andrew was standing in front of the fireplace with his drink. He swirled the amber potion and brought it to his nose. His lowered lashes made her realize how long they were. When he finally took a sip it struck her as incredibly sexy. So did his pajama bottoms and cotton T-shirt.
A spark of desire startled her. She could feel it between her legs, as hot as the sparks from the fire. What would it be like to have a man like that look at you with heat in his eyes? Now, she was too warm. She wondered if he was as unnervingly attractive to all women as he was to her. And if any of them could have helped falling in love with him, as she had. Years ago, as a girl.
No longer. She couldn’t let herself be that vulnerable.
“I thought you wanted to know the truth.”
“About what happened to Alison?”
“About what happened to Butch.”
The cognac went down wrong, burning. “I saw it happen. I heard the gurgling sounds he made. It was grotesque.”
“Dreams aren’t reality,” he reminded her. “They distort reality. You really don’t know what happened.”
He hadn’t taken it far enough. Dreams had nothing to do with reality. She’d dreamed of being Alison Fairmont—or at least of having her life—since she’d first set eyes on her. Some of the happiest moments of Marnie’s childhood had been spent fantasizing about the debutante who wintered on the cliffs. LaDonna was right. The locals had called Alison an ice princess, but Marnie had never believed it. Everything about her had been graceful and glowing. Who wouldn’t have wanted to be the golden-haired princess with the silvery laughter?
And who wouldn’t have wanted to be married to the dark prince, even if in name only.
“Everything we’ve done in the last six months was in preparation for where we are now. It’s time.”
His low voice tugged at her, but she said nothing.
“We were falsely accused, both of us,” he added, “and we have a right to know what really happened. We may never get this opportunity again.”
She kicked off the throw and set her cognac on the table. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“And live with questions the rest of your life? I don’t care what that idiot Bogart says, no one’s going to charge you with Butch’s murder. You’re Alison Fairmont.”
Yes, God help me.
“I know you love your grandmother and are deeply worried about her, but are you certain that’s the only reason you came here?”
It was a good question. Why had she agreed to anything he’d offered, especially taking on another identity? Of course she wanted to avoid prosecution, but what if there was another reason? What if she’d also wanted to live out her dreams and know what it was like to be Alison Fairmont Villard, pampered and privileged wife of Andrew?
Not something to be proud of, but people weren’t always noble.
He brought a tray with the cognac and cider as he joined her on the couch. As he freshened both their drinks, she saw the fire’s flame reflected in the cognac’s honeyed swirls.
“At least you know you didn’t kill anyone,” she told him. Maybe she could still make him understand. “You don’t have painful memories of this place that began the day you were born. You’re only here to clear your name. I have no chance of clearing mine. I don’t even exist.”
“You need answers. How else are you going to start making peace with what happened, and move on?”
His conviction surprised her. She had no idea if he really believed in her innocence or was just trying to convince her to stay. If it was the latter, he had an ace he hadn’t played. He could use what he knew against her. She was a fugitive from justice. Everyone believed she’d killed Butch. If Andrew was telling the truth, he was guilty only of asking her to take the identity of his wife long enough for him to solve the mystery of her disappearance.
He could swear she’d never told him she wasn’t Alison, that she’d fooled him, too. How would she be able to prove otherwise? Or he might admit to knowing the truth, but throw himself on the mercy of the court, saying he hadn’t gone to the police because he was trying to protect her.
Andrew rose and walked to the fireplace, seemingly immersed in thought. When he finally did speak, his declaration caught her completely off guard.
“If you don’t want to go through with it,” he said, “I’ll take you back to Long Island, or wherever you want to go. It’s your choice. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“It’s that important to you?” she said. “You’d give up your investigation?”
“It’s not just the bracelet. You’ve changed your hair, and you clearly don’t want to go through with the plan. You’re trying to sabotage this. Maybe not consciously, but you are.”
She couldn’t deny that she didn’t want to be here, but sabotage?
“Marnie.”
The resonance in his voice raised the hair on her arms. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her by her own name. They’d both agreed not to use it again. Just as they’d both agreed to his master plan.
“I want you to stay,” he said, “but not for me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
She could feel herself weakening, but it nagged at her that she was being foolish. There was always the possibility that he was a master manipulator. That he’d killed his wife and was using this visit to ensure his innocence and get the trust fund. His real “plan” might have nothing to do with finding out what had really happened to Alison—and who’d tried to frame him for her death.
Marnie had to make a decision, and either way it would be a leap of faith. She studied the bracelet, its charms glowing like fire.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “I’ll do my best. We have an agreement, and I’ll honor it, but I won’t do it with blond hair—or with the bracelet.”
She sat forward on the couch and put down her cognac. The bracelet was never hers to begin with, and she was giving it back to him now. But he couldn’t have all of it. She took the penny ring and angled it against the marble tabletop, pressing as hard as she could. It snapped from the bracelet at the point where she’d fused it years ago.
She would stay, but it had to be on her terms.
9
Julia wondered what vile fantasy she was going to have to deal with this morning as she drove her Mercedes into the parking lot of the seedy motel. She really did loathe Jack Furlinghetti. Look at the risks he was forcing her to take—and for something that should have been hers anyway. At least he’d gone inland and picked a place nowhere near Mirage Bay. Still, she’d had to sneak out of the house right after breakfast, making jokes to Rebecca and Bret about an emergency shopping trip. No one ever questioned Julia’s shopping habit.
She’d been worried that Alison might want to come with her, but her daughter hadn’t shown up for breakfast this morning, or dinner the night before. Andrew had insisted last night that Alison was fine. He’d said her face was still breaking out, and he’d taken some food up to her room. Julia had planned to check on her this morning, just to make sure that Andrew, control freak that he was, hadn’t locked her up like a prisoner. But then she’d gotten the summons and she’d had to move quickly.
Anxiety fluttered in the pit of her stomach as she knocked on the cracked and peeling motel room door. She’d suggested the Four Seasons, but her much younger partner in crime had insisted on this place, the Luv Shack. She hoped he wasn’t into anything too weird. She’d heard about golden showers, flying snakes and three-ring circuses, but she certainly didn’t want to experience any of them.
“Jack?” Julia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as the door opened. He was dressed in black leather, head to toe. Only a few strategic areas were exposed—his eyes, mouth, lips and his penis, which was fully erect and nodding like a bobblehead doll in livid shades of red and purple. What he held in his hand looked like a riding crop that she assumed was for her. He’d told her to wear a black thong and a sexy black dress.
“Come in, little fly,” he said with a lascivious smi
le.
“You’re damn lucky it was me.” You bloody moron.
The small room looked like a triple X adult shop. There was a circular bed with a gaudy red sateen spread, a mirrored headboard and a pair of furry pink handcuffs on the night table. Damn bed probably vibrates. Worse, the room had mirrors everywhere else, including the ceiling, and it reeked of honeysuckle room deodorizer.
“I can see where this is going,” she said, indicating his riding crop, “but let’s not get carried away, all right? Someone could get hurt with that thing.”
His eyes glittered. “Oh, I hope so.”
Worse than she’d thought, if that was possible. She could always leave, but that wouldn’t get her what she wanted, and Jack Furlinghetti had what she wanted. He held the whip hand, literally.
Just get this over with, she told herself. Bend over and think about shopping. At least she wouldn’t be able to see the ceiling mirrors. “Over here?” She walked to a device that resembled a portable pommel horse, with leather straps that were probably meant for the wrists and the ankles.
Grimacing, she flipped up the back of her dress and draped herself over the horse. He would have to strap her in, if that’s what he wanted. She braced herself, and her whole body flinched in anticipation. But nothing happened. What was the twisted little fiend doing? Admiring her thong?
She waited for the blows, refusing to say a word.
Finally, she looked over her shoulder and spotted him across the room, bent over the back of the room’s only chair. His leather suit had another exposure in the back. There were two cutouts for his buttocks.
“What are you doing, Jack?”
“Have I displeased you in some way?” he asked. His voice quavered. The riding crop lay on the carpet next to him, where he must have dropped it. Suddenly it dawned on Julia what was going on. The pommel horse had been meant for him.
“Displeased, Jack?” she said, putting some steel in her voice. “You’d better believe I’m displeased.”
It was all over very quickly. She’d only swatted him a couple times when his muscles clenched and he gave a surprised gasp. He dropped from the horse to his knees in apparent shame.
The Arrangement Page 10