But if everything had gone according to plan, Sandra wouldn’t be dead. He wouldn’t be under investigation for murder and arson, and Hannah wouldn’t be in fear for her life.
“Have you ever been down here?”
“No.”
“Not interested in the competition?” He asked it with a grin, but she wore the same stiff look as she shook her head. “I never wanted to get into the resort-building business. We’d made our reputation on high-dollar homes, and I wanted to keep doing what we did best. Brad insisted that this opportunity was too good to pass up, and I let him talk me into it.” Honesty forced him to amend that. “Frankly, once I agreed, I liked the challenge. A million-dollar house was one thing. A fifteen-million-dollar resort was a whole different animal.”
“What went wrong?”
“We had problems on-site—weather, crew, materials. Brad had a couple of interested buyers before we even broke ground, but the deals fell through. So did the next one. The only offers he could get after that were for substantially less money than we’d invested, and he wouldn’t consider them. He came up with the idea of running it ourselves, but I refused. The construction business kept us both busy eighty hours a week. We didn’t have either the time or the expertise to run a resort. So we fought about it, and he looked for a buyer while this place continued to eat us alive. If it hadn’t burned down and we hadn’t managed to unload it, we would have lost everything.”
He rounded the last curve, slowed to a stop and stared. A few days ago a beautiful, sprawling four-story hotel had stood in the center of the site. This morning little of the structure remained standing. The floors had collapsed one atop another, and the heavy-duty steel beams that had supported them were grotesquely twisted from the intense heat. Imported Mexican tile, acres of wood flooring, railings and paneling, thousands of square yards of top-dollar carpeting and Palladian windows by the dozen. Two hundred luxurious rooms, two hundred beyond-luxurious baths, meeting rooms, restaurants, bars, offices. All reduced to a few tons of soot-blackened rubble.
And Sandra had been part of it.
The whole place was cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape, but if he’d wanted to go closer, it wouldn’t have stopped him. This was close enough, though. It was bad enough from back here.
After a moment he shut off the engine, climbed out and went to stand at the front of the truck. After another moment, Hannah joined him. In the stillness of the morning, he heard her tiny whisper. “Poor Sandra.”
Sympathy and pity. He felt it, too, though Sandra would have hated it. “The sheriff said her body was found in what eventually would have been the poolside restaurant. Over there.” He pointed to the south side of the ruins. “It was the one part of the hotel that was a single story, all tile, stone and glass, designed to be as much at one with the outdoors as possible.”
“Then she... Her body wasn’t burned.”
He shook his head.
“How does the sheriff explain that? If he believes you set the fire to cover up the murder, why would you leave her body in the one place where it wouldn’t be destroyed by either flames or falling debris?”
“I didn’t ask. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.”
“So what happens now?”
“I don’t know. The insurance company may pay off, or it may find some loophole, since one of the partners is the only suspect in the arson. Blue Water may or may not declare bankruptcy. Brad may or may not come out of this a very rich man. The only certainty is that I’m screwed.”
“Brad can’t have planned the perfect frame. It just can’t be done.”
He gave her a mocking look. “Have you ever met Sheriff Mills and Billy and Keith? The frame doesn’t have to be perfect. Just sort of close is good enough to hang me with them.”
Shoving away from the truck, he turned his back on the resort and walked toward the water’s edge. Lake Eufala was quiet, serene, undisturbed by boat traffic this morning. The lake had been one of the few bright spots in his eighteen months on this project. After yet another disagreement with Brad or Sandra or yet another problem with the job, he’d come here. Sometimes he’d taken out the little boat tied to the dock. Sometimes he’d fished, and sometimes he’d simply sat there and listened to the quiet lap of water against the shore. On or beside the water had been the only place he didn’t feel pressured, in over his head or lost.
Hannah’s shadow fell over the water as she stopped beside him, a quivery ripple of arms and legs. He looked at it, instead of her. “How long have you known Brad?”
“I met him when he was looking for this place.”
“How well do you know him?”
She became as still as the hot June air. She didn’t want to answer, and he knew why, knew it as sure as he knew he hadn’t killed his wife. Her sigh sounded explosive, her words ugly. “We were involved.”
Jealousy streaked through him—irrational, illogical, but no less heated. He knew nothing about her—except that she aroused in him needs he had all but forgotten. That her skin was creamy and soft, her breasts full, her hips just right for cradling his. That her voice was more seductive than any he’d ever heard. That common words and sensual promises took on new meaning in her husky tones. He knew that one certain sultry look could make him hard, and another could finish him off.
He knew that she had helped frame him for murder. He also knew that she could help clear him.
And he knew he hated the idea of her with another man.
Continuing to stare at the water, he asked, “Are you still seeing him?” The question was heavy with hostility.
“No.”
“Were you seeing him when he asked you to help destroy me?” He gave the words—seeing him—an ugly twist.
“No.” Her jaw was clenched so tightly that her mouth barely moved. “Not for months.”
He gave her a long, intimate, scornful look, then turned back to the lake. “Right.”
“I haven’t been involved with him for more than a year. Look at me. I’m not the sort of woman Brad has a longterm relationship with.”
He didn’t look. He knew she was right. For relationships Brad preferred elegant, sophisticated women whose background was as privileged as his own. For fun, he chose women like Hannah.
The thought brought to mind a comment Sylvie had made yesterday morning when showing him room 17. You’re a fine-looking man and all, but Hannah likes men a little less rough around the edges... Ironic. He wanted Hannah, but he wasn’t her type. She’d wanted Brad, but she wasn’t his type.
“Do you care?”
“I wish I’d never met him.” The words were right. So was the tone. She meant what she said, and it eased a bit of the tension that held him rigid.
He glanced at the sun directly overhead. “It’s almost noon. Your grandmother will be needing you in the restaurant. We’d better get back.”
The last of the lunch customers walked out the door at one-thirty, and Hannah sank onto a stool. A short break for her own lunch, and then she would sweep the dining room, help Sylvie and Earlene with kitchen cleanup, throw a load of towels in the washer, fold sheets and about a dozen other tasks. Then, if she had any energy left—and she knew from ten years of experience that she would find it if she didn’t—she would track down Mick to see if he was serious about teaching her how to fix the sinks. She’d never had any aptitude for mechanical repairs, mostly because she’d had no interest, but she was a bright woman. She could learn.
The kitchen door squeaked as it swung open, and Sylvie stuck her head out. “Come back and have a sandwich.”
With a nod Hannah slid to the floor. Her feet protested—heavens, her entire body protested. She hadn’t done nearly as much work today as she was accustomed to, thanks to her unexpected trip to Yates and the detour to what was left of Eagle’s Haven, but she was already more tired than she usually was at the end of the day. Maybe it was because she hadn’t slept well last night. Maybe it was Mick’s presence or Brad’s threats or her guilty con
science. Whatever the reason, she wanted nothing more than to find a cool dark place to hibernate and not come out until life was safe and sane again.
If it would ever be that way again.
She picked up a tub of dirty dishes, then pushed through the door. The temperature in the kitchen was just a few degrees below unbearable, in spite of the best efforts of two window air conditioners and two high-velocity fans. It was a cozy place in the middle of a rare January snowstorm, but in summer, Hannah imagined, hell would be just about as hospitable.
The heat didn’t seem to bother anyone but her. Sylvie, in her three-quarter-length sleeves and her gray hair in a neat bun, looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber. Earlene seemed undisturbed, as did Merrilee, and even Mick—
She frowned at the sight of him, sitting at the family table with her mother and grandmother as if he belonged there. She had assumed he was in his room. She had assumed that even if he did venture around Sylvie, her grandmother certainly wouldn’t make him feel welcome.
Welcome, hell. As Hannah put the tub of dishes on the counter next to the sink, Sylvie was serving him a big piece of dewberry cobbler, complete with vanilla ice cream and a jumbo glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.
“Have a seat, Hannah. I’ll get your lunch,” the traitor offered.
“I’ll get it myself.” She took the covered plate from the top shelf of the refrigerator, poured her own glass of lemonade and crossed to the table. The only seat left was next to Mick. She put her dishes down, slid into the chair and peeled the foil off the plate. For ten years Sylvie had been fixing her lunch: a sandwich of some sort, usually based on the day’s specials, and a salad, always with something for dessert. Today’s sandwich was roast beef, the salad a gelatin-carrot mixture, and the dessert would be cobbler. Just before she finished her sandwich and salad, Sylvie would put the cobbler in the microwave, spoon on ice cream and set it in front of her when she removed the empty dishes.
There was comfort in such predictable behavior, especially since most areas of Hannah’s life had become incredibly unpredictable. Starting with the man beside her. He scared her half to death. He had deliberately put her life in danger by telling Brad that he’d moved in here just so she would reconsider his demand that she help him. He had every right to despise her, and sometimes, when he looked at her the way he had at the lake or when he reminded her that she’d sold herself to him, she knew he did.
But he was still attracted her—to her body at least, even if he did feel contempt for her actions-and, God help her, she was attracted to him. Even though there was no future for such an attraction. Even though she’d helped jeopardize his reputation, his freedom and maybe even his life.
What she’d done was unforgivable. Refusing to make amends was unconscionable.
He wanted only one thing from her—an alibi. He’d made it clear in the store this morning that he wouldn’t object to a little sex along the way. But when it was over, when he walked away—if, please, God, he walked away—he would never look back. He would use her, and when he’d gotten all he wanted, he would leave. It was no less than he deserved. No more than she deserved. Still, the prospect left her with a sleazy, dirty, used-up-and-thrown-away feeling. It left her with the utter certainty that it would be one of the biggest mistakes she’d ever made, second only to getting involved with Brad.
The conversation, carried on mostly by Sylvie and Earlene, continued around her while she ate. Suddenly, into a moment of silence, Merrilee spoke. “Hannah, why aren’t you in school? And look at the way you’re dressed. You know Mr. Haverson won’t let you in class like that. Heavens, child, your hair needs combing, those clothes are much too big for you, and you haven’t got a speck of makeup on. I swear, honey, how in the world do you think you’re going to get Rodney Whiteside to look at you if you go out dressed like that?”
Hannah stiffened. They’d had this conversation a hundred times over the years, so she knew where it was leading, and she hated it. There was no diverting Merrilee, though. It always had to be played out. “I’m not in school, Mom.”
“Really? When was the last day?” In one moment her mother’s expression went from surprise to consternation to delight. “That means I’ll have to plan the annual end-ofschool Clark family outing. Let’s see, we can do a day at the lake...but we’ve done that so many times. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could go someplace for the weekend—the Ozarks or Dallas or someplace different. But your father just hates to leave this place overnight. Of course, it is a burden on Sylvie. But just one weekend... I’ll talk to him. I’ll remind him that you’re almost grown and soon you’ll be going away to college and we’ll only see you on holidays, and we should have one big last hurrah. I’ll go find him now.”
She rose from her chair and started across the kitchen. Earlene stared out the window. Sylvie sat with her hands folded tightly on the table. Mick watched curiously, and Hannah stabbed her salad with her fork, silently counting down. Just as she reached one, Merrilee’s steps slowed, then stopped. She turned to them, her face screwed up, her blue eyes round and full of sorrow. Hannah hadn’t been at the motel the day the sheriff had brought the news of her father’s death, but she’d watched her mother relive it time after time. Merrilee’s anguish that spring day couldn’t possibly have been more potent, more heart-wrenching, than it was right now.
Her tears were almost silent, just soft hurtful sounds. She would cry until the tears were gone, and then she would continue with a quiet keening that could go on for hours. The following depression might last a few days or a few weeks, then in the blink of an eye, she would be smiling, cheery and talking to herself again.
Sylvie went to her, slipped her arm around her waist and guided her from the room, murmuring sympathetic phrases all the way. Earlene left the table, too, picking up her cigarettes and lighter from the counter and leaving through the back door.
It seemed a long time had passed when the fork was pulled from her hand and the plate moved away. She didn’t look at Mick but, instead, focused her gaze on his hand—brown, strong, callused from a lifetime of hard work. So different from Brad’s hands. So like her father’s.
“How long has she been like this?” His voice was quiet, with no scorn or revulsion, with none of the mockery he’d displayed earlier in talking about Merrilee.
“She’s always been...fragile.” That had been her father’s word. Most mothers were normal, some were sickly, and hers had been fragile. Like a china doll that might break. “Her problems were manageable until my father died. He was killed in a head-on collision on the way to the lake. She’s never been the same since.”
“What does her doctor say?”
She wondered if that was a polite way of making sure that Merrilee was under a doctor’s care. After all, they were probably the most raggedy bunch he’d seen since leaving his own family in West Texas. Most likely he knew from experience that when money was short, medical care was one of the first things to go, but that wasn’t the case here. There was nothing Hannah wouldn’t do to keep Merrilee in Dr. Denton’s care. “He says she has presenile dementia. It’s an organic mental disorder, caused by a physiological or pathological problem. He says be patient with her. Watch her as if she were a child. Consider institutionalizing her.”
“Can’t it be treated?”
“She’s on several medications. You should see her when she’s not. Then she’s really crazy.” She regretted the last comment, a dig at his earlier remarks, as soon as it was out. He didn’t dignify it with a response. “Usually she’s okay—the way she’s been the past few days. But sometimes something sets her off and...” She shrugged. “And the answer to your next question is no.”
“And what do you think my next question is?”
“The same question people always ask. Have I considered following the doctor’s advice and putting her away.”
He looked annoyed that she’d put words in his mouth. “Why would you do that? She’s not dangerous to herself or anyone else. She do
esn’t require constant care. It’s not as if she’s completely dysfunctional. She’s just detached from reality.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. As he walked behind her, he bent, bringing his mouth close to her ear. “Let me tell you from personal experience, darlin’. That’s not always a bad way to be.”
Chapter 4
Mick was rinsing his dishes at the sink when a voice called from the dining room. “Anyone back there? Miz Clark? Merrilee? Hannah?” The voice was familiar, though the tone wasn’t. Every time he’d heard it, it had been heavy with suspicion, smug condescension, distrust. This afternoon it sounded downright cheery.
“Do me a favor,” Mick said as Harinah pushed away from the table. “Don’t volunteer the information that I’m staying here.”
“Sheriff Mills isn’t a stupid man. He’ll see that truck parked out front and know it’s yours. If you want to go unnoticed, then you should park around back.” She went into the dining room, setting the door a-swing. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”
“Hannah, you’re just the girl I’m looking for.”
The door came to a stop and cut the conversation to a low mumble. Mick shut off the water and went to the door. A narrow gap showed a thin wedge of the counter where the sheriff sat on a stool. Hannah stood opposite him, hands on her hips. She would have looked perfectly casual if her fingertips weren’t turning white, if she wasn’t constantly shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
Mills ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of Miz Clark’s fine banana cream pie, then took the time for a few pleasantries. How is Miz Clark? How is your mama? How is business? How do you like this weather? How did you enjoy your little vacation?
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