by Arlene Kay
Jem Russell was her Achilles’ heel, a handsome former fiancé with some very bad habits. He’d left her at the altar—literally—by eloping with a waitress from the Pancake House. Two days later when he’d sobered up, Jem came crawling back begging for forgiveness. Only a full-scale intervention by her family and yours truly had pried them apart. Meanwhile, Jem returned to whatever rock he’d crawled out of while CeCe soldiered on.
“Maybe she was using him as a boy toy. You know. Friends with benefits.” I liked that idea. It was so CeCe.
A spot of color appeared on each of Deming’s cheeks. “Impossible!” He ducked his head and turned over another photo.
“Maybe she was on a nostalgia kick. You know, CeCe’s greatest hits.” I grinned at the thought.
“More like her greatest misses. Those creeps almost destroyed my sister.” Deming nodded toward the cognac. “Another round?”
“Sure.” I seldom drink, but tonight I yearned for oblivion. Maybe alcohol could deaden my senses and cleanse me of pain, at least for a while. It was worth a try.
I reached into the pile and grabbed more photos. These were older, somewhat grainy mementos of her distant past and ours as well. Our prep school presentation of Othello. Predictably, CeCe was Desdemona; I was her understudy. Life imitating art. We’d thought it was kinky when Deming was cast as Othello, but in the end, the joke was on me. CeCe got laryngitis, and I had to endure the faux love scenes and grisly violence with her brother looming overhead. Deming was an excellent actor. You’d almost believe he enjoyed brushing his lips across my hand and embracing me. Desdemona’s murder was another matter. Deming actively relished the chance to throttle me even though it was only make-believe.
“Hey! Look at this one.” His voice grew husky as he thrust a faded photo my way. It was an artifact more precious to me than gold: a wrinkled portrait of three little kids pulling a sled. CeCe looked ecstatic, golden curls spilling out of a beret as she gestured wildly. Despite the snow, I wore only one glove. Typical. That kind of carelessness drove my mother nuts. I was grinning, a wide toothless grin as Deming yanked my long dark ponytail. We’d been so close in those days, The Three Musketeers: CeCe, me, and her tall, dark twin. He’d trailed after us, serving as our bodyguard and chief tormentor.
I wanted to bawl my eyes out. Maybe I was woozy from the cognac; perhaps it was the collective weight of too many memories. More than anything I wanted to will away reality and see my friend again. I yelped as the brandy snifter slipped from my hand and decorated my lap.
“Excuse me,” I said, as I lurched toward my bedroom. Deming seemed oblivious, as if he were in another world. Maybe he was. A world where childish pranks, games of tag, and hide-and-seek consumed each day. We’d felt safe in those innocent times, insulated from the darkness of the outside world.
I stumbled into the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and turned on the shower. No one could hear my howls with water coursing over my body. I soothed myself, using shampoo and honey gel, crying for CeCe and our youthful dreams. Afterwards, I wrapped myself in a thick Turkish bath sheet and carefully blotted my hair. The ache had temporarily subsided, and at least the sticky sweet brandy smell had vanished.
A sudden sound made me whirl around. I saw Deming standing in the doorway with clenched fists and trembling lips that spelled pain and vulnerability. He was staring at me. One glance at his lower parts said that he was also aroused. I fumbled for my towel, gasping as it fluttered to the floor.
He took two long strides, reached out, and carried me to the bed.
THEY SAY THAT death makes you celebrate life. I can’t say for sure. All I recall of that frenzied, febrile night was the gentle touch of his lips brushing my skin and the haunting sound of him moaning my name. We both unleashed desire so primitive that it both terrified and enthralled me. Our naked bodies clung to each other, hungering for more, using tongues and teeth and nails to scale the heights and plumb the depths.
I usually hide my body, using voluminous clothing to conceal me from scrutiny. CeCe was a sylph, but my breasts and curves felt ponderous next to her sleek silhouette. That night was different. I felt beautiful, a voluptuous siren consumed by passion and hungry for sex. Beautiful? Me? Instead of seeing my flaws in face and form, I was emboldened. Every doubt, evasion and inhibition was erased by his touch. When he tore off the top sheet I welcomed the scrutiny. No more shy, retiring Eja. I didn’t hide a thing.
The heat of Deming’s golden skin warmed my heart, feeding my greed for even more. I was ravenous, insatiable, out of control. We caressed each other slowly then desperately, melding into one until release claimed us. It was a dream, so removed from reality that I felt no fear. Shame would come later, suffusing every pore with the ache of remembrance. How CeCe would have laughed! She’d wanted this for so long, and now she’d gotten her wish.
I AWAKENED EARLY the next morning, sprawled over my bed with Cato curled up next to me. No trace of Deming or the normal debris of lovemaking, just Cato’s raucous snores assaulting the air. My cheeks burned as I wondered whether or not it had really happened. I’m no stranger to fantasy. Like most women, I’ve had the occasional crush. But making whoopee with my best friend’s twin on the night she died? No way. I’d known Deming Swann since preschool, and in all that time he’d taken pains to snub, taunt, and torture me. Deming dated girls with glacial beauty and wealthy papas, members of the social elite. I’d never once surfaced on his radar screen, and that was fine with me.
My phantom lover had plied me with compliments and soft kisses that consumed my soul—proof positive that it wasn’t Deming. He was the most detached man I’d ever met, a cold fish who thrived on cynicism. There was a simple explanation for everything—temporary insanity and terminal horniness fueled by alcohol.
Both Deming and I had made too many toasts and ingested too much cognac for our own good last night. My aching head testified to that. When grief finally subdued us, we’d each staggered off for a date with Morpheus. Alone. End of story. That must be the truth. I patted Cato, and the spaniel leapt up, dancing around the door in an urgent pantomime.
“Okay, okay. I hear you.” I rummaged through the closet until I found some running gear. CeCe was a svelte size six, and I am not. Fortunately, garments containing Lycra are forgiving enough to excuse that. Shoes were no problem. I stepped into the worn Sauconys she’d left in my closet last week, ran a comb through my hair, and brushed my teeth. Makeup could wait. I looked ravaged, more victim than avenger, but the right concealer could work miracles. CeCe had more pots and potions than Sephora. I might borrow a few this afternoon.
After last night, I hoped to avoid Deming Swann. Maybe forever. The dangerous brew of alcohol and nostalgia had made me shed my inhibitions. How else to explain that salacious dream of mine? I wasn’t responsible. My subconscious absorbed every trace of guilt. Better to stay the course and ignore any carnal stirrings. Mustn’t lose my edge around a shark like Deming who could ace any screen test for the lead in Jaws.
As the elevator doors closed, a muscular arm wrenched them apart.
“Running away? Guilty conscience?”
He looked disgustingly chipper. I discounted the sarcasm and averted my eyes from Deming’s form-hugging tracksuit. All things considered, he’d weathered the night’s excesses far better than I had. Probably a triumph of superior Swann genes over my peasant roots. He seemed perfectly normal: smug and supercilious with no trace of sentiment. Just the way I liked him. This Deming Swann was a known commodity, a distant echo from our childhood. We were bound together in a daunting quest to vindicate CeCe. After that there’d be no need to see him ever again.
“I’m attending to Cato. A dog has needs, after all.” I kept my manner sprightly despite the urge to smack the sneer off his face. “Besides, how did you get past my concierge?”
Deming tossed his head back and grinned. “It’s not magic. As long
as you look the part, most of those guys won’t bother to stop you. I blend in.”
Without CeCe around I refused to tolerate her brother’s nonsense. There was that frown again. Fair is fair—I had to admit he looked Byronic. Any woman with eyes would acknowledge that Deming Swann was handsome bordering on gorgeous. Anyone who didn’t know him, that is. In my lustful fantasy, I’d discovered how perfect his body was, every part of it. Daylight hadn’t changed that, but his real-time personality was far removed from the tender man who’d stirred my dreams last night.
He curled his lip and slicked back a thick strand of hair. Normally, I’m a fool for men with great hair, but there are exceptions. With hands on hips he glowered.
“I’m leaving for the police station promptly at nine thirty. Be ready, if you plan to see that security tape.”
I checked my watch. “It’s barely seven. No problem.”
“I already jogged before breakfast. Grab your things, and we can drop Cato at CeCe’s place and change. We’ll leave from there.” He issued an edict rather than a request.
I ground my teeth despite the danger it posed to dental health. “I suppose so.” I stuffed some clothes in one of the Bottega totes and handed it to Deming. “Here. Keep this while I walk my poor dog.”
Cato’s needs were satisfied by a short promenade around the block. When we returned, Deming Swann was parked aggressively across the driveway, blocking the entrance. Was he trying to annoy me, or was it an attempt to dispel lingering doubts about last night?
I lifted Cato into the Porsche and hopped in myself before Deming had time to open the door. Courtesy, my foot! I decided to minimize as much personal contact as possible.
When we reached the lobby of CeCe’s building, the concierge approached Deming with a look of horror mixed with panic.
“Mr. Swann! A reporter from the Globe was just here. He said . . .” Tears flooded the man’s eyes. “Miss Swann . . .”
For once Deming did the right thing. He patted the doorman on the back and nodded. “I’m afraid it’s true, Jaime. Miss Swann had an accident yesterday.”
I saw the puzzled look in the man’s eyes. “That reporter said horrible things. He said Miss Swann . . . that it wasn’t an accident.”
Deming’s icy stare was enough to freeze Jaime and everyone in the lobby. “That’s untrue. As a friend of my sister’s, I know you’ll discourage hurtful rumors about her.”
“No, no sir,” Jaime stammered. “Miss Cecilia was the nicest lady in this building. I told that reporter to leave, or I’d call the police.”
“Excellent.” Deming grabbed Cato’s lead and thrust it at the doorman. “Watch him for me, will you? Ms. Kane and I have matters to discuss.”
I sputtered like a dying engine. “But . . . but.”
Deming’s solemn features were pure stone. Jerusalem gold limestone, beautiful but cold and unyielding.
“No time. We need to finish searching that flat before the cops trample over everything. You got me worried about it last night.” He raised a thick black brow. “Unless you’re not up to it.”
Last night’s good will evaporated. I’d been dreaming. Same old, same old. Deming Swann hadn’t changed one bit from his bullyboy days in prep school when he’d put ants in my purse. I gave him a tight-lipped smile and dangled CeCe’s keys in his face.
“Let’s go. I’m the one with the keys, remember?”
We whisked up to the second floor in strained silence. “Let me take that,” Deming growled, snatching the key chain. I was too worn to fight him for it, especially since I couldn’t manage that damn Medeco lock. He flicked open the door and swept inside without waiting for me.
“What are we looking for? Do we have any idea?” I’d decided to let him take the lead for now. Later on, I’d formulate my own plan.
Deming folded his arms and shot me a look of disdain. “I plan to confiscate anything that might embarrass Cecilia or my family. Naturally, as a partner in our firm, I’ll also take custody of any client files.”
“Oh, yeah? Isn’t that called evidence tampering? You’re an officer of the court.”
“You forget. I’m also her twin.” His eyes had a suspicious sheen to them. He turned away so quickly I couldn’t be sure.
“Do what you have to do. I’ve got something else in mind.” I sprinted for CeCe’s bedroom and her antique French box. She loved that thing. Stashed all her mementos in it.
I wasn’t sure what I’d find—love letters, press clippings, jewelry? No matter. I knew what wouldn’t be there—a suicide note. My friend did not kill herself. Euphemia Bates was way off track to even suggest it. Cecilia Swann, that pampered daughter, beloved sister, and loyal friend would never hurt us that way. Like most cops, Mia would probably take the easy way out to avoid stepping on some big Boston toes. My task was to provide her with an alternative.
I knelt down and reached under the bed, looking for the box. It had to be there. Only last week I’d seen her open it. She used a tiny key that she kept on a gold chain.
“Find anything interesting?” He loomed over me with his hand out. “Give it here.”
I reached into the armoire and found something to distract him. Despite her angelic face, CeCe was a mistress of erotic arts. She owned all manner of sex toys and knew how to use them. I nodded toward the cabinet and watched Deming blush.
“Good Lord! What the hell is this?” He dangled a particularly vulgar appliance in the air as if I were the culprit.
“Oh. That’s part of CeCe’s pleasure chest. Guess you’ll be confiscating those things. No need for the cops to snicker about her.”
Deming Swann, man of the world, turned pink.
“You’re not shocked, are you? Grow up, for God’s sake. CeCe was almost thirty-four years old. She liked men and they liked her. I thought you’d grown beyond that.”
Deming sat down, holding his head in his hands. “No. I mean, yes, of course, I’m familiar with erotica. It’s just that . . .” His voice trailed off. “I never thought about my sister using stuff like that. It’s different for you. You’ve already had one husband.”
I sped over to the walk-in closet and renewed my search.
“Yes, I did. Thanks so much for opening old wounds.”
Typical! In one fell swoop, he’d revived the lowest point of my life. My self-confidence had never been high. That’s why I’d trailed happily in CeCe’s wake, avoiding mirrors, grateful to skip the limelight. Poor self-image, she’d called it. Oh, I was smart. There were objective measurements to gauge intellect. I’d spent my academic career being smart, studious Eja, while CeCe scooped every social prize in sight.
Then I met Gabriel Mann. It was miraculous, a fantasy straight out of Edith Wharton. We’d both joined the Mensa chapter at Brown, and by some incredible twist of fate, this blond Norse god chose me to love. When we married, I blossomed like a parched desert flower after irrigation. All my dreams culminated in that walk down the aisle. We sailed through graduate school convinced that literary stardom was only months away. When reality hit, we adjusted. Both of us took freelance jobs and spent our spare time writing. Gabriel was a genius, the next Hemmingway. Everyone said so. I squandered my talent by writing popular fiction. Romantic suspense, no less! We laughed about it, commiserated, and buoyed each other’s spirits. My third novel became a moderate success, and I sensed the change before I could prove it. Fewer laughs, less time spent together. Before I knew it, he’d slipped away. Six months later, Gabriel made it official. He’d found someone, a nubile coed who thought he was F. Scott and Nicholas Sparks rolled into one sexy package.
I’d smothered him, stifled his creative impulses: He didn’t love me anymore. Our divorce was swift and relatively painless, a sad coda to a song that had already ended. He got his muse; I kept the heavily mortgaged condo and our aged cat.
I didn�
��t date much after that.
“You’re crying.” Deming looked perplexed. “Did I hurt your feelings? You were way too good for that slug anyway. I heard he’s had two other wives and three kids since you.”
“Forget it. That’s ancient history.” I hid my face in a mound of CeCe’s clothes as Gabriel’s “no-kids” rant rang in my ears. He’d gone ballistic every time the subject arose.
“No kids. No way.” Since when had he become Daddy Dearest?
“Funny that you’ve never married,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a long line of candidates.”
If last night’s fantasy meant anything, Deming Swann was unadulterated catnip to sentient females. Fictional heroes usually are.
He shrugged. “Never found the right woman, I guess. Lord knows I’ve tried hard enough.”
His escapades with women were the stuff of legend. In his checkered past, Deming dated half the debutantes on the Eastern seaboard and broke some hearts, lots of them. In the process he’d dodged several lawsuits and at least one paternity test.
“What are you looking for?” Deming bent down as I groped blindly for the prize.
CeCe’s safe was cleverly concealed in the wall of her closet next to the built-in drawers. I’d always lusted after that closet with its beautiful wood and modular units. Like everything Swann, it was top quality, far beyond the means of the hoi polloi.
“Her safe. I can’t find that French box, but there’s still her safe. It’s in here somewhere. Grab a flashlight, will you?”
“Safe!” Deming tugged a lock of shiny black hair, squawking like an affronted hawk. “She never mentioned that. Why would she need a home safe? We have one at the firm.”
“Stop whining and help me. Shine that light on the panel.” I pressed the push-button lock, inputting the only code CeCe ever used, Cato #1. Hardly original, but it did the job. The door swung open, disgorging a mound of jewelry, several folders, and one very scary gun.