by Janet Dailey
Control. She had to keep control. Cling to that doubt. Give him the benefit of it. “Are you divorced?”
“No.”
Cling. Cling. “Are you considering it?”
“No,” he replied, shattering the doubt, exploding it.
And with that one word, he killed the love she’d felt for him. One-sided love was not love, but it could have become hate. It did, in the blink of an eye. And in that blink of an eye, Delaney understood how and why crimes of passion were committed as the need to strike out, to tear him apart, to destroy his life the way he had just destroyed hers.
He took a step toward her. “I thought you knew, Delaney. I—”
“How?” She almost bodily threw the word at him, the liquor in her glass sloshing over the rim. “You never said anything about a wife! There is no ring on your finger!” Pushed by the growing fury within, she moved from the doors, charging blindly away from him. “Get out, Jared.”
“For God’s sake, let me explain.”
She stopped, raw with the way he’d used her—at the fool he’d made of her, that she’d made of herself. “Explain what?” she challenged. “That your wife doesn’t understand you?”
“No, I—”
She wouldn’t let him finish. “I don’t want your explanations, Jared. I don’t care if you thought I knew you were married. If anything, it makes what you’ve done worse because you believed I was the kind of woman who would become involved with a married man—that it wouldn’t matter to me. Why should it?” she mocked sarcastically. “Women who live in Los Angeles—in La-La Land—are fast and free with sex. That’s what you thought, isn’t it? That’s what you thought of me.”
“I never thought that.” His quiet denial only drove the hurt and anger deeper.
“Get out, Jared.” She found herself under the halltree. She snatched his brown Stetson off the hook and threw it at him. “Take your hat and get out.”
He picked up his hat, hesitated, then walked out the front door, closing it quietly behind him.
She hadn’t seen or heard from him again…until now, until here, outside the Aspen police headquarters, beneath the pure blue of a mountain sky, with the memories of six years ago fresh, all the feelings revived, the love as well as the hate.
It’s been a long time—wasn’t that what he’d said? But she knew it hadn’t been long enough to make the hurt go away. As much as she hated to admit it, Riley had been right about that. Riley. She wished he was there beside her—steadying her.
In pain-choked silence, she watched Jared slowly turn his hat in his hands, the idly nervous action indicative of the tension between them.
Why was she still standing there prolonging this hell?
“Goodbye, Jared,” she said abruptly and started to walk away.
“Don’t go, Delaney.” His hand reached out to stop her, then drew back without touching her. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
She refused with a stiff shake of her head. “I’m busy.” Then some nasty little voice made her add, “Besides, I doubt if your wife would approve.”
“I’m divorced.”
Delaney paled at his words, discovering they cut deeply. “Surely you don’t think that changes anything, do you?”
“I know I hurt you, Delaney.”
“Yes, you did. But that won’t happen again. The woman you knew doesn’t exist anymore.”
This time when she turned to walk away, he didn’t try to stop her.
She didn’t remember any of the two blocks to the hotel. If it hadn’t been for the doorman rolling a luggage cart out to a waiting BMW, she would have walked past the entrance without noticing the elegant old building faced with rich terra-cotta brick and sandstone masonry.
Immediately she checked her blind flight and pushed through the door into the lobby, her lungs straining for air.
Sternly she took herself in hand and slowed her steps. Seeing him again hadn’t been easy, but she had survived it, hadn’t she? This time he couldn’t hurt her again unless she let him. And she wasn’t about to do that.
Ignoring the lobby’s comfortable period furnishings and its potted palms, Delaney swung toward the desk and picked up the messages that had come in while she was gone. One was from Riley, but there was none from Susan St. Jacque, leaving Delaney to assume their meeting was still on.
The message gave her something else to concentrate on, a distraction to keep her from thinking about Jared and reliving the meeting, the things he’d said, the way he’d looked.
Returning to her room, she focused on the job she was there to do, on the things yet to be done.
Promptly at twelve-thirty, Delaney was in the lobby to await the arrival of Susan St. Jacque. As five minutes stretched into ten, she wandered restlessly about the earth-toned lobby, glancing continuously at the large oak wall clock while steadfastly ignoring the baby parlor grand. For the fourth time, she sat down in one of the lobby’s striped Victorian chairs and fought the urge to drum her fingers on its curved arm.
A smoke-blue Mercedes pulled up in front of the hotel. From her vantage point inside, Delaney saw a pale blonde step out of the driver’s side and exchange an airy greeting with the doorman. She was dressed in a Ralph Lauren outfit that could only be described as campestral class—a floral blouse in a country rose print with softly shirred sleeves paired with a clove-brown skirt and riding boots.
Delaney rose from her chair, knowing intuitively that this woman breezing into the lobby was Susan St. Jacque. A second later, she spied Delaney and made straight for her, extending a hand with bold grace.
“You must be Delaney Wescott. Susan St. Jacque.” Her slim, rose-tipped fingers closed around Delaney’s hand for a fraction of a second, then released it.
“How do you do.” Automatically Delaney took in the woman’s heart-shaped face and the champagne color of her hair, styled in a windblown and carefree look that was anything but. Her cheekbones were more prominent than Delaney’s and expertly tinted. Her lips, shaped like a perfect cupid’s bow, were carefully glossed with a shade of deep rose. There was a smoothness to her ivory skin, a youthful glow to it, that gave no hint of her age, which Delaney suspected was somewhere in her thirties. But nothing disguised the keenness of her almond brown eyes as they swept Delaney with an assessing look that seemed to calculate her bank balance.
“If you’re ready, my car’s outside.”
“I’m ready.” She had been for the last ten minutes, but it seemed useless to point that out.
Outside, the doorman assisted Delaney into the passenger side of the Mercedes. She settled into the seat and fastened the safety belt.
“To be honest, I don’t know which I like best about summertime in Aspen,” Susan St. Jacque declared. “The glorious weather or that I finally get to drive my car. The poor thing spends most of the year in the garage, forcing me to tool around in my Range Rover.”
“A Range Rover and a Mercedes—the gallery business must be good.”
“Darling,” she said with a throaty laugh. “It’s the best.”
“That’s very fortunate,” Delaney murmured as Susan swung the car into the traffic on Main Street. “Is it far to Mr. Wayne’s house?”
“It’s about halfway up the mountain in front of us. Red Mountain.” The woman ducked her head to peer up. “Unfortunately, you can’t see it from here. Just a hint of the roofline. It’s a marvelous place…with an absolutely spectacular view.”
Delaney didn’t bother to look. A second later, she felt the woman’s glance on her.
“This business with Rina Cole,” Susan said, her tone more serious. “How serious is it? I mean…I know she tried to kill him, but—you don’t really think she’ll try again, do you?”
“Rina Cole is the only one who can answer that.” Delaney kept silent about her own reservations on the matter. “It’s my company’s job to make sure she doesn’t have the opportunity.”
Glossy lips curved in a smile. “I have the distinct feeling I just hear
d the standard tactful response to that question.”
“You did.” Delaney allowed a faint smile of her own to show.
“What else can you say—especially when you’re in the business of protecting celebrities? The possibility always exists that Rina Cole could become a future client of yours.” One-handed, Susan unfastened the purse tucked beside her on the seat and reached inside, then paused. “Do you object if I smoke?”
“No.” Towering trees lined the street, shading the collection of charming Victorian houses on either side, the “painted ladies” adorned with gingerbread-trimmed porches and fanciful turrets.
“I should mention we’re taking the roundabout way to Lucas’s house.” She took an enameled cigarette case out of her purse, opened it, removed a long, slim cigarette, then snapped a monogrammed gold cigarette lighter to it. She took a quick puff, then returned the case and lighter to her purse. “I was in such a rush when I left this morning, I forgot to bring the security code for his alarm system with me. We’ll have to stop at my place.” She turned the Mercedes onto a side street, then immediately slowed the car, maneuvering it to park in front of a gracious old house on a corner lot. Switching off the engine, she glanced at Delaney, an unspoken question in the look. “It’ll only take me a minute to run in and get it.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”
Susan didn’t argue as she climbed out of the car, a ring of keys jangling in her hand. Delaney watched her cross the jewel-green lawn at a quick, running walk.
The two-story house was a treasure of Victorian architecture. Painted a delicate blue with its acres of bric-a-brac trimmed in snow white and accented with mauve, it was tastefully quaint with a definite aristocratic look, a look enhanced by the manicured lawn and shrubs that surrounded it. The upkeep on such a place couldn’t be cheap. But then, Susan had said the gallery business was “the best.” Obviously it was—and just as obviously, she excelled at her work.
When Susan returned to the car, Delaney remarked, “You have a beautiful home.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Pride of possession was in her voice. “It cost me a small fortune to fix it up the way I wanted, but my ‘painted lady’ is worth every penny I put into it and more. The West End is one of the more fashionable sections of Aspen and this location is prime—within easy walking distance of town and only a couple blocks from the music tent.”
“The music tent? The summer festival in Aspen advertised is held outside?”
“In the evenings, yes. Everyone goes. Some actually get seats in the tent, but most camp in the meadow under the stars, listen to the strains of Mendelssohn and Bach, while they picnic on caviar and smoked salmon.” Her tone suggested the latter was the thing to do. “I understand proximity to the music tent is at the top of Rina Cole’s list for a house here in Aspen.”
Delaney tensed. “Rina Cole is buying a place in Aspen?”
“A friend of mine is in real estate. Rina called him from Europe two weeks ago to have him start looking for her. She said she would be flying out soon—I assumed with Lucas. Then…all this happened.”
“I see.” The business district was left behind as they turned onto a road that curled and twisted its way up a mountain slope. “Have you known Mr. Wayne long?” Delaney asked.
“About five, maybe six years—ever since he first started coming to Aspen.” She cast a sideways glance at Delaney. “Did you know that Luke made his acting debut here in Aspen?”
“No,” she admitted.
“He had a small part in a play that was put on here. It was a celebrity fund-raising event to benefit some worthy cause or other. It was the first real acting he’d done, other than the stuff for his music videos. He did it as a lark. But it was obvious to everyone that he was a natural. At the time, I told him that he was destined for the big screen. But you know how men are—he didn’t believe me.”
“I imagine he does now.” From the first moment that Lucas Wayne had mentioned Susan St. Jacque, Delaney had suspected they had once been lovers. Now, after meeting the woman, she was convinced of it. The surprise was that they had remained friends. Susan St. Jacque didn’t strike her as the type to make a friend out of a former lover.
“You must learn a great deal about the clients you protect,” the woman remarked idly. “All their little foibles and idiosyncrasies, their secrets and their skeletons in the closet.”
“To a degree, but we try to be as unobtrusive as possible and respect a client’s need for privacy.”
“Still, I’ll bet the tabloids would love to find out some of the things you know.”
“Why? They can make up things that would definitely be juicier.”
Susan responded with another throaty laugh, imbued with just the right touch of warmth and humor. There was an approving glint in her eyes when she glanced at Delaney. “Tactful and discreet. No wonder Lucas hired you. You’ll do well here in Aspen.”
“Have you always lived in Aspen?”
“Not always.” She applied the brake and turned the smoke-blue Mercedes into a narrow lane, its entrance partially concealed by wild-growing shrubs. “Here we are.”
TWELVE
THE NARROW DRIVE CURVED toward a sprawling, contemporary-styled house that seemed all steep-pitched roofs and sun decks. The front lawn sloped away in an organized tangle of shrubbery splashed with bright flowerbeds.
“How much land is here?” Delaney immediately noticed the absence of a fence around the property, its perimeters protected only by a tall and dense privacy hedge.
“Approximately three and a half acres.” Susan stopped the car at the foot of a winding walk that led to the front entrance. “There’s a detached three-car garage tucked behind the house and a smaller building on the other side that was originally built as a guest cottage. Luke has converted it into the caretaker’s quarters.”
“He mentioned he had a man living on the grounds year-round.” Delaney had his name written down in her notes.
Susan nodded as she switched off the engine and removed the key from the ignition. “Yes, Harry Walker. He’s retired, in his sixties. He takes care of the grounds for Luke, among other things.” She gathered up her purse and reached for the door handle.
“Does he have access to the house?”
“No.” Susan pushed open the door and swung her legs out. “You can only trust unsupervised hired help so far. Luke knows that.”
Delaney silently conceded that point as she climbed out of the car and waited for the woman to lead the way up the winding walk.
Pink and white petunias bordered the evergreen shrubbery that lined the walk. Delaney lifted her gaze to the house with its rustic fieldstone accents and endless expanse of tinted glass, the spaces in between filled with darkly stained wood. But her attention kept straying to the deck that followed the structure’s jutting angles, her mind questioning how many rooms opened onto it and how many ways into the house there were.
Distracted by that concern, she almost missed the path that intersected the main walk before it disappeared behind a flowering bush.
“Where does that go?” she asked.
The woman responded with an indifferent wave of her hand. “It wanders into a small gardened area, then runs parallel with the deck. Eventually it leads to the rear of the house and the caretaker’s cottage. It’s accessible from the deck in a half-dozen places.”
Delaney made a mental note to explore it later along with the rest of the grounds, and followed Susan up the walk to the double entrance doors of glass framed in hammered copper.
A chandelier made of deer horns hung from the foyer’s ceiling, its light shining down on the white marble floor below. A wide hallway led to more rooms in the rear, while an archway on the left opened to a formal dining room.
After showing Delaney the elaborate and sophisticated alarm system, Susan took her a tour of the sleekly modern house.
Thirty minutes later, they returned full circle to the foyer. “Any questions?” Susan paused in the center o
f the room, her hands clasped in front of her in a waiting gesture. “Anything I haven’t covered?”
“I don’t think so.” Delaney skimmed the notations she’d made as they’d gone from room to room. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to look around outside.”
“Take your time. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen checking to see what Luke needs in the way of groceries. I promised I’d have the place stocked with food and drink when he arrives tomorrow.”
Delaney watched the woman leave, then crossed the spacious foyer to the front doors.
Outside, the air was soft and warm, the light pure and golden, inviting her to bask in it. With an effort, she ignored the invitation and set out to explore the grounds, beginning with the garage in back. Once there, she noted the rear boundaries of the property and the absence of homes beyond its back line. She located the caretaker’s cottage, but if Harry Walker was around, she hadn’t seen any sign of him.
Spurred by that thought, she went in search of him, unconsciously setting a brisk pace. Almost immediately, she felt the burning in her lungs. She slowed down, silently reminding herself the elevation was well over eight thousand feet.
She rounded a curve in the path and saw a man crouched on his haunches, gently and carefully plucking weeds from a bed of scarlet cockscomb. He wore a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans that looked brand new. Delaney smiled when she saw the pant cuffs rolled up. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen anybody cuff their jeans.
“Hello,” she said.
Startled, the man lumbered to his feet in alarm. Delaney felt a sense of shock when he faced her. The man before her was far from sixty years old. His hair was a thick brown; there wasn’t a trace of gray in it. And his face—his small dark eyes were almost lost in the heavy roundness of his cheeks.
When he spoke, the odd thickness of his speech, the childlike quality to it, seemed to confirm the impression. “You shouldn’t be here. You’d better go.” He eyed her warily. “Luke don’t like people to be walking in his yard.”