by Kay Hooper
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
Kay Hooper
BLOOD DREAMS
“You won’t want to turn the lights out after reading this book!”
—Romantic Times
“A good read for fans of other serial-killer books and the TV show Criminal Minds.”
—Booklist
SLEEPING WITH FEAR
“An entertaining book for any reader.”
—Winston-Salem Journal
“Hooper keeps the suspense dialed up. … Readers will be mesmerized by a plot that moves quickly to a chilling conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
CHILL OF FEAR
“Hooper’s latest may offer her fans a few shivers on a hot beach.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Kay Hooper has conjured a fine thriller with appealing young ghosts and a suitably evil presence to provide a welcome chill on a hot summer’s day.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“The author draws the reader into the story line and, once there, they can’t leave because they want to see what happens next in this thrill-a-minute, chilling, fantastic reading experience.”
—Midwest Book Review
HUNTING FEAR
“A well-told scary story.”
—Toronto Sun
“Hooper’s unerring story sense and ability to keep the pages flying can’t be denied.”
—Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
“Hooper has created another original—Hunting Fear sets an intense pace. … Work your way through the terror to the triumph … and you’ll be looking for more Hooper tales to add to your bookshelf.”
—Wichita Falls Times Record News
“It’s vintage Hooper—a suspenseful page-turner.”
—Brazosport Facts
“Expect plenty of twists and surprises as Kay Hooper gets her series off to a crackerjack start!”
—Aptos Times
SENSE OF EVIL
“A well-written, entertaining police procedural … loaded with suspense.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Filled with page-turning suspense.”
—The Sunday Oklahoman
“Sense of Evil will knock your socks off.”
—Rendezvous
“A master storyteller.”
—Tami Hoag
STEALING SHADOWS
“A fast-paced, suspenseful plot … The story’s complicated and intriguing twists and turns keep the reader guessing until the chilling end.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This definitely puts Ms. Hooper in a league with Tami Hoag and Iris Johansen and Sandra Brown. Gold 5-star rating.”
—Heartland Critiques
HAUNTING RACHEL
“A stirring and evocative thriller.”
—Palo Alto Daily News
“The pace flies, the suspense never lets up. It’s great reading.”
—The Advocate
“An intriguing book with plenty of strange twists that will please the reader.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“It passed the ‘stay up late to finish it in one night’ test.”
—The Denver Post
FINDING LAURA
“You always know you are in for an outstanding read when you pick up a Kay Hooper novel, but in Finding Laura, she has created something really special! Simply superb!”
—Romantic Times
“Hooper keeps the intrigue pleasurably complicated, with gothic touches of suspense and a satisfying resolution.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A first-class reading experience.”
—Affaire de Coeur
AFTER CAROLINE
“Harrowing good fun. Readers will shiver and shudder.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Kay Hooper has crafted another solid story to keep readers enthralled until the last page is turned.”
—Booklist
“Kay Hooper comes through with thrills, chills, and plenty of romance, this time with an energetic murder mystery with a clever twist. The suspense is sustained admirably right up to the very end.”
—Kirkus Reviews
BANTAM BOOKS BY KAY HOOPER
The Bishop Trilogies
Stealing Shadows
Hiding in the Shadows
Out of the Shadows
Touching Evil
Whisper of Evil
Sense of Evil
Hunting Fear
Chill of Fear
Sleeping with Fear
Blood Dreams
Blood Sins
The Quinn Novels
Once a Thief
Always a Thief
Romantic Suspense
Amanda
After Caroline
Finding Laura
Haunting Rachel
Classic Fantasy and Romance
On Wings of Magic
The Wizard of Seattle
My Guardian Angel (anthology)
Yours to Keep (anthology)
Golden Threads
Something Different
Pepper’s Way
C.J.’s Fate
The Haunting of Josie
Illegal Possession
If There Be Dragons
Rebel Waltz
For Linda
PROLOGUE
SHE ADJUSTED THE straps of the backpack absently and stared at the glass doors leading into the terminal. For a fleeting moment, she wanted badly to take a ship instead of a plane, but stoically she controlled her fear.
Squaring her shoulders, she walked forward. Just inside the terminal was a tall man. He detached himself from the crowd he blended with so well and fell quietly and smoothly into step beside her.
“Matt wants to see you.”
She smiled wryly to herself as she halted and stood scanning the arrival and departure monitors. “I want to see him, too.”
“The jet’s this way.”
They walked side by side through the busy terminal: a small, slight young woman dressed in faded jeans and a workshirt and a tall but otherwise undistinguished-looking middle-aged man who was dressed casually but with an indefinable air of affluence.
“You’re looking well, Alex,” she said.
“So are you.”
If there was any censure in his calm, level voice, only the girl’s sharp and experienced ears could have detected it. And she did detect it, for she grimaced faintly. She said nothing as they left the building and crossed the tarmac toward a gleaming Lear jet.
Then, suddenly, she said, “The credit card in Wanganui.”
Her companion had no apparent difficulty in deciphering this cryptic statement. “You purchased some clothing and a backpack, and told the shopkeeper you were heading for Auckland. We’ve been here for three weeks.”
She nodded slightly. “A mistake on my part, but I didn’t have any cash.”
“Fortunately for Matt.”
She made no answer to that but climbed aboard the jet. She nodded to the pilot and copilot, both familiar faces; slung her backpack onto an extra chair in the luxurious cabin, and silently strapped herself into her seat. Alex just as silently followed suit as the pilots went forward to the cockpit.
“Why didn’t you call Matt?”
“At first because I couldn’t.” She gazed out the window, no expression on her lovely face. “Later … well, I don’t know why I didn’t call him later.”
“He’s been half out of his mind.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.”
He was silent for a moment. “You’ve changed.”
“Have I?” She thought about that for a while, her hands gripping the armrests rather fiercely as the jet lifted into the air; that one sign of tension disappeared, tho
ugh, when the aircraft had leveled off. Then she smiled and murmured as if to herself. “I didn’t change.”
He looked at her quickly, sharply. And what he saw disquieted him, almost unnerved him. She had always seemed to him a flower, lovely and fragile, with no ability to live outside the pampered world so lovingly provided for her. He wondered what Matt was going to make of her. Sun-browned and reed slim, she was no longer the delicate creature her life had made her. Her step held the springiness of strong muscles, her movements the unthinking grace of a dancer or athlete. There was cool self-possession in her lovely face and restless energy in her silver-gray eyes. Even her voice had changed from soft and sweet to low and husky. Finally he said, “We’ll be home soon.” She gave him an unreadable look. “Will we?” There didn’t seem to be anything he could say to that.
ONE
SHE WAS EXTRAORDINARY. Compelling. Exquisite. Waves of smoldering sensuality emanated from her striking silvery eyes and slender body to hold the audience spellbound. Her sequined gown was a shimmering silver, molding to her like a second skin: the bare flesh it revealed was tanned a smooth gold. Her thick, shining ebony hair hung about her shoulders in a living curtain of darkness. And her voice … throaty, sensual, filled with an odd defiant yearning, endowing the words of the song with a wild plea that touched every person in the audience. Women, old and young alike, felt their throats constrict and eyes fill with tears as the passionate words seemed to rise from their own deepest selves. And men of all ages felt their hearts thudding dully in their ears, conscious of a desperate desire to go out and slay dragons ….
The man standing in the wings felt the compulsion toward heroic deeds, felt his heart pounding fiercely. A distant part of his mind marveled silently at the effect of the woman and the woman’s voice. In little less than a year, she’d won over popular music fans throughout the country. The world, her manager had mentioned casually, happily, was next.
Travis Foxx, standing next to that manager now was conscious of a dozen questions he wanted to ask. But he listened, instead, to a voice rich with a woman’s passion and to words that stripped that woman’s soul naked as she sang of the dearth of heroes.
“Isn’t she something?” Philip Saunders asked cheerfully, clearly expecting a positive response.
Travis reluctantly pulled his gaze from the stage as Saber Duncan instantly went into another song, barely giving the stunned audience time to applaud. “Yes. Yes, she’s certainly something.” Travis’s resonant voice added coolly, “But is she the same woman who released a couple of—in all honesty—forgettable songs just about two years ago?”
Saunders blinked, then laughed. “You’ve heard the rumors, I see.”
“That perhaps she isn’t Saber Duncan at all, but a ringer brought in by Mosaic Records? I’ve heard. And now I wonder.” With an effort Travis closed his ears to that enchanting voice scant feet away, focusing his attention on the man at his side. “I heard those forgettable songs when the records were released. And that voice wasn’t the one I’m hearing tonight.”
“You’re so sure of that?”
Travis ignored the mild question. “That voice was as sweet as honey and just as bland. No power. Certainly no passion. And I have copies of the studio photos released to the press then. That Saber was a girl, a hothouse flower with the dew still on its petals.”
“Nice imagery,” Saunders murmured, clearly amused.
He was ignored again. “This Saber”—Travis gestured toward the performer onstage—“is part jungle cat and part siren. And her voice holds more power, more raw passion, then I’ve heard from a performer in fifteen years.” He lifted an eyebrow at the smiling manager. “Such a change in a single year? Sorry, Saunders, but I’m having a hard time swallowing that.”
“Hence the book?” Saunders questioned dryly.
Travis turned his gaze back to the stage, his eyes drawn like a lodestone to the woman pouring her heart out so compellingly. “That’s partly the reason,” he answered honestly. “I’ve never written a biography before, as I told you ….”
“But you want to write hers.” Saunders filled in the sudden silence between them with wry words. “Well, I warned you. Saber’s a very, very private person. I honestly think she’ll refuse to authorize you to write about her.”
Shifting his weight restlessly in an unconscious movement, Travis frowned, not noticing the thoughtful gaze of the other man. “I’ll talk her into it. There isn’t enough material for a single chapter in that scanty bio you release to the press; I haven’t been able to build a profile on her.” His frowning eyes returned to the manager’s expressionless face. “One thing I have been able to find out: Saber Duncan was born just about two years ago. The bio that Mosaic—or you, or she—concocted is just that. Concocted.”
Philip Saunders was silent for a long moment, his level hazel eyes weighing, considering. Then he sighed. Softly he quoted, “‘You would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass.’”
It was Travis’s turn to blink. “Shakespeare. Hamlet.” He identified the quote easily, then the words sank in. Before he could comment, Saunders was explaining.
“That’s something Saber quoted to me about a year ago, when I signed on to manage her career. When—not to put too fine a point on it—I was asking a few questions about her life before I entered it.”
Travis was more than a little surprised, and slightly suspicious. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re no better informed about her than the public?”
Saunders was unoffended. “That’s what I’m telling you. Oh, if you want to write that high-quality stuff, like what she eats for dinner or what her favorite colors are, I could probably oblige. But if you want the sordid details of her shady past—”
Travis cut him off with an impatient gesture. “I don’t want to write a damned ‘Meet the Latest Superstar’ book, whether you believe that or not.”
“Oh, I believe it.” Saunders’s voice was abruptly sober. “I’ve read some of your stuff, Mr. Foxx. You write exceptionally strong fiction and stunning nonfictional exposés. Your books hit the bestseller lists as soon as they land in the bookstores.”
Travis’s green eyes sharpened. “But you don’t want me probing into your client’s background?”
“She doesn’t want it. And that’s good enough for me. Look, Foxx, there’s almost a year missing from Saber’s professional life. And, as you pointed out, that professional life covers only a scant two years. She cut two quick singles, vanished for months, then reappeared and, virtually overnight, became a star.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared broodingly at the other man. “Now I don’t know where she was during those missing months, but I’m reasonably certain she went through hell; I’ve seen the studio pics and heard the ‘forgettable’ songs, too, you see.”
“And you aren’t curious?”
“That’s a mild word. Let’s set my ‘curiosity’ aside for the moment, shall we? The facts and obligations are clear. Saber’s my client; I handle her professional commitments and try to protect her from harm. Tonight marks the tenth city of a twelve-city tour, and I’m going to see to it that my client takes a nice long rest just as soon as this tour’s over. Saber’s also my friend: she’s tired—and I worry about her. I worry because that incredible energy she manifests onstage is an illusion at best and a shield at worst. Offstage she cages that jungle-cat wildness you mentioned and hides behind the bars. She’s no hothouse flower, but she’s vulnerable. And I won’t have her hurt.”
“You’re so sure I’d hurt her?”
“If you dig up a past she wants—for whatever reason—to remain buried, yes, you’ll hurt her.”
Travis turned his gaze back to the stage, where Saber Duncan was winding up her performance. “I want to talk to her,” he said.
“I’ll introduce you.” Saunders responded noncommittally.
Thunderous applause followed her as Saber left the stage. She handed her
microphone to a grinning stagehand and turned to the two men waiting in the wings.
Saunders stepped forward. “Saber, this is Travis Foxx,” he said.
“Miss Duncan.” He was momentarily surprised by the firm strength of her slender fingers as they shook hands; then she looked at him, and the fascination of her odd silver eyes drove all else from his mind.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Travis plunged in headfirst. “I’d like to talk to you, Miss Duncan, whenever it’s convenient.” She was a tiny woman, he realized bemusedly; oddly, she’d looked so much larger onstage.
The silver eyes were gazing up at him without expression. “Sorry, Mr. Foxx, but I’m leaving the city tomorrow morning.”
“My travel plans are flexible,” he said.
“I don’t like interviews.” Her voice was still soft.
“I’m not a reporter, Miss Duncan. I want to write a book—”
“I know. I’m not interested, Mr. Foxx.”
“How can you be sure until you hear what I’ve got to say?”
“I am sure. Sorry. Phil, there are some things we have to go over before I leave. How about a late dinner?”
“You’re on.”
She looked back at Travis. “Mr. Foxx, I am sorry. It’s a shame you had to come all this way for nothing. Please try to understand. I just don’t want a book written about me.” She smiled, a shadow of the blinding onstage grin, but curiously more real and infinitely sweeter. “It was nice meeting you.” Then she took her manager’s arm and vanished down the corridor to the dressing rooms.
Travis stood still for a long moment, listening without really hearing the muted roar of the departing audience. He wasn’t particularly disappointed by Saber’s refusal; in fact, he had expected her to refuse. But he’d hardly become known as a brilliant journalistic writer by giving up whenever a subject refused to confide in him.