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Secret Star: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down
Nora Roberts
THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR‘The most successful novelist on Planet Earth’ Washington PostHe was standing face-to-face with a woman who was supposed to be dead … and she was holding a gun. Lieutenant Seth Buchanan’s homicide investigation—and his heart—were thrown into turmoil when Grace Fontaine turned up very much alive… and in possession of one of the huge blue diamonds known as the Stars of Mithra.The cool, controlled cop never let his feelings get in the way of his job, and everything he knew about the notorious heiress told him she was poison. But in her irresistible presence it was hard to remember there was any mystery more important to solve than that of Grace herself.Praise for Nora Roberts‘A storyteller of immeasurable diversity and  talent’ – Publisher’s Weekly‘You can’t bottle wish fulfilment, but Nora Roberts certainly knows how to put it on the page.’ New York Times‘Everything Nora Roberts writes turns to gold.’ Romantic Times.‘Roberts’ bestselling novels are… thoughtfully plotted, well-written stories featuring fascinating characters.’ USA Today



Secret Star
Stars of Mithra
Book Three

Nora Roberts


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
He was standing face-to-face with a dead woman… and she was holding a gun. Lieutenant Seth Buchanan’s homicide investigation—and his heart—were thrown into turmoil when Grace Fontaine turned up very much alive—and in possession of one of the huge blue diamonds known as the Stars of Mithra.
The cool, controlled cop never let his feelings get in the way of his job, and everything he knew about the notorious heiress told him she was poison. But in her irresistible presence, it was hard to remember there was any mystery more important to solve than that of Grace herself.
To generous hearts

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

Chapter 1
The woman in the portrait had a face created to steal a man’s breath and haunt his dreams. It was, perhaps, as close to perfection as nature would allow. Eyes of laser blue whispered of sex and smiled knowingly from beneath thick black lashes. The brows were perfectly arched, with a flirty little mole dotting the downward point of the left one. The skin was porcelain-pure, with a hint of warm rose beneath—just warm enough that a man could fantasize that heat was kindling only for him. The nose was straight and finely sculpted.
The mouth—and, oh, the mouth was hard to ignore—was curved invitingly, appeared pillow-soft, yet strong in shape. A bold red temptation that beckoned as clearly as a siren’s call.
Framing that staggering face was a rich, wild tumble of ebony hair that streamed over creamy bare shoulders. Glossy, gorgeous, generous. The kind of hair even a strong man would lose himself in—fisting his hands in all that black silk, while his mouth sank deep, and deeper, into those soft, smiling lips.
Grace Fontaine, Seth thought, a study in the perfection of feminine beauty.
It was too damn bad she was dead.
He turned away from the portrait, annoyed that his gaze and his mind kept drifting back to it. He’d wanted some time alone at the crime scene, after the forensic team finished, after the M.E. took possession of the body. The outline remained, an ugly human-shaped silhouette marring the glossy chestnut floor.
It was simple enough to determine how she’d died. A nasty tumble from the floor above, right through the circling railing, now splintered and sharp-edged, and down, beautiful face first, into the lake-size glass table.
She’d lost her beauty in death, he thought, and that was a damn shame, too.
It was also simple to determine that she’d been given some help with that last dive.
It was, he mused, looking around, a terrific house. The high ceilings offered space and half a dozen generous skylights gave light, rosy, hopeful beams from the dying sun. Everything curved—the stairs, the doorways, the windows. Female again, he supposed. The wood was glossy, the glass sparkling, the furniture all obviously carefully selected antiques.
Someone was going to have a tough time getting the bloodstains out of the dove-gray upholstery of the sofa.
He tried to imagine how it had all looked before whoever helped Grace Fontaine off the balcony stormed through the rooms.
There wouldn’t have been broken statuary or ripped cushions. Flowers would have been meticulously arranged in vases, rather than crushed into the intricate pattern of the Oriental rugs.
There certainly wouldn’t have been blood, broken glass, or layers of fingerprint dust.
She’d lived well, he thought. But then, she had been able to afford to live well. She’d become an heiress when she turned twenty-one, the privileged, pampered orphan and the wild child of the Fontaine empire. An excellent education, a country-club darling, and the headache, he imagined, of the conservative and staunch Fontaines, of Fontaine Department Stores fame.
Rarely had a week gone by that Grace Fontaine didn’t warrant a mention in the society pages of the Washington Post, or a paparazzi shot in one of the glossies. And it usually hadn’t been due to a good deed.
The press would be screaming with this latest, and last, adventure in the life and times of Grace Fontaine, Seth knew, the moment the news leaked. And they would be certain to mention all of her escapades. Posing nude at nineteen for a centerfold spread, the steamy and very public affair with a very married English lord, the dalliance with a hot heartthrob from Hollywood.
There’d been other notches in her designer belt, Seth remembered. A United States senator, a bestselling author, the artist who had painted her portrait, the rock star who, rumor had it, had attempted to take his own life when she dumped him.
She’d packed a lot of men into a short life.
Grace Fontaine was dead at twenty-six.
It was his job to find out not only the how, but the who. And the why.
He had a line on the why already. The Three Stars of Mithra—a fortune in blue diamonds, the impulsive and desperate act of a friend, and greed.
Seth frowned as he walked through the empty house, cataloging the events that had brought him to this place, to this point. Since he had a personal interest in mythology, had since childhood, he knew something about the Three Stars. They were the stuff of legends, and had once been grouped in a gold triangle that had been held in the hands of a statue of the god Mithra.
One stone for love, he remembered, skimming through details as he climbed the curved stairs to the second level. One for knowledge, and the last for generosity. Mythologically speaking, whoever possessed the Stars gained the god’s power. And immortality.
Which was, logically, a crock, of course. Wasn’t it odd, though, he mused, that he’d been dreaming lately of flashing blue stones, a dark castle shrouded in mist, a room of glinting gold? And there was a man with eyes as pale as death, he thought, trying to clear the hazy details. And a woman with the face of a goddess.
And his own violent death.
Seth shook off the uneasy sensation that accompanied his recalling the snippets of dreams. What he required now were facts, basic, logical facts. And the fact was that three blue diamonds weighing something over a hundred carats apiece were worth six kings’ ransoms. And someone wanted them, and didn’t mind killing to gain possession.
He had bodies piling up like cordwood, he thought, dragging a hand through his dark hair. In order of death, the first had been Thomas Salvini, part owner of Salvini, gem experts who had been contracted by the Smithsonian Institutions to verify and assess the three stones. Evidence pointed to the fact that verifying and assessing hadn’t been quite enough for Thomas Salvini, or his twin, Timothy.
Over a million in cash indicated that they’d had other plans—and a client who wanted the Stars for himself.
Added to that was the statement from one Bailey James, the Salvinis’ stepsister, and eyewitness to fratricide. A gemologist with an impeccable reputation, she claimed to have discovered her stepbrothers’ plans to copy the stones, sell the originals and leave the country with the profits.
She’d gone in to see her brothers alone, he thought with a shake of his head. Without contacting the police. And she’d decided to face them down after she shipped two of the stones to her two closest friends, separating them to protect them. He gave a short sigh at the mysterious minds of civilians.
Well, she’d paid for her impulse, he thought. Walking in on a vicious murder, barely escaping with her life—and with her memory of the incident and everything before it blocked for days.
He stepped into Grace’s bedroom, his heavylidded gold-toned eyes cooly scanning the brutally searched room.
And had Bailey James gone to the police even then? No, she’d chosen a P.I., right out of the phone book. Seth’s mouth thinned in annoyance. He had very little respect and no admiration for private investigators. Through blind luck, she’d stumbled across a fairly decent one, he acknowledged. Cade Parris wasn’t as bad as most, and he’d managed—through more blind luck, Seth was certain—to sniff out a trail.
And nearly gotten himself killed in the process. Which brought Seth to death number two. Timothy Salvini was now as dead as his brother. He couldn’t blame Parris overmuch for defending himself from a man with a knife, but taking the second Salvini out left a dead end.
And through the eventful Fourth of July weekend, Bailey James’s other friend had been on the run with a bounty hunter. In a rare show of outward emotion, Seth rubbed his eyes and leaned against the door jamb.
M. J. O’Leary. He’d be interviewing her soon, personally. And he’d be the one telling her, and Bailey James, that their friend Grace was dead. Both tasks fell under his concept of duty.
O’Leary had the second Star and had been underground with the skip tracer, Jack Dakota, since Saturday afternoon. Though it was only Monday evening now, M.J. and her companion had managed to rack up a number of points—including three more bodies.
Seth reflected on the foolish and unsavory bail bondsman who’d not only set Dakata up with the false job of bringing in M.J., but also moonlighted with blackmail. The hired muscle who’d been after M.J. had likely been part of some scam of his and had killed him. Then they’d had some very bad luck on a rain-slicked road.
And that left him with yet another dead end.
Grace Fontaine was likely to be third. He wasn’t certain what her empty house, her mangled possessions, would tell him. He would, however, go through it all, inch by inch and step by step. That was his style.
He would be thorough, he would be careful, and he would find the answers. He believed in order, he believed in laws. He believed, unstintingly, in justice.
Seth Buchanan was a third-generation cop, and had worked his way up the rank to lieutenant due to an inherent skill for police work, an almost terrifying patience, and a hard-edged objectivity. The men under him respected him—some secretly feared him. He was well aware he was often referred to as the Machine, and took no offense. Emotion, temperament, the grief and the guilt civilians could indulge in, had no place in the job.
If he was considered aloof, even cold and controlled, he saw it as a compliment.
He stood a moment longer in the doorway, the mahogany-framed mirror across the wide room reflecting him. He was a tall, well-built man, muscles toned to iron under a dark suit jacket. He’d loosened his tie because he was alone, and his night-wing hair was slightly disordered by the rake of his fingers. It was full and thick, with a slight wave. He pushed it back from an unsmiling face that boasted a square jaw and tawny skin.
His nose had been broken years before, when he was in uniform, and it edged his face toward the rugged. His mouth was hard, firm, and rare to smile. His eyes, the dark gold of an old painting, remained cool under straight black brows.
On one wide-palmed hand he wore the ring that had been his father’s. On either side of the heavy gold were the words Serve and Protect.
He took both duties seriously.
Bending, he picked up a pool of red silk that had been tossed on the mountain of scattered clothing heaped on the Aubusson carpet. The callused tips of his fingers skimmed over it. The red silk gown matched the short robe the victim had been wearing, he thought.
He wanted to think of her only as the victim, not as the woman in the portrait, certainly not as the woman in those new and disturbing dreams that disrupted his sleep. And he was irritated that his mind kept swimming back to that stunning face—the woman behind it. That quality was—had been, he corrected—part of her power. That skill in drilling into a man’s mind until he was obsessed with her.
She would have been irresistible, he mused, still holding the wisp of silk. Unforgettable. Dangerous.
Had she slipped into that little swirl of silk for a man? he wondered. Had she been expecting company—a private evening of passion?
And where was the third Star? Had her unexpected visitor found it, taken it? The safe in the library downstairs had been broken open, cleaned out. It seemed logical that she would have locked something that valuable away. Yet she’d taken the fall from up here.
Had she run? Had he chased her? Why had she let him in the house? The sturdy locks on the doors hadn’t been tampered with. Had she been careless, reckless enough to open the door to a stranger while she wore nothing but a thin silk robe?
Or had she known him?
Perhaps she’d bragged about the diamond, even shown it off to him. Had greed taken the place of passion? An argument, then a fight. A struggle, a fall. Then the destruction of the house as cover.
It was an avenue, he decided. He had her thick address book downstairs, and would go through it name by name. Just as he, and the team he assigned, would go through the empty house in Potomac, Maryland, inch by inch.
But he had people to see now. Tragedy to spread and details to tie up. He would have to ask one of Grace Fontaine’s friends, or a member of her family, to come in and officially identify the body.
He regretted, more than he wanted to, that anyone who had cared for her would have to look at that ruined face.
He let the silk gown drop, took one last look at the room, with its huge bed and trampled flowers, the scatter of lovely old antique bottles that gleamed like precious gems. He already knew that the scent here would haunt him, just as that perfect face painted beautifully in oils in the room downstairs would.

It was full dark when he returned. It wasn’t unusual for him to put long, late hours into a case. Seth had no life to speak of outside of the job, had never sought to make one. The women he saw socially, or romantically, were carefully, even calculatingly, selected. Most tolerated the demands of his work poorly, and they rarely cemented a relationship. Because he knew how difficult and frustrating those demands of time, energy and heart were on those who waited, he expected complaints, sulking, even accusations, from the women who felt neglected.
So he never made promises. And he lived alone.
He knew there was little he could do here at the scene. He should have been at his desk—or at least, he thought, have gone home just to let his mind clear. But he’d been pulled back to this house. No, to this woman, he admitted. It wasn’t the two stories of wood and glass, however lovely, that dragged at him.
It was the face in the portrait.
He’d left his car at the top of the sweep of the drive, and walked to the house sheltered by grand old trees and well-trimmed shrubs green with summer. He’d let himself in, turned the switch that had the foyer chandelier blazing light.
His men had already started the tedious door-to-door of the neighborhood, hoping that someone, in another of the big, exquisite homes, would have heard something, seen anything.
The medical examiner was slow—understandably, Seth reminded himself. It was a holiday, and the staff was down to bare minimum. Official reports would take a bit longer.
But it wasn’t the reports or lack of them that nagged at his mind as he wandered back, inevitably, to the portrait over the glazed-tile hearth.
Grace Fontaine had been loved. He’d underestimated the depth friendship could reach. But he’d seen that depth, and that shocked and racking grief in the faces of the two women he’d just left.
There had been a bond between Bailey James, M. J. O’Leary and Grace that was as strong as he’d ever seen. He regretted—and he rarely had regrets—that he’d had to tell them so bluntly.
I’m sorry for your loss.
Words cops said to euphemize the death they lived with—often violent, always unexpected. He had said the words, as he had too often in the past, and watched the fragile blonde and the cat-eyed redhead simply crumble. Clutching each other, they had simply crumbled.
He hadn’t needed the two men who had ranged themselves as the women’s champions to tell him to leave them alone with their grief. There would be no questions, no statements, no answers, that night. Nothing he could say or do would penetrate that thick curtain of grief.
Grace Fontaine had been loved, he thought again, looking into those spectacular blue eyes. Not simply desired by men, but loved by two women. What was behind those eyes, what was behind that face, that had deserved that kind of unquestioning emotion?
“Who the hell were you?” he murmured, and was answered by that bold, inviting smile. “Too beautiful to be real. Too aware of your own beauty to be soft.” His deep voice, rough with fatigue, echoed in the empty house. He slipped his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “Too dead to care.”
And though he turned from the portrait, he had the uneasy feeling that it was watching him. Measuring him.
He had yet to reach her next of kin, the aunt and uncle in Virginia who had raised her after the death of her parents. The aunt was summering in a villa in Italy and was, for tonight, out of touch.
Villas in Italy, he mused, blue diamonds, oil portraits over fireplaces of sapphire-blue tile. It was a world far removed from his firmly middle-class up-bringing, and from the life he’d embraced through his career.
But he knew violence didn’t play favorites.
He would eventually go home to his tiny little house on its postage-stamp lot, crowded together with dozens of other tiny little houses. It would be empty, as he’d never found a woman who moved him to want to share even that small private space. But his home would be there for him.
And this house, for all its gleaming wood and acres of gleaming glass, its sloping lawn, sparkling pool and trimmed bushes, hadn’t protected its mistress.
He walked around the stark outline on the floor and started up the stairs again. His mood was edgy—he could admit that. And the best thing to smooth it out again was work.
He thought perhaps a woman with as eventful a life as Grace Fontaine would have noted those events—and her personal feelings about them—in a diary.
He worked in silence, going through her bedroom carefully, knowing very well that he was trapped in that sultry scent she’d left behind.
He’d taken his tie off, tucked it in his pocket. The weight from his weapon, snug in his shoulder harness, was so much a part of him it went unnoticed.
He went through her drawers without a qualm, though they were largely empty now, as their contents were strewn around the room. He searched beneath them, behind them and under the mattress.
He thought, irrelevantly, that she’d owned enough clothing to outfit a good-size modeling troupe, and that she’d leaned toward soft materials. Silks, cashmeres, satins, thin brushed wools. Bold colors. Jewel colors, with a bent toward blues.
With those eyes, he thought as they crept back into his mind, why not?
He caught himself wondering how her voice had sounded. Would it have fit that sultry face, been husky and low, another purr of temptation for a man? He imagined it that way, a voice as dark and sensual as the scent that hung on the air.
Her body had fit the face, fit the scent, he mused, stepping into her enormous walk-in closet. Of course, she’d helped nature along there. And he wondered why a woman would feel impelled to add silicone to her body to lure a man. And what kind of pea-brained man would prefer it to an honest shape.
He preferred honesty in women. Insisted on it. Which, he supposed, was one of the reasons he lived alone.
He scanned the clothes still hanging with a shake of his head. Even the killer had run out of patience here, it seemed. The hangers were swept back so that garments were crowded together, but he hadn’t bothered to pull them all out.
Seth judged that the number of shoes totaled well over two hundred, and one wall of shelves had obviously been fashioned to hold handbags. These, in every imaginable shape and size and color, had been pulled out of their slots, ripped open and searched.
A cupboard had held more—sweaters, scarves. Costume jewelry. He imagined she’d had plenty of the real sparkles, as well. Some would have been in the now empty safe downstairs, he was sure. And she might have a lockbox at a bank.
That he would check on first thing in the morning.
She’d enjoyed music, he mused, scanning the wireless speakers. He’d seen speakers in every room of the house, and there had been CDs, tapes, even old albums, tossed around the living area downstairs. She’d had eclectic taste there. Everything from Bach to the B-52s.
Had she spent many evenings alone? he wondered. With music playing through the house? Had she ever curled up in front of that classy fireplace with one of the hundreds of books that lined the walls of her library?
Snuggled up on the couch, he thought, wearing that little red robe, with her million-dollar legs tucked up. A glass of brandy, the music on low, the starlight streaming through the roof windows.
He could see it too well. He could see her look up, skim that fall of hair back from that staggering face, curve those tempting lips as she caught him watching her. Set the book aside, reach out a hand in invitation, give that low, husky purr of a laugh as she drew him down beside her.
He could almost taste it.
Because he could, he swore under his breath, gave himself a moment to control the sudden up-beat of his heart rate.
Dead or alive, he decided, the woman was a witch. And the damn stones, preposterous or not, only seemed to add to her power.
And he was wasting his time. Completely wasting it, he told himself as he rose. He was covering ground best covered through rules and routine. He needed to go back, light a fire under the M.E., push for an estimated time of death. He needed to start calling the numbers in the victim’s address book.
He needed to get out of this house that smelled of this woman. All but breathed of her. And stay out of it, he determined, until he was certain he could rein in his uncharacteristic imaginings.
Annoyed with himself, irked by his own deviation from strict routine, he walked back through the bedroom. He’d just started down the curve of the stairs when a movement caught his eye. His hand reached for his weapon. But it was already too late for that.
Very slowly, he dropped his hand, stood where he was and stared down. It wasn’t the automatic pointed at his heart that stunned him motionless. It was the fact that it was held, steady as a rock, in the hand of a dead woman.
“Well,” the dead woman said, stepping forward into the halo of light from the foyer chandelier. “You’re certainly a messy thief, and a stupid one.” Those shockingly blue eyes stared up at him. “Why don’t you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a hole in your head before I call the police?”
For a ghost, she met his earlier fantasy perfectly. The voice was a purr, hot and husky and stunningly alive. And for the recently departed, she had a very warm flush of temper in her cheeks. It wasn’t often that Seth’s mind clicked off. But it had. He saw a woman, runway-fresh in white silk, the glint of jewels at her ears and a shiny silver gun in her hand.
He pulled himself back roughly, though none of the shock or the effort showed as he met her demand with an unsmiling response. “I am the police.”
Her lips curved, a generous bow of sarcasm. “Of course you are, handsome. Who else would be creeping around a locked house when no one’s at home but an overworked cop on his beat?”
“I haven’t been a beat cop for quite some time. I’m Buchanan. Lieutenant Seth Buchanan. If you’d aim your weapon just a little to the left of my heart, I’ll show you my badge.”
“I’d just love to see it.” Watching him, she slowly shifted the barrel of the gun. Her heart was thudding like a jackhammer with a combination of fear and anger, but she took another casual step forward as he reached two fingers into his pocket. The badge looked real enough, she mused. What she could see of the identification with the gold shield on the flap that he held up.
And she began to get a very bad feeling. A worse sinking in the stomach sensation than she’d experienced when she pulled up to the drive, saw the strange car and the lights blazing inside her empty house.
She flicked her eyes from the badge up to his again. Damned if he didn’t look more like a cop than a crook, she decided. Very attractive, in a straight-edged, buttoned-down sort of fashion. The solid body, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, appeared ruthlessly disciplined.
Eyes like that, cool and clear and golden brown, that seemed to see everything at once, belonged to either a cop or a criminal. Either way, she imagined, they belonged to a dangerous sort of man.
Dangerous men usually appealed to her. But at the moment, as she took in the oddity of the situation, her mood wasn’t receptive.
“All right, Buchanan, Lieutenant Seth, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing in my house.” She thought of what she carried in her purse—what Bailey had sent her only days before—and felt that unsettling sensation in her stomach deepen.
What kind of trouble are we in? she wondered. And just how do I slide out of it with a cop staring me down?
“Have you got a search warrant to go along with that badge?” she demanded.
“No, I don’t.” He’d have felt better, considerably better, if she’d put the gun down altogether. But she seemed content to hold it, aiming it lower now, no less steadily, but lower. Still, his composure had snapped back. Keeping his eyes on hers, he came down the rest of the stairs and stood in the lofty foyer, facing her. “You’re Grace Fontaine.”
She watched him tuck his badge back into his pocket, while those unreadable cop’s eyes skimmed over her face. Memorizing features, she thought, irritated. Making mental note of any distinguishing marks. Just what the hell was going on?
“Yes, I’m Grace Fontaine. This is my property, my home. And as you’re in it, without a proper warrant, you’re trespassing. As calling a cop seems superfluous, maybe I’ll just call my lawyer.”
He angled his head, and unwillingly caught a whiff of that siren’s scent of hers. Perhaps it was that, and feeling its instant and unwelcome effect on his system, that had him speaking without thought.
“Well, Ms. Fontaine, you look damn good for a dead woman.”

Chapter 2
Her response was to narrow her eyes, arch a brow. “If that’s some sort of cop humor, I’m afraid you’ll have to translate.”
It annoyed him that she’d jarred the remark out of him. It wasn’t professional. Cautious, he brought a hand up slowly, tipped the barrel of the gun farther to the left. “Do you mind?” he said, then, quickly, before she could agree, he twisted it neatly out of her hand, pulled out the clip. It wasn’t the time to ask if she had a license to carry, so he merely handed her back the empty gun and pocketed the clip.
“It’s best to keep both hands on your weapon,” he said easily, and with such sobriety that she suspected amusement lurked beneath. “And, if you want to keep it, not to get within reach.”
“Thanks so much for the lesson in self-defense.” Obviously irritated, she opened her bag and dumped the gun inside. “But you still haven’t answered my initial question, Lieutenant. Why are you in my house?”
“You’ve had an incident, Ms. Fontaine.”
“An incident? More copspeak?” She blew out a breath. “Was there a break-in?” she asked, and for the first time took her attention off the man and glanced past him into the foyer. “A robbery?” she added, then caught sight of an overturned chair and some smashed crockery through the archway in the living area.
Swearing, she started to push past him. He curled a hand over her arm to stop her. “Ms. Fontaine—”
“Get your hand off me,” she snapped, interrupting him. “This is my home.”
He kept his grip firm. “I’m aware of that. Exactly when was the last time you were in it?”
“I’ll give you a damn statement after I’ve seen what’s missing.” She managed another two steps and saw from the disorder in the living area that it hadn’t been a neat or organized robbery. “Well, they did quite a job, didn’t they? My cleaning service is going to be very unhappy.”
She glanced down to where Seth’s fingers were still curled around her arm. “Are you testing my biceps, Lieutenant? I do like to think they’re firm.”
“Your muscle tone’s fine.” From what he could see of her in the filmy ivory slacks, it appeared more than fine. “I’d like you to answer my question, Ms. Fontaine. When were you home last?”
“Here?” She sighed, shrugged one elegant shoulder. Her mind was flitting around the annoying details that were the backwash of a robbery. Calling her insurance agent, filing a claim, giving statements. “Wednesday afternoon. I went out of town for a few days.” She was more shaken than she cared to admit that her house had been robbed and ransacked in her absence. Her things touched and taken by strangers. But she slid him a smiling glance from under her lashes. “Aren’t you going to take notes?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Shortly. Who was staying in the house in your absence?”
“No one. I don’t care to have people in my home when I’m away. Now if you’ll excuse me…” She gave her arm a quick, hard jerk and strode through the foyer and under the arch. “Good God.” The anger came first, quick and intense. She wanted to kick something, no matter that it was broken and ruined already. “Did they have to break what they didn’t cart out?” she muttered. She glanced up, saw the splintered railing and swore again. “And what the devil did they do up there? A lot of good an alarm system does if anyone can just…”
She stopped her forward motion, her voice trailing off, as she saw the outline on the gleaming chestnut wood of the floor. As she stared at it, unable to tear her eyes away, the blood drained out of her face, leaving it painfully cold and stiff.
Placing one hand on the back of the stained sofa for balance, she stared down at the outline, the diamond glitter of broken glass that had been her coffee table, and the blood that had dried to a dark pool.
“Why don’t we go into the dining room?” he said quietly.
She jerked her shoulders back, though he hadn’t touched her. The pit of her stomach was cased in ice, and the flashes of heat that lanced through her did nothing to melt it. “Who was killed?” she demanded. “Who died here?”
“Up until a few minutes ago, it was assumed you did.”
She closed her eyes, vaguely concerned that her vision was dimming at the edges. “Excuse me,” she said, quite clearly, and walked across the room on numb legs. She picked up a bottle of brandy that lay on its side on the floor, fumbled open a display cabinet for a glass. And poured generously.
She took the first drink as medicine. He could see that in the way she tossed it back, shuddered twice, hard. It didn’t bring the color back to her face, but he imagined it had shocked her system into functioning again.
“Ms. Fontaine, I think it would be better if we talked about this in another room.”
“I’m all right.” But her voice was raw. She drank again before turning to him. “Why did you think it was me?”
“The victim was in your house, dressed in a robe. She met your general description. Her face had been…damaged by the fall. She was your approximate height and weight, your age, your coloring.”
Her coloring, Grace thought on a wave of staggering relief. Not Bailey or M.J., then. “I had no houseguest while I was gone.” She took a deep breath, knowing the calm was there, if only she could reach it. “I have no idea who the woman was, unless it was one of the burglars. How did she—” Grace look up again at the broken railing, the viciously sharp edges of wood. “She must have been pushed.”
“That has yet to be determined.”
“I’m sure it has. I can’t help you as to who she was, Lieutenant. As I don’t have a twin, I can only—” She broke off, her color draining a second time. Now her free hand fisted and pressed hard to her stomach. “Oh, no. Oh, God.”
He understood, didn’t hesitate. “Who was she?”
“I— It could have been… She’s stayed here before while I was away. That’s why I stopped leaving a spare key outside. She might have had it copied, though. She’d think nothing of that.”
Turning her gaze away from the outline, she walked back through the debris, sat on the arm of the sofa. “A cousin.” Grace sipped brandy again, slowly, letting it ease warmth back into her system. “Melissa Bennington— No, I think she took the Fontaine back a few months ago, after the divorce. I’m not sure.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “I wasn’t interested enough to be sure of a detail like that.”
“She resembles you?”
She offered a weak, humorless smile. “It’s Melissa’s mission to be me. I went from finding it mildly flattering to mildly annoying. In the last few years I found it pathetic. There’s a surface resemblance, I suppose. She’s augmented it. She let her hair grow, dyed it my color. There was some difference in build, but she…augmented that, as well. She shops the same stores, uses the same salons. Chooses the same men. We grew up together, more or less. She always felt I got the better deal on all manner of levels.”
She made herself look back, look down, and felt a wash of grief and pity. “Apparently I did, this time around.”
“If someone didn’t know you well, could they mistake you?”
“A passing glance, I suppose. Maybe a casual acquaintance. No one who—” She broke off again, got to her feet. “You think someone killed her believing her to be me? Mistaking her for me, as you did? That’s absurd. It was a break-in, a burglary. A terrible accident.”
“It’s possible.” He had indeed taken out his book to note down her cousin’s name. Now he glanced up, met her eyes. “It’s also more than possible that someone came here, mistook her for you, and assumed she had the third Star.”
She was good, he decided. There was barely a flicker in her eyes before she lied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. And if you haven’t been home since Wednesday, you still have it.” He glanced down at the bag she continued to hold.
“I don’t generally carry stars in my purse.” She sent him a smile that was shaky around the edges. “But it’s a lovely, almost poetic, thought. Now, I’m very tired—”
“Ms. Fontaine.” His voice was clipped and cool. “This victim is the sixth body I’ve dealt with today that traces back to those three blue diamonds.”
Her hand shot out, gripped his arm. “M.J. and Bailey?”
“Your friends are fine.” He felt her grip go limp. “They’ve had an eventful holiday weekend, all of which could have been avoided if they’d contacted and cooperated with the police. And it’s cooperation I’ll have from you now, one way or the other.”
She tossed her hair back. “Where are they? What did you do, toss them in a cell? My lawyer will have them out and your butt in a sling before you can finish reciting the Miranda.” She started toward the phone, saw it wasn’t on the Queen Anne table.
“No, they’re not in a cell.” It goaded him, the way she snapped into gear, ready to buck the rules. “I imagine they’re planning your funeral right about now.”
“Planning my—” Her fabulous eyes went huge with distress. “Oh, my God, you told them I was dead? They think I’m dead? Where are they? Where’s the damn phone? I have to call them.”
She crouched to push through the rubble, shoving at him when he took her arm again. “They’re not home, either of them.”
“You said they weren’t in jail.”
“And they’re not.” He could see he’d get nothing out of her until she’d satisfied herself. “I’ll take you to them. Then we’re going to sort this out, Ms. Fontaine—I promise you.”

Grace didn’t speak as he drove her toward the tidy suburbs edging D.C. He’d assured her that Bailey and M.J. were fine, and her instincts told her that Lieutenant Seth Buchanan was saying nothing but the truth. Facts were his business, after all, she thought. But she still gripped her hands together until her knuckles ached.
She had to see them, touch them.
Guilt was already weighing on her, guilt that they should be grieving for her, when she’d spent the past few days indulging her need to be alone, to be away. To be somewhere else.
What had happened to them over the long weekend? Had they tried to contact her while she was out of reach? It was painfully obvious that the three blue diamonds Bailey had been assessing for the museum were at the bottom of it all.
As the afterimage of that stark outline on the chestnut floor flashed into her head, Grace shuddered once again.
Melissa. Poor, pathetic Melissa. But she couldn’t think of that now. She couldn’t think of anything but her friends.
“They’re not hurt?” she managed to ask.
“No.” Seth left it at that, drove through the wash of streetlights and headlights. Her scent was sliding silkily through his car, teasing his senses. Deliberately he opened his window and let the light, damp breeze chase it away. “Where have you been the last few days, Ms. Fontaine?”
“Away.” Weary she laid her head back, shut her eyes. “It’s one of my favorite spots.”
She jerked upright again when he turned down a tree-lined street, then swung into the drive of a brick house. She saw a shiny Jaguar, then an impossibly decrepit boat of a car. But no spiffy MG, no practical little compact.
“Their cars aren’t here,” she began, tossing him a look of distrust and accusation.
“But they are.”
She climbed out and, ignoring him, hurried toward the front door. Her knock was brisk, businesslike, but her fist trembled. The door opened, and a man she’d never seen before stared down at her. His cool green eyes flickered with shock, then slowly warmed. His flash of a smile was blinding. Then he reached out, laid a hand gently on her cheek.
“You’re Grace.”
“Yes, I—”
“It’s absolutely wonderful to see you.” He gathered her into his arms, one of which was freshly bandaged, with such easy affection that she didn’t have time to register surprise. “I’m Cade,” he murmured, his gaze meeting Seth’s over Grace’s head. “Cade Parris. Come on in.”
“Bailey. M.J.”
“Just in here. They’ll be fine as soon as they see you.” He took her arm, felt the quick, hard tremors in it. But in the doorway of the living room, she stopped, laid a hand over his arm.
Inside, Bailey and M.J. stood, facing away, hands linked. Their voices were low, with tears wrenching through them. A man stood a short distance away, his hands thrust in his pockets and a look of helplessness on his bruised and battered face. When he saw her, his eyes, the gray of storm clouds, narrowed, flashed. Then smiled.
Grace took one shuddering breath, exhaled it slowly. “Well,” she said in a clear, steady voice, “it’s gratifying to know someone would weep copiously over me.”
Both women whirled. For a moment, all three stared, three pair of eyes brimming over. To Seth’s mind, they all moved as once, as a unit, so that their leaping rush across the room to each other held an uncanny and undeniably feminine grace. Then they were fused together, voices and tears mixing.
A triangle, he thought, frowning. With three points that made a whole. Like the golden triangle that held three priceless and powerful stones.
“I think they could use a little time,” Cade said quietly, and gestured to the other man. “Lieutenant?” He motioned down the hall, lifting his brows when Seth hesitated. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere just now.”
With a barely perceptible shrug, Seth stepped back. He could give them twenty minutes. “I need your phone.”
“There’s one in the kitchen. Want a beer, Jack?”
The third man grinned. “You’re playing my song.”

“Amnesia,” Grace said a little time later. She and Bailey were huddled together on the sofa, with M.J. sitting on the floor at their feet. “Everything just blanked?”
“Everything.” Bailey kept her hold on Grace’s hand tight, afraid to break the link. “I woke up in this horrible little hotel room with no memory, over a million in cash, and the diamond. I picked Cade’s name out of the phone book. Parris.” She smiled a little. “Funny, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to get you to France yet,” Grace promised.
“He helped me through everything.” The warmth in her tone had Grace sharing a quick look with M.J. This was something to be discussed in detail later. “I started to remember, piece by piece. You and M.J., just flashes. I could see your faces, even hear your voices, but nothing fit. He’s the one who narrowed it down to Salvini’s, and when he took me there… He broke in.”
“Shortly before we did,” M.J. added. “Jack could tell the rear locks had been picked.”
“We got inside,” Bailey continued, and her tear-ravaged eyes went glassy. “And I remembered, I remembered it all then, how Thomas and Timothy were planning to steal the stones, copy them. How I’d shipped one off to each of you to keep it from happening. Stupid, so stupid.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Grace slid an arm around Bailey’s shoulders. “It makes perfect sense to me. You didn’t have time for anything else.”
“I should have called the police, but I was so sure I could turn things around. I was going into Thomas’s office to have a showdown, tell them it was over. And I saw…” She trembled again. “The fight. Horrible. The lightning flashing through the windows, their faces. Then Timothy grabbed the letter opener, the knife. The power went out, but the lightning kept flashing, and I could see what he was doing…to Thomas. All the blood.”
“Don’t,” M.J. murmured, rubbing a comforting hand on Bailey’s knee. “Don’t go back there.”
“No.” Bailey shook her head. “I have to. He saw me, Grace. He would have killed me. He came after me. I had grabbed the bag with their deposit money, and I ran through the dark. And I hid down under the stairs. In this little cave under the stairs. But I could see him hunting for me, blood all over his hands. I still don’t remember how I got out, got to that room.”
Grace couldn’t bear to imagine it—her quiet, serious-minded friend, pursued by a murderer. “The important thing is that you did get away, and you’re safe.” Grace looked down at M.J. “We all are.” She tried a bolstering grin. “And how did you spend your holiday?”
“On the run with a bounty hunter, handcuffed to a bed in a cheap motel, being shot at by a couple of creeps—with a little detour up to your place in the mountains.”
Bounty hunter, Grace thought, trying to keep pace. The man named Jack, she supposed, with the bronze-tipped ponytail and the stormy gray eyes. And the killer grin. Handcuffs, cheap motels, and shootings. Pressing fingertips to her eyes, she latched on to the least disturbing detail.
“You were at my place? When?”
“It’s a long story.” M.J. gave a quick version of a handful of days from her first encounter with Jack, when he’d tried to take her in, believing her to be a bail jumper, to the two of them escaping that setup and working their way back to the core of the puzzle.
“We know someone’s pulling the strings,” M.J. concluded. “But we haven’t gotten very far on figuring that out yet. The bail bondsman-cum-black-mailer who gave Jack the fake paperwork on me is dead, the two guys who came after us are dead, the Salvinis are dead.”
“And Melissa,” Grace murmured.
“It was Melissa?” Bailey turned to Grace. “In your house?”
“It must have been. When I got home, the cop was there. The place was torn up, and they’d assumed it was me.” It took a moment, a carefully indrawn breath, a steady exhale, before she could finish. “She’d fallen off the balcony—or been pushed. I was miles away when it happened.”
“Where did you go?” M.J. asked her. “When Jack and I got to your country place, it was locked up tight. I thought…I was sure you’d just been there. I could smell you.”
“I left late yesterday morning. Got an itch to be near the water, so I drove down the Eastern Shore, found a little B-and-B. I did some antiquing, rubbed elbows with tourists, watched a fireworks display. I didn’t leave until late today. I nearly stayed over another night. But I called both of you from the B-and-B and got your machines. I started feeling uncomfortable about being out of contact, so I headed home.”
She shut her eyes a moment. “Bailey, I hadn’t been really thinking. Just before I left for the country, we lost one of the children.”
“Oh, Grace, I’m sorry.”
“It happens all the time. They’re born with AIDS or a crack addiction or a hole in the heart. Some of them die. But I can’t get used to it, and it was on my mind. So I wasn’t really thinking. When I started back, I started to think. And I started to worry. Then the cop was there in my house. He asked about the stone. I didn’t know what you wanted me to tell him.”
“We’ve told the police everything now.” Bailey sighed. “Neither Cade nor Jack seem to like this Buchanan very much, but they respect his abilities. The two stones are safe now, as we are.”
“I’m sorry for what you went through, both of you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” M.J. declared. “We were scattered all over—one stone apiece. Maybe we were meant to be.”
“Now we’re together.” Grace took each of their hands in hers. “What happens next?”
“Ladies.” Seth stepped into the room, skimmed his cool gaze over them, then focused on Grace. “Ms. Fontaine. The diamond?”
She rose, picked up the purse she’d tossed carelessly on the end of the couch. Opening it, she took out a velvet pouch, slid the stone out into her palm. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” she murmured, studying the flash of bold blue light. “Diamonds are supposed to be cold to the touch, aren’t they, Bailey? Yet this has…heat.” She lifted her eyes to Seth’s as she crossed to him. “Still, how many lives is it worth?”
She held her open palm out. When his fingers closed around the stone, she felt the jolt—his fingers on her skin, the shimmering blue diamond between their hands.
Something clicked, almost audibly.
She wondered if he’d felt it, heard it. Why else did those enigmatic eyes narrow, or his hand linger? The breath caught in her throat.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” she managed, then felt the odd wave of emotion and recognition ebb when he took the stone from her hand.
He didn’t care for the shock that had run up his arm, and he spoke bitingly. “I imagine this one’s out of even your price range, Ms. Fontaine.”
She merely smiled. No, she told herself, he couldn’t have felt anything—and neither had she. Just imagination and stress. “I prefer to decorate my body in something less…obvious.”
Bailey rose. “The Stars are my responsibility, unless and until the Smithsonian indicates otherwise.” She looked over at Cade, who remained in the doorway. “We’ll put them in the safe. All of them. And I’ll speak with Dr. Linstrum in the morning.”
Seth turned the stone over in his hand. He imagined he could confiscate it, and its mates. They were, after all, evidence in several homicides. But he didn’t relish driving back to the station with a large fortune in his car.
Parris was an irritant, he reflected. But he was an honest one. And, technically, the stones were in Bailey James’s keeping until the Smithsonian relieved her of them. He wondered just what the powers at the museum would have to say about the recent travels of the Three Stars.
But that wasn’t his problem.
“Lock it up,” he said, passing the stone off to Cade. “And I’ll be talking with Dr. Linstrum in the morning, as well, Ms. James.”
Cade took one quick, threatening step forward. “Look, Buchanan—”
“No.” Quietly, Bailey stepped between them, a cool breeze between two building storms. “Lieutenant Buchanan’s right, Cade. It’s his business now.”
“That doesn’t stop it from being mine.” He gave Seth one last, warning look. “Watch your step,” he said, then walked away with the stone.
“Thank you for bringing Grace by so quickly, Lieutenant.”
Seth looked down at the extended, and obviously dismissing, hand Bailey offered him. Here’s your hat, he thought, what’s your hurry. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, Ms. James.” His gaze flicked over to M.J. “Ms. O’Leary. You’ll keep available.”
“We’re not going anywhere.” M.J.’s chin angled, a cocky gesture as Jack crossed to her. “Drive carefully, Lieutenant.”
He acknowledged the second dismissal with a slight nod. “Ms. Fontaine? I’ll drive you back.”
“She’s not leaving.” M.J. jumped in front of Grace like a tiger defending her cub. “She’s not going back to that house tonight. She’s staying here, with us.”
“You may not care to go back home, Ms. Fontaine,” Seth said coolly. “You may find it more comfortable to answer questions in my office.”
“You can’t be serious—”
He cut Bailey’s protest off with a look. “I have a body in the morgue. I take it very seriously.”
“You’re a class act, Buchanan,” Jack drawled, but the sound was low and threatening. “Why don’t you and I go in the other room and…talk about our options?”
“It’s all right.” Grace stepped forward, working up a believable smile. “It’s Jack, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” He took his attention from Buchanan long enough to smile at her. “Jack Dakota. Pleased to meet you…Miss April.”
“Oh, my misspent youth survives.” With a little laugh, she kissed his bruised cheek. “I appreciate the offer to beat up the lieutenant for me, Jack, but you look like you’ve already gone several rounds.”
Grinning now, he stroked a thumb over his bruised jaw. “I’ve got a few more rounds in me.”
“I don’t doubt it. But, sad to say, the cop’s right.” She pushed her hair to her back and turned that smile, several degrees cooler now, on Seth. “Tactless, but right. He needs some answers. I need to go back.”
“You’re not going back to your house alone,” Bailey insisted. “Not tonight, Grace.”
“I’ll be fine. But if it’s all right with your Cade, I’ll deal with this, pick up a few things and come back.” She glanced over at Cade as he came back into the room. “Got a spare bed, darling?”
“You bet. Why don’t I go with you, help you pick up your things and bring you back?”
“You stay here with Bailey.” She kissed him, as well—a casual and already affectionate brush of lips. “I’m sure Lieutenant Buchanan and I will manage.” She picked up her purse, turned and embraced both M.J. and Bailey again. “Don’t worry about me. After all, I’m in the arms of the law.”
She eased back, shot Seth one of those full candlepower smiles. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He stepped back and waited for her to walk to the door ahead of him.
She waited until they were in his car and pulling out of the drive. “I need to see the body.” She didn’t look at him, but lifted a hand to the four people crowded at the front door, watching them drive away. “You need— She’ll have to be identified, won’t she?”
It surprised him that she’d take the duty on. “Yes.”
“Then let’s get it over with. After—afterwards, I’ll answer your questions. I’d prefer we handle that in your office,” she added, using that smile again. “My house isn’t ready for company.”
“Fine.”

She’d known it would be hard. She’d known it would be horrible. Grace had prepared herself for it—or she’d thought she had. Nothing, she realized as she stared down at what remained of the woman in the morgue, could have prepared her.
It was hardly surprising that they’d mistaken Melissa for her. The face Melissa had been so proud of was utterly ruined. Death had been cruel here, and, through her involvement with the hospital, Grace had reason to know it often was.
“It’s Melissa.” Her voice echoed flatly in the chilly white room. “My cousin, Melissa Fontaine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. We shared the same health club, among other things. I know her body as well as I know mine. She has a sickle-shaped birthmark at the small of her back, just left of center. And there’s a scar on the bottom of her left foot, small, crescent-shaped, in the ball of her foot, where she stepped on a broken shell in the Hamptons when we were twelve.”
Seth shifted, found the scar, then nodded to the M.E.’s assistant. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.” With muscles that felt like glass, she turned, her dimming vision passing over him. “Excuse me.”
She made it nearly to the door before she swayed. Swearing under his breath, Seth caught her, pulled her out into the corridor and put her in a chair. With one hand, he shoved her head between her knees.
“I’m not going to faint.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, battling fiercely against the twin foes of dizziness and nausea.
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m much too sophisticated for something as maudlin as a swoon.” But her voice broke, her shoulders sagged, and for a moment she kept her head down. “Oh, God, she’s dead. And all because she hated me.”
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s dead.” Bracing herself, she sat up again, let her head rest against the cold white wall. Her cheeks were just as colorless. “I have to call my aunt. Her mother. I have to tell her what happened.”
He gauged his woman, studying the face that was no less staggeringly lovely for being bone-white. “Give me the name. I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s Helen Wilson Fontaine. I’ll do it.”
He didn’t realize until her hand moved that he’d placed his own over it. He pulled back on every level, and rose. “I haven’t been able to reach Helen Fontaine or her husband. She’s in Europe.”
“I know where she is.” Grace shook back her hair, but didn’t try to stand. Not yet. “I can find her.” The thought of making that call, saying what had to be said, squeezed her throat. “Could I have some water, Lieutenant?”
His heels echoed on tile as he strode off. Then there was silence—a full, damning silence that whispered of what kind of business was done in such places. There were scents here that slid slyly under the potent odors of antiseptics and industrial cleaning solutions.
She was pitifully grateful when she heard his footsteps on the return journey.
She took the paper cup from him with both hands, drinking slowly, concentrating on the simple act of swallowing liquid.
“Why did she hate you?”
“What?”
“Your cousin. You said she hated you. Why?”
“Family trait,” she said briefly. She handed him back the empty cup as she rose. “I’d like to go now.”
He took her measure a second time. Her color had yet to return, her pupils were dilated, the electric-blue irises were glassy. He doubted she’d last another hour.
“I’ll take you back to Parris’s,” he decided. “You can get your things in the morning, come in to my office to make your statement.”
“I said I’d do it tonight.”
“And I say you’ll do it in the morning. You’re no good to me now.”
She tried a weak laugh. “Why, Lieutenant, I believe you’re the first man who’s ever said that to me. I’m crushed.”
“Don’t waste the routine on me.” He took her arm, led her to the outside doors. “You haven’t got the energy for it.”
He was exactly right. She pulled her arm free as they stepped back into the thick night air. “I don’t like you.”
“You don’t have to.” He opened the car door, waited. “Any more than I have to like you.”
She stepped to the door, and with it between them met his eyes. “But the difference is, if I had the energy—or the inclination—I could make you sit up and beg.”
She got in, sliding those long, silky legs in.
Not likely, Seth told himself as he shut the door with a snap. But he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.

Chapter 3
She felt like a weakling, but she didn’t go home. she’d needed friends, not that empty house, with the shadow of a body drawn on the floor.
Jack had gone over, fetched her bags out of her car and brought them to her. For a day, at least, she was content to make do with that.
Since she was driving in to meet with Seth, Grace had made do carefully. She’d dressed in a summer suit she’d just picked up on the Shore. The little short skirt and waist-length jacket in buttercup yellow weren’t precisely professional—but she wasn’t aiming for professional. She’d taken the time to catch her waterfall of hair back in a complicated French braid and made up her face with the concentration and determination of a general plotting a decisive battle.
Meeting with Seth again felt like battle.
Her stomach was still raw from the call she’d made to her aunt, and the sickness that had overwhelmed her after it. She’d slept poorly, but she had slept, tucked into one of Cade’s guest rooms, secure that those who meant most to her were close by.
She would deal with the relatives later, she thought, easing her convertible into the lot at the station house. It would be hard, but she would deal with them. For now, she had to deal with herself. And Seth Buchanan.
If anyone had been watching as she stepped from her car and started across the lot, he would have seen a transformation. Subtly, gradually, her eyes went from weary to sultry. Her gait loosened, eased into a lazy, hip-swinging walk designed to cross a man’s eyes. Her mouth turned up slightly at the corners, into a secret, knowing female smile.
It wasn’t really a mask, but another part of her. Innate and habitual, it was an image she could draw on at will. She willed it now, flashing a slow under-the-lashes smile at the uniform who stepped to the door as she did. He flushed, moved back and nearly bobbled the door in his hurry to open it for her.
“Why, thank you, Officer.”
Heat rose up his neck, into his face, and made her smile widen. She was right on target. Seth Buchanan wouldn’t see a pale, trembling woman this morning. He’d see Grace Fontaine, just hitting her stride.
She sauntered up to the sergeant on duty at the desk, skimmed a fingertip along the edge. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His Adam’s apple bobbed three times as he swallowed.
“I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a Lieutenant Buchanan. Are you in charge?” She skimmed her gaze over him. “You must be in charge, Commander.”
“Ah, yes. No. It’s sergeant.” He fumbled for the sign-in book, the passes. “I— He’s— You’ll find the lieutenant upstairs, detective division. To the left of the stairs.”
“Oh.” She took the pen he offered and signed her name boldly. “Thank you, Commander. I mean, Sergeant.”
She heard his little expulsion of breath as she turned, and felt his gaze on her legs as she climbed the stairs.
She found the detective division easily enough. One sweeping glance took in the front-to-front desks, some manned, some not. The cops were in shirtsleeves in an oppressive heat that was barely touched by what had to be a faulty air-conditioning unit. A lot of guns, she thought, a lot of half-eaten meals and empty cups of coffee. Phones shrilling.
She picked her mark—a man with a loosened tie, feet on the desk, a report of some kind in one hand and a Danish in the other. As she started through the crowded room, several conversations stopped. Someone whistled softly—it was like a sigh. The man at the desk swept his feet to the floor, swallowed Danish.
“Ma’am.”
About thirty, she judged, though his hairline was receding rapidly. He wiped his crumb-dusted fingers on his shirt, rolled his eyes slightly to the left, where one of his associates was grinning and pounding a fist to his heart.
“I hope you can help me.” She kept her eyes on his, and only his, until a muscle began to twitch in his jaw. “Detective?”
“Yeah, ah, Carter, Detective Carter. What can I do for you?”
“I hope I’m in the right place.” For effect, she turned her head, swept her gaze over the room and its occupants. Several stomachs were ruthlessly sucked in. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Buchanan. I think he’s expecting me.” Gracefully she brushed a loose flutter of hair away from her face. “I’m afraid I just don’t know the proper procedure.”
“He’s in his office. Back in his office.” Without taking his eyes from her he jerked a thumb. “Belinski, tell the lieutenant he has a visitor. A Miss…”
“It’s Grace.” She slid a hip onto the corner of the desk, letting her skirt hike up a dangerous inch. “Grace Fontaine. Is it all right if I wait here, Detective Carter? Am I interrupting your work?”
“Yes— No. Sure.”
“It’s so exciting.” She brought the temperature of the overheated room up ten more degrees with a dazzling smile. “Detective work. You must have so many interesting stories.”

By the time Seth had finished the phone call he was on when he was notified of Grace’s arrival, shrugged back into the jacket he’d removed as a concession to the heat and made his way into the bull pen, Carter’s desk was completely surrounded. He heard a low, throaty female laugh rise out of the center of the crowd.
And saw a half a dozen of his best men panting like puppies over a meaty bone.
The woman, he decided, was going to be an enormous headache.
“I see all cases have been closed this morning, and miraculously crime has come to a halt.”
His voice had the desired effect. Several men jerked straight. Those less easily intimidated grinned as they skulked back to their desks. Deserted, Carter flushed from his neck to his receding sandy hairline. “Ah, Grace—that is, Miss Fontaine to see you, Lieutenant. Sir.”
“So I see. You finish that report, Detective?”
“Working on it.” Carter grabbed the papers he’d tossed aside and buried his nose in them.
“Ms. Fontaine.” Seth arched a brow, gestured toward his office.
“It was nice meeting you, Michael.” Grace trailed a finger over Carter’s shoulder as she passed.
He’d feel the heat of that skimming touch for hours.
“You can cut the power back now,” Seth said dryly as he opened the door to his office. “You won’t need it.”
“You never know, do you?” She sauntered in, moving past him, close enough for them to brush bodies. She thought she felt him stiffen, just a little, but his eyes remained level, cool, and apparently unimpressed. Miffed, she studied his office.
The institutional beige of the walls blended depressingly into the dingy beige of the aging linoleum floor. An overburdened department-issue desk, gray file cabinets, computer, phone and one small window didn’t add any spark to the no-nonsense room.
“So this is where the mighty rule,” she murmured. It disappointed her that she found no personal touches. No photos, no sports trophies. Nothing she could hold on to, no sign of the man behind the badge.
As she had in the bull pen, she eased a hip onto the corner of his desk. To say she resembled a sunbeam would have been a cliché. And it would have been incorrect, Seth decided. Sunbeams were tame—warm, welcoming. She was an explosive bolt of heat lightning— Hot. Fatal.
A blind man would have noticed those satiny legs in the snug yellow skirt. Seth merely walked around, sat, looked at her face.
“You’d be more comfortable in a chair.”
“I’m fine here.” Idly she picked up a pen, twirled it. “I don’t suppose this is where you interrogate suspects.”
“No, we have a dungeon downstairs for that.”
Under other circumstances, she would have appreciated his dust-dry tone. “Am I a suspect?”
“I’ll let you know.” He angled his head. “You recover quickly, Ms. Fontaine.”
“Yes, I do. You had questions, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, I do. Sit down. In a chair.”
Her lips moved in what was nearly a pout. A luscious come-on-and-kiss-me pout. He felt the quick, helpless pull of lust, and damned her for it. She moved, sliding off the desk, settling into a chair, taking her time crossing those killer legs.
“Better?”
“Where were you Saturday, between the hours of midnight and 3:00 a.m.?”
So that was when it had happened, she thought, and ignored the ache in her stomach. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”
“You’re not charged, you don’t need a lawyer. It’s a simple question.”
“I was in the country. I have a house in western Maryland. I was alone. I don’t have an alibi. Do I need a lawyer now?”
“Do you want to complicate this, Ms. Fontaine?”
“There’s no way to simplify it, is there?” But she flicked a hand in dismissal. The thin diamond bracelet that circled her wrist shot fire. “All right, Lieutenant, as uncomplicated as possible. I don’t want my lawyer—for the moment. Why don’t I just give you a basic rundown? I left for the country on Wednesday. I wasn’t expecting my cousin, or anyone, for that matter. I did have contact with a few people over the weekend. I bought a few supplies in the town nearby, shopped at the gardening stand. That would have been Friday afternoon. I picked up some mail on Saturday. It’s a small town, the postmistress would remember. That was before noon, however, which would give me plenty of time to drive back. And, of course, there was the courier who delivered Bailey’s package on Friday.”
“And you didn’t find that odd? Your friend sends you a blue diamond, and you just shrug it off and go shopping?”
“I called her. She wasn’t in.” She arched a brow. “But you probably know that. I did find it odd, but I had things on my mind.”
“Such as?”
Her lips curved, but the smile wasn’t reflected in her eyes. “I’m not required to tell you my thoughts. I did wonder about it and worried a little. I thought perhaps it was a copy, but I didn’t really believe that. A copy couldn’t have what that stone has. Bailey’s instructions in the package were to keep it with me until she contacted me. So that’s what I did.”
“No questions?”
“I rarely question people I trust.”
He tapped a pencil on the edge of the desk. “You stayed alone in the country until Monday, when you drove back to the city.”
“No. I drove down to the Eastern Shore on Sunday. I had a whim.” She smiled again. “I often do. I stayed at a bed-and-breakfast.”
“You didn’t like your cousin?”
“No, I didn’t.” She imagined that quick shift of topic was an interrogation technique. “She was difficult to like, and I rarely make the effort with difficult people. We were raised together after my parents were killed, but we weren’t close. I intruded into her life, into her space. She compensated for it by being disagreeable. I was often disagreeable in return. As we got older, she had a less…successful talent with men than I. Apparently she thought by enhancing the similarities in our appearance, she’d have better success.”
“And did she?”
“I suppose it depends on your point of view. Melissa enjoyed men.” To combat the guilt coating her heart, Grace leaned back negligently in the chair. “She certainly enjoyed men—which is one of the reasons she was recently divorced. She preferred the species in quantity.”
“And how did her husband feel about that?”
“Bobbie’s a…” She trailed off, then relieved a great deal of her own tension with a quick, delighted and very appealing laugh. “If you’re suggesting that Bobbie—her ex—tracked her down to my house, murdered her, trashed the place and walked off whistling, you couldn’t be more wrong. He’s a cream puff. And he is, I believe, in England, even as we speak. He enjoys tennis and never misses Wimbledon. You can check easily enough.”
Which he would, Seth thought, noting it down. “Some people find murder distasteful on a personal level, but not at a distance. They just pay for a service.”
This time she sighed. “We both know Melissa wasn’t the target, Lieutenant. I was. She was in my house.” Restless, she rose, a graceful and feline movement. Walking to the tiny window, she looked out on his dismal view. “She’s made herself at home in my Potomac house twice before when I was away. The first time, I tolerated it. The second, she enjoyed the facilities a bit too enthusiastically for my taste. We had a spat about it. She left in a huff, and I removed the spare key. I should have thought to change the locks, but it never occurred to me she’d go to the trouble of having copies made.”
“When was the last time you saw her or spoke with her?”
Grace sighed. Dates ran through her head, people, events, meaningless social forays. “About six weeks ago, maybe eight. At the health club. We ran into each other in the steam room, didn’t have much conversation. We never had much to say to each other.”
She was regretting that now, Seth realized. Going over in her head opportunities lost or wasted. And it would do no good. “Would she have opened the door to someone she didn’t know?”
“If the someone was male and was marginally attractive, yes.” Weary of the interview, she turned back. “Look, I don’t know what else I can tell you, what help I can possibly be. She was a careless, often arrogant woman. She picked up strange men in bars when she felt the urge. She let someone in that night, and she died for it. Whatever she was, she didn’t deserve to die for that.”
She brushed at her hair absently, tried to clear her mind as Seth simply sat, waiting. “Maybe he demanded she give him the stone. She wouldn’t have understood. She paid for her trespassing, for her carelessness and her ignorance. And the stone is back with Bailey, where it belongs. If you haven’t spoken to Dr. Linstrum yet this morning, I can tell you that Bailey should be meeting with him right now. I don’t know anything else to tell you.”
He kicked back for a moment, his eyes cool and steady on her face. If he discounted the connection with the diamonds, it could play another way. Two women, at odds all their lives. One of them returns home unexpectedly to find the other in her home. An argument. Escalating into a fight. And one of them ends up taking a dive off a second-floor balcony into a pool of glass.
The first woman doesn’t panic. She trashes her own home to cover herself, then drives away. Puts distance between herself and the scene.
Was she a skilled enough actress to fake that stark shock, the raw emotion he’d seen on her face the night before?
He thought she was.
But despite that, the scene just didn’t click. There was the undeniable connection of the diamonds. And he was dead sure that if Grace Fontaine had caused her cousin’s fall, she would have been just as capable of picking up the phone and coolly reporting an accident.
“All right, that’s all for now.”
“Well.” Her breath was a huff of relief. “That wasn’t so bad, all in all.”
He stood up. “I’ll have to ask you to stay available.”
She switched on the charm again, a hot, rose-colored light. “I’m always available, handsome. Ask anyone.” She picked up her purse, moved with him to the door. “How long before I can have my house dealt with? I’d like to put things back to order as quickly as possible.”
“I’ll let you know.” He glanced at his watch. “When you’re up to going through things and doing an inventory to see what’s missing, I’d like you to contact me.”
“I’m on my way over now to do just that.”
His brow furrowed a moment as he juggled responsibilities. He could assign a man to go with her, but he preferred dealing with it himself. “I’ll follow you over.”
“Police protection?”
“If necessary.”
“I’m touched. Why don’t I give you a lift, handsome?”
“I’ll follow you over,” he repeated.
“Suit yourself,” she began, and grazed a hand over his cheek. Her eyes widened slightly as his fingers clamped on her wrist. “Don’t like to be petted?” She purred the words, surprised at how her heart had jumped and started to race. “Most animals do.”
His face was very close to hers, their bodies were just touching, with the heat from the room and something even more sweltering between them. Something old, and almost familiar.
He drew her hand down slowly, kept his fingers on her wrist.
“Be careful what buttons you push.”
Excitement, she realized with surprise. It was pure, primal excitement that zipped through her. “Wasted advice,” she said silkily, daring him. “I enjoy pushing new ones. And apparently you have a few interesting buttons just begging for attention.” She skimmed her gaze deliberately down to his mouth. “Just begging.”
He could imagine himself shoving her back against the door, moving fast into that heat, feeling her go molten. Because he was certain she was aware of just how perfectly a man would imagine it, he stepped back, released her and opened the door to the din of the bull pen.
“Be sure to turn in your visitor’s badge at the desk,” he said.

He was a cool one, Grace thought as she drove. An attractive, successful, unmarried—she’d slipped that bit of data out of an unsuspecting Detective Carter—and self-contained man.
A challenge.
And, she decided as she passed through the quiet, well-designed neighborhood, toward her home, a challenge was exactly what she needed to get through the emotional upheaval.
She’d have to face her aunt in a few hours, and the rest of the relatives soon after. There would be questions, demands, and, she knew, blame. She would be the recipient of all of it. That was the way her family worked, and that was what she’d come to expect from them.
Ask Grace, take from Grace, point the finger at Grace. She wondered how much of that she deserved, and how much had simply been inherited along with the money her parents left her.
It hardly mattered, she thought, since both were hers, like it or not.
She swung into her drive, her gaze sweeping over and up. The house was something she’d wanted. The clever and unique design of wood and glass, the gables, the cornices, the decks and the ruthlessly groomed grounds. She’d wanted the space, the elegance that lent itself to entertaining, the convenience to the city. The proximity to Bailey and M.J.
But the little house in the mountains was something she’d needed. And that was hers, and hers alone. The relatives didn’t know it existed. No one could find her there unless she wanted to be found.
But here, she thought as she set the brakes, was the neat, expensive home of one Grace Fontaine. Heiress, socialite and party girl. The former centerfold, the Radcliffe graduate, the Washington hostess.
Could she continue to live here, she wondered, with death haunting the rooms? Time would tell.
For now, she was going to concentrate on solving the puzzle of Seth Buchanan, and finding a way under that seemingly impenetrable armor of his.
Just for the fun of it.
She heard him pull in and, in a deliberately provocative move, turned, tipped down her shaded glasses and studied him over the tops.
Oh, yes, she thought. He was very, very attractive. The way he controlled that lean and muscled body. Very economical. No wasted movements. He wouldn’t waste them in bed, either. And she wondered just how long it would be before she could lure him there. She had a hunch—and she rarely doubted her hunches where men were concerned—that there was a volcano bubbling under that calm and somewhat austere surface.
She was going to enjoy poking at it until it erupted.
As he crossed to her, she handed him her keys. “Oh, but you have your own now, don’t you?” She tipped her glasses back into place. “Well, use mine…this time.”
“Who else has a set?”
She skimmed the tip of her tongue over her top lip, darkly pleased when she saw his gaze jerk down. Just for an instant, but it was progress. “Bailey and M.J. I don’t give my keys to men. I’d rather open the door for them myself. Or close it.”
“Fine.” He dumped the keys back in her hand, looking amused when her brows drew together. “Open the door.”
One step forward, two steps back, she mused, then stepped up on the flagstone portico and unlocked her home.
She’d braced for it, but it was still difficult. The foyer was as it had been, largely undisturbed. But her gaze was drawn up now, helplessly, to the shattered railing.
“It’s a long way to fall,” she murmured. “I wonder if you have time to think, to understand, on the way down.”
“She wouldn’t have.”
“No.” And that was better, somehow. “I suppose not.” She stepped into the living area, forced herself to look at the chalk outline. “Well, where to begin?”
“He got to your safe down here. Emptied it. You’ll want to list what was taken out.”
“The library safe.” She moved through, under an arch and into a wide room filled with light and books. A great many of those books littered the floor now, and an art deco lamp in the shape of an elongated woman’s body—a small thing she’d loved—was cracked in two. “He wasn’t subtle, was he?”
“I say he was rushed. And pissed off.”
“You’d know best.” She walked to the safe, noting the open door and the empty interior. “I had some jewelry—quite a bit, actually. A few thousand in cash.”
“Bonds, stock certificates?”
“No, they’re in my safe-deposit box at the bank. One doesn’t need to take out stock certificates and enjoy the way they sparkle. I bought a terrific pair of diamond earrings just last month.” She sighed, shrugged. “Gone now. I have a complete list of my jewelry, and photographs of each piece, along with the insurance papers, in my safety box. Replacing them’s just a matter of—”
She broke off, made a small, distressed sound and rushed from the room,
The woman could move when she wanted, Seth thought as he headed upstairs after her. And she didn’t lose any of that feline grace with speed. He turned into her bedroom, then into her walk-in closet behind her.
“He wouldn’t have found it. He couldn’t have found it.” She repeated the words like a prayer as she twisted a knob on the built-in cabinet. It swung out, revealing a safe in the wall behind.
Quickly, her fingers not quite steady, she spun the combination, wrenched open the door. Her breath expelled in a whoosh as she knelt and took out velvet boxes and bags.
More jewelry, he thought with a shake of his head. How many earrings could one woman wear? But she was opening each box carefully, examining the contents.
“These were my mother’s,” she murmured, with a catch of undiluted emotion in the words. “They matter. The sapphire pin my father gave her for their fifth anniversary, the necklace he gave her when I was born. The pearls. She wore these the day they married.” She stroked the creamy white strand over her cheek as if it were a loved one’s hand. “I had this built for them, didn’t keep them with the others. Just in case.”

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