Читать книгу The Arrangement - Suzanne Forster, Suzanne Forster - Страница 11

6

Alison lay awake in the dark, unable to believe that she was sharing a bed with her husband. He was lying on his back, as quiet as she was, but he wasn’t sleeping, either. It was too still. Not even a breath could be heard. And yet electricity crackled in the space between them. She could almost hear the noise it made.

That was why he hadn’t moved, and neither had she. Not even to roll over and look at the clock. She was afraid to do anything that would force him to speak or in any way have to acknowledge his presence in this bed with her. God forbid they should touch.

Within the veil of their private world, they were separate agents. If anything was holy, it was the distance they’d created between them. They rarely even communicated beyond the necessities of their arrangement… and Alison found it a totally desolate existence.

She had never understood her feelings for him, but tonight it was impossible to deny that she had them. The potent mix included awe, intense curiosity and rampant doubts and fears. She was also attracted to him—what woman wouldn’t be struck by his dark, poetic mop of hair and deep-water eyes? How could she not want to know what his mouth would feel like on hers? But sex was not part of their arrangement, and if that wasn’t entirely satisfactory to her, it should have been. She’d insisted the relationship be platonic. She’d been as adamant about that as he had, but her reasons had probably been different than his.

Of course, she hadn’t anticipated sharing a bed with him, or that he would suddenly turn into the white knight who would protect her from her big, bad family. She was appreciative, and that was the problem. Positive feelings were starting to outweigh the negative ones, which made it hard to keep the feelings in check.

Attracted? Yes. Wildly.

She touched her face and felt the familiar heat creeping up her throat. Thank God it was dark. No one could see this. No one could hear the blood rushing through her heart or see how difficult it was for her to swallow.

No one knew her pathetic little secrets.

They both slept restlessly, and perhaps it was inevitable that they would come into physical contact. Sometime before dawn, Alison brushed his arm with her hand. It was an accident, but he rolled toward her, and their eyes came open at the same time.

She knew instantly what was happening. And by the hitch in his breathing, he did, too. It was the dark of night and no one would know. Maybe they would pretend not to know themselves that they were about to take this further than a touch, much further.

It was dark. A dream. It didn’t count.

He moved over her and she rose toward him. His hand slid beneath her and his mouth came down on hers. She was engulfed by that one act, a kiss. It was softness, warmth and dinner wine. It was their first.

What changed everything was the sigh in his throat. There was no return from that sigh. Was it pleasure or anguish?

His thigh brushed hers. His hand was on her breast. Every touch was new and terrifying. She was torn between conflict and yearnings. She wanted to be taken, possessed. Penetrated. Please.

Her stomach clenched with anticipation. She saw herself raking his flesh with her nails and pulling his hair. She wanted to be the object of his awe, as he was hers. But she didn’t trust him—or anything about the situation they were in. This wasn’t just a kiss in the dark. It was an act of sweet desperation, of surrender, and he already had too much power.

He bent to her again. She could feel the heat of his breath, hear his noisy heartbeat, but somehow, he stopped before their lips met.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

His voice dropped low. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “It won’t again.”

He turned and sat on the side of the bed. Alison was dizzy with disappointment. She couldn’t pretend it was anything else. Where did he get that kind of willpower? And who had he been kissing? The woman he married or the one transformed by plastic surgery? She wanted urgently to know, but told herself it was better that they weren’t intimately involved, safer. There was too much conflict and confusion between them.

She was well aware that there were times he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, perhaps like right now. And there were times when she wished he wouldn’t look at her, because he couldn’t hide the suspicion, even revulsion, in his eyes. When had he begun to hate her? she wondered. Had he always felt this way?

She rolled over, away from him. The wall between them was so high it couldn’t be scaled, and yet she knew she wouldn’t sleep. There would be no peace. Thank God she’d brought the pills with her. She had to do something to obliterate this new and painful awareness of her bed partner.

Alison heard chimes ringing as she stole through the beach house, wondering where everyone was on this hazy July morning. Andrew had left earlier for a walk on the beach. He hadn’t asked her to come with him, and she would never have suggested it. She was still reeling from last night’s rejection. There’d been no discussion of what he’d done, except in the privacy of her own mind, where she had come to a decision regarding Andrew.

He had preyed on her vulnerabilities for the last time.

Aware that the chimes were still ringing, she lifted her head and sniffed the air. Was that coffee she smelled? After dinner last night, Julia had taken her and Andrew on a tour of Sea Clouds, including the new family room downstairs. She’d told them Rebecca, who had her own room on the third floor, set out a continental breakfast in the family room each morning.

Alison realized that must be where everyone was now. But she was lost in the huge house—and those damn bells wouldn’t stop! She couldn’t tell if it was the phone or the door, but the chimes crescendoed as she entered the foyer. A dark form was silhouetted against the etched glass of the front doors, and she assumed it was Andrew, back from his walk.

She opened the door, exasperated. “You don’t have to ring,” she said. “You’re part of the family.”

But it wasn’t Andrew standing there.

“Oh, sorry.” The man’s tigerish hazel eyes and predatory stare brought a flutter of recognition to Alison’s stomach. He hadn’t changed at all. His fine features had always made him look sinister rather than sensitive. No pretty boy, this one. “Tony Bogart?”

He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her hair. “I’ve never thought of you as anything but a blonde,” he said.

Alison felt like a lab specimen the way he was scrutinizing her. She’d slipped on a cotton sundress this morning that was quick, easy and cool, but it showed some skin, and already he was making her regret her choice.

“This is my natural color,” she said, deciding not to explain any further. He must have heard about her accident, but she doubted that was why he was here. She fervently hoped it had nothing to do with the secret past that she and Tony Bogart had shared over a decade ago. Against her parents’ wishes, they’d hung out together during her family’s stays in Mirage Bay. They’d been teenagers at the time, but their rich girl/poor boy relationship had probably been doomed from the start. It had ended for good when Tony discovered there was another man in her life. He’d actually been trying to propose to her in a local restaurant when Andrew walked in on them. Alison could only imagine how humiliating that had been for Tony. Shortly after that, Tony had packed up and left town, and that was the last contact they’d had.

“Have you moved back home?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I live in Virginia now,” he said, “near Quantico. I’m back in Mirage Bay on personal business.”

“Quantico? That’s—”

He nodded. “FBI headquarters. I’m a special agent.”

Of all the careers she’d imagined for Tony Bogart, FBI agent wasn’t one of them. Right now he was standing on the porch in ripped blue jeans and a black crewneck T-shirt, looking more like the rebel he’d been when they were younger than a lawman. He was holding something in his hand that looked like an eight-by-ten photograph, but she could only see the back.

“Are you visiting your father?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Obviously, you’re not gifted with second sight. I’m here because of Butch’s murder. You must have heard about that?”

Alison prayed her skin wouldn’t catch fire again. She knew about Butch’s case in detail. She’d gone through Andrew’s office when he was away on a business trip, trying to find out more about her mysterious husband and the life he led apart from her, and she’d found issues of the Mirage Bay newspaper that had dated back to her accident.

The discovery hadn’t surprised her, after she’d thought about it. Andrew had a personal interest in the yachting accident and its investigation. Butch Bogart’s murder had occurred the same day, so it was heavily covered, too. But Alison had found the newspapers stashed in a garbage bag inside a hassock that was also a storage unit, as if Andrew had intended to hide them. That had given her pause. Everyone knew it wasn’t the crime that got you into big trouble. It was the cover-up. But what did he have to hide?

She’d read the papers carefully before returning them to their hiding place, and then she’d added the question to her growing list of questions about Andrew, and filed it away. She’d never said a word.

“I did hear,” she said, “and I’m very sorry about your brother.” The right tone of sympathy evaded her. “Did you come to see Bret? Or Julia?”

“I’m here to see you, Alison.”

“Me? Why?”

“You don’t know? The local paper’s abuzz with the news that you and your hubby are here in Mirage Bay for a visit. I thought someone should come by and welcome you back.”

Alison couldn’t imagine how the local paper would know about their visit unless Julia had told them. Apparently the woman thrived on fanfare, and one way or another, she was going to make a social spectacle out of this visit. Alison hoped it didn’t backfire in all of their faces.

She glanced at the photograph in Tony’s hand, but couldn’t see what it was. Surely not a picture of her and Andrew.

He flipped the photograph over, handing it to her. Alison’s stomach rolled as she took it. She pushed his hand away as he reached out, possibly to steady her. “What is this?” she asked, but she knew. It was Butch Bogart’s mutilated body, a crime scene shot.

“There’s a new lead in Butch’s case,” Tony said. “I thought that might interest you.”

She swallowed back nausea and held out the picture until he took it. “Why would Butch’s case interest me?” She really didn’t understand what he was doing. “According to the newspapers, they named a prime suspect. Marnie Hazelton was supposed to have killed your brother, and then vanished. Have you found her?”

“No, Marnie hasn’t been found—and I never said she wasn’t a suspect. But since you brought her up, let’s say our murderer is someone other than Marnie—just for the sake of argument. Where were you on February second while Butch was being disemboweled with a pitchfork?”

“I was falling off a boat in a storm, Tony.”

He smiled, finally, matching her sarcasm. “Right, you went into the drink around six in the evening, according to your husband. The county coroner findings say Butch was killed that afternoon.”

Alison took a step back—and spotted Andrew hovering in a doorway that Tony couldn’t see from where he stood. What was Andrew doing? Her heart began to pound. She felt spied upon, cornered—by both of them.

“Alison?” Tony pressed a hand to the door and stopped her from shutting it. She hadn’t even realized she was about to.

“You can’t seriously think I had anything to do with what happened to Butch,” she said. “Why would I want to kill your brother?”

When he said nothing, she rattled on, unable to stop herself. “The only viable suspect is Marnie Hazelton. Everyone knows that. The night Butch died, she was spotted on the cliffs by LaDonna Jeffries.” Alison touched the penny ring on her bracelet. “Marnie jumped, didn’t she?”

The Mirage Bay newspaper had done an extensive profile on Marnie, attempting to unmask the strange child-woman. Rumors were rampant that she’d committed suicide. She’d often been seen swaying on the edge of Satan’s Teeth, the jagged rocks at the end of the jetty, as if she were listening to someone no one else could hear.

The article had said every village had its tormented outcast, and Marnie was Mirage Bay’s. Even at twenty-two, she was a wary, half-wild little thing that no one could get close to except her friend, LaDonna, and her Gramma Jo, who wasn’t her real grandmother at all.

Josephine Hazelton sold fresh fruit and vegetables from a cart alongside the road and was known in town as the produce lady. If you gave her some extra change, she’d read your palm, and if asked about Marnie, she would swear that she’d found her as a baby, in a creek near her house that emptied into the ocean. The infant had been swaddled in blankets and floating downstream in a willow basket, like Moses in the Bible.

Even Butch’s friends had been interviewed for the article, and every one of them believed Marnie had killed him because he’d made fun of her disfigurements. Her face was off-kilter. Her eyes didn’t line up right, and her smile twisted into a grimace, on those occasions when she did smile. She also had a ruby birthmark that emerged from the nape of her neck and crept around her throat like fingers, as though trying to strangle her.

Marnie’s macabre looks had made her a target since earliest childhood, and when the town’s fear and loathing became unbearable, she’d taken to hiding. But Butch and his ilk had hunted her down for sport. He’d teased her so mercilessly many people believed she had reason to kill him, except that Butch was the most feared linebacker on the high school team. It took a pile-on to hold him down, and Marnie was no bigger than a mosquito.

She’d had a body, though. The article had quoted locals who’d sworn she’d had the breasts of a Botticelli Venus, lithe limbs and a firm bottom. Alison remembered the references word for word. The boys from town all knew about Marnie’s figure because she’d loved to soak in the tidal ponds on her gramma’s property—and she hadn’t worn much beyond what God gave her.

That’s what had started the other rumor—that Butch had seen her bathing and tried to force himself on her, and Marnie had stopped him with the pitchfork. Brutally, viciously stopped him.

And now, for some unknown reason, Tony Bogart thought Alison had something to do with that monstrous crime?

She angled a glare at him. “What is this lead you have? If you’re going to accuse me of something, you’d better be able to back it up.”

“I haven’t accused you of anything. I asked you a question that you haven’t answered. Where were you when my brother died?”

A door hinge creaked and Tony stopped talking. He looked beyond Alison, searching the foyer, where the sound had come from.

“Villard, is that you?” he said. “Come and join us. I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on your marriage to our fair Alison.”

Andrew stepped out of the shadows. As he came over to the door, Alison watched the malevolence seep into Tony’s expression. He truly hated Andrew—and probably her, as well.

Andrew’s voice was cold. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“You should know,” Tony said. “You were listening to every word.”

Andrew strode over to the other man as if he were going to get physical. Alison almost wished he would. Someone needed to back Tony off. Andrew wasn’t trained in deadly force, as Tony must have been, but he was several inches taller.

“My wife is off-limits,” Andrew told him. “I don’t care what agency you’re with, if you have something to say to Alison, you go through me first.”

Nothing moved except Tony’s trigger finger. It twitched, as if he was firing a gun. His smile was as cold as his eyes.

“How did you get through the gate?” Andrew asked.

“Someone was kind enough to leave it open.”

“Then you won’t have any trouble getting out.”

“None whatsoever.” Still smiling, Tony excused himself with a tip of his head. As he strolled down the marble expanse of the grand portico, he called over his shoulder, “I hope this wasn’t inconvenient for either of you. Have a nice day.”

Andrew shut the door, and Alison sank onto the nearest settee. Her legs felt weak, but she shook her head, refusing his hand when he offered it.

“We should go down to breakfast before the rest of them come looking for us,” he said.

Alison couldn’t even think about food. The image of Butch’s mangled body kept coming back to her.

“There you are!” Julia came into the foyer, looking fresh and immaculate in a white crocheted slacks and top. “If you want something to eat, you’d better hurry. Bret has almost finished off the almond biscotti.”

She walked over to Alison and touched her cheek. “Are you all right, darling? Your face is red. Are you coming down with something?” As she talked, Julia glanced around the space. “Was someone just here? Bret thought he heard voices. This foyer is such an echo chamber.”

Alison pulled away from her mother’s touch. “It’s not a fever,” she said. “I have a skin condition, probably a reaction to all the surgery. I can get something for it at the drugstore.”

Julia seemed to approve of that idea. “Your little BMW convertible is still in the garage. It’s the only car Bret hasn’t wrecked,” she added dryly. “I’ll get the keys for you.”

Julia pressed the back of her hand against Alison’s forehead, apparently not convinced that she didn’t have a temperature. A moment later she was off in search of car keys.

Alison fanned herself with her hands to cool her skin—and looked up to find Andrew staring at her.

“What the hell was that about?” he asked, his voice harsh.

“You mean Julia?”

“No, Tony Bogart.”

She shook her head. She didn’t know. She truly didn’t know.