Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (33 page)

     Five minutes later they were in the security office, Coco cradling a tumbler of whiskey as her teeth chattered in fear. "I have never felt anything so...horrible."

     Abby was there, as well as the senior security staff, listening to the report
in puzzlement. "Are you sure?" Elias Salazar said. "Maybe it was something you overheard or—"

     "I
sensed
it. There were no words."

     "Miss McCarthy is psychic," Abby said. "She works with the police." Her own face had blanched, the usual sunrise tones in her cheeks washed away from fear. She couldn't tell anyone about the news article and the words, "You're next." Had Coco bumped into the man who had slipped the envelope under her door?

     "It was so
cold
," Coco said, while Kenny stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. "It was as if I had woken up in someone else's nightmare."

     Salazar sat down and faced her, his voice solemn as he said, "You're sure it was murder on his mind? Maybe he was just angry and
wishing
he could kill someone?"

     She shook her head and lifted the tumbler to her lips with both hands. The brandy was warm as it went down. "There was no anger, no emotion. Calculated. Like the brain of a pure killer."

     "Do you have any idea who the target is?"

     She shook her head again and was overtaken by a fit of shaking.

     "Any little thing might help us. Did you get a sense of how he was going to commit the murder?"

     "A gun, I think...yes, a gun."

     Salazar looked at Kenny. "Did you see the man?"

     "No, but I can give you descriptions of everyone who came out of the wedding chapel."

     Salazar was familiar with Kenny's act. "I'll need to get hold of the wedding guest list."

     "I'm not sure he came from the chapel," Coco said. She was exhausted. Psychic flashes sometimes drained her. "May I go back to my bungalow now?"

     "Yes, of course," Abby said. "I'll have one of the guards escort you."

     "That's all right," Kenny said. "I'll take Miss McCarthy back."

     They made their way through the breezy evening, saying nothing, and when they reached her front door, Coco said, "I feel sick. When I sensed his thoughts, it was as though
I
wanted to commit murder."

     She and Kenny stood beneath the lamp of her porch light, unaware of a shadow that moved in the bushes nearby, a man who had followed them and who now watched and listened—a man with a gun.

     Coco's face was ghost-like, her eyes two dark hollows. And the way she trembled, Kenny thought she was not the same brash woman who had stood up during his performance and boldly said, "I'm next!"

     "Hey," he murmured, drawing her to him, his arms tight around her. He felt her hands grip the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him for life. She shook in his arms like a frightened kitten. He was overcome. He hadn't meant to kiss her, not at such a vulnerable moment, but his body acted on its own. And Coco kissed him back, her lips moist and desperate against his, her arms curling around his neck to draw him down.

     "I'm scared," she whispered.

     Gently taking her face in his hands, he said, "Coco, I have a solution to our dilemma."

     "A solution."

     "Marry me," he said, unaware of the smile it brought to the lips of the man who watched in the shadows.

A
BBY
T
YLER HAD OFFERED A TRIPLE FUDGE BROWNIE CAKE
, warm from the oven, drenched in hot creamy fudge sauce and sweetened whipped cream. So by the time Sissy returned to her bungalow, she had decided to call Room Service and request one. Adding a bottle of Cristal to the order, she went into the bathroom and started hot water running into the tub.

     Room service arrived and Sissy, salivating at the enormous rich cake drenched in hot sauce, decided to indulge later, to savor the feast to come.

     Returning to the bathroom, where the tub was now full and steaming, she uncorked the champagne and set it on the marble. As she about to slip out of her peignoir and into the foamy bath, she heard a sound. Turning, she saw a stranger in the doorway. How had he managed to sneak in without making a sound?

     She held her breath as she stared at him across the candle-lit chamber: he was tall and lean and wore a black pinstriped suit. He looked dark and dangerous.

     "Who are you?"

     "Special security," he said, his eyes moving lazily up and down her body, lingering at her breasts. "Management sent me to make sure you're okay." He undid the button of his suit jacket and Sissy glimpsed a gun in the waistband of his trousers. She gasped.

     When he drew near she saw the dark irises surrounding black pupil; mink lashes to match thick black hair on his head. His neck was well muscled, shadowed by a sculpted jaw. She looked down at the gun and felt her heart race.

     "A lady as beautiful as yourself," he said in a hard, authoritative voice, "should not be bathing alone. Anything could happen."

     He reached out and drew aside the peignoir, exposing her breasts, a sensation so erotic that the breath caught in her throat. Picking up one of the fluted glasses of chilled champagne, he sipped first, then offered her a sip, and after she drank, he slowly tipped the glass to allow the rest of the cool wine to trickle onto her bare breasts, the sudden cold startling her, stimulating her.

     He stepped back as, with dark eyes fixed on hers, he slowly undressed, first the jacket and shirt, leaving the gun dangerously exposed in his belt. Sissy couldn't take her eyes from it. She had never seen a gun in real life. When the shirt fluttered to the carpet and pooled there, he unbuckled his belt, and unzipped himself, catching the firearm before it fell. He held it for a moment, as if he were considering using it, then set it down. Finally he drew down his pants, stepped out of them as strong thighs rippled in the candlelight. He was already aroused, the sight of his erection causing her heart to skip a beat.

     In one sweeping motion he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to him; he pressed his mouth to hers as he pushed the peignoir from her shoulders, sending it to the carpet. His mouth tasted of expensive champagne. She wondered what the rest of him tasted like.

     He scooped her up and carried her down into the steaming bath, kissing her, his tongue engaging hers. Lowering her into the hot water, so that it lapped over the sides of the tub and spilled onto the thick pink carpet, he eased her back against the sloping marble, bringing her legs up so that her
knees were bent, and he knelt between them. He took one of her nipples into his mouth. She groaned. He released it and took the other. Her fingers dug deeply into the hard muscles of his back. She closed her eyes and imagined dangerous assignments—cops chasing killers down rain-slicked streets, long nights in dark smoky interrogation rooms.

     She helped him with the condom, using her lips and tongue to unfurl it the length of his shaft. It was pink and tasted strawberry.

     His hands on her waist, he thrust into her until the water churned and foamed, and steam rose in perfumed clouds. She flung her arms around him, curling her legs over his thighs to lock him deep inside her as she closed her eyes and delivered herself up to pure sensation and pleasure. The gun was so close. It terrified her and excited her. When she started to arch her back and release a yell, he allowed himself release, so that they shuddered together, feeling pleasure against pleasure, clutching each other, until she collapsed into the water, panting and amazed.

     She said not a word as he quietly disengaged himself and, picking up his clothes and the pistol, left. Sissy closed her eyes as the steam swirled over her and grinned with satisfaction.

     So
that
was what The Grove's fantasy lovers were all about.

     As Pierre made his way back to the employees' dormitories, wishing he could stay in one of the guest suites but that was the price of being undercover, he whistled a tune and hoped the man who had hired him took his time ordering the hit. Pierre had done a lot of jobs for his boss, but never one that had been this pleasant.

     At least now he knew who his mark was. Abby Tyler. When he saw the security guard outside her door, he laughed. That wasn't going to protect her. Pierre wondered what was in the envelope he had slipped under her door before his rendezvous with the lady in the bath. It must have been something important, because he saw her now, as he passed by her bungalow, silhouetted in a golden window, her face upturned to the stars. No doubt worrying about the message in the envelope, Pierre thought as he moved on.

A
RE YOU SURE YOU'RE GOING TO BE OKAY
?" A
BBY SAID
, worrying about Vanessa's decision to stay at The Grove.

     It was because of the news article that had been slipped under Abby's door:
"You're next."
She had been found out. It was only a matter of time before the anonymous sender approached her with a demand for money, or an arrest warrant. Abby had had her old suitcase packed and ready to go for some time, and always it had been with the idea that when she left The Grove, Vanessa would remain in charge.

     But now it was too dangerous for Vanessa. "The police know I escaped with a black girl," Abby said as she applied the last of the cover-up to the shadows beneath her eyes. She had not slept all night. "Everyone knows you and I have been friends for many years. It doesn't take rocket science. All they need is your fingerprints. And you can't prove you didn't drive that car in the liquor store hold-up where two people were killed. How can you prove you abandoned the car?" Abby put her hand on her friend's arm. "Please, Vanessa, for my sake. Get yourself to safety."

     But Vanessa crossed her arms and tipped her chin. "I am not going anywhere. You created this resort and I'm not going to let strangers run it. Run it into the ground, most likely." Her tone gentled as she said, "But you shouldn't still be here. It's too dangerous, Abby. Go now while you can. I'll take care of things."

     Abby shook her head. She still had to meet with Ophelia Kaplan. If Kaplan did not know she was adopted, Abby would say nothing. It would be enough to know that her daughter was living a good life, happy and surrounded by love. Then Abby would leave The Grove and not look back.

     "All right, I'm going to see Ophelia now. Wish me luck." The two embraced.

     Ophelia and David had alternately argued and made love through the night until, when dawn came, David fell into an exhausted sleep.

     Ophelia had laid all her fears before him, argued for aborting the pregnancy, against aborting it, blamed herself, blamed him, blamed her ancestors. In the end, Ophelia was no closer to the answer of what to do about the pregnancy.

     David's solution was to go straight to Ophelia's doctor and undergo an amniocentesis. If the baby was normal, then they would go ahead and have their child. "And if the test proves positive for Tay-Sachs?" she had cried.

     David had resorted to a cliché. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it."

     Now she stood over him, with dawn light spilling through the open window (she had discovered, thank God, that the Eiffel Tower view could be removed, like a shade), watching him sleep in the gaudy Marie Antoinette bed.

     Last night, when she had found him on her threshold, Ophelia had been by turns relieved and outraged. "I knew something was bothering you," he had said. "Monday night, when you drove off like that. And you haven't returned my calls."

     Ophelia had been unaware of the message light blinking on her phone. She blamed it on oversight, but knew that David read deeper meanings into it. She had wanted to tell him she was all right and send him away, but he stood there looking so handsome and in charge, a man with whom she
could let down her defenses, and Abby Tyler
had
gone out of her way to make room for him on the evening flight out of LA—"She was surprisingly accommodating," he had said—that Ophelia had finally stepped aside and let him in.