Butterfly

“Oh, My God—!”

Trudie cried out in a wild mixture of joy and pain. And when it was over and she lay on

the rich carpet in this wonderful stranger’s arms, she marvelled at the evening she had just

spent. She could hardly believe that it had happened, that it had all been real.

Then a question came into her mind. She wanted to ask but she didn’t want to break

the spell, so she asked only herself: Who was behind this magical operation in the rooms

above Fanelli’s men’s shop? Who thought of it? Who had started it? Who ran it?
Who, in

fact, was…

But terfly

Other Books by

Kathryn Harvey

Stars

Private Entrance

Books by

Barbara Wood

Star of Babylon

The Blessing Stone

Sacred Ground

Perfect Harmony

The Prophetess

Virgins of Paradise

The Dreaming

Green City in the Sun

Soul Flame

Vital Signs

Domina

The Watch Gods

Childsong

Night Trains

Yesterday’s Child

Curse This House

Hounds and Jackals

The Magdalene Scrolls

But terfly

a novel

Kathryn Harvey

iUniverse Star

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Butterfly

Copyright © 1988, 2007 by Barbara Wood

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written

permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in

critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse Star

an iUniverse, Inc. imprint

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses

or links contained in this book may have changed

since publication and may no longer be valid.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-58348-763-1 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-88108-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

To my fellow player in The Game,

Annie Draper

(You draw the “all night long” card…)

Acknowledgments

I would like to say thanks to

Anne Samstag, Joyce Wallach,

and Mitchell Maher

for their very valuable help.

An extra-special thank-you goes to

Shawn Wilds and Dr. Ted Brannen.

Prologue

It could have been any island in any green sea in the world. A white villa stood at the

top of a sheer cliff, overlooking aquamarine depths and crashing waves. An eighty-foot

yacht rode at anchor, its crew in smart uniforms, keeping the boat ready for the whim of

the man and woman up on the cliff. There was an exotic swimming pool behind the

white villa; a woman swam in it, reveling in the pure air and silence of her retreat. A feast

had been set out under a gently flapping canopy: bowls of iced caviar, chilled lobster and

crab, fruit frosted in sugar, cheeses imported from all over the globe, four kinds of wine

standing in coolers. No one waited in attendance. The two lovers wanted to be alone.

She got out of the marble pool, climbing up the curved white steps and going between

two Corinthian pillars to where chaise longues covered in plush velour towels waited in

the sun.

She moved languidly. She felt hot and sweet and ready for sex.

She didn’t remove her bathing suit. He would do that for her. Instead she stretched out

in the heat and settled her eyes upon the television set that stood in the shade of the

striped canopy. It was on. It was always on. She was waiting for something.

A moment later he emerged from the house, the shimmering water of the pool

reflected in the lenses of his Ray-Bans. His long white bathrobe was open; he was naked

underneath. She gazed at him as he walked slowly toward her. He was tall and lithe, with

sinewy muscles and strong thighs; he walked with the stride of an Olympic gold medalist.

He came alongside her chaise longue. She reached up with a lazy hand. The waves of

heat rising mirage-like from the white walls of the villa seemed to melt her bones. She stirred

on the thick towel, relishing the sensation of its creamy plush pile against her bare skin.

He knelt beside her. She felt strong hands lightly touch her legs. He toyed with the

string of her bathing suit. He kissed the inside of her thighs.

But when his hand traveled up, his fingers exploring beneath the Spandex, she sud-

denly stopped him.

He looked at her, trying to read her expression behind her enormous sunglasses. He

saw that her gaze was fixed on the television set.

He looked at the screen. And here it was at last, the thing she had been waiting for—

a news broadcast from the other side of the earth, via satellite.

It was showing two funerals. One was in Houston, the other in Beverly Hills. Funerals

important enough to be broadcast globally.

She put her hand gently on his head, and stroked him almost absentmindedly as she

stared at the solemn processions—one backdropped by California palm trees with people

arriving in stretch limos, the hearse white because they were burying a woman; the other

1

2

Kathryn Harvey

beneath a hard Texas sun, attended by men in Stetsons who lifted the coffin of a man

from the black hearse. For the moment, she wasn’t on this craggy, remote island and

about to experience a sublime sexual idyll. She was back…back there, at the beginning of

the incredible road that had terminated at last in the two funerals taking place on the

same day, fifteen hundred miles apart…

January

1

Dr. Linda Markus was sitting at the dressing table, her arm raised, about to brush her

hair, when she heard a sound.

Her hand froze. On her wrist there was a gold chain from which a charm—a butter-

fly—was suspended. As she sat suddenly still, listening to the night, the butterfly trem-

bled on its delicate chain, glinting in the lamplight.

She searched the bedroom reflected behind her in the mirror. Nothing appeared to be

out of the ordinary. There was the king-size bed on its dais; the satin canopy hangings and

mattress ruffle, all a delicate peach color. On the bed lay her white hospital coat, her

blouse and skirt, the medical bag she had tossed down after a tiring day in surgery. Italian

leather shoes lay on the carpet next to the tan pool of her panty hose.

She listened. But all was silent.

She resumed brushing her hair.

It was difficult to relax. There was so much to think about, so much demanding her

attention: that patient in the Intensive Care Unit; the meeting of the Surgical Review

Board in the morning; the speech she had yet to write for the annual County Medical

Association dinner.

And then, most puzzling, the phone calls she was getting from that TV producer

Barry Greene—rather insistent, and not a medical problem, his messages said. She had

yet to find time to return his calls.

There was that sound again! A sly, sort of surreptitious sound, as if someone were out-

side, trying to get in, trying not to be heard…

Slowly lowering her hairbrush and placing it among the cosmetics and perfumes on

the vanity table, Dr. Markus drew in a breath, held it, and turned around.

She stared at the closed drapes. Had the sound come from the other side of the

windows?

Dear God, were the windows locked?

She trembled. She stared at the heavy velvet drapes. Her pulse started to race.

Minutes seemed to pass. The ornate Louis XV clock over the marble fireplace ticked,

ticked, ticked.

The drapes moved.

The window was open!

Linda caught her breath.

A cold breeze seemed to flood the room as the drapes began to part. A shadow fell

across the champagne carpet.

5

6

Kathryn Harvey

Linda shot to her feet and without thinking ran to the dressing room. Pulling the door

shut behind herself, she was plunged into darkness; she groped along the wall for the

secret drawer.

There was supposed to be a revolver in it.

Finding the drawer, Linda frantically pulled it open and reached inside. The cold metal

felt obscene in her hand; it was long and hard and heavy. Would it fire? Was it even loaded?

Returning to the door of the dressing room she pressed her ear to it and listened.

Subtle sounds crept through the spacious bedroom: the creak of a lead-paned window, the

whisper of disturbed drapes, the soft hush of rubber-soled shoes on the carpet.

He was in there. He was in the bedroom.

Linda swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the gun. What did she think she was

going to do with it? Shoot him, for God’s sake? She started to shake. Her heart was

pounding.

What if he had a gun too?

She listened. She could hear him moving about. She reached down, grasped the door-

knob, and inched the door open. At first she saw only an empty room. Then…