Deadly Fate (22 page)

She began to fade then and added, “Not to mention, I only last so long! And I might have been the hostess of
Gotcha
, but in real life, I'm not a voyeur. I liked living too much. Hey, I just said
real life
. That's funny, right, ironic? For me, there is no life.”

“Oh, Amelia,” Clara murmured, reaching out.

She touched air. Amelia was all but gone.

“Get out there and enjoy your every minute, Clara,” Amelia said.

And then she was gone. There was really nothing there but air.

Clara had to wonder if she hadn't gone a little crazy—if they hadn't all lost their minds a little bit. She might just be arguing with herself, the sane side of her mind trying to tell her why she shouldn't do exactly what she wanted to do.

Sleep with the man.

* * *

Thor tried to analyze what he knew—and didn't know—logically. He threw what he believed to be true into the mix. That was theory, but he was going to assume at the moment that theory might well be fact.

Tate Morley had escaped from maximum security in Kansas by killing a doctor and taking on his identity.

He had an accomplice; someone with whom he'd been communicating in prison. Letters in and out were scrutinized. Angela Hawkins at Krewe headquarters was fine-tooth-combing the letters now.

It appeared that Tate Morley had gotten to Alaska. He knew about Wickedly Weird Productions. He probably knew as well that Thor was working in Alaska. Morley definitely hated him; he might also hate reality TV.

Fact—Thor really disliked Marc Kimball. Disliking the man had nothing to do with whether or not he was a killer. While Morley's partner might just be supplying him with information and transportation, it was possible that the accomplice was a killer, too. Morley had been in the hotel lobby; Morley had interacted with Natalie Fontaine.

If he'd killed her in the early hours of the morning, he would have been able to get out to Black Bear Island by some kind of private conveyance and await the arrival of Amelia Carson. He could have killed both women.

Whoever had killed Amelia had dragged her into the woods to bisect her. Had he been worried that he'd be seen by Justin or Magda Crowley or one of the film crew who were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Natalie and Amelia and the poor cast members from the
Fate
?

Or was the killer someone on the island?

One of the Wickedly Weird crew or one of the just plain weird workers at the estate, Justin or Magda?

Or was it Marc Kimball himself?

Had the man been here all along and pretended that he had arrived via his private jet?

Due to his suspicions, Thor had been casual with little Emmy Vincenzo, but talked her into going inside and locking herself in her room.

He asked the police officer on duty in the house to make sure that he kept an eye on her.

He wondered, though, if Emmy wasn't safe.

Tate Morley had always killed beautiful women. Emmy was too much of a mouse to be considered beautiful.

He spoke briefly with Jackson in the living room, telling him that he was going to check on Clara Avery.

“Feel like sleeping in front of her door like a Doberman, huh?” Jackson asked.

“I'm still not happy she's here.”

“She might be in danger anywhere. We really don't understand what's going on,” Jackson said.

“Yeah,” Thor agreed. He turned to head down the hall.

“Thor,” Jackson called after him.

“Hm?” he said, turning back.

“Don't worry. I swear, I'll have my back to the wall like a Mafia capo—I won't let anyone near her while you and Mike are out tomorrow,” Jackson promised.

“I know you will,” Thor assured him.

He started to head down the hallway to Clara's room and then paused.

There was someone in the hallway. For a moment, he wondered if the ghost of Amelia Carson was lingering in the shadows, but it was not Amelia. Whoever was there was tall and broad-shouldered—a man.

“Who is that?” he demanded, speaking loudly for the person to hear, but glancing back with a questioning frown for Jackson and the officer who was positioned against the wall heading toward the other section of the cabin.

Jackson was quickly on his feet.

“No one walked here by me,” he said tersely.

Thor strode the distance to the man.

“Hey!” came a voice of protest. “It's Marc Kimball, and I own the place!” Kimball said, coming into the glow of light in the living room.

“But how did you get there?” Jackson demanded, coming to stand by Thor.

Kimball was silent, just looking at them belligerently for a moment.

“I said good-night to you. You went up the stairs to your room,” Jackson said.

Kimball shrugged. “It is my house, gentlemen, and I am free to move about it as I choose.”

He had been coming to knock on Clara's door, Thor was certain.

He was amazed at the cool control in his voice when he spoke. “Of course you are, Mr. Kimball, but we're trying to protect everyone in this house. If there are secret stairways, we need to know about them.”

Kimball pointed down the hall in the direction from which he had come. “No secret stairway—you just push the panel. Go on up and it leads to my private rooms. Well, it leads to another panel, and then my private rooms.”

“Why were you sneaking down the back stairs?” Thor asked.

Sneaking. Wrong word.

“Special Agent Erikson—I do not have to sneak anywhere in my house,” Kimball informed him.

The door to Clara's room opened and she stepped out, blonde and beautiful in a silk bathrobe.

“Hey!” she said. “Is everything all right?” She gave them all a dazzling smile. “I'm incredibly lucky—all of you keeping watch like this. Thank you, Mr. Kimball. With these gentlemen, it's their work. You're going above and beyond—hospitality, and guard duty. It's all truly appreciated. I feel wonderfully safe here at night. Thank you!”

Kimball turned his attention to her. “I was hoping not to wake you, but I did want to make sure that you were all right. You are my guest—I'd loathe for any danger or any ill whatsoever to come your way in my house.”

“So kind,” Clara murmured. She looked them all over again like a sweet Southern belle. “Thank you all, and good night.”

She went back in her room and closed the door.

The three men in the hallway stood there in silence for a moment. Then Kimball cleared his throat. “Well, then, good night.”

He went back down the hallway. The panel he'd referred to looked like part of the wall. When he pushed it, however, it slid open. Then he disappeared into darkness.

“I don't like it,” Thor said.

“At least we know it's there now,” Jackson said.

“I don't like that he came down here.”

“He makes no bones about the fact that he's attracted to Clara,” Jackson said.

“I don't care what he says about it being his house—he was
sneaking
around in it,” Thor said.

Jackson didn't argue that. He thought that Clara was probably a good actress; she'd managed to still a possible fight with down-home Southern charm.

He didn't have to ponder it long; her door opened again and she stepped out, looking anxiously at them. “He's gone?”

They both nodded.

She swallowed. “He could have been coming to...well, it was slimy one way or the other, whether he wanted to kiss or kill me.”

“I'm coming in. I'll get a chair and sit
in front of the door while you sleep,” Thor said.

He waited for her to argue.

She didn't.

“Now I'll be looking in both directions,” Jackson said. “The two of you, get some rest. If anything goes on from here, the cops and I will handle it. Good night, Clara.”

He walked back to the living room. Clara had already turned to head into her room. When Thor entered and closed the door, she swung around to face him. “Amelia was here. She was here for quite a while.”

“And you learned...?”

“Nothing new, I'm afraid. Except, of course, that she thinks Kimball is after me, too, and that, considering the amount of money he has, she might have slept with him. And that she's worried. She's afraid she's just stuck here because she wasn't a very nice person. She loved living—and she's just watching everyone else live.”

“It would be nice if she could help,” Thor said. “But maybe she will. Somehow.” He wondered what kind of wisdom it was to insist that he keep watch over her by being here, in her room. So close. She stood just feet from him and, looking at her, he felt his lips burn...with the memory that she had kissed him. The slinky bathrobe covered her completely, yet draped around the curves of her form evocatively. Some women might have known just how they looked. He didn't think it was any kind of a ploy with Clara. She had thrown the robe on to open the door. It was her own robe, silky, comfortable.

Clara Avery didn't need any kind of a ploy. She stood so close he could breathe in the delicate tease of her perfume.

“Well,” he said, determined that his voice wouldn't be too husky, “you should get some sleep. And I'll doze a bit here and there. I'll take the chair from the dressing table and just put it by the door.”

“You need to sleep, too,” she said. “More than I do. I have to say, though, that I will sleep better with you in here.”

“Good,” he told her.

They still both just stood there.

“Amelia gave you nothing else?” he said.

“She told me that I should sleep with you,” Clara said, smiling drily. “Actually, she said I should sleep with one of you. And I explained that I'd known Jackson and that he was married and she wasn't sure that would have bothered her, and...anyway, the upshot is that you're the one she really thinks I should be sleeping with. She would have.”

“Oh,” he said. “And what did you tell her?”

“I tried to tell her that I wouldn't sleep with anyone just because of circumstances.”

“No. You wouldn't, would you?”

She shook her head.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and soft and as silky as the robe.

“I would sleep with you,” she said. “Not because of circumstances. But because...”

The simple sound of her words sent something electric sweeping through him, arousing him ridiculously. They weren't even touching.

He smiled, coming a step closer to her.

“You would sleep with me because...?”

“Because you are...you,” she said softly.

He loved the way she said it.

He took another step.

“Great answer,” he told her. “Very seductive.”

“It's my answer. I mean, Amelia would have slept with you because of...being afraid, I believe, whereas...”

“What makes you think I would have slept with her?”

“I think she believes it's easy to persuade any man.”

“Really? That doesn't say much for men.”

Clara smiled. “I don't think she meant it as an insult. Just biology. But I don't believe that I... Well, I don't think I'm quite as...persuasive.”

“Hm. And you were doing so well with your Southern charm, mollifying Kimball.”

Another step closer.

“I'm sure Amelia would have done better,” she said.

“Ah, well, I'm not so sure I would have slept with her. Honestly.”

“Oh?” she said softly, looking at him.

“No. Not even if we had met under normal circumstances, I mean. She's not...”

“Your type?”

“I don't think I have a type. She just isn't someone I would have felt attracted to.”

“Ah.” She was quiet a minute. “And me?”

He smiled at that, taking the last step and taking her into his arms. “Do you really need me to answer that?”

“Actually, yes,” she told him.

He ran his knuckles down the soft side of her cheek, looking into the sky blue pools of her eyes.

“Am I attracted to you?” he whispered. “Actually, yes.”

She smiled. A huge smile. “So...does that mean that if I kiss you, you could help, as well?”

“Yeah, I could try that.” He paused, serious for a moment. “You know, we don't have to sleep together, even kiss. I intend to protect you with my dying breath, whether we sleep together or not,” he told her.

His knees, he realized, were trembling. He hadn't felt like this in forever.

He hadn't let himself. Caring for people seemed to put them in danger.

But this, he couldn't stop...

“Oh, my God,” she murmured, and she moved closer to him, so close that he could feel the heat and shape of her against him, causing the trembling in him to stop and a heated constriction to begin.

“I'm not good at this, am I?” she whispered.

Oh, no, you're very, very good!
he thought. But she was speaking; she needed to speak. He savored the feel of the burning within him and just held her as she went on.

“We did talk about this, Amelia and I. She said that I was an actress, surely I played the part somewhere along the line. And I have played the part, but this is real life, and when it comes to real life... I guess I should tell you that I'm a little out of practice, it's been a while, I am career oriented, well, not really, not above all else in life, just that my last relationship—with an actor, go figure—didn't go so well, and onstage playing a part is one thing, but when it's really you... I'm sorry, I'm ridiculously nervous, and I can't seem to stop talking. I'm woefully out of practice, not that I haven't thought that someone would come along somewhere along the way and I've stayed on birth control pills... That may be more than you wanted to know, and oh! Well, I mean, really, I'm trustworthy and I—my God! I'm still talking and I—”

“I can help you stop!” he told her, and he pulled her closer, molding his mouth down over hers, tasting sweet and seductive warmth and a hint of peppermint. Her lips parted to his and he made the kiss slow and leisurely, as if he could come to know her, really know her, through the depth of a kiss. When their lips parted, she said, “I talk too much.”