Deadly Fate (23 page)

“I can take care of that,” he murmured.

And he kissed her again. Her arms encircled his neck, her fingers playing at his nape. “And when I first met you, I just thought that you were a...”

“A what?” he murmured, his lips teasing at her throat then.

“Well, I thought you were trying to kill me, and that...”

He lifted her hand and teased the palm and wrist. “You do have one mean right hook,” he assured her.

“And you do have a way of sweeping someone off their feet,” she said.

“You ain't seen nothing yet!” he teased.

And swept her off her feet.

Her arms curled around his neck and they lay down on the bed together. He felt her lips tease along his neck and a sweet raw ache began to tear at him. He rose above her, lowering his mouth to hers again, sweeping aside the silk of the robe, moving his lips and tongue over her collarbone, down to the valley of her breasts. The silk she wore created a heightened sensuality to each touch, and yet it was in the way; she slid her hands beneath the soft wool of his sweater, running them up his midriff, and he paused to pull the garment over his head. She laughed then, fingers on the buttons of his shirt.

“My Lord,” she murmured, “you do have enough clothing on!”

“It's Alaska!” he reminder her.

“Difficult,” she said.

“Trust me, we find a way—we do find a way!” he said.

She was determined to help; she slid her fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans; they ran over his bare flesh and sent schisms of electricity racing through his hips, and down below his belt. But he eased back from her, removing the Glock and its holster from the back of his waistband and setting them next to the bed, reminding them both briefly of why they were there. Their eyes met for a moment; the movement might have given them pause, and it did, but her hand slid down his arm and she told him, “Amelia did remind me that I haven't really lived in a long time.”

He lay back with her. “In some ways,” he said, “I don't think that I ever really did.”

He fumbled out of his shoes and socks; she helped and hindered as he removed the rest of his clothing, and they laughed breathlessly at the effort. Finally, he was naked beside her.

She was in the silky robe. He straddled her and began to kiss her, lips caressing her flesh through the silk—slender throat, breasts, belly and below. He ran his fingers along her thighs, planted more kisses at her knees and above.

She writhed beneath his touch, rising and twisting, finding his lips again, kissing them with hot, wet intensity. Then she pressed him down to the bed, sliding against him, seductive with every inch of her body, arousing him with each brush of her hand, feathering of her fingers, and searing tease of her tongue. His hunger burned, centralized—and shot through his limbs. But the burn was as evocative in anticipation as it might be in fulfillment, and he held back, savoring the way they exchanged touching...stroking...caressing...tasting.

The silk robe slid from her flesh, and yet he felt that her skin was as soft. Her eyes... So deep a blue, as if the passion and the fight and the sweetness that had so compelled him to her were alive in that sea of blue.

He didn't remember feeling this way before, as if he'd burn alive in desire without her, as if the woman he touched was why the basic instinct existed.

They laughed and rolled and kissed and touched anew, so intimate in every move, and then suddenly the laughter faded with the heat of passion. He groaned softly, sweeping her up, finding her mouth again while he thrust into her at last. The waiting culminated in a pleasure that was almost unbearable—instinct, need, desire and something more...

Her face. Her beautiful face, the way she looked at him...

Easing from him, crawling atop him, straddling him, looking down at him. “‘Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night!'” she teased.

“Bette Davis,
All About Eve
,” he returned.

“Impressive!” she said.

“Me or the quote?” he demanded.

No answer. She laughed softly and kissed his abdomen, and moved down.

He drew her to him, finding her lips, whispering against them.

“I'm going to take that to mean
me
!” he said.

“Ah, confident, Special Agent Erikson!” she whispered back.

“You make me so,” he said.

And she did.

She swept the past away. She made the present urgent. She encased him in a way he was sure he'd never known.

Climax swept through him as if he had been lit on fire—explosive, gripping the length of him, shooting through with something erotically wild and hard and exquisite. She arched wickedly against him, creating the shock waves over and over again until he lay beside her, heart thrumming a million miles an hour, a fierce echo in his mind. He was at her side, drawing her against him...

Just breathing.

And after a while she said softly, “So much better...”

“Better...? Than what?”

She looked up into his eyes. “So much better...when you help, of course,” she said.

He kissed her lips very gently. “Why, thank you, ma'am. Thank you so very much.”

He held her, suddenly very glad of the night, of the Alaska Hut—even of Marc Kimball, since it was because of Kimball that he'd been so damned determined not to leave the room.

12

W
hen Clara awoke, Thor was gone.

She'd slept deeply, exhausted and in a state of sheer comfort and security; Thor had slept beside her. Thor had held her. She'd been able to forget everything.

Showering and dressing, she wondered how she was going to feel when it was over...whatever it was. She was a musical theater actress; he was an Alaskan FBI agent.

And yet...

She'd never felt anything before like she did when she was with him.

She argued with herself, of course. They really hadn't known each long; in fact, it was a ridiculously short time.

Sex was...sex. It didn't mean an undying commitment—it didn't even mean two people would ever see each other again. It had happened; she'd wanted it to happen. But...

What did the future hold?

She dug through her purse to find a hairbrush. As she did so, there was a light tap at her door.

Amelia
, she thought.

She hurried over to open the door.

Not Amelia; it was Marc Kimball. “Good morning, Miss Avery! I've had Magda whip up some of her amazing omelets. I didn't mean to disturb you, but I thought you might be hungry.”

“I was just coming out,” she said. With her peripheral vision, she could see that Jackson was there, standing in the living room, just feet away from her.

She smiled. She felt safe.

“I'll be there in one minute,” she promised Kimball.

“Of course,” he told her.

She closed the door and hurried back for her brush; she'd have a mad tangle of hair when it dried if she didn't brush it out first.

Almost immediately, she heard another tap.

This time, Amelia just seemed to appear before her.

“I'm not being rude, am I?” she asked. “I mean, I knew he was gone. Did you do it? Did you sleep with him?”

“Amelia!”

“Ah, you did! Good for you! Was he great, was he amazing? I'll bet you he's great in bed!”

“Amelia, honestly—”

“Oh, come on! I'm living vicariously through you—in a very real sense!”

Clara turned to the ghost and smiled. “He is amazing in bed.”

“I knew it! Yes, say thank you, Amelia, for egging me into it. Because, Clara, you're really just too much of a prig to do things on your own.”

“I am not!” Clara protested. “Okay, thank you. Now I've got to go out—Kimball has already summoned me to breakfast.”

Amelia shuddered. “He's a creep! I don't think that I would have slept with him—even if he does have a zillion tons of money and could have catapulted me into being a household name.”

“What did he do creepy now?” Clara asked her.

“He talks to himself,” Amelia said.

“And what does he say?”

Amelia shrugged. “Actually, he was talking about ways to get to you. Trying to figure out how to shake the cops and the FBI and everyone else. To be alone with you.”

A prickling sensation skipped along Clara's spine. The way that Amelia looked at her, she knew that they were wondering about the same question.

To get her in bed? Or to kill her?

“Don't worry about me, Amelia,” Clara said. “I'll make sure that I'm never alone with him.”

Amelia nodded. “Good deal. Well, I guess it's time to go to breakfast.”

“You're coming?” Clara asked her, frowning.

“Wouldn't miss it!” Amelia assured her, smiling mischievously.

Sighing, Clara set her brush down and headed out. Amelia followed her.

She didn't have to worry about it being just her, Jackson and Marc Kimball—the crew of Wickedly Weird Productions had returned.

Just
returned. Nate Mahoney was handing his coat to Magda when Clara reached the living room, Becca Marle was speaking animatedly to Jackson, and Tommy Marchant was just coming through the door.

“Clara!” Tommy said, seeing her across the room. “Hey, you're here. Nice to see you. I heard the cast was on the
Fate
now.”

Everyone turned to look at her. “I'm still here for the moment. I'll be joining the cast soon enough.”

There as a moment of silence in which it seemed everyone waited for an explanation.

Except for Magda.

“Hey, wipe your feet there, Mr. Marchant!” she said. “This isn't a barn!”

Tommy wiped his feet and everyone shuffled. Marc Kimball came out to the living room looking less than pleased.

“You're all here,” he said.

“The police have told us—more or less ordered us—to get out here and pack up at the Mansion,” Nate Mahoney explained. “And they escorted us here. I think they wanted one of the FBI guys with us as well while we packed up our things.”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “I believe we have breakfast and coffee ready here, then we can all head on over.”

“Yes, do come on in,” Marc Kimball said. “Every day will be a step closer to finishing with this ghastly business.”

“When we catch the killer,” Jackson said, “that's when we'll be finished with this ghastly business.”

“Of course,” Kimball said. “Come in. Magda, we'll need more plates.” He forced a smile.

Clara couldn't help remembering that he'd come to her door in the night; she tried to slide by him and head into the dining room and sit at the end of the table.

No good; he found his way right after her.

But she was going to be all right. She heard a whisper at her ear.

“Don't you worry, I'm watching the rich weirdo!”

Amelia was behind her.

* * *

Black Bear Island was actually small, a piece of earth and rock shot up by ancient volcanic activity and cut and carved by the movement of ice and glaciers.

That day, it seemed huge.

Thor and Mike rode snowmobiles to the forest and went through it bit by bit. They found bear markings, a hungry moose and dozens of bears.

Nothing more.

They'd sectioned different areas and each started from opposite ends; they'd comb the ground until they met in the middle each time.

It was in the midst of dense pines—leaves and branches so thick that the sun barely made its way through—that Thor suddenly stopped.

He stood dead still, looking, listening.

There was someone ahead of him in the forest. A dark shadow. But the shadow didn't move, nor make a single sound.

He moved forward. It seemed a single ray of sunlight penetrated the green darkness.

He stood still again himself, his heart beating.

He was imagining things, he thought. Mandy Brandt was really gone; he'd never encountered her as a ghost. He'd only seen her in his dreams.

But she was there today. Caught in that single ray of sunlight.

Words tumbled from his lips; words he had said a hundred times.

“I'm sorry, Mandy. So sorry!” he said.

And he thought that she smiled. She came toward him and lifted her hand, setting it gently on his cheek. He felt the touch softly.

“It's all right,” she said. “You are not to blame. You must keep going. You know the island. You can find the truth—you can stop him.”

The ray of sunlight was suddenly gone. He was standing by himself, talking to a large pine tree.

Mike reached him, unaware.

“Nothing. Damn it, nothing at all,” Mike said.

“The cliffs and caverns,” Thor said, turning to him. “I know the Coast Guard has been patrolling, but we can get into the cliffs. There's a weapons stash here somewhere, and we're going to find it.”

* * *

Not about to stay with Kimball, Emmy, Magda and Justin Crowley, Clara joined Jackson and the crew of Wickedly Weird Productions.

She'd wondered if Amelia would come to the Mansion.

But Amelia disappeared at some point after teasing both her and Jackson during breakfast, trying to make them appear to be talking to themselves. Clara had followed Jackson's amused cue and ignored Amelia.

The Mansion had changed drastically from the morning when Clara had walked in looking to meet up with Natalie and Amelia and the Wickedly Weird crew and seen nothing but bodies, body parts, blood and guts.

The stage blood had been cleaned from the floors.

The body parts and props had been piled up in a tangle on the beautiful hardwood living room floor.

Forensic teams hadn't actually cleaned up; they had made sure that all the blood was stage blood and they had garnered all the property that was meant to horrify, inspected it thoroughly and deposited it where the crews could look through it.

For their part, the Wickedly Weird people had brought the canvas totes and boxes that held the expensive prop pieces.

Nate Mahoney bemoaned the condition of what he considered some of his finest work. But then he looked up miserably.

“Wow. I'm sitting here thinking that my artistic talent was wasted—and Natalie and Amelia are dead. I feel like a horrible person.”

“You are a horrible person,” Becca said. “Oh, I just meant that as a tease, Nate. You're not a horrible person.”

Clara hated seeing them so unhappy. “Hey, it's just a bad situation.”

Jackson was behind her. “I'm sorry, but this entire prank was in really bad taste, as well,” he said.

Becca sank down on one of the living room's sumptuous, plush sofas. “It was Natalie's idea,” she said.

“And Amelia embraced it,” Tommy Marchant added. He sat down, too. He was holding a bloodied piece of leg, but didn't seem to notice. “I was so excited when we first came here. I mean, here is the thing about Natalie. She really loved doing
Vacation USA.
She thought that our country was wonderful and that people didn't realize how diverse. They didn't need to have the money to run off to Europe or South America, they just needed to know what was right in their own backyard. I remember when I got to come up here on the site inspection for Black Bear Island. When old Justin Crowley brought me about on the snowmobiles, I was so ecstatic! Such a cool, unusual and beautiful place!”

“Then, of course, Natalie came out. And she was whining about production money—as usual,” Becca remembered.

“And,” Nate told Jackson, “saying she couldn't understand how the money for
Vacation USA
came from
Gotcha
.”

“When she was out here herself,” Becca said, “that was when she came up with the idea of inviting the actors from the
Fate
over. She could get one of her well-sponsored
Gotcha
segments—and then showcase the beauty of Alaska!”

“What happens now with the company?” Clara asked.

Nate waved a hand in the air. “Well, Natalie was CEO, but there are stockholders. I guess we didn't even worry about that yet.”

“They'll make Tommy CEO, I'll bet,” Becca said. “He's older. He's been around.”

“Thanks,” Tommy murmured drily.

Becca didn't seem to notice. “We're not that big a company, but we do have a board—mostly slightly rich guys who like to have a hand in television, play like they're big producers, you know? But, Tommy is the only one who really knows how to pull shows together. Oh, there's Misty, of course, but she's kind of a follower, you know?”

“Maybe we ought to be looking for jobs instead of moping around,” Nate said. “Of course, I really think that I'll be fine. I'm good at what I do.”

“I'll vouch for that,” Clara murmured. “Well, do you want some help?”

“You want to help?” Nate asked her.

“I'm here—sure. What do I do?” Clara asked.

“Here,” Nate said, handing her a leg. “Peel this stuff off...it's just garbage. We'll preserve the leg.”

Clara took the leg and stared at it blankly for a moment.

But she'd said that she'd help. So she sat there, peeling the dried “blood” off the plastic leg.

She noted that Jackson wasn't amused by any of it; he had brought a laptop with him and she assumed that he had accessed the internet the police techs had gotten working.

At any rate, he frowned while he read.

Looking at the stack of props on the floor, Clara thought that it was going to be a long day; it was good that she was helping.

She started back at it, thinking of the plays she had done, the dramas and the tragedies.

Nothing ever quite this gruesome...

She looked up to find that Jackson was staring across the room.

Amelia had reappeared.

She seemed to waft through the space. And she sank down beside Clara.

“There's something...” she said. “I feel that there's something familiar that I'm kind of getting a sense of now...something that sparks memory.” She looked at Clara a little helplessly. “I can't figure out what it is. It's important—I know it.”

“Think!” Clara told her.

“Huh? What?” Becca asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking...um, what the heck is this stuff, anyway?”

“Mostly red dye and corn syrup—gone sticky in the days past,” Nate said morosely. He paused and added, “Honestly, hard to tell from the real stuff sometimes. I think you have a fly caught in there, too.” He was quiet. “Really like the real stuff, I guess,” he added.

They all fell silent; they all went back to work.

Amelia remained, an image, perhaps, in Clara's mind, looking perplexed.

And Jackson stared at the two of them.

* * *

The cliffs and caves on Black Bear Island were treacherous. Some formations were hard ground, hard rock, piled with earth and snow. Some were just ice. And some were just snow. A wrong step could bring a man crashing down to die on a jagged crop of rock or ice.

But both Mike and Thor knew the landscape—and knew to respect it.

They left the snowmobiles behind the high ledge on the southern side of the island and began the slow descent through the crystal-white cover down to the “beach” below.