To Catch the Moon (50 page)

“Hold on.” Milo rose and headed for the door.
“I’ll be right back.”

She waited, trying to make out what was going
on. Then Milo came back bearing red plastic bags clearly loaded
with takeout. He raised them in the air. “You like Chinese?”

Her heart soared, like a kite released in a
happy wind. “I love it.”

He walked out of the room, she guessed into a
kitchen. “I always order more than I can eat. Come help.” Then he
appeared again, bereft of the takeout. “But not until you move that
suitcase of yours into my bedroom. I’ve got a broken arm, you
know.”

She smiled. Maybe the bad part was over.
Maybe they could be comfortable again. Maybe they could be more
than comfortable.

He disappeared back into the kitchen, calling
over his shoulder. “Would you mind watching
Newsline
later?
It’s on tonight.”

She set down her wineglass and rose from the
couch. “Is it any good?”

“Not as good as it used to be.” He paused,
and when he spoke again his voice had a different note in it, a
hopeful note she recognized in her own heart. “Though I think a lot
of things are changing for the better.”

She walked toward his voice, smiling. Imagine
that. For once she agreed with him.

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Continue reading past the brief
acknowledgments for an excerpt from Diana’s novel
Chasing Venus
, the story that readers call a perfect
blend of romance and suspense …

Writing
To Catch the Moon
allowed me
to live vicariously on the gorgeous Monterey Peninsula. It also
introduced me to an arena I previously knew little about: criminal
prosecution and the inside workings of a district attorney’s
office. Two women proved fantastic guides: Monterey County Deputy
District Attorney Ann Hill and Los Angeles County Deputy District
Attorney Marlene Sanchez. Both were tremendously generous with
their time and expertise, and I thank them.

I am grateful also to Audrey LaFehr, Jen
Jahner, Francesca Farr, Martha Caskey, Ann Shannon, Dr. Paul
Robiolio, Aixa Martinez, Christina Papoulias Barton, Mona EINaggar,
Donna Edmondson, Yu-Jin Kim, Burt Levitch, and Robert Scott.

I run out of superlatives when it comes to my
critique partners: Bill Fuller, Tracie Donnell, Danielle Girard,
Sarah Manyika, and Ciji Ware.

Rhonda Freshwater of Freshwater Design again
delivered terrific cover art, and I thank her.

Writer though I may be, I lack the words to
thank my husband, Jed. He is excellent in his editorial advice,
tireless in his encouragement, and unstinting in his praise. Not
only that, he’s willing to fetch nightly takeout when I get close
to deadline. This book is for you, Jed, though it’s paltry
reward.

Known for page-turning romantic novels that
keep you reading late into the night, Diana Dempsey delivers a
suspenseful tale about a man and a woman who must shed the past to
embrace the future …

Annette Rowell’s latest novel is leapfrogging
up the bestseller lists, and with every surge in sales she’s
becoming more of a household name. The literary success she’s
struggled so hard for would be a dream come true were it not for
the killer preying on bestselling authors.

Reid Gardner hosts a syndicated crime show
dedicated to capturing dangerous fugitives. The former LAPD cop
knows only too well how violence can shatter lives. No victim
arouses his ardor more than the pretty author who’s become the
target of a psychopath. Yet falling in love with her could cost him
not only the reputation he’s spent years building, but the one
killer who’s eluded him for years …

PROLOGUE

Death was not on the guest list, but it
appeared all the same.

Maggie Boswell, reigning queen of mystery
fiction, sat at the signing table as if she were royalty on a
throne. Around her, in teetering piles, was her latest bestseller.
Grabbing at the books were members of the literary elite—authors,
editors, agents. It was a huge irony that Maggie had invited them
into her home for this book party. Most of them she disliked. Now
all of them she distrusted.

For any one of them might try to kill
her.

Someone handed her a book. She scribbled the
inscription, struggling to rise above her fear. In the shifting
terror of her worst imaginings, even her beloved home unnerved her.
Its enormity was no longer a joy, but a threat. It had too many
corners, too many shadows. And outside its stucco walls the night
was moonless, and the silver-gray Pacific beyond the terraced
garden unnaturally still.

A breeze from the open French doors behind
her wafted over the back of her neck, chilling her skin like a
spectral caress. She shivered, turned to look. Yet there was
nothing there, nothing but the unrelieved blackness of her
garden.

“Ms. Boswell?”

She spun at the woman’s voice, and pursed her
lips. A pretender to her throne, in the form of a brunette wisp
with—in Maggie’s opinion—dubious talent.

The woman held a book toward her and smiled.
"I’m Annette Rowell. I’m a huge admirer of your work."

Maggie took the book but didn’t care to smile
back. “Are you?”

"I’ve really been looking forward to this
one."

Read it and weep
. “Shall I sign the
book to you?”

“Please.”

Maggie scrawled
To Annette
and then
her signature in expansive script. She slapped the hardcover shut
and held out the volume.

"You may remember that I have a mystery
series of my own," the woman said.

Maggie was well aware of it. "Is that
so?"

Again the woman smiled. “Thank you so much
for including me tonight."

Maggie wondered how this upstart had made it
onto the guest list. She averted her head in silent dismissal and
the woman moved along.

The books kept coming, endlessly. Greet,
open, sign, hand back, smile, over and over again. At one point,
Maggie jolted upright. She’d felt something, sudden and swift, in
the nape of her neck. A piercing, like a bee sting, or a needle
making an entry into flesh. Deeply and with purpose. Then, just as
quickly, gone.

She frowned, twisted to look behind her out
the French doors. Again, nothing. Just the yards of flagstone
terrace and the lawn sweeping to the sea. With some trepidation she
touched the back of her neck, then stared aghast at the
unmistakable crimson smear on her finger.

My God
. A thought came, a terrifying
idea she immediately banished.
It can't be
.

Someone held another book toward her.
Mechanically she signed it, her mind whirling. As she returned the
volume to its owner, she grimaced again.

An unnatural tingling sensation had begun in
her body. Maggie stilled, gave it her full attention. Yet the
feeling didn’t disappear, but grew, strengthened.

She shivered. Coldness writhed within her.
The hideous thought returned, taunted her.
Just like in my
second book
.

No. She wouldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be
so easy, that what she feared most would simply come to pass. Just
like that. All the while the iciness intensified, knifing through
her body. A harbinger of doom.

This cannot be happening.

Yet, she knew, it could.

The people around her seemed to grow distant,
as if a veil had dropped between her and the living world. She saw
their faces, she heard their voices, but she was alone among them
in a way she never had been before. She tried to move her mouth to
speak but her lips failed to respond.

So fast. It really is so fast.

She was almost admiring of the poison's
power. Just as she had written about it, so it was.

"Darling?" Her husband bent over her. Voices
echoed, concerned faces loomed. Someone held up something thin and
shiny and silver. Maggie didn’t need to see it clearly to know what
it was. A dart, tipped with poison.

Terror gripped her then, spun in her mind
like a grotesque dervish. Her imagination, always vivid, conjured
an image of her last breath. Not so far off now, she knew. And, oh,
how she would gasp, strain, seek air she could never more find
...

Panic ballooned in the gorgeous living room,
an acid cloud only she could see. People were jostling now, bumping
into one another, seeking escape. A lone scream rent the air. She
tried to turn her head to see who had made the shrill sound but
wasn’t able. Already that was beyond her rapidly dwindling
capabilities.

So fast, so fast …

Her body slumped to the table. She was
powerless to keep her head from slamming onto the book she had been
preparing to sign.

My last book. It's over. I'm dead.

Another scream, not her own, for she could no
longer draw breath. She knew. She had tried. Nothing came.

Death made its exit, leaving its grim calling
card behind.

CHAPTER ONE

Annie Rowell snagged a deep breath of air,
her heart pumping, her feet in their worn running shoes pounding
the graveled shoulder of the two-lane road. It was dusk, and at
this hour few cars passed through these low grassy hills outside
the California coastal town of Bodega Bay. Here, a mile inland, she
couldn't hear the surf, but still the chill air carried a tang of
salt. Overhead a raven cawed, its shriek splitting the heavens.

The route was her usual one and required no
concentration. Her mind was free to wander, and it did, to her
favorite daydream.

New Yorkers shouldered past her as she stared
into the windows of the glitzy bookstore. Snow drifted from the
sky, dusting her brunette hair and melting on the long lashes
rimming her green eyes, shiny with tears of joy. A businessman,
walking fast, bumped into her, muttered under his breath.

She remained motionless. Mesmerized. Nothing
could tear her from this sight, one she'd dreamed of for years. Her
novel—hers!—stacked in a giant pyramid in the window. In the middle
where the bestsellers go.

A shopper inside lifted a book from the
pyramid and headed for the registers. More like that and Annie
would rise even higher on the bestsellers list. She could just
imagine Philip and that new wife of his frowning at each other over
their
New York Times
, unable to fathom that Annette Rowell's
name was printed there, and in such an illustrious
position.

Maybe I shouldn't have divorced her,
Philip would think, eyeing wife number two with the
disappointment he'd previously reserved for Annie
. But who
would have thought she'd ever amount to anything?

The fantasy generated the usual smile but
this time it didn’t last long. Annie was abruptly jarred back to
reality.

She picked up her pace—just a bit, not enough
to be obvious, then raised her chin a notch and resisted the urge
to glance over her shoulder.

How long had that car been behind her?

Why wasn’t it driving past?

It was late April and the longer days allowed
her to get sloppy about when she set off on her run. In January she
had to get going by 3:30 or it’d be dark by the time the circuit
led her back home. Darkness and jogging solo were a bad combo for
any woman. Let alone one who might have a target on her back.

But she’d gotten caught up revising chapter
seventeen, and five o’clock slipped by, then six, six thirty … And
there was no way she’d skip the run. She was all discipline these
days—in her writing, her workouts, her meals, everything. But it
meant that here she was, still out, with the shadows too long for
comfort.

The slow-moving car sped up. She could tell
from the rev of its engine. Then it appeared alongside her and
slowed again to roll at exactly her rate of speed. From inside the
vehicle, through the open passenger window, she could feel the
driver’s eyes on her. Just … watching.

She kept her gaze straight ahead, her heart
thumping an anxious rhythm that had little to do with exertion.

What should she do?
Be bold
, she
decided.
Look at the driver
.

She swung her head to the left and got an
eyeful of a beat-up maroon sedan. Behind the wheel … a man. Not an
elderly man, either, which might have explained the
molasses-in-January pace. Of indeterminate age, and dark-haired.
Wearing sunglasses even though the sun had nearly set.

But that was all she could make out, because
a second later the car accelerated and shot ahead. At first Annie
couldn’t understand why, until she realized that another vehicle
was coming up from behind. She caught a snippet of animated
conversation through open windows as an SUV sped past.

The roar of both engines died away and
silence again descended, broken only by the repetitive beat of
Annie’s footfalls on the gravel.

The SUV scared him off. That’s good,
right?

Sure, but who was he? And why did he have to
get scared off in the first place?

Don’t think. Just run. Get home.

For several minutes she made good progress.
But the peace was short-lived. Soon she heard a vehicle behind
her.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Despite the gloaming, a car was approaching
without its headlights on. Was it the maroon sedan? She couldn’t
tell. Had the guy turned around and doubled back?

Her breath caught in her throat. Should she
confront him? No, that would only egg him on. Turn around? But it
made no sense to close the distance between them. Speed up? At the
bend just ahead she could cross the road and sprint over the
smallish hill to the left. It would make for more difficult running
but it would also be impossible for him to follow her.