Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
But by then he didn’t care, because her hand was doing astonishing things in his lap beneath the tablecloth and he thought he would die from sheer pleasure.
He had taken her back to his brownstone that night and watched her absorb the authentic antique French furnishings, the Impressionist collection started by his grandfather, the Persian carpets, and the rest of the trappings that trumpeted his vast wealth. He told himself it didn’t matter that she was obviously fascinated by his money, that all that mattered was the fact that she was there, that she was going to let him make love to her.
But she hadn’t . . .
Not that first night.
No,
she
had made passionate love to
him,
pleasuring him repeatedly, beyond his wildest dreams, leaving him sated and exhausted and mad with the need to see her again and again and again.
He had showered her with gifts over the next several weeks, not caring that she hinted for the lavishly expensive things she wanted or that she barely bothered to hide her greed as she accepted them from him. All that mattered to Stephen was that she did incredible things to his body with hers.
And then one night, out of the blue, Liza had seemed moody and cold over dinner at Lutèce. Stephen had tried to draw her out, plying her with fine French food and champagne and outrageous compliments in his flawlessly accented French.
But he had sensed, when she turned those bored green eyes on him as he’d helped her into the mink he’d bought her, that she was about to bring their affair to a close. She had gotten everything she needed from him.
Simmering with rage, Stephen had driven her back to his place, not bothering to ask whether she wanted to be there. She’d gone along with it, probably planning to play him for a fool one last time and see what he would give her in return for her sexual services.
But the moment Stephen had closed and locked his bedroom door behind them, he had been the one in control for a change.
Instead of letting Liza tease him by undressing bit by bit, he had ripped her clothes off her. Instead of lying back, naked, and letting her hands and mouth and hair trail over his body, he had thrown her onto the bed, face down. And instead of turning her over, he had entered her, roughly and swiftly, from behind, eliciting a scream of fury and pain from those pouty lips of hers.
When he was finished, he had roughly flipped her over onto her back, expecting to see her sobbing, or at least weakened and ashamed.
Yet to his utter astonishment and dismay, those hard green eyes of hers had betrayed nothing but disgust for him.
“Are you finished?” she’d asked coldly, sitting up, then standing. “Because I’m going home now. I’m through prostituting myself to a cretin like you, although it was definitely worth it. Even this last little tantrum of yours.”
Stunned into silence, he had merely watched as she pulled her dress over her head.
“And Stephen? If it weren’t for your money, I never would have given you the time of day in the first place. I was hanging around Brooks Brothers that afternoon just waiting for a rich sucker like you to come along.”
Laughing, she had grabbed her coat and purse and left the room, leaving him lying on the bed reeling from her cruel words . . . even though he had known the truth all along.
Now, as Stephen slows the car to make the turn into the lane leading to his family’s old summer house, he thinks,
We’ll see who gets the last laugh now, Liza.
He’s chuckling to himself when he stops short, spotting a car coming toward him down the lane . . .
A police car.
Stephen’s blood runs cold as he slows and pulls over to the side. What else can he do? There’s no room on the narrow lane for the cars to pass each other, and anyway, it would seem suspicious for him to try to keep going.
Panic screams through his mind as the other car stops alongside him. The uniformed man behind the wheel is rolling down the window and leaning out, despite the nasty weather.
Stay calm,
Stephen commands himself, pasting an artificial grin on his mouth and raising his right hand in greeting after rolling the window down with his left.
The wind will muffle any sounds coming from the trunk. And no one can possibly recognize you or the car.
After all, he hasn’t been to the island in years, and the last time was before he had the plastic surgery. And there’s nothing flashy about the American-made black sedan he’s driving. He left his own silver Mercedes and cherry-colored Porsche back in Manhattan. He won’t need them where he’s going after this.
“Hello there,” the man in the cop car calls, waving back. “I’m Sherm Crandall, chief of police on the island.”
Stephen nods, still grinning, and says over the roar of the wind, “Nice to meet you. My name’s . . .” He hesitates for the merest second before uttering the first thing that pops into his head. “LaCroix. John LaCroix.”
“Oh, yeah? I was half-expecting one of the Gilbrookes.”
“You were?” Stephen wonders if the cop can tell that he’s barely managing to keep himself together. Hopefully the blowing wet snow is obscuring his face somewhat. “Who are the Gilbrookes?”
“The family that owns this place.”
Play dumb, and he won’t get suspicious.
“What place?” he asks, making his eyebrows furl as though he’s confused.
The officer gestures with his head at the house behind him, just out of sight, Stephen knows, around the bend.
“There’s a big old mansion back here,” Crandall tells him, his breath coming out in white puffs in the frigid wind. “Thought that was where you were headed.”
“If I am, it’s not on purpose.” Does he sound too edgy? He shrugs, trying desperately to appear casual. “Just wanted to turn around . . . looks like I’m lost.”
“You a tourist?”
“You bet.”
“Where are you trying to go?”
“Back to the inn where I’m staying,” Stephen says, thinking quickly.
“Which one is that?”
Is the cop just making conversation or is he suspicious? It’s impossible to tell. It
feels
like an interrogation, but it might just be Stephen’s own guilt.
“Where are you staying?” the cop asks again.
“The Bramble Rose,” Stephen says quickly.
“Oh, yeah? How is that place?”
“Very nice. I like it.”
“Good. I might have relatives coming to visit soon, and I thought they might like to stay there. The place is new, so I haven’t heard much about it.”
“Uh huh.” Why won’t the guy just move on? Stephen wonders, agitated. He realizes that he’s jiggling his leg impatiently on the brake pedal and stops abruptly. He makes a big show of shivering, as though it’s the cold that’s making him antsy.
Sherm Crandall doesn’t seem to have noticed. But he’s not moving on, either.
“Say,” he says, as though he’s just thought of something, “you wouldn’t have happened to run across a young girl named Cindy staying at the Bramble Rose this weekend would you? No, wait—not Cindy. Sandy. Italian last name . . . Cavelli. That’s it.”
Fighting to maintain his composure, Stephen shakes his head and blandly responds, “Nope. Didn’t see her.”
“Huh.” The cop rubs his chin thoughtfully, then shrugs. “Well, if you do, you let me know, okay? You can call me down at the police station.”
“I sure will.” He hesitates, wanting badly to ask, knowing he should just leave it be, but ultimately unable to stop himself. “What’s up with this girl, Officer? Is she in some kind of trouble?”
Is it Stephen’s imagination or is Sherm Crandall suddenly eyeing him more closely?
You shouldn’t have asked,
Stephen scolds himself.
Now look what you’ve done.
“No, she’s not in any trouble that I know of,” the cop says. “I just want to talk to her, is all.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll let you know if I see her.” Stephen gives a cheerful wave and shifts in his seat to let the cop know their conversation is over.
“You have a good day now,” Sherm says with a wave and rolls up his window.
Stephen does the same, pulling the car ahead then turning it around on the narrow road because he knows the cop is probably watching him through his rear-view mirror as he drives away.
Stephen slowly drives away from the house, following the police car back out onto the highway. It turns left, toward town, and Stephen watches until it disappears around a bend in the road.
He waits a long time after that, parked at the edge of the lane, hoping the cop won’t decide to get nosy again and turn around and come back to check on him.
Finally, after a good ten minutes, Stephen turns the car around once again and heads back toward the house.
And as he drives, he wonders if Liza Danning is unconscious in the trunk. He hasn’t heard a sound from her in awhile, for which he
was
grateful. . . . But now he dearly wants her to be awake. He can’t wait around for her to regain consciousness now that that cop is snooping around, asking questions about Sandy Cavelli.
No, he’ll have to get Liza over with quickly, and then it will be Laura’s turn.
Filled with regret that he won’t have the luxury of savoring their reactions, making them suffer for a while before he kills them, Stephen sighs and pulls the black sedan around to the back of the house.
He drives into the ancient carriage house and parks beside the clunker of a Chevy that nosy kid had been driving.
By the time anyone finds it, Stephen will be long gone.
“I
’ve got it!” Laura exclaims, backing out of her closet and waving the letter at Shawn, who’s sitting on her bed.
“Where was it?”
“In this plastic milk crate where I toss things I need to put somewhere but I’m not sure where . . . never mind,” she finishes hastily, not wanting to make herself come across as any more sloppy and disorganized than she already must seem to him.
He nods and asks, “So, where is this place?”
Laura sits back on her heels and skims the letter. “The Bramble Rose Inn—I’ve got to call there right away. The number’s right here.”
She starts for the kitchen with Shawn right behind her.
“You still feel that Jennie’s in trouble?” he asks as she hurries toward the phone.
“More than ever. I know it sounds strange, but it’s just this . . . this
twin
thing, I guess.” She pauses to dial the inn’s number, then adds to Shawn, “The last time I felt this way about my sister, she was in real trouble. It was—hello?” She interrupts herself as someone picks up the line on the first ring.
“Yes, may I help you?” It’s a polite, male voice, and Laura can barely make it out because of static.
“I’d like to speak to my sister—she’s staying at the inn. Her name is Jennie Towne.”
There’s a pause, and for a moment, Laura thinks the connection has been broken.
Then the voice slowly repeats,
“Jennie
Towne? Are you sure that’s—”
“Oops, I’m sorry, wrong sister,” Laura interrupts him quickly, chastising herself for being a total idiot. “Her name is
Laura.
Laura Towne.”
“Oh, Laura . . . yes, she’s . . . I don’t believe she’s—Oh, Miss Towne,” he says suddenly, to someone on the other end. “I didn’t realize you were right there. Someone wishes to speak to you. It’s your sister.”
Laura hears Jennie’s voice murmuring something, then she’s on the line saying a cautious “Hello?”
“J—Laura, it’s me,” Laura says, realizing that whoever answered might still be within earshot.
“Oh, hi,” her sister says, sounding glad to hear from her. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, here, but are you okay?”
Jennie hesitates just long enough to tell Laura two things—one, that the man who answered is hovering nearby and she doesn’t want to say anything in front of him; and two, that she’s not all right.
Laura’s heart does an anxious flip-flop and she frowns as her sister’s hollow voice says, “Sure, I’m great. This place is beautiful.”
“Jen,” Laura lowers her voice to a whisper, “you’re not okay, are you?”
The line dissolves into static then, and Laura turns to Shawn. “I don’t know what—hello?”
“Can you hear me?” Jennie’s voice is saying as the static dissipates.
“Now I can. What’s going on out there? Are you having bad weather?”
“Yes, there’s a storm.”
“Jennie, I’m worried about you. Are you okay? Tell me the truth.”
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
Laura glances at Shawn, who’s watching her. He raises his brows, and she shakes her head.
“Listen, Jen,” she says hastily, keeping her voice down, “something’s up with that sweepstakes I entered. I talked to Keegan, and he said it’s not—”
Suddenly, the line explodes into static again. Laura jerks the phone away from her ear at the loud noise, then puts it back and calls, “Jen? Jen?”
“What happened?” Shawn asks.
“I don’t know. . . . I think the line went dead.”
“I
think the line went dead,” Jennie tells Jasper, who’s looking curiously at her.
“It’s the storm.” He glances toward the window.
Jennie knows he’s right. She saw an enormous bolt of lightning moments before she lost contact with her sister.
But if Jasper hadn’t been standing here the whole time she was talking to Laura, she would almost think he somehow . . .
No. It was the storm.
Despite that knowledge, Jennie is suddenly looking at the man through different eyes. Suddenly, he seems almost sinister.
If she hadn’t happened to come downstairs just as the phone was ringing, would he have let her speak to Laura?
She’d heard him starting to tell her sister that she wasn’t available—at least, that’s what it had sounded like.
Was he just being lazy about tracking her down?
Or was there another reason?
“Are you all right?” he asks now, watching her carefully from where he’s standing behind the desk.
“I’m fine.” She hands him the receiver and he replaces it in the cradle.
What was Laura about to tell her? Something about the sweepstakes . . . and Keegan? What does Keegan have to do with anything?