Legacy of Sin.

Nikki Soarde.

Chapter One.

Malibu, California.

Footsteps echoed through the dark, cavernous rooms. Each tap of those stainless steel stilettos against the tile struck Sloan's eardrum like the crack of a gunshot. He slipped inside the master suite dressing room, plastered himself against the wall, and cursed silently. He cursed his ineptitude with a safe that he should have cracked in one minute instead of three. He cursed his own infatuation with sparkling stones and the warm glow of gold. And he cursed a target who refused to stick to her appointed schedule.

He should have known Morgan Foster wouldn't last a half an hour at the tedious Hollywood bash. Morgan hated to be anywhere that she wasn't the center of attention. And the party that was celebrating the opening of Universal Studio's latest tear-jerker chick-flick was destined to spotlight neither Morgan's silicone-stretched bosom nor her bombshell-blonde dye job. Morgan hadn't starred in the film, and Sloan knew that she continued to pout over the slight despite the film's dubious shot at greatness.

She should be thanking her lucky stars she had escaped association with the soon-to-be bomb. Sloan had seen the screenplay, and in his opinion it had more in common with a housewife's laundry list than it did with great dialogue. Mind you, that was hardly a surprise considering its source. Good old Arnoldo thought himself a great artist, but few of his screenplays approached Sloan's blockbuster successes. But, unfortunately, Sloan Carver couldn't write every single screenplay that was destined for the silver screen. He was good, but he wasn't that good. And, God knew, he needed other things to occupy his time.

Writing was his passion, but this was his distraction. Everybody needed a hobby, after all, and he had discovered that he had a penchant for picking locks and crouching in closets. And fondling some of the prettiest and most expensive baubles and trinkets known to man.

The brassy tinkle of Morgan's laughter crept in around the edges of the door.

"And this is the master bedroom."

Apparently she was giving her guest the grand tour of her five-thousand-square-foot mansion on the beach.

"I see that," offered a deep masculine voice. "The mile-wide bed was a dead giveaway."

Sloan groaned silently. Errol Trask's ego rivaled some of the most self-infatuated men in history. It even rivaled that of his date. And Sloan didn't look forward to hunkering down in a closet and listening to the duo stroke each other's egos-and God knew what else-for hours on end.

"It is rather large, isn't it," twittered Morgan.

"It's one of the biggest beds I've ever seen. I bet it could sleep a family of five."

Morgan laughed lightly. "I guess I did outdo myself a bit, but I just love things on a grand scale."

Sloan stared out the window that allowed a small flood of moonlight to spill into the enormous dressing room. He tried to count the iridescent points of light. He tried to find the face of the man in the moon. He tried to think about just about anything but what was transpiring on the other side of that door, but Morgan's voice rivaled the screech of fingernails on a chalkboard. It would not be ignored.

"I love all kinds of big things," continued her witless monologue. "I love big diamonds, big houses, big cars, big beds, and big... Oh my!"

Errol's groan told Sloan more than he had ever wanted to know about Morgan's seduction techniques. It seemed he wasn't going to have to endure their inane banter after all.

Sloan stuffed the small velvet sack into his pocket and muttered a few more choice epithets. Many of them were directed at the leading man who was playing out his role on the other side of the door. Errol had a wife at home. She wasn't an actress, and tended to fade into the woodwork around her self-important husband, but she was pretty and sweet, and she was pregnant with their second child. She had no doubt declined an invitation to the party because of water retention and low back pain. This was how her husband repaid her for her sacrifices.

Sometimes Sloan really hated this town. He hated what it stood for, and he hated the people who lived here. But no matter how tired he got of the egos and maneuvering, no matter how many times he had his work butchered by self-righteous directors and inept actors-regardless of all that, he couldn't deny that this select section of real estate on the western seaboard was the best place for an ambitious screenwriter. Plus it had the undeniable benefit of providing a veritable smorgasbord of delights for his insatiable appetites-gemological and otherwise.

For even as he lamented his poor timing and Morgan's sexual dysfunction, he had to admit that this was the real reason he scaled walls and slipped through windows. If there hadn't been a chance that Morgan might come home, he probably wouldn't have bothered. For without risk there was no thrill. And without thrill...there was little else.

The grunts and groans from the other side of the door were gradually accelerating and had taken on a feverish intensity. Sloan plugged his ears and resigned himself to another twenty minutes of carnal torture before the duo hopefully fell into a post-coital stupor that would allow him to slip out of the house unnoticed.

Morgan's voice startled him. "Hold on there a second, baby."

"Mmm?" groaned Errol. "You're not gonna change your mind again, are you?"

"Oh no," she crooned. "I just thought you might like to try something a little...different."

"Different?"

"I got a new toy on my last trip to New York, and I've been dying to try it out."

Errol's chuckle was lascivious. "By all means. Bring on the leather."

"I just have to get it out of the dressing room."

Dressing room? Shit! Sloan was trapped. The moonlight illuminated a space that was far too neat and well-organized to afford an effective hiding place.

"At least I'm pretty sure I stuck it in there," added Morgan. "It'll just take me a minute to find it."

He heard the rustle of bedclothes as she, no doubt, worked at extricating herself from her lover's grasp. She was on her way, and she was going to be rooting around in search of her sleazy treasure. He had to get out.

Without allowing himself time to think about the two-story drop that awaited him, he thrust open the window and used his pocket knife to slice open the screen. Thankful for the one smidgen of good luck, he climbed atop the low dresser that sat in front of the window and, just as he heard the latch click open, he squeezed himself through the window, feet first.

Heart pumping and palms sweating, he dangled from the window ledge for an agonizing two seconds. The closet light flicked on and he let go.

He hit the ground and pain rocketed from his ankle up through his groin and into his chest. But he barely took a moment to lie there and catch his breath, before forcing himself to his feet and hobbling quickly away.

He heard a high-pitched scream and knew poor Errol would likely never get a glimpse of Morgan's...new toy. Perhaps Sloan would send Mrs. Trask an anonymous bouquet of roses in the morning.

He forgot about Errol, however, as he poured on the speed and hastily scaled the outer fence. He landed on the other side and the pain that sliced through his ankle brought on a fresh string of curses. But even as he ran, struggling through a haze of pain and shock, he acknowledged that despite the insanity of it all, he was here to stay. After all he had nowhere else to go.

And the one place in the world where he might be welcomed again with open arms, was the one place he had no desire to be.

The last place he ever wanted to go again was home.

Chapter Two.

Owen Sound, Ontario, Canada.

"Just a little more, Mom," pleaded Bree as she scooped up another helping of her mother's meager dinner. "You need to eat."

"Where did you learn to be such a nag?" whispered Lydia through pale, chapped lips. She looked so frail lying there amidst the array of IV tubes-frail and as faded as the dull gray hospital walls. Not even the cheery sunshine that spilled in through the window could brighten her mother's features. Or the stark reality of her illness.

"I learned from the best," retorted Bree. "Now if you take one more bite I'll leave you alone." She did sound remarkably like her mother had when Bree was a child. Lydia Hampstead had employed every tactic known to man in her efforts to cajole her only child into taking just one more bite of her sausage or her mashed potatoes. Under other circumstances, the sound of those same words falling from Bree's lips would have struck her as comical. Today it struck her as cruelly ironic.

"Are you sure this is meatloaf?" Lydia sniffed. "It tastes more like shredded leather."

Bree glared at her. "How on Earth do you know what shredded leather tastes like?"

"I think that's what Janelle used to put in her meatloaf." She glared at the forkful of beef and cracker crumbs as if it were laced with arsenic. "She never could cook worth a darn."

Bree smiled even though her mouth felt tight. "All right, then. Let's take a little trip back in time, shall we?"

Lydia eyed her warily. "Back in time?"

"Sure. Let's pretend you and Daddy have been invited over to the Carvers for dinner." Her grin was wicked. "And Janelle is serving meatloaf."

Lydia grimaced. "And this is how you're trying to entice me to eat?"

"You know that no matter how horrible it was, you always ate Janelle's cooking. You could never stand to disappoint her."

Lydia tilted her head to the side and considered. "And where are our children? Where are you and Sloan?" Before Bree could formulate a suitably scathing retort, her mother held up her hand. "No, wait. Let me guess. Are you playing in a playpen in the corner of the kitchen? Fighting over the dump truck and pulling each other's hair like always?"

Bree set her mouth and said nothing. She and Sloan might have been friends almost since birth, and on-and-off lovers into young adulthood, but the length and depth of such a relationship only made thoughts of him all the more painful. Janelle and her son had been gone for years, but their betrayal still stung. Whatever had possessed her to bring up the Carvers at all?

But then she thought perhaps she knew. In recent weeks Sloan had been slipping into her thoughts with alarming frequency. An idea had begun to take shape in her mind-a plan for bringing the errant son of Bay's Haven home. At first she had hesitated, balked at the thought of expending any energy at all on the likes of Sloan Carver. But the more she thought about it the more she liked the idea. Besides, she wasn't doing it for him, she was doing it for herself-and for her mother.

Sloan owed her and it was finally time to collect.

Lydia continued, "Or perhaps it's years later and the two of you are out somewhere making up after another one of your knock-down-drag-out fights. Or..." Her smile widened. "Or maybe you and Sloan are down at the beach having a bonfire with the others." Her eyes held a trace of wistfulness. "The Fearsome Foursome. You were all born within a few months of each other, and I swear, right from the cradle, you always seemed happiest when the four of you were together."

Bree's chest felt tight. "Are you going to eat your meatloaf or not?"

Lydia's eyes wandered to the horizon that was visible outside her window. A sailboat flitted across the cold blue waters of Georgian Bay, but Bree doubted that was what her mother was seeing. "I know Sloan hurt you when he left, honey. But that doesn't mean you should forget the good times. That doesn't mean he doesn't still care."

"Bullshit."

Lydia arched her eyebrows, but said nothing.

"If he cared he'd call or write, or return my phone calls or maybe even come to my wedding!"

"Don't be so hard on him. He's hurting over things we can barely comprehend. Losing his father was-"

"That's no excuse for abandoning the people who love him, Mom. But then, of course, I suppose it runs in the genes."

"Janelle didn't abandon me. She writes me letters all the time."

"Maybe so. But why doesn't she call? Or even give you a return address so you can write her back?" Bree clenched her fists. "She doesn't even know you're sick, Mom. You have ovarian cancer and your best friend in the world is cavorting around Europe with a man half her age."

Lydia's voice grew softer. "She grieved for Jonathan long enough. The way he died made it even harder to accept. She deserves a little happiness."

"That doesn't give her the right to cut herself off from the people who love her!" Bree regretted raising her voice to her mother, but she was sick of Lydia making excuses for her friends. "And what about Marie and Lois?" she asked, referring to the mothers of the remaining members of the Fearsome Foursome.

"What about them?"

"They haven't been in to visit you once since your admission."

"They're very busy."

Bree shook her head in disgust. "You shared most of your life with those women. You practically raised your children together. Your husbands were all best friends, and together you built the Lakeside Auction House into a thriving business. That should mean something."

The four couples had been friends since long before their children were born. They'd shared everything from dinners to diapers and had even pooled their various talents to start up a business together. Unfortunately the passing of three of the husbands had sent ripples through the remainder of the group. Since their deaths the Auction House they had started together had prospered, but the friendships had floundered.

"That's enough, Sabrina. You can't change who people are. I treasure my memories, both of your father and of our time with the others. I admit that sometimes I miss everyone, but why worry and fret over something you can't change?" She took a deep breath. "I can't make them come to see me. Just like you can't make Sloan come home."

Under her breath Bree murmured, "Oh, I don't know about that."

"What was that?"

Bree growled at her. "Can we drop this please? I'm sorry I brought it up. We need to get back to the subject at hand." Once more she held up the meatloaf. "So?"

"Hey there, Chicky-Bree!" interrupted an irrepressibly cheerful voice from the doorway.

Bree shook her head and smiled. "You're early, Franki-Dee."

Francine Waters, the third and unarguably most vivacious member of the Fearsome Foursome, bounced into the room. Her blonde ponytail swung to and fro, and her short skirt flashed the world an unhindered view of a pair of long, shapely thighs. Unlike most women, Franki's thighs were her best feature. At least that was what she told anyone who would listen. Bree disagreed, however. She thought Franki's wide, lavender eyes outshone even those firm, milky appendages. Those eyes were truly windows to her soul, and Franki Waters' soul had the intrinsic ability to buoy even the most dejected spirit.

Franki stopped on the other side of the bed and checked her watch. "No, I'm not. I'm always early for everything, therefore I'm right on time."

Bree closed her eyes and nodded. "Right. How silly of me."

They had driven into Owen Sound together. Franki had dropped Bree off at the hospital and then headed out for her monthly trip to the mall to stock up on high heels and miniskirts. Franki was supposed to come back at six. It was barely five-thirty.

Franki leaned in and pecked Lydia on the cheek. "How's the patient?"

"My daughter force-fed me hospital meatloaf."

Franki granted Bree a scathing look. "You always did have a mean streak, Bree." She focused intently on Lydia and whispered her conspiracy. "I'm sure she never told you this, but she used to get a real kick out of torturing innocent creatures."

Bree's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"She used to deliberately entice hungry living things into her hands, skewer and pierce their tender mouths with sharp objects, and then set them free without so much as a Band-Aid to cover their wounds."

Bree grasped her head in her hands as if afraid it might fall off. "Fishing! She's describing our fishing trips."

Franki sniffed. "I fail to see how giving it a neat little label makes such tortures socially acceptable."

"You're hardly a vegetarian, my dear." Bree had noticed the smile twitching at her mother's lips. Lydia always enjoyed listening to the two best friends' banter, and for her mother's benefit she decided to play it to the hilt.

"You spent just as much time down at the fishing pond as the rest of us."