Julia ignored him. "I've kept the guest list small because of the short notice. We'll have fifty for dinner, served in the large dining room, and afterward, dancing in the Chinese pavilion. It's been enlarged and redone."

They hadn't seen the Chinese pavilion on their tour the other night. Andrew remembered the old version as perfect for dancing on a balmy summer evening, but Julia had complained years ago that the pagoda roof and Oriental dragons were dated. He was curious what she'd done with it.

"It sounds lovely," Marnie said. Her smile was bright, but Andrew could hear the tension in her voice. "But I didn't bring anything formal."

"Not a problem," Julia said. "I'll have my personal stylist pick out some gowns and bring them over. You can choose whatever you'd like. Rebecca and I will help, too. We'll make a day of it."

Marnie went pale. "No, really, that's-"

Andrew nudged her foot under the table. She was acting like a poor relation, not the coddled daughter of a privileged family.

"-great." Her voice sharpened. "Maybe some champagne?"

"Oh, lots of champagne," Julia assured her.

Andrew could see that Marnie was still struggling with this to-the-manor-born stuff. A formal reception would test her to her limits, and again he wondered if that's why Julia had insisted on throwing it. He was also aware that Marnie had all but sacrificed herself for him. She could so easily have blown their cover when she was confronted by Julia, and gotten the hell out of this place. At the very least she could have begged off the reception, using her health as an excuse. But she'd done neither. And he owed her for that.

Naked breasts everywhere. Marnie was afraid she was going to be hit in the face by one of them. She was just tipsy enough that her reflexes were shot, and even ducking breasts seemed slightly dangerous.

"More champagne?" the stylist asked, topping off Marnie's glass. "You're falling behind."

Marnie's nod was a little exaggerated. She was sitting on the carpet, stretched out next to Julia's chaise in a real Dolce and Gabana gown of red organza ruffles, and exhausted from trying on dresses for the last hour and a half. This shopping-at-home stuff was new to her, and a little bewildering, but the ridiculously expensive champagne was fun.

Marnie set her overflowing glass on a silver tray that had been left on the chaise. She was already slightly woozy and very loose. However, Belinda, Julia's personal stylist, was right: Marnie was well behind everybody else.

Julia had finished nearly a bottle of bubbly on her own and was going through designer dresses like a runway queen. Rebecca had had several glasses, but she was diluting them with peach nectar and something else that Marnie couldn't remember the name of. Even Belinda was drinking on the job, but she'd been burning off the alcohol's effects by helping everyone with their clothes and trying on things herself.

Marnie was the lightweight in this crowd. She was a novice when it came to haute couture, booze and breasts. So this was an education. None of them was wearing much in the way of underwear. They'd all stripped down to their panties in the first twenty minutes. Bras had hooks. They took too long.

"Isn't this fabulous?" Rebecca said, throwing open her arms to reveal her flouncy, strapless, black satin Balenciaga.

Julia was squeezing herself into a body-hugging sheath that looked as if it were made out of spun gold. The daring slit up the front and the delicate diamond straps created one of the sexiest looks Marnie had ever seen. Breathtaking. She couldn't imagine carrying off such a dress.

"What size is this thing?" Julia demanded, struggling with the zipper. "Have I gained weight?"

Rebecca laughed. "Time to cut the carbs!"

Julia scowled at her. "You're twice as big as I am," she retorted. "Time to start sticking that toothbrush down your throat again."

Rebecca turned pale with surprise, then flame-red. Whether she was bulimic or not, she was definitely angry. Marnie could see it in her eyes, and she understood the impulse. Rebecca wanted to lash back, but wouldn't dare. Julia was too formidable an adversary.

Meanwhile, Julia shimmied out of the sheath and thrust it at Belinda. "Have Alison try it on," she snapped. "She's nothing but skin and bone from all that surgery, and I don't like that red monstrosity she has on at all."

Marnie went very still, wondering if this was going to escalate into a full-scale fit on Julia's part. "I like what I'm wearing," Marnie said, remembering too late that Julia did not like the color red.

"Alison, get off your bony ass and try on the damn dress!"

If anyone knew about casual cruelty, Marnie did. Still, she couldn't believe Julia's outburst. It had to be the alcohol.

Poor flustered Belinda held up the dress. "It looks like it would fit," she said softly, encouraging Marnie.

Julia had wrapped a terry robe around her and was furiously sorting through the rack of gowns Belinda had brought. "This stuff is all wrong," she said. "There's nothing here that would work for me."

"You told me to bring the gowns for Alison."

"I know what I told you!" Julia turned on the stylist, her teeth bared. "Alison and I wear the same size-or we did. We have the same taste. If these rags don't work for me they're not going to work for her, either."

Apparently no one was safe from Julia's tirade. Marnie sprang dizzily to her feet. "Give me the dress. I'll try it on."

She unzipped the organza gown and yanked it off over her head, not caring whether or not she was doing it right. Or that she was wearing nothing underneath except bikini panties. Fortunately, she had had some experience with nakedness. She'd been splashing around in tide pools all her life. She wasn't used to having an audience of startled women, but she was too furious with Julia to care about that, either.

Belinda hustled over to take Marnie's dress, and handed her the shimmering sheath. With the stylist's help, Marnie had the new dress on, zipped and hooked in a matter of moments. It fit like a dream, hanging as if it had been made for her angles and delicate curves. The wide-set diamond straps glittered against her creamy skin.

"Wow," Rebecca whispered, as Marnie turned for the other women. The draped bodice was beautifully cut.

"It doesn't suit you," Julia said.

But Marnie had seen her reflection in Julia's panel of mirrors. The gown fit her to perfection. It was a miracle, a spun-gold miracle. And Julia was clearly jealous. Marnie wasn't going to let her run roughshod over all of them, just because she could.

"This dress has my name on it," Marnie stated.

"Gown, not dress," Julia corrected. "And it's too much gown for you, Alison. Maybe something less vampy, all right? Belinda?"

"I love it," said a male voice from the doorway.

Someone squealed at the sight of Andrew in the entrance, and he pretended to cover his eyes as the women rushed to cover themselves. Strangely, though, even Julia hushed as he walked into the room.

"Didn't mean to crash the party," he said. "I was looking for my beautiful wife, and I heard your voices from downstairs."

His beautiful wife? Marnie's heart hesitated when Andrew caught her gaze. Without a word, she turned, letting the dress curve on her body. Looking at him over her shoulder, she said, "What do you think?"

"Really, Alison, you shouldn't have shown him the gown," Julia interjected. "It could be bad luck."

"We're not getting married," Marnie murmured. Besides, it was too late. He'd seen it already. And boy, had he seen it. Andrew was eating her up with his eyes as if she were a delectable dessert and he was a man with a sweet tooth. Screw Julia. This was the dress Marnie was wearing.

12.

Bret jogged down the pier, his leather flip-flops slapping the wooden planks. Madly trying to tuck his shirttail into his walking shorts, he headed toward the small crowd that had gathered around a roped-off area at the end of the pier. A dozen or so kibitzers had stopped to watch a crew set up for what looked like a photo shoot.

His photo shoot, Bret hoped. He was almost an hour late-and probably damn lucky to find anyone still there. Why the fuck hadn't he set his alarm? He'd slept until one in the afternoon. If it hadn't been for the racket from his mother's room, he'd still be flaked out. Who knew a bunch of liquored-up women trying on dresses could make so much noise?

As he approached the crowd, Bret slowed to a walk and smoothed his clothing. The cut-rate ad agency hired by Surfaces, the local men's cosmetics company, had asked him to provide his own wardrobe, so he'd done some summer layering with walking shorts, a striped shirt and a pullover, all in shades of blue, green and khaki.

His tinted aviator sunglasses rounded out a look that he considered perfect for an afternoon stroll on a sunny pier-or for the Everyman who bought his shaving balm at the same place he got his toilet paper.

Bret only hoped the balm's intensely minty smell would mask the dampness filming his body. He'd been told by the ad agency's artistic director, who doubled as their photographer, that they wanted a sporty, windblown look. Shouldn't have any trouble with windblown, Bret thought. He probably looked like he'd been caught in a fucking hurricane.

Bret sidestepped an elderly couple and ducked under the rope. The young, hip, jeans-clad photographer was calibrating his light meter, while an assistant worked on polishing up a coin-operated telescope that was one of the props for the shoot. Painted green, it was completely encased in a bulky concrete frame, apparently so no one could walk off with it.

Bret was supposed to sit at the base of the telescope as he stared out to sea, but he'd already noticed something odd. An umbrella had been set up nearby, and it was shading a man getting his makeup and hair done. Either Bret had been replaced, or he was going to have company in the ad.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," Bret said to the photographer. The man's hands were busy, so Bret greeted him with a friendly little wave-and tried to remember his name. They'd only met once, at a session to discuss this ad, and Bret had realized that they were around the same age. But then everything about Surfaces was young and trendy, except the wealthy CEO, a local businessman who'd made his money on software design and was branching out.

The photographer seemed genuinely startled to see him. He tucked the camera under his arm and squinted at Bret's windblown look. "Hey, man, what are you doing here?"

"Not good?" Bret figured there was something wrong with his outfit. "This is what people wear on these piers. Take a look around. Slightly disheveled, but chic, you know. Neat is out."

"So are you. Out."

Bret lifted his head. "What are you talking about?" He waited for the guy to grin and tell him he was kidding.

"This shoot was scheduled to start an hour ago."

"I know, I had problems. Traffic-"

"Your manager was supposed to have called you."

"My manager? Why? What's going on?" Bret hadn't had time to check his messages. He'd shoved his cell in his pocket as he ran out the door on his way here.

"Look, I'm sorry," the photographer said. "The powers that be have decided you're not the face we need for this campaign."

Bret felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Panic. It was spiking fast and cutting off his air. His voice was sharp with disbelief. "Just because I'm late? It won't happen again. I promise."

"Late's got nothing to do with it. The decision came down from Surfaces's CEO last night. You're out."

Bret cocked his head, not at all sure he was buying this. "Bullshit," he said under his breath. "Ben Palmer has been pursuing me for a year. What's this really about?"

"Hey, he found someone else. Get over it."

"I am over it, trust me. I'm all over it." Asshole.

He turned to go, stopped midstride and whipped around in frustration. "For Christ's sake, man, I'm getting the shaft over nothing. Don't I deserve a little honesty here?"

The photographer scowled and went back to his calibrating. "You didn't hear it from me," he said as he fiddled with the camera. "I heard Palmer got a phone call about you. That's all I know."

Obviously, his meddling mother had bought them off. Bret wondered what it had cost her. Probably she'd called in a favor. She had vast connections through her charity functions to countless VIPs, especially in cosmetics, fashion and show biz circles. Then again, maybe she'd had to screw somebody.

Palmer himself? A squatty, sexually ambiguous billionaire with bad skin? Bret perked up, but only for an instant. He couldn't even squeeze any pleasure from that sordid image of his mother's discomfort. He was so used to being thwarted at every turn it hardly fazed him anymore. It was his birthright. Nothing he'd ever done was enough in his mother's eyes. Nothing ever would be.

"No more questions," the photographer said. "I'm losing the light."

"Bummer," Bret muttered, adding as he turned to leave, "I hope the fucking sun goes out."

Bret was actually smiling by the time he got to the dented family car and unlocked the door. The Infiniti sedan was the end of the line for him. His mother wouldn't let him drive anything else because he was merciless on cars, according to her, and he never had the money for repairs. Shit, if she'd stop sabotaging his life he'd have the money to buy his own car.

Moments later, cradled in the leather bucket seat, he revved the engine and coughed up a wad of laughter. His mother must have jumped on this one with all fours. She probably didn't want him announcing his new job at her chichi party this weekend.

He could feel the anger churning in his gut, but he couldn't be bothered with it at the moment. Fits of temper took too much energy. And in a weird, twisted way, he was pleased. He didn't have time for a half-assed modeling job, anyway. He had bigger fish to fillet.

Poor Julia. She should have let him be this time. She and her darling daughter were going to need one another, because when he got through with them that's all they'd have. Each other. In hell.

The Bull's Head Tavern was a dark watering hole with low ceilings and a massive old-fashioned mirror behind the bar. The place did smell faintly like someone might be pasturing a few bovines nearby. Probably it was the sawdust on the floor and the fumes coming from the overflowing sump in the back alley. But that hadn't stopped the tavern from being one of the most popular after-work spots in Mirage Bay. When it was crowded, people milled around on the sidewalk outside, waiting to get in.

Fortunately, it was relatively quiet when Tony Bogart wandered in around six that evening. He wasn't here to socialize. He had an objective, and he spotted her immediately. LaDonna Jeffries sat at the end of the bar all by herself, absently chipping polish from one of her long, red fingernails, and seeming not the least bit interested in her glass of beer. She probably didn't even realize she was wrecking her manicure. Her focus was on her cell phone, lying silent on the counter, and her gaze didn't waver from it, even when Tony slipped onto the empty bar stool next to her.

She shifted away from him without so much as a look. Obviously, she didn't want to talk to anyone. Not exactly the reception he'd had the last time they'd met. He'd been after the same thing then. Information. But she'd offered up something much different.

He studied her burnished waves and what he could see of her dejected profile. Something was wrong in LaDonna Land. A guy, of course. From what he knew of her, which wasn't much beyond her reputation for being eager to please, it was always a guy. Some people wore their problems like conference name tags. Everything was available, and much too cheaply.

"Excuse me," Tony said. "I'm looking for Alison Fairmont. Have you seen her, by any chance?"

LaDonna flipped open her cell phone and scrutinized the display. As she snapped it closed, she gave him a disdainful glance. "Here? Alison Fairmont? You can't be serious."

Not eager to please tonight, apparently. Tony took no offense, although he thought it was odd she didn't recognize him. Either he'd been very forgettable when they hooked up last February, or she was really preoccupied. They'd never been more than passing acquaintances, except that one time. She was closer to the age Butch would have been than she was to Tony's. But he'd known LaDonna Jeffries by reputation, and she'd definitely known who Tony Bogart was six months ago. She just hadn't taken a good look at him yet.

"Do you know Alison?" he persisted, and fortunately, she couldn't resist. That was LaDonna's problem. She couldn't resist much.

"Everyone knows Alison," she said, "or thinks they do. Some of these idiots around here probably even think she gives a shit that they exist. Maybe she looked their way by mistake. Hah."

LaDonna rolled her eyes and grabbed her cell again, going through the menu, probably looking for the guy's number. Meanwhile, the bartender wandered over, and Tony pointed to LaDonna's beer, letting the man know he'd have the same thing.

The jukebox started to play a country-and-western tune with just enough bluegrass in it to set Tony's teeth on edge. Why did most fiddle music sound like the same thing over and over again?

"So, Alison wasn't nice to you?" he asked LaDonna.

"Coldhearted bitch," she murmured. "She could have bought the hand cream I showed her. Some of us have to work for a living."

"Don't like her much, do you?"

She tapped buttons on the cell's keypad, still ignoring him. "Don't care one way or the other."

"Is she coldhearted enough to kill someone?" he asked.

"Kill someone?" She thought a moment, shrugged and continued with her cell. "We're all coldhearted enough for that."

"What's his name?"

"Who?"

"The guy you want to kill."