It sounded as if someone was walking on the terrace below, the one where she'd been standing when the planter fell. She went to the railing to look down, and heard the noise again, only now it was coming from behind her. Her pulse kicked up a notch.

She went straight to the worst-case scenario, and her thoughts careened with indecision. She had no way to defend herself. If she went over the side, it was a twenty-foot drop to the slate tiles below. Turn and go for his eyes, then run.

Adrenaline surged. She turned, checking herself only as she registered the asinine grin on his face. "Bret?"

Alison's brother swaggered toward her, eyeing her oversize robe. "If it isn't Alisuck," he said. "I see you still like to run around in your bathrobe."

"I thought I heard someone outside."

"So, you just had to dash out and investigate?"

He moved closer, his grin curling into a sneer. He was wearing his usual beach gear-cargo shorts, a tank top and leather flip-flops.

"I have to go." Her voice dropped low, a snarl. He brought out the cornered animal in her. Maybe she ought to tell him what had happened to the last asshole who'd cornered her. "Get out of my way."

He didn't, of course. He purposely blocked her when she tried to go around him. He hadn't touched her yet, but he was daring her to make him do just that.

"Remember what happened the last time you were with me in a bathrobe?" he asked her.

From the way he looked at her, Marnie knew it was sexual, but she didn't dare react. She had no way of knowing what might have happened between him and his sister.

"I was going through a growth spurt," he said. "And you threatened to tell Mom, but you never did. That was the last time you ever tortured your disgusting little brother, wasn't it, Alisuck?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The last time you ever laughed at Bret for being a perv."

She caught a glimpse of the raw emotion burning in his eyes, and knew she had to get out of there. It wasn't sex he wanted, it was revenge. He hated his sister. "Are you going to get out of my way?" she demanded.

"What's the rush? Where's the hubby this morning, off sailing?"

"He was called away on business."

"Really? Nice timing."

Bret reached for the sash of her robe and she slapped his hand away. The son of a bitch thought he was going to expose her? Like hell. She might have to go for his eyes, after all.

"We're playing hard to get?" He laughed and lunged at her.

Marnie dodged him, letting out a shrill scream, but it wasn't just Bret who'd startled her. A man had bounded onto the terrace. He wore rawhide gloves and was dressed like a gardener, but she'd never seen him before.

"Was that you, ma'am?" The man hesitated, glaring suspiciously at Bret. "I heard someone scream."

Bret threw up a hand, exasperated. "Yeah, she screamed. You frightened her half to death. Who the hell are you?"

Marnie rushed over to the man, who was well out of Bret's reach. He could easily have been a gardener. Many of the local landscaping crews wore gloves and wrapped bandannas around their heads. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Diego Sanchez," he said. "I work for Horton Landscaping. Is there anything else I can do? If not, I have some cleanup work on this terrace. The plants need to be pruned."

"Of course, clean up the terrace. I'll get out of your way." She glanced at Bret. "If you'll excuse me, little brother. I'm going inside to put some clothes on."

A cold smile touched her mouth as she made her exit. If she was right, Sanchez didn't work for any landscaping company. Andrew had come through with the detective he promised, which made her wish she could hole up and do what he'd asked-stay safe. But she needed to get dressed and go out, though she intended to be cautious in the extreme. Certain questions had been nagging at her for months, and she'd promised herself if she ever got back to Mirage Bay, she would deal with them. Now, with Andrew gone, might be her only opportunity.

23.

By the time she got to the Mirage Bay Yacht Club, Marnie had decided she probably wasn't being tailed. She hadn't seen any cars behind her on the way here, and she'd taken some unexpected turns, just to be sure. She'd also been watchful since she arrived, and hadn't spotted anyone lurking in corners.

Still, even as she'd been driving, she'd had the feeling of being watched, and it had stayed with her as she let herself out of the BMW and walked to the gate that led to the docks. It had actually felt like eyes at her back, a cliche she'd never fully appreciated before. Maybe she was still reacting to the way Bret had sneaked up behind her.

If someone had been tailing her, he was the most likely culprit. She'd left Sanchez cleaning up the terrace, so she doubted it was him, if he was the person Andrew had hired. And someone had nearly dropped a planter on her head, if that had been intentional. So many ifs. Too many. She'd come here precisely because too much was unanswered, and the question on her mind today was what had really happened on Andrew's boat.

She used his key card to open the gate and let herself in. He kept the card and the yacht keys in a leather case with his watches and cuff links. She'd been startled to find a purse-size pistol in the drawer of her nightstand, along with a note from Andrew telling her it was the gun she'd asked for. The note warned her to use it only as a last resort, and he'd included printed safety instructions and a small box of bullets. It must have been a last-minute decision on his part, because he hadn't mentioned it to her when they'd talked last night.

Marnie had no intention of using the gun. She'd been only half-serious when she'd asked for it.

She was glad she'd worn deck shoes for traction as she picked her way down the ramp. It probably hadn't occurred to Andrew that she might want to see the yacht where Alison had met her fate, whatever it was. But checking out the Bladerunner had been a goal of Marnie's since she'd learned about the accident. She'd also become consumed with knowing who Alison really was. The woman whose identity she'd taken was the catalyst for almost everything that had happened in February, and when she'd disappeared the answers had disappeared with her.

Marnie had never been on the Bladerunner, or any boat, but picked Andrew's sloop out from the crowd before she got to the bottom of the ramp. Of course, it was the biggest sailing yacht in the club, and moored in the guest dock at the end of the pier, so wasn't hard to spot. And Marnie had seen the vessel before. It had been quite an event when Andrew launched the Bladerunner and took his wife out for their first sail in the bay.

Marnie went straight to the bow, where Alison had gone overboard. She knew all the damage had been repaired, so there wouldn't be any physical reminders of what had happened, but she wanted to see the exact spot. She wanted to feel the vibes and see if there was any way to connect with the events of six months ago-a stormy night when Alison had fallen from this boat and Marnie had plunged from a cliff. Had either of them been pushed? Both of them?

She didn't understand why the ocean had taken one of them and not the other, if that was what had happened. One of her grandmother's favorite sayings came to mind as she stared down at the water. When you give things to the sea, be it trash, woe, prayers or wealth, the sea remembers.

It had come from an old sea fable, and the words had long haunted Marnie. She'd thought of them as she stood on the cliffs that night, looking down at the boiling ocean. But now, she picked up nothing from the placid waters of the bay. No storms today. The weather was balmy and beautiful. Maybe if the Bladerunner had been moving, heading out to sea...

She glanced at her watch, knowing she had to get on with her search. She went belowdecks next, where the only object of interest she found was a photo journal of Andrew's various boating trips. The leather-bound album wasn't lying out, but it wasn't hidden, either. Marnie discovered it under a stack of coffee-table books as she was checking out the volumes in the yacht's library.

She leafed through pages of pictures, reading the detailed captions, notes and anecdotes. It was a labor of love for him, obviously, and apparently the trips were something he'd been documenting since he purchased his first sailboat at age nineteen. He'd been all over the world, to exotic locales like Fiji, Pago Pago and the Virgin Islands, and some of the more recent trips had been taken with Alison.

It didn't surprise Marnie that he hadn't talked about his sailing adventures, considering how little they'd shared during their six months together. What did surprise her was the snapshot of Alison she found toward the back of the journal. It had been blown up to eight by ten, a shot of Alison standing on the bow, barefoot, in a sheer cover-up with a black bikini underneath.

Marnie continued to stare at it for several seconds, not quite sure what was bothering her. Abruptly, she realized Alison was standing where she had just been, at the bow-where Alison was supposed to have gone over the side. Marnie's stomach rolled as if the boat had moved. She turned the page and saw more pictures of Alison-a full page of them in snapshot size. These were different shots, but she was standing in the same place.

Marnie didn't understand. Two pages of pictures of Alison at the scene of her accident, one of them a blowup. Why would Andrew do this? Last night's conversation came back to her. She didn't want to believe he'd pushed her, but he so clearly hated her.

A sense of foreboding gripped Marnie. Another roll of her stomach forced her to put the journal down. She left it under the stack of books where she'd found it, her only thought to go above and get some air. But her foot caught on something as she made her way through the main cabin.

She glanced down at the heavy wooden handle protruding from the oblong hole in the teak drawer. The drawer was a built-in storage unit beneath one of the couches, and the hole served as a pull. Marnie knelt and wrestled the drawer open. The handle belonged to an odd-looking, narrow-bladed saw with jagged teeth.

The kind of saw to cut through a lifeline.

The way her thoughts were going frightened her. She jammed the saw back into the drawer and shut it. The question propelled her toward the stairs that would take her above deck. The hatch door was open, and as she climbed the steps and the cockpit came into view, her heart dropped. She wasn't alone on the boat. While she'd been below, someone had come aboard, and he was the most unwelcome visitor Marnie could imagine.

Tony Bogart was standing in the pit, his hands on his hips, staring at the sweating woman who'd frozen midstep. She could not let him see what she'd just seen.

Rebecca tried the handle of the guest room door, relieved to find it unlocked. Andrew was still out of town and Alison had left early this morning without a word to anyone, so Rebecca had decided to take a chance and check out their room. She hadn't had the opportunity to prepare it for them because of Julia's sudden decision to switch their rooms. The unlocked door might mean the beautiful couple had nothing to hide, but she sincerely doubted it. Everyone in this psycho family had something to hide, especially these two. She just hadn't figured out what it was yet.

She started with the nightstands. People kept their most personal and private possessions right next to them, and it was amazing what they didn't lock up, what they thought was safe just because it was nearby. She'd been working for wealthy families since she was a kid, first as a babysitter, then a housekeeper, now an assistant, and it was better than a degree in psychology for digging up dirt-and for predicting what people were going to do next.

The Fairmonts had been predictable from the beginning, although Rebecca had wanted to believe differently. She'd wanted to believe Bret saw her as someone worth his precious time and interest, and that Julia would recognize her potential. But money had made them all careless-and cruel.

Julia treated her like hired help. Rebecca was used to being dismissed, ignored, even invisible. The wealthy had a way of making you feel as if you didn't exist except to serve their needs, but Julia had crossed the line when she started ridiculing Rebecca for being fat and incompetent. And Bret pretended to be her ally, but he treated her like trailer trash. Even Alison, who'd defended her in front of Julia, had made it look as if Rebecca was some pathetic thing who couldn't defend herself.

Huge mistake. She could defend herself.

A trembling smile crossed her lips and her heart surged with anticipation at the beauty of her plan. Just watch and be amazed, world.

She spotted Andrew's side of the bed by the fancy leather case on the nightstand. It contained his jewelry and other odds and ends, but nothing all that interesting-or incriminating. There was also nothing of interest in the nightstand drawer, just some loose change, a pack of breath mints, airline tickets and a few receipts. Rebecca wasn't sure whether Andrew was the exception to her rule or whether he knew this was the first place a good snoop would look.

Alison's side was a whole different story. Rebecca opened the nightstand drawer and clapped a hand over her mouth when she saw the gun. "There is a God," she said under her breath.

She eased the drawer open farther, trying to figure out if the weapon was real. "Shit," she whispered as the bullets and the instructions came into view. Shit. This was perfect. They were playing right into her hands, all of them.

Rebecca didn't have much use for people like the Fairmonts. They'd been given every damn thing they had, the money, the social status. None of them had worked a real job in their lives. They bitched about everything and appreciated nothing, especially her. She'd worked hard and killed herself for what? A little bit of praise, a hint of approval?

But this gun had to be a sign that she was doing the right thing. Someone needed to cut the Fairmonts down to size, and maybe it really was supposed to be her. In a way it was justice.

God, she hoped that was true.

"Rebecca? What are you doing in here?"

Bret had the door wide-open and was leaning against the frame, watching her. She had no idea how long he'd been there or whether he'd seen what was in the drawer. It blew her mind that she hadn't heard him, hadn't heard a thing.

"Hey, Bret, you're up early." She took a step toward him, smiling as if she were actually pleased to see him-and blocked his view of the nightstand. "Alison asked me to clean up while she was out today."

"That sounds like Alison." He rolled his eyes. "Spoiled brat should do it herself."

"Yeah, probably." Rebecca still had no idea what Bret was up to. She edged back until she felt the drawer against her hip, and pushed it shut. "I'll just finish up, though."

Rebecca pulled a dust rag from the rolled-up sleeve of her blouse and wiped down the nightstand, focusing on the table lamp. She kept a cloth stashed somewhere on her person at all times in case Julia wanted a spot cleanup. It happened.

Unfortunately, Bret hadn't missed her attempt to cover her tracks. When she stepped away, he was still looking at the drawer.

After several long seconds, he glanced up at her with an expression of concern. "Maybe you'd better get out of here, Rebecca. You're in enough trouble already, aren't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I found your notes. I know what you're up to." An enigmatic smile appeared as he nodded toward the bedroom door and waved her out.

"You're quite a piece of work," he whispered as she brushed past him. "Good luck."

Rebecca began to shake once she was out in the hallway. Good luck? She hurried toward the stairs, wondering what he'd meant by that. Was he going to let her get away with it? Did he want her to do it?

24.

Marnie patted the pocket of her shorts to make sure the keys to the boat were there. She had to get the cabin locked up quickly, but without making Bogart suspicious. The pictures of Alison had disturbed the hell out of her. The saw was probably a common tool used on the boat, and she intended to give Andrew a chance to explain all of it. Meanwhile, she didn't want a bastard like Tony Bogart nosing around.

"Everything okay?" he asked her. "You don't look so good."

"Couldn't be better," she said evenly, determined not to give him even a glimpse of the anger flaring inside her. He had no business boarding the Bladerunner. He might as well have broken into their home, but of course, he assumed she wouldn't dare confront him. No one confronted the FBI, even when they were unofficial.

"I was just getting ready to leave," she said.

She turned her back to him long enough to lock the cabin door. There. Good. Now to get him off Andrew's yacht.

"Returning to the scene of the crime?" he said. "In my experience, only killers do that, not victims."

"Crime? What crime?" She feigned surprise that he would utter the word.

"Excuse me, the accident. Still, it must be difficult for you."

"Not at all," she said. "I'm lucky to be alive, and what else matters? I believe in closing the door on the past and moving on. You should try it."

His head snapped up, and his eyes turned mean. Marnie met the visual assault with a shrug. They both knew what it meant. You got dumped, Bogart. Get over it.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said, his tone contemptuous. "My interest in the past is limited to seeing my brother's killer on death row, and trust me, I won't rest until that happens."

He scratched his face, rubbing his thumb along his jaw with enough pressure to leave a white crease.

Marnie had hit a raw nerve. The reckless corner of her soul didn't care. No matter what Alison had done to Tony, it didn't justify him stalking and harassing her like this. He was holding her hostage with his accusations, and getting away with it. Marnie was reasonably certain he didn't have the jurisdiction or the authorization to investigate any of the alleged crimes that had happened February second, including his own brother's death. And she was sick of him breathing down her neck. No wonder she'd felt as if she were being followed.

Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck, and the sane voice in her head told her not to provoke him any further. She might have listened, if he hadn't made it personal.

"You weren't even a good fuck," he said, "you know that? I'm not sure why I bothered."

Marnie climbed the remaining stairs and stepped onto the gleaming teak deck. Her breath came heavily, but not from exertion. "What the hell crime are you accusing me of, Special Agent Bogart?"

"What are you guilty of?"

"Wishing I had a gun? Why the hell are you here? You're trespassing. Where's your warrant?"

"What?"