Andrew's voice came to her from the foyer down the hall. She was standing in front of her dressing room mirror in her underwear-a white lace camisole and panties that seemed strangely alien on her lean, boyish body.

She studied her reflection, trying to imagine how her family would receive her when it was such an ordeal for her to look at herself. The surgeons had performed a miracle. All the scars were cleverly hidden, and her features looked remarkably natural, even though some areas of her face were still numb and dead to the touch. Her smile wasn't quite right, but she so rarely smiled.

She ran a finger down the bridge of her nose and over her glistening lips, trying to make a connection to the image she saw. It was uncanny how much she looked like the woman in the snapshots Andrew had given the surgeons. Except it was an illusion. She'd been stitched together from so many disparate parts, she didn't feel like a whole person.

The world might see loveliness, but the net effect for her was Frankensteinesque. Often, in the dark of the night, she felt vaguely monstrous, and at times her husband looked at her as if that's exactly what she was.

"Alison?" he called again. "Can I send the driver up for the bags?"

She wasn't dressed and her bags were lying open on the floor, empty. She'd given up on packing an hour ago, thinking that if she took a break to get herself dressed and ready, she might be able to finish. Everything about this trip was overwhelming. She wasn't even sure what clothes to take.

The driver was coming down the hall, and she couldn't seem to move. She touched the charm bracelet, the penny ring. Get some clothes on. Cover yourself with something.

Her walk-in closet had racks of beautiful clothes, but they were all baggy on her reed-thin frame. Even the shoes didn't fit. She tried to concentrate on the vast array of clothing. It was coordinated by color, type and season, but her mind wouldn't focus. The dressing room seemed to be growing darker, though she knew it was her eyes. She was shutting down, not the lights.

"This is too much for you, isn't it?"

She looked up, surprised to see Andrew behind her. He was a shadow in the mirror, more spectral than human. What struck her was his tone. She'd picked up an unexpected hint of concern. She had to admit that he'd done everything he could to make this trip easier for her, including arrange for a private charter so they didn't have to deal with airport lines and security.

Still, she avoided his direct gaze, not knowing what she might see there. She couldn't bear disdain, and pity would be worse. They'd never had a perfect marriage, and had been on the brink of a divorce when the accident happened. People might assume this was a new start for them, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was an arrangement, and a fairly cold-blooded one.

"I don't...I can't seem to pack." She almost laughed, it was such a ridiculous understatement. She couldn't seem to breathe, either.

"I'll help," he said. "Can you finish dressing?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. You do that, and I'll get your bags packed."

"You know what I need to take?"

Irony darkened his smile. "I have a pretty good idea. It's the middle of summer in Mirage Bay, too."

When she didn't move, he laid his hands on her shoulders and squeezed, apparently intending to reassure her. But she was too exposed, and he so rarely touched her that a chill settled in the pit of her stomach. Fear. It was an emotion she'd learned to heed the way an animal heeds a dangerous scent. But she wasn't going to let it-or him-control her.

She looked up at him. "Cheating death was hard. This is harder."

"Family reunions? You'll be fine."

"I don't know what they're expecting." Frustration rang in her voice. He was patronizing her again, managing her like one of his clients. He'd coached her so thoroughly that she'd memorized his pep talks. You have transient amnesia and can't be expected to remember anything but bits and pieces of the past. There won't be spotlights and interrogations, so don't make it hard on yourself. I've already told your mother how difficult this is for you.

He bent to pick up her white silk kimono, which was lying on the floor where she'd dropped it. "You're not the same person," he said. "How could you be? They'll see that immediately."

She took the robe from him before he could help her with it. Once she had it on, she turned away and tied the belt. He didn't care about her, not really. He was fixated on finding out who'd tried to frame him for murder. That was the reason he'd given her for returning to Mirage Bay, but she had a gut feeling there was more to it. He wasn't telling her everything.

His voice came to her, low and restrained. "We need to behave like we're married, Alison."

She glanced up at his reflection. He used the mirror to make eye contact with her, and she found it hard to look away. There wasn't a hint of revulsion or pity in his eyes. He was razor-focused, curious and very aware of her, much like any man interested in a woman. But it was all part of the illusion, the arrangement.

"And in love," he said. "People will expect that much."

She knew it was true. Everyone would be insatiably curious, her family most of all. But she didn't know how they were going to do it, or whether anyone would be convinced. It would require acting skills beyond either of their ability. Would anyone believe they were the same passionate, overheated couple who couldn't keep their hands off each other?

Tears rolled down Julia Driscoll Fairmont's cheeks as she plucked the downy hairs from above her upper lip. One by one, she extracted the barely visible offenders, leaving an occasional spot of blood. But the sharpest sting came from the errant nose hairs that dared to protrude from her aristocratic nostrils.

Her esthetician would have been happy to do the honors, with much greater speed and far less pain. But that would have defeated the purpose. It wouldn't have calmed Julia's nerves the way plucking did.

For the last half hour, she'd been sitting at her vanity, balancing a hand mirror and her surgical tweezers-and wincing with every extraction. She was probably adding a wrinkle for every hair. She had heard physical pain caused the brain to produce endorphins that could become addictive, but that wasn't her problem. She wasn't a pain junkie. If anything, her obsession with plucking was in large part thanks to her dear departed mother.

Eleanor Driscoll had been named for Eleanor Roosevelt, and she took that responsibility very much to heart. From her teens, Eleanor Dee, as everyone called her, had been an activist. She'd thought of herself as a modern-day crusader, which included defending society's downtrodden wherever she found them.

Eleanor Dee believed in volunteerism and self-sacrifice. She was against self-indulgence in all its forms, including drinking, smoking and, of course, indiscriminate sexual behavior. Sadly, her daughter and only child, Julia, had failed her on nearly all counts, and in the most disgraceful and embarrassing ways.

"Mea culpa," Julia muttered. At forty-nine, she was still riddled with guilt and would be until the day she died. Only her mother and devoted husband knew what she'd done all those years ago in her twenties, and they'd taken her secrets to their graves. Julia had tried to atone. She'd lived an exemplary life...well, until very recently. But she had raised her two children and become a pillar of the community, as all the Driscolls and Fairmonts had before her. Still, none of that was sufficient penance for the damage she'd done. Nothing would ever be.

So, yes, she was guilty. But she was angry, too, and not just at herself. She was still seething at the way she'd been failed back then. That was the reason Julia plucked and winced. There were times when she wanted to yank out every hair on her body. She was ridding herself of the infidels who'd broken her heart when she'd had a heart to break, the ones who'd betrayed her.

She went after her eyebrows next. This wasn't plucking. It was cleansing, and if the pain was some kind of penance for her sins, at least she was inflicting it on herself.

With a sigh, she put down the tweezers and studied her pensive reflection in the hand mirror. Was that spidery thing on her cheek a broken capillary?

Another wince. Another wrinkle.

The mirror landed on the granite countertop with a clink. Even her scalp hurt from sitting so long in an unnatural position. She had no time for this. Her daughter and son-in-law were arriving tonight, in a matter of hours, and she wasn't prepared. Her house was perfect, and her assistant would help serve drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Even Bret was mysteriously cooperative. Everything was as ready as it could possibly be. But she, Julia, wasn't prepared.

Her black silk halter dress was displayed on a molded hanger in her dressing room. As she entered the room, she took in the dress's simple, elegant lines, aware of how it would set off her stunning diamond brooch and drop earrings.

She should have been looking forward to this evening, but what she felt was foreboding. She knew it wasn't possible, given what Alison had been through, but that hadn't stopped Julia from imagining her daughter exactly as she'd looked when she left: lithe and carefree, luminous as summer itself. Alison had a quality greater than mere beauty. She had magic. And if Julia could have put her in a time capsule and kept her the golden debutante forever, she would have.

It was a mother's fantasy, and probably a selfish one, but she only wanted to keep her daughter safe-and protected from predators like Andrew Villard. Just because Alison wasn't dead didn't mean the man hadn't tried to kill her. Julia's suspicions were so strong she'd hired a detective to investigate him-and learned several disturbing things.

She'd never understood why someone with Alison's advantages had thrown herself at a man like Villard. She'd had some crazy dream of being a pop idol, but Villard had never intended to help her with that. Julia probably knew more about him than Alison ever would.

As Julia dressed, she couldn't help but wonder what her own mother would have thought of this strange homecoming party. It had taken a massive heart attack to bring Eleanor down, but she'd lived to see her granddaughter publicly defy her mother's wishes and run off with a sideshow impresario.

Yes, Eleanor had seen it all-and blamed it on Julia's lack of parenting skills. She'd also threatened to invoke the morals clause on the fifty-million-dollar trust that would have gone to Alison on her twenty-eighth birthday. But Eleanor had never made her wishes known to the family's estate attorneys, and technically, the money might have gone to Alison, if she hadn't turned her back on it.

Julia hadn't been so lucky. Eleanor had also imposed the morals clause on her, two decades ago, making it impossible for Julia to collect a dime of that same fund when it was supposed to have come to her on her twenty-eighth birthday. And now the money was sitting in a trust account, controlled by lawyers.

"You were a heartless bitch in so many ways, Mother," Julia muttered. "And I'm becoming just like you. You must be so proud."

Fortunately, Julia had never needed the trust money. Her husband, Grant Fairmont, had made his fortune in the yachting industry and left everything to her when he died. Still, Julia wasn't content to leave that much family money in the hands of attorneys who were extracting hefty fees for doing what amounted to nothing. It wasn't right. It wasn't even American, and Julia had already started taking steps to correct the error of her mother's ways.

Eleanor was probably sitting up in her grave and howling.

Julia snorted and cupped a hand to her ear. "Louder, Mother, I can't quite hear you."

4.

"What have you done to your hair?"

They were the first words out of Julia Fairmont's mouth as she flung open the doors of Sea Clouds and gaped at her estranged daughter.

Alison reached for and found Andrew's hand, grateful to have him beside her. The woman terrified her and always had. Evidently there were going to be no hellos, no welcome homes, no hugs. Alison wouldn't have been comfortable with that, anyway, but this was very strange.

"They shaved my head," she explained to her mother. "It grew out this way, darker, so I left it."

Julia still couldn't seem to believe it. "But you've always been a blonde."

Alison touched her dark waves. "Not always. I started lightening it several years ago."

"Yes, and I assumed you would go on doing that."

Alison felt Andrew's hand tighten, as if to tell her she was doing fine. But they were outside, flanked by the marble columns of the grand portico, and Alison wasn't certain her mother was going to let them in the house-or that she wanted to go in. Julia's black halter dress was stunning, and her long dark bob softened her angular features, but her face was pale and masklike. She had on too much makeup, or maybe it was too much Botox. Something was wrong.

"Do you dislike the color that much?" Alison asked. She wondered what her mother thought of the blue silk shantung capri outfit that Andrew had helped her choose.

"It's just so popstar. Not you at all." She shot Andrew an icy glance, as if it was all his doing.

"Oh! Is this your daughter and her husband?" A younger woman appeared in the doorway behind Julia. Her round pretty face was wreathed in smiles as she edged beside Julia to extend her hand.

"I'm Rebecca, Julia's assistant. Nice to meet you both! How was your trip?"

Andrew stepped forward to take her hand. "Andrew Villard," he said, "and the trip was fine, thank you. This is my wife, Alison, of course."

Alison and Rebecca exchanged nods. It would have been awkward to reach around Julia, who was still peering at Alison as if she were trying to piece her together like a puzzle.

This was exactly what Alison had feared. Worse.

Rebecca gently took over, whispering something to Julia, and then inviting Alison and Andrew in. "You must be exhausted," she said, beckoning them to follow her into the mansion's breathtaking pink marble foyer. "Did you leave your bags in the car? I'll be happy to get them, but first can I fix you something to drink? Lemonade or a wine spritzer? It's such a warm day."

"We're fine," Alison told her. "We picked up some iced tea at the airport."

Julia seemed to have found her voice. "Rebecca can unpack for you, if you'd like."

"That's very kind, but I can handle the bags." Andrew gave Alison a glance. "We would like some time to freshen up."

"Of course." Julia nodded to her assistant. "Rebecca, show them to their room, would you? The second floor, facing the mountains."

"Oh, Julia, did you forget? The guest room on the ocean side is all ready for Alison and Andrew."

"My memory's just fine, Rebecca." Julia's tone was as sharp as her glance. "I'm sure they'll love the mountain view. Show them up, please."

She and Andrew had just been downgraded, Alison realized-and Julia was making sure they knew it. They hadn't been here five minutes. Unbelievable.

"Oh, by the way," Julia added, "drinks are at seven on the terrace. You remember, Alison. We always gather on the terrace before dinner." She looked searchingly at her daughter. "You will join us, of course."

Alison didn't know anything about drinks at seven. She just wanted to run. Somewhere in the murky depths of her memory, she could hear demons howling.

"That was terrifying," Alison whispered, speaking more to herself than to Andrew. "She looked like a mannequin in a window display. Has she always looked that way?"

Rebecca had just left them in their suite of rooms with a cheery reminder about drinks at seven. Alison found her to be effusive and overly helpful, but then anyone would have seemed effusive compared to Julia.

The suite was actually a combination bedroom and sitting room, which opened onto a balcony with wrought-iron railings. To Alison's eye, everything about the room was soothing and beautiful. The palm trees and elegant cane furniture created a cool garden of tranquility.

Andrew had gone over to check out the liquor cart, a wheeled brass-and-leather showpiece that was probably an antique. It was weighed down with crystal decanters, all filled a variety of expensive and exotic spirits, of course. Julia Fairmont's hospitality was legend. So was her bitchiness, apparently.

"Do you think she's changed her mind?" Alison asked. "Is she going to ask us to leave?"

"No, she has her reasons for wanting us here, just as we have ours." He glanced over at her. "You can't have forgotten what your own mother looks like. We went through the albums. I showed you the pictures."

"I do know what she looks like. That's the point. She's changed. Didn't you see it?"

"You've changed. You scared her half to death with your wild-ass hair." He laughed and picked up a slender decanter that glowed amber in the waning light. "How about something to drink? Sherry? It'll calm you down."

"Ugh, I'd rather drink mouthwash." Alison sat on the edge of a wicker chaise near the bed and tried to envision the many faces of Julia Fairmont, the ones she remembered and the ones she'd seen in the snapshots. But the masklike image never left the screen of her mind. It hadn't seemed to bother Andrew, but for Alison it was too stark and disturbing to be dismissed.

To calm herself, she began to mentally rehearse some of the other details she'd conjured up about her mother, with a lot of help from Andrew. Julia had never worked outside the home, but had made a career raising money for various charities. She was allergic to cats, but not dogs, and had an aversion to the color red. Her musical tastes were highbrow, but she was addicted to reality television. And almost nothing had seemed to ruffle her except the sound of crying babies. Alison had no idea why, but a wailing infant could make her mother tremble and slam doors to block the sound.

There was more, but none of it came readily to mind. She still slipped into a fog at times and couldn't remember anything, especially when under stress.

"Was she always that statuelike?" she asked Andrew. "She didn't look quite real. You'd think she had the surgery rather than me."

He started to say something, but Alison stopped him. "Why did we come, Andrew? She doesn't want us here. She acted like we were avian flu carriers."

Alison had caught the horrified flicker in her mother's eye, even if he hadn't. She could only guess what it meant. Maybe all wasn't forgiven, and she and Andrew had been summoned for some kind of confrontation. Or her mother was repulsed because Alison really did look as strange and different as she felt.

He picked up a fifth of scotch and examined the label. She watched him, aware that he no longer drank alcohol.

"You know why we're here," he said.

His voice had taken on an edge that prompted her to change the subject. "I love this room," she said, "but the house...It's huge and bewildering. I'm not sure I could find my way back down to the foyer."

"Julia mentioned on the phone that you wouldn't recognize the house. She's totally redone it since you were here last. I forgot to tell you that, sorry. It's been pretty chaotic."

As if by way of apology, he brought her an aperitif glass of something pale pink. She sniffed and then took a sip. Definitely not sherry. It tasted like strawberries.

"Julia is nervous, too," he said. "Couldn't you see that? She wants you here. She never stopped trying to see you after the accident."

"Yes, but why? It's not as if we were close in any normal mother-daughter way. Is she still angry with me? Is she curious? She has plenty of money, so this probably isn't about the trust that was supposed to have come to me...unless she wants me to promise in writing that I'll give up my claim."