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CHAPTER ONE
There was trouble in paradise and there had been for some time. Claire turned onto Leavenworth, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. She had been married for ten years; she had known David for almost fifteen. When had they begun to drift apart? How had it happened, when once they had been so happy?
Did it even matter?
David had told her just that morning that she was going to far too much trouble for his fortieth birthday. He had made it clear he was in no mood for a big bash with a hundred guests. And he had refused to even look at her, focusing instead on the task of knotting his Hermes tie.
Claire knew she had been blocking out just how badly damaged her marriage was. She had thrown herself into her work at the Humane Society, where she was a director, and into all of her charities, especially the two for which she was chairwoman. She had always been an overachiever, in sixty, seventy, even eighty hours a week on all of her projects. In fact, she was frequently solicited by new organizations begging her to join them. These days she had to turn everyone down, as she was stretched so thin. The best she could do was to offer up her valuable mailing lists.
David was a lawyer and had switched firms recently. He, too, worked like a dog. Perhaps this was one of their problems; somehow, they had become immersed in their separate career paths, losing the connection they once had.
Last night they had attended the same fund-raiser, a black-tie dinner and dance. Claire doubted they had exchanged more than a dozen words all evening. He had his social circle, and she had hers. He had also drunk too much.
Maybe this was her fault. Last night she had actually been working--she was desperate to raise another million dollars for the Summer Rescue Kids program. Maybe she was a failure as a wife.
Claire had to let go of that thought. She must not be sad, not now, not when, her guests would arrive in two hours. It was a stunning spring day. The skies could not be clearer, and the waters of the San Francisco Bay could not sparkle more. Her dog, Jilly, a chocolate standard poodle, sat in the backseat of the Land Rover with her elegant face thrust out of the car, enjoying the air and the sun. It would be okay, Claire told herself. Tonight their guests would dance outside on the terrace beneath a full moon and a thousand stars. David would be happy. And that would make her happy. She was a pro when it came to making events succeed, to taking care of other people; it was what she did.
Claire turned the Land Rover into her driveway, where the caterer's vans and trucks were parked, causing total congestion. She slid out, and opened the door for Jilly, who raced madly for the front door of the house. The stray dogs she housed were also barking. Claire thought she heard childish shouts. She imagined a scene of pandemonium inside, and she smiled, relieved to divert her thoughts from her marriage.
Her house was a big, modern white stucco affair with high slate roofs. From the outside it appeared bulky, but then, four thousand square feet had been crammed into three quarters of an oddly shaped acre. Inside, however, one was greeted with double ceilings and surprising spaciousness-the architect had been a genius. It was their dream house--they had both worked hard for it, had both earned it. Claire slowly entered and paused inside the huge living area, which had smooth wood floors, white walls and an eclectic combination of modern and antique furnishings. Everything was just perfect.
The opposite wall was nothing but double windows. Beyond those windows were the stone terrace and the gardens. From where she stood, Claire could see the sparkling blue waters of the bay, numerous sails, and the red spires of the Golden Gate Bridge. The view was magnificent. She reminded herself not to be glum and she smiled.
And it was just in time. "Mrs. Hayden! Mrs. Hayden!" Timmy Kowolski, a neighboring eight-year-old, was shrieking. The chubby boy ran into the room with Jilly chasing him merrily. He was followed by another boy and his sister, as well as three other dogs. The children all lived around the block. Claire adored them. None of them had any pets, and as Claire's house was always filled with strays, it was a second home for the trio. The kids were screaming, the dogs were barking madly, and it was chaos. She loved it.
Claire basked in the warmth of the children and the dogs as they surrounded her and she smiled, genuinely now, genuinely now, tousling Timmy's short, spiky hair. Maybe it was time to get pregnant. She was thirty-two. She had always wanted children of her own. Five or six would do-but David had always said it would be one or two.
Claire knew getting pregnant would not solve anything.
"Can Jilly come stay with me during the party tonight?" Timmy asked eagerly.
"Only if your mom doesn't mind," Claire said.
"She won't mind!" Timmy cried, beaming.
"You'd better go ask her before taking Jilly over there;' Claire said with a fond smile. rubbing her knuckles over his smooth brow.
"I'll call her now," Timmy said, then raced for the phone, Jilly following him.
"Hi, Ben. Hi, Lucy." Claire said to the other children. She was surrounded now by the three other dogs, who had descended enthusiastically upon her en masse, three tails wagging fiercely. Two were mongrels, one a dachshund mix.
"Hi, Mrs. Hayden." the kids cried in unison. Lucy's blue eyes were wide and earnest. She was a tall, skinny girl with freckles. Her brother was skinny, too, with his horn-rimmed glasses. "Did that rottweiller make it?" Lucy asked very seriously.
Claire was petting the ecstatic dogs. Now she straightened and smiled at her neighbor's oldest child, who was twelve going on twenty. Claire patted Lucy's shoulder reassuringly. "The rottweiller will be fine. But still no word on his owner. Don't worry, Luce. We'll get him back to his home." The real truth was, she had hoped by now that someone would have come forward to claim the older dog who had been hit by a car last night. The Humane Society had rescued the stray and, of course, taken him to a clinic. She would not let Lucy worry, though.
Sometimes I think you care more about the cats and dogs you save than me.
Claire stiffened, recalling her argument with David that morning. That had been a low blow and completely unfair--0ne he had been resorting to more and more often, recently.
If you really cared about me, you would not be throwing this goddamned birthday party. I am overloaded, Claire. And who gives a shit about turning forty?
They had argued fiercely and hurtfully. Or rather, David had argued, because Claire couldn't bring herself to hurl ugly words or insults at anyone, much less her own husband. She wished she hadn't remembered the nasty exchange now.
She had remained calm. Of course I don't care more about cats and dogs than you, David. That was an unfair thing to say.
Oh, so now I'm unfair?
That's not what I said. I just thought that turning forty is special--
Yeah, right. Let's announce to the world just how old I am.
Why are you doing this? Do you want to hurt me?
I'm not doing anything, Claire! For crissakes, I am just trying to make a goddamned living! Did it ever occur to you that I want to stay home for my birthday?
"A dog like that, someone has to be looking for him." Lucy was saying in breaking into Claire's thoughts. There was an ache behind the memory, but Claire couldn't entertain it, not now.
Claire forced a smile. "I think so, too," she said lightly. She put her hands in the pockets of her black leather blazer, which she wore over a white cotton T-shirt and slim black pants. Her dark blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore no makeup other than lip gloss and mascara. The only jewelry she wore was her watch, a gold Rolex with a diamond bezel that David had given her for their last anniversary, the tenth.
"Mrs. Hayden? Are you all right?" Lucy asked.
Claire started. "Of course."
"You Just seem...sad."
Claire blinked. It was not a good sign if a child could see past her smile and her words. "I'm just tired. It's been a really long day." And that was mostly the truth, Claire reminded herself. She was tired. It had been a long day.
"It will be okay, Mrs. Hayden. Tonight you can dance to a deejay. How cool!" Lucy's eyes were worshipful.
Claire had to smile, well aware that Lucy thought her glamorous and idolized her. But then she thought about David and the night to come, and her smile vanished. Unfortunately, she felt certain that it was going to be a very long night.
If only they could recapture the past.
Claire knew in her heart that it was impossible.
* * *
Claire had just stepped out of the wall-to-wall beige marble shower when she heard the bedroom door open and close. "David?"
"Yeah, it's me;' he said from the master bedroom.
Claire tensed even more. There had been nothing warm in his tone, just exhaustion and maybe a hint of irritation.
Refusing to get alarmed, Claire wrapped herself in a big towel and stepped into the room. It boasted high ceilings and views of the bay and The entire bedroom was done in shades of white, the fabrics each even the sofa in the sitting area was a white-on-white The mantel over the fireplace was white marble streaked with and one of Claire's favorite paintings in the world hung over the Le Reveil, featuring the nude Venus reclining while Psychee stood over her, parakeet in hand.
A week ago the painting had arrived at their doorstep, stunning her. Instantly Claire had called her father, once a professor of art and now a world-renowned art dealer, to find out why on earth he had sent them the masterpiece. Jean-Leon had told her that it was a present and he wanted her to enjoy the painting.
His explanation made little sense. The Courbet was worth tens of millions and Jean-Leon was passionate about art, especially his own collection, which he had begun in earnest with Claire's mother early in their marriage. .Claire's mother, Cynthia Asch, had inherited a sizable fortune, enabling her husband to start a gallery and collection. The Asch family had made their fortune in real estate in the booming years of the sixties.
The gesture of the gift had to mean something, Claire had thought but her father was a hard man to understand. She still did not understand why he had sent her the painting, although David had suggested it had to do with his age, and he was merely getting his estate in order.
Claire watched David now, her heart skipping-for there was a garment bag on the bed. David was placing suits, shirts, and other clothing in it. Claire stared. "Where are you going?" she asked quietly.
He did not even glance at her. "1 have to be at a meeting in New York tomorrow. I have an eight A.M. out of here."
Tomorrow was Friday. Not only was he leaving for the weekend-which was unusual though not unheard of-but it would be impossible for him to really enjoy the party, since he would have to get up at the crack of dawn. "Sounds like an emergency;' Claire said, hoping to sound calm. The last thing she wanted him to see was her anger, but inside, she was suddenly furious.
Didn't he care about all the effort she was making on his behalf? Didn't he care about them? And what was happening to her? Of all days for her to become unglued, today was the worst possible day. Claire did not have a temper. It served no one, much less herself.
"It's not. Been planned for a few weeks, actually. I guess I forgot to mention it."
He had forgotten to mention that he was spending the weekend of his birthday in New York City. Claire remained very still, trying hard not to be angry, and wondering, not for the first time, if he had a girlfriend. Was it only a few years ago that he would have asked her to come with him? How many times had they booked a five-star hotel like the Plaza or the Carlisle, made love all night, and taken in a show, all jammed between David's meetings?
But she would not have wanted to join him in New York even if he had invited her. She had too much to do that weekend herself. In fact, she did not even enjoy his company anymore. The realization was stunning.
David finished packing and folded the garment bag in half, zipping it closed. "1 think I'm going to close my eyes for a half hour before I get dressed;' he said, walking past her while stripping off his tie.
It crossed Claire's mind that he hadn't looked at her, not even once. She thought about their argument. It had been eating at her all day. Something he had said was bothering her, but she could not pinpoint what it was.
He was in the dressing room. Claire walked in after him, managing a bright smile. As she stood behind him while he slid off his blue and white button-down, she glimpsed herself in the mirror over the vanity. She looked half her age-Iike a teenager, not like the glamorous and professional wife of a brilliant corporate lawyer.
The smiling woman in the mirror seemed so calm and composed. She did not look frightened.
<i>But she was frightened.</i>
Claire turned away. "David? Let's talk." She could hear how tense her own voice was. That would not do, and she coughed to clear her throat.
"Now!" Incredulous, David faced her in nothing but his briefs.
Claire glanced at him. He was a very attractive man, with hazel eyes and thick, dark hair, and he worked out and ate well, so his body was lean. Other women looked at him whenever they went out. David had briefly modeled for extra money while in college. He could still model. If he wanted to play around, he would have no trouble doing so. "I'm sorry we fought this morning, and I'm even sorrier I didn't ask you first whether you wanted a big birthday party;' Claire tried with a small smile. A part of her was appalled that she was the one to be the peacemaker when she hadn't done anything wrong. He should be apologizing to her for his boorish behavior.
"I don't want to get into this right now. It's going to be a long night."
Claire stiffened even more, but when she spoke, she made herself sound unruffled. "Wait a minute. Will you accept my apology? I am genuinely sorry we fought. Aren't you sorry, too?"
He stared at her. "Of course I don't want to fight with you. Claire, I have had a fucking rotten day;' he said, moving to the sink. He ran water and splashed his face.
Claire was faced with the sight of his black cotton briefs stretching over his hard buttocks. She felt no stab of physical desire. It occurred to her that they needed to make love. When was the last time that they had done so, anyway? "It seems like every day has been rotten these past few weeks;' she heard herself say.
He straightened abruptly, regarding her in the mirror, which covered the entire wall. "What's that supposed to mean!"
She bit her lip. "Things have changed, haven't they? I don't think we've made love in months. Do you remember when we made love four or five times a week?"
He turned to face her. "That was eight or nine years ago!"
Had it been that long ago? "We don't talk anymore, David;' she said softly, sadly."
"No, we don't." His words were flat.
They stared at each other, the realization unspoken but hanging between them. They didn't make love anymore, they didn't talk anymore, they didn't care anymore.
Claire felt another stab, this one of panic. Was this it, then?
She inhaled and walked away, fighting to recover her composure. It was so hard-her mind seemed to be spinning uselessly now. And Claire suddenly realized what it was that was bothering her about their argument that morning. He had made some crack about earning a living. Claire seized upon the odd statement the way a terrier might a bone.
David had a six-figure income. Claire's income was much lower, obviously-she made nothing working for her charities, and the Humane Society paid little. Still, they were in the highest tax bracket. They had savings and investments, much of which had come from a small trust fund she had come into at the age of twenty-five. Now Claire caught his gaze again. "Are we having money problems, David?" This was a much easier subject, she thought with relief.
His expression was impossible to read. "Things could be better."
She felt her eyes widen. "What does that mean? We have savings, investments, our incomes-"
"I've made some bad investments. We've taken a fucking hit. And I do not want to discuss our finances now;' he said flatly.
Claire was stunned, but she knew that monetary problems could be fixed. Clearly, though, this was not the time to raise the subject, an hour before their first guests would arrive. She mustered a smile. "I'm sorry." She touched his cheek. "I want you to have a good time tonight, David. It's your birthday. I want you to be happy and worry-free."
He didn't hesitate. "I am happy. I'm just very pressured right now."
Claire was the one to hesitate. "Are-you sure?"
He paused before saying, "Yeah, I'm sure;' and avoided her gaze.
She knew he was lying to her. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me what's bothering you?" she asked with sympathy.
He turned away. "It's just the usual business crap."
She didn't believe him. She said to his back, "David, no matter what is happening with us, we do have a history and I am your wife. I am here for you. You know that." She meant every word. At the very least, she owed him her loyalty.
He slowly turned back. "Actually, Claire, I have screwed up. Royally." There was fear in his eyes.
Claire felt an answering fear. She had never seen him this way. She remained outwardly calm. "What happened?"
He hesitated. "1 can't tell you. But I may be in trouble," he said, as he turned away again. "Big trouble."
Claire stared after him. What in God's name did "big trouble" mean?
* * *
The first guests were just arriving, and everything was as it should be. The decorations were fabulous-a combination of peach-hued rose petals strewn everywhere, even on the furniture, and hundreds of natural-colored candles in various shapes and sizes and clusters on every conceivable surface, all burning softly and giving the entire house a warm, ethereal glow.
The bar had been set up in the closest corner of the living area to the entryway, with the flower petals strewn artfully over the table, amid the bottles and glasses, and over the floor. A tuxedoed waiter stood at the door with a tray of champagne flutes; another waiter stood beside him to take wraps. The deejay had set up in the back of the living room, and
soulful jazz softly filtered through the house.
Claire began greeting guests. Her home quickly filled with some of San Francisco's most renowned and wealthy residents; there was also a scattering of Los Angeles media moguls and New York businessmen, mostly high-finance types. Claire knew almost everybody, through either David's business or her charities. Her real friends she could count on one hand, but she socialized frequently, and she genuinely liked many of the people she dealt with.
Claire saw her father enter the house. A mental image of the Courbet hanging on her bedroom wall flashed through her mind.
]ean-Leon Ducasse was a tall Frenchman with a thick head of white hair. He fought in the Resistance during World War II, and although he had immigrated to the States in 1948, he still did not, consider himself an American. Everything about him was very Old World. He smiled as he came to Claire and kissed her cheek. "You look wonderful;' he said. He had no accent. His nose was large and hooked, and his hair was iron gray,
but he remained a handsome man; no one would guess that he was in his late seventies; he looked sixty, if a day. It never ceased to amaze Claire how many women found him attractive. His current girlfriend was an attractive, wealthy widow in her late fifties, but tonight he was alone.
Claire hoped that her worries were not reflected in her eyes. She smiled brightly. "You look great, too, Dad. Where is Elaine?"
"She's in Paris. Shopping, I believe. I was invited to join her, but I did not want to miss David's birthday party." He smiled at her.
Claire thought he was being sardonic. She was almost certain he would not care if he had missed David's birthday. But it was always hard to tell exactly what her father was thinking, or what he meant. Jean-Leon had raised Claire alone; Claire's mother had died, a victim of breast cancer, when Claire was ten. He had been preoccupied with teaching and later, after retirement, with his gallery. And even when he was not teaching at Berkeley College, he was either traveling around the world in pursuit of another masterpiece or new talent, or lecturing at foreign institutions. Claire had been raised by a succession of nannies. She and her father could have been close after her mother's death, but Claire had never sat on his lap as a child or been told stories at bedtime. "Well, I'm glad you could be here, Dad;' she said, still distracted. What kind of trouble could David be in? Surely it wasn't serious.
She prayed it wasn't something illegal.
Jean-Leon was glancing around, taking in every guest and decoration. "You have done a very nice job, Claire. As always."
"Thanks, Dad," Claire said softly.
An elderly couple came up to Claire, smiling widely. The woman, Elizabeth Duke, was tall and thin and quite regal in appearance, clad in a red Armani jersey dress, while her husband, who was in his early eighties and about her height, was somewhat stooped. William Duke embraced Claire first, followed by his wife. "Claire, the house looks amazing," Elizabeth cried, smiling. "And that dress suits you to a I, dear." She wore a large Cartier necklace set with diamonds. Somehow she carried the ostentatious piece well.
The Dukes were an English couple, with homes in Montecito, Sun Valley, New York, and East Hampton, as well as San Francisco. Claire had known them her entire life, or so it seemed. They were avid art collectors and close friends of her father's. Elizabeth had adored Claire's mother.
"Where is that handsome husband of yours?" William Duke asked jovially. He was retired, but the company he and Elizabeth had built from scratch in the fifties and sixties was a private one, with financial holdings and properties all over the world. He was fond of David and at one time had hoped to have him join his firm. The deal had never worked out. Claire had never known why.
"He'll be down in a minute;' Claire said, hiding her concern. Where was he? What was taking so long? She already had a headache. She fervently hoped that David's mood would have changed by the time he came downstairs-and that he would not drink too much. <I>I'm in trouble, Claire.</i> "He's running a bit late." She flashed what felt like a brittle smile.
Elizabeth Duke stared at her. "Is anything wrong, Claire?"
Claire tensed, aware of her father and William regarding her. "It's been a long day;' she said, giving what was quickly becoming the party line, but she took Elizabeth's hand and they slipped away.
"I do know that;' Elizabeth said kindly. "But don't worry, you know how to plan an event, Claire, as everyone who is anyone knows. I can already see that this evening will be a huge success." She smiled and leaned close to whisper, "William and I thought long and hard about what to give David for his birthday. We decided that the two of you have been working far too hard. So we are offering you the house in East Hampton for a month over the summer, Claire."
It was a magnificent, fully staffed home on Georgica Pond with a swimming pool and tennis court. Claire grasped Elizabeth's hands, about to thank her. But she never got the two simple words out. Somehow, she knew that she and David were not going to spend a month together in the Dukes' Hampton home. Neither one of them would want to. It would be a month of bickering and arguments.
Their marriage was over. It was suddenly clear to her that neither one of them had any interest in salvaging it. It had been over for years.
<I>Oh, God</i> was her next single thought. She smiled at Elizabeth but did not even see her.
"Claire? I know you and David are struggling right now;' Elizabeth said kindly. "This might be good for you both."
Claire was an expert at reining in her emotions. She worked hard to keep a sunny facade in place. Perhaps she had learned to do so when her mother had died so suddenly, leaving her, for all intents and purposes, alone. She had certainly felt alone when Cynthia passed away, because her father seemed like such a stranger. But maybe her father had taught her by example how to remain calm and composed no matter what; how to shove any feelings of a personal or emotional nature far, far away. Now Claire felt a sudden lump of grief rising up, hard and fast, impossibly potent. It was accompanied by a real and terrible fear.
"I'm sure it will;' Claire said automatically, not even aware what she was sayIng.
"Everything will work out," Elizabeth said softly. "I am sure of it."
Claire knew she was wrong. "Yes, it will." She had to hold it together, to keep it all in. Divorce. The word loomed now in her mind. It was engraved there.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. Claire watched her rejoin William, then found herself facing her father. She felt uncomfortable and hoped he hadn't overheard them. He said, "I understand you are short a few VIPs for Summer Rescue Kids."
This was a welcome subject. "I am."
"I think I can help. I have a client, who's new in town. I'll feel him out for you."
"Thank you, Dad," Claire said far too fervently.
He seemed to be looking right through her. No, he was looking past her. "And here's your errant husband," Jean-Leon added softly.
Claire's gaze whipped to David, who was approaching, and then back to her father. What did that comment mean? But Jean-Leon only smiled at her, and Claire turned her attention back to David.
He was more than handsome and self-assured in his dark gray suit, and the pale blue shirt and yellow tie did amazing things for his leading-man good looks. More than a few women were craning their necks to see him more fully. As David paused to shake hands and accept congratulations, Claire stared. He was beaming as he accepted hearty backslaps from his male friends and soft kisses from their wives and girlfriends. Finally, he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself.
David reached her father. His smile never faltered, but Claire knew it was a pretense. She watched them shake hands. "Happy birthday, David," Jean-Leon said smoothly.
"
Thank you."
"Have you been enjoying my Courbet?"
David extracted his hand. "What can I say? That was so generous of you to give it to Claire."
"She deserves it. So you do like it?" Jean-Leon's tone never changed, but he seemed to be pressing, and Claire tensed.
"It's a masterpiece. Who wouldn't like it?" David returned, his smile frozen.
Claire stepped to his side, glancing anxiously from one to the other. Did they have to be hostile to one another row?
"Then I am very pleased. Where did you hang it?"
"In the bedroom," David said.
"Hmm" was ]ean-Leon's response. "A shame. A painting like that should be on public display." He turned his gaze on Claire. "You should hang it in the living room, Claire."
She had the feeling that if she agreed with her father, she would be disagreeing with David, and that was the last thing she wished to do just then. "How about a drink, Dad?"
"Fine." ]ean-Leon ambled away, into the crowd, greeting those he knew. David stared after him. So did Claire.
"Sometimes he really bugs me," David said.
Claire jerked. "What is going on? How could you argue with him now?"
David just looked at her. "He can be a pompous ass."
"That's not fair," she began.
"Oh, cut it out, Claire. You know that because he's brilliant in the world of art, he thinks he's smarter than everyone else-including you and me. If it weren't for your mother, he wouldn't be where he is today. Her money bought him his success. It made him what he is today."
"David!" Claire was aghast. "He's my father! How can you say such things?"
He gave her a look. "Let's do what we have to do. Smile, Claire. This party was your idea." He walked away.
She stared after him, his last nasty comment leaving her as angry as been earlier in their bedroom. She did not deserve such barbs. And he had no right to talk about her father that way. His accusations hurt, even though they were partially true. It was no secret that Jean-Leon had started both his gallery and his art collection with her mother's generous support. But wasn't that what spouses did for each?
Claire watched David greeting the Dukes. He seemed a bit curt with them, she thought, before turning away. The night had only just begun, but she needed a moment to herself. She had a massive headache, and she was beginning to feel ill in the pit of her stomach. She hurried down the hall and into the sanctuary of the den.
The doors were open. It was a big room with the same smooth, pale oak floors as the rest of the house but most of this room was done entirely in soft, natural earth tones. Claire plopped down on a rust-colored leather ottoman, cradling her face in her hands. Her marriage was a charade. There was just no point to it anymore.
And David wouldn't care if she raised the subject of a divorce, Claire was certain. But she refused to abandon him if he was in the kind of trouble he claimed to be. They could always separate until the crisis-whatever it was-passed.
Claire began to tremble. She stared down at her shaking knees and realized she was finally losing it.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was in here;' a man's voice said.
Claire leaped to her feet in surprise. A man had walked into the middle of the room and was regarding her curiously.
Claire smiled immediately, wishing he would turn around and leave. She vaguely recalled greeting him a few minutes ago at the front door but did not have a clue who he was. Somehow she managed to walk over as if nothing were wrong, hand outstretched. To her horror, her hand was shaking. She slid it into his anyway, praying he would not notice. "I'm certain we met. I'm your hostess, Claire Hayden."
He shook her hand, the contact briefly and vaguely surprising. But his gaze dipped to her trembling hand. "Yes, we did, Mrs. Hayden," he said, no longer smiling. He was grave. "Ian Marshall. I'm a friend of your husband's."
Claire pulled her hand free, aware of flushing. It was too warm in the den. "Call me Claire." She smiled automatically.
"I hope I'm not interrupting, Claire?" His gaze was searching.
Claire had the unwelcome notion that he knew she was crumbling bit by bit beneath her immaculate exterior. "I was going to make a phone call. I'm with the Humane Society, and I wanted to check on a stray we picked up that was hit by a car." Claire said lightly, hoping that he would take the hint and go.
He did not.
In fact, he just stood there, regarding her. He was a tall man, six feet or so, with dark hair that was neither too short nor too long. He was clad in an impeccable suit, as were most of the guests. His shoulders were very broad, and Claire knew the suit had to be custom-made. She realized she was staring, but then so was he. She also realized that the room was too quiet. "Can I help you?" she tried.
"I think you don't like parties, Claire;' he said.
Claire felt her eyes widen as their gazes locked. His kind tone was like a hair trigger, and she turned away, even more shaken. "Of course I like parties." But he was right. Parties were a part of her work. Rarely were they social events and a time to eat, drink, or be merry. Parties were an opportunity to raise badly needed funds for important causes, to pay back or laud those who had helped her in the past. Claire would never let anyone hold a party for her. Her last official birthday party had been when she was sixteen.
"Just not this one?" he prodded.
She turned away. "It's my husband's birthday;' she stressed. "It's a wonderful evening for us both." To her horror, her tone cracked on the last syllable.
"It's okay. I know how tough these things can be." His tone was kind, his gaze unwavering.
But their marriage was over. She had seen it in David's eyes, and she felt it, too.
She had been alone her entire life. When she had married, she had wanted never to be alone again.
But she was different now. She was a strong and successful woman, not a frightened, bereaved child.
"Here."
Claire saw a tissue being dangled over her right shoulder. She accepted it gratefully, and while she was dabbing at her eyes, she heard him wander past her. He was giving her some space to compose herself, but he was not leaving her. Claire peeked at him out of the comer of her eye and saw him studying the seascape above the mantel. Her heart seemed to kick her in the chest.
It was the most shocking sensation.
Claire stared at him, stunned.
He faced her with a smile. "That's better. Beautiful women crying make me all nervous and jittery. I have a whole bunch of sisters, and every single one of them loves to cry."
She had to smile. "How many sisters do you have?"
"Four. All younger than me." He grinned. His dimples were charming-they made him look as if he smiled all the time.
"Growing up must have been chaotic."
"It was hell. Pure and simple. Hell." He smiled again and winked. Then, seriously, he said, "I've got big, shoulders. Feel free to lean on them any time."
She felt herself beginning to blush again. Worse, he seemed sincere. "I'm fine now, Mr. Marshall. Truly, I am. I don't know what happened. I never get so emotional." She could not look away from his eyes. They were green.
"Ian, please. And all women are emotional. Trust me. I know."
She smiled. "I'm not emotional." She was firm.
"1 doubt that." He wasn't smiling now. "Any woman who dedicates her life to bettering the worlds of kids and dogs has a huge and bleeding heart.
She stared. "How do you know what I do?"
"I'm a friend of David's," he said. "Remember?"
Something had changed, and Claire didn't know how or when it had happened. The room was still. Everything felt silent and unreal. Claire was so aware of the man standing just a few feet away from her; his presence seemed to charge the air.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "Can I somehow make this a better evening?"
She was amazed. He really meant it. "No." Her smile became wide and genuine. "Not unless you can make the clock strike midnight."
He smiled in return. "Well, I could sneak around the house and change all the clocks."
"But all the men are wearing wristwatches."
"We could tell the bartender to pour triples."
Her eyes widened. "Souse them all!" she cried.
"And no cake," he added, dimples deepening.
"No cake. To hell with the birthday," Claire agreed fervently.
"There's always that yacht my friend has moored in the marina-we can probably see the Lady Anne from your terrace." His gaze was penetrating.
Claire's smile froze. Her heart lurched with an awareness she should not feel. An image of her and this stranger jumping into a car, driving down the hill, and sneaking aboard his friend's yacht, hand in hand and barefoot, filled her mind.
"I'm sorry." His gaze was searching. "I was only joking."
Had it been a joke? She hesitated. "I hate to say it, but the idea is tempting."
He waited.
Claire realized that if she said "Let's go," he would take her hand and they would go. It was So tempting. Claire was actually considering leaving her own party and doing the unthinkable.
He looked past her, toward the door.
Claire didn't have to look to know who was there, and reality hit like cold water splashing in her face. She turned.
David stood on the threshold of the room. "Claire!"
Claire's shoulders stiffened as if someone had placed a heavy yoke on them. "Yes?" She was going to ask for a divorce. Soon-not that night, because it was his birthday, but tomorrow or the next day.
"Everyone's asking for you;' David returned, glancing from her to Ian and back again. The look seemed hostile, if not suspicious.
Claire hesitated, surprised. She looked from David to Ian again. Her husband hadn't spoken to Ian but was regarding him coolly, and Claire knew jealousy had nothing to do with his coldness. David had never been jealous of other men. He knew she would never betray him that way.
Ian smiled. "Hello, David;' he said. "Happy birthday. Thank you for inviting me. It's a great party."
David's nod was curt, his words clipped and tight. "Marshall. Thank you. Let's go, Claire."
Claire was bewildered. Clearly David did not like Ian Marshall. Had a deal gone bad? It wasn't like him to be so rude. She walked over to her husband but smiled at Ian Marshall. "Shall we join the others?» But what she really wanted to say was thank you.
"Of course," Ian said with an answering smile. But his eyes were on David, and they were fiIled with wariness.
Claire didn't like it at all. The tension between the two men was unmistakable, and the only question was why.
Guests were finally leaving, most of them smiling and pleasantly inebriated. Claire judged the party a huge success. After the buffet dinner, many of them even danced to seventies rock and roll on the terrace beneath the glowing full moon. Most important, no one except Elizabeth Duke and Ian Marshall seemed to notice her dismal mood or the fact that she and David hardly spoke to each other.
About thirty people remained. It had gotten cold outside, which was usually the case in the Bay Area, and everyone had clustered in the living room on the various couches, chairs, and ottomans, after-dinner drinks in hand. David was playing a jazz tune on the grand piano. He was a gifted pianist, but he had never pursued his talent. Even having had more than his fair share of wine and vodka, he was playing splendidly.
Claire wished he hadn't gotten drunk. Recently-or not so recently?- he had started to slur when he was drinking, and to stagger just a bit. Claire studied him as he switched to an Elton John tune and began to sing. Two women were standing beside him, the blonde clearly mesmerized. They started to sing, too.
Claire turned and saw Jean-Leon watching her. He glanced at David and then back at her, shaking his head in disgust. Claire tensed but gave her father a reassuring smile and turned away. She left the party, and at the stairs, she slid off her gold sandals. Her feet were hurting her.
The night seemed to have become endless; she was exhausted yet eager for a new day. With the eagerness was anxiety and fear. She was really going to ask for a divorce. She was going to leave David and somehow be alone.
It was frightening; it was thrilling.
Slowly, she went upstairs, sandals dangling from one hand. At least she could stop smiling now.
On the upstairs landing Claire came face-to-face with Ian Marshall. "Good God!" she cried, her hand on her palpitating heart.
"I'm sorry;' he said quickly, clearly as stunned to meet as she was. "I didn't mean to scare you-you surprised me, too."
Claire's pulse slowed, returning to normal. He smiled at her. "Tough night, huh?" He glanced at the sandals with their precarious heels and tiny straps, then his gaze sharpened, moving quickly back to her face.
But Claire could only stare at him, recovering some of her surprise. What was he doing upstairs? She smiled a little. "It's insanity, isn't it? What a woman does for glamour."
"Not really. That dress is a knockout."
Claire's heart leaped at his words.
"But I'd bet anything you look great in a pair of jeans and a T -shirt," he went on. Then his smile faded. "What's wrong, Claire?"
She did not move. "What are you doing up here, Ian?"
His gaze moved over her features slowly. His smile faded a bit as he understood. "I'm not snooping, Claire. Someone was in the powder room downstairs, and the staff directed me to the guest bathroom up here."
Claire shook her head. "There's another bathroom in the den."
"It was also occupied."
She met his gaze. "I see." She was relieved-but of course, what had she been thinking? He was too nice to have been snooping around her home. "What do you do, Ian?" she asked curiously, leaning against the wall.
"I'm a consultant. Generally for firms who do business in Europe or the Middle East. In fact, I just got back from Tel Aviv a few days ago."
Claire nodded; that hardly gave her a clue as to what his profession was.
He touched her bare arm briefly. "You seem tired. Are you calling it a night?"
Claire shivered and looked up at him. The urge to ask him to drive down to his friend's yacht suddenly overcame her. The evening had been a hard one. She hadn't had a single chance to let down. It would be relaxing, even fun, to sit with this man and sip champagne in a place of peace and quiet. Of course, it was an impossible and forbidden notion. "I wish I could. There's still a good two dozen guests downstairs."
"They're pretty happy down there. I don't think anyone would know if you slipped off to bed."
Claire knew he hadn't been making an innuendo, but the word "bed" made her flush, and she thought-but wasn't sure-he was thinking the same thing. Claire was aware of being a pretty woman. She knew Ian found her attractive. With her marriage in its death throes, she felt vulnerable and even afraid of herself.
But she would never cross any inappropriate lines until she was divorced.
She swallowed. "Did you have a good time tonight?"
"Yes, I did. And thank you for asking."
"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself;' she said fiercely, meaning it.
This time he didn't speak. He just smiled at her, as if he did not want to end the moment.
Claire felt herself blush again. It was time to go, and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
His gaze wandered over her, lingering on her dangling sandals. "David is a very lucky man."
"Are you flirting with me?" She smiled because he was, and she needed it.
"Is it a crime? You're blushing, Claire. It's nice."
"It's nice to have a nice man flirting with me," she said honestly.
His eyes widened. "It must happen all the time!" he exclaimed.
"Not really," she said.
He shook his head. "Go figure."
Claire laughed. It was her first real laugh of the evening.
He smiled. "You even have a nice laugh." His smile vanished. "I had better go." He gave her a long look.
Claire tensed, certain she knew what the look meant. He was being swept away by their flirtation, too. And he did not trust himself, just as she did not trust herself.
As they stood there, sounds drifted up from outside, coming around from the front of the house. Good-byes. Car doors slamming. Engines revving.
"Good night;' he said quickly, then he turned and was gone.
"Good night;' Claire murmured as he disappeared down the hall. She leaned against the wall, feeling as if she had been run over by a truck. Would their paths cross again? She hoped very much that they would. It was a long moment before she moved. Instead, she replayed their two encounters over and over again in her mind, as if she were a teenage girl with a very severe crush. When she realized what she was doing, she laughed at herself, because she was thirty-two, not twelve. Claire went into her bedroom for another pair of shoes.
A moment later, she stood on the threshold of the living room. A dozen guests remained, but all were in the process of leaving. She sighed. Jean-Leon was chatting with the Dukes in the foyer. The turquoise-clad blonde who had been hanging all over David for most of the night was slipping on a wrap. Claire suddenly realized that David was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, she walked to the foyer and said good night to the blonde. Her name was Sherry. "I had a wonderful time," she gushed.
"I'm glad." Claire said, wondering if she was sleeping with David. It would not surprise her.
Sherry thanked her, glancing past Claire as if looking for David. A moment later she left.
"It was a marvelous party," Elizabeth said to her. "But it's so late! We have to go. Claire, we will talk tomorrow."
Claire nodded as William hugged her. "Dear, once again, you have outdone yourself. The food, the wines, everything was superb. More importantly, you are superb." He smiled at her. "Have brunch with us on Sunday?"
"I'll try." Too late, Claire realized she had said "I" instead of "we." The Dukes stepped out to their waiting car and driver.
Claire said another series of good-byes, then turned to her father. "Have you seen David?" One more couple was putting on their coats, and the bartender was finishing breaking down the bar.
"No, I haven't. He's drunk, Claire," Jean-Leon said with disapproval.
Claire sighed. "I know. Maybe he went up the back stairs to bed."
Her father kissed her cheek. "I hope David knows how fortunate he is to have you as his wife. The party went well, Claire. No thanks to him."
Claire smiled, refusing to buy into the subject, and said good-bye. Finally, all of her guests were gone. Promptly Claire kicked off her lower-heeled sandals as the remaining two waiters left the house, carrying the last of their equipment. The caterer came up to her. "Everything's done," she said. "The leftovers are put away, dishes and glasses ready for party rentals to pick up first thing tomorrow, and the kitchen as clean as a whistle."
Claire thanked the slim, middle-aged woman, whom she used often
for various events. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Lewis. Once again, everything was just perfect."
Mrs. Lewis beamed. Then she said, "Do try to relax a bit, Mrs. Hayden. I could see you weren't yourself these past few days."
Claire stared after her. Could everyone tell that her marriage was over? Could she no longer hide her true feelings? Disturbed, Claire went to the front door and locked it.
She sighed. Everyone had enjoyed himself, even David; the night had been a success.
She thought about Ian Marshall and smiled a little.
Don't go there, she told herself sternly. It was only a harmless flirtation. But somehow, she knew it was more.
Claire turned off the downstairs lights except for one in the hall. The house was so quiet and still, when just moments ago it had been filled with conversation and music and so many people. She walked upstairs quietly, not wanting to wake David but certain he wouldn't wake up even if she did make noise. The quiet engulfed her. It should have been peaceful. Instead, unease prickled at her.
She flicked on the light in the bedroom.
The king-size bed was empty.
It wasn't even rumpled.
Claire stared at it for a moment, unable to comprehend that David wasn't there, asleep. Where was he?
Her neck seemed to prickle again. Claire went back into the hallway, turning on the lights, relieved to chase the last of the upstairs shadows away. Now she was acutely aware of the house being too silent around her. The dogs were kenneled in the yard out back. She was alone in the house-but no, that wasn't true. David was also in the house. Except-the house somehow felt empty.
But that was impossible. David had passed out somewhere, she decided with a flash of anger, and it was inappropriate. Gripping the railing, she hurried downstairs.
It was so dark.
There were shadows everywhere.
But that was only because everything had been so bright and festive a few minutes ago. "David?" Claire called, turning on lights one by one as she entered the living room. She did not expect him to be there, and he was not.
She turned on the last hall light, walking down to the den. She pushed open the door, which was slightly ajar, and hit the wall switch, flooding the room with light. "David?" She saw instantly that he wasn't there, either.
On impulse, she checked that bathroom-it was empty. Her heart began to thud in her chest. Where could he be?
He's only passed out somewhere, she told herself again trying not to become frightened.
Claire hesitated before the home office they shared. What if he had fallen and hurt himself.
Then she pushed open the door, quickly fumbling for the light, praying that he would be asleep on the couch inside. It came on and she looked around, but the office was deserted.
She felt unbearably alone.
Worse than ever before.
Claire hugged herself.
Somehow, she knew that she really was alone in the house. It was a sickening feeling. Panic assailed her, making her dizzy.
She needed to go get the dogs. But to get to the kennels, she had to cross the backyard, and she was suddenly afraid to step out of the house and into the looming night.
Claire thought she felt a movement behind her. She whirled. The threshold was vacant. It had been her imagination, nothing more. Where was David? Where could he be?
Was she really alone in the house?
Claire now ran through the entire house, to the kitchen and dining room on the other side. As the caterer had said, her kitchen was as clean as a whistle - no one would ever know that she'd had a party that night. And it, too, was empty.
Panicked, Claire stepped into the dining room. This time she didn't bother to turn on the light-the illumination from the kitchen showed that no one was there. What was happening?
She rushed to the phone and called her father, but there was no answer. He lived in Tiburon-he should be home at any minute. She decided not to worry him and did not leave a message. But she would kill David when she found him.
Claire hesitated, then unlocked the kitchen door, telling herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. She turned on the outside lights. The backyard brightened, and across it, she could see the wire kennels. The dogs had awakened and began to bark.
Claire left the kitchen door wide open and ran across the yard to the kennels. She let out the dogs, hugging them all. She was shaking. "Where's David? Jill, help me find David," she cried.
The dogs seemed very happy, oblivious to her worries, and raced ahead of her into the kitchen, all except for her beautiful purebred poodle. Jilly paused, sniffing the air, and began to growl.
Claire didn't know what to think. Jilly was very intelligent and a great watchdog. "What is it?" she asked hoarsely.
Jilly growled again-and she took off. Not into the kitchen, but behind the house, disappearing where the terrace was. The terrace where, just an hour ago, her guests had been dancing beneath the moon and the stars.
Frantic, territorial barking sounded from the terrace. Claire needed a flashlight. She didn't have one and couldn't think where one was. Filled with fear, Claire headed after her dog. She reminded herself as she turned the corner of the house that her neighborhood was absolutely safe. But she knew something had happened, otherwise her dog would not be so upset. It crossed her mind to call the police, but what would she say? She reached the terrace, and fortunately, the lights she had turned on inside the living room shone directly upon it. Relief filled her.
David was passed out in a chair at the terrace's farthest end. Damn him! Claire thought furiously, not knowing whether to cry or shout.
Jilly had halted a dozen feet from him, and she continued to bark wildly. Now the other dogs came barreling over to him, and they began to bark as well, causing pandemonium. They were barking at David. Claire stiffened. Why were the dogs so upset? "David?" She hesitated as the barking escalated in urgency. David did not move, and granted, he'd had a lot to drink, but shouldn't the noise wake him now? She broke into a run.
Claire reached David and had a flashing premonition, but she grabbed him anyway and his head fell back-and that was when she saw the blood.
His throat was sliced open. Bloody and sliced open.
Blood covered his neck, his shirt, his chest.
He was lifeless.
She screamed.
Advanced Copy - Uncorrected Proof © Copyright 2002, Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
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