Deadly Deceptions. Linda Lael Miller

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      Tucker paled under his biker’s tan. Rubbed his palms together and stared as though he could see through my kitchen floor and into the closed bar beneath it.

      “It’s okay,” I said.

      I wanted to reach out, touch his cheek or his shoulder, but I didn’t dare, because I knew where it would lead. We both needed comfort, and I was pretty sure any physical contact between us would be supercharged by grief and frustration. As much as I would have liked to lose myself in Tucker’s lovemaking for a little while, if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stand it when he went back to Allison.

      “What’s okay?” he rasped, understandably convinced that nothing ever could be “okay,” in a world where children are murdered.

      “Being relieved that this didn’t happen to Daisy or Danny. It’s a normal human reaction—and it doesn’t mean you don’t care about Gillian.”

      He glared at me. “Where did that come from? The Damn Fool’s Guide to Bullshit Psychology?”

      I sighed. “Go home, Tucker.”

      He did. He got up out of his chair and walked out, without another word or even a backward glance.

      I should have been relieved, but I wasn’t.

      CHAPTER TWO

      EVEN BEFORE Tucker’s arrival I hadn’t wanted to be alone in the apartment. After he was gone, the place seemed to yawn like some dark, uncharted cavern.

      I emptied our cups, poured out the fresh coffee and shut off the machine. Then I snatched up my key ring, grabbed a couple of Damn Fool’s Guides off the bookshelves in my living room and boogied for the car.

      When I arrived at Greer’s fifteen minutes later, I parked in her brick driveway and, once I’d punched in the combination on the keypad by the back gate, skirted the main house. I simply wasn’t up to seeing my sister just then.

      The pool looked inviting as I passed, but the sun was still blazing, even though it was definitely headed west. Later, I promised myself.

      The guesthouse, euphemistically called a “casita,” was a three-bedroom, one-story territorial with all the conveniences—including a plasma TV that could be lowered out of the ceiling, a sunken bathtub with jets and a wet bar.

      It was also blessedly cool.

      I tossed my keys, purse and the stack of Damn Fool’s Guides onto the granite-topped counter separating the kitchen and combination living and dining room, and kicked off my high heels. Like the dress, they were Greer’s, and they pinched my toes.

      “Gillian?” I called.

      Nothing.

      I think I can be forgiven for being a little relieved that she wasn’t around. And of course I knew she’d be back.

      I proceeded to the master bath, stripped off the dress, chucked the ruined panty hose, started a lukewarm shower going and stepped naked under the spray. After I’d scrubbed and shampooed, I felt a little better. Wrapped in a towel, I padded back into the bedroom, lay down in the middle of the bed and allowed myself to air-dry.

      I must have fallen asleep right away.

      When I stirred to semiconsciousness, the room was nearly dark and my right big toe was clamped between two strong, cold fingers.

      I choked out a strangled little shriek, wrenched free and shinnied to a sitting position with my back against the intricately carved headboard of the bed. Peering at the shadowy, adult-sized form—this was definitely not Gillian—I scrambled to cover myself with the towel.

      “Alex?” I gasped, groping for the lamp on the bedside table. Nick?

      I’d been meaning to shop for a gun—Jolie had promised to teach me how to shoot it—but there hadn’t been time. Now I wished I’d bought one.

      I flipped the switch, and light spilled into the room.

      Greer was standing at the foot of my bed, wearing an oversize terry-cloth bathrobe, her cast bulging beneath one side. “You were expecting my husband?” my sister asked archly, raising one eyebrow.

      I swore colorfully, finishing with a more moderate “Damn it, Greer, you scared me half to death!”

      “I knocked,” Greer said. “You didn’t answer the door, so I came in. I do own the place, you know.”

      “As if you’d ever let me forget it,” I snapped, getting off the bed in my towel toga and stomping into the bathroom to snatch my robe off the hook on the back of the door and yank it on. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that, Greer,” I ranted when I came out again. “If I’d gotten around to buying my Glock, you’d be perforated by now. And how come your fingers are so damn cold?”

      Greer hadn’t moved. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, askew because she’d done it with one hand—on Greer, even that looked elegant—and her expression was stone serious. “I was digging through the freezer, looking for the tamale pie Carmen made before she left on vacation. When it wasn’t there, I decided you might have nabbed it, so I came out here to find out.”

      “You could have just looked in my refrigerator,” I pointed out, feeling only mildly guilty for stealing the tamale pie and dining on it, breakfast, lunch and dinner, until it was nearly gone.

      “Why did you think it might be Alex who’d grabbed your toe?” Greer demanded suspiciously. Once she latched on to a subject, she was as tenacious as a pit bull with lockjaw.

      “I’m not fooling around with your husband, Greer,” I said. “If you won’t credit me with any more honor than that, at least give me a few points for taste.” I stomped out of the bedroom and through to the kitchen, where I opened the refrigerator door, yanked out the casserole dish with about three bites of tamale pie left in it, congealing under a curling crust of cornmeal topping, and slammed it down on the table.

      “You never liked Alex,” Greer accused.

      “You’re just figuring that out?” I countered. I took a half-empty bottle of white wine from the fridge next, uncorked it and poured two glasses—one for me and one for Greer. Mine was slightly fuller than hers. Okay, I was guilty of pie-napping, but I’d had a harder day than she had, so I figured it was fair.

      Greer poked at the remains of the purloined pie with a beautifully manicured fingertip and made a face. “Yuck,” she said, accepting the wineglass I offered.

      I softened a little. “I could send out for a pizza,” I suggested.

      Greer took a sip of wine and made another face. “At least you didn’t steal this from me,” she said. “My God, Mojo, how can you drink this stuff? It could double as nail polish remover.”

      I was used to my sister’s wine snobbery. Her fruit-of-the-vine arrived in fancy crates, the elegant bottles artfully labeled and cosseted in wood shavings. Mine came from convenience stores and, if I was really feeling swank, supermarket closeout shelves. I usually got the boxed kind, in fact, with the handy-dandy little spigot built right in.

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