Alias. Amy J. Fetzer

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СКАЧАТЬ for the night. He was reluctant to go to bed just yet, with the house feeling extraordinarily empty. He supposed he should have gotten used to it, and a starlet in his bed would have eased his solitude, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he didn’t want to look at some well-used wanna-be in the morning.

      He tightened the sash of his silk robe, walking into his library, then to his desk. He collected his papers, sliding them into his briefcase and setting it precisely to the right of his desk before pouring himself a brandy. He lit the warmer and set the snifter in the holder on its side, counting off the seconds toward perfection. The TV droned in the background.

      He lowered himself onto the sofa, propping his feet on the table, and supposed that he was anxious for the reviews of his latest production. He’d have to wait. He had a fortune riding on it, and though he was certain it was spectacular, critics had their heads up their asses most of the time and rarely understood the entertainment potential of an action-spy thriller.

      He sipped, holding the brown liquor in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. He rarely drank more than one and never drank in public. Some people speculated that he was a recovering alcoholic because no one saw him drink liquor. Maurice never responded to the gossip. It was his personal feeling that too much explanation gave them more to speculate about, and too much drink took away the edge on the brain, the command he had of deals and productions, on or off the set.

      He was leaning forward for the TV remote to turn off the set when the news anchor, relaying the recap of lead stories for the past few weeks, said one word that made his attention snap to the screen.

      Athena.

      He turned up the volume and listened.

      Attorney Lorraine Miller Carrington was dead, a car crash. Police didn’t suspect the death of the Harvard alumni attorney was more than an accident, yet gave no significant details. Maurice’s eyes narrowed when they flashed a picture of “Rainy,” as his wife used to call her. A pretty thing. The last time Maurice had seen her was at his wedding. They showed pictures of her in life, then one in death.

      A film clip of the funeral appeared, but he didn’t hear the commentary. He only saw a group of women standing outside the church. His attention focused on one, a little boy clasped in her arms. He watched, his heartbeat gaining speed. She didn’t turn toward the camera, in fact, as soon as she spotted the camera she avoided it and left immediately. But Maurice had already recognized the woman’s delicate profile. Her stance.

      Darcy.

      Well, well. The little rebel has surfaced.

      He hadn’t had time to study the child and he watched the clip roll to its end, hoping for another glimpse. He switched channels and after a few moments, it appeared again on another late-night station, the kind that had nothing to report but other stations’ news.

      Maurice leaned back, tossing the remote on the table. So. Darcy had been in Phoenix two weeks ago. With his son. Maurice had sent a half dozen private investigators after her, giving them the story that he didn’t want the press to know. That she’d left in the night, with his son. But the press had found out. So had his friends, and he was left with the humiliating task of explaining away his very pretty wife’s disappearance. He’d complained to his friends that he’d given her everything he had and it wasn’t enough. And yes, he wanted her back. They believed him, thankfully, and he still wore his wedding ring to keep up the pretense. Maurice never hurt for feminine company—women found affairs with married men enticing—but seeing Darcy on the TV, he suddenly wanted her back under his control. Desperately.

      She was too much of a rebel under all that beauty. He blamed Athena Academy and those Cassandras for that. He should never have married her, but she was poor and struggling and so lovely. He’d seen her as an uncut diamond, just waiting to be shaped and molded. He’d had to compete with a couple of men for her attention, but money made it easy. He’d seen her clothed by the finest designers, her hair styled by Hollywood’s star makers. For a time, she was the perfect wife, a beautiful, sexy bride to show off.

      In the back of his brain the reminder that he’d been cruel to her—that he’d shoved her down the stairs and threatened her—tried to push to the surface. But it was overshadowed by the sight of the woman who’d dared defy him. Who’d run off with his son.

      She was nothing but white trash, he thought with a flash of sudden sharp anger. With a drunk for a mother and no father she could claim. And look at her—that long black dress and dark wig. Haggard, skinny. Frail. Yes, yes, it had to be her. Clearly she couldn’t function well without him. He smiled slowly, pleased, knowing there was a lush, shapely body under that shapeless dress, plump round breasts on a petite frame. Dove-blue eyes in a delicate face. His little elfin princess, he thought, and for a moment he remembered having her beneath him, making love to her, nurturing her into a butterfly who had made him the envy of Hollywood.

      He’d made her. She owed him.

      And she was going to pay.

      No one left him. No one smeared his reputation.

      She’d evaded him for nearly three years, but now he had a trail. Weak, but still—it was a start. He reached for the phone, dialing, knowing exactly who owed him a favor and how to use them.

      Chapter 3

      M egan Pinchon’s front door sprang open and Darcy couldn’t get out of the Jeep fast enough as her little dark-haired boy came racing across the lawn in his Scooby Doo pajamas.

      “Mommy!” He leaped at her and she caught him, crushing his body to hers, and her eyes teared as he pecked her face with kisses and made her laugh. Oh, she loved him so much. She’d been gone only overnight but it seemed much too long.

      “I missed you, Mommy,” he said, cupping her face and squishing it.

      “I missed you, too, baby. I love you.”

      “Me, too. We’re having doughnuts!”

      She pushed back the urge to say that wasn’t a healthy breakfast. “I’ve been dreaming of having doughnuts and I’m starving.”

      Megan was on the doorstep, smiling, wrapping her robe a bit tighter around her thin frame.

      Darcy walked with Charlie in her arms and met her gaze. “Thanks, Meg. I love you for this.”

      “I know you do, honey. Come on in.”

      “Yeah, come on, Mom, you gotta see the puppies.”

      Darcy looked at Megan. “Puppies?”

      “They’re the neighbor boys’. Six of them.”

      Darcy gave her a “don’t even think about pawning one off on me” look as she put Charlie down. She couldn’t have a pet in a beauty salon, and since Charlie was in the salon in his play area during the day, that wasn’t happening. She walked a thin line with the state board of cosmetology because while her schooling and initial license were real, the license posted in the salon was a forgery for Piper Daniels.

      In the kitchen, Megan pushed a mug of coffee into her hand. “Everything okay? You look—I don’t know. Different.”

      A good cry did that sometimes, Darcy thought, but hoped it was her new determination to break free of Maurice that showed. “I got some good sleep, I guess.”

      Megan СКАЧАТЬ