Vendetta. Meredith Fletcher

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      During her career as an investigative journalist who specialized in reconstructing the lives of famous people, Winter had sometimes been around those who lived extravagant lifestyles. She hadn’t been impressed. Her parents owned larger houses than most of those she’d seen.

      The Gracelyn family didn’t look as though they lived extravagantly, though. The house and grounds were large, that was true, but they also looked lived in. They weren’t just as showcases.

      A young, impeccably dressed houseman came out to the car. Winter remained where she was and allowed him to get the door.

      “Ms. Archer?” he asked. There was something about the way that he carried himself that suggested exposure to the military. His blond hair was cut high and tight. “I’m Gary. Mr. Gracelyn is waiting inside for you.”

      “Thank you.” Winter stepped from the car. She wore black Capri pants and a burgundy blouse under a thigh-length jacket. She reached back into the car for her computer bag.

      “I can get that for you,” Gary offered.

      “No, thank you. I can manage.”

      “If you’ll leave me your key, I’ll arrange to have the car garaged while you’re here.”

      Winter dropped the rental’s keys into Gary’s hand. He pocketed them and took the lead.

      “Mr. Gracelyn has arranged for you to use Senator Gracelyn’s home office.” Gary threw open the double doors and revealed the spacious office where Marion Gracelyn had spent a large chunk of her life.

      Drawn by her curiosity, Winter stepped into the room and gazed at the walls. Two of them held shelves of books from floor to ceiling. The books didn’t look like they were there for show.

      The other two walls held photographs of Marion Gracelyn at various stages of her career. Many of them showed her shaking hands with powerful men and women in political and financial circles. They ran the gamut of her career, from her early days as an assistant district attorney in Phoenix back in the 1960s to her final days as a state senator.

      The years were kind to you, Winter thought as she looked at the pictures. In the early pictures, Marion had light brown hair that swept down to her shoulders. It was shorter than most women had worn their hair in those days because Jackie Kennedy’s trend-setting hadn’t spread to everyone yet, and most women hadn’t been in jobs where the upkeep of long hair would have been almost impossible.

      She’d had deep brown eyes. Intense eyes, Winter realized, that reminded her immediately of David Gracelyn’s. Marion had been slim in those pictures and the outfits she’d worn made her look beautiful.

      Even thirty-odd years later, Marion had been a beautiful woman. She didn’t look like she’d gained an ounce, and even looked fitter than ever in one of the photographs in tennis whites. Her hair was shorter, of course, because the style had changed.

      “Ms. Archer,” Gary called from behind her.

      Winter turned and found David standing beside the houseman. She hadn’t heard him come up. Then she got irritated because he’d stood there and watched her without saying a word.

      David frowned at the houseman as if he resented being ratted out.

      “Good morning, Mr. Gracelyn,” Winter said smoothly.

      David nodded. “Ms. Archer.” He looked around. “I trust the office will suit?”

      “Yes. Thank you.” Winter decided she would only reply to the social amenities and not give him one damn thing more. He could get over whatever was bothering him on his own. He was a big boy.

      The problem was, she was aware that he was, too.

      He was dressed more casually than she would have expected. He wore only jeans and a casual knit shirt that revealed his broad shoulders and chest and emphasized his narrow waist. He wore sandals instead of shoes. His hair even looked tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed.

      And that started thoughts that Winter didn’t even want to entertain.

      “If you need anything, Gary can see to it.” David started to leave, then hesitated.

      Winter arched her brows at him.

      “If there’s anything I can help with,” David said, “just let me know.”

      It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ask for your help. But she said, “Sure.”

      He left. Was he making a feeble attempt to play host or marking territory?

      “Is he always so cheerful?” Winter placed her computer bag on the large desk and opened it.

      Gary paused for a moment before speaking. “It isn’t you, Ms. Archer. I think that everything going on has just brought Senator Gracelyn’s absence more sharply into focus for everyone. We still miss her very much.”

      Keen observation there, Winter chided herself. You should have seen from the way Christine reacted how hard this was going to be on everyone.

      “Duly noted,” Winter responded. “Sometimes I think I take people’s reactions too personally.” In truth, that rarely happened. There was just something about David Gracelyn that set her off.

      “That’s all right, Ms. Archer. As I understand it, you’ve a most arduous task ahead of you.”

      Winter gazed around at the file boxes against the wall. According to Christine, David would provide Winter with all of Marion Gracelyn’s journals, notes, press clippings, and whatever other records she’d kept.

      “I’ve been instructed to help you,” Gary went on.

      As she surveyed the boxes, Winter felt that old familiar tingle of excitement thrill through her. She loved what she did. Absolutely freaking loved it. There was nothing like trolling through someone’s life, secrets and accomplishments.

      There always seemed to be two people involved: the person that everyone saw, and the person that person could be when no one was around. Expectations—whether from self or from others—shaped so many people. Some rose to meet them in glorious ways. Others shattered or crumbled in failure. Most usually survived in the gulf or narrow crack that existed between the two.

      So who was Marion Gracelyn really?

      “Ms. Archer,” Gary prompted.

      She looked back at the man and tried to regain control over her distraction. “Yes?”

      “Would you like anything? Or for me to help?” Gary asked.

      “Do you have Diet Coke?”

      Gary looked surprised. It was understandable. It was only a little after eight o’clock. Most people probably drank coffee.

      “I never acquired the coffee habit,” Winter admitted, “but I’m still a caffeine junkie.” She and Christine had stayed up into the small hours СКАЧАТЬ