The other movie star at Dan Olson’s burial was now retreating toward his car. Sean’s young nephew, Brendan, had stopped Avery to ask for an autograph. Avery scribbled his name on Brendan’s church program, then shook his hand. As the boy moved on, Avery glanced back and saw her.
Sean stepped toward him. The wind suddenly kicked up, and she swept back her hair. For a moment, she was once again on that ocean-view bluff, snuggled in his jacket, wanting so much to kiss him. She put aside those feelings now—just as she’d tried to ignore them back then. Crossing her arms to keep warm, Sean managed to smile at him. “Thanks for coming, Avery.”
He nodded. “How are—you holding up?”
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I miss him. I miss the sound of his respirator. I—”
“Sean?” a woman interrupted, passing behind her. “We’ll see you at the house. All right, dear?”
She glanced over her shoulder and nodded. “You bet, Lisa. Thanks.” Sean waited until her friend moved on; then she turned to Avery again. “How’s your wife? How’s Joanne?”
“She’s doing much better. In fact, I’m on my way to see her now.”
“That’s nice,” was all Sean could think to say. “Um, since you quit the movie, I guess I won’t be seeing you for a while.” She took another step toward him. “Avery, I don’t mean to pry. But if Joanne’s showing signs of improvement, and they’re shooting most of the picture around here, why did you quit? All these actors are fighting for that part now. Why would you give that up?”
He glanced down at the ground and sighed. “You know why.”
“Because of me?”
“We’d be working together—sometimes very closely. I couldn’t handle that, Sean. You know how I feel about you. But I still love my wife too. I can’t leave her—no more than you could have left Dan while he was sick. I wouldn’t like myself very much if I did that. I don’t think you’d like me very much either.”
Sean let out a tiny, grateful laugh. She took hold of his hand. “Thank you, Avery Cooper.”
He shook her hand and smiled. “Take care, Sean.”
She forced herself to turn away from him. Walking toward her car, Sean imagined him tonight in that place— at his wife’s bedside.
From a couple of weeks ago, when she’d been so sick and feverish in the intensive care unit, she remembered Avery in the room with her, a constant, comforting presence. He would be there for his wife tonight— and for as long as she needed him.
Glancing over her shoulder, Sean saw him walking alone down a grassy slope toward his car. He was still hobbling a bit.
Sean figured it was all right to cry. She wouldn’t have to explain her tears to anyone right now.
She turned and spotted Dayle, waiting for her. Dayle pulled a Kleenex from her purse and offered it to her. Sean blew her nose with the tissue. “Thanks,” she muttered, her voice a little raspy. “Aren’t you going to be late for your publicity thing?”
“The hell with it,” Dayle said. “I think you need me around today. And that’s more important than some lousy magazine cover story.”
Sean wiped the tears from her eyes. She hadn’t expected Dayle to come to her rescue. Yet nobody else really understood what she was dealing with today—except for Dayle. At a time when she felt all alone with her pain, she had Dayle Sutton coming through for her. “You’re giving up a shot at some major publicity?” Sean said. “That doesn’t sound like a movie star to me. Sounds more like a true friend.”
“I hope that’s what I am,” Dayle said. She took her hand and squeezed it. “Your kids are going back with your in-laws, right?”
Sean nodded. “I thought I’d want to go back alone, but—not anymore.”
“Well, then I’ll send my driver home, and ride with you.” Dayle glanced down toward where the cars were parked. She nudged Sean. “Only first we have to make it down this damn hill in our high heels.”
Sean smiled and put her arm around her friend’s waist. “We’ll make it, Dayle,” she said. “We’ll just lean on each other.”
A KILLER’S MASTERPIECE
At first, Bridget Corrigan’s work with her twin brother’s senatorial campaign is an exciting distraction from the trauma of her messy divorce. But everything changes when Bridget is reminded of the secret she and Brad had been keeping since high school, a secret that could destroy the campaign—and their lives. Someone else knows what they did. Someone who’s been picking off the members of their little group one by one…
WILL BE PAINTED
His job keeps him busy, but he loves every moment of it. Following them, photographing them, and immortalizing them on canvas. He knows exactly how they’ll look when the last breath is drawn, because he has planned out their deaths with perfect precision. And the best is yet to come: Bridget Corrigan. He has very special plans for her portrait—she just doesn’t know it yet…
IN COLD BLOOD
With every “accident” that befalls the members of her old clique, Bridget feels danger edging closer to home. Yet uncovering the truth about the killer would mean revealing what really happened that horrible night years ago. She’ll have to find someone to trust—the question is, whom? Because turning to the wrong person could be the last mistake she ever makes…
One
The singer-pianist had just wrapped for the night, and the bartender announced last call. The bar would be closed within the hour. Not good.
Olivia Rankin didn’t want to go home alone tonight, and the way things were looking, that was just what would happen.
The cocktail lounge at the top of Seattle’s Grand Towers Hotel was all sleek metal and polished mahogany —with a sweeping view of the city and harbor lights. Very ritzy. Eleven-fifty for one stinking cosmopolitan. But at least it came with a fancy little silver bowl of mustard-flavored pretzels.
Sitting at the bar in a sexy wraparound pale green dress, Olivia once again scanned the Crown Room and decided the pickings were pretty puny.
Olivia was thirty-eight, with short-cropped, platinum blond hair and a perpetual tan—thanks to regular sessions at a tanning salon. Though attractive, she figured there was room for improvement and planned to lose twenty pounds by December. Once meeting that goal, she’d reward herself with a Botox session. Lately, her face was looking like a road map—especially around the eyes. Years of partying had caught up with her. On her birthday, a friend had sent her a card, which hit a little too close to home. On the front of the card was a cartoon of a woman holding a champagne glass. It said:
Olivia ordered a third cosmopolitan. She’d come to the Crown Room alone, hoping she would meet a better class of guy there. If she were lucky, she would end up with some guest at the hotel, and he’d let her spend the night. She wouldn’t turn her nose up at a room service breakfast in the morning either. The Grand Towers was
