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The Arrangement
The Arrangement
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The Arrangement

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He turned away from her, not wanting to be swayed by the agony swimming in her gaze. Her eyes got to him when nothing else could. Except for the dark hair, she looked uncannily like the Alison he’d known before the accident. But that woman he could resist. This one was different. Her fears were real, persuasive. Hell, they were heartrending. And somehow, on rare occasions like this when she broke down, she managed to get to him, no matter how expertly he steeled himself against her.

That was why he stayed the hell away from her.

As he waited for her to compose herself, he realized that she was up to something else. The plate with the breakfast he hadn’t eaten sat on the counter just behind her. In his peripheral vision, he could see her pilfering pieces of the fruit and stuffing them in her mouth like a starving child. He wasn’t sure she even realized what she was doing.

He turned, catching her as she crammed three of the orange sections into her mouth at once. She froze at the sight of him. Her knees seemed to buckle. Heat flushed her cheeks and she gulped hard, apparently swallowing the entire mouthful.

“Alison? If you’re hungry—”

“No, it’s not that. Sometimes I panic and forget myself.” Her eyes took on that anguish again. “Do you see?” she said. “Do you see now? I’m not ready.”

He did see, but there wasn’t much he could do. They had to go. Julia was extending an olive branch after four years of silence. Alison’s accident had been the catalyst for Julia’s change of heart. She’d wanted to see her only daughter, the child she nearly lost, but this was much more. She’d invited them to stay at Sea Clouds, the Fairmonts’ compound on the cliffs near Mirage Bay.

The three-story Mediterranean mansion had been in the family for generations, but had been used primarily as a vacation home to escape the harsh East Coast winters. When Julia’s husband, Grant, died, she’d begun spending more of her time at Sea Clouds, and now it was her permanent residence.

Andrew needed this opportunity. If Julia rescinded the invitation, he might not get another chance to enter that house, up close and personal with the Fairmonts—one of whom he suspected had set him up for a fall.

Andrew used the smallest key on his chain to unlock the drawer. Inside was the six-month-old edition of the Mirage Bay newspaper he’d found in his P.O. box yesterday, rolled up and bagged in plastic. He’d been having the Mirage Bay paper mailed to him since Alison’s accident, but this edition wasn’t courtesy of the newspaper’s subscription service. This was personal. Someone was calling him out.

He unrolled the paper and laid it on the counter. Alison had just left in a huff and he didn’t expect her back, but he’d locked his office door all the same. If she saw this, he would never get her on the plane to southern California. The paper’s date was February third, and the lead story was about her disappearance from Bladerunner. But the article had been marked up by whoever sent it. Words had been circled with a permanent marker to create an ominous message, clearly intended for him.

I know what you did. Soon the police will, too.

You won’t get away with it this time.

How much are your secrets worth?

It smacked of a blackmail attempt, but the sender hadn’t given him any contact information. Andrew couldn’t risk dismissing it as a bluff. He had plenty to hide and too much at stake, and the sender seemed to know that.

He picked up the plastic casing the paper had come in and examined the mailing label. It didn’t have the newspaper’s logo, which added to his theory that a private party had sent the paper, and if not for the blackmail aspect, Andrew would have said it was Julia Fairmont. He didn’t think it a coincidence that her invitation had arrived within days of the newspaper message, and she had more reasons than most to want him out of the way.

He’d come between her and her only daughter, and even if Julia didn’t buy the media hype about the Villard curse, she undoubtedly had some concerns about Alison’s safety. She might also think he was trying to use Alison to get his hands on the fifty-milliion dollar trust fund.

How much are your secrets worth? The clumsy attempt at blackmail brought Bret Fairmont to mind. There’d be no other reason for Bret to expose him, certainly not to protect his sister. There was no love lost there. Unfortunately, the blackmail aspect opened the field up to suspects Andrew might not even know. Anyone could have seen something, heard something, although why would they wait all this time? And the second line must refer to Regine, which meant the sender knew something about his past. But then, who didn’t?

He put the paper back in the drawer and locked it, but he was still mentally embroiled in the quandary. What were his secrets worth? Christ, there wasn’t enough money.

He passed the drafting table on his way to the windows. For some reason, the bright blue horizon called up a vision of the first time he’d met Alison, twelve years ago. He’d flown to the west coast to live out his dream of commissioning a sailing yacht from Voyager Yachts, one of the country’s foremost luxury boat manufacturers. Andrew had no idea that Voyager had been owned by Grant Fairmont while he was alive, or that the exclusive marina had been one of Alison’s hangouts.

She’d been there that day, flitting like a butterfly around the shipyard, a shapely sixteen-year-old in a bikini, flirting madly with the college boys from the rowing club next door. She was underage and too young for Andrew anyway, but that didn’t stop her from flashing him a melting smile every chance she got.

He saw a lot of her over the next year as he commuted between the coasts to watch the sailboat’s progress, and eventually Andrew realized he was smitten. His intentions were serious by the time he slept with her, but when she took him home to Mama, everything changed. No one was good enough for Julia Fairmont’s daughter.

Andrew continued to see Alison anyway, even after Bladerunner was done and had been shipped back to Oyster Bay. On her eighteenth birthday he gave her the bracelet adorned with musical charms to encourage her singing aspirations, only to have Julia demand he take it back. She also offered to write him a check if he would name his price. He’d refused the bracelet and the money, but he’d ended the relationship. Julia had been right. He wasn’t good enough.

It was the last time he saw Alison until she moved to Manhattan the following year to attend Julliard. By that time he was involved with Regine, his protégé, and Alison’s unexpected visit to the rooftop apartment where he and Regine lived was not a welcome surprise. But Alison had sworn she only wanted to meet Regine, that she was a huge fan.

Andrew stared out the window, looking hard at the horizon.

Who’d sent him that threat? And what were they trying to accomplish?

He’d even asked himself if the sender could have been part of Alison’s plan to frame him, if there’d ever been such a plan. Maybe the accomplice had decided to finish the job, with or without her. That seemed like a stretch, but Andrew had to pursue every lead—and he was going to start where it had all begun, in Mirage Bay—whether Alison was ready or not.

His first shot put a gaping hole through the perp’s heart. Bullet number two drilled right between the thug’s eyes. And then, just for good measure, Special Agent Tony Bogart shot the guy’s balls off. It was the wrong order. If you were going for a quick, efficient kill, you aimed for the head first. Targets shot in the head did not shoot back. But Tony was letting off steam. This was his release valve for the pressure cooker of law enforcement. Better than taking it out on live suspects, which was frowned upon by the brass.

Another perp sprang up before Tony could eject the spent magazine and jam .40 Glock semiautomatic. The thug came straight at him, howling like a banshee. The clip jammed.

Tony flicked his head and sweat sprayed like raindrops. With a hard snap of his wrist, he Frisbee’d the gun at the target carrier system in the ceiling. It hit the drive motors and gummed up the works, stopping the paper assailant in his tracks.

Laughing, Tony pulled a .45 caliber pistol from his thigh holster and blew the bastard away. Four holes in his forehead. Just call him Mr. Efficient.

The target carrier was dead, too, but Tony wrote it off to the cost of doing business. This was a private range, and the owner knew Tony was good for the repairs, but probably wouldn’t charge him. The law enforcement gig still got him a few perks. Maybe he’d donate the Glock to Goodwill. He didn’t give second chances to guns—or women—who screwed him over.

He holstered his pistol and grabbed a towel to mop his brow. He’d stopped using Quantico’s firing ranges. The Bureau took a dim view of their agents killing the equipment, and they’d started docking his pay. Anyone else probably would have been disciplined, but Tony was this year’s top gun. Even outside law enforcement circles, he was known as the agent who’d tracked down Robert Starr, a cunning and deadly Uni-bomber copycat. He’d also been key in averting another Waco-like tragedy in a religious cult in Oregon.

Yeah, the Bureau loved Tony Bogart these days, so much so that they’d just put him on six weeks’administrative leave and strongly suggested he take anger management classes. And all because he’d been working his ass off trying to convince them to admit him to the training program for the Bureau’s elite crisis response team.

CIRG, the Critical Incident Response Group, was roughly the equivalent of the army’s Special Forces. Tony had the physical skills, but lacked the temperament, according to the psychologist who’d evaluated him. She’d diagnosed him with intermittent explosive disorder. And why? Just because he’d taken offense at some of her snide and insinuating questions and called her a free-associating bitch? She’d accused him of having a flagrant disregard for the rules. Ha. When was the last time she’d danced to the tune of a submachine gun’s bullets? The rules were great until they got you killed.

In his whole life, Tony had only wanted a couple things really badly—and he’d been denied both times. CIRG was one. A woman from his past was the other. He’d grabbed for the gold ring twice, and it had been snatched away both times. But sometimes fate threw you a bone, even years later, and it looked like he might have another chance at the woman.

He grabbed his bag of gear and stuffed the towel inside.

She would never know what hit her.

After ten years of “stellar service,” according to his performance reviews, Tony was taking an enforced leave of absence. The only good news was that it coincided with an opportunity that was deeply personal. For the last two weeks, he’d been receiving anonymous messages on his cell phone, informing him that he had the wrong suspect in the unsolved murder of his younger brother.

Butch had died a grotesque death six months ago of multiple wounds from a pitchfork, and Tony had vowed to bring the monster who killed him to justice. In his last voice mail, the snitch had been kind enough to reveal some vital information about the crime, and Tony had finally decided it wasn’t a hoax.

Tony banged out the door of the firing range and into the muggy Virginia heat. Tonight, he was on his way back to Mirage Bay to catch a cold-blooded murderer. He just had time to drop by his apartment, take a quick shower, grab his already packed bags and catch his flight to LAX.

He was looking forward to this trip, and not just because it was a chance to avenge his little brother. Butch had always been a nasty piece of work, a big tough kid who enjoyed pushing his weight around, and Tony wasn’t surprised that he’d had enemies. Butch had deserved a good pounding, maybe more than one, but he hadn’t deserved to die.

Tony had that other score to settle in Mirage Bay, and thanks to his voice-mail snitch, he might be able to get two birds with one bullet. He liked complicated cases and dealing with clever psychopaths. In this case, he might just have both.

He certainly had no other reason to revisit the town where he’d grown up. He had no family there now. He and Butch had lost their mother in a freak accident that may have been suicide. She’d driven her car up a freeway exit and into oncoming traffic with her two young sons in the back seat. Nobody could explain why she’d done it, although postpartum depression was suggested. She’d been killed instantly. Tony and Butch had been protected by seat belts. They hadn’t suffered a scratch. The scars were all internal.

Their father had raised them, though not well. He’d tried to exert control over both his sons, but in different ways. He’d used brute force on Tony, who’d been openly defiant. Butch, he’d spoiled with bribes and overindulgence. After Butch’s murder he’d moved away, probably because the memories were too painful. Tony had already left years before to become a G-man, only to be rejected for not having a college degree. He’d stayed in Virginia, found himself a night job, attended school during the day, doubled up on his coursework and reapplied two years later, degree in hand. After the Bureau’s traditional thirteen weeks of training, he’d been on his way to amassing one of the most impressive records of any rookie agent in years.

His fervor to be a Fed had shocked everyone who knew him. He’d shocked himself most. He didn’t like kids or dogs. He was admittedly antisocial. And in school he’d been voted most likely to end up in San Quentin. None of that had changed, but he had excelled at catching criminals and deviants, the more deviant the better. Maybe because he knew how they thought.

The collar of his cotton shirt was damp with sweat by the time he got to his car. He was looking forward to California’s dry heat. He wondered what the odds were that anyone or anything in the sunshine state was looking forward to his visit.

Bad. Really bad.

A smile compressed his lips again. This was going to be a good trip.

3

Alison paced her bedroom, the cell phone pressed to her ear as she listened to the incessant drone at the other end of the line. No one was answering. She’d been trying at various times of the day and night for the last two weeks, but no one had picked up, and that worried her terribly. She didn’t know what she would do if something had happened to the one person in Mirage Bay she actually cared about.

She couldn’t tell whether the phone was out of service, accidentally unplugged or no one was home, but she couldn’t wait any longer for the answer. None of Andrew’s arguments had been as powerful as this one, unanswered phone call.

For her, Mirage Bay was hell on earth, a watery graveyard where all her ghosts’ demons lay in wait. But like dream monsters, ghosts and demons had to be confronted or they would give you no peace. When you ran from them, they howled at your heels for eternity.

Like about ninety percent of the men in America under thirty with computers and Internet connections, Bret Fairmont had a special affinity for cyber porn. He preferred the video streaming sites, but unlike most other aficionados, he made no attempt to hide his dirty little habit. He liked to leave it on the screen for the whole world to see, and his mother in particular.

He had fantasies of her going as white as the diet pills she popped, and nearly choking on her own revulsion. Not that it was ever going to happen. She was a beady-eyed barracuda beneath the facade of perfect manners and designer clothing. But just once he wanted to see his mother fall to pieces. He could hardly imagine anything better.

Sad, Bret, sad. How old are you now? Twenty-five going on two?

He yawned and stretched, deeply encased in the belly of the backyard hammock. As he gazed up at the boughs of the giant sycamore overhead, boredom burned through him. Lethargy had its own special kind of ache. He’d been lying around all morning in a T-shirt and swim trunks, sipping iced lattes, and he had no plans to do anything else.

He knew how she hated sloth.

And speaking of Julia Fairmont, where was the prize bitch?

You’re a sick man, Bret. A sad, sick man. Why the hell do you hate her so much? She’s never done anything to you….

But when he closed his eyes he could see the disdain that hardened her beautiful face when she looked at him. It never left him, that look.

Except wish you didn’t exist. That’s all she’s ever done.

His laughter tasted like an old ashtray. It didn’t hurt anymore when she blew him off. He felt nothing. Maybe deep down there was a vestigial flicker of outrage, but on the surface, he was as cold and bitter as she was. He didn’t give a fuck what she thought. Why should he?

“Bret! Where are you?”

That was her, probably calling him from one of the balconies. Her shrill voice made him flinch. He hadn’t done that since he was a kid. Her tone told him she was pissed, but he’d expected that. He’d missed the job interview she’d arranged for him this morning, blown it off totally.

“Bret? Why don’t you answer me?”

He saw her coming, striding across the rolling green lawn in her crisp capris, sleeveless blouse and bejeweled sandals. He threw an arm over his eyes, pretending to be asleep, though he still could see her.

Apparently his silence got to her, because when she reached him, she did something totally unexpected. She grabbed the edge of the hammock with both hands and upended it, dumping him onto the ground.

He hit with a thud. “Hey! What the fuck? I’m never going to get these grass stains out of my trunks, Mom.”

She held up the letter in her hand. “I have important news, and it concerns you.”

“You’re dying, and I’m going to inherit everything?” He stood up and brushed himself off.

“Don’t be an ass,” she said. “Your sister’s coming to visit, and I need you to help me get ready.”

Her voice was shrill. It was shaking, but she wasn’t angry. She was nervous, he realized. Shit, this was a dream come true. Julia Fairmont was cracking.

As he stood there, taking in his mother’s agitation, it dawned on him what she’d said. “Alison? She’s coming here?”

“Yes, and I want to do something really special. I didn’t think she’d accept my invitation, or that he’d let her come. This is my chance to win her back, Bret.”

Bret’s legs went weak. He felt sick to his stomach, but somehow he managed to speak. “She’s married, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“He stole her. You know that as well as I do.”

“Stole her? She walked away from a damn fortune to be with him. What don’t you get about that? She chose Andrew.”

Julia’s expression was glacial. “He’s coming with her, and if you won’t help me get ready for their visit, you will at least be here. I just spoke with Andrew on the phone, and he assured me that she’s anxious to see you.”

It could not possibly be true that Alison was anxious to see him, but Julia had reverted to her polite mode, and Bret played along, even though inside he was still queasy enough to vomit.

“So, I assume she’s recovered?” he said.

Unconsciously, Julia used her thumb to center the large emerald-and-diamond wedding ring set she never took off, even though her husband had been dead for years. The ring wasn’t about marital devotion, however. She wanted the exquisite stones to show because they represented everything she wanted her life to be and wasn’t. Anyway, that was Bret’s theory.

“He said she’s shaky,” Julia said, “but that’s to be expected. She’s been through hell, and who knows what’s happened to her in the last six months. He’s never let me speak to her, the bastard.”

Bret didn’t doubt that his mother wanted Alison back in the family fold, but he questioned how deep her concern actually ran. She’d always favored his sister, even to the point of seeming obsessed, a stage mother’s fixation with her impossibly beautiful child. Sometimes Bret wondered if Alison was Julia’s second chance—but at what, he didn’t know.

But he was only guessing. This could also have something to do with the trust fund that was supposed to have gone to Alison. Julia never told her black sheep son anything, so he had no idea what her real motivation was.

“I’ll be here,” he said, more to get rid of her than for any other reason. “Now, can I get back to my nap?”

Bret had nothing more to say about his long-lost sister. This felt way too much like watching the sci-fi channel. His mother was coming unglued. He’d been waiting years for this moment, and it had nothing to do with him. It was all about his sister. That was fucked up.

Julia glanced at her watch. “Didn’t you have an interview this morning?”

His smile was quick and bitter. She never failed him. “It was a marketing job, Mother. I don’t do marketing.”

“You don’t do anything.” She was madly rubbing the ring with her thumb. “It’s embarrassing, Bret.”

“For who? I’m not embarrassed.” He had actually held down jobs, modeling mostly. Nothing that met her standards.

“No, obviously not,” she said.

Her face had already turned into a mask of indifference. Apparently she didn’t even care enough to hold him in contempt. He wanted to laugh, but the pain in his chest had the fiery heat of a twisting knife.

She stormed off, taking the letter with her, and he fished in the pocket of his trunks for his cigarettes.

He lit one, took a deep drag and held the smoke in his lungs. If he went through enough cigs, got black lung and started coughing up blood, would she notice?

He knew the answer to that. He could disembowel himself in the living room in front of her, and she wouldn’t flinch unless he dirtied the carpet. And he was probably as much to blame for that as she was. He’d been taunting her for so long she refused to take the bait anymore. He was the disease, and after years of exposure, she’d developed an immunity.

He sank down, sitting on the tipsy edge of the hammock with his bare feet on the ground. He gave his head a good shake, thinking it might make his curly blond hair look messy rather than adorable. He tried hard to look scruffy and unkempt, but sadly, he was as perfect as she was. Their family was a Ralph Lauren ad, and only he seemed to know how ugly the reality could be.

The hammock creaked under his weight. This really was absurd. He was a quarter of a century old. He needed to get some balls, pack his bags and get out of this place for good. He was rotting here. The flies were circling his head.

“Fuck.” He let out a moan as helpless as it was savage, and flopped back into the netting, staring through the tree branches at the cloudless blue sky. Yes, he ought to leave, but how could he now that his sister was making an appearance? He was as deeply suspicious of her motives as he was his mother’s. He and his sister shared some things in common besides their looks. There was always something they wanted, always an agenda. And then there was her husband. Bret had only defended Andrew Villard to annoy his mother.

He reached down for his iced latte glass and saw that it had tipped over. Either the grass would enjoy a growth spurt from all the caffeine, or it would be dead by tomorrow. As he picked the glass up and rolled it in his hand, he let his mind roll along with it. Yes, his mother could count on him to be here. The opportunities Alison’s visit presented were just too good to pass up.