Thriller 2: Stories You Just Can’t Put Down

Lisa Jackson is known for her legion of fans and for her fascination with the motives of her characters. Her stories explore the puzzle of complex relationships and the clues that can only be found in the rich personal histories of her protagonists. In a way that makes her novels as moving as they are thrilling, she confronts the fear faced by her victims and doesn’t shy away from the harsh truth that terror and madness touch far too many lives in the real world.

Nowhere is that skill more evident than in “Vintage Death.” Here we have a story that is classic Lisa Jackson-a perfect blend of romantic suspense and danger that creates empathy and suspicion for the characters in equal parts. She shows us the complexity of family relationships and how important-and dangerous-families can be.

VINTAGE DEATH

“Don’t go.”

The words rang through the vestibule, an anxious plea, but then that was my mother, always the worrier, forever on the verge of a breakdown. That her voice trembled was no big deal. The original drama queen, that was Mom.

“I have to go, okay?” I yelled my response through the closed bathroom door in the upper hallway. I wasn’t going to put up with her overhyped paranoia. Not that she didn’t have a reason to be frightened, terrified even, but, hey, someone had to get the job done and that someone had to be me. No one else was volunteering.

“You should call the police. There was that nice detective…what was his name? Kent something? I can’t remember.”

Noah Kent, I thought, Noah way. Noah police. Not this time. “Forget it, Mom.”

“He’s still on the force.”

Of course he was. Noah Kent was a lifer-married to his job. Even after the accident that nearly cost him his badge. Just ask his ex-wife.

“Then call Lucas. You’ve got to still have his number?”

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Lucas Parker.

Ace detective.

Handsome as sin.

And a major prick.

Of course I still had his number.

Oh, yeah, that’s what I’d do. Give Parker a call. “I’ll handle this on my own.” I wasn’t about to be budged. I put on my bra, which, gently padded, added two cup sizes to my breasts, giving my slim frame a little bit of a curve…like hers.

Then I slipped on a sleek black dress, one with a nipped-in waist and wide neck. A little on the sexy side for my taste, but tonight it would do nicely, I thought, critically eyeing my reflection in the vanity mirror. And besides, the invitation had indicated everyone was to wear black. Just as there were those “all white” parties, Silvio D’Amato had gone with a black theme. All the better.

After pulling my hair away from my face and securing it, I donned a dark auburn wig, which curled softly under my chin and brushed my shoulders. Spidery eyelashes much longer than my own highlighted my eyes, which were now a deep shade of brown, compliments of tinted contact lenses. A little padding tucked into in my cheeks helped with the transformation. My teeth were a little off-nothing I could do about that but keep my mouth closed. I added a tiny spot of color under my cheekbones and blended it with my foundation, making my complexion appear seamless. Carefully, I brushed on a touch of smoky eye shadow.

The effect was amazing.

I was barely recognizable.

No one at the party would suspect my true identity. Which was perfect.

I stepped out of the bathroom, made my way down the hall in three-inch heels, then discarded them for a pair with a shorter heels that didn’t pinch my feet so much. Besides, they were easier to walk in. Considering the fact that I’d be holding a glass of champagne while mingling with the other guests on uneven flagstones, the second pair just made more sense.

Especially if I needed to run.

And, of course, I snagged a pair of leather gloves that I tucked into my purse.

Once in the hallway again, I paused for a second at the open door to Ian’s room. A cold sense of déjà vu settled over me like a shroud. Everything was as it had been. A set of Transformers action figures displayed upon a bookcase with a few Legos, picture books, his twin bed, perfectly made, the dinosaur motif evident in the curtains of the wide window…Oh, God, the window…

My throat tightened as I stared at it, the innocent-looking panes overlooking the garden and farther away, over the tops of other houses on the hill, the bay with its blue waters turning dusky as night approached.

I closed my eyes.

Leaned against the doorjamb.

Thought of him. Ian…only five…poor, poor baby.

“Are you all right?” Mother’s voice floated up the staircase from the floor below. I had to pull myself together. No matter how much pain blackened my soul, tonight, I had to act as if I were carefree, as if I truly was the woman I was pretending to be.

I took a deep breath before clearing the thickness from my throat. “I’m fine, Mom,” I lied, sounding cheery. “Be down in a second.”

Now, just do this!

At the top of the second-floor landing, I stared down the curved steps and faced Dear Old Mom who, on her scooter, gasped as she saw me. “Oh…my…God…I…I can’t believe it.”

I forced myself down the long flight. “Think I’ll be able to pull this off?” I asked, making my voice breathy and low and twirling at the top of the landing.

“I…I…”

“You’re in shock.” That was encouraging. Very encouraging. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” I hurried down the stairs where my mother sat dumbstruck in the marble foyer, soft light from the chandelier bathing her in its kind illumination. At “somewhere north of seventy” she still looked great, her hair a shimmering platinum shade, only a few slight wrinkles visible, her petite body, if not as svelte as it once had been, damned close.

If it hadn’t been for the scooter, she would seem a decade younger than her age.

“You can’t do this,” she said desperately, gnawing at her lower lip. “You won’t get away with it.”

“Just watch me.”

“Seriously.”

“Look, Mom, no one will recognize me. And she’ll be there.”

“That’s why you can’t go.” Mom was in a near panic. Good Lord, the woman was high-strung.

“Don’t worry. If anything goes wrong, I’ll call and you can dial 911 to your heart’s content.”

“No reason to be snide,” she sniffed.

“Then let it go.” In the front hall closet I found a long black coat and a scarf, both of which I donned as Mom fiddled with the cross dangling from a chain around her neck. No doubt she was whispering a dozen Hail Marys to save my wretched, vindictive soul.

Little did she know that my own heart was beating as wildly as a timpani being pounded by a frantic heavy metal drummer. My hands were clammy and adrenaline spurted crazily through my veins.

“Just…be careful.”

“I will,” I promised. I reached for the doorknob but stopped and faced my poor mother once more. “You know I have to do this. She killed Ian.”

“You can’t be certain.”

“I know she did it. I was there! I found him! In the garden-” I pointed frantically to the side of the house, the area I’d loved as a child with its dark foliage, creeping vines and gravel paths leading to secret, private hiding places where squirrels nested and owls roosted. I hated that place now. I fought the urge to break down completely. “I saw her in the window. Looking down. But she tried to blame me,” I said. “And you.”

Mom nodded slightly, unable to meet my eyes as the ancient grandfather clock near the door ticked off the remaining seconds of our lives.

“He was just a child,” I reminded her gently. “Your only grandson.”

Mom’s eyes closed. She swallowed back tears and rubbed the gold cross for all it was worth. “This isn’t the way. It’s not right.” Her lower lip quivered.

“An eye for an eye, Mom. It’s in the Bible.”

“Wait…” She was confused. “‘An eye for an eye’? But I thought you were just going to talk to her…”

Damn. “Just an expression.” Anger burned through my blood again, the same quiet rage that overtook me every time I thought of my baby’s senseless death. My outrage and pain hadn’t always been silent. I’d wailed and screamed, shouted oaths and sworn vengeance. When I’d found my son’s body, broken from a horrible push through his bedroom window, I’d come apart at the seams, had been forced into seclusion, drugged and analyzed and then, of course, accused of being out of my mind. I’d actually had to suffer accusations that I had shoved my son through the window to his death on the garden path below.

It made me sick to think about it. Even now I swallowed back the bile that rose in my throat and shuddered at the image scored in my memory. Ian’s tiny broken body lying upon the cold stones of the manor.

Black rage poured through my soul.

“I think…I think you-We should let it go,” Mom said, blinking to stave off tears. “It’s been five years.”

“And she got away with murder. Your grandson’s murder.”

“Oh, please, don’t do this.”

“Too late, Mom. I just want to talk to her. Let her know that I’m on to her. Give her a good jolt.”

“Why would she confide in you?”

“Because they always do. Murderers want to crow. To brag about their accomplishments, or…if it truly was an accident, I’ll see her guilt, her remorse. She won’t be able to hide her emotions.”

“You think.” Clearly Mom was skeptical. From the hallway near the den came Mom’s little dog, Peppy, a brown-and-white terrier-Chihuahua mix, toenails clicking on the polished marble. The beast gave me its usual response-a nasty little snarl. “Peppy, stop that!”

The dog jumped into Mom’s lap and continued to growl as it regarded me with dark, suspicious eyes.

Time to leave.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon!” I brushed a kiss over her brow, leaving a lipstick mark and rubbing it out before Peppy had the chance to lunge. Then I dashed out the door, my heels clicking on the brick walkway that curved to the front gates. Ferns and rhododendron shivered in the breath of wind and rising mist.

Mom really pissed me off. I love her to death, but she has never been one to take action. Ever. While Dad was alive she let him push her around, just so she could live in this grandiose house. Perched high on the hill, the “Old Dickens Estate” with its four floors, brick facade and glittering beveled glass windows had an incredible view of San Francisco Bay, the angular rooftops of Victorian mansions and the Golden Gate Bridge.

Nice house. But was it worth the verbal and physical abuse she’d had to endure until Dad finally decided to end it all by hanging himself in his private den?

I didn’t think so.

In the garage I found my old, nearly forgotten BMW and climbed behind the wheel, then saw her Mercedes, barely used, parked in another bay. Wouldn’t the Benz be a better choice? Arrive in a shiny luxury car and have it valet parked, rather than screeching up in the old three series with the dent in one side? Of course it would. Mom kept her keys in a crystal dish on a small Louis XVI table near the front door.

And the gun.

The damned pistol.

I’d forgotten to pack it in my purse. It was up in my bedroom where I’d left it earlier, but I’d have to make some excuse to run back upstairs. Luckily Mom couldn’t get that decrepit old elevator to move fast enough to chase me down, even if she wanted to.

I checked my watch.

No doubt I’d be late.

Even with the valet parking.

But so be it.

I hurried back inside, bolstering myself to go one more round with Lorna and her insipid dog.

Security detail.

What a laugh.

Lucas Parker walked through a two-hundred-year-old breeze-way that was part of this aging monastery. The monks were long gone, the archdiocese having sold off the stucco and stone buildings and rolling acres to Ernesto D’Amato over a century before. Nowadays the vines they’d so carefully cultivated produced some of the best grapes for Syrah in the country, making D’Amato Winery world-renowned. Thus Silvio D’Amato Junior was currently the “King of Syrah,” if you believed his overblown press.

Parker didn’t.

In fact, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about any kind of wine.

Not that it mattered. He was just the hired help tonight. An ex-cop from the local police force here to ensure that the snobs and wanna-be snobs sipping the famed wine and nibbling on overpriced cheese and razor-thin crackers were safe.

And why wouldn’t they be? Located in the hills surrounding the quaint tourist town of Sonoma in the Valley of the Moon, D’Amato Monastery Estates had never, to date, had a break-in. Not one bottle of their prize-winning Syrah had been reported stolen, never even a trespasser discovered, not so much as one grape missing.

Parker thought hiring security was overkill.

Yet, here he was, wearing a tux with a collar that was far too tight, his shoulder-holster properly hidden, feeling useless. He’d retired from the force a couple of years back. Early retirement, thanks to a stakeout gone wrong and a stray bullet that had lodged in the lumbar region of his spine.

The bullet had been surgically removed and Parker had learned to walk again, but active duty was out. His partner, Noah Kent, still felt like shit that he wasn’t able to stop the bullet that had nearly severed Parker’s spine. Like so many cops, Kent thought he was Superman. “Your name isn’t Clark Kent,” Parker still told him. Kent was still on the job and Parker was a P.I., one with a very slight limp and sometimes a lot of pain.

And he’d known he should never have taken this job.

Unfortunately he’d been chosen for this detail by Silvio D’Amato Junior himself. Silvio just happened to be Parker’s brother-in-law. Well, technically ex-brother-in-law, as Resa, a few years back, had decided that living with a cop just wasn’t her style.

Trouble was, Parker had known it wouldn’t work a long time before she’d come to terms with the truth. They’d married over Silvio Senior’s objections, then divorced over his shame. No one in Silvio D’Amato’s lineage had ever been divorced. Parker could still hear the old man ranting, that fake Italian accent rumbling as he called Theresa, “Resa, my bambina Resa. How could she do this to me? I am blessed with six children and my youngest brings shame to the family. It breaks my heart.”

There was plenty of that going around, Parker thought as he shot a look toward Silvio Senior, who had passed the family business to the hands of his namesake a couple years ago. Silvio Senior’s dark eyes were huge behind his spectacles as he pressed a plump, manicured hand onto Junior’s shoulder, whispering, always whispering in his ear.

When Parker had married Resa, he’d had no clue how enmeshed a family could be, each member tied into another, torn and tortured, loyal and yet longing to escape. From Silvio Junior’s need to please and outdo his father right down to the seething jealousies of Mario and Antonio that they had not been the chosen ones, the family was rotten with dysfunction. Anna, now collecting appetizers, would no doubt head to the restroom to purge soon. Julianna, who was greeting guests at the door, had gone under the knife so many times that Parker was convinced her eyes wouldn’t close at night. Only Theresa, his Resa, had survived the family unscathed.

Or so he’d once thought.

Add to that the sick rivalry between Silvio Senior and his brother, Alberto D’Amato, bad relations that didn’t even die with Alberto awhile back. Parker had learned, the hard way, that the D’Amato familia was one sick clan. In the end he’d found it ironic that Resa’s old man had bulked so much over their divorce while the rest of the family was quietly going to hell.

According to family lore, the divorce had nearly caused Resa’s ailing mother, Octavia, to die of mortification. However, Octavia had survived and was now holding court in the garden, a bejeweled cane at her side and a blanket on her lap. She was attended by one of her sons, Antonio, the happily married father of four who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Octavia didn’t notice Parker as she sipped from a glass that didn’t so much as quiver in her elegant long fingers. The matriarch forever. Diamonds dripped from her ears and encircled her throat, wrists and fingers. Not one to hide her wealth was Octavia D’Amato.

All six of her children were in attendance. Parker caught sight of Mario and Anna, two of Resa’s siblings, schmoozing up clients near the flowering vines that had overtaken a wall of the old cloister. He told himself he was prepared in case Resa showed.

He tried not to think about her, about how hard he’d fallen or how fast. It had been unlike him. Until Theresa D’Amato he hadn’t believed in love at first sight, or being obsessed with a woman, or even settling down. But Resa with her smoky brown eyes and naughty, knowing smile had caught his attention. She was coy and smart, and when she threw her head back and laughed that throaty little chuckle, he was doomed. Dark coppery hair, long legs, a tight butt and firm breasts that filled his hands-you get the picture.

Getting her into bed hadn’t been difficult; she’d been as hot for him as he’d been for her and their lovemaking had been nothing short of mercurial.

Until it had gone cold.

Stone cold.

On the heels of Ian’s death.

Oh, hell.

His heart twisted and he forced his mind to the present. To the D’Amato winery and the party where he was supposed to be sharp and steady, the “heat” even though he was no longer a cop.

What the hell was he doing here? Why had Silvio asked for him by name?

But Parker knew.

Parker’s duty was not so much to keep out terrorists, thugs or would-be thieves, but more to ensure that the riffraff, specifically anyone connected to Silvio Senior’s brother, Alberto, did not make an appearance. Years ago Silvio Senior had scammed half the family fortune from the significantly less clever Alberto, his younger brother. Alberto had died a few years back, but his progeny had survived, and they all had long memories, fueled by acrimony.

Parker walked through an arbor wrapped in grape vines and about a billion sparkling lights. The evening was cool, bordering chilly, but the party was in full swing. Knots of guests clustered outside on the flagstone patio, an open garden area that had once connected the cellarium, a storage area for the monastery, and the chapter house, where the monks had met to mete out chores and discuss their sins. Rumor had it that some monks had been buried beneath the flooring, though Parker thought that sounded like something D’Amato had made up to give the place more mystique.

Along one wall, inside the alcove surrounding the garden, a string quartet was playing classical pieces that Parker vaguely recognized. Silvio’s attempt at culture.

D’Amato’s garage was open, his array of vintage cars from the 30s, 40s and 50s, all parked on a gleaming tile floor, their glossy exteriors polished to a high, almost liquid gloss. Past the courtyard and through the main house, a waterfall cascaded into an infinity pool that shimmered turquoise amid mosaic tiles and thick, fragrant shrubs. Everywhere, liveried waiters passed out stemmed glasses of the most famous of the D’Amato vintages.

On the far end of the courtyard was a raised dais, complete with arbor, lights and microphone. Silvio Junior was slated to speak to the group, a hand-picked assortment of bigwigs invited to sample his latest vintage.

A bunch of crap, Parker thought, and checked his watch.

A big black guy with a shaved head stood with his back to one aged pillar. Oscar, Silvio’s personal bodyguard and leader of his security team, looked even more uncomfortable than Parker felt. His collar pinched tight around the thick muscles of his neck and he was three hundred pounds if he was fifty. “The man’s going to be speakin’ in a few. Everyone’s got to have their cell phone turned off.”

He glanced at the open door where a thin blond woman in five-inch heels and shimmery silk dress paced the foyer, cell phone pressed against one ear, an unlit cigarette in her free hand.

“Everyone, here, in the courtyard,” Parker clarified.

Oscar shook his head. “Everyone period. Including you.”

“No way.”

“That’s what he said, I’m just passin’ it on. I’ll be behind the stage, you take the front, okay.”

Parker wasn’t going to let the phone thing drop. “Security needs phones.”

“We have walkie-talkies,” he reminded him.

“Ancient technology.”

“Silvio…he’s not exactly high-tech, now.”

“I can carry a loaded sidearm in here but no phone?”

Oscar rolled his palms up to the starlit sky. “I just follow the rules, I don’t make ’em.” And then he spied the blonde in the foyer and took off on a mission.

Parker watched him go. No way in hell was he turning off his phone. He switched it to Vibrate, left it in his pocket and decided that was good enough. Silvio would have to deal with it. The way Parker figured it, Silvio D’Amato was lucky Parker was here at all.

At that moment Silvio Junior appeared on the dais. All eyes turned toward the robust man with the shock of silver hair and thick black eyebrows. Though barely five-eight, Silvio had a presence about him that was only enhanced by his Armani suit and Italian leather shoes. He appeared strong and confident, a man to be reckoned with, rightful heir to all fortunes D’Amato.

Planting his back to a brick column, Parker scanned the old monastery grounds with a critical, suspicious eye. Old, rambling structures like this could be a nightmare to secure. Though the walls and adjacent structures had a fortresslike appearance, they were filled with dark nooks and deep crannies, unseen hiding spots. There were shadowy caverns cut into the hillside to house the wine barrels, as well as a maze of underground tunnels that could easily become routes of escape should anyone want to take a shot at the top runner for the wine country’s “vintner of the year.” There was access through the grape receiving platform and shipping dock. A bell tower loomed high above the tasting room, which had once been the church. The tower itself was dark now, the staircase leading upward secured. And yet…

He glanced up at the highest point of the turret, focusing on the belfry, that dark open space under the roof. For a second he thought he saw movement. Weird. He’d checked the lock himself, so he knew it was secure. Probably a bat, as it was a little past twilight, when bats and owls and insects stirred.

Squinting, he saw no dark shape hunched near the railing. No assassin setting up a high-powered rifle aimed at the stage and Silvio D’Amato’s cold heart.

But really, who would want to harm Silvio or this, his pride and joy?

A question he’d asked Silvio when his ex-brother-in-law had strong-armed him into this gig. “We all have enemies, Parker, you know that. Just as we all have secrets.” His brown eyes had darkened and he’d taken a sip from his glass of Pinot.

Secrets…anyone entangled with the D’Amato family got the crash course on family skeletons.

“Should I be watching for someone from Uncle Alberto’s side of the family, or have things been quiet on that front?” Parker had asked Silvio Junior.

Although Silvio let the question drop, the vein pulsing in his forehead had provided all the answer Parker needed. “Just do the job I’m paying you for,” Silvio had snapped.

But it wasn’t money that drew Parker here tonight. Though he was loath to admit it, Parker couldn’t stay away. He hoped to see Resa again. Call it idle curiosity or something deeper, but he’d never been able to resist a chance to be near her.

Resa…

He was on alert for her as he walked the perimeter and observed the guests all talking, laughing and sipping ruby-red wine. He recognized more than a few faces-relatives or business partners he’d met at family to-dos when he’d been married to Resa.

A lifetime ago.

After a brisk stroll past the chapter house and the former dormitory he did a perimeter check of the garden area, but found nothing that warranted a second glance. The cellars seemed secure, the kitchen and dining room were occupied by a frenzied staff that had been screened and cleared before the event.

And then he saw her.

At least a glimpse.

Resa.

His heart clutched. He’d known there was a chance she’d show up, but had thought that if Silvio had mentioned that he’d be there, she might have passed. Apparently not so. He caught a glimpse of her walking down a long hallway lit by candles, her dark hair sweeping her shoulders.

Or maybe he’d been mistaken.

That woman didn’t seem to move with the same grace he remembered of Resa, or was that his imagination? Had he made her more of a sensual enigma with the passage of time? Just as wives who died suddenly were often elevated to sainthood in the surviving husband’s mind, maybe his perception of Resa was imbued with sexual mystery.

Get it straight. Remember how it played out, he reminded himself. Yes, she’d set her sights on him. Yes, she’d come on to him, lured him. Yes, she’d used him to rebel against her family and yes, she’d tossed him aside when the going got rough. But had he created an image of a woman who had never really existed?

The woman with auburn hair joined a group, and he realized it couldn’t be her. With Resa, there was always that tug in his gut, that chemistry.

He couldn’t let himself be distracted. Whether Resa was at the event or not, he had to pay attention. Silvio was taking the stage, smiling, welcoming people to the D’Amato Monastery Estates and the crowd seemed rapt, all eyes turned toward the dais. So far so good.

He turned away from the dais and saw her again…this time closer to the old chapter house doorway. Instinctively, he eased toward her, moving around the edge of the crowd and along the passageways of the cloister.

Remembering.

How they’d come together; how they’d been ripped apart.

Though she didn’t look over her shoulder, she slipped through the doorway to the old library. Behind him Silvio’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“…our unique blend…oaky, with just a hint of pear…”

Parker barely noticed. He told himself that he wasn’t following his ex-wife just to talk to her, but that there was something secretive and restless about her. Something that required soothing.

As if Resa is going to do anything desperate. Come on, Parker, you know better. Get back to your job. Forget her.

But he followed her through the library to the dormitory and the night stairs, which were originally used by the monks in the evening to get from their rooms to the church.

But they’d been locked. Right? Hadn’t Oscar said they’d all been secured?

Hell.

She was ahead of him, walking swiftly, stirring the flames of candles flickering in wall sconces, all part of the ambiance of the party. Into the stairwell she went, and he held back the urge to shout or startle her.

At the stairs to the church she stopped, turned and sent him a sizzling glare that melted his bones. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

He approached, smelled the scent of gardenias, a perfume he’d always equate with her and those incredible nights of twisted sheets, sweaty muscles and pure heaven.

“I was hired. What about you?”

“Invited. I’m family. Remember? You’re not. Not anymore.”

He ignored the barb. “So why aren’t you out celebrating and lifting your glass to your brother?”

Her smile twisted wickedly. “Being part of this family is a dubious honor at best. Listening to Silvio-” She rolled her expressive eyes and turned a slim palm toward the heavens. “Come on! Talk about boring.”

“Then why show?”

“Free drinks,” she said, then laughed at her own joke.

He was caught again. Quick as lightning he was trapped in that invisible but steely hold she had over him, and she knew it. He saw it in the warm liquid brown of her eyes, the curve of her mouth.

“It’s good to see you.” The words slipped out before he could catch himself.

“I don’t know why.” Her brown eyes met his, and he felt locked in her gaze, lost in her scent, a mixture of gardenias and fresh rain. “Nothing has changed, Lucas. We can’t fix what’s shattered.”

He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter; he was willing to settle for the things that remained whole…a pair of brown eyes so warm they could ward off a winter night, a hint of gardenia and spring rain. But before he could find the words, the moment had passed. The window closed.

Lifting an eyebrow, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to the ladies’ room.” She turned on a heel, then looked over her shoulder. “And you’re definitely not invited.”

A reference, no doubt, to the times he’d sat on the rim of the tub while she’d bathed in mounds of scented bubbles and allowed his hands to wander under the piles of foam and through the deep water to touch her in the most intimate of places. There had been candles surrounding the tub and they’d sipped wine, D’Amato Chardonnay, and she’d moaned in pleasure until he’d lost control and joined her.

Water and bubbles had sloshed onto the floor, the candles had flickered and some had sizzled out, but they’d made love in the claw-foot tub filled with warm soapy water, their bodies slick and hot and wanting.

Even now, he remembered that passion. How exciting, sensual and fierce it had been.

Before it had died so suddenly.

Killed by a lie.

Damn.

Caught in the memory, he watched her go as his cell phone vibrated against his leg. He pulled the phone from his pocket, saw that his old partner, Noah Kent, was calling. Not unusual. It was Friday night and sometimes, after a few drinks at the local watering hole, Kent would phone. He could wait. Parker slid the phone into his pocket again, then looked up to spy Resa walking through the library, then turning left at the far doorway. Wait…The restrooms were to the right. She should have known that. To the left was a dead end. The locked stairwell led up to the bell tower and down to the catacombs where barrels were stored in the hillside.

Behind him, Silvio’s voice droned on about the hints of vanilla from French oak barrels in his latest creation. The speech was background to the pulse beating hard in Parker’s ears as he pursued her.

Did she go up or down?

Should he follow?

No. Go back to the party. Do your job, then get the hell out. Who cares what she’s doing? It’s obviously some sort of cat-and-mouse game, the kind you know is dangerous and she knows you can’t resist?

But he heard something above. The scrape of a shoe? Hell. He tried the door and it was unlocked. He found his walkie-talkie, tried to raise Oscar but got only loud, static-laden feedback. So much for stealth. Switching it off, he entered the staircase and considered taking his gun out of its holster.

Why? It’s Resa. You saw her come into the stairwell, and she’s not a threat.

Not to anyone but you.

Setting his jaw, he waited. Ears straining.

Did she go up…or down?

Toward heaven, or hell?

He turned toward the lower stairs as another footfall scraped overhead. Slowly he began the climb up the spiral staircase, the only sound the thudding of his own heart.

Why the hell was Resa luring him up here?

Surely she’d known he’d follow.

Up, up, up.

Nerves tightening with each step.

Something about this wasn’t right, not right at all. He reached into his shoulder holster, pulled out his Glock, released the safety and set his jaw.

No way would he fire at Resa…or…?

The narrow opening was just over his head. He squinted upward, weapon drawn, ascending slowly, knowing he was an easy target.

She was there, leaning over the railing, standing alone in the darkness. He relaxed for a second. “What’re you doing up here?” he asked, lowering his pistol.

She turned then, her face in shadow and in a breathy voice whispered, “I’m waiting for…” Her voice trailed off and she stiffened.

Something wasn’t right. He felt it.

“I’ve been waiting for five years.” The voice was different now. Low. Dangerous.

In a heart-stopping instant, he knew his mistake, saw the gun.

He swung his weapon up.

Bam! Light flashed from the muzzle of the gun pointed straight at his heart.

Parker hit the deck as he pulled the trigger, firing wildly. Too late.

Hot agony seared through his gut. He stumbled, still firing crazily as he fell backward on the steep stairs, beginning to tumble. He caught the smallest glimpse of his assailant’s face, the wild fury of ringed brown eyes haunted by the pale light of the moon. His gun clattered out of his hand, falling into the gaping hole where the ropes hung.

Clunk! His head smashed a wooden riser. Hard. Pain exploded behind his eyes as he slid and rolled, gravity pulling him downward, each wooden step catching his body, bruising him. He heard something crack-a rib? And all the while the lifeblood oozed out of him…hot, sticky. It smeared the dusty wooden steps. He threw out a hand, grabbed the railing, stopping his crazy descent on the small landing before the stairs turned again.

There were noises.

People screaming.

The rush of footsteps.

He tried to stay awake, to remain conscious, but the blackness pulled him under. The last thing he saw, in the periphery of his vision, was his attacker jumping down into the center of the tower.

Bong! Bong! Bong!

His brain was nearly crushed with the thunderous peal of bells clamoring so loudly the stairs shook.

“Resa,” he called weakly. “Resa…” And then he slipped under the veil of darkness.

Parker? Lucas Parker had shown up? Of all the rotten, dumb luck!

I was furious! Seething as I slid down the bell ropes, I tried to think clearly. She was supposed to have followed me up into the tower. I was sure she’d spot me and be intrigued enough to climb the stairs, then fall to her death, just as poor Ian had fallen.

It would have been such a fitting, ironic end. Perfect in every detail.

But Lucas had spoiled it all.

I couldn’t think about that now. I dropped the.22 pistol, letting it fall to the floor below. My only consolation was that I was free to end this all another time, as long as I escaped. Which wouldn’t be too difficult in the ensuing chaos. Already there was a near-riot going on, people screaming and running, panic sizzling like an electric current through the hallowed walls of the winery.

The gloves frayed as I zipped downward, the friction from the old ropes heating my palms and fingers, just as it had when I’d been a child and first discovered I could slide quickly from the top of the belfry to the floor.

As soon as my feet hit the ancient stones, I took off down three flights of stairs to the lowest level of winery, the cellar that had once been my playground. Alone, very much alone. I knew these old caverns and tunnels better than anyone and, of course, I still had the keys, squired away from when I was a kid. The locks hadn’t changed. Silvio, my skinflint cousin, was too damned cheap.

But there was pandemonium above. Scurrying footsteps. Shouts. Horrified screams.

Don’t think about them. Or her. Just keep running!

I moved by instinct, but my brain was pounding. Why the hell had that son of a bitch shown up? He’d been divorced from Resa, airbrushed out of family portraits. And what the hell had happened to her? Just two minutes ago I saw her enter the library.

I’d planned everything so perfectly, spent the last five years in that place, plotting the perfect moment for my revenge, and then Lucas Parker had to show up?

I’d caught a glimpse of him earlier and couldn’t believe it, the former cop stalking the perimeter of the monastery walls.

My feet moved soundlessly through the dimly lit corridors, my breathing regulated from years of running. I clutched an aura of calm, despite my fury that my plans had been ruined.

Down a long, shadowed corridor illuminated by a single string of lights, past barrels stacked high, around the far corner and up an old flight of stairs to a door I’d already unlocked, I raced. The door opened to the old infirmary where sick monks had once been treated. Now the small rooms were filled with supplies for the winery.

The muted sounds of chaos within the winery walls mixed with the scream of sirens from outside. Someone had called the police. That part I’d planned. I tore off my wig, dress and padded bra, kicked off the stupid-ass shoes, cleaned my face with some of those sanitized wipes, peeled off the eyelashes and pulled the stuffing out of my cheeks.

Then I opened the bag I’d left here earlier, grabbed my jeans and shirt, and yanked them on along with a pair of beat-up running shoes and a dark jacket. The kayak was waiting on a bank beneath a eucalyptus tree and the nearby river flowed rapidly away from the winery to a small town where I could catch a train into the city. I planned to take my “Resa” clothes and dump them into the bay. I would fling them from atop the Golden Gate. With a little luck, I’d escape once again.

And disappear.

For a while…

Three days later, Parker woke up mad as hell in a hospital bed. A stern nurse told him he’d been out for three days. An IV dripped some kind of painkillers into his arm, but it wasn’t working. On a scale of one to ten-with the nurse’s stupid chart of little happy and frowny faces indicating pain level-he was at eight, maybe nine, where the red face was frowning but no longer shouting expletives.

But he didn’t give a damn.

The surgery had been a success, the bullet removed, his intestine repaired, his dislocated shoulder snapped back into place, his ribs only bruised. The concussion had been slight.

He’d been lucky, the doctor had said.

Lucky, my ass!

He closed his eyes for a second, trying to figure out how to get out of here. Pronto. In his experience, hospitals were dangerous places, full of the sick and dying.

“Lucas.”

Her voice came to him in a dream. Soft and breathy, but this time, no sound of laughter or lightness.

Disbelieving, he opened an eye and saw her in the doorway. She looked frail and frightened, unlike the woman who’d turned his life upside down. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes and her lips trembled slightly. He blinked, thinking she might be a vision, a figment of his imagination, even a hallucination from the drugs, but no, she was there.

He tried a smile and failed, but she saw he was awake.

“How…how do you feel?”

“Worse than I look.”

From her guarded response he suspected he looked pretty damned bad. His mouth tasted foul and as he shifted on the hospital bed his entire body screamed in pain. He winced, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“They’re going to arrest me,” she said, and swallowed hard. Fear gripped her, casting dark rings around her brown eyes. “The police have been following me, but…but I was able to lose them and sneak in here.”

“How?” he asked, before he thought twice. Resa was nothing if not quick. And clever.

She ignored the question. “The police, they think I tried to kill you. They’ve been putting together a case. A few people claim that they saw me in the belfry right before the shots were fired.”

He tried to lift his head but the ache sucked his strength. Hadn’t he seen her there, in the bell tower?

“And there’s more. They think I killed Aunt Lorna that night, too, but…but I think they’re having more trouble proving that.”

“Aunt Lorna?” he repeated. “Alberto’s wife?”

The cobwebs in his mind stretched thin, fading.

“They…they found her in her house. I heard on the news that she fell…off her scooter and down the stairs. But the police think she might have been pushed. Oh, God, Lucas, I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.” Resa’s face was drained of color and a small tic had developed at her temple.

“Slow down. Start over.”

“I don’t have an alibi. I was home alone about the time Aunt Lorna died. I was getting ready for the party. I knew you’d be there and I was…I was excited. Anyway, I went to the party, hung out for while, then I saw you. Do you remember our conversation in the library?”

“I remember.” That much was clear.

“You went up, I went down to the wine cellar, thinking you’d follow, then I heard gunshots and ran up the stairs but you were already…already…” She looked at him and shook her head.

“Jesus.”

She stepped forward, touched his hand and all the warmth and passion that they’d once shared came back to him. It clouded his mind like a drug. No…he couldn’t go there now.

He reminded himself of the many times Resa had deceived him, the way she’d masked the truth to protect her family, to cover up the transgressions committed behind those sacred walls.

Gritting his teeth, he drew his hand away.

“You have to help me, Lucas,” she said, pleading. “I can’t be put away for a murder I didn’t commit.”

And there it was between them.

The lie.

The one they both knew existed.

From the hallway came the sounds of the hospital: whispers, softly rattling carts and gurneys, the ding of a bell announcing that an elevator car was about to arrive.

“Do they have any other evidence?” he asked.

“The gun, the one they found in the belfry. It was mine, Lucas. It was the.22 you gave me.”

He hardly dared breathe. “Your pistol.”

“It must have been stolen,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I didn’t shoot you, I swear it.”

“I know.” His voice was faint, but the image was solidifying in his head. Mad, dark eyes in the moonlight. A square jaw braced in fury. And a complexion nubby from the scrape of a razor.

The face of a man.

“It wasn’t you,” he said, weak with relief. “I know it wasn’t.”

“Tell the police that, will you, please?”

“It’s going to be okay, Resa. Please, I’ll take care of you. I can protect you.”

“No.” She stepped back as if stung by his suggestion. “There is no protection in this world. I learned that with Ian. You can’t protect me, Lucas, and you can’t change what’s happened. No one can escape the past.” Fighting tears, she backed toward the door.

“Resa, wait…”

He shifted in bed and, fighting the pain, levered himself up onto his elbows, but she was already gone.

“You look like hell,” Noah Kent said cordially.

“Don’t try to cheer me up.”

It had been less than three hours since Resa had left. Parker had tried and failed to get Dr. Woods to release him from the hospital. Still, Kent was a welcome sight, dressed in pressed slacks, a blazer and shirt and tie, as if he were on his way to court.

“They letting you out of this place?”

“Nah, but I’m going anyway.”

“Not a smart move.”

“One of many,” Parker said, wincing against the pain in his belly.

Kent cut to the chase. “She came to see you, didn’t she? She was here, earlier.”

“Who?”

“Don’t mess with me, okay? Theresa D’Amato was caught on camera in the parking lot. Hospital security has been on alert for her since you checked in.” When Parker didn’t respond, Kent went on. “Okay, two guns, both registered to you were found at the scene. One, the Glock, has your prints on it, the other, a.22, has Theresa’s.”

“I gave it to her years ago, but she wasn’t in the belfry that night,” Parker said.

“Who was?”

He frowned. “I-I’m not sure.”

“Think real hard.”

He’d been picturing that face all morning. He could see the shooter turning to him, a face so like Resa’s, but so different. “It’s a little blurry.”

Kent eyed him critically. “No more bullshit, Parker. I know you lied when the kid died. And I know you’re lying now. So stop yanking my chain and give it to me straight. Was Theresa D’Amato in the bell tower?”

“Not in the belfry, no.”

“Then who? Who shot you?”

“I…I think it was someone who was trying to look like her. I only saw the face for an instant and it was dark, but…” He swiped a hand over his forehead, a bead of sweat there. “I think it was Frankie D’Amato.”

“Her cousin.”

Parker knew it sounded nuts. “But he’s in a mental hospital.”

“Not anymore.” Something shifted in the hospital room-the tiniest drop in temperature. In that heartbeat, with his partner hesitating, Parker sensed what was coming and it scared the hell out of him. “I tried to call you about that,” Kent said.

“It was him?” Parker gaped. “Frankie D’Amato.”

Kent leaned forward in his chair. “Frankie D’Amato walked away from the hospital Friday sometime. No one knows exactly how it happened, but they think he slipped into scrubs, then pilfered some poor nurse’s locker. Probably walked out of there decked to the nines.”

Parker felt his entire life beginning to unravel. Frankie D’Amato, Theresa’s cousin, had been institutionalized in a mental facility for five years…ever since Ian’s death.

“And on the day of the escape, what happens? Frankie’s mother, Lorna, is found dead at the base of the stairs, a convenient accident, if you ask me. Then you’re shot in the belfry of the D’Amato Monastery Estates at a gala hosted by Frankie’s uncle. Coincidence?” Kent shook his head, clasped a hand over one knee. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead.” And he was. Gone was any twinkle in his eyes. “Someone worked real hard to make it look like Theresa was in the tower. Octavia and a few other guests swear they saw Resa in the belfry. Then there’s a pistol registered to you that was found on the floor, as if someone had dropped it.”

“Not Resa.”

“Well, her prints are on it.”

“I gave her that gun a long time ago.”

Kent nodded. “I knew you’d defend her. Lucky for you, we’ve got some evidence that leads in another direction. We found hairs at the scene-synthetic.”

“A wig.”

“And pieces of leather in the bell rope, the escape route the attacker used.”

“Gloves,” Parker whispered, remembering his assailant sliding past him on the ropes.

“That’s right. So if the assailant was wearing gloves, there’d be no new prints on the gun.”

“It was Frankie,” Parker said.

“I think so. Shoe prints are larger than Theresa’s, and a silver Mercedes registered to Lorna D’Amato was left with the valet, who remembers the woman who dropped it off. Someone who looked a lot like Resa, but, the valet thought, a little larger. Even though Frankie’s small for a man-five-six-it would be tough to look as petite as Theresa.”

“What about Resa’s car?” Parker asked. “Didn’t the valet see her, too?”

“She parked in the family’s private lot, didn’t want to get stuck in all the hoopla.”

“It wasn’t Resa,” Parker insisted.

“We’re looking at all possibilities, but right now Frankie D’Amato is our prime suspect. The guy’s got lights on upstairs but nobody’s home. He knows the winery well, was raised there before Alberto was pushed out. Then there’s the matter of Alberto’s suicide. Was it? And Lorna’s death down the stairs?”

Parker sensed what was coming.

“Then there’s Ian D’Amato.”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Why? Because you lied in your deposition? Lied to protect Resa?”

Parker ground his teeth together at the notion. At the time he’d thought he was protecting the woman he loved, but the lie had actually only fanned the fires of hell that were the D’Amato code of secrecy.

“Frankie swore Theresa pushed the kid to his death, that he witnessed the whole thing.”

“She was with me.”

“I know you alibied her, Parker, but that never really hung together for me.”

A dull roar, like the sound of the sea in a cavern began in Parker’s head. “You would believe a mental patient over me?”

“I’m not saying I believed Frankie. I don’t think I ever heard the true story on that incident. Which had to have affected Resa deeply. She was the kid’s mother.”

“Yes,” Parker hissed. Everyone knew this much.

“And yet she let her aunt Lorna raise him. That’s kind of odd, don’t you think?”

“She was young. Unmarried.”

“Even so,” Kent continued, “Theresa allowed her child to be raised by an aunt and uncle who were at odds with her side of the family.”

“They offered.”

“And why was that?”

Parker closed his eyes, wishing for escape. “It happened before my time.”

“We know that. You didn’t meet Theresa until a year after the kid was born and married her a year after that. Then three years later, when the boy was five, he dies and you get a divorce soon after.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with-”

“Sure you do, Parker. No more bullshit.”

The roar was getting louder, the surf pounding through his brain. “Theresa didn’t kill Ian.”

“Then who did?”

Parker didn’t answer.

“So this is the way I think it went down. Theresa goes to her aunt’s house to take the kid away. The nanny is out, probably with Alberto, and the kid is supposed to be in his room. Theresa sneaks up the back stairs and goes into Ian’s room, but he’s not alone, is he?”

Parker waited. Knew what was coming.

“Frankie’s there with the kid, and she freaks. Apparently no one told her about how Frankie got kicked out of three prep schools for deviant behavior. All a family secret. So back in the kid’s room a fight ensues and somehow the boy falls out the window. Frankie always insisted Theresa pushed him. You and Theresa testify that he was playing too close to the edge. So the death is ruled an accident and Frankie snaps.”

It smacks Parker for the second time that day-the lie. “It was a terrible tragedy,” Parker says quietly.

Noah Kent stared at his ex-partner as if Parker were a moron. “You’re sticking to that story.”

“It’s what happened.”

“And so Frankie gets sent away and he spends the next five years plotting his revenge. Maybe he knew you would be there at the winery, maybe not, but somehow he’s going to set Theresa up to take the fall, so she’ll have to be locked away and suffer as he has since the kid’s death.”

“Sounds like you’ve got this one sewn up.”

Kent folded his arms. “Hey, after all these years I ought to be good at this. If you’ll excuse me, I got a perp to track down.” He started for the door, then stopped. “Just one more thing. Who was Ian’s father?”

The question iced over Parker’s aching head. “Theresa never said.”

“Yeah, right…and the kid was cremated, right? Convenient. It would be nice if there was some chance of running his DNA.”

Parker’s heart nearly stopped.

“The way I figure it,” Kent said, “Frankie D’Amato might just have been the kid’s father. That’s why the boy was being raised by Alberto and his wife. They were Ian’s grandparents. Just like Silvio Senior and his wife, Octavia.”

Parker didn’t agree, though his partner had it right. Kent had obviously spent some time puzzling it all out.

“Who knows how it played out? My guess is that Frankie raped Theresa, and the family kept it hush-hush. On the day Ian died, Frankie probably found her there in the room with the kid and freaked out.”

Close, buddy. Kent was so close to the truth…

He had insisted in accompanying Theresa that day when she went to take the child away from the D’Amato’s San Francisco mansion. Ian had begun to turn inward, and Resa suspected abuse. She’s seen no alternative but to remove her son until she was sure the environment was safe. But upon entering the child’s room Resa came upon a horrific scene, the abuse obvious.

Frankie had snapped, turning his wrath on Resa, and in the ensuing struggle Ian had climbed to the windowsill and pressed himself into the corner, edging away from Frankie.

That was the scene Parker came upon when he rushed up the stairs, responding to the sound of frantic voices. Parker’s sole mission was to get the boy away from the window and out of harm’s way.

“Stay right there,” he had told the boy gently, moving stealthily so as not to startle him. “Don’t be afraid. No one’s going to hurt you.”

But Frankie had snarled, swinging at Parker, then lunging toward Ian, who gasped in fright. Galvanized by fear, the boy scooted back, hunkered at the edge of the window for a second, then quietly slipped out.

“There was a family history of abuse. Alberto D’Amato, Frankie’s father, had trouble keeping his hands to himself, too. So for Frankie to pass it on…” Kent shrugged. “Like father, like son. That sound about right?”

Parker looked away. “If I knew then what I know now…”

“Hell, Lucas, we’ve all got regrets. But sooner or later, if you don’t let some of it go, it’s going to eat you up.” Kent shoved his hands in his pockets, looked down at the floor thoughtfully. “That whole family is bad news, man. Real bad.”

Parker couldn’t argue.

He’d heard it all before from his own damned conscience. He should have intervened earlier. He should have saved Resa’s kid from Frankie’s abuse. He should have wrung Frankie’s skinny neck, the slimy predator. He should have known what was going on, but he didn’t. Too little, too late.

Resa could not forgive herself.

Frankie blamed her for everything that went wrong; she had been his victim since childhood.

“Do you have any idea where Frankie D’Amato is?” Parker asked. The Frankie he knew would not drop his vendetta, which meant Resa was not safe. He had to protect her.

Kent shook his head. “But we’ll find him.” He sent Parker a cutting glance. “Especially now. He went after one of our own.”

“Retired,” Parker muttered.

“Same thing.”

Parker groaned. “I got to get the hell out of here. Sign me out, will you?”

Kent rested one fist on the doorframe. “Promise me you’ll stay out of bell towers for a while?”

“That’s an easy one.” Parker rubbed the back of his neck, but it didn’t ease the ache in his head. Resa was right about not being able to escape the past. There was no escaping it, but maybe it was enough to survive it. Survive the past and damn well try to get a handle on the future.

He swung his legs to one side of the bed and took the first step. One painful step at a time.