Carlene Thompson - Don

Alison let out a peal of laughter with a note of hysteria beneath it. "I did not think of him as a brother, Mama."

Viveca had trouble conceiving of Alison as anything except a child. The idea of her having a sexual interest in anyone was repugnant, like picturing a five-year-old girl lusting after an adult man. But as much as she hated to admit it, Alison had a libido. Maybe an overactive libido.

She had first noticed it when Alison was around Eugene Farley. Eugene had been the head accountant at the Bishop Corporation. Handsome, intelligent, funny, he had been sought after by all the single females at Bishop and some of the married ones, too. Before long and against her better judgment, Viveca found she couldn't resist him, either.

He'd come to her home several times and treated Alison like any normal young woman. He'd talked about literature and music with her, trading books and CD's. They laughed and the girl seemed to blossom. Viveca had thought they acted like brother and sister and she was delighted. She didn't even care that Eugene indulged Alison's taste for rock music.

Then Viveca saw the way Alison looked at Eugene. A crush she told herself, but self-deception had never been her forte. She couldn't hide from the truth. Her perpetually, innocent child looked at Viveca's lover with a naked carnality that made her sick.

Eugene was gone now. First she'd banished him from her life and then he had taken his own. As bad as Viveca felt about Eugene 's death, she had been relieved to see the hunger vanish from Alison's eyes. But now it was back, flaring uncontrollably whenever Warren Hunt's name was mentioned.

"Mama, you will let me go to Tamara's funeral, won't you?"

It wasn't really the question it seemed. It was a threat. When Alison did not get her way, she would inflict the punishment of her illness on her mother, and it always worked. Viveca's guilt over Alison's emotional state was crushing because she had not been attending a meeting when her husband died. She had gone off for a weekend with another man and in the throes of her passion, she had not bothered to call home during the twenty-eight hours when Alison sat on the basement steps staring at her father's body as she slowly descended into the mental hell from which she would never rise.

"Of course you may go, Alison."

"Good. Warren needs me now." Her lips twitched. "Especially now that she's gone." Viveca stiffened but before she could reply, Alison announced, "I'm going to my room."

To do what? Viveca wondered. The girl was getting agitated. "Alison, why don't I make tea and heat up some croissants and we can have a girl talk?" she tried feebly.

"I don't know how to make girl talk. You never let me have friends. You've always kept me a prisoner." Alison rose from the piano bench and stomped up the stairs to her room.

She was prone to sudden rages and the look in her eyes was dangerous. Viveca stood, anxiously fingering her topaz pendant until she heard Alison's door slam.

What would happen tonight was anyone's guess.

Warren didn't like the marina at night. He didn't like it in the day, either. Frankly, he hated the water and boats, but you just didn't admit that around here where everyone was mad for Lake Erie. He certainly wouldn't admit it to Charlotte, whose father owned the biggest craft in the marina and of course named it the Charlotte. They always met on the Charlotte. Warren would rather they went to a secluded motel, but being with Charlotte was worth an evening on a boat.

Slip Thirty-four was the home of the Charlotte. Custom built, it sat smugly majestic in the moonlight, eighty-five feet of white aluminum, housing four staterooms, a formal dining room, a sky lounge with an entertainment center, a flying bridge with sunning and seating areas, a wet bar, and a saloon with a home theater system and projection unit that dropped from the ceiling. Charlotte said Max had wanted something big and elaborate for corporate cruises. Warren thought Max Bishop just wanted something ostentatious to show how rich he was and that his corporation dominated Port Ariel just as his yacht dominated the marina. The Charlotte was certainly a tribute to conspicuous consumption, Warren thought, and Charlotte loved it.

Warren threw another furtive look over his shoulder. He always imagined people were looking out the windows of darkened boat cabins, identifying him, noting his destination. The marina was too public, even around midnight. And what if he was spotted tonight, forty-eight hours after his wife's murder? His reputation would be ruined. Worse yet, that damned Meredith would be all over him. The guy was itch ing to nail him for Tamara's murder. Today he had looked at Warren as if he were a stuck bug. He only prayed Lorraine Glover would back up his alibi. She hadn't sounded too willing over the phone when he'd called right after Meredith left, but Lorraine was scared. He'd lied to Meredith. Lorraine 's wealthy husband didn't know she'd been having an affair, but Warren could see to it that Alfred Glover found out. Even if Lorraine corroborated his alibi, though, discovering he was having an affair with Charlotte Bishop would give Meredith a motive to pin on him.

Then there was that annoying deputy who kept looking at the ship model Charlotte had given him. Warren didn't care a thing about Port Ariel history, but he didn't tell her. He'd kept the model at his office. One day Tamara had dropped by unexpectedly, seen it, and insisted on taking it home. When she spotted the initials, he'd truthfully claimed ignorance and she didn't seem bothered. He'd been uncomfortable every time he looked at it sitting on the mantel, though. And today that deputy had spotted something.

I shouldn't have come, Warren thought abruptly. What had he been thinking? Yes, he wanted to be with Charlotte. Yes, he knew she needed his reassurance, but this meeting was not a smart move. Why had he let her talk him into it?

He stopped as panic grew. He would go home immediately. Charlotte would be furious, but he could smooth it over somehow, make her see reason, convince her not to call the house again. But right now he had to leave-

" Warren!"

Charlotte was leaning over the side of the yacht. Her soprano voice seemed to shrill through the night. Warren flinched and quelled an impulse to loudly shush her. Instead he darted forward.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said softly. "You know, I'm not sure this is-"

"You're late!' I thought you weren't coming."

Her volume hadn't lowered. Warren looked at her closely. Even in the bleaching light of the moon he could see her flushed cheeks. She'd been drinking. He'd never seen her take more than one glass of wine. "I'm only ten minutes late, darling," he said just above a whisper. "As I was saying, this isn't a good idea tonight. I had a grueling session with Sheriff Meredith today and-"

"Meredith's an ass.'

Warren winced. " Charlotte, the whole marina will hear you."

"Get on board." She extended her hand invitingly, but there was steel in her voice. "Please."

His heart raced. He could stand here and argue, with Charlotte getting angrier and louder by the minute, or he could board the yacht and disappear inside. He wanted to be with her. Besides, it was a little late to worry about being seen.

Five minutes later Charlotte poured him a glass of champagne. She'd already finished half the bottle. She insisted they toast to "new beginnings." Warren 's stomach tightened. His wife of six years was dead. How could he be here with his lover toasting to the future? Because until a few weeks ago the future had stretched before him like an endless desert? Because the thought of enduring Tamara for even one more year had become unbearable?

"You're not drinking," Charlotte said, her beautiful gold flecked eyes glittering up at him. She wore tight white slacks and a filmy blouse with no bra underneath. "This is very good champagne. Don't let it go to waste." He took a sip and she smiled. "All right, tell me about the great Nicholas Meredith's visit."