Heather Graham Pozzessere - If Looks Could Kill

Still, when she drove through the gates to her father’s Key West “bungalow,” Kyle was right behind her. It would have appeared rude to rush in ahead of him and slam the front door in his face, so she stepped from the driver’s seat of her Cherokee, closed the car door and waited. She wasn’t going to appear rude. And she wasn’t going to fight with him like a child. She wasn’t going to embrace him with enthusiasm, however; she was going to be cool, aloof and unerringly polite. Courteous. Naturally, he was welcome in her father’s house. At one time, as he had said, they had been a family, however dysfunctional.

“So, how is being back home in the land of sun and fun?” she inquired as he stepped from his rented Honda and started along the path toward her. He looked good. As if he spent lots of hours in the gym. There were the larger touches of silver in his dark hair than the last time she’d seen him, as if life had beaten him up a bit. It had; she knew that. His face was more striking now, with a few sun lines working their way around his mouth and eyes. He was tanned. He might use good sense and sunblock now and then, she thought, but vanity would never keep him from the outdoors, which he loved. It was, in fact, strange to think of him spending so much time in the Washington area without coming home. She knew that his house was actually in northern Virginia, near Quantico and the office where he worked most frequently, with a lot of beautiful scenery nearby, as well as museums, theaters and sporting events. But he loved the sun and the things to be done in the sun, swimming, boating, diving, fishing. Maybe staying away had been some self-imposed punishment after Fallon died.

Nearing her, he arched a dark brow, apparently surprised by—and perhaps wary of—her conversational tone of voice.

“It’s good to come home,” he said, staring up at the “bungalow.” Jordan Adair’s “Key West shack”—as he referred to it on talk shows—had eight bedrooms and baths, and sat on a patch of man-enhanced private beach. “Not that I would presume to call your father’s house my home,” he said, a small smile curling his lips.

Madison shrugged. “Well, we were definitely the strangest family in the world. My father and your father used to play at being rivals, now they’re each other’s best friends.” She hesitated, determined to keep a grudging tone from her voice. “I’m sure my father considers this place home for you.”

“That was quite magnanimous of you.”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m exhausted. And five-year-olds wake up early.”

“Your daughter is here?”

“You didn’t know that?”

He shook his head. “I drove in, dumped my gear in an empty guest room, saw your father briefly—he had one of his Enter at Your Own Risk, Madman Working signs on his door. He said I should go on over and have a few beers, he’d probably show up.”

“He didn’t mention that the group would be there tonight?”

“No.”

“Sounds like Dad—he also didn’t think to mention to me that you were coming in.”

Madison turned, walking along the gravel drive that led to the tile path to the house. A few steps brought her to the rustic front door—the place was a mansion with every conceivable luxury on the inside, but the weathered wood exterior made it look like something of a crab house. Kyle followed her inside.

The foyer led straight through to a massive living room that opened out onto the patio and pool. On either side, the house sprawled out, kitchen and four bedrooms to the right, Jordan’s office and another four bedrooms to the left. Beyond the pool was a separate building that housed a Ping-Pong table, a billiard table and a multitude of games and coin operated machines. Next to it was a storage facility for scuba and fishing equipment. The patio was always lit, so even though the house was darkened, there was plenty of light for the two of them to see one another.

“Well, as I said, welcome back.”

“And as I said, I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Apology accepted.” She hesitated. “How long are you down for?”

“I don’t know yet. I have to be in Miami on Monday. From there, it depends on how things go.”

Miami on Monday.

Madison felt an instant chill, but she didn’t intend to say anything to Kyle. She didn’t want him asking her what kind of a witch she was again.

“What’s going on that you’ve been called down?” she asked casually.

He shrugged. “You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t know.” That was the truth. “I don’t see everything, and I don’t control what I see, and I wish to hell that you’d stop treating me like some kind of freak!”

“What?” He seemed startled.

“I’m not a freak.”

He frowned. “I never said you were.”

“Well, you’ve acted like it.”

He shook his head again. “No…I…No. Madison—it was just a bad time. Hell, I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, welcome home. I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Good-night.”

He didn’t move, continuing to look at her.

She hesitated, wishing she knew more. “You still didn’t tell me exactly why you’re down here.”

“No, I didn’t. It’s a long story. Want to go out on the boat with me tomorrow?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Well, a boat is a good place to tell a long story.”

“Maybe I’m not that curious. And maybe I could just ask Jimmy—or Jassy—what’s going on in Miami.”

“Maybe you could. Suit yourself.”

“I can’t just take off with you in the boat. I have a five-year-old. And we always spend Saturdays together, unless she’s with her dad.”

Madison thought that a streak of pain flashed through his eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she decided she might have imagined it. But then, he should have had a little girl, too.

But he was smiling at her then, so guilelessly that she was sure she had imagined the darkness in his eyes and soul.

“Your five-year-old is Jordan Adair’s granddaughter. I’ll bet she just loves a day out on the boat.”

She hesitated.

“Hey, sis, come on. I’m just trying to make peace. Honest to God, once upon a time, we were friends.”

“Maybe. We’ll see. It depends on when you’re leaving.”

“Early. By eight.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

He smiled again with a casual shrug, tugging on his baseball cap. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

He turned then, walking toward the left wing of the house. She was glad that her bedroom was to the right.

Get a grip, Madison, she warned herself, hurrying through the shadowed house. Her fingers were trembling. Great. All those years. She’d married, then divorced. She’d found a life; she was happy. Or at least, she got on just fine. And here he was, back for a matter of hours, and she was shaking.

Fuck him.

She winced and tiptoed toward Carrie Anne’s room, cracking the door and looking in on her sleeping daughter. She walked into the room, stood by the bed and smoothed back her daughter’s hair. Carrie Anne was beautiful. She was blond, like her dad. Her features were fine, like Madison’s own. She had wide, generous lips, and the best smile in the world.

She’d made a lot of mistakes, Madison thought, for a lot of reasons. But even if her marriage had been a pathetically bad mistake and her own fault, it had surely stood a purpose, and she knew that her ex-husband thought so, too. Carrie Anne was worth whatever heartache they had caused one another. And oddly enough, they were doing a fine job of keeping Carrie Anne’s best interests at heart.

She planted a kiss on Carrie Anne’s forehead, then walked through the expansive bath that connected their two rooms. She entered her own room, allowing the night-light from the bathroom and the patio lights from beyond to serve as illumination. She flung herself back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She loved her dad’s “shack.” Her room was large, her bed was plush, and she—like her other siblings—had a complete entertainment center, as well as a working fireplace for those few nights each year when the temperature dipped as far down as the low forties. Her father had spared no expense on his children’s part-time rooms. Carrie Anne’s decor was handsomely Disney, with a little Dr. Seuss thrown in. Madison herself had opted for a white-marble floor with ebony throw rugs and a red-black-and-blue motif that was vivid and passionate. Roger Montgomery, a frequent visitor, had applauded her taste, telling her that she was far more artistic than she was willing to admit.