Prologue
Eight months earlier…
Clare Lancaster sat in the café of a large bookstore in Phoenix, Arizona, waiting for the half sister she had never met. A chaotic mix of anticipation, anxiety, longing and uncertainty churned her insides to such an extent that she could not drink the green tea she had ordered.
Even if she had not seen photographs and read articles about Elizabeth Glazebrook and her wealthy, influential family in the Arizona newspapers and house-and-garden magazines, she would have recognized her the moment she walked through the door.
It certainly wasn’t because there was much in the way of family resemblance, Clare thought. At five feet three and a half, she was accustomed to having to look up, not only to most men but to many women as well. She was aware that, like Napoleon, she sometimes tended to overcompensate.
Friends and those who were fond of her called her feisty. Those who were not friends tended to go for other descriptors: difficult, stubborn, assertive and bossy. On occasion the words “bitch” and “ballbuster” had been used, often by men who had discovered the hard way that she was not nearly as easy to get into bed as they had assumed.
Elizabeth was her polar opposite: tall and willowy with a cloud of honey-brown, shoulder-length hair brightened by the desert sun and the discreet touch of a very expensive salon. Her features had a lovely, patrician symmetry that gave her an elegant profile.
But what one noticed most of all about Elizabeth was her style. Her half sister did not have merely good taste in clothes, jewelry and accessories Clare thought, she had exquisite taste. She knew the precise colors to wear to enhance her natural good looks, and she had an unerring eye when it came to detail.
Until her recent marriage to Brad McAllister, Elizabeth had been one of the most successful interior designers in the Southwest. Things had changed dramatically in the past few months. The once thriving business had fallen apart.
Elizabeth hesitated briefly in the doorway of the café, searching the small crowd. Clare started to raise a hand to get her attention. There was no reason why Elizabeth should recognize her. After all, she had never had her work featured in glossy, high-end magazines and she’d certainly never had her wedding photographed for the society pages of a newspaper. She’d never had a wedding. But that was another issue.
To her amazement, Elizabeth stopped scanning the room the instant she noticed Clare sitting in the corner. She started through the maze of tables.
My sister, Clare thought. She knows me, just as I would have known her, even if I had never seen a photograph.
When Elizabeth drew closer Clare saw the barely veiled terror shimmering in her hazel eyes.
“Thank God you came,” Elizabeth whispered. The beautifully crafted leather handbag she carried shook a little in her tightly clutched fingers.
Clare’s anxiety and uncertainty vanished in a heartbeat. She was on her feet, hugging Elizabeth as if they had known each other all their lives.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s going to be okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Elizabeth whispered, tears drowning the words. “He’s going to kill me. No one believes me. They think I’m crazy. They all say he’s the perfect husband.”
“I believe you,” Clare said.
Chapter One
Jake Salter was standing in the shadows at the far end of the long veranda, all his senses—normal and paranormal—open to the desert night, when he felt the hair stir on the nape of his neck. It was the first warning he had that something was about to put his entire, carefully laid strategy in jeopardy.
The hunter in him knew better than to ignore the disturbing sensation.
The ominous indicator of disaster took the shape of a small, nondescript compact car turning into the crowded driveway of the big Glazebrook house.
Something wicked this way comes. Or something very, very interesting. In his experience, the two often went together.
“It looks like we have a late arrival,” Myra Glazebrook said. “I can’t imagine who it is. I’m sure that everyone who was invited tonight is already here or sent regrets.”
Jake watched the little compact crawl slowly forward. The driver was searching for a parking place amid the array of expensive sedans, heavy SUVs and limos that littered the drive. Like a rabbit approaching a desert watering hole that had already attracted a lot of mountain lions.
Good luck, Jake thought.
There was no space left in the wide, circular court that fronted the big house. The Glazebrooks were entertaining this evening. Archer and Myra Glazebrook called their annual July cocktail gala the Desert Rats Party. This evening, everyone who was anyone in the affluent community of Stone Canyon, Arizona, who had not fled the merciless summer heat for cooler climes was here.
“Must be someone from the caterer’s staff,” Myra said. She watched the compact with growing disapproval.
The little car finished one complete circle of the drive without finding a place to alight. Undaunted, it scurried around for a second attempt.
Myra’s jaw firmed. “The caterer’s people were told to park at the back of the house. They’re not supposed to take up space in front. That’s for the guests.”
“Maybe this particular member of the staff didn’t get the word,” Jake said.
The compact was sweeping toward them again, headlights bouncing off the gleaming fenders of the larger vehicles. Jake was sure now that the driver was not going to give up.
“Sooner or later he’s going to realize that there is no room left in the drive,” Myra said. “He’ll have to go around to the back.”
Don’t bet on it, Jake thought. There was something very determined about the manner in which the driver was searching for a parking space.
The compact abruptly came to a defiant halt directly behind a sleek silver-gray BMW.
Out of all the cars here tonight, you had to pick that one to block, Jake thought. What are the odds?
The part of him that he did not advertise to the world—the not-quite-normal part—was still running hot, which meant he was flooded with parasensory input in addition to the information collected by his normal senses. When he was hot, data came to him across a spectrum of energy and wavelengths that extended into the paranormal zones. He was aware of the wild, intoxicating scents and the soft sounds of the desert night in a way that he would not have been if he were to close down the parasensitive side of himself. And his hunter’s intuition was operating at full capacity.
“He certainly can’t park there,” Myra said sharply. She looked down the veranda. “Where is the attendant who was hired to handle parking this evening?”