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Praise for the novels of
CARLA NEGGERS
“Neggers’s characteristically brisk pacing and colorful characterizations sweep the reader toward a dramatic and ultimately satisfying denouement.”
— Publishers Weekly on The Cabin
“Tension-filled story line that grips the audience from start to finish.”
— Midwest Book Review on The Waterfall
“Carla Neggers is one of the most distinctive, talented writers of our genre.”
—Debbie Macomber
“Neggers delivers a colorful, well-spun story that shines with sincere emotion.”
— Publishers Weekly on The Carriage House
“A well-defined, well-told story combines with well-written characters to make this an exciting read. Readers will enjoy it from beginning to end.”
— Romantic Times on The Waterfall
“Gathers steam as its tantalizing mysteries explode into a thrilling climax.”
— Publishers Weekly on Kiss the Moon
Also by CARLA NEGGERS
THE RAPIDS
NIGHT’S LANDING
COLD RIDGE
THE HARBOR
THE CABIN
THE CARRIAGE HOUSE
THE WATERFALL
ON FIRE
KISS THE MOON
CLAIM THE CROWN
Watch for CARLA NEGGERS’S
next novel of romantic suspense
DARK SKY
Stonebrook Cottage
Carla Neggers
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Christine Wenger (again!), Fran Garfunkel and her lawyer friends, my lawyer friends and Zita Christian, for their expertise and willingness to dig for answers…and to all my friends in Connecticut—Zita, Leslie O’Grady, Liz Aleshire, Linda Harmon, Bea Sheftel, Mel and Dorothy and CTRWA gang, for reminding me that the beauty of your state isn’t just the lay of its land, but also its people.
Closer to home, many thanks to Paul and Andrea for helping me keep in shape—okay, get in shape!
Amy, Dianne, Tania, Jennifer, Meg—what a year it’s been! Thanks for everything!
Sam and Kara’s story was great fun to do. I love hearing from readers. I hope you’ll visit me at www.carlaneggers.com or write to me at P.O. Box 826, Quechee, VT 05059.
Take care,
Carla Neggers
This one’s for you, Joe
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Prologue
B ig Mike Parisi was the first-term governor of Connecticut and a dead man. He knew it even before he hit the water.
He couldn’t swim, an embarrassment not a half-dozen people knew.
His big, tough body belly-flopped into the water of his elegant pool and dropped hard and deep, hitting the blue-painted bottom that so beautifully reflected the summer sky. He managed to push up off the bottom and out of the water and yell for help.
“I can’t swim!”
No help would come. His voice barely rose above the gurgling fountain halfway down the classic, kidney-shaped pool. His own damn fault. He’d refused to let his state trooper bodyguards out back with him. If I get stung by a bee, I’ll yell bloody murder. You’ll hear me. What the hell else could happen?
Someone could try to kill him.
He’d rented a house for the summer in Bluefield, a picturesque town in northwest Connecticut. Stockwell country. People assumed he wanted to be close to his lieutenant governor, Allyson Lourdes Stockwell, so they could strategize. The truth was, he was worried about her. Allyson had problems. Big problems.
Hadn’t occurred to Big Mike to worry about himself.
“Help!”
As he splashed and kicked, he saw the bluebird that he’d been trying to save. It was barely alive, soaked in the chlorinated water, slowly being sucked toward the pool filter.
They were both doomed, him and the bluebird. It was a juvenile, its feathers still speckled. It looked as if it had a broken leg. It couldn’t have been in the water long.
Clever. His death would look like an accident. Michael Joseph Parisi drowned this afternoon in his swimming pool apparently while trying to rescue an injured bluebird…
Christ. He’d look like an idiot.
Some murdering son of a bitch had dumped the bird in the deep end, knowing he’d bend over and try to scoop it up. Bluebirds were his hobby, his passion since his wife died six years ago. They’d had no children. His desire to help restore the Eastern bluebird population in Connecticut and his personal interest in bluebirds weren’t a secret.
Not like not knowing how to swim. That was a secret. Hell, everyone knew how to swim.
His mother had regularly dumped his ass in the lake as a kid, trying to get him to learn. It didn’t work. She’d had to get his brother to fish him out.
Was the bastard who’d planted the bluebird watching him flail and yell?
It’d look like a goddamn accident.
Rage consumed him, forced him up out of the water, yelling, swearing, pushing for the edge of the pool. It was so damn close. Why couldn’t he reach it? What the hell was he doing wrong? He could hear his mother yelling at him. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Michael, you’re such