into a whirling dervish of death. Unlike the rest of us, we can’t just have you running around all alone.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “I could kill you as easily as looking at you.”
Jack actually felt his lips pull at the corners, though he didn’t exactly smile. “There you are,” he whispered. “Where have you been, Briar?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, quickly covering the flash of anger with her new expression of bland disinterest. “You can assign me any babysitter you like. I’ll stay until I want to leave. And when I want to leave, nothing’s going to stop me.”
“She stays with me,” Reaper said.
Briar’s studied expression showed a hint, a very brief hint, of panic.
2
The adobe-style mansion sprawled beneath the stars, with countless arches and a clay-red pottery roof, bright red doors and bright green trim. The front walkway was made of flagstones that had been in place so long they appeared to be part of the ground. The drive was paved and curved inward toward the house, then away from it, forming a giant, gentle S as it looped toward a massive garage that could easily house six vehicles. The apartment above the garage was larger than many people’s houses.
Topaz stood beside the taxi, her back to the cab, her eyes on the house. The lawns rolled, the grass far from lush but rather spotty, with bare spots and red rock peering through. Cacti of every type filled the spaces in between, some of them flowering, some small and compact, while others stood with their arms raised above their heads like the stereotypical “reach for the sky” cacti in countless Western films.
Sand crept up to the very edges of the lawn, invading every time a breeze came up. Beyond the villa, ocean waves filled the night with their song, a chorus of harmonic whispers, growing louder, more insistent, but never becoming shouts. Not even when the waves broke and tumbled over the sand, then retreated in the closest sound there could be to silence. Shuuuuushhhhhhh. And then there was the fragrance those waves left in their wake—freshly laundered sunshine, brine and the sea.
Her mother had died here, Topaz thought. Right here, while that massive ocean looked on, never missing a step in its endless soft shoe.
For a moment Topaz stood there, staring at Avalon’s front door, and then suddenly she was swept back in time, her imagination fed by the DVD she’d finally viewed. Why now, after all these years? Why? Why was she suddenly so driven to know everything about her mother when she’d deliberately avoided any of the stories and tales, the gossip and legends, the conspiracy theories and police reports, up until now?
But it didn’t really matter why. It was here. She was here. And she had to know everything.
In her mind’s eye, it all played out again, this time with even more detail, supplied by some inner knowing, perhaps, or maybe she was making it all up.
The stunning superstar, Mirabella, smiling, waving, laughing as she stepped out the door—that door, right there. It was red and wooden and arched at the top. She walked toward the road, moving so gracefully that she seemed to float over the flagstone walkway. She’d been wearing heels. Four-inch-high chunky heels with platforms underneath the front—very seventies. Strappy on top, open toes. Her toenails had been done, too—a minty green shade that matched one of the colors in that long dress, along with the color of her fingernails, her designer bag and her eyeshadow. Thick black liner, pale, pale shadow. Frosted lipstick. Big hair.
And yet she was gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. Her beauty had been so real, so deep, so natural, that it suffused every hint of mod she’d tried to use to enhance it. Most women would look back at that period and wonder what they’d been thinking. Mirabella might have, too, but it wouldn’t have mattered. She was just as beautiful in a dress the same pattern as the Scooby-Doo Mystery Van as she would have been completely naked. Her eyes were too powerful to be disguised by heavy makeup. She was Mirabella, no last name needed, at the time or now. Everyone knew who she was.
The black limo pulled up closer, and the driver got out to open the door. A throng of paparazzi snapped shots from a distance, but they were kept from getting too close by the discreet bodyguards, posted at intervals a few yards away from the starlet.
And then the shots rang out. Three of them.
The beautiful actress’s flawless smile froze on her lips even as it fled from her eyes. Topaz could see this part so clearly. She’d memorized the expressions as they had crossed her mother’s face, one behind the other. She wasn’t sure if she was glad someone had been filming or not. Part of her thought she might have been able to visualize every nuance even without the film.
Trembling, Mirabella looked down to where her hands had flown to her body, then drew her palms away slowly to see the blood that coated them. Shivering, Topaz found her own hands echoing the same motions, her own eyes looking downward, her own mind slightly surprised that there was no blood on her hands.
Mirabella’s gaze lifted, her eyes calling out for help in stunned silence. Pleading for help from someone, anyone. And then her knees just folded, and she sank to the ground like a flower that had been cut. Her thick black lashes lowered like velvet curtains on the world’s most vibrant stage. Her eyes fell closed, and she took her final bow.
Topaz stood there, staring down at the flagstone walkway, straining her senses. Was this the very spot, then? It was close. As close as she could make out from the footage that had been taken that night.
She sank to her knees, pressing her palms to the cool stone, as if by some fluke she would still be able to feel some trace of her mother’s energy. Her life force. Even her blood. Was that it there, discoloring the stones? Or was that nothing but a pattern in the rock?
The sound of a motor jerked her attention back to the present, and she rose, blinking away hot tears and turning just in time to see the taxi rolling out of sight, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Her suitcases were stacked, none-too-neatly, on the curb.
She’d handed the guy two twenties for a twenty-five-dollar fare. She guessed he thought the rest was his tip. And it would have been deserved, if he’d carried the cases to the door for her. Bastard.
Anger was good. She could be furious over fifteen bucks and no service, and distract herself from the real feelings trying to overwhelm her. Feelings of grief and sadness, a sense of loss, for the mother she’d never known and never really mourned. Was it long-overdue pain? Or was she indulging in self-pity? Or maybe just diving headlong into anything, no matter how painful, that would remove her attention from Jack Heart?
Didn’t matter. She was here; she was doing this.
Squaring her shoulders, Topaz marched up the walkway to the front door and reached out to ring the bell. But in the wire flower basket beside the door, an envelope caught her eye—probably because it had her name on it—stopping her hand in midair.
She tugged the envelope out of the basket and opened it, and a key spilled out into her palm. There was a note besides, scrawled on Avalon Mansion stationery, with the address and phone number at the top.
Topaz,
The place is all yours. Since you’ve paid for every room, there will be no other guests, and as you requested, my husband and I have moved into the garage apartment and will give you all the privacy you require. Unless you call to request it, we’ll stay out of your way for the duration of your seven-day stay.
Feel free to call if you need anything.
Enjoy your vacation.
Kimber Argent, Owner
Santa Luna
Topaz sighed. “Great. I thought they’d at least be here to say hi and schlep the freaking bags up to my room.”
“Could be you were a bit too convincing when you told them you wanted to be left alone, hmm?”
She whirled, stunned. No one crept up on a vampire. Well, not usually. She’d been