“Evan Bryce.”

“Marilee Jennings. I was a friend of Lucy’s, too, from when she lived in Sacramento. In fact, I came here to spend some time with her at her ranch.”

He offered just the right amount of sympathy, the corners of his mouth tugging down, concern tracing a little line up between his eyebrows. “Lucy was too young to die. And so vibrant, so full of life. I miss her as much as anyone. I hope you don’t blame me for her death, as some do.”

Mari shrugged and shoved up the long sleeves of her jacket to expose her hands again. “I don’t know who to blame,” she said carefully.

“It was an accident; there is no blame,” he said, settling the issue, at least in his own mind.

Mari knew it would be days, weeks, months before she could resign herself that way. It might have been easier if she hadn’t come into the play in the middle, if she had been here and lived through the circumstances surrounding Lucy’s death.

“Will you be staying long in New Eden?” Bryce asked.

“I don’t know. I’m too shell-shocked to think about it yet. I just found out about Lucy’s… accident… last night.”

He stroked his small chin and nodded in understanding. “I hope you’ll be able to enjoy some of your stay. It’s a beautiful place. You’re more than welcome to come out to my ranch for a visit. It’s not far from Lucy’s-have you been there?”

“Last night.”

“Xanadu-my place-is just a few miles to the north. Any friend of Lucy’s is welcome in my home.”

“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

He said his good-byes and left them. Mari watched as he returned to his table by the window. The others heralded him like a returning monarch. She recognized two actresses and a supermodel among the beautiful faces. They were the kind of people Lucy would have gravitated toward. Gorgeous, rich, important or self-important depending on point of view. In the chair directly to Bryce’s right sat a stunning statuesque blonde with strong, almost masculine features and sharply winged brows. The woman met her gaze evenly, lifted her wineglass in a subtle salute, and tipped her head. Then she turned casually toward her companion and the contact was broken, leaving Mari wondering if she had imagined the whole thing.

“Well, darling,” Drew said, drawing her attention back to him. “I hate to rush off, but I’ve got to see that all’s well in the kitchen before the dinner crowd arrives.” He lifted her hand from the tabletop and pressed it between both of his, his expression earnestly apologetic. “I’m sorry for all the unpleasantness.”

Mari shook it off. “I think I’d feel worse if everyone were pretending nothing had happened. It’s all just too ‘twilight zone’ as it is.”

“True.”

“Thanks for the drink and the meal.”

“Our compliments. And you’ll stay, of course.”

“Well, I-”

His brows pulled together as the thought hit him. “Where did you stay last night?”

“The Paradise.”

“Good Christ! The Parasite! I hope to God you didn’t sit on the toilet seat.”

“I didn’t even lie on the sheets.”

“Smart girl. No arguments now. You’re staying here as a guest of Kevin and myself. I’ll tell Raoul at the desk on my way out.”

“Thanks.”

“The Parasite,” he muttered, shuddering. “What Philistine sent you there?”

There was a crash from the vicinity of the kitchen and a sudden burst of Spanish that sounded as angry as a blast of machine-gun fire. Drew muttered a heartfelt “Bloody hell,” and rushed off.

Popping one last fry in her mouth, Mari pushed her chair back from the table and headed for the front door. She had to go find her car. Then she would check in and crash. The idea of sleep uninterrupted by the X-rated antics of Bob-Ray and Luanne brought a smile to her lips. No more nights in the Parasite Motel. As she left the Moose, though, her thoughts drifted automatically and unbidden to the Philistine who had sent her there.

Rafferty.

She told herself the uneasiness was the result of having too many encounters with the name Rafferty in one twenty-four-hour period. Her initial run-in with J.D., the awkward scene with his brother in the Rainbow Cafe, the mention of a Rafferty finding Lucy’s body. There was something about it all that struck her as bad karma.

She stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Her fingers found the smooth black stone M. E. Fralick had given her and began rubbing it absently. The image of J.D. lingered in her mind-a big, solid block of blatant male sexuality with eyes the color of thunderheads. Her heart beat a little harder at the memory of his fingertips brushing against her breast.

She hadn’t known whether he was friend or foe.

A tremor of realization snaked down her back.

You still don’t know, Marilee.

“Do you think she knows anything?”

“It’s difficult to say.” Bryce twined the cord of the telephone around his index finger, bored with the conversation.

He lounged on a Victorian chaise upholstered in soft mauve velvet. He detested Victoriana, but the suite he maintained at the lodge had come furnished and he preferred not to bother himself with it. He spent time in it only when he didn’t care to drive all the way to Xanadu after an evening’s entertainment or when he wanted a break from his entourage.

His attention was on the woman across the room. Sharon Russell, his cousin. She wore sheer white stockings and a virgin-white lace bustier that contrasted dramatically with her tanned skin. She was a sight to stir a man’s blood, her body long and angular with large, conical breasts and long nipples that grew out of the centers like little fingers, like small penises. The blatantly female body contrasted almost perversely with the strongly masculine features of her face. The contrast excited him further.

He took a sip of Campari and tuned back into the telephone conversation. “She gave no indication of knowing anything, but they were close friends. She has been to the ranch.”

“We’ll have to watch her.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re certain you haven’t found anything?”

“Of course I’m certain. There’s nothing to find. The house was thoroughly searched.”

The voice on the other end of the line took on a truculent tone that quivered with fear beneath the surface. “Goddammit, Bryce, I mean it. Don’t jerk me around. No more games.”

Bryce rolled his eyes at the phone on the table, derision twisting his features as he pictured the man on the other end of the line. Weakling. He had no real power and he knew it. Bryce had only to snap his fingers and he would wet himself. Without much more effort, Bryce could crush him, ruin him. He let the weight of that knowledge hang in the air as silence crackled over the phone line.

“Don’t be tedious,” Bryce said at last, the edge in his voice as fine as a tungsten blade. He didn’t wait for a reply, but cradled the receiver and turned his full attention to his cousin.

Sharon was the only person in his retinue who wasn’t at least vaguely frightened of his power, an attitude he rewarded by considering her to be his equal in many ways. They were both ambitious, ruthless, ravenous in their desires, not afraid to take or to experiment. Not afraid of anything at all.

She sauntered toward him, her stiletto heels sinking into the mauve carpet, her eyes glowing with lust. Bryce lay back on the chaise and smiled as she straddled his naked body.

“He’s afraid of this Jennings woman?” she asked, lightly raking her fingernails through his chest hair.

“He’s afraid of his own shadow.”

“Well, I admit, I don’t like her showing up here either,” Sharon said mildly. “There’s no way of knowing what Lucy might have told her or what she might suspect.”

Bryce sighed and arched into her touch. “No, there isn’t. We’ll find out soon enough.”

“What’s your game with the waitress?” she said. Her voice was nearly as masculine as her features, low and dark and warm. It set his nerve endings humming.