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CHAPTER TWO

“MY PAWN TO your king,” Blake muttered to himself. Still in the gray suit and coordinating gray, black-and-white tie he’d worn to the office that day, he stood at the computer in his glass-walled home office the last Wednesday night in March. He pushed a couple of keys, hit Enter, took one final look at the game on the screen, and left the room. His opponent, a man he’d met in Kashmir, India, several years before, would be at least an hour figuring his way out of that one.

He had guests coming for dinner, Donkor and Jamila Rahman. A Christian father and daughter he’d lived with for a while in Egypt—before his marriage to Jamila’s closest friend.

After checking the last-minute details on the dinner his housekeeper had prepared for him that afternoon, Blake moved from the kitchen, with its shiny black appliances, granite countertops and double oven, to the side of his house that didn’t overlook the ocean. In contrast to the western side, these rooms didn’t have windows. The house was built into the side of a cliff in the quaint village of La Jolla.

The east side was where he’d put his treasure room—a museum with track lighting, built-in shelves and marble tables that housed all the artifacts and souvenirs of his travels. It was also where he housed his wine cellar.

The cellar—more of a wall-size wine closet—had been his wife’s idea.

A woman who’d been orphaned young, Amunet had grown up half Egyptian, half French and later, a New Yorker. She’d been visiting Egypt when Blake was there helping to rebuild a small village that had been hit hard by weather and poverty. Donkor, a man of means and a charitable heart, had been the largest donor and overseer of the project.

Blake chose the wine, checking the year, although he knew there was not one bottle in the house that wasn’t worthy of a fine restaurant.

Donkor and Jamila had been the only “family” present at the urban Egyptian wedding Amunet had wanted. From the car parade with all the flowers and ribbons and honking of horns, through the ancient tradition of the Zaffa, a human parade of belly dancers and drummers singing to them, to the Kosha, two bedecked seats in front of the waiting guests where he and Amunet had exchanged rings, his lovely bride had been in her element. Surrounded by noise, excitement, beauty, dancing and activity, and enough people to distract her from anything that might have been missing.

Of course, Blake hadn’t seen it that way then. He’d just been crazy in love with the unusual woman who loved him so intensely. And she’d been completely open to whatever path his heart directed him to take.

Or so he’d thought.

Putting the wine on ice, Blake carried it through the kitchen to the dining room, which also sported a wall of windows that overlooked the ocean. He lit the candles, dimmed the lights, and flipped a switch that turned on the CD of soft flute and guitar music that would play throughout the evening.

He hadn’t seen either of the Rahmans since his divorce four years earlier.

He was ready for their arrival with a good twenty minutes to spare. Not at all like him. Moving back through the kitchen and Amunet’s garden room to his office, Blake looked in on his chess game.

It was exactly as he’d left it.

Then he picked up the newspaper he’d been avoiding since he’d come home. On the front page, in the very center and large enough for him to see the dimple at the corner of her cheek, was a photograph of Juliet McNeil, one of the partners at Truman and Eaton James’s defense attorney.

He hadn’t known, when he’d agreed to be Paul Schuster’s witness, that Juliet would be opposing. Not that it would’ve mattered. Eaton James had broken the law. He had to be held accountable.

He hadn’t seen her in almost a decade, except for a cursory conversation when they’d passed each other on the sidewalk a few years ago.

Still, if Blake was going to meet the lady again, he’d rather it be in more agreeable circumstances—or at least on the same side of the fence. On the other hand, it would be interesting to see her at work, against a man like Paul Schuster.

She didn’t have a chance in hell of winning. And, as he remembered it, Juliet wasn’t a woman who easily accepted defeat.

He grinned, dropping the paper as the doorbell chimed.

“WE DIDN’T COME JUST to have dinner with you,” Donkor, dressed in his usual garb of sedate suit and tie, announced as he pushed back his empty dinner plate. He’d had second helpings of the chicken cordon bleu and spinach salad Pru Duncan had prepared.

Jamila glanced up and then away. Blake had known, since she’d failed to meet his eyes when they’d kissed and hugged hello, that something was wrong. He’d also known that he’d have to wait to find out what it was until Donkor felt the time was right for talking.

“Is there something I can help you with? You need a place to stay while you’re here in the States? You’re always welcome to stay with me as long as you like. You know that. I have more bedrooms than I need.” More solitude than he needed, too.

Donkor shook his head.

“We have to fly out tomorrow.” Jamila’s normally effusive voice was subdued. Dabbing at her lips with the cloth napkin, she gave him a brief smile.

“I thought you just arrived last night.” He’d sent a car to the Los Angeles airport to pick them up. They’d stayed in the city due to the late hour.

“We did.” She looked as beautiful as ever with her long dark hair up in a twist that left ringlets escaping down the sides of her face. Her olive skin was smooth and made up to perfection, her slim figure outlined but not openly displayed in her silk pantsuit.

“We have some news.” Donkor’s deep voice was as solemn as his daughter’s had been.

And that was when it hit him. “You’ve heard from Amunet.”

“Yes.”

No one sipped wine. Or moved. Blake glanced from one to the other. They’d been completely sympathetic to both him and Amunet during the divorce. They’d understood that needs neither he nor Amunet had been able to alter had driven them apart. Certainly that wasn’t about to change.

“You’re here to tell me she’s remarrying?” Donkor had been the only person, other than Amunet herself, who’d known quite how hard Blake had fallen. “Because it’s really okay. She was a part of a dream—an unreal life that was destined to end. I think, at least in part, I must have known that all along.”

“You would never have married her if you’d known that.” Donkor’s tone brooked no argument. “That’s not your way.”

Blake would never have taken vows he didn’t intend to uphold. He’d forgotten, for a moment, that Donkor knew a lot more about him than how much he’d loved his wife.

Jamila wiped her mouth again. This time missing, and dabbing her eye instead. Her eye?

Blake looked over at her. She was crying.

Donkor spoke.

“Amunet is dead, son. Her funeral is on Saturday. In New York. We wanted to tell you in person.”

SHE’D COMMITTED SUICIDE. His ex-wife, a woman who’d raised him to levels of emotion—both good and bad—that he’d never really understood, was dead. And while neither Donkor nor Jamila would ever have said so, the implication was that her death was partly because of him.

While she hadn’t been able to bear the humdrum life of an executive’s wife, trapped in one city, hosting cocktail parties and doing lunch, neither had she been happy as a divorcée. She’d been so contradictory, such a strange blend of modern and ancient, forward thinking and traditional. She’d traveled the world, first by herself and later with Blake—unmarried, uncaring what people thought. Going wherever the mood took her, to the grotto in Paris, a fishermen’s bar in Ireland, the wilds of Africa. Nannying. Doing temporary office work. Dancing for food. But she’d been a virgin on their wedding night.

God, what a night that had been.

Sipping warm whiskey from a highball glass, Blake sat alone in his living room on a chair of the softest fabric, looking out over the shadows to the dim lights of ships on the ocean. Waiting for Paul Schuster’s call. He’d told Schuster he’d be available to testify on Friday morning.

And he was going to be in New York.

Shaking his head, Blake took another sip. And stared. A light had been bobbing out in the distance for half an hour. The boat was headed in the direction of Alaska. A chilly place.

This was a night for chilled hearts.

He’d been prepared to receive an invitation to Amunet’s third wedding. He’d missed the second, a Las Vegas quickie that had ended almost as soon as it had begun. And he’d already decided to attend the third, whenever it came along. He was over her—or he understood, at least, that they were never meant to be forever. They were from very different worlds, finding happiness in completely opposite things. He wished her well. Wanted her happy.

He’d never expected to be attending her funeral.

“I APPRECIATE the phone call,” Paul Schuster said when he and Blake finally connected. He was as agreeable and friendly as he’d been the two other times Blake had spoken with him in the past weeks.

“Obviously I’ve been following the trial,” Blake told the other man, still sitting in the dark, sipping whiskey—his third—and watching the ships. Sliding down, head against the back of the chair, he lifted an ankle to the opposite knee. “You’re doing a great job. I’m sorry to be putting a damper on things.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Paul said, with as much energy at ten o’clock at night as he’d probably had at ten in the morning. “Actually, I haven’t even declared you as a witness yet.”

“Juliet McNeil doesn’t know I’m testifying?” He’d been wondering what she would think about seeing him again.

They’d had one incredible night together once.

A long time ago.

“No one knows you’re testifying, including my staff,” Schuster said, surprising him.

Blake sipped and nodded, his eyes half closed as he watched another ship approach. “I thought you had to declare as soon as you turned up new evidence. Give the defense a chance to review the information.”

“I haven’t seen the evidence yet, so technically I don’t have any. I’d been hoping to get the paperwork today, which is why I had you on hold for Friday. The way it’s looking now, it’s probably going to be Monday.”

“What are the chances of the records not turning up?”

“Slim to none.”

“But there’s a chance.”

“Not one I’m willing to acknowledge.”

If Blake had been a little more clearheaded, he might have continued to push for percentages. He liked things on the table, in black and white or not at all.

“I’m glad I don’t have your job,” he said instead.

Schuster laughed. “Just call when you’re back in town.”

Blake said he would.

He dropped the phone. Took another sip—a small one. It was going to be a long night and he needed to be up at the crack of dawn to get his business affairs in order before he left for New York.

But for now, there was nothing to do but sit. And wait. And think.

“JULES?”

Instantly awake as she recognized the voice on the other end of the line, Juliet sat up. It was late Thursday night, the first of April.

“Marce? What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing. You’ve been crying.” It wasn’t something Juliet could ignore in the nonidentical twin sister she’d been watching out for all their lives.

Marcie laughed, sniffed, laughed again. “It really is nothing, Jules, I promise. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just lying here having a hard time falling asleep and suddenly I start thinking about you, missing you and before I know it, I’m blubbering like an idiot.”

“You need to get out of that town.” Unlike Juliet, who’d left Maple Valley behind the second she’d graduated from high school, Marcie at thirty-four was still living in the small, mostly trailer-populated northern California town.

That fact scared Juliet every time she thought about it. She’d seen what being cooped up in Maple Valley had done to their mother.

Marcie, in contrast to their destitute mother, was one of the more well-to-do inhabitants in town, having made a success of the local beauty shop. But still…

“I know,” her sister said. “I do need to get away.”

Where Marcie lived was Marcie’s decision. They both knew that and had acknowledged it many times. But that didn’t stop Juliet from caring, or worrying, or helping where she could help.

It would be different if Marcie was happy in Maple Valley. But with her proclamations of dissatisfaction, she constantly reaffirmed Juliet’s fears. If she didn’t get out of that town with its limited possibilities, she would wither and prematurely age as their mother had.

“So come to San Diego for the weekend.”

While Marcie didn’t visit as often as Juliet and Mary Jane would like, she was a fairly frequent occupant of their Mission Beach cottage.

“I don’t know. Hank has a big sale going at the hardware.”

Juliet started counting. She had to at least get to ten before she’d be able to rein in the frustration that she had no right to unleash on her sister. She made it to four. And a half.

“So?”

“Well, it’s hard on him. He’ll be exhausted. I should be here.”

“Why in hell should you be there?” She sat up in bed, pulling a pillow over her as the covers fell to reveal the spaghetti-strap shirt and bikini briefs she slept in. Their mother’s life had been ruined by her choice to sacrifice herself, her needs and desires, for a man. Why couldn’t Marcie see that she was doing exactly the same thing?

“Do you have clients on Saturday?” Juliet asked.

“Not that I can’t reschedule.”

“So come.”

“Hank will be disappointed.”

“Marcie! For God’s sake! You aren’t married to the guy!”

Last Juliet had heard, Hank still hadn’t asked, after more than fifteen years of dating.

“I know.”

“You don’t even live with him.”

“I know.”

In the dark, Juliet stared out her bedroom window to the beach beyond. When the weather was warm enough, she loved to sit in her room late at night with the window up, listening to the waves as they crashed along the distant shore.

“He’s not there, is he?”

“No.”

“So come.”

“Okay.”

Blinking, Juliet pushed the pillow aside. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Great! Mary Jane will be thrilled! We’ll go to Seaport Village.” It might be considered touristy by most San Diegans, but Juliet, Mary Jane and most especially Marcie loved walking through the shops and restaurants along the waterfront. “Bring your in-line skates. Mary Jane’s been practicing and I think she’s ready to go out with us.”

More than anything, Juliet was ready to spend some time with her sister.

“Okay,” Marcie said, her voice losing the weak thread of tears. “And how about I throw in a nice dress, too, and treat us all to a decadent dinner in Beverly Hills?”

“Throw in the dress. You don’t need to treat.”

“I know,” Marcie said, her voice soft. “But I want to, Jules. Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Being you.”

“Thanks for being you, too,” she said, the reply never growing old, no matter how many times it was repeated.

“Love you.”

“You, too.”

Juliet hung up the phone, a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying lifted from her shoulders. A weekend with Marce and Mary Jane, playing, having a late-night glass of wine or two with her sister, was just what she needed.

And after once again discussing the possibility of a life change for Marcie, perhaps she’d have a chance to talk to her sister about Mary Jane. The child had been a model student since the spitting incident the previous month. But the episode had brought back a fear to Juliet’s heart that, this time, would not be so easily eradicated.

She thanked God for Mary Jane’s ability to see all kinds of truths, to be aware of truth in different lights. And she was worrying herself sick about whether her daughter could fit into a society that preferred conformity to originality.

Sliding down in bed, she punched the pillow, leaned back and watched the shadows and occasional bobbing light on the ocean. She knew exactly what Marcie would say. Mary Jane was well adjusted, more secure than any kid either of them had ever known—certainly more secure than either of them had been, in spite of the fact that they’d always had each other—and there was no mistaking that the kid was genuinely happy. Hell, perfect strangers would glance at Mary Jane on the street and smile.

Marcie was going to tell Juliet she was raising her daughter well.

Juliet closed her eyes and willed sleep to come. She had another long day in court to get through before Marcie arrived. She was probably just tired from so many days of sitting through the prosecution’s portion of the Terracotta case. Waiting for her turn had always been the hardest part of her job.

Yeah, that was it. She was just tired.

So why, then, was she finding it so impossible to get to sleep?

BLAKE LEFT NEW YORK as soon as the funeral ended. A small affair, hosted by the adoptive parents Amunet hadn’t seen in ten years prior to this last trip home, it lasted less than half an hour. Jamila gave the eulogy. There were a couple of songs. An Egyptian poem was read. And then it was over.

That quickly, a life that had been too vibrant for this world was gone. Forever. It was the third time in five years that he’d buried those closest to him. First his parents, after the car accident, and now Amunet.

He called Paul Schuster from the airport to let him know he’d be back in plenty of time to appear in court on Monday, then boarded his plane.

With only one glass of cheap whiskey to deaden the uneasiness in his heart, he sat back in the blue leather first-class seat and tried not to think about life, or death, or the past couple of days.

In spite of everything, it had been good to see Donkor and Jamila. It was such a shame their lives kept them so far apart from him, in spite of how much they missed each other.

The whiskey didn’t help much, nor did the movie they were showing on the six-hour flight. He’d already seen it. Twice. And there sure as hell wasn’t a lot to look at through the window. Not when you were flying above the clouds at thirty-two thousand feet.

He would have picked a brighter color than the royal blue Amunet’s parents had chosen for the inside of her casket. And dressed her in something long, white and flowing.

For the first time since he’d known him, Donkor had looked tired. Old.

The flight attendant came by and Blake asked for a bottle of water to make his whiskey last a little longer. He talked to her about the flight, and asked if she had to turn around and go right back to New York or if she’d be flying somewhere else first.

He didn’t hear her answer.

He went to the rest room.

And he remembered the last time he’d flown with his ex-wife. They’d been on the way to California to bury his parents.

That led him along a painful road of memories, mostly of his father. The dictator. The honorable husband and father. The honest businessman. He thought about Eaton James, and his father’s heart attack.

Finally, in desperation, head lying against the padded rest, he turned his thoughts to the upcoming trial. Testifying was something he could actually do.

And from there, with the hum of the airplane cocooning him in his own little world, he thought about Juliet McNeil and the night they’d met.

Though he’d never known her well, since they’d talked far more about their separate futures than any past experiences that would have defined them, he’d felt a particular affinity with her, borne of their one incredible night together. He’d been a very young twenty-three to her much more mature and focused twenty-five. She’d been preparing to sit for the bar exam, after winning enough scholarship money to put herself through the elite University of Virginia School of Law, and had made it very clear that she was not going to be swayed from her goals by entangling herself in a relationship that could only distract her. Having just completed his MBA, after earning a degree in architecture, Blake had been in the final stages of preparing for what was supposed to have been a year of world travel, a prerequisite his father had set for Blake’s employment with the family business.

For Blake, the journey had been much more. It had been a time to finally achieve the freedom that had consumed his thoughts for years. A time to get out from under his father’s expectations—and his own—that he live up to the old man. When he was growing up, he’d constantly had to prove his intelligence and worth. The trip had been a time to find out what he really wanted to do with his life…or slowly die without ever having been alive.

During his last weekend at home, he’d met Juliet at a bar on the beach.

“Would you like some wine with your steak?” Blake was a bit surprised by the disappointment that shot through him as the flight attendant he’d practically clung to for diversion earlier interrupted his reminiscing with a dinner that smelled delicious.

“Thanks.” He nodded, holding up his arms as she placed dishes, silverware and a full wineglass before him.

The steak was good. And the other passengers were more talkative as they all shared dinner in their own little world. That was just as well, he thought, listening to the woman on the other side of the aisle as she told him about the grandson she’d just left behind in New York.

There was no point in making anything significant out of an encounter that had happened nine years before. Because if he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit that his memories of that night—the fabulous sex he and Juliet had shared, the conversation and laughter—were more a result of the amount of alcohol they’d consumed than anything else.

And Blake Ramsden was always honest with himself.