Secret Star: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

It annoyed him that she’d jarred the remark out of him. It wasn’t professional. Cautious, he brought a hand up slowly, tipped the barrel of the gun farther to the left. “Do you mind?” he said, then, quickly, before she could agree, he twisted it neatly out of her hand, pulled out the clip. It wasn’t the time to ask if she had a license to carry, so he merely handed her back the empty gun and pocketed the clip.

“It’s best to keep both hands on your weapon,” he said easily, and with such sobriety that she suspected amusement lurked beneath. “And, if you want to keep it, not to get within reach.”

“Thanks so much for the lesson in self-defense.” Obviously irritated, she opened her bag and dumped the gun inside. “But you still haven’t answered my initial question, Lieutenant. Why are you in my house?”

“You’ve had an incident, Ms. Fontaine.”

“An incident? More copspeak?” She blew out a breath. “Was there a break-in?” she asked, and for the first time took her attention off the man and glanced past him into the foyer. “A robbery?” she added, then caught sight of an overturned chair and some smashed crockery through the archway in the living area.

Swearing, she started to push past him. He curled a hand over her arm to stop her. “Ms. Fontaine—”

“Get your hand off me,” she snapped, interrupting him. “This is my home.”

He kept his grip firm. “I’m aware of that. Exactly when was the last time you were in it?”

“I’ll give you a damn statement after I’ve seen what’s missing.” She managed another two steps and saw from the disorder in the living area that it hadn’t been a neat or organized robbery. “Well, they did quite a job, didn’t they? My cleaning service is going to be very unhappy.”

She glanced down to where Seth’s fingers were still curled around her arm. “Are you testing my biceps, Lieutenant? I do like to think they’re firm.”

“Your muscle tone’s fine.” From what he could see of her in the filmy ivory slacks, it appeared more than fine. “I’d like you to answer my question, Ms. Fontaine. When were you home last?”

“Here?” She sighed, shrugged one elegant shoulder. Her mind was flitting around the annoying details that were the backwash of a robbery. Calling her insurance agent, filing a claim, giving statements. “Wednesday afternoon. I went out of town for a few days.” She was more shaken than she cared to admit that her house had been robbed and ransacked in her absence. Her things touched and taken by strangers. But she slid him a smiling glance from under her lashes. “Aren’t you going to take notes?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Shortly. Who was staying in the house in your absence?”

“No one. I don’t care to have people in my home when I’m away. Now if you’ll excuse me…” She gave her arm a quick, hard jerk and strode through the foyer and under the arch. “Good God.” The anger came first, quick and intense. She wanted to kick something, no matter that it was broken and ruined already. “Did they have to break what they didn’t cart out?” she muttered. She glanced up, saw the splintered railing and swore again. “And what the devil did they do up there? A lot of good an alarm system does if anyone can just…”

She stopped her forward motion, her voice trailing off, as she saw the outline on the gleaming chestnut wood of the floor. As she stared at it, unable to tear her eyes away, the blood drained out of her face, leaving it painfully cold and stiff.

Placing one hand on the back of the stained sofa for balance, she stared down at the outline, the diamond glitter of broken glass that had been her coffee table, and the blood that had dried to a dark pool.

“Why don’t we go into the dining room?” he said quietly.

She jerked her shoulders back, though he hadn’t touched her. The pit of her stomach was cased in ice, and the flashes of heat that lanced through her did nothing to melt it. “Who was killed?” she demanded. “Who died here?”

“Up until a few minutes ago, it was assumed you did.”

She closed her eyes, vaguely concerned that her vision was dimming at the edges. “Excuse me,” she said, quite clearly, and walked across the room on numb legs. She picked up a bottle of brandy that lay on its side on the floor, fumbled open a display cabinet for a glass. And poured generously.

She took the first drink as medicine. He could see that in the way she tossed it back, shuddered twice, hard. It didn’t bring the color back to her face, but he imagined it had shocked her system into functioning again.

“Ms. Fontaine, I think it would be better if we talked about this in another room.”

“I’m all right.” But her voice was raw. She drank again before turning to him. “Why did you think it was me?”

“The victim was in your house, dressed in a robe. She met your general description. Her face had been…damaged by the fall. She was your approximate height and weight, your age, your coloring.”

Her coloring, Grace thought on a wave of staggering relief. Not Bailey or M.J., then. “I had no houseguest while I was gone.” She took a deep breath, knowing the calm was there, if only she could reach it. “I have no idea who the woman was, unless it was one of the burglars. How did she—” Grace look up again at the broken railing, the viciously sharp edges of wood. “She must have been pushed.”

“That has yet to be determined.”

“I’m sure it has. I can’t help you as to who she was, Lieutenant. As I don’t have a twin, I can only—” She broke off, her color draining a second time. Now her free hand fisted and pressed hard to her stomach. “Oh, no. Oh, God.”

He understood, didn’t hesitate. “Who was she?”

“I— It could have been… She’s stayed here before while I was away. That’s why I stopped leaving a spare key outside. She might have had it copied, though. She’d think nothing of that.”

Turning her gaze away from the outline, she walked back through the debris, sat on the arm of the sofa. “A cousin.” Grace sipped brandy again, slowly, letting it ease warmth back into her system. “Melissa Bennington— No, I think she took the Fontaine back a few months ago, after the divorce. I’m not sure.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “I wasn’t interested enough to be sure of a detail like that.”

“She resembles you?”

She offered a weak, humorless smile. “It’s Melissa’s mission to be me. I went from finding it mildly flattering to mildly annoying. In the last few years I found it pathetic. There’s a surface resemblance, I suppose. She’s augmented it. She let her hair grow, dyed it my color. There was some difference in build, but she…augmented that, as well. She shops the same stores, uses the same salons. Chooses the same men. We grew up together, more or less. She always felt I got the better deal on all manner of levels.”

She made herself look back, look down, and felt a wash of grief and pity. “Apparently I did, this time around.”

“If someone didn’t know you well, could they mistake you?”

“A passing glance, I suppose. Maybe a casual acquaintance. No one who—” She broke off again, got to her feet. “You think someone killed her believing her to be me? Mistaking her for me, as you did? That’s absurd. It was a break-in, a burglary. A terrible accident.”

“It’s possible.” He had indeed taken out his book to note down her cousin’s name. Now he glanced up, met her eyes. “It’s also more than possible that someone came here, mistook her for you, and assumed she had the third Star.”

She was good, he decided. There was barely a flicker in her eyes before she lied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. And if you haven’t been home since Wednesday, you still have it.” He glanced down at the bag she continued to hold.

“I don’t generally carry stars in my purse.” She sent him a smile that was shaky around the edges. “But it’s a lovely, almost poetic, thought. Now, I’m very tired—”

“Ms. Fontaine.” His voice was clipped and cool. “This victim is the sixth body I’ve dealt with today that traces back to those three blue diamonds.”

Her hand shot out, gripped his arm. “M.J. and Bailey?”

“Your friends are fine.” He felt her grip go limp. “They’ve had an eventful holiday weekend, all of which could have been avoided if they’d contacted and cooperated with the police. And it’s cooperation I’ll have from you now, one way or the other.”

She tossed her hair back. “Where are they? What did you do, toss them in a cell? My lawyer will have them out and your butt in a sling before you can finish reciting the Miranda.” She started toward the phone, saw it wasn’t on the Queen Anne table.

“No, they’re not in a cell.” It goaded him, the way she snapped into gear, ready to buck the rules. “I imagine they’re planning your funeral right about now.”

“Planning my—” Her fabulous eyes went huge with distress. “Oh, my God, you told them I was dead? They think I’m dead? Where are they? Where’s the damn phone? I have to call them.”

She crouched to push through the rubble, shoving at him when he took her arm again. “They’re not home, either of them.”

“You said they weren’t in jail.”

“And they’re not.” He could see he’d get nothing out of her until she’d satisfied herself. “I’ll take you to them. Then we’re going to sort this out, Ms. Fontaine—I promise you.”

Grace didn’t speak as he drove her toward the tidy suburbs edging D.C. He’d assured her that Bailey and M.J. were fine, and her instincts told her that Lieutenant Seth Buchanan was saying nothing but the truth. Facts were his business, after all, she thought. But she still gripped her hands together until her knuckles ached.

She had to see them, touch them.