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Slavic-looking; that trait that had served them well six years before, when their lives had depended on passing as Eastern Europeans. His eyes were a dark, stormy color somewhere between blue and gray. They never laughed, and they never warmed with life and tenderness. They stayed cold and stormy and slightly mocking even at the very best of times, and yet they pulled her. As they’d pulled her six years ago, when he had been married and she had been fighting her hopeless attraction to him—an attraction that he’d done everything to encourage.
    “Other people’s politics aren’t as much fun as they used to be,” he said slowly. “I’ve spent the last few years making money that I don’t need.”
    “Poor Randall,” she mocked gently, inordinately pleased that she could do so.
    “And what about you, Maggie? You’ve been through a lotsince we were together. A divorce, an affair, another marriage. How are you surviving widowhood?”
    “Surviving,” she said. “I’m surviving. I don’t believe you just happened to show up, Randall.” She changed the subject quickly. “Why are you here? Who sent you? What the hell is going on at Stoneham Studios?”
    He moved then, and she’d forgotten his peculiar grace and speed. She stood her ground as he advanced upon her, determined not to give way, but as he closed in on her, she felt trapped, smothered, diminished. He was only just over six feet tall, and yet he dwarfed her. She could sense the tension radiating through his body, beneath that perfect gray suit of his, and his tension reached out and caught hold of her own nerves, twisting them into knots.
    “So many questions, Maggie,” he said softly, his voice a silken threat. “I’ll answer them if you’ll answer one of mine.”
    “Shoot,” she said defiantly, and then winced at the horrible appropriateness of her word.
    His oddly sexy mouth twisted into a reluctant smile. “I couldn’t help but overhear the police discussing the case. It appears that Francis’s body was in a very strange condition. He had multiple bumps and bruises that had clearly been inflicted after death. And the tips of his fingers, his ears, and his nose were frostbitten.”
    Maggie kept her face stony. “So?”
    “So I wonder what could have caused it. You remember how curious I can be. But there was something even more interesting, Maggie.” He moved even closer, so close she could smell the faint tang of whiskey on his breath, so close she could see faint lines of gold fanning out in his gray-blue eyes. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing here,” he said, “when you tell me why Francis Ackroyd had grapefruit marmalade on his shoulder.”

four
     
    “You know, I like him,” Kate said three hours later. She was curled up on one of the living-room sofas with an afghan draped around her small body and her head resting on a pile of pillows.
    Maggie stared at her for a long moment. She was stretched out in a chair, barefoot. Her second glass of whiskey and water was making no dent on memories she desperately wanted to drown. “Who?” she said finally.
    “Randall Carter.”
    “You’re out of your mind,” she said flatly. “He’s a cold-blooded, arrogant bastard, with ice water in his veins. He’d sell his own mother if the price was right.”
    Kate roused herself enough to peer at her older sister. “You figured all that out in the space of an hour? You’re a quick judge of character.”
    Maggie decided to go on the attack. “I figured out I like Caleb McAllister in less time than that.”
    Kate’s mouth thinned into an angry line. “You’re welcome to him.”
    “And you’re welcome to Randall Carter.”
    “There’s no comparison,” Kate shot back.
    “Isn’t there?”
    There was a long silence as the two sisters stared at each other. “I don’t think we need to be obscure,” Kate said finally. “Our situation is difficult enough without talking at cross-purposes. Does Randall Carter mean something to