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her, and she willed it away. It doesn’t matter anymore, she thought. Kyle was a mutilated corpse lying on cold steel in the morgue. She won’t come between us again.
    “We’ll catch the guy who did this,” she said forcefully. “I’ve got police units working around the clock on it.”
    McFarlin nodded. His cocoa brown skin had a slight sheen, as if polished, and she remembered how the feel of it could drive her mad with desire. She tried to make her voice sound sincere. “My heart goes out to Kyle’s family.”
    He barked out a laugh. “That jackass Jack Cameron? Don’t waste your time. And you know your pal Alexandra isn’t sorry.”
    Chellie counted silently to ten. She was not going to lose her temper, even though all she wanted was to scream at him, throw something, and kick the bastard between his muscular legs. She was glad—yes, glad!—to know that there was one less female on her sex-addicted husband’s radar screen. She wanted to yell that she wasn’t sorry Kyle was murdered, but he would never forgive her for that, and if she had any prayer of winning him back, she had to stay calm.
    Instead she grabbed her clutch and forced herself to smile. “Not to change the subject, but I’m happy you’re coming to this dinner, Foster. This is the perfect demographic for me.” Indeed, the wealthy donors to the Trust for Public Lands were exactly the voters Chellie needed to court if she were going to sew up the gubernatorial nomination come fall.
    “Glad to be of service.” Foster let out a breath of air and regarded his wife. Her gown was stunning: light lilac against her pale skin and golden blonde hair, thin straps that showed off her toned arms and torso, a clingy material that made her look like the knockout she was.
    “You look good, Chellie. Real good. Your lunch—how did it go?”
    She ignored his question and made a motion with her hand. “Dammit, Foster, we’ve got to fly.” Chellie Howe hated to be late for anything, especially when she was the one giving the keynote address.
    They hustled out the door and into the hushed hallway where a petite brunette with a pixie-looking face and severely short haircut hovered by the elevator. “Take the stairs,” Chellie snapped at her press secretary, and Mindy Jackson turned with a resigned look on her face and did as she was told.
    As Chellie and Foster waited for the elevator, Foster turned to her with a rueful look on his face.
    “The whole place’s covered in blood,” he said.
    Chellie’s temper flared. Enough was enough. She was just about to reply when Foster shook his head and continued. “It’s gonna be impossible to sell that unit, and now the whole place will be under a cloud. Christ, I’ll have to give those Esperanza Shores condos away.”
    The elevator arrived and its doors slid open. Foster ushered her in and Chellie bit back a smile. Her husband hadn’t changed after all. His lover was lying in the morgue with more holes in her body than a pincushion, but his thoughts were on the salability of his precious condominiums.
    “You know,” she said lightly, “Kyle’s murder may win you some sympathy down the line in court. We’ll have to think about the best way to present it.” She was referring to the growing number of lawsuits filed against her husband’s company by irate investors in his multiple real estate developments, most of which had now tanked in the soured economy.
    He nodded, handsome and confident no matter what the situation. “God knows I could use a little sympathy,” he muttered.
    She was glad she had kept her cool, glad they were nearly at the dinner where she would charm the pants off the room. She allowed herself a secret smirk as the elevator doors opened into the hallway. Foster McFarlin still needed her. She was in charge, and that was just the way Chellie Howe liked it.
    _____
    Helen ran a hand through her short silver hair. She poured Darby a glass of Chardonnay and sank into a chair. “What a