Twilight Whispers Read online

  She wasn’t the only one with that idea. The children were already in the water when she arrived and the skeletal contingent of parental lifeguards was being supplemented by the minute.

  Stretching flat on her back on a lounge chair, she closed her eyes and reveled in the healing warmth of the sun, feeling further from the frenetic pace of her life in New York than she ever had before. The outdoor sounds—the gulls, children, the breeze in the trees, more faintly the ocean—were calming, reassuring, restorative. She took them all in, letting her body relax and her mind free itself of thought. She was nearly asleep when a warm hand curled around her shoulder and gently shook her.

  She opened one eye to find Jordan hunkered down beside her. “You’ll burn,” he teased. “Either that or you’ll miss all the fun.”

  Had she not been in such a lethargic state, she would have recognized the mischievous gleam in his eye. But before she could fully rouse herself, he swept her up, strode the few steps necessary and tossed her into the pool. The last thing she saw before she submerged was his broad grin, and it was such a relief from the grimness of the past day that she had to muster every resource she possessed to resurface looking angry.

  “Jordan Whyte!” she sputtered, tossing her hair back from her face as she bobbed with her head above water. “You are impossible! I could have drowned! What kind of example is that to set for these children?”

  Still grinning, he gave a boyish shrug, then dove smoothly into the water. Knowing him well, Katia headed for the side of the pool, but he caught her short of it. He tugged on her ankle and dragged her under again, then worked his way up her body so that when they resurfaced she was in his arms.

  “Too slow, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “You’ll have to work on that.”

  “You’re an imp,” she scolded, but her arms and legs were wrapped around him and she felt unduly happy. He was strong, easily keeping them both afloat, and he was handsome, with his hair streaming into his eyes and his broad shoulders bobbing on the surface.

  For an instant his arms tightened around her and his expression sobered. Then, as quickly, whatever it was that passed through his mind was gone as small arms began to tug at him from behind.

  “Play with us, Uncle Jordan! We wanna to be thrown, too!” It was Tommy, Laura’s youngest, and he and three other children were suddenly paddling around them in the water.

  Releasing Katia, he submerged, then came up with a squealing Tommy on his shoulders. Twisting, he grasped the boy firmly by the bottom and shot him up and into the water. By the time Katia had reached the side of the pool and hitched herself out, he was rocketing a second child from his shoulders.

  She watched, smiling, thinking that Jordan would make a wonderful father, wondering why he wasn’t one already. Then her smile faded and her thoughts deepened. Climbing back to her lounge chair, she hugged her knees to her chest and continued to watch the play, but she was recalling the way Jordan had held her such a short time before, and she grew aware of a gnawing ache deep inside. It worsened when, laughingly crying for mercy, Jordan hauled himself from the pool. The thick muscles of his shoulders flexed. When he straightened, she saw nothing but the way his dark body hair clung to his bronzed chest, his flat stomach, his legs and the way his suit molded that part of him that propriety demanded be covered. All too well she remembered how naturally her thighs had circled those lean hips.

  Her eyes climbed upward, over his body, and met his. She looked quickly away, then flipped over, stretched out on her stomach and closed her eyes. Even then she felt Jordan’s approach, felt him lower himself beside her.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” he said softly.

  She kept her eyes closed. “Do what?”

  “Look at me that way.”

  “What way?”

  “You know what way,” he chided gruffly.

  She shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’re a gorgeous man. You must be used to covetous stares.”

  “They’re hard to handle when they come from you.”

  “Why?” she asked, perversely wanting to goad him on. “Am I that different from other women?”

  “Yes! You’re—”

  “What’s this?” The intruding voice belonged to Emily, who was dropping her towel onto a nearby chair. “Is it a private conference or can anybody join in?”

  Peter, who had come out to join his wife, Sally, moments before, sat forward. “If it’s a family tête-à-tête, I’m game. Are we discussing Mark and Deborah, or have we pretty much chalked them off?”

  “Shut up, Peter,” Jordan growled as he rose and pulled up his own chair.

  Laura, who had been sitting nearby with a drink in her hand, turned her visor-shaded eyes their way, as did Anne, whose husband was busy entertaining the children on the far side of the pool.

  Katia had been desperately curious to know what Jordan had been about to say when they were interrupted, but she realized that the moment was gone. So she rolled over and sat up, adjusting the back of her lounge chair accordingly.

  “Maybe we should discuss them,” Peter went on, ignoring Jordan’s warning. “After all, they’re why we’re here.”

  “That’s a dour view.” Laura swirled the scotch in her glass. “We would have come up here at some point anyway. It’s been awhile since we’ve all been together.”

  Anne agreed. “Laura’s right. I feel like I’m totally out of touch with what you’ve all been doing.”

  “You’re out of touch because you’re all but married to the Whyte Estate,” Peter countered. “How can you be a wife, much less a mother, when you’ve got your nose in corporate affairs all the time?”

  “I manage,” Anne said, not without a trace of defensiveness. “But you’re a fine one to talk. How much time can you possibly spend with Sally and the kids when you’re either in that posh office of yours pulling strings on the phone, outside some courtroom facing the press on behalf of one client or another, or at a political fundraiser spreading good will?”

  “I do what I have to do,” was Peter’s smooth reply, “and Sally understands.”

  “Well, my Mark understands, too. And, besides, he’s as busy as I am. As for Amanda, it’s the quality of time I spend with her that matters, not the quantity.”

  “Ahh,” Peter sighed. “Quality over quantity. The credo of the working woman.”

  Jordan, who felt that Peter’s sarcasm was unnecessary, though predictable, cocked his head to the side. “I respect you, Anne. It can’t be easy juggling everything.”

  Anne pulled a face. “There are times when I want to chuck the whole thing, but then what would I do? I can’t imagine spending my life waiting for Mark to come home, like Mom does for Dad. Or living solely for times like these when we can be together for a few days.”

  “Which brings us back to my original point,” Peter injected. “I don’t know about you guys, but I sure as hell want to know what happened with Mark and Deborah. I’m not ready to buy suicide, which leaves us with murder.”

  “Christ, Peter—”

  “That’s blunt—”

  “For God’s sake—”

  Peter was undaunted. “There’s no point in beating around the bush. We’ve all thought the same things. We’ve racked our brains trying to understand how Mark could have killed Deborah and then himself, and the pieces just don’t fit. Our fathers would very happily blame it on factions trying to cause a scandal that would weaken Gil’s chances of reelection next year.”

  Jordan shifted. “Far easier to blame it on someone else.”

  “You don’t think we should?”

  “I think we should, very definitely, but the fact remains that murder is easier to swallow than suicide, which would be a reflection on us all.”

  “I don’t feel guilty about anything,” Peter claimed.

  Emily snorted. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Guilt isn’t the issue,” Jordan went on, “if we’re talking murder. But even there we’re practically without clues. There was a
side to Mark and Deborah’s life…” he hesitated and his eyes grew troubled, “that none of us knew all that well. We can speculate, I suppose.…”

  “Drugs,” Anne offered.

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “Money,” Peter threw out. “If Mark needed it badly and was stupid enough to approach the wrong people—”

  “Why would he ever do that?” Laura demanded. “He could have come to us!” She raised her scotch and took a healthy swallow.

  “He did,” Anne softly, “and we didn’t listen.”

  Laura seemed shocked for a minute. “Well, he didn’t come to me.”

  “Would you have helped him?”

  “I … maybe. I don’t know. Donald was never wild about Mark’s schemes.”

  Peter nodded. “Wise man.”

  “Was he that badly in need of money?” Emily asked.

  “Probably.”

  “I thought he was making it.”

  “Not enough.”

  “But even if Mark did go to the wrong people, it still wouldn’t make sense,” Laura picked up, bewildered. “Why would someone kill him for money? A dead man never repays his debts.”

  “His estate does,” Peter advised, “if they’re legitimate debts.”

  Katia frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense either, because if someone like Mark went so far as to borrow money, there couldn’t have been much of anything in his estate.”

  “What about Deborah?” Emily asked. “We’ve been assuming it was Mark who had the problem. Maybe Deborah had the nasty connections.”

  Even as she said it, the others were shaking their heads. Jordan expressed their views. “No. I just can’t see it in Deborah. Mark was the leader; she followed.”

  “Maybe it was a woman,” Peter suggested. “Mark had his share of affairs. Maybe he and Deborah were involved in a bitter love triangle.”

  Jordan arched a skeptical brow his way. “A woman who expertly stole onto the boat and killed both of them without a fight from one or the other?”

  “Maybe they were sleeping.”

  But Jordan was shaking his head again. “Whoever did this—if there was, in fact, a third party—was an experienced killer, and I doubt a lover would be that.”

  “What about a male lover?” Anne proposed, but Laura quickly nixed the idea.

  “Deborah wouldn’t have taken a lover. She adored Mark.”

  “Maybe Mark had the male lover,” Emily countered. She offered the comment with a crooked smile, but it held the group somber and silent for a moment.

  Finally Peter grunted. “That shows where you’re coming from. The theatrical world is a hotbed of homosexuality.”

  Anne winced. “Lousy pun.”

  “And inapt,” Emily argued. “It’s just that gays are more open in the theatrical world, a world which, by the way, Mark was involved in. So what about a male lover?”

  Jordan had known his brother well enough—on that score, at least—to answer for him. “No. Mark was a ladies’ man all the way.”

  “Deborah should have taken a lover,” Laura reflected in a digression from her earlier thoughts. “God only knows Mark wasn’t faithful, and there are plenty of attractive and available men where they were.”

  Peter eyed her speculatively. “You sound envious. I can’t believe there’s trouble on your home front. Donald is as moral as they get.”

  Which, totally apart from the sexual, could be very boring, Katia thought to herself. Though she respected Donald, she had never considered him an exciting person.

  “Donald is fine, and there isn’t any trouble at home,” Laura insisted. “But when something like this happens, it gets you thinking about your own mortality, about things you might do differently if you were to live your life over again.” Normally the most reserved of the group, Laura’s tongue had been somewhat loosened by liquor.

  “What would you do?” Katia asked, intrigued.

  Laura took a deep breath, then looked at the others with a scotch-bred boldness. “I’d have played around a little before I got married. No, don’t look at me that way, Peter. I’m human. And female. If I were to do it all over again, I’d have experimented to my heart’s content before I settled down.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Because times were different when I graduated from college, and the only thing I wanted to do then was to be a good wife and mother.”

  “There’s something to be said for that,” Katia replied. “It may be that you’re glamorizing the singles scene—a case of the grass being greener in the other fellow’s yard.”

  “Uh-oh,” Peter teased. “Having second thoughts about having dumped Sean?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “But you sound like you want a husband and babies,” he added.

  “Eventually,” she said without shame. She avoided any visual contact with Jordan by turning her attention to Emily. “What do you think, Em? You’ve been part of the singles scene. Is it all it’s cracked up to be?”

  Emily gave a naughty smile. “It’s not for everyone, but I’m not complaining.”

  “Hey.” Peter looked around. “Where is what’s-his-name, anyway?”

  “Andrew is out jogging.”

  “Ahh. Good. Nothing like keeping the old—uh, young—bod in shape. Where did you pick him up, anyway?”

  “Not that it’s your business, but we were introduced by a mutual friend.”

  “What happened to the other one—was it Jared?”

  “Jared,” Emily sighed peacefully, “is gone with the wind, which is just as well,” she sobered, “because he was a parasite. No guts, much less drive. I swear I could have strangled him at times.”

  “Which brings us back to square one,” Peter announced. “Mark and Deborah. Murder.” He tugged at his ear. “I can’t help but wonder what the police are going to come up with.”

  “Getting nervous?” Emily taunted. “Afraid that something will come out to tarnish your good name?”

  Sally sat straighter. “Peter can stand on his own merits, regardless of what comes out,” she said in defense of her husband.

  “Then what’s he afraid of?” Anne asked, meeting Peter’s gaze.

  Peter gave an arrogant shift of his shoulders. “I’m not afraid of anything. I’m just curious. That’s all. Wouldn’t you like to know what really happened? Mark was your brother.”

  “And Deborah your sister,” Anne returned. “Face it. They were both a little spacey.”

  Jordan, who had been somberly, if silently, following the conversation, suddenly sprawled in his chair, stretching his legs forward and tucking his fingertips under the lycra band at his hips. “It’s interesting … family dynamics. What made them the way they were, while the rest of us are so different?”

  “Are we?” Emily asked with a smirk. “Maybe we’re all a little odd.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Laura warned.

  “Okay, I will.” She tipped up her chin. “I’m odd.”

  Peter nodded. “I’ll say. You were always the emotive one. What are you working on now, Em? Still off-Broadway?”

  “I like being off-Broadway. Some of the most interesting shows start that way.”

  He persisted. “But wouldn’t you rather be in the big time? You know, top billing at a top theater, your name in lights, center stage when it comes time for the final bows?”

  “That’s your ego talking, Peter,” Jordan pointed out.

  “And you have no ego?” Peter shot back, but Emily had her own answer ready and wasn’t about to miss her chance to deliver it.

  “I like being where I am. There’s adulation on any stage, and I’m satisfied to work my way slowly to the top. Maybe I’m odd in that, too, because you’re all such overachievers. But I’m achieving in my own way.”

  Peter clearly enjoyed taunting her. “Too bad Mark didn’t live to produce that artsy film of his. He might have given you a starring role.”

  “No, thank you,” she responded, her eyes
flashing. “I wouldn’t have worked with Mark for all the tea in China, not after the charming comments he made about my acting ability last time I saw him.”

  “He said you’d do fine under his direction,” Peter teased.

  “I’m doing fine now.”

  “An actress,” Laura mused somewhat wistfully. “None of us tried that.”

  “Which is maybe why I did. Coming after all of you, I had to do something different.”

  “I understand completely,” Jordan offered in the driest of tones.

  “Ahh, the baby of the Whytes, out to make good on his own,” Peter commented, but without rancor. He and Jordan were close in age, and although they had often been rivals as boys, the fact that they had gone in different directions as adults helped preserve their friendship. “Well, you’ve done it. I have to hand you that. What is it this week—a polo team? A newspaper conglomerate? Hey, now there’s an idea. If you owned a paper you’d be able to control the news. By the way, how can you manage to take the time off from all that to get up here? Aren’t you afraid someone will steal a super deal from under your nose?”

  Coming from an outsider, such sarcasm would have set Jordan off. But he was more mellow with his family than with others. “I believe in delegating authority,” he answered, then gave a devilish smile. “I mean, I am the authority, but the people under me are loyal enough to carry it out. They know what I want done. If there’s a problem while I’m here, they’ll call.”

  “I’m envious,” Laura confessed. “I wish Donald’s profession allowed him that luxury. Then he’d have more time to spend with us.”

  Katia was thinking about the many ways in which Laura’s life paralleled her mother Lenore’s when Emily verbalized similar thoughts. “You really should do something about that, Laura. Make him take time off. He should be with you more. Mother may be too old to change Dad, but you’re not too old to change Donald.”

  “It’s Donald’s career, just like it was Dad’s,” Laura said defensively. “And besides, Donald’s forty-six and I’m nearly forty-four. Maybe we’re both too old to change.”