Colton's Mistaken Identity. Geri Krotow
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subsequent request to spend time with her had ignited earlier today. Which was a shame, because it truly was a lovely way to move through the day. As she answered the more rudimentary festival questions, a separate part of her mind realized her sister must have this kind of feeling all the time. That a man she was attracted to was truly interested in her and wanted to get to know her better. Phoebe could certainly get used to it.
Once she wrapped up the press conference, she took a few minutes to stop in Skye’s room to find costume jewelry, accessories and maybe some clothes that were definitely more Skye than Phoebe. She had half an hour before the red carpet event.
The red carpet scene would be tougher for her than the press conference. Answering questions for which she usually prepped the answers for Skye had been doable, even if she was nervous about behaving like her twin. However, facing international celebrities and engaging them with small talk was Phoebe’s idea of a fiery hell.
Stop.
It was downright childish and self-serving to be so dramatic over all of this. The Chateau needed her; the Colton empire needed all hands on deck. Skye had pulled an ugly stunt by not returning in time for the gala, but at least Phoebe and their mother knew she was okay. Skye wouldn’t lie in a text to her twin, would she?
A prickle of warning skittered over her nape as she stood at Skye’s vanity and chose one of her sister’s more glittery sets. Not full-on twin warning radar, but the feeling she was being watched. She looked over her shoulder toward the open cathedral window that was her favorite part about their in-resort apartments. Both she and Skye had matching apartment suites, but they’d decorated them quite differently. Skye had gone for a very upscale, gilded, Louis XIV look, while Phoebe’s apartment was more relaxed with modern touches. “Colorado chic” was what she liked to call it. Skye referred to it as “something our grandmother would love.” Phoebe missed Skye’s constant teasing. It was how they often showed their deep affection for one another. She could use some sisterly love to help her get through the next several hours, possibly the next week.
Of course, if Skye were here, Phoebe would be happily engrossed with the production and guest services end of the festival. It wouldn’t matter what shade of lip gloss or eye shadow she wore.
The view of the mountains was unsurpassed even by the extensive terraces that surrounded the majestic Chateau. A summer breeze puffed the sheers that hung from the rods with French provincial finials, bringing the scent of Skye’s potted jasmine into the room. The French doors onto her small but well-used terrace were closed. Walking to the door to open it, Phoebe chided herself for being so edgy. It had to be a combination of playing her role as Skye and the scary murders that had tragically touched her family with Sabrina’s death.
But when she reached to unhitch the hook at the top of the door, it was already unfastened. Phoebe pushed open the door and stepped in bare feet onto the stone-paved terrace, checking to see if Skye’s chaise, small side table and several potted plants were as she’d last seen them this afternoon, when she’d been here to pick out some clothes and jewelry.
When she saw Skye’s potted jasmine was crushed on one side, and a smear of dirt drawn on the mortar railing, a cold rush of fear ran over her scalp and down to her toes.
Taking the few steps forward, she saw the imprint of feet on the soft lawn not more than six feet below. Someone had been in Skye’s room and exited via the terrace, but why? And who? And had they been in her apartment, too?
It could be Skye.
Skye was pulling a doozy on Phoebe and Mara, but if she was back in Roaring Springs she’d help with the festival, wouldn’t she?
Phoebe checked the terrace more thoroughly before she returned inside and shut the door. She’d have to ask about getting a dead bolt—on both of their patio doors. In all the years her family had lived in The Chateau, she’d never felt the least bit afraid for her safety. Mara had been vigilant, though, and always kept Phoebe and Skye away from the public and guest eyes as needed.
She walked into her sister’s closet, a luxurious feature they both relished, and stepped out of Skye’s dressy business suit that she’d borrowed earlier and dressed in the T-shirt and drawstring shorts she’d left behind on a small dressing bench. Wearing Skye’s business clothing helped her play the part to a T in front of the press, but she wasn’t going to trade out her own evening wear, which was cut to fit her shape and more comfortable. Even though she was an avid runner, Phoebe’s curves were slightly fuller than her twin’s, and she’d always worn dresses that flattered her bust and hips. Skye’s clothes tended to flatten out her curvier features, plus the waists were a tad tight.
Phoebe reached up to take a sparkly wrap from the hangar on the back of the closet door and stopped when she saw a large sheet of cardboard, one of The Chateau’s desk blotters that was in each and every guest room, hanging by a thread over the gossamer shawl. In matte, bloodred lettering, a shade creepily similar to Skye’s lipstick, Stay Away from Him! was lettered in slanted print. The sign definitely hadn’t been here earlier when Phoebe had raided the closet for the suit.
“Stay away from whom?” She wanted to believe the scary message was some kind of prank that her sister had done, but Skye wasn’t here and had no idea that Prescott had asked her out. And while Skye was the definite extrovert and prankster between the two of them, she’d never done anything this frightening.
Besides, Skye would never waste a good lipstick on something so childish.
Someone else clearly had seen Phoebe with Prescott and wasn’t happy about it. But who could it be?
She gingerly unhooked the warning, and when she lowered the cardboard to the floor, she noticed a lipstick case, open, the stick of makeup ground into the carpet. Sure enough, it was one of Skye’s designer shades. Phoebe wasn’t a cop, but she knew she needed to call the head of hotel security. If it needed to be reported to the police or sheriff, they could pass it on.
Grabbing all that she needed from Skye’s room, Phoebe check to make sure no one was in the corridor that linked the residential apartments before she scurried to her room, careful to keep the cardboard message facing away from her so it wouldn’t smear. Once in her room, she placed the warning sign on her dining table and went through to her bedroom and into her closet to change.
Call Security now.
But if she called the security officer, he’d tell her parents, then Mara would find out and have a freak-out, the last thing they needed as the festival launched. She’d have to speak directly with security, They’d handle it discreetly and have dead bolts placed on their terrace French doors.
Melancholy gripped her as she fumbled to zip her halter-style sparkly pink gown. In such a short time, her happy, secure life The Chateau in Roaring Springs had taken a serious nosedive. All because of a cold-blooded murderer who’d snuffed out Sabrina’s life so horrifically.
Her first instinct was to find Skye and talk out her feelings. While Phoebe always had a sense of being in Skye’s public shadow, she could trust her twin with her life and heart. Sadness slammed the thought back as she remembered Skye wasn’t here.
“You’d better get back here, Skye.” She spoke to the empty room as she added more powder to her face and made certain the false eyelashes weren’t going to fall off in the middle of her red carpet interviews.
Prescott Reynolds was going to be there, in a tuxedo and smiling his killer trademark grin. And instead of being behind the backdrop with an earpiece and clipboard, making sure it all flowed perfectly, she’d be the one interviewing him.
Playing her twin sister had its perks.
* * *
It was as if a dozen separate orbs of sunlight edged the red carpet that ran across The Chateau’s circular drive, up the stone stairs to the expansive landing and circled to the front entrance doors. The bright lights that were brought in by an event production tech group from Denver each year were the definition of blinding.
Phoebe longed for the familiarity of