The Heiress's 2-Week Affair. Marie Ferrarella
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and withdrew, moving as silently as a shadow.
Harold, his back to her, was alone in the room. When he turned around, she was struck by how drawn he looked. His hand was wrapped tightly around a chunky scotch glass. The glass was almost empty.
Her first thought was that something had happened with the eye candy he referred to as his third wife. Had she been a lesser woman, she might have secretly gloated at the thought. But Anna was made of better stuff than that, and she found her heart aching for him, aching despite the fact that he had been less than kind during the final days of their marriage.
“All right, Harold, I’m here,” she declared, crossing to him. Removing her wrap, she carefully draped it over the back of the cream-colored leather sofa. “What’s the big emergency that couldn’t wait until morning?”
On his best day, Harold Rothchild was never one of those men who exuded power. What power he had he inherited from a father who had been almighty, leaving no room for a son to emerge and become his own man, even if he was handsome enough to turn a few heads. All his life, Harold had searched for a way to do that, to become his own man. Years after Joseph Rothchild’s death, Harold was still searching.
Draining his glass, he placed it on the desk and cleared his throat before finally giving her an answer. He felt a tightness in his chest. “It’s gone.”
He wasn’t making any sense, and there was panic evident in his blue eyes. Anna put her hand on her ex-husband’s, as if to silently reassure him that she was there for him. “What’s gone, Harold?”
“The ring.” His voice seemed to crackle with the stress he was experiencing. “My father’s ring. The Tears of the Quetzal. Candace kept asking me questions about it. When she asked to see it, I said no. I thought she’d get angry, but she just said, ‘All right.’ After she left, I had this feeling that something was wrong,” he confessed, almost talking to himself. “So I went to the safe to look at it—and it was gone,” he wailed. “And now something bad is going to happen. I can feel it. Something awful.”
Anna didn’t follow him, but then, Harold had always been secretive when it came to the ring and its origins. All she had ever gotten out of him was that, in the right hands, it brought true love to its owner within sixty seconds. In the wrong hands, dire things came to pass. Personally, she’d always thought it was all just empty talk, something to glorify the ring, nothing more. She’d only seen it once herself, and it was far too gaudy for her taste.
“Worse than the ring disappearing?” she asked.
Harold seemed to go pale right in front of her eyes. A line of sweat formed on his forehead. He sounded almost breathless when he said, “Much worse.”
Natalie Rothchild felt sick to her stomach. It took all she had to keep the light breakfast down that she’d consumed this morning.
After working her way up within the Las Vegas Police Department to the rank of detective in a relatively short amount of time, there weren’t many things that still got to her. She’d learned to harden herself, to separate herself from her work. She kept a firm, if imaginary, line drawn in the sand for herself. Her professional life was not allowed to cross over into her personal life—what little there was of it.
Natalie was well aware that if she began to take her work home with her, she would burn out within six months—the way Sid Northrop, one of the homicide detectives on the force when she’d first joined it, had.
But this was different. This was personal. And she hadn’t been summoned to the scene because it was personal. She’d come because she’d overheard the dispatch put the call out on the police scanner. According to the information, a hysterical nanny had come home with her two charges only to find the children’s mother dead on the living room floor. Natalie was about to ignore it because two other detectives were being called in to handle the homicide and God knew she had enough on her plate already without being Johnny-on-the-spot for yet another murder.
But the address that the dispatch rattled off stopped her cold. The address belonged to Candace.
A wave of fear mingled with disbelief washed over her. Her hands felt icy as she held onto the steering wheel. Even though she and her sister lived in two different worlds and didn’t interact, she still felt an obligation to keep tabs on Candace. Her twin sister had cotton candy for brains, not to mention that Candace’s self-esteem was like a giant champagne bucket with a hole in the bottom. She seemed in desperate need of adulation and found it living her life on the wild side.
If anyone needed a keeper, it was Candace. And even though they no longer had anything in common but blood, Natalie secretly had appointed herself her sister’s protector, keeping Candace out of harm’s way whenever she possibly could.
Damn, but she’d really dropped the ball this time, Natalie upbraided herself grimly.
In Candace’s condo now, she fought back anguished tears as she looked down at her sister’s battered face and body. The room looked like a battlefield, and Candace was lying on the floor next to the marble coffee table, her limbs spread out in a grotesque, awkward fashion like a cartoon character that hadn’t been drawn correctly. The scarlet dress that Candace had undoubtedly paid a fortune for accented the pool of blood that encircled her head lying on the ivory rug.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a gruff voice behind her admonished.
She blinked twice, banishing her tears before she glanced over her shoulder at Adam Parker, one of the two detectives who had been called in.
“Yeah, well, neither should she,” Natalie bit off angrily. Reaching out, she adjusted the right side of the front of Candace’s dress to cover her exposed breast.
“Hey, you know better than to touch anything,” Miles Davidson, the other detective, pointed out, crossing over to her.
Yes, she knew better. But this was her sister, and at least in death, Candace needed a little respect.
“I just wanted to cover her,” Natalie answered quietly, rising to her feet. It didn’t matter that, at one time or another, half of Vegas had probably seen Candace naked; she didn’t want this being the final impression those processing the scene came away with. Taking a cleansing breath, Natalie looked over toward Parker, the older and far more heavyset of the two detectives. “What have you got?”
His frustrated expression answered before he did. “You got here fifteen minutes after we did. Nothing so far,” he replied somberly. “The ME can answer a few basic questions for us once he gets her on the table.” Natalie continued to look at him expectantly. The ME had been on the scene when she arrived. Parker exhaled sharply. “Right now, it looks like time of death was around eight, maybe nine o’clock last night. We looked around and robbery doesn’t seem to have been a motive. Nothing’s been taken.” He pointed toward Candace’s throat. “She’s still wearing a diamond necklace.” A weary sigh escaped his lips. “Judging by her bruises and the state of this room, I’d say this was personal.”
Squatting down again, Natalie looked at her twin’s right hand. Last night, while heating up a frozen dinner, she’d kept the TV on for background noise. A program devoted to fawning over celebrities had been on, and they had gushed over live film clips from the gala in progress at The Janus.
She hadn’t been surprised to see Candace on camera. Candace had a penchant for showing up anywhere that a camera was rolling. What had surprised her was that her twin was flashing the Tears of the Quetzal, holding it up for the camera to capture. Natalie knew for a fact that her father kept the ring under lock and key, refusing even to allow any of them to see it, much less flaunt it in public.
How had Candace managed to get it away from their father?
And who had taken it off Candace’s finger?
“The ring’s gone,” she told Parker quietly.
“Ring? What ring?” Davidson blinked, suddenly looking more alert.
Parker didn’t need to ask. Natalie knew he was already aware of