Engaged to Die: A Death on Demand Mystery: 14 (Death on Demand Mystery's) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the author of twenty previous Death on Demand novels. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. She is also the creator of the Henrie O series, featuring a retired reporter, and the Bailey Ruth series, starring an impetuous, redheaded ghost. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City.

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Excerpt

Chapter One

"We always go to Saint Thomas in January." Irenelifted a thin dark eyebrow. "If it weren't for Virginia,we'd be there now."

Carl stared into her amber eyes, looked quicklyaway. Those eyes - they reminded him uncomfortablyof a cat watching a bird, remorseless, predatory, unfathomable.He focused on the coffeepot, a fine chinaone with pink roses twining around the spout. Hewatched the clear black stream of coffee, strong, hot,nerve-stretching, pour into his cup. Because of his diabeteshe permitted himself only a half cup everymorning, no cream, no sugar. He wished with a quickbitterness that he could as easily control his appetitesin every sphere. Including Irene. But no matter how littleshe cared - and sometimes it seemed to him thatshe made her disdain for him more apparent everyday - he knew he would never leave her, that he woulddo what she wished, when she wished. What was herfascination? It wasn't her beauty, though her dark hairhad the sheen of midnight and her almond-shaped eyesand smooth creamy skin and sultry mouth inflamedhim. Right this moment he wanted her with a hungerthat was painful. But her attraction was more thanbeauty and passion. There was an aura of recklessness about her that held infinite allure. Funny, he'd alwaysbeen such a cautious man ... He took a sip of coffee.The hot liquid burned his tongue.

"Wouldn't we?" It was a taunt. She held out oneperfectly manicured hand, glanced at the shining rednails, turning her hand this way and that.

"Irene" - his tone was harsh - "I can't swing it thisyear."

Her gaze lifted from her hand. Cold eyes stared athim. "It's that bad?"

"You know what's been happening. The money'sgone." He looked through the shining glass of their privateupstairs sitting room at the magnificent sweep ofthe courtyard. Water bubbled cheerfully in both fountains.Winter-bare rosebushes filled the formal beds inthe terrace. When Dad was alive and footing the bill,there'd been a full-time gardener. If no one trimmedand spruced, they'd have a burgeoning wilderness bysummer. God, everything cost so much. Now he worriedwhether he could afford the taxes. He'd beenpleased several years ago when his father decided todeed the house to him, on the proviso, of course, thatSusan and Rusty would always have their own wing.Now, the huge Italian-style villa was as burdensome astrying to heft an elephant. Maybe Virginia ... Hedidn't want to ask Virginia. Not if he could help it. Thehouse was his, the only property actually in his name.Everything else, including the gallery, belonged to her.But the taxes ... Beyond the terrace was the point,much of it screened by pines and palmettos. Hecouldn't see the ruins of the old fort from the window,but he knew that once conquering Union troops hadbustled about, stood by their guns, ready to engage theConfederate forces trying to regain the island. So long ago. The island families that had created fortunes fromsea cotton lost everything then. Their world changed.But the world was always changing. Battle, pestilence,and sudden death. Good Lord deliver us ....

"You aren't listening to me!" The words were flungtoward him, sharp as barbs catching a bull's flank.

Carl felt the beginnings of a headache. He'd had alot of headaches lately. Who wanted to buy paintingsnow? If he didn't come up with at least twenty thousandin a couple of weeks, the gallery would have to gointo bankruptcy. It would have broken Dad's heart.Would Virginia help? Surely she would. But to Virginiatwenty thousand dollars sounded like a fortune.She still had a substantial amount of cash. Dad had believedin cash. If she were fearful - and so many werefearful now - would she see it as throwing goodmoney after bad? If she didn't help ... Who wouldever have believed that the Neville Gallery could godown? It was a solid business, catering to rich vacationersand to the well-heeled retirees who'd settled onthe South Carolina sea island of Broward's Rock to escapeharsh northern winters. They still had money, butthe days of free spending for luxuries were gone. Ifonly he'd been more cautious when times were good.He'd put all he earned from the gallery into stocks.He'd bought more on margin. Dad always warnedagainst buying on margin.

Only a year ago, he and Irene had been rich enoughto do anything, go anywhere. That was over. He'd hadto borrow to make good. Money was due now on thenotes. If Irene knew just how little money they had ...

"I want to go to Saint Thomas." She tossed downher napkin, pushed back her chair. She rose gracefully,lithe and athletic, stopping at the breakfast room door to flash the enigmatic smile that had held him in thrallsince the day they met. "You'll find a way, Carl. Iknow you will."

"Maybe we should tell Virginia to stick it. Just notshow up. The damn gall of her having the damn partyat the gallery at the same time as the Mackey opening."Rusty shoved a hand through his hair, now a faded red,nothing like the flaming thatch he'd had when Susanfirst met him. His charm had attracted her, and the Hollywoodboy-next-door appeal of his broad open freckledface. And just like Hollywood, it was all show andno substance. Oh, he was charming still, but now therewas often an undercurrent of petulance when theywere alone. In public, he was always a pukka sahib,perfectly attired in a navy polo shirt, chinos, cordovanloafers ...

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Engaged to Dieby Hart, Carolyn G. Excerpted by permission.
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