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  Alexandra froze as a photograph of an ornate iron cemetery gate, stark against a wet sky, appeared. “The burial at Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown was private, at the request of the family.”

  A discreet knock on the hotel room door broke into her thoughts. The housekeeper? As she reached to turn down the volume, she heard the reporter’s final words.

  “Just hours before the funeral, ET learned that there are still many questions and unsubstantiated rumors swirling around Evangeline Rhodes’ death. Why would she go to Maryland’s Great Falls Park after dark, when the park was closed? Why does the Coroner’s office refuse to confirm a report of death by drowning? Was her death accidental - or deliberate? Tomorrow night we’ll air an ET exclusive with the detectives who...”

  Deliberate? Alexandra’s stomach clutched as she stared at the terrible photograph that filled the screen.

  It was a yellow-taped crime scene image of a narrow, rain-swept wooden bridge just steps above the swirling Potomac River rapids. Half buried in the soaked leaves lay a single red high-heeled shoe.

  “Oh, God,” whispered Alexandra, punching the off button. Don’t think about Eve’s body by the river.

  She remembered the knock on the door as she reached for her nightgown. Crossing the carpet, she checked the view window, then cracked the chained door cautiously.

  The hallway was empty, but a narrow white box had been left on the Persian carpet. She retrieved the box and re-locked the door.

  “What on earth...”

  She gasped, flinging the box to the floor. A single rose scattered vibrant red petals across the pale carpet. A deep red rose, like blood on snow.

  He had been at the funeral. She fell to her knees, searching the spilled tissue, but there was no note. She reached out and dragged the telephone toward her.

  “This is Alexandra Marik in 312. I need to know who just delivered a flower box to my room.”

  No one on our staff, Madam.

  She dialed again, her fingers shaking and slick against the buttons.

  “Olivia? Liv, it’s Alexandra. Is Ruby all right?”

  Her breath came out in soft whoosh. “Thank God. But go check on her, will you? I’ll hold.”

  She moved restlessly to the window, looked down at the misted street.

  It was empty.

  Just breathe.

  The nanny’s voice spoke reassuringly in her ear and Alexandra sank into a chair. “You’re still at your brother’s place, right? Good, stay there. Ask him to check all the door and window locks again, will you?” She glanced at her watch. “I can catch the last Amtrak, be in New York in a few hours. I’ll call you as soon as I get there. Kiss Ruby for me.”

  Alexandra disconnected the call and reached for her suitcase.

  Thirty minutes later the elegant hotel room was empty. The crimson petals scattered across the carpet glimmered like drops of blood in the moonlight.

  CHAPTER 2

  “...within the shadow, keeping watch...”

  James Russell Lowell

  NEW YORK CITY

  3 DAYS LATER

  Something was wrong.

  An icy shiver washed over Alexandra’s skin. Uneasy, she searched the faces in the crowded art gallery.

  There, across the room. A shadow by the pillar. A tall silhouette. She closed her eyes, then looked once more. No one.

  Just breathe.

  A hand on her shoulder. She whirled.

  “Here you are, Dr. Marik! Why are you hiding back here in the shadows?” Alexandra’s assistant peered at her through owlish glasses as he guided her gently from behind a marble column.

  Alexandra stared at him. What would he think if she said, Because someone is watching me. I can feel his eyes on me right now. “You know I prefer to be behind the scenes,” she offered.

  “Not tonight, Madame Curator. The exhibit is a smashing success.” He handed her a full flute of champagne and gestured at the spinning glass mobiles high overhead. “Juxtaposing Modern Italian art against the Old Masters. Brilliant! Congratulations.”

  Once more her wary eyes swept the glittering opening-night crowd. So many places for a watchful stranger to hide…

  “Alexandra? Hello? Earth to Boss.” The young assistant touched her shoulder. “You look as if you’re somewhere else.” His eyes widened. “God, I’m sorry, I’ve been such an idiot. This has got to be so hard for you. Here I am going on and on about long-dead Italians, and it’s only been days since your sister’s funeral. Forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive, Ace. Honestly, it’s been good to be so busy these last few days.” She forced a smile. “From Masters to Mobiles is going to be our best exhibit yet.”

  “Until we open the St. Petersburg show.”

  “One opening at a time, please!” She was looking past him, distracted, searching the faces of the glamorous crowd. “One thousand years of Russian treasures to gather in three months... Oh, God, what were we thinking?”

  “Let’s worry about Mother Russia tomorrow, Scarlet. Tonight we’re all about Italy.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to believe we’re in New York City. You’ve transformed this place into a Venetian palace, Alexandra.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you, Ace.” Alexandra’s eyes swept the grand foyer of the Baranski Gallery and she took a deep breath, finally allowing herself to feel a sense of accomplishment. The last Titian had been coaxed into place at four o’clock. Now, with golden autumn leaves and dusky sky filling the tall windows facing East 77th Street, the turn-of-the-century New York mansion did indeed resemble a beautiful old palazzo on the Grand Canal.

  The high-ceilinged, Renaissance lobby glimmered with soft candlelight and women’s jewels. Costumed musicians lined the broad marble staircase, filling the hall with the pure sounds of Vivaldi. Glass display cases scattered among the antique furnishings shimmered with hammered gold, ancient lace and the exquisite, animal-faced masks of the Venice Carnival. On the soft grey walls, the Bellini and Cannaletto oils glowed as if they were alive.

  She gave her assistant a gentle push. “Now go and mingle with the tuxedos and dazzle them with your knowledge of the early Titians.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. You’ve earned this night, my friend. Make Titian proud.”

  “Ok, but I’ll be back to check on you. Ciao, Bella!”

  She watched him disappear into the crowd. As she looked out at the swirling sea of faces, she felt, once more, that someone was watching her.

  “Damn you!” she muttered under her breath, taking a step back. “Where are you? I know you’re here.”

  Could she be imagining those frightening watchful eyes? But she’d felt them on her at the funeral. Hadn’t she? And someone had delivered that single red rose to her hotel room. And yet, when she’d rushed back to New York, she’d found her daughter safe and peacefully asleep at her nanny’s family home in Queens, and all was well. No more break-ins, no sign of any threat at all.

  And yet…

  At least she was safe tonight - wasn’t she? - surrounded by the paintings she loved. Relax, she told herself, trying to steady her racing heartbeat. Everyone is concentrating on Italian art. No one is interested in you.

  She stepped back into the shadows with relief and forced herself to focus on the colorful, swirling scene in front of her. It had taken months to put this show together. Lighting was artfully positioned, walls were painted a soft grey to enhance the art, printed descriptions were placed at eye level, paintings were hung high enough for clustering crowds, but low enough for serious examination. And the last exhibit, of course, would empty into the gallery store, where The Venetians - from Masters to Mobiles catalogs were priced at a whopping $47.50.

  But the startling Venetian glass Mobiles were the true stars of the new exhibit. Huge glass shapes in azure and ruby and deep purple spun lazily over the heads of the guests, showering their faces with jeweled sparks of light. Mysterious, beautiful - and highly dramatic.

  You woul
d have loved it, Eve, she told her sister.

  Alexandra almost smiled. Her older sister would have been in her element. Eve would have waited, of course, until most of the guests had arrived. Then she would have made her usual grand entrance. Up there, on the balcony at the top of the high marble staircase.

  You always loved the high places, Eve.

  When every other woman in New York City wore black velvet on a cool autumn night, Eve would have appeared in bright scarlet - backless, of course - tossing her red-gold mane of hair like a lioness. And every eye would have been on her.

  Even in death, her sister’s presence was everywhere.

  Alexandra stared up at the empty balcony, then raised the still-full goblet of champagne with defiance.

  “To Evangeline Marik Rhodes,” she said. “And all we left unfinished.”

  She froze, glass halfway to her lips, as once more the eerie sensation of being watched brushed her skin.

  * * * *

  The man stood behind a marble pillar. Where had she gone?

  There.

  His blue eyes flared in the shadows as he gazed across the gallery at the stunning art curator.

  She stood framed in an archway, a slender slash of charcoal, eyes huge in a pale sculpted face, long bright hair glinting red in the candlelight. More beautiful than any oil painting in the gallery.

  He saw the tension in her face, the wariness in her body, as she scanned the guests. His stomach tightened with anticipation. He liked knowing that she felt his eyes on her.

  “You have something that belongs to me, Dr. Marik,” he said.

  * * * *

  Alexandra stepped back into the shadows. Damn! Nothing was the same anymore.

  She’d first glimpsed the icy blue eyes under a fringe of long wheat-colored hair, reflected in a store window near her apartment a few days before her sister’s death. Then the same unsettling pale blue stare a day later, just for an instant, as she hailed a cab. That night, she’d come home to find her lingerie scattered across the bedroom carpet. And the very next night, the frightening midnight phone message had come from Eve.

  “You could be in danger, Zan! I’ve hidden...” Static. Then, “Go to -” A gasp, a whispered word that sounded like “cliv.”

  Hidden what? Go where? Dramatic, drunken ravings.

  More static. And finally, “Help me, Zan!”

  Help me…

  Those were the last words she’d heard her sister say. Just hours later, the horrifying phone call had come from Eve’s husband, Anthony Rhodes.

  “Alexandra, there’s been a terrible accident. Brace yourself, my dear. Your sister is gone. Eve is dead.”

  “No, Anthony, no! Oh, God, no, please. Not my sister! Not Eve...”

  And everything had gone dark.

  Now she watched the glass globes of the mobiles spin above the gallery, changing shape and color as they caught light and shadow. Flamboyant, mysterious, secretive. Brightening and darkening. Like Eve.

  Help me, Zan. But she hadn’t.

  “Alexandra?”

  Startled, she spun around.

  Her assistant was scowling down at her. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Boss.”

  “Good grief! Don’t sneak up on person like that.”

  “Sorry. I just thought you’d prefer this to champagne.” He held out a large coffee container. “High test, direct from Zabar’s. I know how much you despise our hazelnut decaf.”

  “Espresso! Bless you!” She handed him the still-full champagne glass, curved her hands around the hot container and drank deeply.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Alexandra? You’re desperately pale.”

  Just tell him. “I know it’s my imagination, Ace, but - I’ve just had this feeling all week that someone is watching me.” She gave an uncertain smile. “You must think I’m certifiable. Why would anyone be keeping watch on me?”

  “Not your imagination, Boss. Someone is watching you, right now.”

  She felt the color drain from her face.

  “Hey! Joke, Madame Curator! I meant our Mobile artist-du-jour. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. “So our artist is gorgeous, brilliant, eccentric - and single! But I’m pushing 42, Ace, I could be his mother... and the last thing I need right now is a man. Tonight I just want Thai take-out and a rousing hour of Dr. Seuss with Ruby.”

  “Ah. And how is La Belle Ruby?”

  “Beautiful as ever.” Except that my daughter spends more time with her nanny than with me. “Thank God for Olivia. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  “You just need that vacation, Boss.”

  Alexandra swallowed the last of the espresso, turned to her assistant and nodded slowly. “You’re right, I need to get away from all the sadness. And now that the show is open, maybe Ruby and I can get away for a few days.” She gave the young man a gentle push. “Go impress our sponsors. I’ll be fine. And thanks for the coffee.”

  She sighed as he disappeared once more into the crowd. A vacation with Ruby was exactly what she needed. Someplace warm and sunny, with ‘just the two of us’ time on the beach with her child and the occasional rum-filled coconut shell with a tiny paper umbrella. Someplace to forget a sea of black umbrellas in the rain.

  So much of the funeral was a blur. Maybe her mind just couldn’t handle the trauma of such unspeakable loss. Her brother-in-law had called just hours after the funeral, the pain raw in his voice. The rumors had proven to be true. Eve’s death had not been accidental. The investigators had found a high blood alcohol content, traces of antidepressants, muscle relaxants, a powerful narcotic. And a brief letter, written by Eve. But no answers.

  Once more her eyes were drawn to the empty balcony. Why, Eve?

  Why did you choose to take your life?

  Why had Eve gone to that wooden bridge over Maryland’s roaring falls? Why had she jumped? And why now, what had suddenly gone so wrong in her life? How could such a dazzling presence suddenly be gone, with no explanation? Only the inexplicable suicide note, found deep in the pocket of the raincoat she’d left behind…

  The devastating words spun through Alexandra’s mind. “For Anthony, and my beautiful Juliet. I love you. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” That was all? The only final words she could leave for her heartbroken daughter?

  Damn you, Eve. How could you do that to Juliet? Why did you throw it all away? A glamorous life in Washington, a dream job, a powerful and loving husband, a teenaged daughter who adored you. Her sister’s life was like one of the ornate Roman mosaics being restored in the gallery’s top floor workroom. Tiny bits of colored glass set into mortar. On the surface - glowing, complex, beautiful. But underneath, each fragment scarred, jagged. Broken.

  And still too many missing pieces, she thought.

  Still too many damned questions.

  The crowded gallery was suddenly suffocating.

  With a soft oath, she lifted her skirt and hurried down the dark hallway, bare feet flashing unexpectedly from beneath the hem of her long Donna Karan gown.

  The small gold plaque on her office door read:

  Alexandra K. Marik, Ph. D.

  Curator

  The knob turned easily.

  Didn’t I lock this door? she asked herself.

  Alexandra walked slowly into her office and switched on the lamp, then moved behind the familiar safety of her desk. This was her world. Cluttered desk, fax, phone, computer and printer. Scattered papers, empty Zabar’s containers, five-pound free weights, file cabinets with drawers bursting, chair piled precariously with well-thumbed research books. Black high-heeled sandals on the floor where she’d tossed them. Everything chaotically in order.

  Or was it?

  Hadn’t she left the lamp on? Hadn’t she left the St. Petersburg file in the center of her desk?

  Her eyes moved across the office, past a fortune in stacked canvases and sealed boxes labeled in Russian for the upcoming Russian exhibit. D
amn, damn, she was always so careful to lock her office door. But at least the double windows were locked. With a wary glance out at the darkness, she drew the blinds against the night.

  Once more her eyes swept her desk. Stacks of yellow messages beneath her reading glasses, a week’s worth of mail, pre-Mongolian icons and photographs of modern Russian Impressionist works - all scattered together across her desk. Her eyes lingered on the quirky hand-painted playing chips used in card games by Catherine the Great. “History,” she murmured softly. “You can’t begin to put a price on it.”

  She shifted a file, her chest tightening as she saw the tumble of messages. Another friend of Eve’s had called with expressions of sympathy - Yuri Belankov, a Russian-American philanthropist who’d just made a very substantial contribution to the upcoming St. Petersburg exhibit. A memory slipped into place - she’d heard his name on the news. He’d been at her sister’s funeral.

  The small winking light on her computer caught her attention.

  “Oh, no.” Someone had been in her office. She’d turned off her computer hours ago. But now a recent E-mail message from The Hermitage curator in St. Petersburg blinked on the small computer screen.

  Someone had accessed her email code.

  She spun around as a man appeared in the doorway.

  “Dr. Marik, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Got an urgent message for you.” One of the gallery guards handed her a folded note.

  “Good grief, what now?” She unfolded the message and the words leaped at her.

  “Come to St. Theresa’s immediately. Juliet is missing.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “There is an island...”

  Giorgios Sefiriades

  In the long hallway of St. Theresa’s Boarding School, the Mother Superior studied Alexandra’s face in the dim light. “Come back into my office, child,” urged Sister Joseph Maureen. “You’re so pale. I wish I could offer you a brandy. I wish we both could have one.”