“Let me go talk to her. I always intended to for the book, but—”

“If she did anything to hurt you, do you think I could live with it?” He released her hands, used them to cover his face before dropping them.

“You can’t worry about me, Grant. I know I didn’t do a good job with that lying, conspiring sheriff, but—”

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said quickly. “I gave you the names of the men to hire. You stood up for me, Jessie, when no one ever has. But it did make me think . . .”

When he trailed off, she leaned close. “Tell me.”

“It’s a crazy idea. It’s too risky. For you.”

“I’ll do anything. You know that. Tell me.”

The excitement in her voice, the eagerness on her face told him he already had it in the bag.

“I had a lot of time to think after I was attacked. About what the cops said to me when they came here.”

“Accusing you of everything.” It lit a killing flame in her. “Always you.”

“But there was some doubt there. I saw it. Especially with the girl cop. Women are more perceptive, I think. If there was a way to throw more suspicion on Charlotte, they might stop her before she . . . before she had a chance to go after me again. I could do the next eight months knowing I’d walk out and into your arms. I could do anything knowing that.”

“But if I tried to hire someone to kill her—”

“No, darling, not her. And not hiring anyone. But no.” He shook his head, looked away again. “I can’t ask you to do something like this. I’ll just have to watch my back until the doors finally open.”

“I won’t have you live like that. I won’t live like that, afraid every day they’ll call and tell me you’ve been hurt. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“How did I live all these years without you?” Emotion—he could always call it up on cue—trembled in his voice. “You’re my guardian angel. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you.”

He took her hands again. Looked at her as if she was his only salvation.

She’d have done anything for him.

“Charlotte’s having a gala in Beverly Hills next month.”

It thrilled. For a woman who’d experienced little excitement, even the act of donning a wig—ash blond, a smooth updo—equaled the thrill of a lifetime. She wore the body padding as well, padding that added several of the pounds she’d so diligently taken off.

The understated (boring) black gown fit over the padding well. A few fake jewels—but nothing eye-catching. She shouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. She applied her makeup meticulously, following Sparks’s instructions. Slipped on the black-framed glasses, then the mouth appliance that gave her a prominent overbite.

She looked matronly, something that would have upset her if not for the thrill. Her name fit the look. Millicent Rosebury. She’d paid for the fake ID, the credit card she’d used to buy the gala ticket.

She had those items, a lipstick, tissue, a small amount of cash, a pack of cigarettes, some already removed, a silver lighter, and what looked like a small perfume sprayer inside her black evening bag.

She’d left her car, as instructed, in a public garage blocks away. When she’d done what she came to do, she’d return to her hotel room, change, pack up Millicent in the single tote she’d brought with her, check out via the TV, walk to her car, and drive back to San Francisco.

It was all so simple really. Grant had such a brilliant mind.

Secretly, she worked on his story—their story. When finished, it would be for his eyes only once he lived free. Once they lived free together.

She walked to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Grant said to walk.

She struggled not to look awed—by the hotel itself, the glamorous people. After clearing check-in, she stepped into the ballroom. Had to muffle a gasp.

The flowers! White, all white, calla lilies, roses, hydrangeas, spearing out of gold vases on every table. Glittering chandeliers spilling sparkling showers of light. Champagne frothing in crystal flutes. Women in stunning gowns already seated or strolling.

Grant had told her not to come too early, not too late.

She knew, her greatest skill, how to be invisible.

Accepting a glass of champagne with what she considered a regal nod, she wandered. She didn’t intend to sit at her assigned table, or if needed, not for long.

It only took a moment to spot Charlotte Dupont, flitting, swanning, holding court. She wore a sleek gold gown, like the vases. She dripped with diamonds, like the chandeliers.

Rage rose up inside Jessica. Look at the lying, deceitful bitch, she thought. She thinks she’s a queen, thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks this is her night.

Well, in a way, it would be.

Her husband, old, frail, and looking both, sat at the table in front of the stage. He sent his wife adoring glances, chatted with people who stopped by the table, with his tablemates—no doubt as filthy rich as he.

She bided her time, watched for her moment as she wandered closer.

There would be a speech from Charlotte—undoubtedly tooting her own brass horn, probably working up a few tears as she did so. Then dinner, an auction to raise more money, entertainment, and finally dancing.

The two women at the table rose, walked away. Ladies’ room, Jessica assumed, and slowly moved forward.

While she could pick her time, Jessica felt the sooner the better.

Sooner came when one of the servers approached the table. She set something in a tall, clear glass with a lime on the lip in front of Conrad.

Slipping her hand into her purse, Jessica removed the top from the little atomizer, palmed it carefully as she stepped forward.

“I beg your pardon.” She used the haughty voice she’d practiced, believed it came across well. “Could you possibly direct me to table forty-three?”

“Of course, ma’am. Just one minute.”

As the server rounded the table to serve the other drinks, Jessica leaned down to Conrad. “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for the good work you and your beautiful wife are doing.”

“It’s all Charlotte.” He beamed a proud smile, looking up as Jessica gestured upward with her empty hand. Misdirection, Grant called it.

“A beautiful setting for a beautiful cause,” she said as she tipped the contents of the atomizer into his drink.

“Thank you for supporting it.”

“I’m proud to be a small part of tonight.”

She eased back as the server came to her side. “This way, ma’am.”

“Thank you so much.” With that regal nod, she followed the server. “Oh, I see it now. And my party. Thank you.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Jessica continued toward table 43, walked straight past it.

Drink, she thought, drink, drink, drink.

She walked straight out of the ballroom, sliding the empty atomizer back in her purse, taking out the pack of cigarettes. She moved straight to the outside doors, fumbling out her lighter like a woman in need of a smoke.

Someone tapped her shoulder, making her jerk as if struck by lightning.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” The woman in a bold red dress laughed. “I was hoping I could get a light.”