But not intentionally. Never intentionally. She would never have allowed someone else to die in her place.

Joe knew that. She knew he did. And dwelling on the events of that fatal night would only serve to drive her insane. What had happened, had happened. And no one but the murderer himself had been at fault. She hadn’t needed therapy to recognize the truth of that. And she knew that Joe knew it, too.

So why was he so strange and distant these days?

And why did she insist on caring? Was she only hung up on him because he had been there in her darkest hour? According to Dr. Mowbry, women often fell in love with men they considered to be their saviors.

And he had saved her life. No doubt about it. But that wasn’t why she had fallen for him. She was sure of that.

And now, here he was, and she didn’t want him to be so gentle. She wanted him to crush her in his arms. She wanted to make wild, hot love with him. She didn’t want him to see her as delicate or in need of protection. She was tempted to simply slip off her dress, fling her arms around him and do something so sensual and sexy that he couldn’t resist her.

“So,” she said, with just the right amount of curiosity and professional courtesy, “what did you think?”

She loved his rueful smile, she thought. Loved it when she had his full attention and could see on his face that certain dry amusement he felt for life, himself and everything around him.

“I felt like I walked into a play filled with outsize characters who had to prove themselves and their innocence within the confines of two hours and one intermission,” he told her.

“Oh, come on, we’re not that bad,” she said.

“I didn’t say anyone was bad.”

He was hovering in the doorway. They’d already argued about the fact she had refused to stay with Eileen at the mansion, even though she was worried about her mother, and even though everyone was worried about her, despite the fact that, as she kept pointing out, she wasn’t a Raven. This time around, she wasn’t the one who had something to worry about.

But her mother had live-in help and an excellent security system, and she still needed her own place, her own independence.

So that, if she ever got up the nerve, she could just strip off her little black dress, and do something so exotic and sensual and sexual that he couldn’t stand it and…

“I know Larry,” Joe said. “He’s not a bad guy. And your mother is a wonderful woman.”

“See? Rich people aren’t all bad,” she heard herself say defensively.

He laughed easily and shook his head. “Gen, I never said they were. It was just tonight…that group. Let’s face it, I think everyone there was afraid someone else in that room did it. Lila was all bravado. Barbara was all denial. Brook Avery was pure pretense. And then…Jared showing up so dramatically…It was…interesting.”

“Did you learn anything?”

He hesitated. “I learned that no one there likes anyone else all that much, that no one liked Thorne, in particular, and that Jared Bigelow is sleeping with his aunt.”

She gasped. “What?”

“Well, they aren’t related by blood, are they?”

“No. Mary was married to Thorne’s older brother, Steven. He was thirty-some years older than she is.”

“A real love match, huh?” he said cynically.

“Supposedly it was a good marriage,” she said.

“Sure. I’d probably be good for that kind of money, too,” he said.

“You really are a skeptic, aren’t you?”

“Oh, come on, Gen! You weren’t just a little bit skeptical about that one yourself?”

“Maybe,” she admitted.

He was laughing, and suddenly he seemed to be so easy with her.

“Okay, so she probably married Steven Bigelow for his money,” she admitted. “That doesn’t mean that people always marry rich people for their money.” Why on earth had she said that? Could she be any more obvious about what was on her mind?

But he didn’t even seem to notice. “I’m sure some women do fall in love with men who are older and richer,” he said. “Just not in that particular case.”

“And what made you so certain that they’re sleeping together? Jared and Mary, I mean.”

“The possessive way she hung on his arm. The way he looked at you, and the way she looked at him for the way he looked at you.”

“You’re reading a lot into the way people look at each other.”

“Because there’s a lot to be read into it.”

“So do you think Jared killed his father, or his aunt killed his father or—”

“I think there are a lot of suspects,” he assured her. “And a lot of motives. Greed and jealousy have both been strong inducements for murder over the centuries. Of course, tonight we were missing one of the traditional suspects.”

“Who?”

“The butler, of course,” he said, grinning.

She had to laugh. But then she assured him, “Bennet didn’t murder Thorne, I can assure you.”

“Bennet? You know him?” he asked her.

“Of course. My family and the Bigelows kind of run in the same circles, though I can’t exactly say we were friends.” She pointed a stern finger at him. “And don’t you dare start in on rich people again.”

“I wasn’t about to.”

She offered him a doubting sniff.

“So tell me about Bennet.”

“Well, he’s old.”

“How old?”

“Oh, honestly, sixty-five, maybe. He’s been with the family for as long as I can remember. You could talk to my mom. She would know more.”

“Actually, I’d like to talk to Bennet himself.”

“I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You need to stay out of this.”

“But I hired you,”

“Yes, and if you wanted to do everything yourself,” he said irritably, “you shouldn’t have.”

“You need my help on this,” she assured him.

“Oh?”

“Bennet likes me,” she said. “He’ll be happy to talk to you if you’re with me. He won’t be so thrilled if you’re on your own.”

“Genevieve, seriously—”

“If you don’t let me help, I will start doing things on my own,” she said softly.

He stared at her, frustrated.

She had him, and she knew it. He still had that protective thing going on, which wasn’t what she wanted, but it would have to do for now.

“So what time are we going to see Bennet tomorrow?” he asked dryly.

She smiled. “I’ll talk to him in the morning. He goes to church, and I’m taking Mom to church, so I’ll see him there. So let’s say about…one?”

He nodded, eyeing her cautiously, as if he had just realized she might be a species of dangerous animal he had misjudged.

“One o’clock, then,” he said.

Joe stood there in the doorway for a moment, and she couldn’t help staring at him. Joe, whose sandy brown hair fell over his forehead in such a casual and sexy manner, whose eyes seemed to reflect the world and his knowledge of it. Whose shoulders filled the doorway, whose jaw could be so hard and stubborn. Joe…

For a split second she thought that he was going to move forward. Come closer. Even touch her.

And finally he did.

He reached out—and tousled her hair.

“Tomorrow, then, kid. See you. And until then….”

“I know, I know. I’ll be careful.”

Then he was gone. And she locked the door—as he told her to do from the other side.

When she went to bed, she found herself staring at the ceiling and thinking about loss, about death.

Leslie’s death. And the deaths of the prostitutes she herself had tried so hard to help. They had been nothing but disposable members of society to so many people, but she had known them as women with hopes and dreams. So much loss.

Then there was the loss she faced herself…

The loss of a life once filled with promise but now controlled by fear. Not hers, but everyone else’s for her.

The loss of a life never really lived…

By the time her phone rang Sunday morning, Lori Star had given up expecting anything good.

At first the news media had embraced her, but then they had dropped her like a hot potato. Perhaps they had found out about her arrests; she didn’t know. Apparently they now believed she was some kind of a fake. Which she usually was…

But not this time.

It had been terrifying when she had first felt the sensation of being somewhere else, being someone else.

Not just because it was like some sort of out-of-body experience, but because there was more to it. That sense of pure malice and…evil had been terrifying.

She was shivering just from that thought, that memory, when the call came through.

“Hello?”

“Miss Star? Miss Lori Star?” The voice on the other end was cultured, courteous.

“Yes?” Her response was wary, despite the caller’s tone.

But on a different level, she already felt excitement. She just knew that this was someone who believed in her.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you on a Sunday morning, but I’m anxious to get out there with my story before anyone else beats me to it. I’m from the New York Informant. You’ve heard of it, I hope? We follow up on the stories other papers leave behind when they rush off to cover the latest celebrity scandal. We like to stick with things and cover them in depth.”

She sank down on her sofa, very glad that she’d been home to answer the phone.

“That’s wonderful,” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “And of course I’m familiar with the paper,” she lied.

“We’re also willing to pay, and pay well, when someone helps us with a story.”