Tonight You're Mine (37 page)

Angela Ricci wished again she had a dog. She'd always wanted one, but her fastidious ex-husband said they were dirty. Stuart Burgess. How could she have ever found such a creep attractive? What a pain he'd been to live with, constantly washing his hands, throwing a fit if he found a spot on his tie, developing a migraine when he came home to find the place looking like anything other than a museum.

But she'd been divorced from Stuart for a year. The settlement had been generous. Very generous. And why not? Stuart wasn't as fastidious about his personal liaisons as he was about the externals of his life. He would die if anyone found out about his taste for prostitutes. Young male prostitutes. She'd never threatened to tell. She
wouldn't
have told, both because she didn't want the negative publicity and because Stuart had a dangerous streak that frightened her. Fortunately, paranoid Stuart had perceived a threat from her and decided money would keep her silent.

He'd retreated to their large upstate home and given her the brownstone in Manhattan. Ever practical, she'd rented the second and third floors much to Stuart's snobbish dismay and redecorated the first floor for herself. Now the place no longer looked like a museum. She had a warm and inviting home with a lovely courtyard in back, the perfect place for a dog. A big, protective dog, but she'd never gotten around to buying one, and now she regretted it because lately she'd begun to feel uneasy here. She couldn't remember exactly when the uneasiness began. A week ago? No, longer. The feeling was worse when she returned from the theater at night. Even though she was exhausted from singing and dancing all evening, starring in one of the most popular musicals on Broadway, she came back to the brownstone feeling lonely and scared. A dog would definitely make her feel less alone and much safer.

She was more tired than usual tonight. Maybe it was the cold. Or maybe it was because her new fiancé, Judson Green, had been out of town for a week. She missed him terribly. Three days and he would be home. Three endless days.

Angela stripped and stood under a hot shower for ten minutes until some of the tension began to leave her neck. She was toweling off when she thought she heard something in the house. She couldn't identify the sound. It wasn't like something falling over. It was much softer, much
…stealthier
.

Angela paused, startled by the word that had popped into her mind. Abruptly she dropped the towel and reached for her heavy terry-cloth robe, sliding it on as if she were donning a suit of armor. Her heart thudding, she pushed her long black hair away from her face and stepped slowly into the bedroom. Everything looked neat, undisturbed. Quickly she dashed to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and withdrew the .38 automatic she'd bought after the divorce. Stuart would never have allowed her to have a gun.

Holding the weapon with trembling hands, she passed through the dining room and into the living room, flipping on lights. In the living room she punched on the security system, furious with herself for having forgotten to do so as soon as she came in tonight. Her carelessness about safety had always driven Stuart crazy.

She paced through the brownstone once more, turning on the lights in every room. Fifteen minutes later, Angela fixed a glass of brandy and sat down, the gun in her lap.

She had never been the fearful type, not even as a child. True, there was that awful period thirteen years ago when she'd been troubled by nightmares, but who wouldn't have been after what happened? But time had eventually done its work. Although she could never forget that awful night, at least her nightmares had abated.

That awful night. A shiver passed through her. She'd been only seventeen, an exuberant, cocky seventeen. She was pretty, talented, and nothing truly bad had happened to her in her whole life. Not until that night. It had all started so innocently and ended so tragically.

Maybe that's why she'd felt so unsettled lately, she thought. It had been this time of year when it happened. She scanned her mind for the date. My God, it had been December 13—thirteen years ago this very week. Unlucky thirteen.

But Angela didn't believe in luck. When people told her how lucky she was to have landed this plum role on Broadway, she wanted to laugh in their faces. It hadn't been because of good luck—it had been because of years of hard work, perseverance, and tolerating crushing rejections. And the terrible event thirteen years ago that she would remember to her dying day wasn't caused by bad luck. It was caused by a girl's deliberate, devastating act.

Angela shivered again and wished she could call Judson, but it was past midnight. She knew he had early morning meetings and it would be selfish of her to awaken him. No, she would just ride out this bout of nerves and as soon as Judson returned and they began serious plans for their spring wedding, all of this uneasiness would seem silly.

An hour later she lay in bed still wide-eyed, watching television. This was ridiculous. She couldn't sit up all night. She'd look like hell tomorrow and be exhausted. She had an interview for
New York Magazine
at one in the afternoon, complete with photographs, and a performance tomorrow night. No, this sleeplessness wouldn't do at all.

Angela knew too many actresses who'd become dependent on pills. She would never let that happen to her, but there were times when a little chemical help was necessary. Reluctantly she went into the bathroom, poured a glass of water, and searched the medicine cabinet for her Seconal. It had been prescribed a year ago during her divorce, and since then she'd only taken ten of the powerful little red pills. She swallowed one now.

Later, while voices still poured from the television, Angela's head slipped sideways on the pillow. Within minutes she was breathing deeply. Not even the creaking of a closet door in the guest room disturbed her.

A figure wafted quietly down the hall. It stopped briefly on the threshold of her room.
Angela
, the figure thought. The name was apt. She looked like an angel sleeping deeply, peacefully, her dark hair a halo on the white satin pillowcase, her lashes long and dark against ivory skin.

Such perfect skin. The figure drifted, closer to the bed, casting a shadow over Angela's calm face. She didn't deserve such beauty. She didn't deserve serenity. She didn't deserve wealth, fame, adoration, her blessed life. After what she'd done, she deserved nothing.

The figure raised a tire iron, letting it hover a moment. As long as it was in the air, Angela Ricci lived. But if it came down…

Angela's entire body jerked beneath the powerful first blow. Her skull cracked. Blood splattered and her eyes snapped open. But the movement, the awareness, were short-lived. Again and again the iron bar slammed down on her, splitting skin, breaking bones, crushing vital organs.

Two minutes later Angela Ricci lay shapeless and twisted, a horrifying crimson mass on her lovely, shining white sheets. Breathing heavily, arms trembling from the effort, the killer looked at the body and smiled. Such a good job, so carefully planned, and over so quickly. Too quickly. The killer glanced at the clock. 2:13.

Unlucky thirteen.

 

IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH—NOW AVAILABLE FROM ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS