Snowfire

  Snowfire

  Heather Graham

  This one is for

  Cousin G—A.K.A.

  Auntie Tomato—A.K.A.

  Cousin-Kiss-of-Death—A.K.A.

  Miss Gail Astrella—

  with lots of love

  and many thanks for all the

  best of times

  Prologue

  Looking out the window, Justin could see the moonlight on the snow. It dazzled, it shimmered, it flickered like fire, as if the cold could burn.

  Snow fire. Snowfire.

  As beautiful and as treacherous as the people involved in his new play. Snowfire. Aptly named.

  “Justin!”

  The call was soft. Sensual. Justin knew that when he turned, Myra would be standing in the doorway to his study.

  He’d come to the study to be alone. To escape Myra and her endless party. But she had followed him. He didn’t need to turn to know that her lashes would be cast low over her cheeks and that she’d have a breathless appearance, as if she were longing to see him.

  Myra was always the actress, even when she was off the stage.

  He stiffened his back, rubbing the back of his neck without turning. “What is it, Myra?”

  “Artie says you’re not coming back to New York.”

  Justin looked back out at the snow, at the beautiful, crystalline snow. He wished Myra would leave him in peace.

  But Myra wasn’t in the mood for peace. She was never in the mood for peace.

  Justin walked around his desk and sat in his chair, looking at her at last. She was just as he had imagined her—seductive, enchanting, artificial. Her dress had a high slit along the thigh and she was standing so that the fabric would fall away, revealing a long expanse of leg. Her blue eyes were large and wide, and she kept her hair a sunlit blond. It was long, draping over her shoulder elegantly.

  He put all of these pieces together and reminded himself that she was still as beautiful as he had once thought her. Funny. It was hard for him to find that beauty now. The softness of her voice did nothing to arouse him. The only thing that could affect him now was when he saw fear enter her eyes. She was such a child. She used him, she abused him, but he didn’t hate her. He pitied her. She was so afraid of the future. Afraid of aging, of losing the adoration of the masses. And once, once he had thought that he loved her. He felt responsible. She was still his wife, even if he was growing more and more anxious for the marriage to end.

  “Artie is right,” he told her, leaning back. “I’m not coming back to New York.”

  She pouted. It was a practiced pout. It might have seeped its way into many a man’s heart. Justin merely smiled. He knew her too well.

  She walked over and sat on the corner of his desk. A provocative pose once again. It just didn’t work anymore. “Justin,” she purred. She reached over to fluff his hair. “Hey, tall, dark and handsome! You have to come back. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  For a brief moment, he felt a curious hesitation. He had married her. Once, he had thought her every bit as beautiful and passionate and incredible as the rest of the world did. And she had seen something in him. She had been equally attracted. She liked tall men, she liked broad shoulders. Woodsy men—even if she hated the woods.

  He had thought that he loved her, and in a reckless moment he had married her. He had always thought that when he married, it would be forever, that he would respect his vows. And Myra almost sounded now as if she still wanted it to work. As if she would try. Really try.

  I don’t love you anymore, he thought. But maybe love could be regained. No. Myra wasn’t made for marriage. Not with him, anyway. He had believed in a certain commitment to each other, and God only knew just how many times Myra had betrayed him, with just how many men. There were even rumors out now that she was sleeping with her two male costars in Snowfire, the play he had written for her when she begged him to help her get her career back on track.

  Justin smiled. He found that one unlikely. Jack Jones was young and handsome, the perfect hero, but in real life he was not picky about which sex he chose for his affairs. And Harry Johnston, while he was a wonderful character actor, a man who had once stolen the respect and admiration of a nation, had such a severe case of alcoholism that producers and directors had been blackballing him. Just like Myra, Harry had come to him for help. And Justin had begged the director of Snowfire to give Harry a chance. Everybody deserved a second chance. Justin just hoped Harry would continue to do well, for he knew the director had threatened that if Harry took even one drink, he would be out of the play.

  Justin sighed and rubbed his neck again. What a play. Everybody was after something. Jack wanted to prove how masculine he could be. Harry how sober. Myra how beautiful-as-always. And Roxanne, the sweet young ingenue, just wanted to burst her way to stardom. Soft, tiny, delicate—a barracuda! Justin almost smiled anew. Maybe he had been feeling just a little like teaching Myra a lesson when he suggested Roxanne to the play’s director. She was everything that Myra wanted to regain—she was very, very young.

  And they were all in his house right now. Not his New York penthouse, but his real home, his place in the New England countryside. Myra had invited them all. Snowfire had opened to rave reviews and was already a huge commercial success. So tonight, on their Monday “black” day, they had all chartered a small plane and flown here. They had done nothing but party since they arrived.

  Justin frowned as a puzzling thought hit him. Myra hated the house. But Myra had invited them all. The film critic and his wife. Christina—his own agent. And Artie Fein, poor, ever-worried little Artie, Myra’s agent. And the cast of Snowfire. The boozer, the swinger, the schemer—and the whore, he thought wearily, that being, of course, his own wife.

  But who was he to judge them? he asked himself in fairness. No one. He was bitter tonight. Because it was all for show and he wanted more.

  He wanted the house to be a home. He wanted…

  What did he want?

  He didn’t know. Yes, he did. He wanted to look into a woman’s eyes and see warmth instead of calculation. He wanted love, and most of all, he wanted trust.

  He bore Myra no malice. He just wanted out.

  She was leaning toward him, her eyes very wide. And her dress, of course, was gaping at the breast.

  “Justin …?” That soft, soft, slinky whisper.

  He smiled broadly, shaking his head. He stared at her with steady eyes, eyes so dark blue that they seemed cobalt or black at times. Times like this.

  “Sorry, Myra. I have made my decision. I’m not coming back.”

  Her voice changed quickly. “Damn you, Justin. You have to come back. Your name is everywhere—”

  “Whoa, whoa!” he told her. “My pseudonym is everywhere right now, Myra. But your name is out there, too.” He leaned forward. “Myra, let’s face it. What’s left of our marriage? You moved out on me, you slept with everything with two legs in Hollywood, you did that awful movie, and—”

  “I did not sleep with everything with legs!”

  He cast her a narrow-eyed glance and she had the good grace to flush.

  “I’ll make it up to you. I won’t ever run around again. I’ll—”

  “I know you told me you wanted to come back to me, but will you live out here?” he asked her softly. “Just part-time? Will you slow down? Will you have a baby?”

  “What!” Those wide, wide eyes of hers were on him. Then she tried to cover her dismay. “Sure, Justin, sure. Soon. I couldn’t possibly do so right now, though. I have to get my career on track, I have to—”

  “Myra,” he interrupted her softly. “I have to get my life on track. I wrote you a play, Myra—you’re starring in it, it’s magnificent, you’re magnificent. Now it’s my turn. I’m starting
the legal proceedings tomorrow—”

  “No! I won’t let you. Justin, I need you!”

  “You don’t need me!” he snapped. He was losing it. “You think you need my name! And you think you need my arm for a publicity photo here and there.”

  Myra jumped off his desk. “You’re a bastard, Justin. I need at least a year! Then I’ll be successful enough again. Give me that!”

  “Myra, I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to get out of this house, that’s what I’ll give you now.”

  “Oh!” In a sudden whirl of fury, she threw herself against him.

  Myra was strong, quick and obsessed. Justin didn’t want to hurt her, but she had mile-long nails and she was quick to try to gouge his face. He found her shoulders and thrust her away from him. She slammed back against the door frame.

  “Stop it!” he warned her, shaking. There was a trickle of blood oozing from his lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

  “You’ll pay, Justin,” she promised. She was raging with fury, not a tear in her eyes. There was not a weak thing about her. But when Artie Fein came running, she suddenly seemed about to fall.

  Artie caught her. “Hey, hey!” he said, his eyes darting from Justin to Myra and back again. “What’s going on here?”

  Myra burst into tears. As if from a faucet, water just sprang to her eyes, making them luminous. “Oh!” she wailed. “Oh, how could you!” Her voice seemed to carry throughout the entire house.

  And suddenly the hallway, and his office—his little haven—were full. Jack Jones, blond and handsome but just a little too soft-looking; Roxanne, delicate and tough.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Roxanne demanded. She looked at Myra suspiciously.

  “Good Lord!” boomed Harry Johnston. He held his hand in his jacket, just like Napoleon.

  Christina, always quiet, smooth and watchful, appeared behind Harry. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Nothing—” Justin began irritably, but Myra had her audience now, and she was onstage.

  “It’s Justin, he’s being so horrible to me. He—he threatened to kill me.”

  “Oh, the hell I did!” Justin roared. His anger seemed to stab at his temples like a knife. “Myra, get out. Just get the hell out!”

  She turned, wrenching herself from Artie’s arms. Everyone stared awkwardly at Justin.

  There was a big thud followed by an anguished whining. Justin’s lips tightened grimly, and he felt his face whiten with his anger.

  Myra. Damn her. She hated Jugs, his hound-mixture puppy, as much as she hated the house. And it sounded as if she had just kicked him out of her way.

  Enough. Justin strode through the crowd gathered around his office and out to the living room, where the fire burned.

  It was a lovely room. His favorite. Glass doors led out to a glass-enclosed pool. The room was fashioned of granite and brick and wood, and though very contemporary, it was also amazingly warm and comfortable. Beyond the glass the water rippled in a beautiful aqua shade. The night sky was velvet-black. The snow was an almost unearthly white.

  But Myra was there, marring the picture. She was gloating as she stared at him. She’d hurt his dog—she’d hurt him at last. He tried to understand.

  Hell, he just tried to control his temper.

  But he’d done everything he could for her. He’d forgiven her the lovers, the drinking, the drugs. He’d picked her up, and he’d done his best to put her back on her feet. But she wasn’t done with him yet. She didn’t want him, but she couldn’t bear the fact that he was really done with her before she had finished with him.

  Jugs, huddled over by the glass doors to the pool, nervously wagged his tail. The film critic, Joseph Banks, gray-haired, ever pleasant, sat on the couch with his equally charming and pleasant wife. Both were staring at him uncomfortably.

  Justin didn’t care.

  He gripped Myra’s shoulders. “It’s over, don’t you understand? It’s over! And if you ever hurt that poor dog again, well, hell, Myra, maybe I will just strangle you!”

  He let go of her shoulders because his hands were so taut he really might have snapped her collarbones. He turned swiftly, realizing that Banks was still watching him. With pity.

  “I’m sorry, Joseph,” Justin began. He opened his mouth to speak again, but he just didn’t have anything to say. “I’m sorry—oh, hell!”

  He walked through to the entryway, grabbed an overcoat from the hall coat tree and plunged out into the snow.

  The cold outside embraced him. Wrapped around him. Numbed him. It felt good. It felt so damned good.

  He walked down the long driveway to the road. It was a good distance, especially in the snow. When he reached the road, he looked around. There was nothing out there. Just silence. The nearest house was miles away. He liked the solitude. He liked his neighbors well enough—they liked the solitude, too.

  It was just Myra.…

  He looked up at the moon. I tried! he explained, as if he were praying. Lord, you know that I tried. I did everything I could for her.

  There was no answer. Or maybe there was. The snow had made him feel more peaceful.

  He and Myra had to solve their own problems. Meanwhile there was a party going on—he had guests. He turned and started back to the house.

  But while he’d been thinking, he had wandered down the slope of the hill near the house, and so he trudged across the yard and approached the house from the back. The snow was high, almost to his knees.

  On the path between the garage and the main building, he paused suddenly. An unease began to creep along his spine.

  There was something in the snow. Something lying there, highlighted by the lights of the garage. Marring the purity of the white…

  He was frozen for a moment, and then he started to run.

  It was a body that marred the snow. A woman’s body. Myra’s body.

  “Myra!”

  He ran as he shouted, and he fell to his knees beside her, sweeping her up.

  She was coatless and hatless, wearing nothing but her evening dress.…

  And her long red scarf.

  The scarf was wound tightly around her neck. He struggled to loosen it. She was white, chalk white. Except where a trace of blue showed.

  Because she was dead.

  His fingers ceased their frantic struggle with the scarf. Myra was dead.

  “My God,” he whispered aloud. Sorrow filled him. He no longer loved her, had often been furious with her. But he had cared about her still. And he was sorry, too, for the waste of life and beauty and for dreams gone so very far awry. He cradled her in his arms.

  “Justin!” someone wailed.

  Jack Jones, in his overcoat, was behind him. And Harry was behind Jack. Christina and Roxanne were hurrying out, their coats all bundled around them.

  “Oh, my Lord!” Roxanne screamed.

  “You’ve killed her!” Artie wailed. “Justin, you’ve gone and killed her!”

  “No! Hell, no! I didn’t kill her, I just found her!” Justin protested.

  Then he looked at the faces around him. And he looked down at Myra. Someone had killed her. Poor, bedeviled Myra. His marriage was over at last.

  And as she had said… he certainly was going to pay.

  He closed his eyes, holding the cold form of his dead wife. She would never know just how ironic her words were going to prove to be. Long before he heard the shrill of the sirens, he knew that indeed, he was going to pay.

  Chapter 1

  Five Years Later

  “Snowfire flurries!”

  Kristin said the words aloud in absolute disgust. She was nearly blinded by the heavy flakes obscuring the road ahead. Nervously she released the grip of one hand from the wheel of the car to toss back a thick lock of rich dark hair over her shoulders. She narrowed dove-gray eyes, grown silver with her apprehension, and concentrated fully upon the road—or lack thereof—once again.

  The weatherman in Boston had predicted snow flurri
es for the weekend, but Kristin didn’t think this heavy precipitation could be called flurries by any stretch of the imagination. Within thirty minutes the sky had gone from silver-gray to a deep dark charcoal, and large snowflakes were falling in a frenzy on her red Cherokee.

  And it was too late to turn back. Far too late. She wasn’t sure she could turn around if she tried. She wasn’t even sure that she was still on the right road. Or on any road at all, as a matter of fact. Not that she didn’t know her way—she did. She’d driven out here to the country to visit Roger and Sue several times.

  But she’d never done so in the snow before. And this section of the state was isolated at the best of times. The nights could be black, pitch-black. And now with the storm…

  Was she lost? She didn’t even know the answer to that! This was a remote area, with very few houses. Creeping along as slowly as she had to, she hadn’t seen a house in ages. She was barely moving, at three to five miles an hour, and even then she was afraid that she was going to swerve into an awful slide at any moment. If she were just on I-495 or the Mass Pike or anything that could be considered a major road, she would stop. Some form of rescue vehicle would eventually come for her. But she wasn’t. There were no major roads out here. She couldn’t stop. No one else might pass by for days.

  She was afraid to stop. New England, for all the horrid reputation of its weather, hadn’t had a winter like this in years. Yet Kristin could still remember the blizzard that had struck so suddenly some years ago, leaving commuters stranded, and hundreds of drivers caught in the snow. It had been tragic. People had literally frozen to death in their cars.

  Despite the fine heating system in her Cherokee, Kristin shivered at the thought. She’d written an article on that blizzard. She had interviewed people who made it to hospitals in varying stages of hypothermia, and the workers who dug out the ones that had died.

  “Flurries!” she snarled out loud again—for courage, for a sense of having company with whom to share the growing fear and misery. She wasn’t afraid of flurries; she had four-wheel drive and great snow tires. She had been driving in the snow since she was sixteen, and she was nearly twenty-eight now. She was competent. Intelligent. She would have never started out in this stinking weather if they had forecast anything worse than flurries. Light flurries at that!