Running Hot

FORTY-FOUR

Damn the Renquist woman. Once again she threatened to ruin everything. How dare she show up in Acacia Bay tonight of all nights?

La Sirène glared at Newlin Guthrie in the dressing room mirror. “Are you sure she’s here?”

“Yes, my love, and the bodyguard, too.” Newlin spread his hands wide, half appeasing, half in supplication. “I had no trouble getting into the J&J files. Two tickets were purchased by the agency in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Kerney last night. Honolulu to L.A. Kerney is the name Miss Renquist and Malone are using for a cover. I’m sorry, my love, but I think we have to assume the worst.”

“It is all so unfair. I don’t deserve this. I was brilliant tonight.”

The trip to Maui had turned out to be very good for the Voice. Using her power to its full extent on Eubanks had reinvigorated her talent in the most amazing way. She should have realized long ago that the Voice needed to be properly exercised to its maximum strength quite frequently in order to keep it in top form.

“You were flawless, my love,” Newlin said. “You are, after all, La Sirène. They adored you almost as much as I do.”

She’d received a standing ovation; she’d taken bow after bow, all the while feeling as though she really were the Queen of the Night. Afterward, Newlin and the stage door guard had been forced to shoo the last of a seemingly endless string of admirers from her dressing room. As she had hoped, the important critics from L.A. and one from San Francisco had attended. Her new manager had called during intermission, ecstatic. He had assured her that the publicist had booked back-to-back interviews with the press for the following day.

Everything had been perfect and now this. She had intended to deal with the Renquist creature after she finished her engagement in Acacia Bay. She was an artist. She was not supposed to have to tolerate distractions of this sort.

She took another swipe at the heavy makeup with a tissue, wave after wave of rage crashing through her. She wanted to scream. But that was not good for the Voice.

She crushed the tissue and tossed it aside. Her fingers closed around the hairbrush. Before she could even think about it, she had hurled the brush straight into the mirror. The wooden handle struck the glass and bounced off without leaving so much as a chip. She grabbed a bottle of makeup and threw it at the same target. This time there was a sharp splintering sound. A very satisfying crack appeared.

Newlin winced and took a step back, looking more uneasy than ever. What a wimp. It was all too much. Callas had Onassis for a lover, a worldly shipping magnate, one of the legendary tycoons of the last century. What did La Sirène have to work with? Not a rich Greek but a rich

geek. It was not right. This was not her true destiny.

She had to admit, however, that, in addition to his adoration and his billions, Newlin had one immensely useful attribute. He knew his way around cyberspace. After Craigmore had turned up dead, Damaris had been unable to monitor J&J and thus lost track of Grace Renquist. But dear Newlin had hacked into the agency’s confidential, highly encrypted database with ease. It was not terribly surprising since his company had designed the software.

She pulled herself together with sheer willpower and forced herself to think.

“We’ve been through this. You know why she’s here.” She turned around on the stool and looked straight at Newlin. “She is stalking me.”

“Dearest, are you absolutely certain of that?”

She leaped to her feet, tightened the tie of her dressing gown and began to pace the lush room. “I told you, Grace Renquist has been haunting me for weeks.”

The stalking scenario had started out as a minor fib intended to explain the situation to Newlin. But somewhere along the line it had become a reality. There was no doubt in her mind that Renquist, driven by jealousy, was stalking her.

“Perhaps it’s time to call in the police,” Newlin suggested.

“The police are useless in situations like this. Believe me, I know. This is not the first time I’ve had to deal with this kind of thing.”

“Then at least allow me to hire around-the-clock security to protect you.”

She was pushing too hard. The last thing she wanted was a security detail.

“I told you, that would only cause rumors and scandal,” she said quickly. “I can’t afford that, not at this delicate point in my career.”

That certainly ranked as one of the most outrageous lies of the twenty-first century. Generally speaking, there was nothing like a juicy scandal to perk up a career in the world of opera.

Newlin was almost wringing his hands now. “But your safety is paramount. I can afford the best in security. They’ll be very discreet, I swear.”

She waved that away. “No, no, now that I think about it, you may be right. I do have to consider the possibility that Renquist is simply a devoted fan who admires my art so much that she flew in from Hawaii to catch my performance tonight,” she said soothingly.

Fat chance. There was only one reason Renquist was in Acacia Bay. She was pursuing her. While it was deeply gratifying to know that the woman comprehended La Sirène’s power, she simply could not be allowed to live.

She stopped at the wardrobe and spun around to face Newlin. The practiced motion sent the skirt of her blue satin dressing gown sweeping out in a dramatic fashion.

“I have an idea,” she said, “but I will need your help, my love.”

“Of course, my dear. Anything.”

“I can see only one course of action.” She eased compelling energy into her voice. The result was a delicate, melodic singsong effect. There was some natural power in her speaking voice but the full strength of her talent could only be accessed when she moved into the higher ranges. “I must meet with Grace Renquist face-to-face, woman-to-woman. If I talk to her, perhaps I can find out the basis for her obsession with me.”

Newlin glowed with admiration. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

“I’ll record the conversation.” The words came out in a light, lilting, sparkling pulse of energy. “With luck I’ll be able to find out whether she’s a fan or a dangerous person. If she is a stalker, I’ll have proof that I can take to the police.”

“Brilliant, my love, absolutely brilliant.”

He was already helplessly enthralled. She could see the longing in his eyes.

She began to thread more energy into each word. The Voice took on strength, resonance and raw power.

“You must bring her to me,” she sang.

Newlin’s dark brows crinkled together over the rims of his glasses. For an instant his own considerable intelligence rose to the surface.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler if you just called her at her hotel in the morning?” he said plaintively. “I’m sure Miss Renquist would probably be thrilled at the chance to meet you in person.”

She was suddenly and completely Verdi’s Lady Macbeth, faced with the maddening challenge of trying to urge her lover to overcome his foolish scruples. She launched into the sleepwalking aria, energy soaring through her.

. . . You tremble?

. . . Shame

Toward the end she sailed on the wings of the high D-flat. Even Callas, La Divina herself, had found it difficult to hold on to that exposed note. But it was nothing for La Sirène, nothing at all.

Newlin was transfixed.

“I would do anything for you,” he whispered. “Anything.”

No doubt about it, she still had the Voice.