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been hauled in several times before the tragic accident that had taken Marcella's life, mostly for DUI and public intoxication. Twice he'd been ordered to undergo treatment at the Betty Ford Clinic. He'd spent thirty days in County Jail for assaulting a director who'd fired him. And the day after Princess Diana had been killed, he'd been arrested for attempting to run down the paparazzi outside his Malibu home, but since no one had been hurt, the charges had been dropped.
    No doubt about it, the face filling her camera lens now belonged on a mug shot displayed on America 's Most Wanted. Maybe he had finally gone over the edge. Maybe he had lost all control over his temper and turned on Emerald Marcella, raped her, and then, in an attempt to hide his crime, sent her nude body through a guardrail in his Ferrari. The coroner had declared that the crash had killed her. But he'd also testified that she had participated, or been subjected to, very rough sex a short time before her death. Brandon 's skin had been found under her fingernails. Upon examination of his person, his face, chest, stomach, and thighs showed evidence of scratches.
    A basset hound began to bay and run down the drive in Alyson's direction. She buried herself deeper in the pine needles, wincing as they dug into the back of her neck.
    Carlyle stepped from the porch and started down the drive in pursuit of the barking hound.
    Alyson did her best to shimmy her way back toward the tree trunk. The limb on which she balanced sagged and popped. She held her breath.
    The dog ran to the high, pike-topped iron fence and proceeded to howl again. He'd spotted the car she'd parked just off the road, partially in a ditch, mostly hidden by a clump of cattails.
    "Rufous, heel!" Carlyle shouted, stopping short when he saw the red rental car. He took a few steps backward, his expression turning from annoyance at the dog to sudden concern. His gaze swept the grounds as a woman bounced from the house, waving a cell phone in the air. Carlyle shouted for her to call nine-one-one and began backing up the driveway while the red-haired woman with highly painted cheeks and white shoes began babbling into the phone.
    The tree branch creaked and groaned. This was not going to be her finest hour, Alyson thought, her panic mounting. Then again, it was probably no more than she deserved. It was just this kind of stunt that had turned Carlyle into a lunatic who would drive his car into a dozen photographers, scattering bodies across the lawn as if they were bowling pins. She wanted to crawl into her car and skulk back to her room at the Pine Tree Lodge.
    But she was desperate.
    And her only means of escaping future humiliation like this stood yonder in a tight white T-shirt and jeans that molded around his private parts like a lover's hand. Brandon was going to be her ticket to a legit job with a legit publication—one that didn't make her squirm in embarrassment when she was forced to confess who paid her a salary.
    "Officer Cornwall is just down the road!" the woman called to Carlyle. "He's on his way."
    Alyson rolled her eyes. Great. Just great.
    A bald man in overalls walked out on the front porch, a sandwich in one hand and what looked like a glass of iced tea in the other. "What the hell is all the hoopla about?" he shouted.
    "It's probably nothing," the woman replied, then shouted at Carlyle, "Get back in the house until Officer Cornwall gets here. Don't be taking any chances, Mr. Brandon."
    Baying now like a hound from hell, the basset dived into the underbrush, plowing like a tractor toward her tree. After a moment's hesitation, Carlyle followed, wading into the waist-high brush, his face becoming redder and angrier by the second.
    Sirens whooped. Lights flashed as a Caprice cruiser came wheeling off the highway and up to the opening gate.
    The hound howled and ran in circles directly beneath her.
    The limb squeaked. Drooped.
    Carlyle stumbled through the brush to where the dog was