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enough for one person, maybe two, if he’d ever cared enough to find someone to share it.
    He’d probably never share it with anyone now. Once the police showed up, he’d be locked away for good.
    That didn’t matter now, though. He was at home, and an odd, clenching sensation caught in his throat. His eyes burned. In spite of what had happened with Carole, in spite of all the crazy things he’d heard around the Poseidon Pool, in spite of some stranger driving his car, and the fact that he might soon be in prison, he was home, and once again on familiar ground.
    In the moon’s glow, he could easily make out the features of the tall, willowy woman who’d been driving his car and now stood at his kitchen door. Her hair was the color of corn silk. Parted at the side, it waved softly about her face and caressed the tops of her shoulders. She wore black high heels and a jumpsuit that looked like a sleeveless black-and-white tuxedo, the pant legs billowing slightly in the evening breeze. The black scarf he’d touched earlier trailed from her fingers. She was absolutely beautiful. Everything about her matched the sweet, feminine warmth of her voice.
    Was she some starlet he’d picked up? Had he drunk so much that he couldn’t remember her?
    She stepped into the house, turned on the light, and disappeared from view. Trevor hopped over the side of the convertible and hid behind the hedges, watching, listening, waiting for a chance to get into the house.
    He laughed at himself. Hell, this was his home. He should walk right in. But the stranger might see him. He’d rather wait until he could clean up, make himself presentable, and look like the Trevor Montgomery the world was used to seeing.
    He peered around the edge of the open door. The woman was nowhere in sight, but just as he started to step inside, he heard her footsteps on the red terra-cotta tile. Again, he crouched between a hedge and the white adobe wall, and watched her walk to the car.
    Tall, leggy, and blond. Three of his favorite things in a woman. Of course, he liked them short, too. Plump hadn’t mattered either, and he’d never been averse to redheads or brunettes. He liked the way this one walked, with a little sway to her hips, a slight swing to her arms. She climbed into the car once again, started the engine, and he watched in amazement as the garage door opened of its own free will and she drove the Duesey inside, right next to his cherry red ’32 Auburn Speedster. The cars were in the right places, but how had she opened the door?
    And who did that strange-looking green vehicle belong to that was parked alongside the garage?
    He couldn’t think about those things now, though. He had to get into the house while she was still in the car.
    Except for the kitchen, all was dark inside. He longed to get to his closet, to get out of the tuxedo that had shrunk on his body and now felt tight, confining, and damp. Quietly, he maneuvered through darkened rooms, bumping into a living-room sofa that had been moved since yesterday morning. He didn’t want to think about who had moved it or why. Instead, he rushed down the hallway and into his bedroom.
    He tried to ignore the fluffy white bedspread and ruffled pillows he could see in the moonlight shining through the window. They weren’t the least bit masculine. They weren’t anything close to what he’d had on the bed the last time he slept there. Had his housekeeper decided to make changes without consulting him first? He had so many questions, but none of them mattered. Not now.
    He opened the closet, pulled the string to turn on the overhead bulb inside, and gripped the edge of the door, feeling the nausea once again. There wasn’t anything masculine in sight. No tuxedos, no top hat. He rummaged through the garments hanging on the rod. Long silk and satin gowns. Colorful blouses and skirts. High-heeled shoes, low heels, sandals. An assortment of purses on a vertical shelf next to the shoe rack.
    Where