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Authors: Suzanne Forster
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reciprocated.
Was this the same man she’d felt all those things for? If she couldn’t answer any other question about her life, she wanted the answer to that one. She wanted to know if he’d hurt the other woman in his life—and if he meant her harm.
Her feelings for him were massively conflicted. She flinched when he got too close, yet a part of her still wanted that, and she couldn’t explain why. Or maybe she could. Maybe what she missed was the slow-burning dream, the wondering what it would be like with him. She wanted the Andrew Villard she’d fallen in love with from a distance.
Tony Bogart printed his name in block letters in the motel’s guest registry. He was in Mirage Bay unofficially, but he had no desire to hide his presence or his intentions. He wanted people to know he was investigating the murder of his brother—and possibly a second murder associated with his brother’s death, though he had no actual proof of that yet, just a telephone tip from his anonymous snitch.
“I got a room with a partial view of the water, special for you,” the aging female desk clerk said, sliding an old-fashioned brass door key across the counter to Tony. Disco music throbbed at low volume from the clock radio on the rusting metal file cabinet behind her.
“You gonna want more than one of these?” she asked.
The woman’s too-quick smile revealed a missing back tooth and skin like fine red fishnet, yet she wasn’t above flirting. Her wink sent a flash of annoyance through Tony. She wanted something, probably a tip, but she’d done nothing to deserve that except BS him, and badly at that. Tony despised lazy con artists. They insulted their mark’s intelligence.
“I worked at this motel when I was a kid,” he said. “Every room has at least a partial view. Most have full views.”
“Yeah? You worked here, at the Sand Castle?” She turned the registry around to read it. “Tony Bogart?”
She tilted back, inspecting him with a gimlet eye. “Are you related to Vern Bogart? I went to high school with him.”
Tony nodded. She’d made no excuses about the view. That got her points for being ballsy. “Vernon is my dad.”
A quick, sly grin appeared, as if she were remembering. “Your dad was a handsome man,” she said. “Tall with real narrow hips, and sandy-brown hair, cut close to his head, a lot like yours. Nice pair of ears, too. A man’s got to have good snug ears with short hair.”
She tapped her long sparkly fingernails to the theme from the movie Flashdance . “What’s Vern doing with himself these days? Probably married with a pack of grandkids. How about you? You married?”
She cocked an eyebrow, and her sexual boldness made Tony feel sick to his stomach. But she was clearly a long-term local, and might know something. No harm letting her think she was seducing him while he pumped her for information.
“Dad moved away a few months ago,” he said, “after my brother, Butch, died.”
“Butch Bogart? That kid who got himself stuck with a pitchfork was your brother? The whole town was talking about that. Happened last winter, right? Hotter than hell that day, Santa Ana winds, electrical storms?”
“Stuck seventeen times, ” Tony corrected. “Not very likely he did it to himself.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” She wrinkled her nose. “How awful for Vern—and you, too.”
“Yeah, well, life goes on. You do the best you can.” And sometimes you make a mess of it, like Vernon Bogart had, but Tony didn’t feel like telling this woman that his father had failed miserably with his children. He’d been too hard on Tony, probably because of the grief he couldn’t express, and too soft on Butch. He’d coddled and overindulged the latter to the point that Butch didn’t think anyone else’s rules applied to him.
“Did they find out who did it?” the clerk asked. “The last I remember they thought it was that local girl, Marnie something. She vanished, right? Did they ever
Was this the same man she’d felt all those things for? If she couldn’t answer any other question about her life, she wanted the answer to that one. She wanted to know if he’d hurt the other woman in his life—and if he meant her harm.
Her feelings for him were massively conflicted. She flinched when he got too close, yet a part of her still wanted that, and she couldn’t explain why. Or maybe she could. Maybe what she missed was the slow-burning dream, the wondering what it would be like with him. She wanted the Andrew Villard she’d fallen in love with from a distance.
Tony Bogart printed his name in block letters in the motel’s guest registry. He was in Mirage Bay unofficially, but he had no desire to hide his presence or his intentions. He wanted people to know he was investigating the murder of his brother—and possibly a second murder associated with his brother’s death, though he had no actual proof of that yet, just a telephone tip from his anonymous snitch.
“I got a room with a partial view of the water, special for you,” the aging female desk clerk said, sliding an old-fashioned brass door key across the counter to Tony. Disco music throbbed at low volume from the clock radio on the rusting metal file cabinet behind her.
“You gonna want more than one of these?” she asked.
The woman’s too-quick smile revealed a missing back tooth and skin like fine red fishnet, yet she wasn’t above flirting. Her wink sent a flash of annoyance through Tony. She wanted something, probably a tip, but she’d done nothing to deserve that except BS him, and badly at that. Tony despised lazy con artists. They insulted their mark’s intelligence.
“I worked at this motel when I was a kid,” he said. “Every room has at least a partial view. Most have full views.”
“Yeah? You worked here, at the Sand Castle?” She turned the registry around to read it. “Tony Bogart?”
She tilted back, inspecting him with a gimlet eye. “Are you related to Vern Bogart? I went to high school with him.”
Tony nodded. She’d made no excuses about the view. That got her points for being ballsy. “Vernon is my dad.”
A quick, sly grin appeared, as if she were remembering. “Your dad was a handsome man,” she said. “Tall with real narrow hips, and sandy-brown hair, cut close to his head, a lot like yours. Nice pair of ears, too. A man’s got to have good snug ears with short hair.”
She tapped her long sparkly fingernails to the theme from the movie Flashdance . “What’s Vern doing with himself these days? Probably married with a pack of grandkids. How about you? You married?”
She cocked an eyebrow, and her sexual boldness made Tony feel sick to his stomach. But she was clearly a long-term local, and might know something. No harm letting her think she was seducing him while he pumped her for information.
“Dad moved away a few months ago,” he said, “after my brother, Butch, died.”
“Butch Bogart? That kid who got himself stuck with a pitchfork was your brother? The whole town was talking about that. Happened last winter, right? Hotter than hell that day, Santa Ana winds, electrical storms?”
“Stuck seventeen times, ” Tony corrected. “Not very likely he did it to himself.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” She wrinkled her nose. “How awful for Vern—and you, too.”
“Yeah, well, life goes on. You do the best you can.” And sometimes you make a mess of it, like Vernon Bogart had, but Tony didn’t feel like telling this woman that his father had failed miserably with his children. He’d been too hard on Tony, probably because of the grief he couldn’t express, and too soft on Butch. He’d coddled and overindulged the latter to the point that Butch didn’t think anyone else’s rules applied to him.
“Did they find out who did it?” the clerk asked. “The last I remember they thought it was that local girl, Marnie something. She vanished, right? Did they ever
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