Seducing The Enemy - Emma Darcy

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She shouted to snap her sister back to the immediate problem. “Who is dead?”

      It sobered her. “You’ll despise me.” Fear shaking through the evasion.

      “Nonsense! I can’t help you if you don’t give me the facts. Where are you? What’s happened? Who’s dead?”

      The firm demands succeeded in cutting through the emotional chaos at the other end of the line. Deep shuddering breaths, then, “I... I’m at a motel near you. The...the Northgate. We’re in room twenty-eight.”

      Shock. Her straightlaced twin with a man in a motel? Neil Mason would certainly go off his brain. An adulterous wife would make a mockery of the family values he espoused for his political platform.

      “It must have been a heart attack,” Isabel cried. “I wanted to call it off. We were arguing and he...he clutched his chest and collapsed. I gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I tried everything I could think of.”

      “How long since he collapsed?”

      “Fifteen, twenty minutes...”

      “You’re sure he’s dead?”

      “I couldn’t get anything going again. No pulse. No breathing. Nothing. He was dead within seconds.”

      Too late for paramedics to revive him now. Dead was dead, and discovery could wait. It wouldn’t make any difference to the man. The need to protect her twin surged to the fore.

      “Get out of there, Izzie. Walk to my apartment—it’s safer than catching a cab—and I’ll take you home,” she instructed strongly, seeing no sense in her sister’s life being destroyed when there was no possibility of saving her lover.

      Another burst of sobbing. “It’s no use. Someone took a photograph of us. I can be identified. Will you come and...and stand by me, Anna? I can’t face it alone.”

      Annabel’s heart sank. “He’s a married man?” It was all she could think of—a wife having her husband trailed by a private investigator, taking a photograph to prove infidelity. If she was the vindictive type, the fatal affair could blow up into one hell of a scandal with Neil Mason’s wife involved.

      “No. He’s not married,” came the gulping reply.

      “Then why the photograph?” It made no sense.

      “I don’t know. I was frightened. I wanted to leave. We had a fight. He laughed at me, saying one bell was as good as another. Whatever that meant. It all turned ugly and then—then...”

      Some kind of set-up? Blackmail? Someone out to tarnish Neil’s puritanical policies? Or... A weird feeling of premonition crawled down Annabel’s spine.

      The motel was only a few streets from where she lived in North Sydney. Her sister lived right across the city at Brighton-Le-Sands. With so many motels stretching over that distance, why come anywhere near her?

      “Who’s your dead Romeo, Izzie?”

      “I know you thought he was crooked, Anna, but he was so—so...”

      “Who?” she asked, the premonition jagging into her heart. One bell as good as another. Isabel, Annabel, identical twin sisters, the same rippling cloud of distinctive red hair, green eyes, every physical feature such a close match. A photograph of either one of them could be mistaken for the other. “Tell me his name. Now!” she commanded tersely.

      “Barry Wolfe.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      “HE’S dead?”

      Shock and incredulity forced the question, even though Daniel Wolfe had no reason to disbelieve the journalist on the other end of the line. Jack Mitchell was a reputable and reliable reporter, not given to sensationalism for the sake of it. In interviews Daniel had given him on various court cases he had always quoted accurately. The call was a friendly gesture, a warning of what was to come. It just seemed inconceivable that Barry was dead.

      “It happened at the Northgate Motel.” Information delivered matter-of-factly, leaving no room for doubt. “It’s not far from where you are at Neutral Bay.”

      Daniel took a deep breath, trying to get himself on an even keel. “Yes. I know it.” A long, Spanish-style complex leapt to mind. Near a set of lights.

      “He was with a woman. I don’t know the details yet, but he wouldn’t be the first guy who screwed himself to death, Daniel.”

      “A heart attack?” Still incredible. Barry was a fitness freak. He’d run in the Sydney city-to-surf race only a fortnight ago. Being in good shape—attractive shape—was important to him.

      “Sounds like it. There’s been no suggestion of foul play. The motel manager notified the cops of his death. I’m on my way to the Northgate now. It’s big news, Daniel. You’ll be getting other calls.”

      “Yes.” As the other high-profile member of the family, he would certainly be a target for comment. “Thanks for...for preparing me.”

      “Sorry to give you the news, but there it is.”

      “Decent of you.”

      He put the receiver down slowly, his mind dazedly groping towards accepting the facts. His finger pressed the button activating the answering machine. Better not take any more calls until he’d thought this through.

      Barry dead. At only forty-two. The prime of life.

      Daniel shook his head. There had always been something Peter Pan-ish about Barry, a perky, irrepressible vitality that could skate out of any trouble, a devil-may-care grin on his face, a daring twinkle in his eyes. It was almost impossible to imagine death catching him. It must have sneaked up on him, without warning. That it should come while he was with a woman... Daniel grimaced. Whose woman was the question.

      It had to be a woman who was publicly attached to another man. Why else a motel? Barry’s tom-catting had always been indiscriminate. No respect whatsoever for wedding rings. Nothing he did on the sexual front could surprise Daniel, but these circumstances would almost inevitably lead to a muckraking scandal.

      His father would hate it.

      Barry’s mother would probably laugh and say it was a fitting climax for the dear boy’s life, taking his pleasure to the end. Having been through four husbands, Marlene was enjoying a succession of toy boys and would undoubtedly fancy going out the same way.

      Daniel didn’t anticipate deep grieving from either parent. Vexation and titillation respectively. A sad reflection of Barry’s place in their lives. It wasn’t fair, Daniel thought, as he’d often thought over the years, seeing the careless treatment of Barry by his self-indulgent mother and the cool toleration dealt out to him by his father. It wasn’t Barry’s fault he had been a mistake to both of them. Though there was no denying he’d developed plenty of faults of his own along the way to this final, fatal night.

      Nevertheless, it felt wrong to do nothing when all the vultures would be gathering to pick at the juicy bits attached to Barry’s death. He should be there, at the motel, monitoring what was happening, insisting on some dignity to the proceedings. Death was so damned naked, respecting nothing. Maybe he could do something for the woman, as well. No one deserved to be stripped in public.

      The answering machine beeped an incoming call. Daniel left it to play itself out, striding quickly out of his private library office where he’d been studying the brief for tomorrow’s court appearance. He knew what he needed to know for the line of questioning he’d chosen. Tomorrow’s work could wait upon tomorrow. Tonight he owed to Barry. Someone should care, and there was no one else.

      It was getting on towards midnight by the time Daniel forced his way through the bedlam outside the motel, police cars, television news vans, reporters and photographers pressing for whatever story angles they could grab, not to mention a crowd of curious spectators drawn by the unusual activity. Daniel headed for the police cordon keeping

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