House of Dreams by Brenda Joyce Page B

want you involved with that man. I won’t have it.”
    Tracey gaped. Even Cass blinked at their aunt and did a double take.
    â€œI will not have it,” Catherine said firmly. “For all of our sakes.”
    A huge silence fell over the room.
    And Cass looked from her unyielding aunt to her astonished sister. In that moment the only thing she could think of was when Tracey had come home one day at the age of fifteen with a thirty-year-old boyfriend who drove a red Jag and wore alligator boots. Catherine had tried to talk some sense into her, but to no avail. Tracey had dated the man for a good six months anyway. And Catherine had never issued an ultimatum.
    Until now.
    But Catherine’s guilt in a man’s death, accidental or not, had not been an issue then, either.
    â€œYou won’t have it?” Tracey finally echoed.
    â€œI will not. I have raised you as if you were my very own daughter, and if you have any respect for me, any love, you will respect my wishes
in this matter,” Catherine said very firmly. “You will let him leave. And you will not see him again.”
    Tracey stared at her, speechless.
    Cass felt as if she were in some surreal dream. “Aunt Catherine,” she interjected gently, “let’s drop this subject for the moment. What do you say?”
    â€œI’d rather not,” Catherine said firmly.
    Cass felt as if she were conversing with an utter stranger. Was this actually her aunt speaking?
    â€œForget it,” Tracey said to Cass, harshly. “There’s nothing to discuss, and that is that.” She flung a last, furious look at her aunt and stalked from the room, her bare pale blue gown swishing open about her legs.
    Cass went to her aunt, placing her hand on her shoulder. Now she truly understood the feeling of dread she had had all day. Cass was so upset she could not imagine going downstairs to join their guests—much less surviving the evening.
    Catherine barely looked at her. “Dear, please get me that drink,” she said in a barely audible whisper.
    â€œComing right up,” Cass said as cheerfully as possible. And giving her aunt one last worried look, she left the room.
    Catherine waited until she was gone. And when she could no longer hear her niece’s footsteps, she went to the door and closed it. Then she went to an armoire, opened it, and knelt beside the lowest drawer. It was hidden, and a secret latch let it spring free.
    She withdrew the old, faded, leather-bound book carefully, held it to her breast, and fought tears of rising panic.
    It was her private journal.
    The last entry had been noted in July of 1966, just hours after Eduardo de la Barca’s death.
    She had never destroyed the diary; she had been oddly, insanely, unable to. And she had always regretted it.
    She prepared to destroy it now.
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    It was well after midnight, and Cass stood in the foyer against one wall, half-hidden by a huge marble table and a large seventeenth-century clock, arms folded tightly across her chest. She was still clad in her evening clothes, and all of the guests had left. Except for one.
    He was coming downstairs. She heard his footsteps, but that wasn’t how she knew it was he. Even had there been other guests about, she
would have known. There was something about his presence that made her tense with expectation.
    He came into the dim, flickering light of the foyer. Their gazes met and held.
    Feeling uncomfortable, Cass looked away. “Thank you for being so understanding,” she said.
    â€œIt is not a problem. I only hope your aunt feels better tomorrow.”
    Cass looked up. “So do I.”
    His gaze was searching. “Will you call me and let me know? I would appreciate it.”
    Cass nodded. “Do you have a card?” Her pulse was racing, stupidly.
    He smiled at her as he handed her one. “The last thing I wished to do was to upset this household or my hostess.”
    How much