If Looks Could Kill by Heather Graham

move, continuing to look at her.
    She hesitated, wishing she knew more. “You still didn’t tell me exactly why you’re down here.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t. It’s a long story. Want to go out on the boat with me tomorrow?”
    â€œNo.”
    He shrugged. “Well, a boat is a good place to tell a long story.”
    â€œMaybe I’m not that curious. And maybe I could just ask Jimmy—or Jassy—what’s going on in Miami.”
    â€œMaybe you could. Suit yourself.”
    â€œI can’t just take off with you in the boat. I have a five-year-old. And we always spend Saturdays together, unless she’s with her dad.”
    Madison thought that a streak of pain flashed through his eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she decided she might have imagined it. But then, he should have had a little girl, too.
    But he was smiling at her then, so guilelessly that she was sure she had imagined the darkness in his eyes and soul.
    â€œYour five-year-old is Jordan Adair’s granddaughter. I’ll bet she just loves a day out on the boat.”
    She hesitated.
    â€œHey, sis, come on. I’m just trying to make peace. Honest to God, once upon a time, we were friends.”
    â€œMaybe. We’ll see. It depends on when you’re leaving.”
    â€œEarly. By eight.”
    â€œYou’re out of your mind.”
    He smiled again with a casual shrug, tugging on his baseball cap. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
    He turned then, walking toward the left wing of the house. She was glad that her bedroom was to the right.
    Get a grip, Madison, she warned herself, hurrying through the shadowed house. Her fingers were trembling. Great. All those years. She’d married, then divorced. She’d found a life; she was happy. Or at least, she got on just fine. And here he was, back for a matter of hours, and she was shaking.
    Fuck him.
    She winced and tiptoed toward Carrie Anne’s room, cracking the door and looking in on her sleeping daughter. She walked into the room, stood by the bed and smoothed back her daughter’s hair. Carrie Anne was beautiful. She was blond, like her dad. Her features were fine, like Madison’s own. She had wide, generous lips, and the best smile in the world.
    She’d made a lot of mistakes, Madison thought, for a lot of reasons. But even if her marriage had been a pathetically bad mistake and her own fault, it had surely stood a purpose, and she knew that her ex-husband thought so, too. Carrie Anne was worth whatever heartache they had caused one another. And oddly enough, they were doing a fine job of keeping Carrie Anne’s best interests at heart.
    She planted a kiss on Carrie Anne’s forehead, then walked through the expansive bath that connected their two rooms. She entered her own room, allowing the night-light from the bathroom and the patio lights from beyond to serve as illumination. She flung herself back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She loved her dad’s “shack.” Her room was large, her bed was plush, and she—like her other siblings—had a complete entertainment center, as well as a working fireplace for those few nights each year when the temperature dipped as far down as the low forties. Her father had spared no expense on his children’s part-time rooms. Carrie Anne’s decor was handsomely Disney, with a little Dr. Seuss thrown in. Madison herself had opted for a white-marble floor with ebony throw rugs and a red-black-and-blue motif that was vivid and passionate. Roger Montgomery, a frequent visitor, had applauded her taste, telling her that she was far more artistic than she was willing to admit.
    â€œJust like my—” he’d begun.
    â€œYour what?” she’d asked with a smile.
    â€œSon,” he said quietly, looking away. “Kyle. He can draw like a son of a gun.”
    â€œI didn’t know that,” she’d murmured, straining to maintain