Page 8 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“It would be in your own best interests.”

She managed what she hoped was a smile as cold as his own. “Threats, Mr. Ward?”

“I never make threats. Just statements of fact. I do have some questions I would like to ask before you leave here tonight.” Oliver picked up one of the glasses and turned to face her. “Save yourself the effort of making a run for the front door. It’s true that I am no longer a working magician, but I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. I’m not quite as slow as I appear.”

She believed him.

“I don’t care if you are the owner of this hotel, Mr. Ward,” she said. “You have no right to keep me a prisoner here.”

“I hope you will consider yourself my guest,” Oliver said. He gripped his cane and made his way across the living room. “You are, after all, sitting in my home, wearing a robe and slippers provided by my hotel.”

He stopped in front of her and held out the glass of whiskey. She was briefly distracted by the masculine grace of the gesture. In his hands the glass seemed to materialize out of thin air.

She looked up from the glass and found herself briefly ensnared by his compelling eyes. They were an unusual color—a feral shade of dark amber. She refused to admit that there was anything genuinely mesmeric about his gaze, but she was intensely aware of the sheer power of his will. She was dealing with a very intelligent, very coolheaded man. She was certain that once he settled on a goal or a course of action, it would be difficult—make thatimpossible—to distract him or turn him aside.

It wasn’t just his eyes that caught and held her attention. He was not handsome in the way of the leading men of the silver screen, but there was a certain kind of raw power about his boldly carved features, broad shoulders, and lean build. Oliver Ward possessed that magical quality calledpresence. No wonder he had been able to enthrall audiences.

Her first inclination was to refuse the whiskey. She needed to keepher wits about her. But her nerves deserved some consideration, she thought. The events in the spa had rattled her.

She took the whiskey and swallowed a healthy dose of the spirits. The stuff burned all the way down but it had a fortifying effect.

She immediately regretted the action because Oliver looked quietly pleased.Too late now,she decided. She took another sip.

Oliver went back across the room and picked up the other glass. He made his way to the big, heavily padded chair across from her and lowered himself into it. He stretched out his bad leg with some care.

“Tell me again how you managed to get access to my hotel,” he said.

“You heard me explain to Detective Brandon that Gloria Maitland asked me to meet her in the spa. She left my name at the front desk. I was her guest for the evening.”

“The guest of a woman who is now dead.”

“Are you implying I’m responsible? Detective Brandon certainly didn’t seem to think so.”

But she was clutching at straws now. Brandon had been summoned by the head of hotel security. He had arrived with an officer from the Burning Cove Police Department. It was obvious that the detective had been roused from his bed, but he was professional and polite.

Unfortunately, it had also been evident from the moment he arrived that he and Oliver Ward were well acquainted. Irene had no doubt but that Brandon would defer to Ward’s desire to try to contain the scandal. Burning Cove might be a small town, but it appeared to operate under L.A. rules—money and power controlled everything, including the local police.

“I checked with the front desk,” Oliver said. “While it’s true that Miss Maitland invited you here this evening, she failed to mention that you were a member of the press. Reporters are never allowed on the property.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Miss Maitland.”

“Who is now deceased. We keep coming back to that unpleasant fact, don’t we?”

“It’s not my fault that Gloria Maitland didn’t obey your rules,” Irene said. “And while we’re on the subject of security, it would appear that the Burning Cove Hotel has a few problems in that regard. A woman was murdered in your fancy spa tonight. That doesn’t make your security people look good, does it?”

“No,” Oliver conceded. “But the fact that you were the one who found the body doesn’t make you look good.” He paused a beat. “Some would say that makes you the primary suspect.”

Don’t panic,she thought.There will be plenty of time to do that later.

“I told Detective Brandon the truth,” she said, managing to keep her voice steady. “I’m a journalist. I had an appointment with Miss Maitland. She chose the time and the location.”

“You work for a Hollywood gossip sheet. I’m not sure that position entitles you to call yourself a journalist.”

“You are hardly in a position to lecture me on the subject of sensational headlines. You’re an ex-magician who built a name for himself by making exactly those kinds of headlines with your very daring performances. I’m sure that when you were touring you wanted all the newspaper coverage you could get.”

“I’m in a different profession these days.”

“We both know that your patrons don’t just come to the Burning Cove Hotel because they crave privacy. The actors and actresses book rooms here because they want to be seen checking in to such an exclusive establishment. The rich come because they want to rub shoulders with the famous and the infamous. Admit it, Mr. Ward, people are attracted to this hotel precisely because they want their names mentioned in the same breath as Hollywood royalty and wealthy tycoons and notorious gangsters. Your guests will do just about anything to be the subject of the kind of journalism that appears inWhispers.”

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