Your Heart Belongs to Me

you, child? Yes, you hear him. You must not listen, child.
    A deep misgiving overcame Ryan, and for a moment he almost fled the apartment. He did not belong there.
    Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, he strove to steady his nerves.
    He had come to Las Vegas to seek the truth of the threat against him, to determine if he had only nature to fear or, instead, a web of conspirators. His survival might depend on completing his inquiries.
    Rebecca’s study proved to be as blandly furnished and impersonal as the other rooms. The top of her desk was bare.
    About a hundred hardcover books filled a set of shelves. They were all nonfiction, concerned with self-improvement and investing.
    Closer consideration revealed that none of the books offered a serious program for either self-assessment or wise money management. They were about the mystical power of positive thinking, about wishing your way to success, about one arcane secret or another that guaranteed to revolutionize your finances and your life.
    In essence, they were get-rich-quick books. They promised great prosperity with little work.
    That Rebecca collected so many volumes of this nature suggested that she had drifted through the years on dreams of wealth. By now, at the age of fifty-six, disappointment and frustration might have left her bitter—and impatient.
    None of these volumes would suggest that you marry your daughter off to a wealthy man and poison him to gain control of his fortune. Any illiterate person could conceive such a plan, without need for the inspiration of a book.
    At once, Ryan regretted leaping to such an unkind conclusion. By suspecting Rebecca of such villainy, he was being unfair to Samantha.
    Months ago, he proposed to Sam. If she were involved in a scheme to murder him for his money, she would have accepted his proposal on the spot. By now they would be husband and wife.
    In one of the desk drawers, Ryan found eight magazines. On top of the stack was the issue of Vanity Fair that contained Samantha’s profile of him.
    Each of the other seven magazines, published over a period of two years, contained an article by Samantha.
    Sam might be estranged from her mother, but Rebecca apparently followed her daughter’s career with interest.
    He paged through all the publications, searching for a letter, a note, a Post-it, anything that might prove that Sam had sent the magazines to her mother. His search was fruitless.
    In the well-appointed bathroom and the large bedroom, he found nothing of interest. As regarded Rebecca if not her daughter, Ryan had already discovered enough to sharpen his distrust into mistrust.
    Wilson Mott’s nameless operative waited in the foyer. After setting the door to latch behind them, she left the apartment with Ryan.
    She surprised him by taking his hand and smiling as if they were lovers setting off for lunch and an afternoon adventure. Perhaps on the theory that no one would suspect them if they called attention to themselves, she chattered brightly about a movie she’d recently seen.
    As they followed the public balcony that served the second floor and descended the open stairs to the courtyard, Ryan twice muttered a response. Both times she laughed with delight, as though he were the wittiest of conversationalists.
    Both her voice and her laugh were musical, her eyes sparkling with an elfin sense of fun.
    When they stepped through the copper-green front gate, out of the courtyard onto the public sidewalk in front of the Oasis, her voice lost all its music. The arc of humor in her ripe mouth went flatline, and her eyes were gravestone-gray once more.
    She let go of him and blotted her palm on her skirt.
    With chagrin, Ryan realized that his hand had been damp with sweat when she had taken hold of it.
    “I’m parked in the next block,” she said. “George will take you back to your hotel.”
    “What about Spencer Barghest?”
    “He’s at home right now. We have reason to believe he’s going out tonight. We’ll take you into his place then.”
    As Ryan watched her walk away from him, he wondered who she was when she wasn’t on the job for Wilson Mott. Might the cold gray gaze be most indicative of the real woman—or might the musical laugh and elfin eyes be the truth of her?
    He was no longer confident that he could discover the essential truth of anyone.
    He returned to the Mercedes sedan, where George Zane waited.
    On the way back to the hotel, seen through the tinted windows, the world seemed to