Praise fo r K at h ry n H a rv e y “A steamy story of violence, sin and corruption.” —San Francisco Chronicle “Sizzling!” —New York Daily News “Glamour, wickedness and passion . . . A vivid, imaginative tale . . . Builds to a dramatic and unexpected conclusion.” —Publishers Weekly “Pacing that hurtles you through the pages.” —Washington Post Book World “Erotic . . . An immensely readable yarn.” —Chicago Tribune “Gripping . . . Builds in intensity until the dramatic denouement that is not easy to forget.” —Rave Reviews BUTTERFLY O t h e r B ook s B y KATHRYN HARVEY Stars Private Entrance B ook s B y BARBARA WOOD Virgins of Paradise The Dreaming Green City in the Sun Soul Flame Vital Signs Domina The Watch Gods Childsong Night Trains Yesterday’s Child Curse This House Hounds and Jackals The Divining BUTTERFLY KATHRYN HARVEY s Turner Publishing Company 200 4th Avenue North • Suite 950 Nashville, Tennessee 37219 445 Park Avenue • 9th Floor New York, New York 10022 www.turnerpublishing.com Butterfly Copyright © 2012 Barbara Wood. All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover design by Gina Binkley Interior design by Mike Penticost Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Harvey, Kathryn. Butterfly / Kathryn Harvey. p. cm. ISBN 978-1-59652-872-7 I. Title. PS3558.A7185B88 2012 813’.54--dc23 2012006378 Printed in the United States of America 12 13 14 15 16 17 18—0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 To my fellow player in The Game, Annie Draper (You draw the “all night long” card . . .)  ac k now l e d g m e nts I would like to say thanks to Anne Samstag, Joyce Wallach, and Mitchell Maher for their very valuable help. An extra-special thank you goes to Shawn Wilds and Dr. Ted Brannen. BUTTERFLY  prologue t could have been any island in any green sea in the world. A white villa stood at the top of a sheer cliff, overlooking aquamarine depths and crashing waves. An eighty-foot yacht rode at anchor, its crew in smart uniforms, keeping the boat ready for the whim of the man and woman up on the cliff. There was an exotic swimming pool behind the white villa; a woman swam in it, reveling in the pure air and silence of her retreat. A feast had been set out under a gently flapping canopy: bowls of iced caviar, chilled lobster and crab, fruit frosted in sugar, cheeses imported from all over the globe, four kinds of wine standing in coolers. No one waited in attendance. The two lovers wanted to be alone. She got out of the marble pool, climbing up the curved white steps and going between two Corinthian pillars to where chaise longues covered in plush velour towels waited in the sun. She moved languidly. She felt hot and sweet and ready for sex. She didn’t remove her bathing suit. He would do that for her. Instead she stretched out in the heat and settled her eyes upon the television set that I 4 kathryn harvey stood in the shade of the striped canopy. It was on. It was always on. She was waiting for something. A moment later he emerged from the house, the shimmering water of the pool reflected in the lenses of his Ray-Bans. His long white bathrobe was open; he was naked underneath. She gazed at him as he walked slowly toward her. He was tall and lithe, with sinewy muscles and strong thighs; he walked with the stride of an Olympic gold medalist. He came alongside her chaise longue. She reached up with a lazy hand. The waves of heat rising mirage-like from the white walls of the villa seemed to melt her bones. She stirred on the thick towel, relishing the sensation of its creamy plush pile against her bare skin. He knelt beside her. She felt strong hands lightly touch her legs. He toyed with the string of her bathing suit. He kissed the inside of her thighs. But when his hand traveled up, his fingers exploring beneath the Spandex, she suddenly stopped him. He looked at her, trying to read her expression behind her enormous sunglasses. He saw that her gaze was fixed on the television set. He looked at the screen. And here it was at last, the thing she had been waiting for—a news broadcast from the other side of the earth, via satellite. It was showing two funerals. One was in Houston, the other in Beverly Hills. Funerals important enough to be broadcast globally. She put her hand gently on his head, and stroked him almost absentmindedly as she stared at the solemn processions—one backdropped by California palm trees with people arriving in stretch limos, the hearse white because they were burying a woman; the other beneath a hard Texas sun, attended by men in Stetsons who lifted the coffin of a man from the black hearse. For the moment, she wasn’t on this craggy, remote island and about to experience a sublime sexual idyll. She was back . . . back there, at the beginning of the incredible road that had terminated at last in the two funerals taking place on the same day, fifteen hundred miles apart . . . J ANUARY  one r. Linda Markus was sitting at the dressing table, her arm raised, about to brush her hair, when she heard a sound. Her hand froze. On her wrist there was a gold chain from which a charm—a butterfly—was suspended. As she sat suddenly still, listening to the night, the butterfly trembled on its delicate chain, glinting in the lamplight. She searched the bedroom reflected behind her in the mirror. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. There was the king-size bed on its dais; the satin canopy hangings and mattress ruffle—all a delicate peach color. On the bed lay her white hospital coat, her blouse and skirt, the medical bag she had tossed down after a tiring day in surgery. Italian leather shoes lay on the carpet next to the tan pool of her pantyhose. She listened. But all was silent. She resumed brushing her hair. It was difficult to relax. There was so much to think about, so much demanding her attention: that patient in the Intensive Care Unit; the meeting D butterfly 7 of the Surgical Review Board in the morning; the speech she had yet to write for the annual County Medical Association dinner. And then, most puzzling, the phone calls she was getting from that TV producer Barry Greene—rather insistent, and not a medical problem, his messages said. She had yet to find time to return his calls. There was that sound again! A sly, sort of surreptitious sound, as if someone were outside, trying to get in, trying not to be heard . . . Slowly lowering her hairbrush and placing it among the cosmetics and perfumes on the vanity table, Dr. Markus drew in a breath, held it, and turned around. She stared at the closed drapes. Had the sound come from the other side of the windows? Dear God, were the windows locked? She trembled. She stared at the heavy velvet drapes. Her pulse started to race. Minutes seemed to pass. The ornate Louis XV clock over the marble fireplace ticked, ticked, ticked. The drapes moved. The window was open! Linda caught her breath. A cold breeze seemed to flood the room as the drapes began to part. A shadow fell across the champagne carpet. Linda shot to her feet and without thinking ran to the dressing room. Pulling the door shut behind herself, she was plunged into darkness; she groped along the wall for the secret drawer. There was supposed to be a revolver in it. Finding the drawer, Linda frantically pulled it open and reached inside. The cold metal felt obscene in her hand; it was long and hard and heavy. Would it fire? Was it even loaded? Returning to the door of the dressing room she pressed her ear to it and listened. Subtle sounds crept through the spacious bedroom: the creak of a lead-paned window, the whisper of disturbed drapes, the soft hush of rubber-soled shoes on the carpet. He was in there. He was in the bedroom. 8 kathryn harvey Linda swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the gun. What did she think she was going to do with it? Shoot him, for God’s sake? She started to shake. Her heart was pounding. What if he had a gun too? She listened. She could hear him moving about. She reached down, grasped the doorknob, and inched the door open. At first she saw only an empty room. Then— There he was. At the far wall, moving aside a painting and contemplating the combination lock of the small safe. She studied him. Her trained physician’s eye saw beneath the tightly fitted black turtleneck sweater and pants the body of a man who kept himself in shape. She couldn’t guess his age—a black knitted ski mask covered his face and hair—but he was wiry. Finely shaped buttocks and thighs moved beneath black fabric. Linda didn’t move, she didn’t breathe, as she watched him expertly open the safe and reach inside. Then he turned suddenly, as if he had felt her watching him. He stared at the dressing room door; she saw two dark eyes peer warily through the ski mask; a grim mouth and square jaw were outlined in black knit. She backed away from the door, holding the gun at arm’s length with her trembling hands. The single beam of light that spilled into the tiny room caught on the shivering platinum butterfly that hung from her wrist; it shot silvery reflections over the camisole and nylon slip she was wearing. She inched back as far as she could and then stood her ground, watching the door, her finger on the trigger. The door swung slightly at first, as if he were testing it. Then it swung all the way open, and his black silhouette stood against the softly lighted bedroom. He looked down at the gun, then at her face. Although his features were masked, Linda sensed uncertainty about him, thought she detected indecision flicker in his dark eyes. He took another step toward her, coming into the dressing room. Then another step, and another. “No closer,” she said. butterfly 9 “I’m unarmed,” he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle and refined, the distinguished voice of a stage actor. He had spoken only two words and yet in them she had heard a trace of vulnerability. “Get out,” she said. He continued to stare at her. There were only a few feet between them now; Linda could see the curve of biceps beneath the tight sweater, the calm rise and fall of his chest. “I mean it,” she said, aiming. “I’ll shoot if you don’t get out.” Black eyes in a hidden face studied her. When he spoke again there was a trace of incredulousness in his tone, as if he had just discovered something. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Please—” He took another step closer. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea I was intruding into a lady’s house.” Her voice came out in a whisper: “Stop.” He looked down at the necklace in his hand, the thing he had just taken out of the wall safe. It was a long rope of pearls, knotted at the end. “I have no right to take this,” the intruder said, lifting it up. “It belongs to you. It belongs on you.” Unable to move, Dr. Markus stared up into dark eyes as black-gloved hands lifted the necklace over her head, slipped it under her hair, and brought it to rest on her bare chest, just above the lace of her camisole. The night silence seemed to intensify as the thief slowly removed his gloves, keeping his eyes locked on hers, then took the pearl-knot in his hands and adjusted it so that it lay between her breasts. At his touch, Linda caught her breath. “I hadn’t meant to frighten you,” he said in a quiet, intimate tone. His masked face was inches from hers. Black eyes were framed by black lashes and the black knit of his mask. She could see his mouth, the thin straight lips and white teeth. He bent his head and said more quietly, “I had no right to frighten you.” “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t—” He raised a hand and touched her shoulder. She felt the strap of her camisole start to slide down. “If you truly want me to go,” he said, “I will.” 10 kathryn harvey Linda stared up into his gaze. As the two straps of her camisole fell from her shoulders, her arms lowered and the gun dropped to the thick carpet. His hands moved as slowly and expertly as when they had opened the wall safe, feeling her feverish skin, seeming to savor the way she trembled. When lace and satin came away from her breasts, Linda closed her eyes. “I have never met a woman as beautiful as you,” he said. His hands gently explored her. He knew where to touch, where to pause, where to hold her. “Tell me to leave,” he said again, bending his head so that his mouth was nearly upon hers. “Tell me,” he said. “No,” she breathed. “Don’t go . . . ” When his lips touched hers, Linda felt a shock go through her body. Suddenly she wanted this man, desperately. Here and now. He drew her into his arms. She felt the coarse knit of his sweater against her naked breasts. His hands stroked her back, then went lower, sliding under the elastic waistband of her slip. Linda could hardly breathe. His kisses smothered her. His tongue filled her mouth. Her thighs pressed urgently against him; she felt his hardness. Is it possible? she wondered in desperation. Is it possible that, after all these years, finally, with this stranger I could— And then a sound broke the silence. It was a rude, insistent bleat, coming from the bedroom. He brought his head up. “What’s that?” “My beeper. Damn!” Linda pushed past him, ran to her purse, grabbed the little box and silenced it. “I have to make a phone call. Is that telephone real?” she asked, pointing to the boudoir-style instrument on the nightstand. “Can I call out on it?” He came to stand in the doorway of the dressing room, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Just pick it up. The girl will give you an outside line.” As she dialed a number Linda glanced at him, at the gorgeous body in black, and felt her irritation rise. She had taken a gamble; she had had no other choice. The odds had been that she would be able to snatch a couple of hours of peace before having to go back to the hospital, but the odds had butterfly 11 turned against her. “His pressure’s dropped,” the Intensive Care nurse now told her over the phone. “Dr. Cane thinks he’s got a bleeder.” “Okay. Get him back up to surgery. Tell Cane to open him up. I’m in Beverly Hills. It’ll take me about twenty minutes to get there.” She hung up, having made the call without once saying her name—the ICU nurses knew Linda’s voice—and turned to the stranger in the ski mask. “Sorry,” she said, hastily removing the pearl necklace and reaching for her clothes. “Can’t be helped.” “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” She looked at him. She couldn’t see his face, but his voice sounded genuinely sorry. But she knew it was an act. He was paid to humor her. After she was dressed, she grabbed her hospital coat and medical bag and hurried to the door. Linda paused to smile at him, a little sadly, thinking about what might have been. Then she reached into her purse, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and laid it on the table by the door. He would have gotten it afterward. It wasn’t his fault that they were interrupted. “But I didn’t do anything,” he said quietly. “Make it up to me next time.” Linda stepped out into a corridor that could have belonged to an elegant, tastefully discreet hotel. She hurried along, past closed doors, and checked her watch. She really shouldn’t have risked coming to Butterfly this afternoon, not with a patient in ICU. But she had been looking forward for weeks to coming here, had already put it off several times because of medical emergencies. When she turned the corner, Linda was met by an attendant, a young woman in black skirt and white blouse with a butterfly embroidered in gold thread on the pocket. “Is everything all right, madam?” she asked. The attendant did not know Dr. Markus’s name; all of Butterfly’s members were anonymous. “I’ve been called away.” “Was the companion all right?” They reached the elevator. “He was perfect. I’d like to reschedule. But I’ll have to call.” “Very well, madam. Good afternoon.” 12 kathryn harvey When the doors whispered closed, Linda quickly removed the black harlequin mask from her face and folded it into her purse. She rubbed her cheeks, in case it had left any lines there. The elevator brought Dr. Markus down to the street level and opened upon the brass and mahogany elegance of Fanelli, one of Beverly Hills’ most prestigious men’s clothing stores. She hurried through to the glass doors that opened onto Rodeo Drive and stepped into the glare of a sharp January afternoon. Linda put on her oversized sunglasses and signaled to the parking valet. It was a beautifully clear Southern California day—a citrus-grove kind of a day, Linda thought, and wished she had someone special to share it with. But there was no one, and there probably never would be. She had come to accept that now, at age thirty-eight and after two failed marriages and numerous unsuccessful relationships. Although, she thought as she looked up at the plain, unassuming façade of Butterfly, although there in fact was someone to share such a spectacular day with . . . but she had to be at the hospital, and he had other women to see. The valet brought her red Ferrari around, she tipped him generously and joined the rushing traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. Opening her windows and letting the crisp wind blow through her blond hair, Linda felt herself smile, and then laugh. “I’ll be back,” she said out loud to the monstrous Beverly Hills traffic. “Come hell or high water, Butterfly. I’ll be back!”