Chapter 5 Alisha
ALISHA
The resort did not look like a place where anyone got dragged through a door.
Sunset gilded the soaring atrium where light cascaded across pale Carrara marble veined with gold.
Exotic orchids in shades of fuchsia and cream climbed lacquered ebony stands, their delicate petals trembling in the artificial breeze.
A twelve-foot curtain of water fell in perfect crystalline sheets into a long stone pool edged with river rocks, catching the last of the sun like thousands of scattered diamonds. Alisha barely glanced at any of it.
The man who had shoved her into the black Escalade kept his thick fingers wrapped around her upper arm, his manicured nails digging half-moons into her skin as he steered her past the mahogany front desk, through a hushed corridor that smelled faintly of Key lime and stargazer lilies, and into a private elevator whose mother-of-pearl panel lit up for a key card he slipped from his Italian suit pocket.
The doors whispered open on a floor that felt suspended in its own atmosphere, thirty stories removed from the mortal concerns below. A bellman's cart stood abandoned beside a hallway console crowded with vanilla-scented pillar candles, their flames dancing in the artificial current.
The suite door unlocked with a measured click that echoed in the hushed corridor, and she was propelled into rooms that unfolded like the centerfold of Architectural Digest: plush Berber rugs the color of beach sand; velvet sofas in oyster gray with tufted backs and polished brass studs; a wraparound balcony framed by scrolled ironwork that overlooked the Gulf's waters, now transformed into sheets of melted copper streaked with gold.
A glass-topped dining table, already set with bone china rimmed in platinum and Waterford crystal that caught every particle of light, gleamed beneath a tiered chandelier that scattered prism rainbows and threw soft halos across Brazilian cherrywood.
A bottle of Perrier-Jouet Belle époque rested in a hammered silver bucket, and condensation beaded down the emerald glass like a necklace of perfect pearls.
"Sit," the brunette commanded, each syllable slicing through the air like a blade wrapped in silk, her pupils contracting to pinpoints as she stared Alisha down.
Alisha yanked out the nearest chair and dropped into it, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the table.
Her gaze locked onto the woman's face like a predator tracking prey, refusing to blink even as her pulse hammered in her throat.
"Who are you," she demanded through clenched teeth, "and why have you been stalking me? "
“I just wanted to talk,” the woman replied, a smile curving as if cameras watched. “I’m Cheryl L… Winters.” She let the name hang, then softened it with another smile. “Your daddy leases my land. Well—” her lashes dipped and lifted—“it was my mother’s. But now it’s mine.”
The name hit, tilting memories into place like a kaleidoscope finding its pattern.
Alisha saw her now—that porcelain-perfect face smiling from the covers of Brides and Martha Stewart Weddings, those manicured hands arranging peonies in Southern Living spreads.
Images cascaded: a floral arch suspended over turquoise water at sunset, models in couture gowns drifting across white sand, a columned plantation veranda dripping with fairy lights and gardenia garlands.
“Wait. I know you," Alisha said slowly, her voice catching as recognition crystallized. "Not personally. You're that celebrity wedding planner with the full-page ads in Vogue. Cheryl's Wedding Dress and Planning Design. You’re the one who did that fifty-million-dollar royal wedding in Dubai."
"Oh, yes," Cheryl answered, tilting her chin just enough to catch the chandelier light on her cheekbones.
Her lips curved into the practiced smile that had graced a hundred magazine covers, and a pleased light danced in her amber eyes like champagne bubbles rising to the surface. "That would be me."
“You do beautiful weddings,” Alisha allowed, though she kept her guard where it belonged.
“Thank you.” Cheryl glided into the chair opposite, rested her elbows lightly on the table, and angled her head. “Would you like something to drink? Champagne? Water? Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Alisha didn’t blink. “What I would like is to know why you kidnapped me.”
“And you can tell me,” Cheryl countered softly, “what you and your boyfriend did to my husband. And where my son is.”
Alisha stilled. The words rearranged the room.
“Your husband? Your son?” She drew a breath and chose ground she could stand on.
“I don’t know who they are.” Her brow wrinkled.
“Are you finally back here to fix this mess with the land probate? The attorneys have been looking for you—” she held Cheryl’s gaze “—for the past five years since your mother died.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Cheryl said, unruffled.
She leaned in, forearms crossing, bracelets chiming faintly against the wood.
“Let’s make a deal.” Her eyes held steady.
“If you tell me what you and your boyfriend did to my husband. And where my son is…” she eased back, delicate as a dancer finding her mark, “I might just look the other way and not press charges against your daddy, Mr. Marshall, and Mrs. Carlton for trying to defraud my mother out of her land.”
“I beg your pardon?” Disbelief sharpened Alisha’s tone before she tamped it down. “My father didn’t defraud anyone. Key Developers did this to him.”
“Really?” Cheryl’s smile turned challenging. “I have papers that say otherwise.”
“Then your papers are wrong. We have the real documents.” Alisha held the woman’s eyes and saw the glitter there. They were hard, reptilian, with a glimmer without warmth. Beneath the elegance was something cold and coiled. This was a person who arranged people the way she arranged peonies.
Cheryl exhaled, a theatrical sigh. “Look, I don’t want to argue. I can make this all go away if you just tell me what you did to my husband.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alisha answered, anger and frustration starting to boil over. It was like trying to draw blood from a stone, getting answers from this cold woman. “I don’t know your husband. Or your son!”
A commotion thudded at the suite door. There were voices, a shuffle, the muted knock of a shoulder against wood. Cheryl stood, the movement controlled to the last inch, and glanced back with a warning that was honeyed and steel at once. “If you try to run, I’ll be forced to tie you up.”
“I won’t,” Alisha said evenly.
The door opened. A broad-shouldered man filled the frame, the same one who had hauled her off the sidewalk. He had someone with him, breathless and furious.
“Carrie?” Alisha’s heartbeat kicked.
“We found this woman snooping around here,” the man explained, pushing Carrie forward as if presenting an item requested.
“Hello, Captain. Or should I say Chief Ware,” Cheryl purred, taking obvious pleasure in the title. “Please, come in and join us.”
The goon relieved Carrie of her holstered weapon and badge with impersonal efficiency, handing both to Cheryl. Cheryl slid them into a drawer of the entry console, closed it gently, then returned to the table with a smile that did not touch her eyes.
“It’s so nice of you to join us, Chief,” she continued, settling back into her chair. “I was just getting to know Mr. Parker’s lovely daughter.”
Carrie ignored the bait and focused on Alisha. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Alisha assured her. “How did you find me?”
“She obviously followed us somehow,” Cheryl added, impatience tightening the edges of her voice. “Now that we’re all caught up. And since we’re all perfectly fine—” she tipped her chin toward Alisha again “—you can now tell me what you and your boyfriend did to my husband.”
“I told you I don’t know who your husband is,” Alisha insisted.
The word “boyfriend” snagged, heat flashing up her neck.
Cheryl hadn’t rejected it. Of course, she hadn’t.
They had been playing at being a couple, and Alisha had kissed Trent like it wasn’t pretend.
Her lips tingled with the remembered pressure; her heart stumbled over itself.
She forced those thoughts aside and kept her focus where it belonged.
“Is that why you’ve been following me all afternoon?” Alisha asked, narrowing her gaze. “Because you think we did something to your husband?”
“Who is your husband, Cheryl?” Carrie interjected, her tone shifting into the calm, low cadence that Alisha privately called a hostage-negotiation voice, “and what exactly do you think Alisha did to him?”
Cheryl’s expression darkened, the polish dulling at the edges.
“I think they killed him.” The words fell with quiet force.
“While I wanted him out of my life, I did not want him dead. I never wanted anyone dead.” There was a pause, cool and awful.
“Except maybe my mother. That old bat deserved it. She was mean and condescending and delighted in ruining things that weren’t hers to ruin just because her life was dictated to and ruined by her parents. ”
“Cheryl,” Carrie said, guiding her back as if easing someone off a ledge, “what are you talking about?”
“All I wanted,” Cheryl replied, voice tightening, “was to get back at my mother.” She lifted her chin.
“Did I love my husband? I guess in my own way. He was exciting, fun, and handsome, yes. But he was also a purpose. A lever to pry my mother off that high horse and make her pay for what she did to my life.” Her palm came down on the table with a crack that sent the water glasses shivering.
Alisha startled; Carrie shifted protectively closer to Alisha.
“I’m sure you loved him in your own way,” Carrie soothed, keeping the temperature where it needed to be.
“Of course I did,” Cheryl said sharply, then softened the edge with a feline smile.
“He was good to both me and my son. A little spineless where his family was concerned, and, well, where I was concerned, too. He was like a little puppy, so eager to please me. But he also helped me get what I wanted.” Her eyes narrowed once again.
“Only my mother… even from the grave…” She suddenly stopped what she was saying, and her eyes refocused as she turned back to Alisha.
“But I never wanted my husband dead. I was so close, so close to getting what I always wanted.”
“Why don’t you tell us what that is and what you think happened to your husband?” Carrie suggested, inviting rather than demanding. “And let’s get a starting point like telling us who your husband is, and then why you think Alisha had anything to do with his death.”
“Alisha and that handsome cop boyfriend of hers,” Cheryl shot back, accusation gleaming.
“I think she means Trent,” Alisha whispered to Carrie, who flashed her a quick, surprised glance.
It suddenly hit Alisha, and her skin prickled as she faced Cheryl again, knowing the answer before she even asked the question again. “Cheryl, who is your husband?”
Cheryl held the silence for the pleasure of it. Then, with the satisfaction of a magician revealing the hidden card, she said, “Dick. Dick Stanstead.”