Snowflakes on the Sea by Linda Lael Miller Page A

was a note of relished power in her tone. “I built you up, Nathan. I can tear you down.”
    “How melodramatic,” he retorted in sardonic tones. “For all the world like a scorned lover.”
    Diane wrenched open the car door and scrambled out to stand, trembling, on the snowy sidewalk. Her eyes glittered, scalding Nathan in blue fire. “How long do you think that naive little wife of yours will last under a full-scale press attack, darling?”
    An explosive rage consumed Nathan’s spirit, and his jaw tightened until it ached. Still, he managed to keep his hands on the steering wheel and his voice even. “If you do anything to hurt Mallory, Diane— anything —you’ll spend the rest of your shallow little life regretting it.”
    Diane smiled viciously. “Or savoring it. Good night, handsome.”
    Wondering why he hadn’t fired Diane years ago, Nathan watched until she had disappeared inside her sister’s apartment building. Then another glance at the dashboard clock made him groan. Why the hell hadn’t he called Mallory before leaving the island? God knew what she was thinking by now.
    Turning the Porsche back toward the waterfront in a wide, deft sweep, he swore under his breath. He could stop and call now, however after-the-fact the gesture might be. But Mallory was probably asleep. No, he would just get back to the island as soon as he could and they would talk in the morning.
    Seething, Diane Vincent unlocked her sister’s front door and stormed into the apartment, not even bothering to turn on a light. In the room Claire kept just for her, she flung down her purse, wrenched off her coat and angrily punched out a familiar number on the telephone beside the bed.
    “I know it’s late!” she seethed, when the recipient of her call grumbled about the time. “Did you find someone?”
    The affirmative answer made Diane smile. Without even saying goodbye, she hung up.
    Cinnamon awakened Mallory early the next morning, bounding up and down the length of the big bed and occasionally plunging an icy nose into her mistress’s face.
    Grumbling, Mallory crawled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. It was as large as the living room in the island house with its garden tub, hanging plants, cushioned chairs and gleaming counters.
    After a quick shower, Mallory dressed in gray wool slacks, a red turtleneck sweater and boots. Two more cans of pâfaté were sacrificed to Cinnamon’s hearty appetite, and then it was time for another walk.
    The telephone on the hallway table rang as they were going out, but Mallory didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t even look back. But a half an hour later, with Cinnamon’s morning walk accomplished, Mallory found herself at loose ends. Still shivering from the bite of the winter wind, she choked down one slice of whole wheat toast and a cup of tea.
    After that, she went into the study, a spacious room equipped with two glass desks that faced each other, and flipped on the television set. “Tender Days, Savage Nights” was on, and she watched herself steal a diamond bracelet and the heroine’s husband, all in the space of an hour.
    And then Cinnamon was hungry again. She stood by, watching, as the beast happily consumed two cans of imported lobster.
    “This will never do, you know,” she informed the Setter as she poured scalding water over the dish the dog had eaten from and placed it inside the dishwasher. “So don’t expect gourmet fare. From here on out, it’s good old canned dog food, all the way.”
    Cinnamon whimpered and tilted her beautiful red-gold head to one side, as if to protest this projected change in the menu.
    Mallory reached down to pet the dog and sighed. She’d kept all thoughts of Nathan carefully at bay, but now they were suddenly streaming into her mind and heart like some intangible river.
    She wandered into the mammoth living room, with its massive ivory fireplace and thick silver-gray carpeting. Snow drifted past the slightly rounded