Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

"A heart-pounding thriller." — Booklist Lost In The Woods Pediatrician Lorrie Ryan has been looking forward to camping with her seven-year-old nephew, Davey. It's a chance to let the fragile, sheltered boy spend time away from his nervous, overprotective parents, and have the adventure he's always wanted. But in the lush woods, Lorrie never imagines they are not alone. . .or that their idyllic trip will soon become a chilling nightmare of survival. . . In one terrifying moment, Davey disappears. The local police find no trace of him, and a desperate Lorrie turns to the one man who can help—FBI agent Stuart Sanders. Now, the hunt is on for a child growing weaker by the minute. . .and a cruel predator whose twisted game of cat-and-mouse has only just begun. . . Praise for Fern Michaels and her novels "Well-paced suspense and telling descriptions." — Library Journal "Heartbreaking, suspenseful, and tender." — Booklist on Return to Sender "A knockout story." — Publishers Weekly on Dear Emily

Release date: August 1, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 290

Sample

Davey Taylor didn’t like the shine of the street lamp that cut through the darkness and played against the filmy curtains in his bedroom. The lamp created shadows that danced on the wall, menacing his toy chest and his favorite stuffed animals on the shelf above. Each night Davey would move his ragged, beloved Panda Bear from the shelf and place it where the shadows couldn’t touch it.

Right now the lights in his room were all lit and the shadows were held at bay. If Davey moved back the curtain, he could even see his own reflection in the glass. But later, after Mom turned off the lights, those dark invaders would enter his room. His mother said he was too old for a night-light.

Straightening his room before he went to bed, as he had been taught, Davey pursed his mouth as he studied his dog calendar.

“Today is Sunday; yesterday was Saturday,” he told the dog sitting quietly near his feet. “I’m supposed to change my pajamas on Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Fridays.” His brow knit into worried lines. “I can’t remember if I changed them last night or not, Duffy.”

The Yorkshire terrier squirmed, as if uncertain of the tone of Davey’s voice.

“See, I make an X on the days I change my PJs. There’s no X for yesterday.” Davey looked down at his dog, who tipped her head to one side. Shaking his head over his forgetfulness, he walked over to his chair and flopped down.

“Changing my pajamas,” he said, with seven-and-a-half-year-old authority, “is one of those ‘almost’ things. You know, Duff, like I can almost reach the top cupboards. I can almost tell the time. I can almost walk to school by myself. Everything is ‘almost.’ I can’t wait to grow up so I can be most.”

The tan-and-black dog woofed in agreement.

Davey swiveled his bright blue eyes to the clothes tree. There were no colorful pajamas on the peg. A cherry-red windbreaker and a yellow slicker with matching hood were the only garments hanging there. Davey ran his stubby, little-boy fingers through his thick, flaxen hair, a sign that he was relieved. His breath exploded in a loud whoosh. He must have changed his PJs the night before after all, and put them under his pillow, otherwise they’d be hanging from the peg. As if sensing her master’s relief, Duffy yipped happily.

“See these, Duff? They’re my first pair of Reeboks!” Davey said proudly. “And I almost got them dirty today. I’m wearing them tomorrow with my new red jacket when we leave with Aunt Lorrie to go camping. Mom says you can’t go camping with dirty shoes, Duff.”

Duffy rolled over on the meadow of green carpet, taking Davey’s excitement as a sign that it was time to play. Instead, Davey leaned over to pull up his pants leg. Duffy watched as first one strap and then another was loosened. She growled deep in her throat when the brace fell against the side of the desk. Crawling on her belly, she stretched herself to her entire two feet in length to show her disapproval.

Davey stood erect. He could walk without the brace; he just wasn’t supposed to be ram . . . rambunctious. He liked that word even though he wasn’t exactly certain what it meant.

Finding the PJs under his pillow, he stripped down and pulled the top over his head, then completed the job with the long-legged bottoms. Jumping onto the bed, he settled himself down with his new book, Elliott the Lovesick Swan. The long hand on his 101 Dalmatians watch told him it was almost time for his parents to come in and say good night. The new watch, a gift from Aunt Lorrie, was special. The only time he took it off was when he had a shower.

“Oh, man, I forgot to brush my teeth!” With only a few minutes until bedtime, he didn’t want to waste them brushing his teeth. Davey threw back the covers and marched to the bathroom. He turned on the water, put his toothbrush under the flow and wet it. His eyes danced merrily as he purposely splashed a little water onto the marble vanity top. A giggle erupted as he gave the toothpaste tube a quick squeeze in the middle, then set it down. He scurried back to bed where Duffy watched him with droopy eyes.

“I made it look like I brushed my teeth, Duff, but I really didn’t.”

Picking up his picture book, he flipped through the pages. He wasn’t interested in Elliott tonight. If only he could talk to his friend Digger on the CB radio. But “if only” was like “almost.”

“Time for lights out, buddy,” his father said, opening Davey’s door all the way.

Davey looked up to see his mom and dad standing in the doorway. “I know, Dad. See, the big hand is almost on the six. Do I call it six eight or eight six?”

There was a trace of annoyance in Sara Taylor’s voice when she answered for her husband. “No, Davey. You call it eight thirty or half past eight. The little hand tells you the hour and the big hand tells you the minutes.” She refused to call the hands on his Dalmatian watch “paws,” as her sister Lorrie had suggested. The boy would learn to tell time properly. “We went over all this on Saturday afternoon. I can see where we’ll have to practice extensively when you get back from your camping trip.”

Davey was undaunted by her displeasure. “I don’t think I can fall asleep tonight. I can’t wait for tomorrow. Gee, this is almost better than Christmas,” he said, his voice bubbling with excitement. Almost. It was going to be better than Christmas, he just knew it.

Andrew Taylor walked over to the bed and grinned as he bent to kiss his son good night. “I think you’re absolutely right. Do you have all your gear ready?”

Davey nodded. “I’ve had it ready for a whole week. Are you going to miss me, Dad?”

“Of course we’re going to miss you,” Sara replied instead. “By the time you get back from your trip, we’ll be back from ours. We’ll all be together again in just a few days. Did you brush your teeth, Davey?”

Davey squirmed. “Go see the toothbrush,” he answered, avoiding the lie. He looked at his parents, noticing how close they were to each other. They were always like that, he thought. And Mom always knew what Dad was thinking or was going to say. He had heard the phrase “matched pair” and that was how he thought of his parents. A pair. Like a pair of socks or shoes. They matched. Wanting to be part of a pair, Davey drew Duffy close.

Wordlessly, Sara Taylor pushed the terrier off the bed. “I think I will check that toothbrush,” she said, then leaned over to kiss him good night. “Did you find your PJs under the pillow?”

“Yep. See?” He lifted the pillow for her inspection.

“Davey, we do not say ‘yep.’ It’s a slang term and I don’t want you to use it.”

Her voice was firm and Davey made a note to try and remember. Mom’s voice was always firm. He liked Dad’s voice better because there was usually a smile in it. But he liked Aunt Lorrie’s voice best of all because there was usually a secret waiting to be told. Hers was a tickly, fun kind of voice. You couldn’t fool Aunt Lorrie. She would have known about the toothbrush right away.

Davey felt guilty for liking Aunt Lorrie’s voice more than his mom’s. Impulsively, he reached out, hugging her around the neck. The stretching pulled back his pajama sleeves from his arms.

Sara Taylor’s cinnamon-brown eyes fell on the needle marks dotting her son’s arms. But her movements, when she extricated herself, were icily controlled. There was no hugging pressure on her part, no smile in her eyes, when she firmly pushed him back onto his nest of pillows. “Good night, Davey. Sleep well.”

“G’night, Mom. G’night, Dad,” the boy said quietly. He felt funny inside, as if he’d done something wrong. He lay very still until the door closed behind them.

Seconds later, he scooted to the bottom of the bed. Duffy lay stretched out on a small carpet bearing her name.

“C’mon, Duff. You can get up here now.” The little dog was on the bed in one leap, her tail wagging furiously. “I’ve got that funny feeling again, Duff. As if we did something wrong.”

Chubby hands cupped the terrier’s face in a firm grip. Bright blue eyes stared unblinkingly into Duffy’s melting brown ones. “We didn’t do anything wrong today, did we?” Duffy wriggled, trying to get free to snuggle in the warmth of the blankets.

Davey stared into the dim corners of the room, trying not to look at the light that filtered through his curtains. Why did his stomach feel so funny after Mom and Dad said good night? All those times in the hospital, his stomach had felt bad, too. The tubes going into his veins, his sore puffy knees making him want to cry. But he hadn’t cried. Instead he’d gripped the pillows and clenched his teeth so hard he’d been afraid they’d crack into pieces. “Don’t cry, Davey. Only babies cry,” his mother had cautioned. “You must be brave and not do anything to upset your father.” He had felt sick whenever Mom said that to him, her eyes willing him not to cry.

He remembered the day the tall doctor told him he was going to get a different kind of treatment—a blood transfusion through the jugular vein. Davey had steeled himself not to cry in front of his dad. Instead, he’d grinned and waved to his dad as they wheeled him to the special room for blood transfusions.

Pills and shots, shots and pills for days afterward, and Davey had taken it all, like the brave little man his mother had told him he must be for his father’s sake. He’d been carefully instructed from infancy that Daddy’s wants and needs came first. Even when the pain in his joints was so bad he couldn’t walk, still he hadn’t cried. Davey’s eyes had searched his father’s each time he visited. There was always acceptance in his father’s eyes, an acceptance that was totally ignorant of the price Davey was paying just so that his dad could laugh and smile when he came to visit.

Davey had hoped his mom would be proud of him, but if she was she hadn’t said so. He didn’t understand. He’d done as he’d been told. He’d been brave. Behaved like a grown-up. With a child’s sure instinct, he’d recognized that he was a trial to his parents, less than perfect, a disappointment.

Once when his aunt had visited him, she’d commented on the shadows under his eyes and asked if he was in pain. He’d been hesitant to say yes, but Aunt Lorrie had persisted until he admitted it.

“Why didn’t you say something to your mom when she was in here?”

“I . . . I wanted to but—”

Before Davey could finish his answer, his mother and father had entered the room and stopped him from continuing. That night, after visiting hours, Lorrie came back. Wordlessly, she lowered the bars of the youth bed and sat on the edge. There, in the dark, she took him in her arms and held him.

“It’s okay to feel tired and sore, Davey,” she told him, her voice as soft and sweet as the darkness. “It’s all right. You can cry if you want to. No one will hear. I know it hurts,” she crooned, reaching out to share the weight of his misery, acknowledging Davey’s pain, accepting it.

Silently Davey clung to her, taking from her the courage to continue with his charade and face the ordeal. At last he slept, his body weak with exhaustion. But he hadn’t cried. Not then, nor the last time either. But knowing that it would be okay to cry lightened his burden.

Now the worst was behind him; he was home, and there were just the daily shots of antigen. He had done what his mother wanted; he had been brave. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t upset his dad.

Now, sitting with Duffy in the darkness of his room, trying to avoid the light coming through the curtains, Davey felt that tightness in his middle, again the alarm that said he’d done something wrong. That his mother didn’t approve.

In a flash he was off the bed and across the room, dodging the light. He created a windmill of motion as he pulled his toys from the toy chest and sent them sailing across the bedroom. “See, Duff. Here it is,” he whispered triumphantly, grabbing onto his stuffed giraffe.

Back on the bed, with Duffy crouched between his legs, Davey held the stuffed giraffe up for inspection. “You see, Duff, how shiny Jethroe’s eyes are?” The giraffe’s bright, shoe-button eyes stared back at him. “Look, Duff,” the little boy commanded, “Jethroe’s eyes never change, no matter how I move him. I don’t like this giraffe!” he cried suddenly, and his lower lip trembled as he stared at the toy. “You know why I don’t like that old thing, Duff? I’ll tell you. It’s . . . it’s ’cause I feel like Jethroe sometimes. All wobbly and tired. Aunt Lorrie says it’s okay to feel that way sometimes. But Mom doesn’t.” Seven-and-a-half-year-old wisdom rose to the fore. “If I cry and act like Jethroe, Dad will get upset. Mom doesn’t want to see Dad upset.”

Duffy snuggled deeper into the covers. “Aunt Lorrie knows I hurt sometimes. She knows I feel like Jethroe. She says it’s okay to feel like that because those trips to the hospital for blood tests take all the . . . energy out of me. Energy, Duff. Like what’s in the batteries that make my RC car go. The blood tests take all my energy.”

Davey pitched the giraffe across the room. The backward motion of his hand nearly toppled the picture of his parents that rested on his nightstand. “Whew, that was close,” he sighed as he grappled with the slippery frame. Even in the near darkness it seemed he could see the photograph of his smiling parents. Holding the frame carefully by the edges, he turned the picture to the light that came through the curtains. His gaze intent, he brought the faces closer, then held them at arm’s length again. Gingerly, he replaced the picture on the nightstand.

His whisper was fierce, almost savage, as he pulled up the covers. “I like Aunt Lorrie best! Mom and Dad really only like each other.”

A soft whine and much wiggling and the little dog was safely tucked against the pillow next to Davey. “You know, Duff, when I get all my energy back, I’m going to . . .”

He was asleep before he could complete his thought.

In the corridor leading to their bedroom, Sara linked her arm through her husband’s and squeezed. “I want to talk to you about something, Andrew.”

Andrew smiled around the pipe clenched in his teeth. “I’m all yours, as soon as the door closes.” He turned and leered suggestively at his wife.

Sara laughed, tossing her blond head. “That, too.”

“Why don’t we go down into the den and have a nightcap? It’s early and we’re all packed and ready to go.”

“Mr. Sanders is downstairs. I hardly think an FBI agent, even one as nice as Stuart Sanders, is conducive to a relaxed drink and lovemaking. Why don’t you,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “turn on the gas log, shower, and wait for me? I’ll go down and lock up and bring our wine up here. We haven’t made love in front of the fire for ages. It’s time,” she purred.

Sara always had a better idea, or so it seemed to Andrew, as he returned her grin. “Hurry,” was all he could say. God, how he loved and desired her. He would never cease to be amazed that she returned his feelings. A man could search his life through for the right woman and never find her, but he’d found Sara and she was perfect. She fulfilled his every need. There seemed no amount of energy and caring that Sara would not put forth for his happiness. She had even interrupted her career as an English literature professor to bear him a son. At the time, she had been thirty-nine years old. He knew it had been no small concession on her part to make their union even more perfect.

Desire, hot and potent, coursed through him as he turned the key to light the fire. Sara would return in exactly the amount of time it would take him to shower, dry off and put on the bathrobe she’d bought him for his birthday.

Sara descended the long, circular staircase. Halfway down she called softly, “It’s all right, Mr. Sanders. I’m just coming down to lock up and get a drink for my husband and myself.”

Stuart Sanders waited at the bottom of the steps. His appraising, businesslike gaze took in the woman’s cool blond beauty and her regal bearing. He could appreciate her neutral tone of voice. He wasn’t a servant, or even a family friend; he was an acquaintance and Mrs. Taylor addressed him as such. It was acceptable.

“I’ll stay with you, Mrs. Taylor, until you go back upstairs.”

Sara recognized the order behind the words. “Of course, Mr. Sanders.”

Stuart followed her from one end of the house to the other as she checked the locks and turned off the lights. Even though he had locked up himself, she’d explained that the nightly ritual helped her to sleep better. He waited in the doorway of the den while she retrieved a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine from the built-in bar fridge. They weren’t just glasses, he told himself, they were antique wine goblets and the wine was one of those fifty-dollar-a-bottle varieties.

He felt no envy as he surveyed the expensively appointed room. The whole house reflected Sara Taylor’s conservative style and exacting taste. It was totally unlike his own place, where the furnishings—bought one at a time—never seemed to match. The clink of the crystal echoed through the room as Sara prepared to go back upstairs. There was nothing personal in Stuart’s gaze at her. She looked like a sophisticated movie actress in her ivory satin robe and slippers. Too thin for his tastes. He liked a little more flesh on his women. Besides that, he’d never cared much for blondes; Sara’s smooth delicate complexion lacked the vibrant flush he preferred.

Sara’s sister, on the other hand, Lorrie—now there was a woman. She was just the opposite of Sara in coloring and temperament. On top of that she was unattached. He’d liked her the moment he’d met her.

“Would you get the lights for me, Mr. Sanders?”

“Sure. Can I help you carry any of that?” Stuart offered.

“It’s quite all right, I can manage. I like doing things for my husband. It’s all part of being a good wife.” She smiled at him, her widening lips and soft tone belied by her expressionless eyes.

Stuart Sanders returned to his position in front of the television screen. He didn’t like Sara Taylor. She was cold. Icy. At first he’d thought she was only that way with him, but then he’d realized she acted like that with everybody, and worse with her sister.

Sibling rivalry, he thought. Maybe there was something in their past that had come between them. Whatever the reason, it was none of his business. His business was to protect the Taylors, not get involved in their lives.

Maybe after the trial, when he wasn’t on assignment, he could ask Lorrie out.

“You’re something, honey,” Andrew said, taking the wine bottle from her. “Right on schedule. I just this minute stepped from the shower.”

Sara laughed, a warm rich sound that sent tingles up Andrew’s spine. He loved to watch her when she laughed. The mirth began around her mouth and ended in her eyes, and he knew it was for him alone. Wanting to savor the moment, he poured the wine slowly while Sara settled herself against a mound of cushions in front of the fire. He handed her a glass and sat down beside her. “A toast. How about to—”

“Our happiness,” Sara said, extending her glass. Her eyes were glowing, full of desire as she met Andrew’s gaze.

It was Andrew who looked away first. “Tell me, what did you want to talk about?”

Sara placed her goblet on the raised hearth. “I’ve been thinking that Lorrie is spending too much time with Davey. What do you think?”

Andrew’s mind raced back in time. He frowned. “You may be right. We can’t allow her to intrude into our lives and Davey’s affections. I wish you’d mentioned it sooner, Sara. How long has this been troubling you?”

“A while. I wasn’t certain I should say anything. Not until I saw the way Davey looked at that ridiculous Dalmatian watch, and noticed the way he’s beginning to use slang words. Lorrie’s responsible for that, I think. After this camping trip, we should have a talk with her. And,” she held up a warning hand, “we have to be prepared for some hysterics.”

Sara brushed the hair back from Andrew’s forehead. Her touch was cool, confident and soothing. Beneath her fingers, his brow wrinkled in a frown at the thought of the inevitable confrontation with his sister-in-law. He knew that she loved Davey almost to a fault. That was the problem: Sara found fault with that love. How like Sara to put Davey’s welfare above her love for her sister—her only living relative. Andrew was glad Sara would deal with the unpleasantness herself. She would handle it just the way she handled every situation he found disturbing or distasteful. He trusted her judgment—she always did the right thing at the right time. Still, Andrew really liked Lorrie and he knew Davey loved her. An unsettling sensation grew in the pit of his stomach. “We must think of Davey first . . .” he began, half-developed contradictions forming in his mind. He had never been any good at personal relationships. He was really only comfortable with the undeniable truths of the laws of physics and higher calculus that he taught at Montclair College. And, of course, with Sara.

“Yes,” Sara smiled warmly, “Davey must come first.”

“The little guy is really excited about the camping trip. I think it will be a good experience for him. Since Lorrie is a doctor, we can leave for Florida without worrying about him. I meant to go up to his room this afternoon and set up his train tracks for him, but I got involved with something else and never got around to it. I’ll have some free time when all this trial business is over, I’ll be able to do it then.” Reaching for Sara’s hand, he asked, “Want to sit in with the grand old master of locomotives when he does his thing?”

“I’d love to,” Sara assured him, pleased that Andrew always included her in his plans. “I was thinking of taking some time off myself, a day or so at least, and taking Davey to the apple orchard. We could watch them bake pies and buy some to bring home. Davey does love apple pie.”

Andrew frowned. “I thought you were going to take him a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t you?”

Sara laughed ruefully. “Unfortunately, no. Something came up and I couldn’t make it.”

“Was he disappointed?”

“No, not that I could see.” Sara sipped at her drink, eyeing her husband over the rim of the glass.

“Okay. Next thing we have to talk about is our trip tomorrow. Nervous?”

“No,” she answered flatly.

“I wish we didn’t have to go through with this. I hate the whole thing. And I never liked the FBI’s decision to place Sanders and his partner in this house. You know, Sara, I’ve been thinking. You don’t really have to go with me. I’m the one who has to testify, and I don’t want you to be upset.”

“I’m going and that’s final. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go off without me. We belong together. That’s the way it’s always been. Where you go, I go. Final.”

Andrew ran his fingers through his thatch of dark hair salted with gray. Sara smiled, knowing the gesture signified relief. “I don’t like the fact that our names are being splashed all over the papers. And calling me a hostile witness . . .”

“Andrew, I don’t pay any attention to nonsense like that. The media is the media. Period. You know how they like to latch on to what they think is a story. Everything is going to work out, so I don’t want you losing any sleep over this. Promise me. After tomorrow, or the next day at most, this whole ordeal will be over.”

Andrew drank his wine. “I never thought they’d link me with this business, Sara. Not after we took the precaution of moving out of Miami and coming here to New Jersey.”

“I know all that, darling. I thought we’d escape this dreadful mess too, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Don’t blame yourself, Andrew.”

“Jason Forbes was a good student, Sara. Bright. Lots of potential. And now he’s dead. Maybe if I’d come between them there in the university library . . .”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” she assured him. “Kids make drug deals every day—in libraries, in classrooms, even in churches. You just happened to witness a buy. You couldn’t have known it would end up in murder.”

“But that doesn’t excuse the fact that I didn’t go to the police the minute I heard about the murder. Now, because I didn’t, and because Jason told his roommate that I’d witnessed his buy, it looks as though I was trying to cover up something.”

“Well, we both know you weren’t doing anything of the kind. Mr. Sanders says that the only reason you’re called a hostile witness is because you didn’t come forward voluntarily but had to be subpoenaed. Once you testify, the State will have its case wrapped up, and we can go back to our normal lives. And Mr. Sanders and his partner can go home and leave us alone.”

“I should have stepped forward voluntarily, Sara. I should have reported the threats I’d overheard as soon as the body was discovered.”

“Hush, darling, you’ll only upset yourself.” Sara cradled Andrew’s head against her soft bosom. “You were only trying to protect Davey and me, and we love you for it. Even the FBI recognizes that our lives are endangered, otherwise they wouldn’t have put us under twenty-four-hour guard. I love you, Andrew Taylor, with all my heart for all my life.”

Andrew’s pulses pounded as Sara’s face swam before his eyes. It never failed to happen when Sara prompted their lovemaking with those words. God, how he loved her. He knew his life would be meaningless without her. They shared their lives, careers, and interests; theirs was a coming-together, a blending, a loving. His hand slipped beneath the soft velour of her robe, touching her breast. Through the years he had learned the special phrases and words that heightened her response and brought her to life beneath his touch. He told her how he loved her, how they fitted one another like hand and glove. How perfect she made his life, how perfect she was, her beauty, her womanliness. How complete they were, one with the other, inseparable. And Sara responded, listening, prompting his words with touches, kisses, and murmurs.

Her eyes became liquid, her mouth ripe and open for him, accepting his kiss, his tongue. He loved her like this, soft and yielding. His pulses quickened, his senses sharpened as he waited, knowing she would slip out from under him and turn, leaning over him, assuming her usual dominant position.

Her thighs were lean and hard-muscled as they closed around his body, the heated, warm center of her pressed against his belly, rubbing, pleasuring. He submitted himself to her mastery without any inclination to assert a masculine role, trusting her implicitly, always trusting himself to her.

Wineglass in hand, Sara watched his reaction as she tipped the rim, allowing the sweet liquid to trickle down his chest, pooling on his belly. The chilled wine, her hot tongue. She felt his hands stroking and pressing her head, heard him groan with pleasure. “Your mouth, Sara, your beautiful mouth . . .”

Contact between their bodies was wet, slick, so warm. Artfully, she lowered herself onto him and felt him fill her body. She felt she was dissolving, melting. He seemed to become a part of herself. The muscles in her pelvis became rigid; she could feel her womb contract. It was as though she were birthing him.

A. . .