Closer Encounters. Merline Lovelace

sad, it had seemed to echo her personal misery.

      She’d thought at first the music had drifted up to the ballroom from one of the boats moored in the harbor below. Then she decided it was probably piped in as background for the tour, designed to evoke a feeling for the poignant ballads of the big band era.

      The odd thing was that no else seemed to have heard it. The rest of her group had trailed after the guide, oohing and aahing over the ballroom’s massive Tiffany chandeliers, art deco wall sconces and vast parquet floor cushioned by a resilient cork mat to ease the aching feet of four thousand jitterbuggers.

      Deciding it was just her overactive imagination at work, Tracy had finished the tour and walked back toward town. To her consternation, the melody accompanied her, wandering in and out of her head as if it were lost. Only this time, snatches of lyrics came with them. Something about waiting, about gathering dreams, about walking alone until…

      Until what?

      Haunted by the tune, she’d stopped at an Internet café and spent dollars she couldn’t afford to Google the phrases. One query led to another, then another.

      She now knew “I’ll Walk Alone” was both the title and the theme of a big band hit sung by all the great female singers of the late ’30s and early ’40s, including Billie Holiday, Dinah Shore and Trixie Halston—who’d died in a tragic accident right here at the Avalon Casino.

      What she didn’t know was why she couldn’t get the song out of her head!

      It was there now, calling to her, beckoning to her, luring her like the sirens of old had lured unwary sailors to their death. She could hear it as she stood in line at the box office to purchase a tour ticket.

      “You just made it.”

      Tracy blinked, sure the woman in the old-fashioned glass booth had spoken to her. Her lips had moved. Her smile invited a reply. But the music had drowned her out.

      “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

      “I said you just made it. The last tour of the day starts in two minutes.”

      Tracy slid her charge card through the opening in the glass and held her breath until it went through. She hadn’t maxed this one out yet, thank goodness. She signed the slip, took her ticket and turned—only to collide with the man in line behind her.

      “Sorry!”

      “No problem.”

      Too absorbed by the haunting melody to note more than an easy smile and gold-flecked hazel eyes, she nodded absently and joined the tourists now streaming into the casino.

      Yesterday, the lobby’s solid black-walnut wall panels and glorious red-arched ceiling had taken her breath away. Today she could barely contain her impatience as the tour guide explained the casino’s history and unique engineering. Once inside the theater, not even the immense proscenium arch and murals glittering with silver and gold foil could hold her attention. Nor could the booming notes of the Page pipe organ that had added drama to the silent movies shown in the theater drown out the song inside Tracy’s head.

      The music was louder now, the lyrics more distinct. She’d printed out a copy after Googling them up yesterday, and knew them almost by heart. Each note was a sigh, each word a promise. They called to her, urging her upstairs to the ballroom.

      Her heart pounded as the tour guide led the group to the set of spiral ramps so many eager couples had ascended during the swing era. The guide took the ramps slowly, in deference to the older members in the group, and paused at the lounge halfway up to let them rest and view the black-and-white photos of the bands that had played the Avalon Ballroom.

      Tracy’s pulse kicked up another notch as she skimmed over photos of bands led by Artie Shaw, Harry James and Russ Morgan. Suddenly, her breath stopped in her throat.

      There! That was Kenny Jones swinging a baton in front of his orchestra. And the woman at the microphone. Trixie Halston. Tracy recognized the singer from the photos she’d pulled up yesterday. As she stared at the slender chanteuse with her dark hair styled in a peekaboo sweep, the music inside her head grew louder, the notes more urgent.

      Determined to get the damned song out of her head, Tracy slipped away from the group and hit the next incline. Her breath came faster with each step. Her blood thundered in her ears.

      She took the last ramp at a near run and burst into the cavernous ballroom. The music swelled to an angry crescendo, pulling her across the parquet floor, past the empty stage and through one of the Moorish arches onto the balcony.

      Eyes wild, heart hammering, Tracy leaned over the stucco wall ringing the balcony. Waves foamed against the rocks below. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains, leaving the sea looking cold and gray. Like death, she thought, gripped by a sudden, icy panic.

      Panic turned to terror as an unseen force thumped her hard between the shoulder blades.

      Chapter 2

      “I’ve got you!”

      Fisting his hand in the folds of his target’s pea-green windbreaker, Drew yanked her backward. She fell against him. Hard. Her butt slammed his thigh. Her hipbone gouged into his groin.

      Grunting, he held on to her until she righted herself. But he wasn’t too happy with Ms. Brandt when she whirled around and stared at him with wild eyes. Still feeling the imprint of that hip, he released her.

      “What the hell were you doing, leaning over the rail like that?”

      His snarl drained what little color she had left in her face. She shrank away and bumped up against the rail again. Cursing, Drew got another grip on her windbreaker.

      “Hey! Careful! It’s a long way down.”

      That penetrated, thank God. Locking both hands on his wrist, she threw a frantic glance over her shoulder. A cold breeze set the ends of her mink-brown hair to dancing. Drew felt its bite as a series of shudders wracked the woman.

      When the shivers subsided, she blinked several times and eased upright. Drew maintained his grip, just in case. It was a long way down and Tracy Brandt’s face was still pretty much the color of her jacket.

      “You okay?” he asked.

      “I…I think so.”

      Drew didn’t release her until she put a good three feet between her and the ledge.

      “What happened?”

      “I got a little dizzy.” She rubbed her temple with a shaking hand. “The music…It was so loud.”

      “Music?”

      “You didn’t hear it?” The wild look came back into her eyes. “The melody? The lyrics?”

      He hadn’t heard anything but the drum of his blood after he’d watched her slip away from the group. She’d acted so furtive his hunting instincts had kicked in big-time and the thrill of the chase had thrummed in his ears. He could hardly admit that to his prey, however.

      “No, I didn’t hear any music.” Wondering if he were dealing with a nutcase here, Drew asked warily, “Do you still hear it?”

      A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she cocked her head and listened. Her intense concentration gave him ample time to compare Ms. Brandt in the flesh to the Ms. Brandt captured by the cameras of the Washington driver’s license division.

      The eyes were the same misty green. The freckles were still there, a faint spackling across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Her hair was longer than in the photo. A tumble of dark brown, the silky mass just brushed her shoulders. Although the features were essentially the same, their setting had changed. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her face appeared thinner. Much thinner.

      So did the rest of her. Her license had tagged her at one thirty-two. She didn’t look anywhere close to that. The loose windbreaker concealed most of her upper torso, but he’d had plenty of