Книга - The Killing Edge

The Killing Edge
Heather Graham


Chloe Marin was lucky. She was just a teenager when a beachside party mansion turned into a bloodbath.According to authorities, the killers were later found dead in the swamp. Chloe's not so sure. Ten years later, as a psychologist consulting with the cops, she gets drawn in to the disappearance of a swimsuit model. Everyone assumes the girl ran off for some fun in the sun—everyone but Chloe, who's been visited by the model's ghost.Someone else is interested in the dead girl: Luke Cane, a P. I. investigating the disappearance for her father. Chloe and Luke barely trust one another, but they agree on the important things—they will bend the law to catch these killers, and there is an undeniable attraction between them. When another mass murder occurs, Chloe's beginning to think her presence is no longer a coincidence….










Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”

—Publishers Weekly

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest … Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“A haunted mansion, a crazed killer, and plenty of romantic tension … will give readers chills while keeping them guessing until the end.”

—RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon

“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Vision

“Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end.”

—Literary Times

“Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”

—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer


Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

GHOST MOON

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST SHADOW

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

And a new adventure begins

PHANTOM EVIL

A Krewe of Hunters novel




THE KILLING EDGE



HEATHER GRAHAM






















www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


For family and friends in south Florida who make me glad that Miami has always been home, especially Graham, Franci and DJ Davant and my brand-new little nephew—

Mr. Davant at this moment!

And for Victoria Sophia, Alicia and Bobby Rosello—and Anthony Robert Rosello!




PROLOGUE


Silver.

It was the color of the night, of the light of the full moon seeping in through the open drapes in the living room.

As he entered carefully, mentally calculating the floor plan of the house, he marveled at the brightness of the night.

He stopped and stood over a sleeping young man, then hunkered down and studied the boy’s face. So young, bathed in a buttermilk glow, the silver of the night muted, warm and gentle.

He placed a powerful gloved hand over the young man’s mouth, then slit his throat, his sharply honed knife moving as smoothly through flesh as the fastest Donzi speeding through a calm sea. It wasn’t half as easy as it appeared in movies to slash a throat. Even with a knife as sharp as his, it took effort. And talent.

He had the strength, and he had the talent.

The boy made a slight gurgling sound, but that was it. Two feet away, crashed out on the floor, a young woman slept with her hands curled around a throw pillow. She hadn’t heard a thing.

He stepped closer to her.

His overwhelming impression as he stood there was of gold, the color of her hair.

He dispatched her to a more glorious world with swift, cold calculation, then paused to take a good look at her face. He held still for a split second, then told himself to move on. He had not yet achieved his objective. Of course, he wasn’t working alone, but still… .

He couldn’t trust anyone else not to screw things up. Not to mention that he was the one with a mission.

He paused again, going dead still. Silence. The house was filled with silence. It was time to make his point before finishing the mission. He dipped his gloved finger in the dead girl’s blood, then walked over to the wall, writing quickly so he could finish while the blood was still wet and glistening. There was still so much to be done.

A cloud slid over the moon, bringing pitch darkness in its wake, a blackness that ruled for a few breaths of time.

Black.

How apropos.

Because black was the color of his soul.

Red.

Dark, rich crimson.

The color spilled, deep and thick, over the white marble flooring.

At first, hidden beneath the king-size bed in the master bedroom, Chloe Marin was aware only of the richness of the color.

She was so frozen with terror that she couldn’t comprehend the meaning behind the flow, only the fact that it was red.

Time had no meaning, either. She didn’t know if she had wakened just a few seconds ago, or if a dozen minutes had ticked away. She’d heard something, some sound, as she slept in the beachfront mansion, and though it was enough to wake her up, it hadn’t scared her in the least. After all, the housekeeper was sleeping somewhere on the property, as were the two live-in maids, and there were at least twenty young people scattered around the house, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-one.

David Grant, a big, burly football star, had passed out on the sofa downstairs, she knew. And Kit Ames, his girlfriend, had claimed the floor nearby. Even if it meant sleeping on the floor, Kit wouldn’t go far from David. She protected her turf with more ferocity than most of the players demonstrated on the field.

But then something, something too elusive to identify, had alerted her, as if her every sense had been attuned to the night. She’d sensed movement somewhere in the house. Not the natural movement of those who belonged, those who had been invited in. It was subtle, as if she had heard the slithering of a snake moving through distant grass.

She was sharing a room with two of the other girls, and at first both of them had appeared to be sleeping peacefully. But then she’d realized something was wrong, though she couldn’t explain how she’d known it. She’d tried to wake Jen Petersen, but Jen had been so deeply asleep that she hadn’t responded to her urgent whispers. She’d had more success with Victoria Preston, who’d just begun to rouse, when she had seen the man enter the room. He’d been all in black, wearing what looked like a black dive suit, including a tight hood that covered everything but his eyes and mouth. He hadn’t seen her or Victoria but had gone straight to Jen and stared down at her for a moment. Then, before Chloe could move, he struck.

She tried not to scream and clamped a hand over Victoria’s mouth. Jen’s bed was close to the door, so to get away they had to make it to the bathroom connecting their room to the bedroom next door. Amazed by how quickly her mind was working in the midst of panic, she grabbed Victoria’s arm and dragged her into the bathroom, slamming the door behind them.

Victoria started screaming then, and Chloe shoved her out into the hall. As Chloe started to follow, someone closed the door from the outside, leaving her no choice but to retreat to the other bedroom.

There was more than one stranger in the house, she realized.

More than one killer.

The bedroom door started to open as someone began dragging a body in. A big body.

Chloe quickly plunged under the bed.

The full moon suddenly burst through the clouds, spilling oyster-shell white light across the room through the gaps in the drapes.

That was when she saw red.

Crimson. Spilling across the floor.

Dripping from above her. From a body on the bed.

She tried not to scream and waited, listening. They were barely discernible, but she could hear footsteps. She stared into the room from her hiding place and saw that the killer wore clear plastic freezer bags over his feet. And his dive skin, appropriate for the balmy waters of Florida and the Caribbean, was sold by the thousands in the area.

Two killers, one in this room and one next door. Or were there more? Had Victoria made it down the stairs?

She watched his feet moving stealthily across the floor and into the bathroom.

He would find her there beneath the bed. He was bound to.

Knowing she had no choice, she rolled out from beneath the bed, and carefully, silently, on bare feet, hurried to the door to the hallway. She looked out and saw no one, so she slipped out, hoping to find someone else alive, hoping to find something with which to save herself.

Nothing. No one. She raced along the hall to the stairway. Ochre light filled the living room at the foot of the grand stairway.

Red spilled out across the marble there, too.

Red spelled a message on the wall.

Death to defilers!

There was a picture in red, as well… .

A strangely shaped hand drawn in blood.

She sensed movement behind her and turned to look. Brad Angsley, Victoria’s college-age cousin, was staggering out from one of the other bedrooms, holding his head. She rushed toward him.

“He’s right behind us!” he cried.

“Move!” she insisted, and helped him stagger down the stairs. As they reached the great entry with its double doors, she dared a quick look back.

Someone was coming after them, another man in black, with some kind of knapsack or canvas bag over his shoulder.

Which killer was he?

Were there more ahead? What would happen when she opened the door? Would another killer be waiting there?

She had no choice but to find out. She struggled briefly with the lock, then threw open the doors and raced out, with Brad clinging to her shoulder. They made it down the long gravel path to the driveway and had almost lost themselves amidst the collection of BMWs, Audis and beat-up cars that belonged to the average kids who had made their way here.

Behind them, closing in on them, she could hear pounding footsteps.

They turned together, and she could see the knife gleaming in the moonlight, the blade dripping blood.

She leaned Brad against a car and grabbed a statue of Poseidon. It was heavy, but she barely noticed its weight as she wrenched it from the ground and swung it with both arms.

She caught their pursuer on the side of the head. He staggered back, and she let out a scream that seemed to last forever, until she realized that Brad had broken into the car, setting off its alarm.

Lights suddenly blazed, illuminating the driveway. Chloe saw Victoria stagger from the trees bordering the drive, holding tight to Jared Walker, who appeared to be unharmed, though his face was ashen.

Victoria was waving a cell phone as she yelled, “Hang on! Help is coming!”

Thank God for technology, Chloe thought.

The lights were coming from the cop cars that were swarming onto the property.

Chloe stared at her attacker, praying that he would fall, that he wouldn’t come after them again before the cops could take aim and fire.

The man stared back at her, his mask torn where the statue had caught it, and she felt as if she was staring into the face of pure evil.

Her heart stopped, and she prayed.

But he didn’t come closer; instead, he took one look at the approaching cops, then turned and ran.

As if on cue, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and the killer was lost in the deep shadows beside the house.

Cops and paramedics began rushing onto the property. Someone took Brad; someone else grabbed Chloe, and she opened her mouth to scream.

“It’s all right,” a man’s voice assured her, and she found herself staring at a policeman. “You’re hurt. You need help.”

“I’m not hurt,” she said, then lifted her hands and realized that they were bathed in blood.

Crimson with blood.

Red-shot darkness descended on her, and she slipped into oblivion.

It was over, and yet not over.

In the days and months that followed, she saw them all again. Her friends, with their good traits and their bad, who never had a chance to mature and become good people or selfish assholes.

They haunted her dreams.

She saw them dead, where they had lain on the floor in spreading pools of red.

Yes, she saw them in her dreams. Or were they dreams? She would simply open her eyes to see them there, surrounding her bed, looking at her.

Asking her for help. Begging her for help.

“How can I help you …? Tell me,” she asked aloud more than once.

But they never answered.

Of course not. They weren’t real. They were symptoms of her own psychological stress and trauma.

They were dreams. Bad dreams. Nightmares.

And in the therapy that followed, she was convinced at last that she didn’t see them, that they were symptoms of survivor’s guilt that haunted her heart and soul, and that only time could ever begin to heal such a wound.

Finally, like mist, silver and gray, they slipped away, and she learned to live.




ONE


Ten years later

The old Branoff mansion on the beach was exquisite. Built at the dawn of the area’s first age of sophistication, it was over eighty years old and elegant in the Mediterranean-slash-Spanish style of the mid-1920s. It wasn’t far from a similar house where, not so many years before, Gianni Versace had been gunned down, and tourists often passed on their way to gawk at the murder scene, establishing their right to say they had been there.

The less notorious mansion, now the local HQ and informal models’ dorm for the famed Bryson Agency, sat on an acre of land, with a formidable front lawn, now alight in a rainbow of colors. The gardens and walks were elegant, and the ornate iron gates that controlled access past the ten-foot stone wall that surrounded the villa weren’t locked this evening. But access still wasn’t easy. The beautiful people were entering tonight for the latest agency party. Mainly beautiful women. The kind of women who, if they didn’t already personify absolute perfection, could be airbrushed to get there.

Only the beautiful made it past the guards with the guest list, only the most elegant.

And, of course, those with the most money. This was, after all, the ritzy area of Miami Beach.

As he walked to the gates, displaying his invitation and fake ID to the tuxedoed men on duty, Luke knew he fell into the “rich” category—at least for the evening. Thanks to the fact that he spent the majority of his life in cutoffs and T-shirts, his few ensembles with designer labels were in excellent repair. And thanks, he commended himself dryly, to his tall-but-not-too-tall, just-right build, he was able to disappear into any crowd full of said labels. Despite the age of the clothing, it—and he—fit right in. He wasn’t a cop, but he was undercover. He had to fit in.

He didn’t usually wear sunglasses at night. But with this crowd, he had surmised that he might look more as if he belonged by wearing them than not. He hadn’t been mistaken. Even the guards at the gates checking IDs and invitations were wearing shades. Though in the colorful but soft light bathing the place, he was surprised that they could read anything.

Maybe they didn’t read. Maybe they just knew. Or perhaps the rumor circulating among the less fortunate was true and exquisite beauty got you in, with or without an invitation. He noticed that the guards were only scrutinizing the IDs of the “regular” people, and then only if they didn’t recognize and approve of the labels being worn.

He thanked the two burly men at the gate who stepped aside after eyeing him carefully. He had the height to match them, but he’d never been built like a bulldog, though he worked out enough each day to keep up the muscle he needed. He supposed, however, that for this evening, his appearance of being tall and lean worked well, and it made the clothes fit better, anyway.

Once across the lawn, as he neared the house, he noticed a bevy of beauties on the porch. They were sipping cocktails and posing. Perched on the railing, seated at the edge of a chair, legs folded just so, elegant and certainly provocative. They weren’t being overt about anything—these girls weren’t looking for careers as porn stars. They were shooting for the big leagues, for uberstardom. Swimsuit issues and the covers of fashion magazines.

They must have seen instantly that, though his features were attractive, he wasn’t young, and he was far from model perfect. In their world, that meant he was money.

He was welcomed with a cascade of hellos and smiles, a few of them more obvious than the rest. He smiled in return and made sure to look like a businessman with a personal interest in the modeling business. The Bryson Agency, with offices not only across the country but around the world, was one of the most reputable in the business, known for creating some of the most highly paid celebrity models of the century, women far above the sleazy sex-for-a-swimsuit-spread trade-offs that were common at the low end of the profession, though he suspected some girls would certainly be more willing than others to engage in a little extracurricular activity to achieve the goal of stardom.

But that was different, of course. Or was it?

But as to the agency being legitimate …

It was so aboveboard, in fact, that only her family and friends had even looked twice at the agency when a girl had disappeared on a shoot. Bryson hired beautiful girls and offered them the world; the disappearance of one would-be model was not enough to keep the star-seekers away. Two months ago, Colleen Rodriguez—a typical young Miami woman whose Cuban and Irish-American genes had combined to create a green-eyed, raven-haired beauty—had disappeared while on a shoot for the agency in the Keys. Both the Monroe County and Miami-Dade authorities had been mystified, with some believing the girl had been the victim of foul play, while others believed that though she had been seeing a man named Mark Johnston, she was young and impressionable—and ambitious—and might have run off with someone who could offer her a bigger career and the promise of big money. Alive and well or dead and gone, Colleen had been over twenty-one when she had taken the job and sailed off to the shoot on the privately owned island. With no body and no evidence of foul play, she was officially classed as a missing person, and her case remained open.

Luke didn’t think she’d left of her own volition, though. Her best friend, Rene Gonzalez, was listed through the agency, as well. Rene was avoiding her parents, certain that their overprotective instincts in the wake of Colleen’s disappearance were going to cost her a career, so whether she really believed it or not, she was insisting that Colleen had disappeared on purpose. And so he was here, suddenly an up-and-coming designer, to find a way to speak with Rene and see what she knew that could help him discover the truth about Colleen.

“Hi there.” A lissome blonde uncrossed long legs and stood as she saw him coming, then offered him a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Lena Marconi. And you’re …?”

Luke produced a card. “Jack Smith, Mermaid Designs,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Mermaid Designs?” Lena asked, her gray eyes smoldering. “Beach clothing?”

“Exactly, women’s beach clothing,” Luke said. “Bikinis, tankinis—'inis’ of all kinds.”

“How wonderful,” Lena gushed.

A dark-haired woman rose with a fluidity that might have been spellbinding if it hadn’t been so practiced. “A bathing-suit designer! How perfect. They’re just starting to plan the next agency swimsuit calendar, you know,” she said as she offered an elegant hand. “Maddy Trent, late of Amarillo, Texas, and quite fond of South Beach. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith.”

“Likewise,” he assured her.

There were two more women sitting on the porch, both blondes. The first, very light, with huge blue eyes and a look of friendly amusement about her, rose. “Hi there, Mr. Smith. I’m Victoria Preston. Please, come in. I’ll introduce you to Myra—Myra Allen, the head of the Miami office—and see that you get something to drink.”

The fourth woman, seated on a gently swinging wicker love seat, didn’t move, though she looked at him assessingly. There was a touch of red in the smooth fall of blond hair that curled around her shoulders. Her eyes were green, lime-green, almost like a cat’s eyes. She continued to survey him thoughtfully, without speaking. Strange—she didn’t look as if she was trying to appear cool and aloof; she was just more interested in studying him than introducing herself.

Interesting.

“Chloe?” Victoria Preston said quietly.

“Oh, of course.” The woman with the sunset-streaked blond hair rose. She was tall, five-nine, maybe, hard to tell. She was wearing sandals with small, weirdly shaped heels, probably the newest thing. She wasn’t the most classically beautiful of the four—that title would have gone to Victoria—but she was the most intriguing. It was her eyes. They were light colored, but also large and well set, and just slightly tilted, giving her a look of mystery. She had a wide smile and full lips, perfect white teeth. A necessity, he imagined, in her business. She wasn’t quite as thin as the others; she looked more like an athlete or a runner.

She offered him a hand at last. “Chloe … Marin,” she said.

It was a strange hesitation, as if she didn’t really want to identify herself. The first name came easily, the surname not so much. Maybe it was a model’s equivalent of a pen name because she had a tongue twister of a last name with twenty syllables or six consonants in a row. Awkward to say. Schwartzenkopfelmeyer or Xenoskayanovich or something.

Or maybe, instinctively, she just didn’t trust him.

“Chloe, nice to meet you,” he said.

“You’re a designer?” she said.

He nodded.

The ghost of a smile played over her lips, and skepticism touched her eyes.

“Chloe, let’s introduce Mr. Smith to Myra,” Victoria urged.

“Oh, look who’s coming!” Maddy drawled. “It’s Vincente!”

“Vincente … who?” Lena asked.

“Vincente. Just Vincente,” Maddy said. “There was just a huge article on him in GQ!“

Luke tried not to laugh out loud; he had just become dog chow as far as Maddy from Amarillo was concerned.

“Come on in, Mr. Smith,” Victoria told him, and led the way. Chloe followed them.

The house was even more elegant inside than out. They had barely stepped into the travertine entry-way before a uniformed server was there to offer him champagne from a silver tray. He accepted a glass with thanks, noticing that the women didn’t follow suit.

Maybe it was the expensive stuff, reserved for clients and the other guests.

They kept going, to a living room with mile-high ceilings, a curving white staircase and white marble flooring covered with expensive rugs. The house boasted a huge fireplace and mantel, though he was sure the fireplace hadn’t been used in decades.

Three pairs of French doors led to a massive patio with a pool and adjacent hot tub. They stepped out and headed for a tiki bar set up at the south end of the pool, weaving past small groups of extravagantly dressed people on their way.

“That’s Myra,” Victoria said, pointing out a woman to the left of the bar. She was speaking with two women who appeared to be in their early forties, attractive in simple black dresses, short black hair and medium black heels. “She’s talking to the women from Rostini. You’ve heard of the label?”

Not before today, when he had crammed on the fashion industry. “Rostini,” he said, nodding. He felt Chloe watching him, and sensed that she was suspicious.

Of what?

“They make a lovely couple. When you think that they met at college and have lasted longer than a lot of marriages … They’re the name in cocktail dresses, if you ask me,” he added.

Myra looked up from her conversation just then and saw the three of them drawing near. He’d met the woman once before, to set up his invitation for the evening, but he kept his gaze bland, as if he’d never seen her before.

She smiled, and waved them over, her own expression a match for his. He might only have met her once, but he found her fascinating. Myra Allen had once been a supermodel herself, until shooting a commercial on the beach had left her with a scarred cheek. She had accepted an administrative job with Bryson Agency while she convalesced, and she had also accepted a nice settlement from the client’s insurance company. Rather than accept plastic surgery or rely on makeup and go back to work in modeling, she had risen swiftly in the company and now managed one of their most lucrative locations, the Miami Beach mansion.

She was still a beautiful woman. Tall, slim and capable of turning on a warm smile.

“Mr. Smith,” she said. “You’ve made it. I’m delighted.”

She extended a hand, and he stepped forward to take it, wondering, from the way she presented it, if he was supposed to kiss her fingers. No, a Frenchman certainly would, but he was an expat Brit living and working in the U.S.

He shook her hand.

She smoothed back a lock of sable brown hair cut at a sophisticated angle. “Mr. Smith, Josie Rowan and Isabel Santini. I’m sure you know they—”

“Are Rostini, of course,” he said, smiling at the women.

After that, Myra took over, leading him back into the living room, introducing him to various people in the business.

Jesse and Ralph Donovan, a young couple who designed evening wear together. Bob—or Bobby—Oscar, flamboyant and arrogant, but hardly someone who seemed liable to seduce a young woman into disappearing. Cindy Klein, dramatic and conceited, but a powerful player with one of the biggest labels in the world.

Harry Lee was there, too—a big shot with the Bryson group. He was a man of about sixty, slim, articulate and impeccably dressed. Another man, nondescript—small, slim and wearing large black-rimmed glasses—seemed to be his assistant, completely at his beck and call. Not unexpectedly, a veritable flock of women also surrounded him.

Harry Lee seemed to take Luke at face value and was glad to welcome him to the party. “Nothing like Miami Beach. Each of our offices does a swimsuit calendar, but this one is, arguably, the most important. Miami is known for—frankly—hot bodies. Beach bodies. Of course, too many women walk around in suits too small to hold a teacup Yorkie.” He paused to shudder. “But the beautiful bodies are here, as well, and naturally we take full advantage of that. Myra tells me you’ll be shooting your first catalogue in tandem with our calendar shoot. So, welcome. As you’re about to see firsthand, Bryson will always be known for the most spectacular and most talented models. Nothing will ever change that fact.”

Luke politely agreed with him, then moved on.

To the young women.

To the “most spectacular and most talented models.”

He couldn’t help recognizing Lacy Taylor, the wholesome beauty who had graced the covers of at least a dozen major magazines. She was pleasant but vague, and he was sorry to realize that she was high, as well as more than a little drunk, which was when he noticed the small, mousy brunette following her everywhere, making certain she didn’t crash into a table or drown in the pool. Lena Marconi, energetic and sweet, reappeared and granted him a few minutes when she wasn’t chasing down Vincente. Lena seemed to have the energy to cover all the bases—and in her mind he might just be the next hot thing, which made him a base worth covering. Then there was Jeanne LaRue—a professional name, he was certain—who was tall, slim, angular and, he assumed, ultrachic, but she was also hard-edged, the opposite of the naturally stunning Lacy, who didn’t have to work to draw as much attention as she could possibly desire. Lacy was like a golden-retriever puppy; Jeanne was like a pit bull. There were plenty of other models in attendance, but he saw no sign of Rene Gonzalez.

He managed not to embarrass himself in conversation, because everyone else seemed happy to do most of the talking. As long as he nodded appreciatively now and then, and agreed with whatever other people said, they seemed to like him.

He still managed to find out a few things, though; he just had to be careful with his questioning. He asked Myra first about Rene, learning that oh, yes, certainly, she would be along at some point.

Jeanne LaRue was uninterested in the subject when he sat down beside her at the bar. She knew Rene, but in her opinion the girl was gawky, and she had no experience, so if he was planning on doing a beach shoot, he wouldn’t be getting much for his money by hiring Rene. “Victoria knows her stuff. She would be good. And Lacy, of course. As long as you can keep her sober, though she has done some exquisite doped-out shots for that new perfume, Dream. And naturally you’ll want me. I’m the best. Especially in a bathing suit.”

He frowned. “What about that other girl? Colleen Rodriguez? For a couple of weeks, her disappearance was all over the news, and then people seemed to forget all about her.”

Jeanne wrinkled her nose. “Because the little twit obviously fell in love and decided to hightail it.”

“Odd. If you fall in love, don’t you announce it to the world?”

Jeanne was clearly getting bored with so much conversation about another woman. “Maybe it’s some kind of a publicity stunt. You know, some kind of scam. I hope they put her in jail when they find her—she nearly ruined everything.”

“Oh? Aren’t you worried about her? Was—isn’t she a friend?”

“Sure—we’re all friends. But she behaved like a selfish brat. We were all on the island, shooting an ad, and everyone was happy—then she just up and disappeared. With her purse and passport, I’d like to point out.”

“But she didn’t take all her things?”

Jeanne waved a hand in the air. “I don’t know what she did and didn’t take. I didn’t room with her. I don’t room with anyone. It’s in my contract. You could talk to Lacy. They roomed together. That Colleen, she was clever. Lacy is the golden girl, and Colleen knew that and hung around her, looked out for her. If anyone knows anything, it’s Lacy. Of course, Lacy is tweaked half the time, so if Colleen walked by her on the way out and told her where she was going, Lacy might not have noticed.”

He made a mental note to talk to Lacy about Colleen Rodriguez, preferably when she was sober. But tonight he needed to find Rene.

Jeanne was going on about her competition again, though. “I don’t know about Chloe Marin. She’s best for something a bit sporty. She does have those unusual eyes, though. And great breasts—which, from what I understand, are all hers. Personally, I think a little silicone helps the puppies stay right up where they’re supposed to be. And I’ve yet to meet a man who objects, and most seem to prefer it. What do you have to say to that, Mr. Smith? I’m right, aren’t I?”

She was fishing for a compliment, he realized, leaning closer and actually coming on to him.

He lowered his head, trying not to smile and betray his amusement. She no doubt expected him to take her up on her not-so-subtle offer. There was a time in his life when he would have, those days of his youth when he was eager and raw, thrilled by the prospect of shagging just about anything that moved. But those days were long in the past. It wasn’t that his life had come to fruition with a deep relationship. In fact, his deepest relationship had ended bitterly. He didn’t know what he wanted yet, but he knew it wasn’t what Jeanne LaRue was offering.

No sharp edges, no daggers, no bartering. Not in the bedroom.

As he considered his response carefully, he was jolted—literally—by the arrival of someone at his side.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to push you out of your seat.”

He turned, saved from having to make a reply by the arrival of the all-natural assets in question.

Chloe Marin had come up on the other side of him, and he couldn’t have been more surprised by the effect she had on him, her eyes wide and intent, the soft and ethereal scent of her perfume sweeping over him. She was different from the others. He had an impression of the world’s most sinuous and elegant cat. It wasn’t overt, and yet she had an amazingly sensual allure.

She continued to stare at him with those cool jaguar eyes, and he realized he was being studied.

She accepted two beers from the bartender and slid one in front of him, then leaned close to ask softly, “Do you need rescuing?”

“Well …”

“It’s not a complex question. You may not want to be rescued. If that’s the case, I’ll slip away and let you enjoy Jeanne’s … company. If not …”

“I’ll slip away with you, if I may,” he returned, his own voice low.

She didn’t smile flirtatiously. She hadn’t been flirting, had simply noticed his plight and given him a chance to escape if he wanted to.

She spoke more loudly. “Mr. Smith, Victoria’s cousin Brad has arrived. I mentioned him to you earlier.”

He turned to Jeanne. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss LaRue. Miss Marin has pointed out someone I need to meet.”

“It’s Brad,” Chloe explained. “He’s going to need to rent transportation for his catalogue shoot.”

“He should just hop on a company boat,” Jeanne said.

“He’ll want his own transportation. Anyway, the more boats, the more fun,” Chloe said.

Jeanne frowned, as if wondering what experience Chloe was drawing on to support that statement, but Chloe didn’t wait for the other woman to continue the conversation, just slipped an arm through his and steered him away. “Brad owns a fleet of rental boats. And if you’re going to be going back and forth to the island while we shoot, you’ll be glad to have your own transportation.”

She was friendly, helpful, and yet she was also aloof. There was a contradiction somewhere in Chloe Marin that aroused his suspicions.

“Is Rene Gonzalez going to be part of the calendar shoot?” he asked.

She glanced over at him sharply. “Rene? I’m not sure.”

“I would have expected her to be here tonight.”

“Really? And what do you know about Rene Gonzalez?”

“I’ve heard that she’s very exotic looking, perfect for what I want for my catalogue,” he said.

“She is lovely,” Chloe said, and offered nothing more.

At the far end of the pool, they found Victoria standing with two men, both of them late twenties or early thirties, dressed in the appropriate Miami-chic attire, handsome jacket, open-neck shirt, no tie, creased slacks, everything with a designer label. One was a sandy-haired man with a short, spiked-and-gelled cut, and the other was darker, his hair a thick fall that slashed across his forehead. They might have been a pair of rockers on their way up.

“Mr. Smith, you’ve met Victoria, and I’d like you to meet Jared Walker and Brad Angsley. Brad is Victoria’s cousin,” she added, nodding toward the dark-haired man.

“Nice to meet you,” Luke said. “Call me Jack, please,” he added.

“Jack’s one of the up-and-coming designers here tonight,” Chloe explained. “He wants to do a catalogue shoot for his new line while we’re shooting the swimsuit calendar down in the Keys. And I’ve told him that it’s simply no fun being out on an island if you don’t have a boat. A nice little cabin cruiser. And who but you to hook him up?” she asked Brad.

“It’s what I do,” Brad told him, smiling with boyish charm.

Luke was startled when Victoria shivered. “That island—we shouldn’t be going back out to that island.”

Jared slipped an arm around her shoulders. There was sincere affection in both his eyes and his tone as he said, “Victoria, there’s nothing evil about the island.”

“It’s where Colleen disappeared,” Chloe said flatly. She was addressing Jared, but she nodded toward Luke. “Mr. Smith—Jack—is a new client for the agency. We should be hyping the shoot, not scaring him off.”

Brad smiled at Luke. “She’s right. And you’ll love the place. It’s the agency’s own little piece of pristine heaven. Not to mention that it’s three miles from Islamorada, which you must have heard of. It’s the sportfishing capital of the Keys, for sure, maybe the world.”

“Still, it’s true. It is where Colleen suddenly went missing,” Chloe said. Push-pull. She had said they shouldn’t frighten him, yet here she was focusing on the other woman’s disappearance. Clearly she didn’t want to let the conversation drop, and she kept glancing at him, which definitely struck him as strange.

“I did hear about that,” Luke said. “Are they sure nothing happened to her? I mean, why would she just disappear?”

Jared shook his head. “Who knows? Models tend to be emotional and just plain crazy.”

“Hey!” Victoria elbowed him.

“Most models. Some models,” Jared said. “Not you, Vickie. You’re totally sane.”

“But, honestly,” Brad said, lowering his voice, though with the conversations going on around them and the pulsing music playing in the background, it was unlikely anyone could hear them. “Tell me that Jeanne LaRue isn’t a bit on the wacko side.”

“She’s … blunt, that’s all,” Victoria said.

Jared snorted. “She’d walk over her own mother in spike heels if it would get her where she wants to go.”

“But she’s honest about it,” Chloe said. “I like that. What’s that saying? Something about the enemy I can see being less dangerous than the friend I trust?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Brad agreed. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and produced a card for Luke. “While I’m thinking about it. We’ll get you set up for the shoot. Lots of people fly in, but you’re not even talking fifty miles, and a boat gives you a lot more control over your schedule. You know anything about boats?”

“Actually, I do,” Luke assured him.

Brad nodded. “Then it will be up to you whether you want a captain to come along or not. Depends what you’ll find more relaxing.”

“Are you associated with the agency?” Luke asked him.

Brad laughed. “No, not really. But I’m Vick’s cousin, kind of like her big brother, so I watch out for her.”

“And Chloe,” Victoria said.

Brad blinked. “And Chloe. Of course.”

“We’ve all known each other a long time,” Jared said.

“So you’re all from the area?” Luke asked.

“Born and bred,” Jared assured him, and grinned. “I have no association with the agency at all, though. I just tag along because we’re all friends, and the girls set me up now and then. I wouldn’t mind doing some modeling, though.” He lowered his voice. “This is actually a big night for me. First time I’ve actually met Myra Allen.”

“Myra likes working from the mansion or, if she even goes along to a shoot, her hotel room. She’s not into the great outdoors,” Brad said.

“She’s a legend, though, and it’s really cool to finally meet her,” Jared said.

“Sounds like somebody’s got a crush,” Victoria teased.

“My only crush is on you. Myra Allen is on a pedestal, to be—worshipped from afar,” Jared assured her.

He was speaking casually, but Luke had seen the way he looked at Victoria, how his eyes softened when he spoke to her, even jokingly. He was in love. Maybe he’d been pining away for years. Victoria might set him up on dates with some of the other models, and he might go, but it meant nothing. He was in love with her.

“Besides,” Jared said, his eyes steely as he spoke, “I don’t buy it that Colleen Rodriguez just up and left. I think something happened to her, so if you girls are going out there, then I’m going, too.”

From the corner of his eye, Luke saw through to the living room and got a fleeting glimpse of someone slipping through on their way to the stairs.

“What do you think—Jack?” Victoria asked.

“Pardon?” he said, distracted. He needed to get away, get upstairs and see what was going on.

He turned to make his excuses and noticed that Chloe wasn’t standing there any longer.

Luke excused himself quickly, saying he was on a search for the loo—a term that made them all smile—and quickly headed inside. He moved carefully through the crowd and up the stairs.

The place was huge—he wasn’t sure how many rooms were up here, but he had a sudden and inexplicable feeling that Rene Gonzalez was in one of them.

He opened the door to a large master suite. No one, though it looked as if someone was living there. He saw pictures on the dresser, and chanced a quick look. The images were of Myra—when she had been young and incredibly perfect.

He left that room and tried the next. There was a bag at the foot of the bed, and the luggage tag said Jeanne LaRue. So she was making the mansion home, too, at least for now.

A third room turned out to be Lacy’s. Teddy bears adorned the bed.

He moved more quickly. The next room was occupied, as well, but it seemed that whoever was staying there was keeping the space impersonal.

As he glanced around, though, he saw movement. The sheer drapes over the doors that led out to the balcony were shifting. He hurried over and discovered a sturdy wooden trellis that could easily be reached by climbing over the balustrade.

And someone—a woman—was running across the side lawn, on the other side of the trees that lined the pool. She was headed toward the back of the property. Luke had studied the plans and knew the wall went all the way around, unbroken except for a second gate that could be opened for easy beach access.

The gate shouldn’t be open tonight, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t open it. And he didn’t see any guards there.

He was certain now that the racing figure was Rene Gonzalez, alerted by the fact that her thick dark hair trailed behind her in the wind as she ran.

Would she make it to the beach? Or would she find herself trapped? And was she running from him? Had she heard he was looking for her, or was she fleeing whoever had engineered the disappearance of Colleen Rod ri guez?

He quickly crawled over the railing and started down the trellis.

Then he heard someone clear their throat and looked up.

Chloe Marin was standing at the railing, staring at him with sharp suspicion.

“I’d heard you were looking for the bathroom, Mr. Smith. You really don’t have to climb down from the balcony and make use of the beach as a ‘loo,’ as you call it—I’m assuming that’s the story you’re going to give me?” she asked sweetly.

Rene Gonzalez was slipping away.

“Nothing like the great outdoors,” he said, then swiftly climbed down a few feet, praying the trellis would hold, jumped to the ground and took off in pursuit of Rene Gonzalez.




TWO


Damn the man.

She wasn’t dressed to go swinging from balconies and leaping to the ground.

But the man who called himself Jack Smith had been beyond suspicious even before he’d climbed down from the balcony and followed Rene toward the beach—a feat that put her in a position where she longed to call in the police. But at the moment, what would be the point? He had an invitation to be here, though he’d certainly been a rude guest, looking into bedrooms, not to mention leaping off a balcony. Still, Victoria had told her that two years ago Bjorn Bradikoff, famed for his jeweled sandals, had streaked down the beach in nothing but a pair of his trademark sandals, proving their elegance, whether matched with cocktail finery, casual attire or nothing at all.

Compared to that, exiting via balcony wouldn’t even begin to get a man arrested.

Swearing, she tossed off her borrowed designer heels and swung a leg over the balcony railing, carefully maneuvering herself to the trellis. She crawled down the latticework, amazed that none of the slender slats had broken. Just as she thanked her lucky stars, she grasped at a piece of wood that split in her hands, and tumbled down the last six feet, landing hard in a patch of mixed dirt and sand, but avoiding the sharp-toothed needles of the bougainvillea that grew in a riot of color around the house.

Swearing more vociferously, she got to her feet, dusted herself off and followed in the direction the other two had taken.

As she tore around the trees, she felt a twinge of guilt; her uncle would be furious with her for going in unprepared pursuit of a man who might be dangerous, might even be armed.

But she didn’t think so. At least, she was pretty sure he wasn’t armed, though he might well be dangerous. Certainly in her observations of the agency, he was the first truly suspicious character she had seen. Then again, it could be hard to tell sometimes. Eccentricities could hide all kinds of stains on the human soul, and it was often difficult to tell the truth from illusion.

The man had an educated, British accent. Or was it feigned? Probably not. It was slight, as if he’d been away from his homeland for many years.

The back gates were open. There was one guard on duty, but he was flirting with someone Chloe didn’t know, a slim young woman with long blazing red hair. She was wearing a strapless tube gown and doing it very well. If Chloe was right in her assumption that the other woman wasn’t on the guest list, then apparently the guard wasn’t above allowing uninvited guests into the party, at least if they met his own personal requirements.

She herself was now covered in dirt, sand and bits of bracken, and her hair was undoubtedly in a wild tangle. She should ask the guard if he’d seen anyone exit, but she doubted he had seen anyone but the flirty redhead.

She tore out to the beach. Neither the guard nor the redhead spared her a glance. So much for security.

She ran south down the beach, following a trail of footsteps in the sand that led from the mansion. She wasn’t afraid; she could see late-night wanderers as she ran. Remodeled deco hotels, which had once been cheap housing for down-on-their-luck locals, now gleamed proudly in the night, lit in bright colors that drew the eye. The gentle sound of the surf made a pleasant background, and the breeze was almost dainty, carrying in a cooling note from the water.

How far could they have made it so quickly?

Chloe stopped running. They could have gone anywhere. Their footprints had gotten mingled with all those left over from the day.

She caught her breath as she looked around. They could have gone in a half-dozen different directions. Not only were their footprints impossible to distinguish anymore, she had passed at least five hotels, restaurants and clubs as she ran, and the pair could have ducked into any one of them. Not to mention that a block ahead, the hotels and restaurants shifted, and were all on the other side of the street, providing another range of possible hiding places.

What if this man had something to do with Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance? Was Rene in danger now, too?

She closed her eyes, fighting a wave of panic.

Every once in a while, hitting so briefly that no one else even noticed, it came. That sensation of absolute terror. A memory of the colors of death that had bathed the world in red and black that night ten years ago.

This had nothing to do with the past, she told herself. Nothing at all.

She fought the panic, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Fighting back had become her way of coping on a day-to-day basis with what had happened a decade before. Her uncle had told her that she could curl up and hide for the rest of her life, or she could learn to live again.

She had chosen to live. And she had taken classes in every form of defensive—and even offensive—fighting that she could. She had also become a crack shot.

She could even string a crossbow.

But all the training in the world couldn’t help if you couldn’t find the person you were trying to protect.

It was time to go back. To admit defeat. To live to fight another day.

Except that this was what she was fighting for. To discover the truth about the Bryson Agency and the disappearance of a young woman who’d had everything to live for.

She turned around to head back and was stunned to find herself staring at Jack Smith.

“Where’s Rene?” she asked, immediately going on the offensive.

“You tell me. And thanks for confirming that that was Rene. At least we know she’s alive at the moment, and presumably well.”

Chloe frowned, watching him. “What is your concern with Rene?”

He shrugged.

He was an interesting man, she decided. Tall and lean, but with broad shoulders and hard-muscled arms, and an abdomen that was probably like steel. And his eyes. They seemed to cut right through her. His face had too much of a hard, rugged edge to be termed handsome, but somehow the conglomeration of all his features made him more attractive than any of the perfect models back at the party. He was undeniably compelling. She was extremely suspicious of him, and yet … being close to him seemed to make the night warmer. She had the sense that touching him now would be like trying to hold on to an electric shock. He’d been courteous when they’d been introduced before … but there was something in his eyes. Something hard. And it made him all the more suspicious—and, somehow, physically appealing.

“She’ll make a great swimsuit model,” he said.

“So great that you were wandering around upstairs—hunting her down?” Chloe demanded.

“You have to break a few rules to get ahead in this world,” he told her. “So, your turn. Why were you chasing me?”

“Because you were chasing Rene.”

“Why wasn’t Rene at the party when she was at the house?” he demanded. “You girls are tight—I assume. Or are you?”

She was a fake, of course.

But the others were the real thing.

“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “Maybe she was afraid that some strange new designer would be looking for her. Some guy who’d gone a little off the deep end, enough to chase her down a trellis and all along the beach.”

He grinned at that. She was surprised to see how that grin made him … even more appealing and … flat-out sexy.

Dangerously so? she wondered. After all, some of the most heinous killers in history had exuded a deadly charm.

“All’s fair in the fashion industry, or so I understand,” he said.

As they stood there, frozen in an odd face-off, someone suddenly emerged from the low foliage that separated the sand from the street.

It was Rene, and she jetted off like a rabbit in alarm.

Jack immediately lost interest in their conversation and turned to go after Rene.

Chloe’s own response was impulsive—and protective. She flew across the sand after him and leaped onto his back. To her amazement, he managed to remain upright and sling her around so that she fell to the sand. He started to run again, and she caught his ankle. Still, he didn’t fall, not until she twisted around in a mixed—martial arts movement that brought him down at last.

She didn’t need to win; she just needed to buy enough time for Rene to disappear somewhere. She didn’t know what was going on, but designers did not chase down models, whether all was fair in fashion or not.

Chloe jumped back to her feet—it was her turn to run.

But apparently he knew he’d lost Rene and had decided to maintain whatever connection he had with her instead. This time he caught her ankle, and she plunged back to the sand. Before she knew it, he was straddling her, pinning her wrists. He wasn’t really trying to hurt her, though. His hold was easy, and he was keeping his full weight off her.

“All right, time for an honest conversation,” he said. He spoke like a man accustomed to being in command, and she resented it. But she was also acutely aware of the way his thighs cradled her body as he held her down. Warmth spread through her, and she was appalled by the way she found herself wondering what he would be like if he cared about a woman… .

She gritted her teeth. They were engaged in a physical battle, she could be in danger, and he could be a monster. What the hell was wrong with her?

The man couldn’t be a monster. Every instinct she had was sure of it.

She told herself not to be an idiot. An untold number of dead women had no doubt told themselves the same thing.

No. There would be no conversation, and no letting him maintain that edge of authority. Her wrists might be pinned, but her legs were free, and she could tell that he wasn’t prepared for her to fight back. She twisted and slammed her knees up at the same time. To her delight, she did take him by surprise, throwing him off to the side.

But he was quick to rebound. He caught her before she could rise. She tried a feint to the left, but he was ready, so she became a flurry of motion. He swore, trying to contain her flying arms and legs, but she got in one good whack to his chin; she heard the thunk and his grunt of pain.

But he didn’t give up. She might be a vicious terrier, but it seemed she had come across a rottweiler.

And he was still trying to restrain her, not knock her out. She had definitely hurt him, but he was just fighting for control—and he was winning.

“Hey, hey, hey! What the hell is going on?”

Chloe knew the voice, and she sighed with relief.

Lieutenant Anthony Stuckey, metro police. Stuckey never had to leave a desk these days unless he wanted to, but he was an old-time cop, and—he wanted to. He was friends with her uncle Leo, and friends with her. He had encouraged her to pursue her interest in art after her sketches had helped solve her own case, and he had encouraged her to use her artistic talent to help the police, though he also spent plenty of time warning her that she wasn’t a cop herself.

“Tony! Help!” she cried.

“Officer,” Jack Smith said.

He rose, as calmly as if they’d just been lying there soaking up the moonlight, not fighting like a couple of rival gang members.

When she started to scramble to her feet, he offered her a hand, but she slapped it away.

“This man was trying to attack one of the models at the Bryson party,” she informed Stuckey.

“This young woman is mistaken. I didn’t attack anyone. As I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Stuckey.”

Chloe’s jaw dropped, and she snapped it shut quickly. This man knew Stuckey!

She stared at the lieutenant. He was built as powerfully as a bull and didn’t have much of a neck. He kept his snow-white hair cropped close to his skull, and his eyes were a clear sky blue that were incapable of mirroring anything but the truth.

And in his eyes she saw that it was true. He and this man knew one another.

Stuckey looked at her. “I gather there’s been a misunderstanding of some sort,” he said.

She kept her jaw clamped tight, beginning to feel belligerent. Stuckey had found Jack all but beating her to a pulp, and now he was excusing the man?

“What are you doing out here?” he asked her.

“I was at the party,” Chloe said. “As you know.”

Stuckey’s bushy brows drew together. “Yes, why did you leave the party?”

“Because this man was chasing Rene.”

“Chloe, we’ve talked about situations like this,” Stuckey said.

Yes, they had talked about it. Often. He was one of her best friends—or so she had thought until just now. She had even promised that she would never let her “sniffing around” lead her into danger—such as leaving a crowded area to take risks alone—but … She dropped that uncomfortable topic for one that could feed her anger.

Since when was Stuckey buddy-buddy with the local fashionistas?

Which simply proved the truth of what she’d already been sure of. Jack Smith was no designer. So who—and what—the hell was he?

“Let’s take this inside somewhere,” Stuckey said—and it was not a suggestion.

Chloe realized that a small crowd had begun to gather around them. Stuckey took her by the arm and started toward the street and his car. It was a good thing he was a cop, she mused. Parking on South Beach at night was a near impossibility.

She was aware that Jack Smith was following them, and she wasn’t pleased. If she’d truly been a terrier, the hackles on her back would have risen.

“Where are we going?” she asked Stuckey.

“Somewhere private,” he said. “We can duck into Jimmy Ray’s—it’s too late for the teenagers to be hanging out, too early for the club crowd to be looking for a snack on the way home. We can find a booth.”

“I don’t have shoes,” she said.

“You can wear my flip-flops.”

They stopped at his car. Here on the sidewalk, the night was alive. Bands from a dozen clubs vied for dominance. People were everywhere, some in a hurry, some just soaking in the neon lights and the music.

Cars moved past at a snail’s pace.

Stuckey opened the passenger door and grabbed a large pair of flip-flops. She slipped them on. It looked as if she was wearing shoes intended for Frankenstein’s monster.

“They’ll do,” Stuckey told her curtly.

So far, Jack Smith—a name she was growing more and more certain wasn’t the one he’d been born with—hadn’t uttered a word. He gazed at Chloe as she took her first step, trying to keep the shoes on. His eyes were silver, and they had an edge. Everything about the man had an edge, from the angles of his face to the tone of his voice, and that edge seemed to demand respect. There was something about him. She didn’t like him. She was attracted to him, but she didn’t like him. And that was that.

No matter what Stuckey might have to say, she didn’t trust the man.

They made it across the street and down the crowded walk to the ivied opening that led down a narrow alley to Jimmy Ray’s.

Jimmy Ray had been born and bred on South Beach. He liked to talk about the old days, and he knew what he was talking about, too, because he had to be somewhere in his eighties. But he still worked every day, and he served the best pizza on the beach. He also had the best bar, and the lowest prices on mixed drinks. There was never a DJ there blasting dance music, though he brought in an acoustic guitarist now and then, someone with a mellow voice. People went to Jimmy Ray’s to talk, because he knew there was no talking when you had to compete with blasting speakers.

As Stuckey had predicted, the place was relatively quiet.

“Hey, Jimmy Ray!” he called as they entered.

Jimmy Ray, bald as a buzzard and equally intimidating, looked up from behind the counter. “Hey, Stuckey. Chloe.”

He didn’t greet Jack. Chloe was glad.

Stuckey had the good sense to usher her into a booth, then follow her in to sit beside her, blocking any escape. Jack Smith sat down across from them.

Stuckey rubbed his hand over the crisp white hair on his head. “All right,” he began, then stopped. Jimmy Ray had sent his waitress, Katia, over to them, her order pad in hand. “Coffee for me,” he said. “And … ah, hell, I’m here. A Mighty Meat pizza.”

“Chloe?” Katia asked. She was a very pretty girl, an immigrant from Ukraine, and had only been there for five years. In that time, she had learned English with only the trace of an accent.

Chloe smiled at her. “Iced tea, please.”

She was disturbed when Katia turned to the newcomer and smiled—familiarly. “And what would you like, Luke?”

She’d been right about one thing, Chloe thought with satisfaction. He wasn’t Jack Smith.

“Coffee, thanks, Katia,” he said.

Katia went away, and Stuckey turned to Chloe. “Seems as if we ought to start from the beginning. Chloe, this is Luke Cane. Luke, Chloe Marin.”

“Luke,” she said sweetly, staring at him.

“Miss Marin,” he returned.

“Chloe Marin,” Stuckey said, frowning, as if he wondered if he had remembered to mention her first name. “Chloe, Luke is investigating the disappearance of Colleen Rodriguez and looking into what’s going on with Rene Gonzalez.”

She stared across the table, frowning.

“But nothing’s happened to Rene—until he chased her away tonight,” she said, staring accusingly at Luke.

“Her parents have been worried,” Stuckey explained. “The last few times they called the mansion, Myra told them that Rene wasn’t there, and she didn’t know where she was or when she’d be back. And after what happened to Colleen on an agency shoot …”

“But … she … oh,” Chloe said.

“Oh what?” Stuckey asked.

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t know the whole story. But I think she’s kind of hiding from her father. He’s Cuban, very macho, very old school. He doesn’t want her modeling. It’s not what nice girls do, you know? But she’s over twenty-one, and it’s what she wants to do.”

“I’d still like to talk to her,” Luke said.

Katia brought their drinks, then discreetly slipped away.

“Why?” Chloe demanded suspiciously.

“Because of Colleen Rodriguez.”

She stiffened. She had infiltrated the agency herself because of Colleen Rodriguez.

“Why are you trying to talk to Rene specifically?” she asked, pretending she didn’t know.

“They were best friends,” Luke said.

Damn. He knew his stuff. She frowned.

“So I gather you two know each other well,” Luke said, looking from her to Stuckey as he changed the subject.

Stuckey sighed. Explaining their friendship was always difficult.

Luke sat back, one arm stretched along the seat. His eyes hadn’t lost a shred of hard silver suspicion as he stared at her. “Are you a licensed P.I.?” he asked her.

She was irritated to feel her cheeks grow red. “No. Are you?”

He nodded.

“I’d like to see your license,” she said, making no secret of her own suspicion.

He arched a brow and produced his wallet, opening it before handing it over. She stared at the insert, then glared back at him. “That’s a fishing license.”

He shrugged, not about to comply any further.

“He’s the real deal,” Stuckey said quietly, obviously getting irritated himself.

“Well, you might have said something,” she said, staring accusingly at Luke.

“Just what do you do, Miss Marin?” he asked. “Since you’re not a model.”

She had never said she was, but even so, she resented his implication that she wasn’t—something—enough to be a model.

“I’m a psychologist and an artist,” she said.

“Oh. I see.” The words were polite—and cutting.

“A sketch artist,” Stuckey put in for her. “Chloe has been of tremendous help to the department as a sketch artist. And as a psychologist, she’s helped lots of survivors—of crime, abuse, you name it—learn to cope again.”

“So you were there to sketch … models?” he asked. His tone made her teeth grate.

She decided to let Stuckey take that one.

“There’s still a lot of concern regarding Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance. Victoria is with the Bryson Agency, and Chloe and Victoria are friends, so it was easy enough to arrange to plant Chloe there. She’s trying to see if she can discover anything in a casual way, working out of the mansion. And except for tonight, you’re being careful—right?” he said sternly, staring at her.

“I see,” Luke said, though his expression conveyed that he obviously didn’t. “Degrees in psychology—and … art?—make you qualified to investigate a woman’s disappearance and possible murder?”

“Tony told you, I know Victoria, so it’s easy for me to fit in. If anyone can learn anything about what goes on inside the agency, it’s me.” She stopped speaking. She had met Colleen, casually, and had liked her very much. This was personal for her. And she was the best person for the job. She and Vickie had been best friends ever since the event that had shattered their lives, along with Brad’s and Jared’s. Even the fact that they all traveled for both work and pleasure, and might not see each other for months at a time, didn’t change anything. When they were home, they were thick as thieves.

She thought about telling Luke that her uncle had handled more criminal investigations than he would see in ten lifetimes, and that Uncle Leo valued her opinion and had actually asked her to keep an eye out and tell him anything she learned.

But she didn’t have a chance to respond further before Stuckey’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment, grinned, then turned to Chloe. “Yes, she’s here. I’ll tell her.” He hung up and said, “That was Victoria. When she couldn’t get you and the guard said he’d seen you heading for the beach, she figured I might have seen you.”

“Has she seen Rene?” Luke asked.

“She won’t show up again tonight. Not after someone chased her,” Chloe said, looking at him accusingly.

“Where will she go?” Luke asked her.

Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be telling you, Chloe thought. She still didn’t feel comfortable with his explanation, even if Stuckey had bought it.

“Luke, maybe you want to explain why the Gonzalezes are so concerned about their daughter,” Stuckey suggested.

Did he want to explain? she wondered. Certainly not to her. She could see that. But she could also see that he respected both Stuckey’s position and Stuckey himself, and because of that he would fill her in.

“Did you know that Colleen and Rene were longtime best friends?” he asked. “Since childhood. And their parents were friends, too.”

Chloe was silent. She didn’t think Victoria or any of the other models knew that. The girls had probably downplayed the strength of their friendship, afraid that it might hurt their individual chances of getting work if the powers that be thought they were unwilling to work separately or that jealousy would lead to trouble in the house.

“Octavio Gonzalez, Rene’s father, came to me after they couldn’t get hold of their daughter,” Luke explained. “She wouldn’t even answer her cell. They’re worried that whatever happened to Colleen Rodriguez was happening to her, too—that maybe someone was targeting her, forming a relationship with her so he could lure her away, presumably to kill her. The thing is, Colleen was over twenty-one, and her purse and passport were gone, which makes it look like she took off on her own. The authorities found nothing that suggested foul play. But Colleen’s parents are sure their daughter would never have just taken off without letting them know. So now Octavio is going crazy. The man is sure that something happened to Colleen, and he’s afraid his daughter is about to meet the same fate. The agency is no help—but then, they don’t have to be. Rene is twenty-two. They don’t have to force her to talk to her parents if she doesn’t want to. Even so, Octavio is convinced that the agency is dirty.”

“I don’t think so. I really don’t,” Chloe told him.

He leaned forward. “Is that because you’ve been doing some work for them? Or because your friend Victoria is such a success there?”

She would have stood up and gotten right in his face—if Stuckey hadn’t been blocking her in. He had no right to accuse her that way.

She clamped down hard on her teeth, realizing that she was going on the defensive, when she herself had been there to spy on whatever was going on. Colleen had been like a beautiful puppy, full of life and energy and eager anticipation. She had loved Miami and loved her parents and friends. There had been no reason for her to just up and disappear. Chloe hadn’t needed to hear that from Luke Cane, or whoever he really was.

Chloe lowered her eyes, dismayed with herself. His name was Luke Cane—Stuckey had told her so. He was a legitimate private investigator—even if he had shown her a fishing license. They had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot, but it had been a long night, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted it to go on any longer.

“I’ll do what I can to get Rene to speak with you,” she said. “Tony, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the mansion. Vickie is probably ready to go home.”

Luke reached across the table and touched her arm. She started, looking at his hand. It was large, with long fingers—maybe he should have been a guitarist or a pianist. His nails were clipped short, and they were clean. His palm felt callused; she imagined that when he wasn’t investigating someone, he indulged in some kind of manual labor. Building things, maybe. They were very masculine hands. She gritted her teeth again, wondering why his touch could send rivulets of fire streaking through her when she was absolutely convinced that she didn’t like the man.

She looked up and found him staring into her eyes. “Victoria doesn’t live at the mansion?” he asked.

Chloe shook her head. “She lives about a mile away from me. We’re in the Grove. She stays at the mansion sometimes, especially if she has to get up early for a shoot. But she does more than model. She also substitute teaches at a magnet school for the performing arts, so she prefers living at home.”

“But she has a room at the mansion, right?” he persisted.

“Yes. Look, if your main interest is Rene, I can try to make her call her parents, but I can’t guarantee I’ll succeed. And you’re not going to change her mind. She believes she can make it. Her father may love her, but he’s smothered her, and she’s over twenty-one and this is America. It’s her decision to make.”

He shook his head. “You’re missing the point. It’s likely that her best friend met a very bad end, and the same thing could happen to her.”

“I haven’t missed your point. But there was no indication of foul play,” Chloe said, even though she didn’t believe Colleen had run off, not for a second. She had heard all the arguments a million times, and she was certain that something had happened, which was why she had been at the mansion tonight herself. So why was she arguing with him?

Because I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him,she reminded herself.

“Face it,” Luke said bluntly. “Colleen Rodriguez was murdered. Quite possibly by someone involved with the Bryson Agency.”




THREE


The Stirling was one of five boats berthed at the rickety docks off the Florida Bay side of Key Biscayne.

They would be tearing down the docks soon, along with the old bait-and-beer shop that had been there since the 1920s. Miami had officially been a city then, incorporated in 1896, but to many it had still been nothing but a mosquito-infested swamp, stuck between the Everglades and Biscayne Bay. Technically, the Everglades wasn’t a swamp—it was a literal “river of grass,” and a slow-moving river at that. It wasn’t that the city had been kept secret from the world—Fort Dallas had been erected on the Miami River in the early 1800s as an outpost in the Seminole Wars. After that, the city, and all the smaller municipalities that made up Greater Miami, had grown slowly. Hurricanes, heat, humidity, snakes, gators and other pests had combined to limit its expansion. There had been boom in the 1920s, but the hurricane of 1926 had stopped development in its tracks for a while. The thirties hadn’t done much for the area, either, but since the 1940s and the advent of army bases and the industry of war, the city had continually grown. Castro’s rise to power had brought a massive Cuban influx, and soon after, Miami had become the haven of choice for people from every country in the Caribbean, and South and Central America.

A lot of what had first brought Luke Cane to the area was part of a dying past. Didn’t matter. He liked the diversity of what was going on. He regularly heard Spanish, German, Russian and British accents, all in a normal day, just going out for coffee, stopping for a beer.

He would miss it, though, when the old shops and docks finally went down under the wave of the future.

The old way in the Florida Keys—especially the middle Keys—would perish more slowly. He could always move the Stirling farther south.

The causeway led to the luxury residences on Key Biscayne, to the aquarium, the beaches and one of the city’s finest magnet schools. There were research laboratories, boat rentals, picnic areas. His own little patch of heaven was behind a forested road that only the natives tended to travel. Boaters knew the bait shop, where you could also buy beer and exactly two menu items: boiled shrimp and burgers.

When he drove back home that night, he immediately recognized the visitor sitting at the end of the dock as Octavio Gonzalez.

He parked his Subaru on the sand spit that was assigned to his slip and got out. Octavio stood right away and approached him. It was almost 3:00 a.m.

He wondered how long the other man had been sitting there. Probably most of the night.

“Did you see her? Did you?” Octavio asked anxiously. “Is she all right?”

“I didn’t actually speak with her, but she was there, and I know she’s all right,” Luke assured him.

Relief flooded Octavio’s face, but then he turned anxious once again. “But you went as someone else. Why wouldn’t she see you? They have her imprisoned, don’t they?” He was about five-ten, stocky, bald on top, mustached. In his youth he had probably displayed the machismo that went with his heritage, but now he only looked broken and desperate. He set his hands on Luke’s chest, as if he could force him to make everything all right. “That woman—that Myra woman!” he continued. “She won’t let me speak with my daughter. She won’t let me on the property. She called the police when I insisted on speaking with my daughter. She even told them that she didn’t know where Rene was!”

“She told the police she didn’t know where Rene was when they went to see her. If Rene wasn’t there when the police arrived, then she wasn’t lying. She did tell the police that Rene was all right, and they’ll go back to see her again.”

“They should camp outside her door!” Octavio said furiously.

“Octavio, I know how you feel,” Luke said patiently, gently grasping the man’s hands and forcing them down. “Come aboard, sit, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

The aft deck led straight into the central cabin. For many years now, the boat had been both his home and his occupational therapy. He’d spent hours on the woodwork and the old chrome. The galley was up-to-date and fully functional; the main cabin offered an elegant teak dining table with a horseshoe-shaped bench that accommodated at least ten. Across from the table, a long, comfortably upholstered sofa invited more guests, and there were two stationary easy chairs, as well. A set of six steps led to the bridge above, while a hallway led to the master cabin at the stern, passing two additional sleeping cabins on the way, one to port and one to starboard. She was a labor of love and the perfect home, at least for the time being. The water here in a canal off the Intracoastal wasn’t the clearest he’d ever seen, and there was the noise of small boats of all kinds coming through. Still, the constant movement of the water kept it clean enough, and he liked being able to jump in for a swim whenever the hell he felt like it. People relaxed in tubes and floating chairs outside the neighboring bait-and-beer shop, and on a warm summer’s day, there was nothing like the pleasure of being right on the water.

It was a far cry from his native country.

Every once in a while, he still yearned for home, but he figured that was why God had gotten together with the Wright brothers to create airplanes.

Octavio followed him on board, a little more slowly, using the hull rail for support as he carefully crossed over to the deck. Luke led the way into the cabin, helping himself to a beer from the refrigerator as he passed.

“Octavio, beer?” he offered.

“No, no,” Octavio replied.

Luke reached into a cabinet above the sink and found a bottle of cognac. He held it up questioningly, and at first the other man looked as if he would refuse, but then he nodded. He accepted the glass Luke poured for him and sank into one of the easy chairs.

“Why?” he asked, running his fingers through what hair he had left. He sounded baffled and lost. “Why won’t she just speak to me?” He looked at Luke. “But you say she’s there—she’s alive and she’s well. Somehow we have to reach her. She can’t go on that shoot. She will die. I know this.”

Luke took the chair across from Octavio, gripping the beer bottle, feeling the sweat. “She’s definitely there, and I was able to speak with a friend of hers,” he said.

“Ay, Dios mio.” Octavio crossed himself in thanks-giving.

“I’ll try to get closer and get her to call you,” Luke said. “But we’re in a tough position. If she was in immediate and imminent danger, I could drag her out of there.”

“Yes, yes! Drag her out!”

Luke shook his head. “Octavio, I’m not averse to pulling a few tricks, but not the kind that won’t get you anywhere—and will get me thrown in jail. What you have to understand is that you can’t keep your daughter prisoner. If I forced her to go home, she would just leave again. She could even accuse you and your wife of abduction and imprisonment if she wanted to.”

“My daughter could do that?” Octavio said, and he looked like a man about to cry, a man who couldn’t begin to understand the stupidity of those around him. “Why doesn’t she see the danger?” he demanded passionately. “She loved Colleen. They played together when they were little girls, they knew right from wrong. Rene cried and cried when Colleen disappeared, but then … she believed the story this agency is telling. She believed those lying bastards who said that Colleen had run away. All because she wants to be a model, to be rich and have men lusting after her.

“Yes, we were strict, stern fathers. We cared who our daughters went out with, when they came home. We didn’t let our niñas get hooked on drugs. We tried to teach them right from wrong. But they watch TV—they see how American woman sleep with so many men with so little thought, how they drink and carry on, all on the giant television screen. I tried to tell my daughter that she mustn’t become like a puta, a whore, because decent men will not want her, decent men who go to work, love their wives and care for their children and their families. Do you know what she told me? She told me she didn’t want a decent man and a decent family. She wanted the American dream. So what is this dream? I ask her. To sleep around like the women on the television set?” He groaned. “So now—now that I don’t care who she wants to sleep with as long as she is alive—she will not even talk to me. Her mother cries every night. It is agony that she will not speak to us, and it is worse to think about Colleen, to think that Rene will be like Colleen and never come home, never get to live a long and happy life. I know you think I am just a worried father, that my daughter is safe and what happened to Colleen will not happen to her, but I know. I know. If she stays there, she will die.”

“Octavio, you have to stay calm,” Luke told him. “There’s no proof so far that anything bad even happened to Colleen.”

Octavio stared back at him with wise and tired eyes. “Colleen is dead. Her father knows it, as does her mother. As I do. Her parents went to Islamorada—because those swine at the agency would not allow her mother to go out to the island they own, the island where she … disappeared. They act like her parents are mosquitoes, an annoyance. My wife went, too. They set up crosses, a memorial for Colleen.” He winced, then downed his cognac in a swallow.

Luke was silent for a minute, then leaned toward Octavio. “I will do everything in my power, but you have to trust me. As of tonight, we know that your daughter is all right. Her friends told me that Rene wants this modeling career very badly—badly enough that she may be avoiding your calls because she doesn’t want you to keep trying to talk her out of it. I can try to get her to talk to you, but no one—not me and not you—can stop her from going on that photo shoot if she makes the decision to go.”

“If she goes, then you must go to the island, too. You must find out what is going on,” Octavio implored.

“I can do that,” Luke agreed.

Octavio stood and pumped Luke’s free hand. “Lieutenant Stuckey told me that I could count on you.”

“I’ll keep you informed,” Luke promised. “But, Octavio, if she calls you, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much you feel it goes against tradition, don’t try to stop her from pursuing her career or interfere with her life. Be open to her dreams.”

Octavio’s eyes betrayed his agony. “Even though I fear for her life?” he whispered.

“Especially because you fear for her life. Stay open so she’ll know she can turn to you if she needs to, no matter what. Rene is seeing what she wants to see, but even if someone at the agency is dangerous, that doesn’t mean the entire operation is corrupt.”

“Myra Allen,” Octavio said knowingly, his brows furrowing. “That woman is corrupt.”

“Everyone involved has been and is still being investigated,” Luke said. “They haven’t closed the case.”

“Officially, no? But in their minds, it is. Another silly girl gone off—that’s what they have chosen to believe. Even when they know it is wrong.”

The long day was starting to make itself felt. Luke repeated, “I’ll do everything in my power to keep your daughter safe, Octavio. And,” he promised, thinking of the job Stuckey had asked him to do while he was undercover helping the Gonzalezes, “I’ll find out what happened to Colleen Rodriguez.”

With that, Octavio nodded and started up the steps, looking older than his years. Luke followed him, jumping to the dock first and offering him a hand. Octavio thanked him, then said good-night and walked down the road toward the bait-and-beer shop, where his car waited beneath a wilting oak.

Luke returned to the Stirling, locking the cabin door once he was inside. His windows had security locks, as well, and he had rigged his own alarm system. Despite that, he didn’t worry a lot about security. If anyone ever really wanted him dead, they wouldn’t worry about gaining entry to the boat. They would just torch it.

In the master cabin he stripped off his suit and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know why, but Octavio got to him. The man was filled with passion, convinced he knew a truth everyone else was ignoring. Once, long ago, he, too, had known that kind of passion, known what it was like to know the truth, while others refused to see it. That was what had brought him here.

Stuckey had brought Octavio to him, just as Stuckey—and some of his friends—brought him most of his work.

He didn’t spy on philandering spouses, schoolgirls who might be smoking pot in the park after school or college kids gambling or stealing exams, and he didn’t like corporate intrigue unless it was connected with something more intriguing.

He worked for people who had gone through all the proper channels to find justice but run up against the brick walls that were inevitable in any system.

He didn’t have many friends, but those he had were close, and he liked it that way.

He lived alone now, and he liked that, too. He wasn’t a decent companion for anyone else.

He felt the slight rocking of the boat while he pondered his next move. The first step would be to get closer to Chloe Marin. She was his ticket to getting to know everyone else, and since her pretense for being there was as false as his own, she could hardly object or else he would blow her cover.

Light from distant street lamps played dimly on his ceiling, and as he watched the shadows stretch and fade, he wondered what would have happened if he’d caught up to Rene. At least he had learned what he needed to know: the girl was alive, and she was living at the mansion. But what he didn’t know was what had sent her down from the balcony and running for the beach in the first place.

And then there was Chloe Marin… .

He punched his pillow with annoyance. The strawberry blonde certainly knew her moves. Subduing her had been more difficult than if she’d been a man his own size and weight.

It was almost as if he’d been thrown off balance by a supercharged Barbie. Maybe that was what was most annoying.

But she wasn’t a living Barbie. She was a woman with entrancing eyes and a suspicious nature. In fact, where he was concerned, she seemed downright hostile. And yet, when he touched her …

Something happened to him when they touched. He was filled with a sudden raw heat unlike anything he’d felt in years.

He’d seen a dozen spectacularly beautiful girls that night.

But somehow, she was different.

He punched his pillow again. He had to get to know the woman, whether he liked it or not. She was key to cracking this case, no matter how annoying he found her—and his own attraction to her.

He had a job to do.

He forced himself to watch the shadows, to close down his mind, and finally he slept.

He didn’t dream, hadn’t in years. Not anything that he remembered, at least.

But that night he dreamed, only it wasn’t a fantasy, it was a rerun of the past.

A scene … just that one scene. He was running. Down the streets of Kensington. Up the steps to the beautiful flat they’d kept for three short months. He heard himself calling her name.

And then he saw the blood. The trail on the stairs, drop by drop, as if the killer had collected it and used a paintbrush to arrange it for maximum effect.

And then he heard himself screaming … screaming her name.

He fought the dream. He didn’t want to reach the bedroom. But he couldn’t stop the replay, couldn’t stop himself from running up those stairs and seeing …

Miranda. Her face was still beautiful, her black hair spread out all around her. Her arms, though, had been battered and bloody from the fight she had waged. She looked like a doll, a Sleeping Beauty, except for the band of crimson around her throat.

Luke awoke with a start, screaming her name.

He was sweating as if the cabin were a hundred degrees, even though the air conditioner was humming away.

He stood, shaking his head to clear away the memories. It was all so long ago.

He walked into the head, turned on the shower and let ice-cold water pour over him.

He stood there until he felt himself start to shiver, then turned off the water, whipped his towel off the rack and went back to the cabin to dress for the day.

He liked it better when he didn’t dream, didn’t feel.

Chloe was jolted awake by the phone ringing and decided to let the answering machine pick up.

But whoever was calling just hung up on the machine, then called again.

She rolled over and picked up the receiver, feeling tired and sluggish, as if it were still the middle of the night. Glancing at the alarm on her bedside table, she saw that it wasn’t the middle of the night, but it was ridiculously early, given how late she’d been out: 7:00 a.m.

“Chloe, are you there?” someone asked before she could even grunt out a hello.

Stuckey. What the hell was he doing, calling her so early?

“I’m here. What’s going on?”

“You shouldn’t have been playing detective last night,” he said, ignoring her question.

“I was invited. I might even go on that swimsuit shoot,” she said.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Thanks a lot.”

“Well, for one thing, I thought you liked to keep a low profile. You’ve never even wanted your name in the paper before, much less your picture out there for the world to see.”

Because in my way, I’m still a coward,she thought.

“Look, my point is, you’ve been snooping around, and now you’re planning to keep snooping out in the middle of nowhere, in the same circumstances where a girl went missing. And that could be dangerous.”

“It can be dangerous to fall asleep at night, too,” Chloe told him, her grip on the phone growing tight.

“I’m not stupid,” she told him. “I won’t go anywhere alone, and I’ll be rooming with Victoria. In fact, I’d be worried sick if I let Victoria go out there on her own. And if she’s there, you know Brad and Jared will be there, too. I could be a big help to you. Just think about it. The case isn’t closed, but no one is doing much about it.”

“Hey, don’t get on my case for that. It wasn’t my jurisdiction.”

“I’m not getting on you, Stuckey. You know, Uncle Leo pulled a lot of strings to get me something on the case. He doesn’t believe she just took off. And I went to court one day last week to pick him up, and her parents were out on the steps of the courthouse, holding a press conference, and they made my heart bleed. They believe she’s dead, and they’re desperate for someone to figure out what happened, for justice.” She was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t know her well, but I met her a few times at the mansion. She was nice. She deserves justice. Remember how you told me once that guys like this—like whoever killed her—aren’t rocket scientists. They eventually make mistakes.”

“But they’re still dangerous. Let Luke handle this. He’s a licensed professional.”

“Yeah, right. He showed me his fishing license.”

“You two got off to a bad start, and I’m sorry about that, but I asked him to help out with this because I do want something done about it, and I don’t want you in danger.”

“But I can help. I can get Rene to talk to him, for one thing.” Could she? Maybe. The words had come to her lips without her realizing what she was going to say. All she knew was that something inside her felt it was important for her to be part of this investigation, so she had to get him to calm down before he went to her uncle. She was an adult; she made her own choices. But she loved her uncle, and she didn’t know if she could stand up to him if he insisted she get out of there.

“Actually, that’s what I called you about, and why I had to call so early, before you got a chance to talk to anyone.”

“Oh?” She smiled, sinking back into her pillow. The tables were turning.

“You heard what I said when I dropped you back at the mansion last night, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I heard what you said. Don’t tell anyone Luke Cane’s real name or his real identity. Whatever I do, don’t jeopardize his position. I heard you. You said it three times,” she told him.

“Yes, and I meant don’t tell anyone. Not even Victoria.”

“But I’m going to be asking Victoria to help me—to watch and listen—it’s only fair to tell her the truth. I mean, let’s get serious, how long is anyone going to believe that ‘Jack Smith’ is a designer?” Chloe demanded.

Stuckey chuckled. “He’s got some help. He’ll pull it off. You’ll be surprised. Chloe, I’m asking you this because it’s important. Promise me you won’t say anything?”

“I promise.”

“Good. See ya soon,” Stuckey said, and hung up.

Chloe replaced the phone and crawled out of bed, then walked over to the drapes and threw them open so she could look out at the pool. Her bedroom was on the second floor of what had once been a carriage house, and she could see the sparkling water and casual rattan furniture that surrounded it. She could see the main house where Uncle Leo lived as well, with its red-clay tile roof, balconies and two turrets. The house had been built in the 1910s and was one of the oldest in the area. Her great-great-grandfather had purchased the land and drawn up the plans for the house. Once the family had owned twenty acres. Then ten. Now they had one acre remaining, with Bayshore Drive and civilization right around the corner. But the area was still overgrown and wild in old-Florida fashion; oaks dripped moss, and bougainvillea grew everywhere in a riot of color.

Chloe knew she was welcome in the main house anytime; Leo had always told her that it was hers more so than it would ever be his. She had grown up in the main house, and when she had finished college, she had contemplated the idea of getting an apartment with Victoria, but they’d both remained traumatized by the past, no matter how far they had come. Uncle Leo had come up with the solution: refurbishing the old carriage house so Chloe would have her privacy but still feel safe, and Uncle Leo wouldn’t spend his life worried about her.

The arrangement had worked out well. She carried emotional scars, a few wounds that might never fully heal, but her uncle had helped her find a purpose and enjoyment in life.

He had always been her rock.

The two of them were the only family they had left. Chloe didn’t remember her parents at all; she had been two when they died in a bizarre train explosion that had taken out almost twenty cars and their occupants. She had grown up with Leo, and he had been a good parental figure. He was with the district attorney’s office, a position he could afford to hold because he had family money and the insurance from the accident. On top of that, he was brilliant with stocks, no matter what the economy was doing, so they had never needed to worry about paying the bills.

She felt a moment’s unease, hoping that Stuckey wasn’t already calling him, warning him that Chloe was getting herself too involved with the Colleen Rodriguez disappearance. No, Stuckey wasn’t a tattletale. And even while he was telling her to keep her nose out of things, she knew he also realized that she was in a perfect position to obtain information the police might never discover themselves. Like so many Miami-Dade officers, he had been touched by the desperation of Colleen’s family, and he had been on a task force assigned to search the area from Florida City to the Broward County line, but all the cops had been reassigned after six weeks. The case wasn’t closed, but it wasn’t anyone’s priority, either.

Her phone rang again, and as she turned to answer it, she let out a little cry of surprise.

And fear.

Someone was there, watching her. A woman, transparent and ethereal.

Oh, God, no! Not again.

She’d fought so hard for her sanity. She’d thought she was finally done seeing people crying out to her for help—dead people—done with longing to help them when she couldn’t. After the massacre, she had seen images, dreams, ghosts, ectoplasm—whatever. She had seen them in hospitals; she had seen them on the streets. Strangers who had stared at her beseechingly and, even more terrifyingly, her own dead friends. She’d had therapy, lots and lots of therapy. But now she was regressing, seeing things again, no doubt because her world was changing. No, she told herself. She was stronger than that. She did not see things! Or if she did, then if she was strong, then they would fade away.

Her throat constricted, her muscles tensed, and then she blinked and the image was gone. She laughed nervously at herself; she must have seen the drapes reflected in the mirror.

She had stopped seeing ghosts long ago.

They were nothing but remnants of the fear and trauma.

A decade had passed, and she was fine. She was just imagining things because of Colleen.

She still felt shaken.

She left the window and went to stand over the phone, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. When she heard Victoria’s voice, she grabbed the receiver.

“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Are you ready?”

“Am I ready for what?”

“Third Sunday of the month. Meeting of the Fighting Pelicans.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. I’d forgotten all about it. You didn’t mention a word last night,” Chloe told her.

“Last night. Well, last night was just weird,” Victoria said.

“I’ll say.”

“I’ll be by for you in twenty,” Victoria said.

“All right.” Chloe hung up and headed straight for the shower.

They had been meeting Brad and Jared at an old breakfast place out on the Rickenbacker Causeway since forever, when they had all attended a magnet high school for the arts out on Key Biscayne. They called themselves the Fighting Pelicans because even though their school had no sports teams, it had been overrun by pelicans, since it sat right on the water.

Chloe showered and threw on a long casual halter dress, then headed down the stairs. She keyed in the code to open the gate in the fence that surrounded the property, and waited on the sidewalk for Victoria. She thought back to the ghost she’d thought she’d seen and gave herself a shake to banish the memory.

She saw Victoria’s little Subaru sweep into the cul-de-sac and hurried out to meet her. As she slid into the front seat, she asked, “Are you sure Brad and Jared are showing up today? I’m not sure I’m ready to be awake, and they were still at the party, last night, when I left.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Victoria asked her. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

It was just an expression, Chloe told herself. And here, in the bright light of the sun, sitting next to Victoria, the memory seemed absolutely ridiculous.

“I’m fine. So what do you think? Are they going to make it?”

Victoria shrugged. “They were talking to Myra when I left, but it looked like they were getting ready to leave, so I imagine they’ll drag themselves out of bed.”

“I like Myra,” Chloe said. “When you think about her position, it’s pretty amazing. She’s not cold or snobby or any of that.”

“Yeah, but she can be hard as nails, too. You should see her when she’s negotiating,” Victoria said. “Watch out, that’s all I can say.”

“Well, I know she was questioned intensely when Colleen Rodriguez disappeared, and the cops were impressed with her.”

Victoria glanced over at her. “And you know this because …?”

“Because my uncle’s office was involved.”

“But Colleen disappeared in the Keys and he’s Dade County.”

“Doesn’t matter. Both counties were involved in the investigation, not to mention that cops talk. My uncle doesn’t believe for an instant that she just took off.”

Victoria flashed Chloe a glance as she drove. “You’re forgetting that I was on that shoot, too.”

“I know you were.”

Victoria shook her head. “There was nothing, just nothing, to suggest that anyone did anything to her. I do know she’d sort of been seeing one of the bar managers down there, a really nice guy. He’s half American, half Bahamian, and he’s so gorgeous he should be modeling himself, but he wants to go into hotel management. He wasn’t with her that night, though. And even though they seemed to really like each other, they hadn’t been together all that long. Who knows? Maybe she did meet someone else. Or maybe—just maybe—she disappeared on purpose. You know, some kind of a publicity stunt.”

“I doubt it. From what I know about Colleen, neither scenario sounds like her.”

They had reached the restaurant by then, so they stopped talking and turned the car over to the valet. Brad came walking down the steps just as they started up them. “I was afraid you two had forgotten about breakfast. I just sent you a text message, Vick.”

“I was driving, and I don’t text and drive,” Victoria said.

“Sorry,” Brad said. “Anyway, come in. Jared is holding down the table.”

They walked through the crowded restaurant and found Jared at a table next to the plate-glass window that overlooked the bay—one of the best in the place. It wasn’t that they were such big spenders, just that they showed up regularly, in season and out, and had been doing so for years.

“Hey there,” Jared said, standing and giving them each a kiss on the cheek as they were seated.

“You’re looking good,” Victoria told him.

He blushed, and Chloe wondered if Victoria had any notion that Jared was in love with her, that he had been forever. She didn’t understand why he tried so hard to hide his feelings. In the beginning, she was certain, he hadn’t let on because he was convinced, as they all were in those days, that they were damaged goods, too scarred psychologically to form relationships based on anything other than shared trauma. They had lived through a nightmare, and the aftermath had just been a nightmare of a different sort. They had been hounded by the media, and whenever they met people, whether at school or work, or even casually at parties, they were items of curiosity. Everyone wanted to know the gory details, details the four of them were trying hard to forget.

At least the killers had been found.

Dead.

The sketch Chloe had done of one of them—an image burned into her memory when she and the killer had stared each other in the eye—had allowed the police to identify him when his body was found.

Brad took a seat next to Victoria and picked up the menu. Chloe found herself watching him and feeling a sense of pride. Brad had a trust fund, but he worked hard and had grown his business into a real success, even though one day soon he and Victoria would inherit the entire family fortune. And he never acted like a rich jerk.

He worked out, and he spent time with his friends. He loved women, loved going to the parties Victoria got him into. He’d been deeply religious before the massacre, but he had lost his faith in the aftermath, so now, since he’d never found the woman, he played the field and they remained a platonic foursome.

Jared, of course, had no desire to be platonic where Victoria was concerned, but since he wouldn’t speak up …

Like Brad, he, too, was extremely good-looking and hardworking. There was no inheritance ahead for him, but he was brilliant with the money markets, and he womanized alongside Brad, while he pined for Victoria.

She wondered if any of them would—or could—get it right in the future.

Brad caught her staring and lifted a brow. “Why the serious look?”

“Just thinking, you two are getting kind of old for a life of nonstop partying and debauchery,” Chloe teased.

“Excuse me,” Brad said, “but what’s so wrong with appreciating beautiful women?” He smiled. “Luckily for us, there will be at least twelve of them on the calendar shoot.”

“Speaking of, you are doing the shoot with me, right?” Victoria asked Chloe. “Myra told me that she’s reserved June for you, so if you’re not interested, you need to tell her right away.” Victoria smiled. “Myra really loves your look. When you think of all the women who try to get hired by the agency, it’s really cool that she’s offered you a spot.”

Chloe laughed. “Was that a compliment, or are you wondering why she’d choose me?”

Victoria laughed. “It was a compliment. Cross my heart and hope to die. It’s just that you don’t care, and so many people do. I heard her talking to Harry Lee last night, and she was wishing you’d take a greater interest in a modeling career, and he agreed.”

“But you are going to be Miss June, right?” Brad asked.

“Yes,” Chloe said. “Yes, I’ll do it.” She’d been hoping she would be asked. She needed to be a part of things so she could get onto the island and see what was going on. And Stuckey didn’t need to be afraid for her; she would be in the company of dozens of other people the whole time.

Of course, Colleen Rodriguez had been in the company of those same people, a little voice nagged. Then again, no one had been suspicious then; there had been no need to be. This time everyone would have their guard up.

“And if anyone comes after you, you can just hit them with that jujitsu stuff you do,” Brad said, then grew suddenly pensive. “Not that even that would have helped … then.”

For a moment she had no idea what to say. Finally she managed to mumble, “Mixed martial arts. I do mixed martial arts.”

He reached across the table, touching her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up the past, not really,” he said huskily.

Chloe shrugged and squeezed his hand in return. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. In fact, I do talk about it now and then. I still don’t believe the finale, though.”

“Why not?” Victoria asked, frowning. “They found the guys. They were dead.”

“Two guys, dead, and a suicide note taking full blame in the name of the Church of the Real People? I’m sorry—the rest of the world may have bought it. I still don’t,” Chloe said.

Jared cleared his throat. “Chloe, the experts said it was a ritualistic murder and that it all made sense. And I did a lot of research into cults myself, after that, and I have to agree.”

“The church officials were horrified, and of course their membership really dropped,” Brad said.

Chloe looked back at Brad. They’d all grown up going to the same beautiful church in the Grove. She had found comfort in returning to that church, but Brad and Jared had gone in the opposite direction. It made her feel sad that Brad, in particular, had lost something that had once meant so much to him.

“Earth to Chloe, you’re staring at me,” Brad told her.

“Sorry,” she said. “But I still don’t buy it.”

“Chloe, you’re the one whose sketch ID’d the one guy,” Brad said.

“The dead man was one of the killers, yes. I just don’t think it stopped with the two of them.”

“Chloe,” Jared said, “if there had been someone else—a Charles Manson or whatever—the killing wouldn’t have ended when it did.”

“I know what you’re saying makes sense, but I’ve just never believed it, that’s all.” She picked up her menu to end the conversation. “I’m thinking waffles, but the eggs Benedict are really good, too.”

She could feel her friends looking at each other and knew they were worried about her.

She looked from one to the other of them. “Honestly, I’m fine. It’s just the way I feel.”

“It’s okay. We still love you. So, how about I get the waffles, you get the eggs Benedict, and we share?” Jared suggested.

Luke was surprised by how quickly and easily he had learned so much about Chloe Marin. She had started college late, after going on an extended tour abroad after high school, earning a double major in psychology and art at NYU. She had worked with patients doing art therapy at the Dade County Hospital for three years after graduation, and had been working freelance, with an office on Brickell, for the last two.

She had survived what they called the Teen Massacre during her senior year of high school. Eight of her friends had been slaughtered. Chloe had survived by being one step ahead of a pair of killers, Michael Donlevy and Abram Garcia, members of the Church of the Real People, a cult with socialist leanings and strict versions of the code of God—their God. To their way of thinking, the teenagers had been sinners, and the killers had saved them from eternal damnation, or so claimed the suicide note found carefully sealed in a Baggie next to the bodies in a wildlife park just off the Tamiami Trail in the Everglades.

Information regarding the massacre had been easy to dig up—the newspapers had carried the story until there was nothing new to carry.

The details were horrifying.

Death to defilers! written in blood, on the living-room wall. Eight dead, six wounded, two who had been passed out on the beach, unaware of the tragic events unfolding inside, and four who had miraculously escaped.

Victoria Preston, Brad Angsley, Jared Walker—and Chloe Marin. Victoria claimed that Chloe had saved her life, but Chloe hadn’t wanted to talk about any of it. She had given one interview, and that was that. He’d found a picture of her standing at a news podium, with a tall man at her side. There was a definite family resemblance. He had to be her uncle, the A.D.A., Leo Marin. Chloe had long hair then, falling nearly to her waist. Bangs, and huge eyes. Innocent eyes showing the pain of what she’d been through. She’d been so young, seventeen, and she’d been forced to grow old overnight.

The survivors had spent hours in the police station, giving their individual statements. They hadn’t been able to shed much light. The killers had worn black dive suits with hoods, working swiftly and efficiently in the dark.

Only Chloe had been able to give a description that had been any help at all. She had even drawn a picture of the man whose face she’d briefly seen. A picture that had matched one of the bodies that had been discovered later.

Death to defilers! And something else. An odd drawing … like a hand.

Everything done in blood. Obviously the work of a cult.

There were also pictures of the two “brothers” who had been found dead in the Everglades. Apparently, Brother Abram Garcia had killed Brother Michael Donlevy, then turned the gun on himself. They had done God’s work, saving the teenagers from the greed and gluttony of their parents, the cruelty born of excess, and sent them to God before they could sin beyond redemption.

Brother Abram was tall and looked strong enough to kill. Brother Michael was a smaller, slimmer man. Somehow, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who could overpower a bunch of high-school jocks—even drunk jocks, and even in the dead of night.

Luke typed in the name of the sect church and was surprised to find that it still existed, that it even had a welcoming Web page. Those who were lost and seeking the real truth of God were invited to a potluck supper on Thursday night.

Luke sat back. He’d always found it fascinating to explore the mind-sets, religions and philosophies of people the world over. A potluck dinner would be a perfect opportunity to see what made the Church of the Real People tick.

He drummed his fingers on his desk. He wasn’t sure why he had such a fascination with Chloe’s ten-year-old horror. He had a job to do, two cases to work, and he didn’t see how the dinner was going to get him any closer to finding out the truth behind Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance, but he had to eat—and he couldn’t fight the desire to know more about Chloe Marin.

He searched until he was able to go back ten years, then made a list of known members of the cult at the time of the murders, but nothing he tried got him to a site where he could find a list of current members. In fact, for the five years following the massacre, the church hadn’t kept any kind of a Web site at all. Now, however, the Church of the Real People had been revived.

As he contemplated that, he heard a car coming down the path. He closed the page and went topside.

He didn’t need to go see Stuckey. Stuckey was coming to see him.

“You busy?” the cop asked.

Shirtless, barefoot and in swim trunks, his hands on his hips, Luke said, “I think I can spare a few minutes.”

Stuckey hopped down onto the boat, wiping his hand across his brow. “Hot out here today, huh?”

“The cabin is air-conditioned,” Luke said.

“You could just live in a house, like normal people do,” Stuckey told him.

“I could. But I like the boat. I can leave without packing whenever I get the urge.”

Shaking his head, Stuckey ducked and went down the steps to the cabin, heading straight to the refrigerator, helping himself to a beer before flopping down on the sofa. Officially, Sunday was his day off. Unofficially, he was a workaholic and used the weekends for the cases that weren’t technically his to solve.

“I got a present this morning,” Stuckey told him.

“Oh?”

“A food basket. Rene Gonzalez’s folks sent it. They think you can save Rene, and they wanted to thank me for sending them to you.”

“So you got the food basket and I got nothing?” Luke said, then helped himself to a beer as well, and sat down across from Stuckey.

“Can you really do anything?” Stuckey asked him. “Is she even in danger? None of us believe Colleen just disappeared, but we can’t prove any differently. So maybe we’re wrong. Maybe it’s a publicity stunt.”

“A six-month publicity stunt?” Luke asked.

“Right. I know. And not that it would change anything where Rene is concerned. She’s hell-bent on going out to that island.”

“And she’s over twenty-one, so if she wants to go, she can.”

“And that leads me to my point. She will go on the photo shoot, but so will you.”

“So far, so good,” Luke said. “As long as Miss Marin doesn’t give me away.”

“Chloe Marin is as solid as the day is long,” Stuckey assured him.

“Yeah, I’ve been reading up about her. Why the hell didn’t you tell me who I was dealing with?” Luke demanded, shaking his head. “That she survived a massacre like that? The kind of work she does? That she’s not just some wannabe?”

“You know, in hindsight, I should have told you about her and what she was doing at the mansion for us. She was raised by her uncle—A.D.A. Leo Marin—so she learned a lot from him, and she comes in when we need her to sketch for us. It started the night of the massacre. She drew a likeness that helped us identify one of the cult members found dead in the Everglades.

“She has something that’s close to a photographic memory, and an eye for detail.” He shook his head. “The night of the massacre … I can only imagine the terror. Chloe got Victoria out of there, and Brad and Jared were there and survived, too. The four of them have been close ever since, but it changed their lives in ways I don’t think they’ll ever completely get over. Victoria could have done a dozen fashion shoots in Paris, but she didn’t accept. You know why? She works down here because she can be with her friends. Not one of them has ever formed a serious romantic relationship. They pretty much lose themselves in their jobs. Brad has a trust fund and his boat business, and he and his cousin Victoria stand to inherit a fortune when their maternal grandfather dies. Jared trades stocks. And Chloe counsels trauma survivors, in addition to her work for us.”

“I should have known all this before I went into that house.”

“Other than the fact that Chloe was there to listen in for us, what does the past have to do with a missing girl in the Keys? With a father who worries about his daughter, since it was her best friend who went missing?” Stuckey demanded. “Besides, you said you wanted total anonymity. In my defense, you’ve been worried that Chloe is going to spill the beans about you. If she didn’t know about you, she couldn’t have said anything.”

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have known about her. And now that she does know about me, how the hell am I going to keep my anonymity if Chloe Marin is as close as you say with the others?”

“I told her not to say anything, and she won’t,” Stuckey insisted.

“Not even to Victoria—who’ll end up telling someone else?”

“No. Believe me. Chloe’s rock solid. So what’s your next move?” Stuckey asked.

“Let’s go back for a minute. You were sure, absolutely sure, that the men who committed that massacre were the two men found in the Everglades?” Luke asked.

“Why are we back on the past? I’m sure. The killers were found, along with a bag holding black, hooded dive suits, one with the mask ripped, and knives covered with dried blood from the victims were found. Not to mention that one of the men matched Chloe’s sketch. Yeah, we’re sure. Why?”

“Those ‘killers’ just didn’t look the type, that’s all,” Luke said. “Especially the smaller guy.”

Stuckey shrugged. “They were found two days after the murders, with enough evidence to put my grandmother away. And the suicide note—the Church of the Real People denied any involvement, of course. They were devastated, claiming they had never condoned murder, that the killers must have been insane. The church pretty much fell apart after that, though it started rebuilding a few years later.”

“What I find interesting, if not out-and-out suspicious,” Luke said, “is that the kids were all killed with knives, but Abram Garcia shot Michael Donlevy, then himself.”

“What would you rather do? Cut yourself or die clean and neat from a bullet to the head?” Stuckey asked.

“So Garcia shot Donlevy in the head?”

“Yep. Point-blank range. Then himself.”

“He didn’t put the gun in his mouth?” Luke asked.

“No, shot himself in the temple.”

“Hmm.”

“Why ‘hmm'?” Stuckey sounded annoyed.

“I just find it odd. Suicides have a tendency to eat the gun.”

“Maybe he never took lessons on the proper way to commit suicide,” Stuckey said, sounding exasperated. “Here’s another thing. The killers were found, and nothing like the killings happened again.”

“Sounds odder still,” Luke said. “They weren’t caught, so why stop? They could have kept going with their mission and ‘saved’ more kids from going on to lead lives of sin. Instead, they just killed themselves.”

“It was guilt,” Stuckey insisted. “You should have seen that place. It was a bloodbath. Those kids died without ever knowing what hit them.”

“There’s another thing,” Luke pointed out.

“What now?”

“Think about it. Mass murders are generally messy. People die trying to get away. This was methodical. Organized. Someone knew enough to wait, and then those kids were killed before they were really awake. And you know as well as I do, as easy as it sounds, it’s damn hard to slit a throat. Slice right through. It takes skill and strength, and it’s pretty hard to believe no one struggled and alerted the rest, which makes me think there were more than two killers, so it all got done quickly.”

Stuckey groaned. “What do you want me to do? Reopen the case? It was closed over ten years ago. And it has nothing to do with whatever happened to the Rodriguez girl. She’s what we have to worry about now.”

Luke shrugged. “Well, I promise you, I will find out what happened to Colleen Rodriguez, and if need be, I’ll keep it from happening to Rene Gonzalez, too. Because until we know what happened to her, every young woman out there could be in danger. Victoria and Chloe are going on that shoot. Something could happen to them, too.”

“Don’t you think I’d stop them if I could?” Stuckey demanded.

“Is that really why you called me?”

Stuckey shook his head. “No. I called you because one girl’s missing and another girl’s parents are scared. And I sent you in undercover because there’s a strong possibility an insider is involved. And does it bother me that two women I know, women who have already been through more than their share of torment, may be in danger, even when no one can put a finger on what that danger might be …? Of course it does. But I’m a cop—I have to act like a cop. I have to follow the letter of the law, not to mention that this isn’t even my investigation. My hands are tied precisely because I’m a cop.”

“Stuckey, what exactly do you want from me?”

Stuckey paused for a moment, then said, “I pulled you in because you’re not a cop, but you’re no-nonsense and you have integrity. I want you to do whatever you have to do to discover the truth. Without warrants. Without reading anyone their rights. Just do me a favor, huh? Don’t go getting caught—or shot up or sliced to ribbons—when you’re doing whatever illegal thing it is you need to do to get to the truth.”




FOUR


She should have been expecting him.

And maybe, in a way, she had been.

When Victoria drove into the cul-de-sac to drop her off at her house, Chloe saw Luke Cane leaning against his car just outside her driveway. She was annoyed to realize that just seeing him made her heart start pounding a little too quickly. She had never seen anyone who appeared to be so relaxed and at ease, and yet ready to spring. She rationalized that it was the tension in the man that made him so sexually attractive, though it didn’t hurt that he had the whole rugged-good-looks thing down pat.

“Odd car for a designer, don’t you think?” Victoria asked.

It was a Subaru Forester, a few years old, though not in bad shape; in fact, it looked as if he even washed it regularly. Lots of people in south Florida—including herself, on occasion—believed that the rain came just to keep cars clean.

“Maybe he likes driving up mountains,” Chloe said.

Victoria stared at her. “Right. The mountains of Miami.”

“Okay, so maybe he rides out to the Everglades to spy on the Miccosukees and Seminoles so he can work their traditional designs into his clothing line,” Chloe suggested.

Victoria laughed. “I guess he could be a sportsman. He looks like one. Odd for a designer, but I suppose you can be artistic and … masculine. Anyway, he’s hot, and he’s obviously into you. I mean, you guys already took off for a walk on the beach.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. He’s into me,” Chloe murmured dryly.

Victoria waved to the man she knew as Jack Smith, smiling. He smiled, too, and returned her wave, as she suggested sagely, “Give him a chance. Even Lacy was drooling over him last night.”

“Lacy has been known to drool over a correctly proportioned blow-up doll,” Chloe pointed out, grinning. She didn’t intend the words viciously—Lacy readily admitted that she was interested only in sleek, muscle-bound men. Arm candy, of the male variety.

“Hey, he might be arm candy,” Victoria said, as if reading her mind, “but he was polite, and he didn’t get sloshed. You’re pickier than Lacy. It’s like you’re looking for a superhero. You’re such a do-gooder yourself, it’s like you have tunnel vision. If a guy isn’t trying to save the world, you’re not interested.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then you should go for him. I think he’s perfect,” Victoria said.

Except that he’s a liar and a sham.

“Get out, go. He’s waiting,” Victoria said.

Chloe climbed out of the car, waving goodbye to Victoria, who waved back and drove away.

Chloe stood without speaking and stared at Luke Cane.

“May we talk?” he asked her.

Chloe lifted her hands. “I suppose so. You know where I live, so I can’t exactly hide from you. And you’re safe enough, according to Stuckey.”

“I’m really sorry we got off to a bad start. I’d like to try again,” he told her.

She was sure he wasn’t actually sorry, that he just thought it was the right thing to say, but she offered him a dry smile and said, “Okay, talk.”

“I need your help,” he said flatly.

She looked up at him, suddenly wanting to say no, and run into her house and hide, but she knew that wasn’t a response to what he’d said but to her own response to him. She tried analyzing her feelings toward him, then gave up. It was chemistry. Just pheromones, aroused by his face, his eyes, the way he moved, the sound of his voice.

“Please. I really need your help,” he repeated, and she could tell he meant it.

She forced herself to shrug casually. “All right. Come on in and we’ll talk.”

“Nice place,” he said, looking admiringly at the main house.

“I don’t live there—I’m over on the side, in the carriage house. The main house is my uncle Leo’s.”

“So at least it’s all in the family, right?”

“Yes, it’s all in the family.”

He waited as she keyed in the code for the gate, then followed her along the tile walkway that led to the entrance of the refurbished carriage house. She could feel him behind her all the way.

She opened her door and keyed another code into the alarm pad.

“It’s a good setup, after what you’ve been through,” he said, nodding. “All the security, and your uncle living right next door.”





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