WHY CAN’T I EVER LEARN?

Joe Campbell was yet another dark prince. She should walk away, leave him alone, but when her tears and rage at herself subsided, what did she do? Like an idiot, she punched her answering machine play button again.

“Look, I’m sorry for the way I behaved. I wish…I wish we’d met under different circumstances…. Because I like you.”

She made a fist and brushed the tears from her eyes. You can’t let yourself want him. You can’t love him or save him. You can’t save anybody. Haven’t you learned anything?

Frantically, she dug the phone book advertisement that had his picture on it out of her trash can, smoothed it out and lost another piece of her soul the second she glanced into his fierce, predatory black eyes.

Because I like you.

Joe Campbell was a lost soul. Just thinking about him made defeat slump her shoulders.

“I like you, too,” she whispered. “But don’t you dare tell anybody.”

Also by ANN MAJOR

MARRY A MAN WHO WILL DANCE

WILD ENOUGH FOR WILLA

INSEPARABLE

The Hot Ladies Murder Club
Ann Major

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my readers:

Love doesn’t transform. It forms.

What if we smashed the mirrors And saw our true face?

ELSA GIDLOW

Contents

Prologue

Book One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Book Two

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Book Three

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Book Four

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Prologue

Corpus Christi, Texas

The wages of sin must always be paid. That’s what his headmaster used to say right before he tied him up and locked him in that awful cupboard. It came as a pleasant surprise that the familiar phrase, as well as thinking about her punishment, could give him such a thrill.

Yesterday the handsome, debonair Sir Dominic Phillips had lunched at his club in London. Today he was sweating like a pig in a nondescript rental car in a shadowy parking garage in south Texas contemplating his wife’s murder.

Please…Please, sir, let it be her.

He used to say please, pretty please to the headmaster. It had been part of their ritual.

This wasn’t the first time Georgina had tempted him to murder. The trouble with murder was the risk that it would catch her unawares. That wouldn’t do.

He wanted Georgina to feel the blow coming, to dread it with a morbid, soul-destroying anticipation. That was part of the game. He wanted to overwhelm her in death as he had in marriage. He wanted her last dying thought to be that her precious, darling Georgia, whom she’d unwisely favored over him, was now his to do with as he pleased. And Georgina knew his tastes when it came to little girls.

His heart beat in a frenzy. Maybe it was the late-summer, south Texas heat that had him so feverish and crazy. Even in the dark garage the sun seemed to scream out of a too-bright, almost-hostile blue haze. Two minutes ago he’d turned off the air conditioner. Two minutes, and already his Savile Row suit that was a blend of silk and wool was dripping wet, and his fine silk shirt was sticking to his armpits. It wouldn’t be long before he stank, too.

Even though he’d rolled the windows of his car down, he was suffocating. He wiped his damp brow with his soaked handkerchief.

Had he found her?

According to Morrison’s report, she was to be deposed at three o’clock by an unscrupulous, hotshot local attorney, Joe Campbell. Apparently, Campbell had been run out of Houston for his shady legal dealings with a CEO by the name of Rod Brown. Together they’d looted Brown’s company and run off with the funds. Brown was living it up in a mansion in the British Virgins while Campbell was exiled to this backwater hellhole doing personal injury law. The creep was representing former clients of Georgina’s, who were suing her for not disclosing mold growth in a property she’d sold them.

Georgina, or rather Lady Phillips, a Realtor—here? How appalling!

As always Morrison had been painstakingly thorough. So thorough, Dominic nearly laughed out loud as he thumbed through the detective’s report.

And she’d thought she could hide. If the plain-looking woman in Morrison’s grainy photos really was his dazzling, wild Georgina, he now knew everything about her new life, her address, little Georgia’s school—everything.

When he heard her ancient Mercedes rumble up the ramp of the parking garage, he felt as devilishly excited as a child playing hide-and-seek. As he was about to crouch behind the wheel, a woman laughed close by. She was short with red hair. Walking toward her car, she fumbled in her purse for her keys.

Bugger. This could ruin everything.

A man in the truck that she climbed into started the engine and drove toward the exit. Dom held his breath until he heard Georgina’s Mercedes, closer now.

With her fear of dark, enclosed places, he hadn’t expected her to dare the garage even in broad daylight. Nevertheless, just in case, he’d parked in a reserved spot two floors beneath Campbell’s plush offices, so there’d be no danger of her parking anywhere near him.

You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, darling.

That last hideous night in their ultramodern flat on the Thames, she’d enraged him by begging for a divorce. He’d grabbed her, and when his hands had closed around her throat she’d hit him with a paperweight. Just the memory was enough to contort his aristocratic face into a mask of rage.

He’d plummeted to the floor and landed with a resounding thud. He remembered staring up at her in a weird, semiconscious state as she knelt over him in fear and alarm.

“You’ll be all right,” she’d whispered in that throaty voice of hers.

“Help me,” he’d mouthed, the way he’d once begged the headmaster for mercy.

“I’ll get help, but I can’t stay. This whole thing, us, is getting worse and worse. Please try to understand.”

Understand? He’d tried to talk, to say he was sorry, but because of the coke he’d been on, his words had slurred. He’d struggled to move, but it was as if his limbs had been made of lead and he was paralyzed from tongue to toe, helpless to do a thing to stop her as she’d gotten to her feet and packed and taken Georgia. Finally, he’d regained sensation in his limbs and had been able to crawl to the couch and then to stand.

Slut. That night she’d taught him she was like all the others, who’d made him love them and then used and abandoned him. Unlike the others, she was his wife, and she still consumed him. Constantly he imagined her with other men.

A diesel engine purred up the ramp. He knew he shouldn’t risk her seeing him, but when her Mercedes inched past him, belching plumes of black diesel, he couldn’t resist a glance just to make sure.

One look had his heart trilling with excitement and he got hard.

Yes!

Huge sunglasses hid most of her pale, slim face. Sure enough, just like in Morrison’s pictures, she’d dyed her hair and swept it untidily into a cheap plastic clip. Neither the color nor the style flattered her. Still, how clever of her to mute her dazzling beauty, to dye her honey-gold hair and discard her beautiful clothes and glamorous sense of style, to hide here, of all the dull places—Corpus Christi, Texas—which was so far away from who and what she really was. So far away from him and their glittering life together.

You shouldn’t have told me about your grandmother in San Antonio. Nor about that year when you were nineteen and lived with her when you got your Realtor’s license.

He scowled. He was the clever one. He was the one who planned while she just drifted, hoping for the best. Her disguise wasn’t that good. As soon as his detective had shown him the pictures, he’d put two and two together and had boarded a plane.

She was his wife. His. She belonged to him forever. She had no right to run away, no right to take little Georgia. No right to leave him all alone. No right to have another man. He’d show her.

When he’d stumbled to the bathroom that awful night to inspect himself in the mirror…to see…When there hadn’t been anyone in the mirror, he’d begun to quake and then to claw the mirror in an attempt to make his reflection reappear. When it hadn’t, he’d begun to weep and pound the mirror with bare fists.

The same thing had happened when he was a little boy. He’d been very, very bad—so bad, mirrors had been empty when he’d tried to see himself. After his father’s death, his mother had been so frightened, she’d sent him away to boarding school. For a long time he’d felt powerless, as if he’d simply ceased to exist.

The night Georgina had left him, he’d broken the mirror with his bare hands. Then he’d scrawled Georgina’s name on the white bathroom tile floor with his own blood. The last thing he’d heard before he’d collapsed was a siren.

She must have called the ambulance as soon as she’d known she was safe because when he’d awakened, he’d been in a trauma unit and they’d been praising his famous, beautiful wife to the skies.

Where was she, the famous Georgina, they’d wanted to know? Why wasn’t she with him? Their unspoken question had been, if she wasn’t with him, who was she with?

He’d known what he had to do.

Find her. Teach her. Retrain her…as he had in the beginning when she’d been a young bride. The wages of sin…

Like a cat, he’d toy with her awhile. He’d tie her up with bloodred satin ribbons like before. He’d…

He got hard just thinking about how her husky voice would sound when she begged him to kill her.

“Say, ‘Please,”’ he’d whisper. “Say, ‘Please, Sir.’ Kiss me down there and say you love me.

He touched himself, gently, very gently, just like he’d taught her to.

Just the thought of her lips there had him hard as a rock. Then he came, wetting all over his suit.

See what you made me do?

She would pay for that, too.

BOOK ONE

When we look into the mirror we see the mask. What is hidden behind the mask?

DIANE MARIECHILD

One

Campbell never forgot a face. Never.

Joe Campbell’s posh law offices with their sweeping views of the high bridge, port and bay were meant to impress and intimidate. The tall ceilings, the starkly modern ebony furniture, the blond hardwood floors and the Oriental rugs reeked of money and power and social prestige—all of which were vital to a man with Campbell’s ambitions. Not that he was thinking about anything other than the exquisite woman he was supposed to be deposing.

The case had been dull, routine; until she’d walked in. She was beautiful and sweet and warm—and scared witless of him.

This should be good. He rapped his fingers on his desk and tightened them into a fist that made his knuckles ache.

The minx had him running around in circles like a bloodhound that had lost a hot scent. His ears were dragging the ground, his wet nose snuffling dirt.

Minutes before the deposition, Bob Africa, one of the partners and a former classmate at UT Law School, had strutted through his door as if he owned the place—which he practically did. Bob specialized in class-action lawsuits and had just won big, having collected more than two million dollars in legal fees from a cereal company for a food additive.

There hadn’t been a shred of evidence any consumer had been injured. Africa’s fee had come to $2,000 an hour. Consumers had received a coupon for a free box of cereal.

Campbell was jealous as hell.

All smiles as usual this afternoon, a triumphant Bob had slapped him on the back and ordered him to win this one—or else. Salt in the wound—after the Crocker loss.

“I went out on a limb for you, buddy. I told the other partners you just had a run of bad luck in Houston and got a rotten hand here with that medical case.”

“Thanks.” Campbell hadn’t reminded Africa that he’d been the man who’d rammed that loser Crocker down his “buddy’s” throat and then he’d kept the more promising cases for himself.

Bob had smiled his wolverine smile and slapped his back again. “You’re the best, buddy. But, we don’t pay you to lose—”

Lose. Campbell had felt the blood rising in his face. Hell, at least Africa hadn’t reminded him about the death threats all the partners had been receiving ever since Campbell had lost the case. Hell, the incompetent quack had won. What was he so mad about? Crocker’s wife, Kay, maybe? She’d made a play for Campbell, a helluva play.

Today a letter from some crackpot, who said he was praying for Campbell, had arrived. The letter was in the same loopy handwriting as the death threats. Strangely, somehow it was even scarier. Mrs. Crocker had called three times this week, too.

But it was the woman across from Campbell who had him rigid with tension. He had to beat her—or else.

Her face was damnably familiar. Her husky voice was so exquisite and raw, it tugged at Campbell on some deep, man-woman level.

He hated her for her easy power over him even as his cold lawyer’s mind told him she was a fake. This was a staged performance. There was definitely something too deliberate and practiced about her lazy, luscious drawl.

To buy time he played with his shirt cuff. He’d asked dozens of questions and had gotten nowhere. She was a liar, and if it was the last thing he did, he would expose her.

“I—I swear I knew nothing, absolutely nothing about mo-o-old in the O’Connors’ house,” she repeated for the tenth time.

I think the lady doth protest too much.

When he shot her his most engaging smile and leaned toward her as if the deposition were over, she jumped. Her lovely, long fingers and unpolished nails twisted in her lap so violently, she almost dropped the damning photographs he’d jammed into her hands a few seconds earlier.

“I—I swear…no mold,” she pleaded.

Then why won’t you look me in the eye?

“Toxic mo-o-old,” Campbell drawled, pleased his o lasted even longer than hers. His mocking gaze drilled her.

She shook her dark head like a true innocent and began flipping through the photographs he’d made of the black muck growing inside the walls of the O’Connors’ mansion.

“There has to be a mistake,” she whispered.

No, you little liar. No mistake.

Campbell’s long, lean form remained sprawled negligently behind his sleek ebony desk. His beige silk suit was expensive. So was his vivid yellow tie.

Hannah Smith, her knees together beneath her full white skirt, sat on the edge of the black leather chair opposite him. Flanking her was the attorney from her insurance company, a mediocre, colorless little stick of a man. Hunkered low in his chair in an ill-fitting undertaker’s suit wearing smudged, gold-rimmed glasses Tom Davis looked about as dangerous as a terrified rabbit.

“No mistake,” Campbell said. “The O’Connors had to abandon their home. It’ll cost more to remediate it than they paid for it, which was a substantial sum—”

“More than a mill…But it’s not my fault!” she protested. “I was only the Realtor. I thought smart lawyers like you only sued rich people.…”

Didn’t she get it? The deep pocket here was her insurance company. Not her. So, why was she working herself into a sweat?

“Mold was not in your clients’ disclosure statement,” he said.

“There was no mold!” Her voice shaking, she began a boring repeat of her defense.

“Maybe you didn’t realize mold is a very serious issue on the Texas Gulf.”

“Because lawyers like you have made it into a billion-dollar industry?”

“I’m supposed to be asking the questions. And you are liable—”

She opened her pretty mouth and gulped for a breath.

Hannah Smith was lying. And she wasn’t all that damn good at it, either.

And yet he liked her.

This was bad.

Joe Campbell, or rather just plain Campbell, as he was known to most people, at least to those with whom he was on speaking terms, and there were fewer and fewer of those in this town since his line of work tended to alienate a lot of people, had been a trial lawyer too long not to be able to smell a liar a mile away.

He’d been screwed, glued and tattooed by the best liars in the universe—his ex-wife and his former best friend and boss had taken him to the cleaners.

Here we go again. The pretty little con artist across from him smelled warm and sweet. And thanks to his air-conditioning register that wafted her light fragrance Campbell’s way, he was too aware of that fact.

Chanel. He frowned, shifting his long legs under his desk as another unwelcome buzz of man-woman excitement rushed through him. By now he should have boxed her in. She was scared and pretty, and he should have had her on the run. And yet…she had him oddly off balance.

Her nervous fingers shuffled and reshuffled the photographs of the O’Connors’ estate. He caught glimpses of the abandoned pool, the empty hot tub, and the red brick path that wound through the strawlike remnants of formerly showy flower beds. Her slim, graceful hands trembled so badly when she came to his damning shots of the mold, she nearly dropped the whole bunch.

“Think how those images will affect a sympathetic jury, Mrs. Smith.”

“That’s not a question,” her lawyer said. “You don’t have to answer.”

Deliberately, she licked her lips with her pink tongue. “I’m sorry Mr. O’Connor’s sick, but…”

Hell. She sounded sorry. A jury would believe her, too. He almost believed her. When she began talking faster and faster, swallowing, and glancing everywhere but at him, Campbell found himself studying her wide, wet lips with obsessive interest.

Sexy voice, intoxicating scent…and that delectable mouth…Everything about her seemed soft and vulnerable and likable. She was too damned likable. Not like him.

Suddenly Campbell wanted her to shut up and just look at him, and that scared the hell out of him. His big house was lonely and empty, his footsteps echoed when he finally made it home and climbed the stairs to his bedroom alone every night.

Was anything about her for real? Was she sucking him in…as Carol had?

Mrs. Smith was damned attractive, too damned attractive, despite that shapeless white sack that concealed her figure, despite thick, inky bangs and huge dark glasses that masked her face. Her legs were long and shapely, her ankles slim…even though those low-heeled, stained canvas shoes did nothing for her calves.

Yes, she was pretty despite the fact that she’d gone to a lot of trouble not to be. Why had she done that? Most women liked to add pretty to their arsenal of weapons when they went up against him or a jury. For an instant, he remembered Mrs. Crocker’s slit skirts and shapely legs. She’d been built like a gymnast.

“Call me Kay,” she’d said the day Campbell had lost. “Better, call me…anytime.”

He’d been angry because he’d lost. “I don’t mess around with married women.”

“So, my husband’s wrong about you,” she’d purred. “You do have a principle or two. I like that.”

“No principle. I just don’t want to get shot by a jealous husband.”

“My husband’s a good shot, too. He’s a hunter.”

“This lawsuit wasn’t personal, you know.”

“So, why are you so sore you lost?”

“I’m sore about a lot of things.”

“So am I.” Her eyes had sparked.

Forget Kay. Concentrate on Mrs. Smith. Campbell ran a tanned hand through his jet-black hair and yawned, pretending he was bored by what Mrs. Smith was saying. Bored by her. If only he was, maybe he could concentrate on the O’Connors’ case and finish her off.

She was tall. From the moment she’d glided into his office, he’d been riveted by her exquisite lightness of being. Something sweet and vulnerable screamed look at me, love me, please. Her every gesture—her quick, nervous smiles at Tom—hell, even the frightened glances he got both charmed and maddened him.

A jury would be equally charmed.

Then there was the way she couldn’t seem to catch her breath when he got too close. She was playing the role of damsel in distress with a vengeance that should have infuriated him. And yet…Her fear felt so real and palpable, he wanted to protect her.

Damn it, he had to get her. Africa had made it clear, his ass was on the line.

If her accent was fake, he’d bet a year’s salary her black hair came out of a bottle. The harsh color was wrong for her fair complexion, the style too severe for her narrow face. He kept eyeing the thick, glossy mass, longing to undo the cheap plastic clip.

Hell, what were those white bits of dust that clung to her bangs? What had she been doing before she’d dashed late to his office.

“If the O’Connors are so concerned, why aren’t they here today?” she finished in that velvet undertone that undid him.

“They hired me to represent them.” His voice cut like ice.

“You mean to do their dirty work?” she finished, glancing out his windows like a trapped animal.

Damn it, Campbell felt sorry for her. Then Tom put a cautionary hand over hers, and Campbell felt a wild, really scary emotion.

“What’s all that stuff in your hair?” Campbell growled, wanting to rip Tom’s hand away.

“Oh!” Her eyes flew self-consciously to his. She gulped in another big breath, and he felt like the air between them sizzled.

This was bad.

She stirred her fingers through the mess of her purse and finally plucked out an elegant, gold-framed mirror. When she saw herself she wrinkled her nose. Quickly, she yanked at the hideous clip and shook out her long, thick hair.

When lots of little white bits showered onto his gray carpet, she smiled, revealing deep dimples, and he felt that damn buzz again. Despite a bad haircut, she was way sexier with her hair down. She studied herself in her mirror and wrinkled her nose again.

Campbell squirmed in his leather chair. He didn’t need this.

“Bits of Sheetrock,” she explained airily. Lifting her triangular chin, she shot him a pious look. “I was inspecting one of the waterfront properties I represent. For mold, Mr. Campbell.”

“Just call me Campbell.…”

“There was a suspicious stain on the ceiling.…I wanted to be sure.…”

She and Tom exchanged self-righteous glances.

“My expert didn’t find any,” she said.

Touche, Campbell thought grimly, even as some part of him cheered for her.

Again, her hands fluttered prettily as she reclipped her hair. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. For no reason at all he longed to remove those huge glasses that hid her eyes.

Were they dazzling blue or soft velvet brown? Or fiery black? He wanted to sweep her hair back, get a good look at her. Maybe then he’d remember where the hell he’d seen her.

Damn it. He grabbed one of the mold photographs from his own duplicate pile and forced himself to focus on his clients and their toxic-mold problem.

“Paul O’Connor is in the hospital barely able to breathe or think,” Campbell said.

“I’m so sorry he’s ill.”

You don’t give a damn about Paul and you know it.

And yet again, her face paled, and her voice went soft with husky concern that turned Campbell to mush.

Destroy her. Unnerve her.

Campbell fumbled awkwardly with the disclosure sheets of the sales contract. Then he rustled through his list of questions he’d deliberately structured to entrap her.

Somehow he had to get this smooth-talking actress to admit that she’d known all along about the mold and hadn’t disclosed it. Her shaky voice and hands meant she was highly agitated. Maybe if he got her really mad, she’d snap. He was famous for his Perry Mason moments.

“Back to this mold situation at the O’Connors’,” he murmured in a tight, low tone. “It was an old house on the water—”

“There was no mold.” She glanced at her watch and out the window again. “The Tylers were diligent about maintaining their home. They repaired leaks, cleaned air-conditioning ducts. Besides, we had it tested for mold.”

“By an unreliable agent.”

“Just because your man, whom you no doubt paid to lie…three months later—”

Tom wagged a warning finger at his client, but she was too flushed with excitement to heed him.

Campbell almost grinned when she attacked her own attorney.

“Mr. Davis, I thought you were my lawyer.”

Campbell noted that there wasn’t a hint of that lazy drawl now. Just for a second he caught a couple of syllables that sounded crisp and elite…almost foreign. East Coast? No, that cut-glass accent wasn’t American.

“How can you defend this…this pirate?” she was saying.

“Please, Hannah…”

“It’s all right, Davis. I’ve been called worse.” Campbell faked a scowl.

“A pirate…who…who cunningly plasters his handsome, ruthless face on every billboard and phone book cover his money can buy?”

Handsome? Campbell’s perverse mind got stuck on the word.

“He’s a fake, pretending he’s some Robin Hood defending the poor. How can you defend such a rude, crude ambulance chaser?”

Ambulance chaser? The day of any accident, the insurance lawyers are there, lady! But do you criticize them?

“Mr. Campbell has repeatedly called me and threatened—”

“I was merely trying to set up an appointment for this deposition,” Campbell said in the same reasonable, sympathetic tone he used to persuade juries.

“Don’t talk down to me! You have no right to sue me.”

“This is America, Mrs. Smith. Texas, America. The Wild West. Anybody can sue anybody.”

“There was no mold when I sold the O’Connors that house.”

Campbell leaned toward her, automatically straightening his bold tie. “My clients say there was.”

She sank lower in her chair and gasped in a breath.

“Slimy. Greenish.” Campbell warmed to his subject as if she were a juror. “Black. Fungus. Toxic mold. Aspergillus, to be exact. Mr. O’Connor is a very sick man. Take a look at those photographs.”

“I’m sorry if he’s sick, but Mr. O’Connor doesn’t have anything that a green poultice won’t fix,” she said softly.

“That’s an old joke. I won’t sit here while you disparage innocent—” Deliberately Campbell leaned back in his chair.

“Innocent? They’re not innocent! I am! I told you there are such things as evil homeowners who…who…”

“Who what?” Campbell sprang forward again. “Who don’t want to be taken advantage of by Realtors like you?”

She opened her mouth wide and strained to get a breath. “Homeowners, who…who get up on the roofs with hoses and pour gallons of water into cracks between the walls!”

Her words hit him like a swift punch in the gut. To cover his fear that his clients had lied and he was on the wrong side again, he sprang to his feet. “I’m more interested in evil Realtors, Mrs. Smith, who misrepresent properties to make a quick sale.”

She stood up, too. “Don’t accuse me of your dirty games—”

Campbell smiled. “And what kind of dirty games do you play, Mrs. Smith?” His sensual gaze swept her from head to toe.

What the hell did she look like naked?

A hot crimson flush stained her cheeks. With a startled gasp, she sank back down in her chair.

Buying time, he stalked around to his desk and sat down, too.

“I think you’re vile,” she whispered.

“Who, me?” he murmured. “Vile?”

“Tom told me to save these for later,” she rasped. “But I’m too furious.”

She plunged her hand into her shapeless beige purse again and shook out three lipsticks, the gold mirror, wadded bits of paper and a photograph, which she slapped onto his desk.

“You’re not the only one with a camera! That’s your Mr. O’Connor on the roof.”

All Campbell saw were thighs to die for and masses of long golden hair.

“Wow!” he whispered, finally recognizing her. “You look much better naked than I imagined—well, half-naked.”

“Naked?” When she saw the snapshot, her cheeks caught fire. “Give me that!”

“Are you trying to distract me with sex, Mrs. Smith?”

“You low-down—”

Campbell laughed appreciatively. When she tried to snatch the picture back, he held it away from her.

The subjects in the photograph were a gorgeous blonde in a thong bikini and a blond little girl in a pink playsuit. The kid was about four. But the woman—

Wow. Bombshell. Wet dream.

Incredible breasts bulged out of slippery red material, and yes, she most definitely had thighs to die for. Mother and child were patting turrets of a sand-castle. There was a big house on a tall cliff in the background. The woman was staring at the little girl with a look of utter adoration.

He looked up at Mrs. Smith and grinned like a cat that had just munched a turtledove and found the repast delicious.

Well, now I can guess what you look like naked.

“I like you better blond.…And the less you wear, the better you look!”

With a wild guttural cry of sheer rage, she lunged for the picture.

“Wrong picture,” she said icily, when he released it.

Thrusting it back in her purse, she came up with two dog-eared photographs and slapped them onto his desk. “There!”

“I like the shot of you in a bikini better.”

“Concentrate. See that hose? Mr. O’Connor doesn’t look sick to me. I have a video of him, too, and I’m sending them to my insurance company. He deliberately created that mold to get an insurance settlement to pay for his remodeling. You’re not going to destroy my good name.”

Campbell went cold. Somehow he forced a warm smile, his best lawyer smile. “Pictures like this won’t make any difference.”

“If they don’t, it’s because the entire legal system…is bought off by corrupt, rich lawyers like you. Since I’ve been in Texas…”

“Since you’ve been in Texas?” he repeated. He stood up, and she struggled for her next breath. “Where were you before Texas? Why did you dye your hair…?”

She went absolutely still.

He stared at her hard and then let it drop. “You’re taking this lawsuit way too personally,” he murmured.

“Oh, I am, am I? Well, for your information, being sued for more money than I’ll ever make if I live to be a hundred feels personal!” She walked back to her chair and sat back down and turned to Tom. “Oh, what’s the use of even trying to talk to someone as low as he is? I can’t take any more of his questions or accusations. Not today.”

“Low…” How in the hell could her ridiculous insult hurt? Or was it that she’d turned to Tom, when he wanted all of her attention?

Low.

“I…I’ve read things about you, Mr. Campbell,” she whispered, rallying.

“Such as, Mrs. Smith?”

“You stole money, ruined your best friend’s company, and your brokenhearted wife divorced you.”

“Ah, my wife…” Icy despair seeped through Campbell. He didn’t give a damn about his wife. Still, he had to clench his hand into a fist to hold on to his control.

“And I don’t blame her one bit.”

“So, you’ve researched me—”

“She got your mansion in River Oaks—”

As if that was what had made him bitter and filled him with hate.…

He remembered the way Carol had curled against his body every night and felt sweet and soft and warm during those first months of marriage.

His black eyes narrowed. He’d believed her when she’d told him she loved him. He’d adored her, worshiped her and believed in her. For the first time in his life, he’d almost felt…human.

“You had to leave Houston because you’re so corrupt people there despise you. Your best friend’s wife killed herself because of—”

Campbell’s face turned to stone. His mouth tasted like ashes. “Is that so? Do go on.”

“You…why, you’re such a terrible father your son won’t have anything to do with you.”

His son. Every nerve in his body buzzed.

“And you’re such a good mother,” he murmured so cuttingly she gulped in a breath.

“The state even tried to disbar you because you are such a bad lawyer. You…you solicited clients improperly after that awful two-plane collision in east Texas where those little children—”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me!” he shouted, banging his fist on his desk. “I’m not on trial. I’m deposing you.”

Davis stared wide-eyed. It was Campbell’s turn to gulp in a savage breath. If it were the last thing he did, Campbell had to get control of this exchange and finish off her and her wimp of an attorney once and for all.

“One corrupt judge tried to have me disbarred. And failed, Mrs. Smith. Just as you will fail, if you fight me with these ridiculous, rigged photographs.” Getting up, he tore her pictures in two.

She stood up, too. She was tall, but he was taller. When she shuddered, he realized his massive size intimidated her. Good. Using his body as a weapon, he moved closer.

“I—I’ve got more,” she whispered, backing away from him.

“So do I,” he thundered.

“And…and they aren’t rigged. I’m not like you. I wouldn’t rig—” She tore his pictures into zillions of pieces and tossed them onto his rug. She was almost to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Campbell.”

“I’m not finished with you yet. You think I don’t know about you? Well, I do. I’ve done my research, too!”

She paled.

“Everything about you is a damned lie, Mrs. Smith.” He backed her against the door. “Where the hell is Mr. Smith? Or is there a Mr. Smith? What’s your real name, honey?”

“Please…I—I’m sorry.…I shouldn’t have said…any of those horrible personal things. I—I was upset.”

Her apology seemed sincere. She was white and shaking, cowering from him, but he was too furious now to care.

“Too bad you got personal.” His mouth thinned. “I intend to win this, Mrs. Smith.” He had to win this. Africa, the ruthless son of a bitch had said so. “Now I’m more determined than ever to expose you.”

He ripped her sunglasses off.

Her eyes were blue. Huge vivid irises were ringed with inky black lashes. She looked young and vulnerable and very scared—of him.

“Who are you really?” he rasped.

“You’re the last man I’d ever tell,” she whispered.

Spunk. He liked her spunk. And those thighs she had—She’d looked so loving in that picture.

Relationships. He was no damn good at relationships. And even if he was, they were off to a bad start.

With a shaking hand she grabbed her glasses and jammed them clumsily back onto her narrow, white face. “Please…Just let me go.…”

When he grabbed her hand, it was as cold as ice. With his huge body, he drew her toward him and blocked the door.

“What are you so afraid of…besides me?” he whispered.

She gave a little cry and yanked herself loose.

He had the strangest compulsion to reach for her, but he knew that would only scare her more. With a curt nod, he stepped aside.

As if she considered him some sort of devil, she crossed herself and ran.

Campbell sank back into his chair exhausted. He loosened his collar and his bright yellow tie.

When Campbell heard Tom reassuring her outside in the hall, his mood blackened and he swiped his arm across his desk, knocking all the papers and files that dealt with the O’Connor lawsuit onto the floor.

Maybe she was a liar, but the O’Connors had lied to him, too. Clients had a bad habit of telling their lawyers only one side of a story—their side.

He opened a lower desk drawer and took out the bottle of Glenlivet he kept hidden there. Hating himself, he took a quick pull. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He kept seeing that picture of her. She’d been smiling at that kid so sweetly, and he couldn’t forget her thighs.

He’d better forget them. His job was to search and destroy—to expose Mrs. Smith; to do whatever he had to do to hurt her, to win for the O’Connors.

The thought of hurting so much as a single dyed hair on her inky head caused a sick, queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Who the hell was she?

Whoever she was, it was his job to find out and destroy her.

He rapped his fingers on his desk. With some difficulty, he squashed his guilt and dialed Chuck.

The detective picked up on the fourth ring and sounded grumpy and half stoned. “Yeah—”

“How’s it going?” Campbell began, really cringing now at the thought of siccing his old pal, the Charger, on the frightened Mrs. Smith.

Chuck groaned or, rather, bellowed in the middle of a yawn and some other noisy, repulsive body function, “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

“What the hell’s wrong with you? I know not to call you till noon—”

“Ooh…” Chuck paused. “Bad night.” Another groan that pierced Campbell’s eardrum. “Hangover. Vicious little hammers pounding in my brain. Not to mention—”

“What’d you do—”

“Got into a little…er…altercation.…” The Charger let the statement hang.

“You got drunk again and picked a fight—”

“No, man, this bastard insulted my bike. I took serious issue. Nobody says shit like that about the Charger’s bike. The ape was wearing steel-toed boots, and he had more friends than I did. They had chains. Every muscle in my body feels like he kicked it. I’ve gotta black eye that’s as purple as a plum and a tooth that’s hanging by a pink thread.”

“Your big mouth is going to be the end of you yet.” Campbell talked tough, but he felt affection. “Got something I want you to check out. A lady.” He told him everything he knew about Hannah Smith. He finished by saying he’d have Muriel fax key information from her file.

“What’s she done?”

“Just find out who she really is—ASAP. And no rough stuff.”

Chuck was six feet four inches, three hundred pounds of flab and muscle. Just a glance at the Charger, and the average Joe Blow thought—thug, if not worse things. He had massive arms, shoulder-length red hair, a gold loop in his right ear and a beer belly with a death head tattooed on it. He rode a Harley, which was as immaculate as he was unkempt. Not that he was as tough as he looked.

The Charger had strong convictions, which got stronger when he was drunk and forgot he was a coward. He’d been on the wrong side of trouble a time or two. Campbell had bailed him out more times than he could count. Nevertheless, after years of brawling, the Charger had found a niche of sorts. He was a top-notch detective and a whiz on the computer, not that he let on to any of his biker buddies.

“Hannah Smith, huh. Mystery lady? No rough stuff? You got the hots for this mama or something?”

Campbell suppressed a vision of her in the bikini. “Just find out who she is. And don’t let her see you. She’s scared of her own shadow. One whiff of you…and she’d run like a rabbit.”

“You do have the hots.” The Charger laughed.

“Scare the hell out of her if you want to, for all I care!” Campbell slammed the phone down and ordered pizza. He did not give a damn about Mrs. Smith. He didn’t.

Speaking of the hots, Muriel came in and told him Mrs. Crocker had called four more times.

“Call her back. Tell her I’m gone for the day.”

Shuffling through the stacked files on his desk, he saw the name Guy James on one of the labels and remembered he was supposed to make a decision as to whether or not to hire the kid as a law clerk. The kid was taking a year off from law school because his little brother was sick and getting sicker. Guy was raw and young and smart. He’d needed a job so badly he’d really pressed Campbell.

Impressed as Campbell was by the kid, he was in no mood to call him. Later.

Shoving James’s file aside, he eyed the rest of the stacked files and wondered how much he could get done if he worked until midnight. No reason to go home; there was nobody there. He was opening the top folder on his stack when Bob Africa buzzed him.

“I want to know how the deposition went. My office. Ten minutes? Okay?”

Not okay. Campbell hated stacks and wanted to get to work.

“Sure.” Campbell’s low voice was mild, but he spoke through his teeth and slammed the folder shut.

Hell.

Two

When the big metal door clanged shut behind her, Hannah stood in the dark beneath the burned-out light in the shadowy parking garage. For once she didn’t really register she was alone in the kind of place she was terrified of.

No, she was still shaking all over from the intensity of Joe Campbell’s attack, still too upset by the dark fury scrawled on his handsome, piratical face when he’d ripped off her glasses and stared at her with those black, deadly eyes that had stripped her to the bone while he threatened to expose her.

His wife had divorced him. Lucky woman.

Clasping her throat, where a large hand had once pulled red satin ribbons too tight, Hannah shivered, feeling sick to her stomach. Are you somebody else’s woman? Admit it. You’d better admit it because I’ve been watching you. Then the ribbons had squeezed off her breath.

Behind closed doors Mr. Campbell was probably a dangerous, violent and pathetically sick man.

She’d dreamed about this deposition, dreamed about him, had nightmares about him. But he had been worse than her nightmares. Every slick question, every pretty-boy white smile, every sympathetic stare when she’d tried to tell him what had really happened had been meant to trick or entrap her. And the way he’d kept looking at her, and looking through her, had thrown her totally off balance.

Naive fool that she still was, she’d wanted to be honest, but with a predator of his ruthless reputation, she’d known the foolhardiness of that tactic. So—knowing what kind of man he was, suspecting he was even worse in private, she’d deliberately baited him and made him so mad that he really was out to get her now. Why had she done that?

Because his black, deadly eyes had made her feel trapped and scared. She’d felt that if she’d attacked him, maybe he’d let up on her. But, of course his kind never backed off. She should know.

Oh, why hadn’t she just stuck to her plan to be careful and not to say anything that he could use against her?

Now he’d really be gunning for her. He’d called her a fake and threatened to expose her. Her stomach heaved queasily.

Oh, if only she could go somewhere, have a cup of tea or something, get over the awful encounter…maybe catch her breath, even.

She wanted to sit alone in a café where she could calm down and have time to digest what had happened, maybe think of a new game plan to appease him. Maybe she could ask Tom to settle on the mold issue so Joe Campbell wouldn’t threaten her entire life and the safety of her little girl.

She glanced fearfully at her watch. No time for tea. As usual, she was late to pick up her darling Georgia. Late! It was never smart to keep Georgia waiting. No telling what mischief her dynamo might get into.

Hannah heard the rumble of wheels on concrete and the soft purr of a finely tuned engine several floors below. Suddenly, it struck her that she was all alone in a place that terrified her. Why hadn’t she thought to have Tom walk her to her car?

As she moved away from the door to find her Mercedes, the ninth floor of the parking garage seemed to be bathed in an eerie, shadow-filled light. The air felt dank and thick and way too warm. She gasped for breath, for air itself.

Enclosed places. Hot spaces. Not her thing. Especially since she’d been stalked.

She swallowed and inhaled another little breath. Something was wrong—she could feel it. Turning her head, she peered into the darkness, but nobody seemed to be there. And yet, she felt a presence, as if someone was watching her. Naturally, she thought of the man who used to track her every move, the man who’d professed undying love for her.

He isn’t here. He can’t be. Crossing herself, she tilted her chin upward. Then she forced herself to pad silently in the direction of her ancient Mercedes, which she’d parked by the up ramp.

Why hadn’t she just parked on the street? Why?

Because it was important not to give in to every fear or whim, or pretty soon her whole life would be dictated by them.

Because being afraid was no way to live.

Don’t go there, she thought. Don’t think of him.

Lately, she’d been dreaming about him. Instead of reliving the dark, horrible memories of their marriage like she used to, she’d been dreaming he’d found her. That he was here, that he was only waiting, that he was playing one of his cat-and-mouse games again before he pounced on her.

“Did I ever tell you hide-and-seek was my favorite game when I was growing up?” he’d whispered lovingly one night.

Walking faster, she began rummaging in her catch-all of a purse for her car key.

At last she saw her Mercedes. She’d parked it in Joe Campbell’s spot because it had been the only empty space—and to defy him.

Only something was wrong. Her silver-blue sedan looked off balance somehow.

“Oh dear.…” The front right tire was flat. He used to flatten her tires.

From somewhere on the same floor, she heard hushed male laughter and then slow, deliberate steps. Then something moved toward her from the shadows.

A man? Him?

Black wings hurtled out of the ceiling struts straight at her. When a feather brushed her cheek, she screamed.

It was only a bird she’d startled. Not that that knowledge slowed her down any. Without investigating the tire, she skittered back toward the door that led to Joe Campbell’s offices as fast as she could run. Only when she got to the door, it was locked. When she jiggled the metal knob and yanked at it, and the door wouldn’t open from the outside, she beat on it, screaming. There was a keypad by the door, but she was too hysterical to remember the combination Muriel, Mr. Campbell’s beautiful, efficient secretary, had given her.

Her mind darted about wildly. She’d written it down, but it was lost in the scramble of scraps of paper in her purse somewhere. No use to even look for it. Not now.

As she pounded, the heavy footsteps behind her reverberated through the concrete parking garage.

He’d found her. Her dreams had been right once again.

If he killed her this time, what would happen to Georgia? Would he hurt her daughter as he’d threatened? And what about her mother?

Frantic, she beat on the door and screamed Campbell’s name.

To her surprise, the door was suddenly thrust open by a powerful arm. When a tall, dark man flung himself into the dark garage like a warrior on the rampage, she fell back, gasping.

Gold cuff links flashed when he held his hand up as a shield against the glare from the slanting sun behind her. His tie was lurid yellow. Coal-black eyes regarded her with intense hostility as he held a raised golf club.

“Campbell?”

He nodded, lowering the golf club. “Who’d you expect? You were yelling my name at the top of your lungs. You in trouble?” He was panting as if he’d run the whole way from his offices just to save her.

She tried to deny that she’d called for him, but her throat was dry, and her lips seemed completely paralyzed.

He looked exhausted. No! He couldn’t have found the deposition as draining as she. And he hadn’t run all the way to save anybody. Least of all—her. Joe Campbell was the devil. Nobody could have eyes so deadly and cold and not at least be a red-horned disciple. And yet, somehow he seemed human. The terrible truth was she’d never been so glad to see anybody in her whole life.

“You? You again?” he muttered, recognizing her in the gloom. “I thought you’d left.”

When she just stared at him, he crossed his arms. “What’s wrong? Did you forget something? Don’t just stand there staring at me like I’m the devil incarnate.”

She couldn’t seem to stop looking at him, and suddenly she felt slightly ashamed she’d compared him to the devil. Yes, his hair was midnight black. It was so long it brushed his crisp, white collar and curled against his ears. But he had a cowlick that made her want to run her fingers through his hair and smooth it. And he was handsome. More importantly, he’d come when she called.

“I have a flat. I don’t know how to change—”

“A flat? Hell! Why didn’t you say so, woman? That’s nothing to get so upset about and scream like somebody’s murdering you. Why don’t you call a car service or something instead of yelling my name to kingdom come?”

It galled her to think he was probably never scared of anything, that he got to do all the scaring. And yet she was glad he was here. Fiercely glad.

“So, who’s upset?” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You look scared, a lot more scared than you did in my office.” He voice matched his eyes and was almost human. “What are you so frightened of? Tell me—damn it.”

“Nothing.” But she swallowed.

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“Maybe I need lessons from you.”

“Anytime,” he whispered in a silky voice. “Did you know that the fact that you’re a lousy liar was the first thing I figured out about you?”

“W-we were talking about my flat.”

“Right. So, do you have a towing service?”

“Yes, but I—I don’t want to wait in the garage…all alone.”

“See, you are scared.”

She bit her lip.

“I…I could stay and wait with you.” He stared at her, or rather through her, and made her heart skitter. “Would that help?” he asked.

She shouldn’t spend an extra second with him. “Y-yes.”

“So, where’s your car?”

Reluctantly, she led the way. Which was a mistake—she was parked in his spot. Worse, he stayed behind her and watched the way her hips moved when she walked.

When he laughed, she whirled on him. “Do you have to drill holes through me?”

His gaze shot sparks. “Do you have to walk like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I don’t have the energy or time for this. I’m exhausted, okay?”

He drew a long breath and nodded.

They walked the rest of the way to her Mercedes in silence.

When they reached the front of her car, she pushed her hands in her pockets. “I’m late to pick up my little girl.”

“Georgia?”

“How did—”

“Old car,” he said.

“New tires,” she countered. “I maintain it.”

“My parking spot.”

“Sorry. Look, I’m in a hurry.”

“If you don’t want to wait for a wrecker, I have a can of something that blows air and a sealant into a tire. It’s only a temporary fix, but it should get you where you’re going.”

“I’ll pay you for the can.”

She pressed her lips together and stared into the corners of the shadowy garage.

“Follow me,” he murmured, watching her too intently. “The can is in my car.”

His brand-new, gleaming black Porsche was parked on an upper floor. Quickly, he opened the trunk and pulled out a spray can. They walked back down the stairs to her car together. Then he knelt beside her front tire and began twisting something before he attached the can to her tire.

“Muriel should have told you not to park so near the ramp and definitely not in my spot when she was giving you instructions how to get here,” he muttered as he punched the nozzle that sprayed air and goo into her tire.

“She did. I—I think.”

And she’d told Muriel she probably wouldn’t park in the garage, anyway.

“Every summer, the street kids like to skateboard in the garage,” he said. “They flatten the tires of any car that parks near the ramp where they make their turns.”

He was frowning, and she had the distinct impression that he was leaving some vital piece of information out.

“Why don’t you stop them?”

“We’ve tried everything. But what we eventually learned is that if we don’t want to come out to a flat tire, we don’t park near the ramps.”

“I’d think a building full of lawyers could best a bunch of kids.”

“Street kids are a dangerous breed.” He spoke with the authority of one who knew.

“Were you a street kid?”

He didn’t answer.

It should have been difficult to imagine him as a little boy, but the image of a tough little guy in a tougher neighborhood sprang full-blown in her mind. She saw a red sky and an industrial neighborhood peopled with young thugs that beat him on a regular basis.

The kid in her vision was brown and dirty and had a permanent scowl. The other kids his age refused to play ball with him. Bullies chased him.

“Kids used to beat you up when you walked home from school, didn’t they?” she said.

A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he nodded. “But not every day. Back then I could run like a greased jackrabbit. I had this fat friend—the Charger. He wasn’t as fast as me, so they usually caught him and beat him up. He was big, so it took about five of them.”

“And you just ran off and left him?”

His mouth quirked.

“So, where’s the Charger now?”

“Around.” The skin above his white collar flushed and he focused on filling her tire. When her tire was full of air, he stood up.

Nervously she backed away from him but not without glancing around the garage. “I—I guess I’d better go—”

“Just say thank you. Thank you for fixing my flat, Campbell. That will suffice.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, “for fixing my flat.”

“I could follow you,” he offered, catching her frightened glance when she turned back to him.

“Oh…No…I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, plunging her hands into the pockets of her jumper so he wouldn’t know how violently they were shaking.

“Just to make sure your tire doesn’t go flat before you reach your destination,” he offered.

“As I said…” She paused and made her eyes and voice firmer. “I’d rather you…didn’t.”

He flushed and set his jaw. “Right.” He drew in a deep breath. “I could give you another can.”

“That’s not really necessary.”

“Hopefully not.” His tone was clipped now. “But just in case, I don’t want you stranded somewhere.”

As though you care.

As they walked upstairs to his car again, their footsteps echoed in the concrete stairwell. She glanced around nervously, keeping close to Campbell. When they reached his car, he opened his trunk again and pulled out another can.

“At least let me follow you out of the garage.”

“No. You have to know you’re the last person I would have asked for help if…”

“If there had been anybody else with a golf club handy.”

“Just so we understand each other.”

Again he flushed, his dark eyes so haunted, he almost looked human.

As if he were a gentleman, he followed her down the stairs. Anxious to pick up Georgia, she ran down them as rapidly as possible.

When they reached her car, he opened her door.

“Who the hell are you really?” he muttered as she got in. “What the hell are you so afraid of?”

She looked up. “I’m sorry I kept you. Thank you.”

In a panic to get to Georgia’s school, she rolled her windows up and started her car before the glow plugs had a chance to warm up. When he shouted at her to wait, she raced quickly away.

Every mile she put between herself and the parking garage calmed her until she got to Georgia’s school and saw his gleaming black Porsche parked in front of the school. She gasped when she recognized Joe Campbell, of all people, sitting under the wide ash trees right beside her own darling, innocent, unsuspecting, little Georgia and the elementary school principal. The two men were chatting as if they were old friends.

Coincidence? She didn’t think so.

Georgia was reading out of a storybook. Her golden hair shone. Her pose was unusually still. The book had to be wonderful. Usually Georgia was such a live wire, her teachers complained.

When Campbell glanced down at the little girl, he looked sweet and fatherly. Hannah’s throat tightened. He wasn’t a nice man. She had to remember that. He had no business here. Still, for nine years, she had dreamed of Georgia having a father to dote on her. She’d kept hoping that Dom…The thought of Dom terrified her.

Shoving her car door open, Hannah got out of her Mercedes. Georgia didn’t look up until Hannah called her. Then her rambunctious, little darling jumped up and skipped down the sidewalk toward her, avoiding every crack.

“Mommy, what took you so long?” Georgia’s smile was so trusting, Hannah forgot Campbell and smiled, too.

When Georgia hugged her, Campbell shook hands with the principal and started toward them as if he’d been waiting for her the whole time.

Georgia turned her head and beamed at him shyly.

“Sweetheart, get in the car,” Hannah said before turning to face Campbell.

Three

The sun was streaming through the trees, making shadows dance across his target’s dark, carved face as teachers streamed out of the building on all sides of him and the little girl.

Mothers were double-parked in their cars, and the air reeked with exhaust fumes.

Damn.

One minute he had him in the scope and the next he was blinking at a bright disk of white glare.

Campbell’s Porsche was parked directly in front of the school. A few students loitered, teasing one another, laughing, talking and shoving one another. The watcher smiled grimly as the barrel of his rifle roamed from the chain-link fence surrounding the schoolyard, from the crossing guards, the teachers, to the kids carrying armloads of books.

Bang. Bang.

The watcher itched to blow them all away.

You’re not here to play games.

It took a second or two to pick Campbell out of the crowd and sight him in with the scope again. One glance at that arrogant face in his crosshairs, and the shooter’s finger twitched. Sweat beaded his brow. It was so damn hot one wondered why the dry brown grasses on the playground didn’t burst into flame.

His gut twisted as he zeroed in on his target, dead center. His eyes blurred. His temple throbbed. Soon the pain in his head was intense, electric, explosive. He had his target; he had the right weapon, a Sako .270 mounted with a Nikon scope.

He was thinking how easy it would be to take Mr. J. Campbell out. So, easy. Then a woman with black hair, fine-boned features and pale, creamy skin got in his way.

Move your cute ass, bitch.

He shifted the gun to the unsmiling woman. She seemed to be scolding a blond little girl.

The woman moved toward Campbell. She was angry. All of a sudden the watcher felt a nagging sense of familiarity.

His trigger finger shook again. No way to miss. Not at this range; not with a gun like this. With difficulty he set the gun down and wiped his sweaty cheek on his shoulder.

To do this right, he had to eliminate his emotions. With difficulty he suppressed his hatred and distrust for the legal system and for his intended victim and watched him through his scope.

Lowering the gun, the watcher stared at Campbell and the woman. They seemed like players on a stage as they stood perfectly still, their gazes fixed on each other.

Shoot him. Blow him away. What have you got to lose?

“Yes, why did it take you so long to get here?” Campbell demanded, his eyes hard and intent on Hannah’s face.

Frowning at him, Hannah turned to Georgia. “Darling, I said get in the car.”

“But…but this nice man, Mr. Campbell, is a friend of Mr. Brayfield’s.”

“I thought I told you never to talk to strangers.”

“Besides, Mummy…er…Mommy, you were late. And he isn’t a stranger. He gave a speech to our school. He’s a friend of the principal.”

Campbell smiled at her. Hannah’s stomach writhed.

“I have something to say to our friend, then,” Hannah muttered through her teeth.

“Mummy—”

“Georgia!”

Now, for the first time, Hannah wished Georgia was an easy child.

“Please, Georgia…”

Georgia recognized that low tone in her mother’s voice that meant business and hastily hopped into the Mercedes.

Hannah strode up to him and put both hands squarely on her hips. “I asked you not to follow me.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t. I took a shortcut.”

“Stay away from my little girl. Stay away from me.”

“You were scared in the parking lot…hysterical.”

As though you care!

“I was not!” Her voice was so shrill two young teachers turned to stare. Campbell’s sable hair glinted in the sunlight as he smiled at them. Annoyed even more, Hannah flushed when the women smiled back.

“Keep your voice down,” he advised. “And for the record, I was worried about you.”

“Why don’t I believe you.”

He forced another of those broad white smiles, which he no doubt knew made him ten times more handsome.

“You won’t tell me who you really are, or what you’re afraid of,” he said in a mild tone. “So, on a hunch, I got here as fast as I could…just in case…you were being followed and your daughter was at risk.”

“You are not, let me repeat, not a Good Samaritan. You keep a string of pneumatic blondes on the—”

His face darkened. “I never heard that word before.”

She paled. “I do not believe you have even one drop of decency in your blood.”

“I think you’re running scared…which makes you vulnerable—”

“What would it take to get you out of my life?” she whispered.

“You could settle with the O’Connors.”

“Never in a million years.”

“You’re going to regret that decision,” he said.

“No, you’re going to regret getting high-handed with me.”

“If you go to trial, there’s a chance some juror might find your face familiar, too. His memory might prove better than mine.” She trembled when he looked directly into her eyes. “Who are you? Why did you dye your hair? Who the hell are you running from?”

She felt faint. His face blurred. She couldn’t endure another moment of this. “Nobody.”

“Mrs. Smith?” He smiled. “Like I said, you’re one lousy liar.” His expression was intense. “You’re from the UK.”

Somehow she found her voice. “What?”

“Your daughter has the accent. You can hide it. She can’t.”

Hannah felt light-headed as he slid a brown hand into his hip pocket and took out his wallet.

Her mother and grandmother were both Americans. So was Georgia’s real father. Hannah was good at accents and was careful about vocabulary. How difficult was it to change lift to elevator or bonnet to hood or loo to rest room?

Quickly, he handed her his card. “Call me if you change your mind about settling.”

Mute with too many out-of-control emotions, all she could do was glare at him.

“And something else you might want to consider—if you settle, I’ll make sure nothing about the case makes the papers.” His uncanny black gaze focused on her lips.

“The papers?”

“You must be new here. Big settlements are news. And if this case makes the papers here, the news just might reach London.”

She winced, remembering too well what it was like to live in the blinding glare of paparazzi.

“Mommy!” Georgia began honking the horn.

“Who the hell are you running from?” he repeated softly.

“At the moment—you.”

“I’ve seen your face somewhere. I’ve got a detective doing research.…”

“You what…”

“You heard me. It’s in your best interest to settle—fast.”

She blanched. “Stay away from me and my little girl or you’ll be sorry.”

“Is that a threat, Mrs. Smith?”

“Absolutely.”

He laughed. She threw herself inside her car, slammed the door, jammed her fists down onto the door locks.

He leaned down. Because she was curious, she lowered her window.

“I’d like to follow you home. That tire might—”

“Not your problem.”

“I could be held liable since I fixed—”

“Good—then I’ll get to sue you!”

“I’d settle in a heartbeat.” The bright afternoon sun slanted into the garage and made a golden aura around his black head and broad shoulders. He was handsome, but he’d made her so angry she was shaking.

“Move, before I back over your toes.”

She turned around to make sure Georgia had her seat belt on. Then crossing herself, she stomped on her accelerator so hard, thick black fumes plumed out of her tailpipe, as she sped away.

Georgia and she drove in silence for a while.

Settle? Hannah was so upset, she forgot her fear. I’ll be damned before I make one more bargain with the devil.

Georgia’s clear, piping voice from the back seat suddenly broke into Hannah’s thoughts. “Mummy, me hungwee.”

Georgia had begun reverting to baby talk when they’d moved to Texas.

“Mommy, remember? And no baby talk, darling.”

The Big Burger sign winked invitingly from the next corner.

“I said me hungwee.”

Hannah’s heart softened. Because she felt guilty for having dragged Georgia halfway around the world, she pulled into Big Burger way too often.

With a show of determination she kept driving. “Remember, darling, last night, how we made that vow—no more burgers, that we’d try that new salad bar on the island, the one Taz likes.…” Taz was their next-door neighbor. They were supposed to go to dinner with Taz tonight.

Hannah could see Georgia’s head whip around in the rearview mirror when they passed the Big Burger sign.

“I want a big burger and double fries. But…but after tonight…after tonight…” Her coaxing voice was sly. “Then I’ll promise…to eat with Taz.”

“Darling—Mommy said no.”

It was a word she’d said numerous times that day.

Not wanting to alarm Hannah Smith, the watcher held back, keeping her ancient Mercedes barely in sight until she headed onto the causeway that went out to the offshore island where she lived. Soon lines of orange barrels and flashing lights narrowed the road to two lanes. Traffic soon slowed to a slug’s pace.

Concrete walls hemmed her in. On one side of the roadway lapped the gray waters of the Laguna Madre. The bay was to the left. Extra-tall telephone poles marched beside the causeway toward the intercoastal canal. The tide was so low, clusters of white pelicans walked about in the water wade-fishing. The exposed mudflats and oyster reefs made the air reek with the stench of rotting sea vegetation.

When she crossed the bridge over the intercoastal canal, his bloodshot eyes lifted to his rearview mirror. That same white car that had been behind him since he’d left Campbell’s parking garage was still there.

The big Harley roared onto the causeway. A few miles later, the Mercedes made a quick left onto Mustang Island. So did he. So did the car behind him, even though the light had turned red.

The big Harley spun on its side and made the turn, too.

What the hell is this—a lousy parade?

He followed her ten miles through a moonscape of white dunes to Port Aransas, where she made a right turn on one of the roads that led to the beach.

He glanced into his rearview mirror. The white car was still behind him.

And so was the Harley.

What the hell was going on?

Four

The first thing Hannah had done when she got home was to race to her bedroom, rip off her ugly jumper and toss it onto her bedroom floor on top of everything else she’d worn that week. Okay, so she was a lousy housekeeper—

Stripping off her panty hose, she pulled on a worn pair of hip-hugger, button-fly jeans and a T-shirt that didn’t reach her navel.

When Georgia ran into her bedroom with her nail polish and begged her to paint their toenails orange, Hannah was in no mood for company. She wanted to tell Georgia she was too young for orange nail polish. But since Georgia had no friends her age here to play with, she smiled and gently said, “Sure, darling, let’s go for it.”

Georgia squealed and squatted on the floor in front of Hannah’s bare feet. “I’ll paint yours first and then you paint mine!”

“Don’t forget to stay inside the lines.”

Georgia laughed and did her best, but her best left a lot to be desired. Soon orange nail polish was on Hannah’s heel and dribbling between her toes onto the oak floor.

“Sorry, Mommy.”

“Oh, well, a little nail polish will wash off.” When Georgia skipped off to her room after she was done, Hannah found a rag to clean the floor and hollered after her, “Put the polish back where it belongs, love.”

Georgia’s door slammed. Without bothering to wait until her orange toenails dried, Hannah slipped into a pair of tall platform sandals and returned to the kitchen to enjoy a glass of wine by herself while Georgia played on her computer.

Big Burger wrappings littered the kitchen counter. Georgia had only had to plead thirty seconds before winning the Big Burger battle hands down. Hannah was too tired tonight to feel too guilty about indulging her.

The phone rang, and she picked it up before she checked the caller ID. If she’d checked, she would have put Katherine Rosner off until she was back in her office. The woman came on a little too strong, which was natural since Katherine’s doctor husband was divorcing her. The woman was feeling desperate at the thought of having to move to a smaller place and go back into nursing. Hannah sympathized, but she was tired tonight.

“It’s me. Do you have a minute?” Katherine’s soft, sexy voice was highly charged.

Tiny redheaded woman. Huge aura. Something about Katherine bothered Hannah. She moved with the grace of a leopard, fast and swift and silent, so you didn’t always know she was coming. Then there she was, her ferocious eyes flashing as she made some demand or launched into a rant about her grievances—the main one being her husband.

Hannah had spent eight hours showing Katherine houses the day before.

“Hi, Katherine, I was wondering what you’d decided.”

“I still can’t make up my mind. The house in Country Club needs too much work. Besides, it’s owned by a lousy personal injury attorney. I’m not going to feed one of those sharks by buying a house from him.”

Translation: the house in Country Club was way more than Katherine could afford without her doctor husband’s salary.

Hannah sighed. “You never mentioned you had it in for attorneys.”

“Just the personal injury guys.”

Hannah thought about Joe Campbell. Katherine did have a point.

“Then we’ll keep looking,” Hannah said.

“You are so sweet.”

“Yesterday was fun.” That wasn’t totally true.

“I was feeling so depressed after you left, so I went out for a drive. I saw a sign on Ocean. Darling house. There was a blue heron on the pier.”

Katherine probably wouldn’t qualify for a loan on a house on Ocean Drive. “Do you really need a pier? I mean do you fish or anything? And a seawall costs a lot to maintain.”

“I grew up in the country. Four brothers. I fish, hunt…So, can we see it together tomorrow? Nine? Your office?”

Hannah jotted down the address and agreed to meet her though she knew it was a waste of time.

Katherine was a sleek, elegant doctor’s wife on the wrong side of forty, who worked hard not to look it. She had a good body. When she wore skirts, she showed a lot of leg.

From what Katherine had told her, Hannah had gathered she’d been the other woman in the doctor’s nasty divorce ten years earlier and didn’t want to be blindsided by a younger, hotter version of herself.

“So, is he leaving you for another woman?” Hannah had asked when they’d been touring the garden of the house in Country Club.

“No, he said he just doesn’t look forward to coming home to me at night anymore.”

“Oh, Katherine…”

“It’s so unfair. He’s no prince. He’s overweight, older. He has nose hairs. He’s always clipping them when he follows me around yapping at me. And he’s no big deal in bed.”

“Then maybe he’s doing you a favor.”

“He’s leaving me!” Katherine had shrieked. “I’ll be all alone…again. He makes money. I was a lousy nurse before…”

After the phone call Hannah tried to unwind again, but Katherine’s restless energy had infected her. Hannah felt as uprooted as Katherine. She didn’t belong in Texas, but she couldn’t go home. The window over the sink was cracked an inch, so the roar of the surf and the smell of muggy, salt air and pungent, rotting sea things permeated the tiny kitchen—alien scents. She was used to grass and trees, to big-city life, to a cooler, softer climate. To glamour. To horror.

Hannah clenched her fingers. Who was she to judge Katherine? There was a big hole in her own life. Huge. Only her problems weren’t as simple as Katherine’s. Hannah couldn’t fix them by a divorce. If only Dom would give her a divorce.

They say if a frog hops into a kettle of water and you light a fire under it, the frog won’t jump out as the water warms up. He’ll die.

That had happened to Hannah twice before with men.

Sometimes she felt like she was that frog, dying, little by little. For nine months she’d been in exile, living, if you could call it living, while she waited for a miracle. Away from her friends, Georgia had become increasingly bored and unhappy, and that made Hannah feel guilty.

But you’re still alive, and Georgia’s alive.

If you want things to change, you have to do something, kiddo.

I ran away—that’s something!

Now it’s time to do more!

She opened her newspaper and recoiled when Joe Campbell’s avid white grin gleamed at her from the front page. Billboards, telephone book and now the newspaper! His black eyes burned through her defenses and made her feel totally vulnerable. Worst of all, he looked a little like Dom.

The article that ran beneath Campbell’s picture had to do with large medical malpractice awards in the county attracting big names like him to the city. The good news was that he’d just lost a big medical case to a Dr. Albert Crocker. The press about Campbell was unflattering, and neither he nor the partners of his firm had agreed to be interviewed for the article.

Beneath his story ran a headline, Neurosurgeons in Short Supply.

“Due to soaring malpractice insurance rates, doctors and insurance companies are fleeing Texas.…”

She was in no mood to read further. There was another story on mold litigation. Mold claims were paying off big in Texas, too. Homeowners’ insurance rates were soaring. Lots of people could no longer afford to insure their homes.

Hannah wadded up the paper. Then she unwadded it and snipped out his picture. Not knowing why she did that, she flung the rest of the newspaper aside and rushed to her refrigerator, where she eyed her half-full bottle of chardonnay on the lower shelf for several minutes before removing a milk carton. She couldn’t let Mr. Billboard and his hot eyes and the litigation-crazy world she was forced to do business in drive her to drinking alone.

Not that she was alone. The beach house was so small and the walls so thin she could hear Georgia in her room, her fingers tapping on her computer keyboard.

Georgia being home only makes it worse, and you know it.

How many more long, lonely and sometimes terrifying evenings without the intelligent companionship or solace of another adult could she endure? Then there were the nights when she couldn’t sleep, and worse, those when she could and had nightmares.

When her cupboard proved empty of clean glasses, she splashed milk into a white cup with little blue seagulls on it. She loved her dishes. After a sip, she went out to the mailbox. Again, there was no mail. That had been happening a lot lately. Which was odd. Not that it mattered, really. Almost nobody from her real life knew where she was, so there wouldn’t have been anything but bills and junk mail, flyers to pitch in the trash along with the newspaper and the brightly colored Big Burger wrappings.

Finishing her milk, Hannah stuffed the cup into her sink, which was overflowing with dirty dishes. She should cook and clean house, go downstairs to the washing machines with a load of clothes, maybe. But where to begin?

How ill prepared she was for ordinary, middle-class life. She was used to a man doing the heavy work, to a maid and a nanny, to long glamorous dinners with family and friends, not to tasteless fast food or housework in a remote beach house at the end of a long day. Oh, how she missed her beautiful things, her social life.

But there were things she did not miss.

At least, while here, she got to live on the gulf. Maybe the fragile barrier island was a thirty-minute commute from downtown Corpus and Georgia’s private school, but as soon as she’d seen the For Rent sign on the gray beach house at the edge of the dunes, the house had spoken to her.

When she was frightened or lonely, all she had to do was step outside to breathe in the smell of the gulf and to hear the seabirds, which she’d come to love…especially the brown pelicans and blue herons. Tonight there would even be a full moon. She would look up at the stars and know how small and tiny she and her problems were. The island with its rustic beach houses built on pilings and the glamorous high-rise condos and looser ambience attracted all kinds of people—tourists from all over the world, artists, rebels, runaways…like her.

She ran a damp rag across the counter to clean off the hamburger bun crumbs and headed toward the sink with the wet grit. She sighed. Then her thoughts turned to home again. Was her mother all right? He wouldn’t hurt her mother, would he?

He never had before.

You never left him before.

Her mother was famous. Even if she were impaired now, people would notice if Claudia Hayes had an accident. The story would make the papers. Hannah would know if her mother wasn’t all right.

Hannah glanced toward her phone and felt almost desperate enough to dial the home where her mother resided. But the roar of a motorcycle in the drive and then the sound of light footsteps and the jingling of tiny bells on her stairs saved her. Then she remembered. Taz still thought they were going to dinner.

“Knock, knock,” rang a cheery, determined voice.

Hannah started silently for the door.

“You’re supposed to say who’s there,” the voice jeered.

For once Hannah was almost glad she had a pushy, overly friendly neighbor.

A plump dark arm pushed the door open, and Hannah gave a little shriek of delight when she saw the wild creature gilded in her doorway by the fiery sunshine.

“Taz, is that you?”

“Sister Tasmania!”

The short black woman in her late twenties looked older than she was and tougher, too, but in a good way. People took Taz seriously in spite of her tendency to be flamboyant.

Tonight Taz had bells on her gold, strappy sandals, so she jingled when she pranced across the threshold. “Don’t you dare say you’re too busy to go out and eat again!”

Taz whirled to a chorus of more tinkling bells. “How do you like the new me?” Taz shot her a hot white smile. Waist-length black braids danced about her wide, golden face. She barely came up to Hannah’s shoulders; still, she exuded the presence of a woman ten times her size. Unlike Katherine, she wasn’t scary or intimidating. Taz was plump and inviting, and men of all ages, classes and races threw themselves at her.

“Not that any of them have ever been someone I can take home to my grandmother,” Taz had confided to Hannah one afternoon when Taz’s phone hadn’t quit ringing. Like Hannah, Taz had a weakness for bad boys.

“Whoa. What did you do to your hair?” Hannah asked.

At least a hundred braids fell about Tasmania’s voluptuous shoulders. A pleated gown that made her look Egyptian swirled around her hips as she danced about the kitchen.

“You definitely got carried away this time.”

“I told my man to take a hike. Then I got me a massage and a makeover.” She wiggled a foot and showed off painted green toenails.

“You don’t look much like a high school principal.”

“Don’t want to, either. Not tonight, anyway.” Taz laughed.

“Tinkerbell with Egyptian braids.”

“Who rides a motorcycle, too.” She pushed past Hannah and slapped a hot pink card onto the counter. “Got my new business cards. You got a beer?”

“Just chardonnay.”

Taz frowned. “How did your deposition with Mr. Billboard go?”

Hannah’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Bad, huh? Well, you got to him. A friend of mine who works for the handsome no-good told me. He was so upset after you left, he kicked a door.”

Hannah beamed. “He fixed my flat, too.”

“Better watch yourself, girl. He definitely wants you in bed.”

Hannah shrugged. “He is handsome.”

“No man ever does the slightest thing to help you if he isn’t enticed.”

Hannah rolled her eyes and guzzled a big sip of wine.

“Test my hypothesis some time. You’ll see I’m right. But I want to talk about this lawsuit stuff. Did I tell you—I’m being sued, too?”

“What? Why?”

“As if you need a why in south Texas. But…okay…you want the details. You know I broke up with Sid.”

“Right.”

“Well, the night before we broke up, we’d had some pretty raucous sex. Sid was hungry, so I nuked him a leftover hamburger. The damn pickle fell out of the bun and burned his…er…member. The man did carry on. He turned beet red. I’m afraid I started laughing and couldn’t stop.”

“You burned his pickle with a pickle and laughed and then you dumped him?”

“Yeah. ’Cause he got so mad when I laughed. I can’t stand a man with no sense of humor.”

“You shouldn’t have laughed.”

“You should have heard the mean things he called me. It wasn’t fair. If he wouldn’t have been talking and eating at the same time the hot pickle wouldn’t have…So, it’s his fault! But his lawyer, he says it’s my fault Sid can’t make love to his new woman.”

“If you go to court, lose the braids.”

“Hell, now I wished I’d bobbed his pink pickle or something. Then he wouldn’t be worried he can’t put it where he shouldn’t.”

“You are mad.”

“I got served with a bunch of legal stuff at school today. What I need is to go out and distract myself. Where are we going to supper? What about a bar, too?”

Hannah opened the fridge and got out the bottle of wine. Then she sifted through her sink and washed two wineglasses.

“Don’t bother drying.” Taz grabbed a wet glass and poured. She took a sip and choked. Then she emptied a teaspoon of sugar into her wineglass and swirled it.

Hannah read Taz’s new hot-pink business card. “Let Sister Tasmania make your wishes come true. Defeat your enemies. And your rivals. If you have a problem with the past, present, future, marriage, business, finance or health, Sister will help you out. There is no burden too great for her to lift from your heavy heart. She succeeds where others fail.” Hannah set the card down and laughed. “You’re supposed to be a school principal.”

“Not for long. That was my grandmother’s dream. I’m opening myself a little business on the side, something more spiritual, so I have more time to stay in touch with whatever’s out there.”

Hannah lifted the pink card again. “Oh, boy, do I have a burden.”

“Mr. Billboard?”

“He’s one problem, yes.”

“You want him off the case? Jump his bones. The man has a weakness for the ladies. Get him on your side.”

“I loathe him.”

“Baby, don’t you know that’ll just make the sex better? I hated Sid half the nights we did it.”

“I’m not like that,” Hannah said. “I want to love the next man.”

“You’re one hot lady. I can tell that about you.” Taz pursed her lips. “Even with sugar, your wine is so-o dry. It doesn’t quench my thirst at all.”

“Sugar! I can’t believe you put sugar in—”

“Let’s go out for a beer. And no salad bar! I could do with something tasty like a burger, too.”

“No more burgers.” Hannah crossed her heart. “I made a vow. Besides, after your hot-pickle adventure, I wouldn’t think you’d want—”

“I blame Sid—not burgers!”

With a shake of her head, Hannah pointed toward the back of the house. “I’m sorry Taz. We already ate. You know I can’t go because Georgia’s—”

“You ate already? That’s just like you. Since I’ve known you, you have never gone out. Not once. You’re going to go crazy if you don’t get out of the house at night at least once. You’re going to snap. I’ve seen it happen.”

Hannah could almost feel it happening.

“I’m really sorry, Taz.”

“I have a girlfriend with some kids two houses down who’ll sit.”

“Taz, no—” Just the thought of leaving Georgia alone with a stranger at night scared her.

The phone rang before Hannah could say no again. She covered the phone and mouthed to Taz that it was Zoë. “I’ve got to schedule an appointment with her.”

“Zoë?” Tasmania’s eyebrows arched as Hannah rummaged through her purse for her calendar. “The doctor’s wife?”

Hannah shook her head.

“Oh, right, the new client…the shady lady from Shady Lomas, who’s here looking for a house in town, Veronica Holiday’s editor? She’s here? Now?”

Hannah nodded as she pulled out her calendar. “In that new beach hotel.”

“Ask her to meet us at the bar in her hotel.”

Hannah covered the mouthpiece. “I’m not going out. Besides, she’s married and pregnant.”

“All the more reason for her to get out—before the baby comes and ties her down. This is fate.”

Hannah sighed. “You’re hopeless.”

She flipped her dog-eared calendar to the right page and jumped. Stuck between the pages was that darn picture of her in the thong bikini that she’d accidentally given Joe Campbell.

“Tell her we’re going out,” Taz insisted. “This feels destined. Besides, we had a date.”

Why had she ever mentioned Zoë to Taz? As a Realtor, Hannah was alone with her clients in her car long hours. While they drove or walked through empty houses, people tended to share their most intimate secrets. Zoë had told her most of her incredible story the first thirty minutes they’d known each other.

Then this afternoon while they’d checked for mold on a waterfront house, Zoë had filled in the last gaps in her tale. Not that Hannah had paid as much attention as usual since the deposition had been looming over her.

The scene replayed itself in her mind. Her most trusted carpenter, a retired navy guy with a bad knee, Tommy Thompson, had been on a short, wobbly ladder sawing a hole in the ceiling. Zoë had chattered underneath him about her new husband, Tony, a rancher, who’d been her high school sweetheart. Their ranch was sixty miles south on the outskirts of a gossipy town called Shady Lomas. Apparently, they’d had a lovers’ quarrel as teenagers. To get revenge, Zoë had gone to a pig race at a rodeo, and Tony’s scandalous Uncle Duncan had gotten her drunk there. Uncle Duncan had had his own plane, and when Zoë had awakened in Vegas the next morning, she’d had a ring on her finger and was married to the old reprobate.

Zoë had been in the middle of her tale of woe when a hunk of drywall had fallen out of the ceiling and shattered, spraying both women with white bits of wallboard. Tommy had yelled “no mold,” triumphantly, and Hannah had grabbed his ladder to steady it.

“I’ll make an offer tomorrow,” Zoë had said, clapping.

“Everybody ready to go? I’m late,” Hannah had said.

“The deposition?” Zoë had asked.

“Joe Campbell is like an ax hanging over my head.”

On the way to Zoë’s beachfront hotel, Zoë hadn’t stopped talking. “Duncan knew he was dying all along. He married me so he’d go out with a bang.”

“For this reason he ruined your life?”

“No, he was sweet.” She’d paused. “He died a few weeks after the wedding and left me everything. Unfortunately, the inheritance included the ranch Tony leased and believed should have been his. Then Duncan’s daughters sued me, too.”

By the time Hannah and Zoë reached the hotel, Hannah was thirty minutes late, and Zoë was still talking about the gossip, lawsuits and spite that had driven her from Shady Lomas and the man she’d really loved to Manhattan, where she’d become an editor.

“Not a very good one, though, I’m afraid, and I was so lonely,” Zoë had admitted sadly. “My only claim to fame is that I discovered Veronica Holiday and edit her books.”

“The Veronica Holiday? I’ve read all her books. She’s fabulous.”

“Well, I’ll tell her I met a fan. She’s here, you know. At this hotel. On tour…and…writing.”

“What?”

“Thought I’d kill two birds.…Shop for a house and help her.…Long story.”

Still, Zoë hadn’t gotten out. “Oh, I almost forgot—the adoption papers on Noah came through.”

The entire conversation flashed in Hannah’s mind as she jotted 2:00 p.m. on her calendar for tomorrow.

Zoë needed a house in town because the schools in Shady Lomas didn’t challenge Noah, her nine-year-old stepson.

Never one to be left out of a conversation for long, Taz punched the speaker phone button while Hannah slid her calendar back into her purse.

“So how did your deposition go?” Zoë’s voice blared into the kitchen.

“He’s got the hots for her,” Taz said. “He fixed her flat.”

“Who’s this?” Zoë sounded both surprised and curious to hear a new voice.

“Joe Campbell does not have the hots for me!”

“I’m her next-door neighbor—Taz. Her spiritual adviser. She’s trying to stand me up for supper.”

“Did he or did he not hit on you, Hannah?”

Flushing, Hannah glared at Taz.

“The…the only thing he tempts me to do is murder—”

“Lawyers. The only good lawyer is a dead lawyer,” Taz said.

Zoë laughed. “Joe Campbell’s partner, Bob Africa, is suing me.”

“What?”

“Tony called me about it today. Bob Africa had Tony served today. Apparently, my stepdaughters hired Bob. They’ve gone through all the money I gave them when we settled the first lawsuit. Now they say I suckered their lonely old father into marriage and killed him for his money. People have stopped speaking to Tony and me. Tony hung up so tense he would barely speak to me. I’ve been crying ever since.”

“What kind of lowlife sues a pregnant lady?” Taz began. Then she told Zoë she was being sued, too.

Zoë giggled after she’d heard the story. “He’s going to tell the judge he’s mad because a hot pickle burned his pink pickle?”

Everybody laughed.

Zoë said, “We’ve got too many lawyers, or at least the wrong kind. In South Texas, anyway.”

Taz chugged a second glass of wine. “Hey—I say we adjourn to your hotel bar and have a serious discussion about this issue.…”

“No,” Hannah said.

“Yes! And the more the merrier,” Tasmania persisted. “I’ve just been dying to meet the shady lady of Shady Lomas.”

“I’d love to meet you, too, but this is sort of a work night. I’m with a writer. She’s here on tour for her latest book, Four Wishes, but her work-in-progress is late. And she’s blocked. And when she’s blocked she gets so crazy there’s no telling what she’ll do. Tomorrow, she’s got a television show and a book signing, and she’s publicity shy. I promised her tonight I’d play Muse.”

“Sounds like you both could use a break,” Tasmania persisted. “Besides, I swear I’ll inspire her. Have you been to that great bar in your hotel that overlooks the beach?”

“I can hear the music all the way up here. Okay, if you really want to come…but just for a little while.” Zoë gave them her room number.

“No way am I driving back to town,” Hannah began.

But Zoë and Taz had already hung up.

“I’ll drive then,” Taz said. “A writer,” she mused. “This is great. She’s got to have a creative mind. She’ll know just what to do about Mr. Billboard and Mr. Hot Pickle whose pickle wasn’t all that hot if you want the truth.”

“Murder,” Hannah suggested.

“But how? Honey, we need specifics…a plot.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to shoot a guy in his parts, grind him into hamburger meat and sell it to Big Burger to feed the natives,” Hannah said. “How’s that for specifics?”

“Honey, I know you’re off burgers and mad as all get out, but, please, don’t ruin my appetite. I’m dying for a burger, cut the pickles, please, even if every bite decides to live on my thighs. Besides,” Taz said, “Joey boy is too cute to shoot, and you don’t have a gun.”

“That’s no problem in Texas.”

BOOK TWO

The world of reality has its limits; the world of imagination is boundless.

JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

Five

Campbell’s head pounded as he wheeled into the nursing home parking lot so fast he spun gravel. His headache got worse as he parked his gleaming black Porsche near the front doors of the red brick building. Twice a month he came here, and he hated every minute of it, even as he hated himself for being such a sap as to come.

A group of old men and women, their wheelchairs jammed together in a tight little semicircle, were smoking and telling stories until they saw him. Every one of them set his cigarette aside and stared at him blankly—as if he were someone interesting.

Campbell cut the ignition and got out of the car. Poor devils, didn’t they have anything better to do? No, they were out here every time he came to visit. He smiled and they smiled back, just like always. Hell, at least they had one another. Who the hell did he have?

When he got nearer, they waved and he waved to each one, scanning each wrinkled face. But his father never left his room.

His mood darkened as he headed inside, striding down a long hall past limp, corpselike figures in recliners on wheels, past the nurses’ station, where the head nurse eyed him warily.

He wasn’t the most popular visitor. Too many lawyers had won huge judgments in Texas against nursing homes by charging neglect for bad results that were nothing more than the natural consequences of old age. Not that Campbell ever took such cases, but the old battle-ax didn’t know that.

He stalked down the hall and into his father’s room. As always, the shades were drawn. Still, he made out two beds squashed together in the gray light. The bed nearest the door was empty, yet the floor and bed linens and chairs reeked of old man and dried urine and pine-scented disinfectant. Vaguely he wondered what had happened to the old fellow who’d been here last week.

When a thin stick figure with grizzled hair and a wizened face that somehow still resembled his own stirred in the bed by the window, Campbell snapped on the light.

“Dad?”

The old man hadn’t been washed or shaved that day. He blinked a couple of times and then held up a thin hand that was spotted with age.

At the sight of Campbell, the old man’s expression darkened just like it used to. “Turn out the damn light and get out of my sight! Nobody invited you. You ain’t no son of mine.”

Campbell shrank from him just like he had when he’d been a boy.

“I came by to see if you needed anything.”

His father snorted. “As if you give a damn.”

The harsh words hurt way more than they should have. Campbell couldn’t account for it, didn’t want to account for it. He’d never known anything but pain from his father.

“I know we didn’t get along in the past—but you’re sick now. Maybe you need somebody.”

Maybe I do, too. Did they have to hate each other forever? Then he remembered his mother. Yeah, maybe they did.

“Are you deaf? And crazy, too?” His father picked up a bedpan and threw it at him.

Campbell ducked as he hadn’t been able to duck as a kid, and the pan whizzed past him out into the hall.

“Get the hell out of here,” the old man said.

When Campbell hurled himself outside into the brightly lit hall a dozen patients stared blankly at him and the bedpan.

“You killed her. Remember that. Just like you’re killing me. Don’t come back.”

Campbell told the nurse the old man smelled bad and needed a bath. She told him three orderlies had tried, but he’d fought them so hard, they’d given up.

Campbell walked down the hall, his spirits lifting, but only a little, when he saw the exit sign.

The trouble with old people in nursing homes waiting to die was they slammed you into your own mortality. Campbell couldn’t come here without taking a long, cold look at himself.

What the hell was he doing with his own life? Would anybody care if he died tomorrow?

Yes, they would. A lot of people would be glad.

War Party.

The red neon letters of the hotel sign flickered like flares against the red sky and bay. In the distance a lone sailboat rode the waves. Not that Hannah noticed the yacht. She was too busy wondering why she’d let Taz talk her into this.

One glance at that hotel sign had her pulse in overdrive. The huge motorcycles gleaming in the red sunlight in the jammed parking lot didn’t help her mood, either.

“Taz, let’s go home.”

“We just got here, girl. Georgia’s fine. Lilly’s a great sitter.”

When Taz wheeled into the lot, a burly pair of bikers in black vests with chains belted around their waists hooted, “Women—over here!”

Grinning at Taz, they gunned their engines and then rolled their big chopped hogs out of a parking space beside the hotel entrance.

The bikers’ burly arms had tattoo “sleeves.”

“Taz, I want to go home.”

With a jaunty smile Taz zoomed into the empty spot. “Jesus, I wish we were on my bike.”

Hannah buried her face in her hands.

Taz laughed. “You need this recharge way more than I do. Your life is too bo-oring.”

“Which is exactly the way I want it.”

“Why?”

Because I want to be safe. Because I want Georgia safe. Because I’ve learned lessons I never wanted to learn.

Not that she could tell Taz any of her story. Not about her crazy, superfamous parents or their highly publicized squabbles. Not about the wall between their two houses. Not about her little-girl dream of wanting them to simply be happy. Not about her own fame at too early an age. Not about her own need to rescue bad handsome men, either. Not about the terrible experiences her husband had had in boarding school.

She’d loved the wrong men with a big open heart. She’d paid a huge price for her naiveté. And so had Georgia. No more. For Georgia’s sake, if not her own, she had to make more prudent decisions.

Inside the hotel, Hannah had barely had one long slim foot with badly painted orange toenails across the threshold of the jammed bar, before she knew for sure she was in the wrong place at the wrong time again.

Then Veronica showed up in a hot pink miniskirt and a revealing blouse looking wild beside a radiantly pregnant Zoë.

Every outlaw in the smoke-filled din lifted a beer and saluted the four women in the doorway.

“Three cheers for the Hot Ladies.”

Veronica laughed as if oblivious to the undercurrents in the room.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a table for four,” Hannah blurted. “Taz, let’s go.”

Taz grabbed her by the elbow and held her fast. “Looky—Over there—By the pool tables—Four gentlemen—”

“Not exactly,” Hannah murmured as four guys in tight, greasy jeans and dark wraparound glasses shot clumsily off their stools, knocking a couple over as they pointed at the table and beckoned them.

Taz’s braids shook as she laughed in delight. “What did I tell you? Bikers—my kind of guys. Is this place great or what?”

Zoë and Hannah rolled their eyes.

“Are you crazy?” Hannah asked.

“It’s my makeover that’s got ’em so wild.”

Don’t forget Veronica with her platinum hair and low-cut outfit.

“You’re a high school principal,” Hannah said.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Maybe you should do volunteer work at an all-male prison,” Hannah suggested as she clutched her purse against her nipples, which were standing at attention in sheer terror. Then, like a duck following her mama into a deep pool, she stayed glued to Taz’s ample hips as her friend plowed through the men and the haze of cigarette smoke to their table.

Why had she worn a white T-shirt that glowed blue and clung to her flesh like shrink wrap? Hannah wondered. Better question—why hadn’t she at least worn a bra and a blousy shirt that hid her belly button?

“Table or not, I still want to go home,” Hannah repeated as the women squeezed themselves onto four short stools and Taz signaled a waitress and ordered four beers.

“No beer! I—I want a diet cola,” Hannah blurted, but the waitress had already left. “Taz, this is a mistake. These guys are in lust.”

“We just got here,” Taz said. “Chill. Okay? I can handle the situation. Like you said, I’m a principal. And where I grew up, girl, these guys would be pussies.” Taz smiled her huge smile and began to clap and writhe along with Veronica to the jungle beat.

Since Taz, her ride, seemed hell-bent on staying, Hannah turned to Zoë. “Why didn’t you tell me the hotel was overrun with a motorcycle gang?”

“It’s some kind of convention. The manager says they do this every year. I’m sure they’re all dentists and doctors and lawyers. Veronica met one of them on the beach earlier. He said he was a stockbroker. She even had a beer with him and a doctor.”

Veronica did not strike Hannah as a reliable judge of men’s characters.

Veronica laughed. “Mr. Moneybags is over there trying to be invisible. We may get together…later.”

Veronica waved at her new friend, who was long and lean and slouching in the darkest corner of the bar.

“You said you were going to write…later,” Zoë reminded her.

Hannah eyed the bar’s denizens uneasily. “Dentists? Doctors? You’re kidding.”

Veronica nodded and fluffed her puffy white hair.

“Right,” Hannah said. “The three-hundred-pound Goliath over there with the grizzled eyebrows, swollen black eye, potbelly, long red hair and the golden loop in his right ear is a dentist? He’s staring holes through my T-shirt every time I lower my purse—and you’re telling me the big bear does root canals for a living?”

“Well, maybe not him,” Veronica admitted. “It’s your fault. You should have worn a bra.”

The ape adjusted his yellow bandanna as he leered at Zoë. There was a gap in his crooked smile.

“Don’t encourage him, Zoë.” In desperation Hannah lowered her lashes, clutched her purse tighter against her chest for coverage and sipped from her mug. The beer felt cold and tart going down, but it heated her blood and calmed her a bit. For the first time all day she relaxed a little.

Good stuff. Too good. Hannah swigged some more. Then she wet her napkin, tore off little bits, wadded them up to use as earplugs and stuffed them into her ears.

“You pointed Goliath out to me,” Zoë reminded Hannah.

“Forget I said anything. Just quit looking at him.”

“He’s cute,” Taz said. Lifting her beer, she smiled at him. “Cheers, everybody.”

“I really think we should go,” Hannah began again.

“Relax,” Taz growled. “Shoot some darts or something. Drink. Hey, I brought you a target.”

“No way am I getting up and making a spectacle of myself before this wolf pack.”

Before Hannah could stop her, Taz waved Goliath over. “We want to shoot some darts…er…What’s your name, big boy?”

“The Charger,” he purred. “What’s yours, hot lady?”

She gave him a look. “Okay, Charger, can you get us some darts and pin up this target…?”

When he glanced at the newspaper picture, the biker looked a little startled.

“You got a problem, big boy?” Taz asked.

“No problem, hot lady.” His broad hand slapped the clipping of Joe Campbell against the dartboard, pinning it there with four darts.

“Draw a circle around his crotch,” Taz ordered. “Here—use my lipstick.”

She handed the Charger a tube of the stuff, and he drew crude red genitals instead of a circle. The bikers roared approval.

“First guy to hit the big red pickle where it hurts standing from behind me gets to dance with the Egyptian hot lady here,” Taz yelled. “On my table!”

The men nearest Taz got off a few earsplitting yells. A squabble broke out and a table was turned over before the issue of who got to throw the first dart was resolved.

A guy in a black vest with a scorpion tattooed on his arm and a patch over one eye went first. When he hit Campbell in the eye, everybody booed. The next guy got a turn. The dart hit the mark but bounced off without even tearing the paper. Hannah hid her face in her hands and said a prayer.

“Me—I go for men with balls of steel,” Veronica mused, winking at her friend in the dark corner. He lifted his hand and signaled her to come over. When she didn’t jump up, Hannah felt his hostile gaze fix her, and she shivered. Not that she could really see him. But she could feel him. And he gave her a bad feeling like she’d had in the garage.

The next biker took his turn and missed as well. The mood in the bar turned brutal.

Goliath had the deadliest aim. A few darts thrown from his meaty arm put a gaping hole where Campbell’s lipstick-smeared pickle had been.

“Ouch,” Taz said as she climbed up onto a table to dance and beckoned the Charger.

Hips undulating, the Egyptian hot lady and her gap-toothed Hun from Hell put on a show to a loud song with a wild beat. He stomped; she wiggled and twisted and ate him with her dark eyes, showing caramel-colored legs every time she twirled. Their dance was pure raw sex, and she stirred the men to a frenzy. When they were done, every man in the bar rushed over to help Taz down from the table. They were all clamoring to dance with her when the Charger told them she was his and asked her to dance with her again.

“I ain’t nobody’s,” Taz said.

He was climbing back onto the table, when she crossed her arms and said no in her loud, school principal voice. He glared down at her in surprise. Since he was on the table, and she was short, she barely came to the tops of his muddy motorcycle boots.

The silence grew tense. His bottom lip bloated sullenly, and he flushed purple. Hannah half expected Charger to grab Taz and tear her apart, or to at least kiss her to thrill their gaping audience, but he merely growled good-naturedly, “You heard her. The lady, she said no.”

Hannah couldn’t believe it when he jumped off the table with a resounding thud and swaggered heavily to the dartboard and ripped Campbell’s picture off the wall. Then he yelled, “No more dancing. No cussin’, either. We got ladies present.” Then his eyes locked on Taz’s face with respect and shy affection.

Taz beamed at him.

There were grumbles as the men sat and resumed their drinking, but the Charger hovered nearby their table, a silent hulk making sure the other beasts left his lady friends alone.

Heck, maybe the Charger did do root canals for a living. During the table dance, Hannah had drained her mug, and when another was placed in front of her, she sipped from it, too. Maybe it was the beer that eased the tension in her. Instead of pleading to go, she relaxed and began to chat with her friends in their dark corner.

“So, you’re Veronica Holiday,” Tasmania said. “Hannah was telling me you were here. I’ve read your books.”

“If I’d known I was going to meet a fan, I would have worn my glasses and tried to look intelligent.”

Taz laughed. “I’m not disappointed.”

Veronica didn’t look like the sophisticated woman in her publicity stills. In those photographs, she wore power suits and demure shades of makeup.

“Zoë said you were being sued, too,” Tasmania said.

Hannah frowned as she sipped more beer. “So, who’s suing you, Veronica?”

The music was so loud they had to yell to be heard.

“This thief, this idiot from my hometown, who’s been jealous of me since I sold my first book. Her name’s Camille. She married my old boyfriend right out from under me when we were kids. Then she ran me out of town. Now she has the gall to say I stole her body and wrote the story of her life. Her life! In her dreams.”

Tasmania’s black eyes gleamed. “Stole her body?”

“I had a boob job. We’re the same bra size now.”

Tasmania snorted. “Give me a break. Did Zoë tell you I’m being sued because of damage to a man’s eenie weenie done by a pickle I nuked?”

“This could be your next novel,” Zoë said.

“If I wrote about it, Camille would really sue.”

Hannah looked up. “So how can we stop these frivolous lawsuits? In this city, all the judges are bought off.”

“It’s called—campaign contributions,” Zoë screamed over the music. “It costs a lot to run for office. Politicians and judges don’t make much.”

“Under the table they do,” Taz said.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Zoë countered.

“What planet do you live on?” Holding her mug up, Taz eyed the waitress and tapped her mug and held up four fingers. “They make huge contributions to political action committees, PACs they call them. Wouldn’t it be fun to turn the tables on these jerks?”

“But how?” Hannah asked.

When more beers arrived, the four women were about to raise their mugs and clink them when the fight started.

“But I want to dance with a hot lady!” a biker yelled. “You danced with her! Why the hell can’t—”

“This is why the hell why, you son of a—”

The Charger let a beefy fist fly, and it landed smack, square in the loudmouth’s jaw. As if a bomb had gone off, the bar erupted. Cigarettes were squashed out on the floor. Everybody started shouting and ramming one another with their heads. Tables and chairs crashed to the floor. Beer bottles smashed as they rolled off tables.

“Let’s go!” Hannah screamed, ducking.

“We could do room service in my suite,” Veronica yelled.

“Sounds like a winner,” Taz agreed, keeping low, running after them.

“Why can’t we just go home?” Hannah pleaded.

Not that Taz or anybody else paid the least bit of attention to her.

Six

The wave loomed over Campbell’s bowsprit like a solid brown wall. “Hold tight for a sec, Paul—”

Campbell jammed his cell phone into the pocket of his windbreaker fast. Instead of slamming into the wave, Victory surfed up its side with the gathering speed of a roller-coaster car.

Foam sprayed across the bow. Water frothed the length of the yacht. Charged to the max, Campbell wanted to yell.

With a grim smile, he swiped the burning salt water out of his eyes. Blinking, he studied the roiling swells for a calm patch and then jammed the phone to his ear again.

“Still there, Paul?”

“Settle with that Smith bitch? Whose side are you on?”

Campbell remembered her smile and the way she’d looked at her kid on the beach.

Paul couldn’t stop screaming. “You out of your mind? You saw those mold pictures! You visited me in the hospital—”

When Campbell made no reply, O’Connor burst into a stream of profanity that was so abusive, Campbell stuffed his cell phone back into his pocket.

“Are you there?” The thunder and venom of O’Connor’s voice was mostly smothered now. “What’s all that noise?”

“The wind,” Campbell replied in a mild tone. “It’s pretty raucous out here.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.