“Someone could be trying to set you up, Naomi,” Devon said.

“Jessica’s murder in your massage room. Your car—or at least, one similar to your car—used to run me down, maybe another murder.”

Suddenly the threat to his own life seemed paltry compared to the insidious web being woven around her. He had to find a way to keep her safe.

She stared at him. “What can you do about it?”

What could he do about it? What right did he have to do anything about it?

Her chin lifted as she stood there, challenging him with her silence.

He shouldn’t get involved.

But he already was involved.

At least, that’s what his heart was telling him.

CAMY TANG

writes romance with a kick of wasabi. Originally from Hawaii, she worked as a biologist for nine years, but now she writes full-time. She is a staff worker for her San Jose church youth group and leads a worship team for Sunday service. She also runs the Story Sensei fiction critique service, which specializes in book doctoring. On her blog, she gives away Christian novels every Monday and Thursday, and she ponders frivolous things like dumb dogs (namely, hers), coffee-geek husbands (no resemblance to her own…), the writing journey, Asiana and anything else that comes to mind. Visit her Web site at www.camytang.com.

Deadly Intent
Camy Tang

The Lord your God is with you,

He is mighty to save.

—Zephaniah 3:17

To Mom and Dad—my “publicist” and

“local bookseller.”

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

The man who walked into Naomi’s father’s day spa was striking enough to start a female riot.

Dark eyes swept the room, which happened to be filled with the Sonoma spa’s staff at that moment. She felt his gaze glance over her like a tingling breeze. Naomi recognized him instantly. Dr. Devon Knightley.

For a wild moment, she thought, He’s come to see me. And her heart twirled in a riotous dance.

But only for a moment. Sure, they’d talked amiably—actually, more than amiably—at the last Zoe International fund-raising dinner, but after an entire evening sitting next to her, he hadn’t asked for her phone number, hadn’t asked for any contact information at all. Wasn’t that a clear sign he wasn’t interested?

She quashed the memory and stepped forward in her official capacity as the spa owner’s daughter and acting manager. “Dr. Knightley. Welcome.”

He clasped her hand with one tanned so brown that it seemed to bring the heat of the July sun into the airy, air-conditioned entranceway. “Miss Naomi Grant.” His voice had more than a shot of surprise, as did his looks as he took in her pale blue linen top and capris, the same uniform as the gaggle of spa staff members gathered behind her. “It’s been a few months since I’ve seen you.”

He still held her hand. She loved the feel of his palm—cool and warm at the same time, strong the way a surgeon’s should be.

No, she had to stop this. Devon and his family were hard-core atheists, and nothing good would come out of giving in to her attraction. “What brings you here?”

“I need to speak to Jessica Ortiz.”

An involuntary spasm seized her throat. Of course. Glamorous client Jessica Ortiz or plain massage therapist Naomi Grant—no comparison, really.

But something in his tone didn’t quite have the velvety sheen of a lover. He sounded almost…dangerous. And danger didn’t belong in the spa. Their first priority was to protect the privacy of the guests.

“Er…Ms. Ortiz?” Naomi glanced at Sarah, one of the receptionists, whose brow wrinkled as she studied her computer monitor behind the receptionists’ desk. Naomi knew she was stalling—she didn’t need to look because she’d checked Ms. Ortiz into the elite Tamarind Lounge almost two hours before.

Naomi’s aunt Becca also stood at the receptionists’ desk, stepping aside from her spa hostess duties to allow Naomi to handle Dr. Knightley, but Aunt Becca’s eyes had a sharp look that conveyed her message clearly to Naomi: the clients’ privacy and wishes come first.

Naomi cleared her throat. “Are you her physician?”

Dr. Knightley frowned down at her, but she kept her air of calm friendliness. He grimaced and looked away. “Er…no.”

Naomi blinked. He could have lied, but he hadn’t. “If you’ll wait here, I can see if Ms. Ortiz is available to come out here to see you.” If Jessica declined to come out, Naomi didn’t want to think what Devon’s reaction would be.

His eyes grew stormier. “Couldn’t you just let me walk in back to see her?”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t allow nonfamily members into the back rooms. And men are not allowed in the women’s lounges.” Especially the secluded Tamarind Lounge, reserved only for Tamarind members who paid the exorbitant membership fee.

“Naomi, surely you can make an exception for me?” He suddenly flashed a smile more blinding than her receptionist’s new engagement ring.

His switching tactics—from threatening to charming—annoyed her more than his argumentative attitude. She crossed her arms. “I’m afraid not.” She had to glance away to harden herself against the power of that smile.

“You don’t understand. It’s important that I see her, and it won’t take long.” He leaned closer, using his height to intimidate.

He had picked the wrong woman to irritate. Maybe her frustrated attraction made her exceptionally determined to thwart him. Her jaw clenched and she couldn’t help narrowing her eyes. “Joy Luck Life Spa has many high-profile clients. If we let anyone into our elite lounges, we’d lose our sterling reputation for privacy and discretion.”

“You don’t understand how important this is—”

“Dr. Knightley, so nice to see you again.” Aunt Becca stepped forward and inserted herself between the good doctor and Naomi’s line of vision. She held out a thin hand, which Devon automatically took. “Why don’t I set you up in the Chervil Lounge while Naomi looks for Ms. Ortiz?”

Aunt Becca whirled around faster than a tornado. Her eyes promised trouble if Naomi didn’t comply. “Naomi.”

Aunt Becca’s taking charge of the conversation seemed to drive home the point that although Dad had left Naomi in charge of the spa while he recovered from his stroke, she still had a long way to go toward learning good customer relations. Part of her wanted to be belligerent toward Devon just to prove she was in the right, but the other part of her wilted at her failure as a good manager.

She walked into the back rooms and paused outside the door to the Tamarind Lounge, consciously relaxing her face. Deep breath in. Gently open the door.

Softly pitched conversation drifted into silence. Two pairs of eyes flickered over her from the crimson silk chaise lounges in the far corner of the luxuriant room, but neither of them belonged to Jessica Ortiz. Vanilla spice wafted around her as she headed toward the two women, trying to glide calmly, as the daughter of the spa owner should.

“Good morning, ladies. I apologize for the intrusion.”

“Is it already time for my facial?” The elderly woman gathered her Egyptian cotton robe around her and prepared to stand.

“No, not yet, Ms. Cormorand. I’ve come to ask if either of you have seen Ms. Ortiz.”

An inscrutable look passed between them. What had Jessica done to offend these clients in only the couple of hours she’d been at the spa? Jessica seemed to be causing the spa more and more trouble recently.

The other woman finally answered, “No, she left about a half hour ago for her massage. I thought she was with you.”

Naomi cleared her throat to hide her start. Jessica’s appointment was at eleven, in fifteen minutes, not now.

“Yes, doesn’t she always ask for you when she comes?” Ms. Cormorand blinked faded blue eyes at her.

Naomi shoved aside a brief frisson of unease. Jessica should be easy to find. “Which massage therapist called for her?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Ms. Cormorand waved a pudgy hand beringed with rubies and diamonds. “Someone in a blue uniform.”

Only one of almost a hundred staff workers at the spa.

“Thank you, ladies. Ms. Cormorand, Haley will call you for your facial in fifteen minutes.” Naomi inclined her head and left the room, trying to let the sounds of running water from the fountain in the corner calm her growing sense of unease.

Where could Jessica have gone? And an even juicier question: Why did Devon Knightley need to speak to her?

She peeked into the larger Rosemary lounge, which was for the use of spa clients who were not Tamarind members. Several women chatted in small groups, but no Jessica Ortiz. Naomi hadn’t really expected Jessica to forgo the more comfortable elite lounge, but the only other option was checking each of the treatment rooms individually.

She headed into the back area where the therapy rooms were located, navigating the hallway scattered with teak and bamboo furniture, each sporting East Asian cushions and throws, artfully arranged by Aunt Becca. Had Jessica switched to a different massage therapist? And had someone forgotten to tell Naomi in the excitement of Sarah’s new engagement?

As she moved down the hallway, she started noticing a strange, harsh scent suffusing the mingled smells of sandalwood and vanilla. Not quite as harsh as chemicals, but not a familiar aromatherapy fragrance, a slightly discordant counterpoint to the spa’s relaxing perfume.

She knew that smell, but couldn’t place it. And it didn’t conjure up pleasant associations. She started to hurry.

She first looked into the women’s restroom, her steps echoing against the Italian tile. No sound of running water, but she peeked into the shower area. A few women were in the rooms with the claw-foot bathtubs, and a couple more in the whirlpool room, but no Jessica. No one using the toilets.

The mirrored makeup area had a handful of women, but again no Jessica. Naomi smiled at the clients to hide her disappointment and growing anxiety as she entered. She noticed some towels on the floor, a vase of orchids a little askew, and some lotions out of place on the marble counter running the length of the room, so she tidied up as if she had intended to do so, although the staff assigned to restroom duty typically kept things spic and span.

She peeked into the sauna. A rather loud ring of laughing women, but no Jessica.

Back out in the central fountain area, the harsh smell seemed stronger, but she couldn’t pinpoint where it came from. Had a sewage pipe burst? No, it wasn’t that sort of smell. It didn’t smell rotten, just…had an edge to it.

She entered the locker area, although the Joy Luck Life Spa “lockers” were all carved teakwood cabinets, individually locked with keys. The smell jumped tenfold. Naomi scoured the room. Maybe it came from a client’s locker? No. Maybe the dirty laundry hamper?

Bingo.

She flipped open the basketweave lid.

And screamed.

TWO

The scream pierced Devon’s eardrums. Beside him, Becca Itoh started. The heavy wooden double doors she’d just opened, leading to the men’s lounge, clunked closed again as she turned and headed back down the corridor they’d walked.

“Where—?” He kept up with her, but not easily—for a woman in her fifties, she could book it.

“The women’s lounge area.” She pointed ahead as she hustled closer. “Those mahogany double doors at the end.”

Devon sprinted ahead and yanked open the doors. “Stay behind me.”

Becca ignored him, thrusting ahead and shouting, “Naomi!” as they entered a large circular entry area with more corridors leading from it. “Naomi!”

A door to their right burst open and Naomi Grant spilled into the entry room. “Aunt Becca!” Her face was the same shade as the cream-colored walls. “There’s blood in the women’s locker room.”

“Blood?” Becca reached for her as Devon pushed past her into the room she’d just exited.

Despite the urgency, he couldn’t help but be awed by the fountain in the center of a vast chamber with a veined-tile floor. Scrollwork signs on the walls pointed to “sauna” and “whirlpool” and “locker room.” Luckily, no women appeared. He veered right.

He almost wasn’t sure he’d actually arrived in the right place, but the carpeted room lined with teakwood locking cabinets was in line with the luxurious entry hall of what he realized was the women’s bathroom.

The metallic smell of blood reached him. He followed his nose to the basket hamper in the corner, filled with bloody towels. It reminded him of the discarded gauzes from his orthopedic surgeries, bright red and a lot more than the average person saw.

This was not good.

He returned to the two women. Naomi’s hands were visibly shaking, although her voice remained low and calm. “And I couldn’t find Ms. Ortiz.”

Jessica’s name still caused the reflexive crunching of his jaw. But he’d never wanted any harm to come to her—she wasn’t a bad person, they had just clashed too much on personal matters. And now she was missing, and there was an immense amount of blood in the bathroom. Devon’s heart beat in a light staccato against his throat. She had to be okay.

“Where else have you looked?” He scanned the other corridors leading from the fountain entryway. He’d need guidance or he’d get lost in this labyrinth.

“I haven’t checked the therapy rooms yet.” Naomi nodded toward the larger central corridor, which ended at another set of double doors.

He headed toward them when Becca reached out to grab his arm in a bony but strong grip. “You can’t just barge into private sessions.”

“Why not?” He turned to face the two women. “There’s blood in your bathroom and Jessica Ortiz is missing.”

Naomi’s light brown eyes skewered him. “Do you really think it’s wise to cause a panic?”

“And I suppose you have another option?”

“Sessions don’t last more than an hour or ninety minutes. We’ll wait for those to finish—if Jessica’s just in one of those, there’s nothing to worry about. In the meantime, we’ll check all the empty session rooms,” Naomi said.

Becca turned to leave and said over her shoulder, “I’ll check on the schedule at the receptionists’ desk to find out which rooms have clients and when the sessions end. I’ll call you on your cell.”

Naomi turned down a corridor in the opposite direction, this one lined with bamboo tables draped with shimmery, lavender-colored fabric so light that it swayed as they moved past.

It reminded Devon of the papery silks he’d seen in Thailand, giving the spa a soothing and very Asian atmosphere. His heartbeat slowed. Jessica was probably fine and had accidentally taken someone else’s session in her artless, friendly way. She’d emerge from a facial or a manicure in a few minutes and wonder what all the fuss was about.

A group of three therapists turned a corner. They spied Naomi and immediately stopped chatting among themselves, although not fearfully—more out of respect that the boss was suddenly in front of them.

“Girls, have you seen Ms. Ortiz?” Naomi’s smile seemed perfectly natural and warm—inviting a rapport with her staff, yet not too cozy. If Devon hadn’t noticed her fingers plucking at the linen fabric of her pants, he wouldn’t have known how anxious she was.

Two of them shook their heads, but the tall blond woman to his left nodded and pointed directly across the corridor. “I saw her talking to Ms. Fischer about an hour ago before Ms. Fischer went in for her manicure.”

Devon’s heartbeat picked up. “An hour ago?”

The blonde eyed him with a hard look, but a quick glance at Naomi seemed to allay her suspicions. He had the impression that if her boss hadn’t been by his side, he’d have been thrown out, even if it took all three women to do it.

Naomi was shaking her head. “Ms. Cormorand saw her leave the Tamarind Lounge only thirty minutes ago.”

His hopes popped and fizzled.

The blonde jerked her head at the nearby door. “Ms. Fischer is almost done in room thirty-five if you want to talk to her anyway.”

“That’s a good idea. Thanks, Betsy.”

Betsy nodded, and the silent trio headed down the corridor and around the corner.

The number thirty-five had been engraved into a brass plate that also had a small Victorian-style lantern attached, which was lit. Naomi glanced at the other doors around it. “Let’s check these while we’re waiting. She should be done soon.”

He pushed on a half-open door to reveal a small but neat room decorated with more silks on the walls and a few low tables covered with more Thai fabric.

Aside from the facial chair and a small cabinet in the corner, the room was empty, so he withdrew.

He peeked into another room, feeling suddenly ten years old again, visiting his Aunt Gertrude in her Victorian house filled with valuables and history. The statues, the furniture, the ambience—everything screamed both decadence and privilege, similar to the Hollywood spas he’d heard of. Naomi dressed like one of the staff, but this must be an enormous business to run.

They’d finished checking all the empty rooms in the corridor when a door clicked open. Immediately, Naomi scurried to number thirty-five, where a tall woman in her late forties had just sashayed out, absently waving her pink-tipped fingers. At the sight of Devon, she carefully pinched closed the neck of her loosely tied robe, and a pulse blipped at her throat.

“Ms. Fischer, I apologize for bothering you.” Naomi drew the woman’s eyes from burning holes in Devon’s head. “Were you speaking with Ms. Ortiz before your manicure? We’re looking for her.”

Ms. Fischer stiffened her shoulders and sniffed. “She was heading toward the Tamarind Lounge.” Her heavy-lidded eyes drifted away from Naomi’s face.

“Did she mention any of her appointments today?”

“Her massage.”

“Did she mention when or with whom?”

Ms. Fischer’s gaze shifted back to Naomi. “What do you mean? With you, naturally.” She sniffed again.

“Thank you, Ms. Fischer. Enjoy the rest of your day at Joy Luck Life.” With a professional smile, Naomi turned and headed back the way they’d come. Devon hustled to escape Ms. Fischer’s disapproving glare.

Naomi turned down another corridor. “These are the massage rooms. They tend to be the busiest.”

As soon as he entered the hallway he smelled it. Blood. Metallic and harsh. His chest tightened, and he grabbed Naomi’s wrist to keep her from moving forward.

She fought at first, but then she smelled it, too. Her dry lips parted and she scanned the rows of doors, some open, some closed.

“Stay close.” He reached out to ease open the first door, which was halfway closed. Peering in, he saw only a dark, empty massage room with the padded table draped in white linen and ready for the next client.

He didn’t realize he still held her wrist until she gently disengaged it. His palm chilled as if missing her warm skin.

The next open door was on her side of the corridor. She reached out to push it more fully open, but he stopped her. “No, let me do it.”

Her face seemed calm at first, but he noticed a wildness around the edges of her eyes as she peered into the darkness beyond the cracked door. “That’s my massage room.” Her voice was high and strangled.

Her massage room door was barely open, unlike the other doors along the corridor, which were either closed or at least halfway open to show the empty status of the room. He eased it open.

The soft light from the corridor fell on the edge of a dark pool.

His nerves fired like a popping spark plug. He grabbed Naomi’s arm and shoved her against the wall. She didn’t protest—she’d seen the blood.

Chattering voices suddenly tinkled from the other end of the corridor as a client in a bathrobe was escorted by a staff in uniform.

“Stop.” Naomi’s voice shot toward them. Her raised hand trembled. “Lavinia, please escort Ms. Everingham to the Tamarind Lounge.”

Lavinia halted, mouth open, but in the next second, she turned to her client with an overwide smile. “I don’t think you’ve ever been in the Tamarind Lounge, have you, Ms. Everingham? Follow me. It’s normally reserved for Tamarind members only, so you’re in for a treat today.” She continued to chatter as they turned the corner out of sight.

Now that was a well-trained staff. The Grants impressed him more and more.

A low moan issued from the room.

His heart pulsed hard. He pushed open the door.

Blood was everywhere. He’d seen lots of it in his surgeries, but the sight now made his throat tighten. Behind him, Naomi gagged.

A woman lay on the floor next to the massage table, and Devon’s breath stopped a moment at the sight of the platinum-blond corkscrew curls. Jessica.

He dropped to his knees to turn her over.

She gasped a spray of blood. What looked like a blunt-force trauma injury bled from her temple.

“Towels?” he asked.

Naomi darted toward the cabinet in the corner while he looked for anything lying near him. He grabbed the sheet covering the massage table and applied pressure to her wound. Warm liquid seeped through the fabric of his pants, pooling around his kneecaps. The room had a sickening, metallic, vanilla smell.

Naomi kneeled next to him, her arms full of towels. “It’s all right, Ms. Ortiz, you’ll be fine.”

He fumbled in his pants pocket and withdrew his cell phone, but she grabbed it from him. “Keep helping her. I’ll dial 911.”

“Put it on speakerphone so I can talk to the dispatcher. I’ll need to talk to the trauma team.”

Under the blood staining her face, Jessica’s skin was paler than her hair. Half-lidded dark eyes found his.

“Andrea,” she whispered.

And closed her eyes.

THREE

Naomi had never seen someone die before.

Even when her mother had died, she and her sisters had been forced to stay home with Aunt Becca while her father went to the hospital alone. Mom had been killed instantly by the drunk driver, and Dad hadn’t wanted them to see her.

Aunt Becca rubbed Naomi’s arms and patted her cheeks now, as she had done that night. “It’s all right, Naomi.”

“No, it’s not all right.” Naomi had to speak around her chattering teeth. She wore two of the spa bathrobes and still felt as if she’d taken an arctic swim. “Poor Jessica. I’ve been massaging her for years. And now she’s gone.” Her voice cracked.

Jessica had always been friendly, if a little ditzy. Always said something to make her laugh. Had such a sweet, airy smile when explaining why she had to stay in the room longer than she was scheduled for. Jessica had been self-centered, but pleasant about it so that Naomi almost didn’t mind that her client was trying to get away with something.

“How are we going to tell Dad? This is going to make him determined to come to the spa, despite his condition.”

Becca gave her a little shake. “Even though your father’s a stubborn old cuss, your sister Monica is even worse than he is, under all her sweet demeanor. She won’t let him do anything that would hurt himself.” A twinkle appeared in her eye. “Besides, he’s not cleared to drive yet, and I’m pretty sure Monica hid his car keys.”

Speaking of sisters…“Where’s Rachel?”

“She’s still in her lab. She’s in the middle of an experiment—you know how she gets—and she wouldn’t be much use here, so I told her to stay.”

“The detective isn’t going to want to speak to her?”

“Why should he? Even though she’s one of the owner’s daughters, she didn’t see anything because she was in the laboratory in back all morning.”

And Rachel’s rather spacey way of stating the bare, honest truth might get them in trouble somehow.

Aunt Becca pinched her elbow. “Calm down.”

She jerked her arm away. “I am calm.”

“You’re as calm as a wet cat. I thought you’d bite the detective’s head off earlier when he asked if the massage room was yours or not. You didn’t need to tell him he could expect to find your prints all over the room in quite the tone you used.”

Well, that might have been true. “He just seemed so…stern.”

“But he had kind eyes.” Becca smiled a bit dreamily at the thought of the detective.

Naomi didn’t see Detective Carter in such a rosy light. Earlier, he’d only asked her about the massage room, but she’d been blubbering in shock, so Aunt Becca had asked him to come back later. In fact, Devon had kindly stepped in and offered to be interviewed first. Detective Carter would be interviewing her next, she was sure.

Naomi’s attention was drawn to Dr. Knightley, standing with the detective near the receptionists’ desk. Poor man seemed really upset—and why not? He’d come to see Jessica.

And she’d been found dying.

A shadow settled over her. Why had he needed to see Jessica so insistently? She wished she were close enough to overhear his interview with the detective.

Maybe she could arrange to get close enough.

She started making her way toward the receptionists’ desk. Devon’s mouth stretched tight and his words seemed clipped.

A bony hand clawed at her arm. “What are you doing?” Aunt Becca hissed.

She pulled away. “I want to know why Devon Knightley wanted to see Jessica.”

“Leave them alone.” Her aunt’s hand clamped around her elbow this time.

Naomi turned to glare at her. “One of our clients was killed in my massage room. I intend to find out exactly why I found her only minutes after he appeared asking for her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Devon Knightley didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“How in the world would you know that?”

“I know him and I know his family. I’ve worked with his mother on many different charity events. Devon Knightley would never do anything so violent.”

“People do unexpected things all the time in the heat of a moment.”

“I know Devon Knightley. Besides, I’m a very good judge of character.”

Naomi pressed her mouth closed, because she couldn’t really argue when Aunt Becca’s track record on who and who not to hire for the spa had been one hundred percent so far. What if she was right about Devon?

Naomi shook her head. “I can’t just stand here waiting.”

“You’re going to get in trouble.”

“I’m the acting manager of the spa. I can go wherever I please, which includes near the receptionists’ desk.”

Aunt Becca sighed and released her elbow. “You were never this stubborn when you were just head massage therapist.”

“I didn’t have to be this stubborn before Dad had a stroke and put me in charge.”

With that parting shot, Naomi tried to nonchalantly make her way toward the receptionists’ desk. It was a massive marble affair, but hopefully she could stand at one end and still overhear the conversation at the other end.

Detective Carter glanced her way as she approached, but she nodded professionally and then bent her head to fiddle with the appointments computer at the far end of the desk. He turned back to Dr. Knightley without hesitation, so he must not have been upset at her being nearby.

Good.

Except she couldn’t hear a thing.

She stared at the computer screen intently, as if that would make her ears work better. All she could make out were a few random words: “Jessica,” “talk,” “known.” Devon’s voice was louder than the detective’s, so she mostly heard his answers to questions.

How could she get closer without attracting notice?

“I didn’t like her, but I didn’t kill her!”

Devon’s exclamation made her jump. Her hand knocked the computer mouse askew.

Which gave her an idea…

She glanced at Devon and Detective Carter, but neither seemed to notice. Devon’s face had turned a motley shade of red, while the detective coolly surveyed his notebook.

She casually knocked her hand into a holder of pens and sent them scattering across the desk. Immediately she bent to pick up the one pen that fell onto the floor.

She slowly slid her hand with the pen toward her left, closer to the two men. If anyone saw her slithering along on the floor, she could show the pen as her excuse, and the pens strewn across the desk would explain the rest.

She inched her body closer to them and strained her ears. The voices sounded even more muffled because of the desk. Why hadn’t she thought of that? If she got closer…

If she got caught…

Her heart pounded, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment. This wasn’t a smart move, but she didn’t care. She had to find out why Devon had so conveniently showed up, asking for a woman who was already bleeding to death in her massage room.

She crawled as quietly as she could toward the other end of the desk. Devon and Detective Carter’s voices grew louder, but not just from her proximity. It sounded like tempers were rising and they couldn’t keep their conversation low-pitched.

“I told you, Detective, I haven’t seen her in—”

“Then how did you know she’d be here this weekend?”

A minuscule pause. “I spoke to her personal assistant and found out.”

“And why did you speak to her assistant instead of Ms. Ortiz directly?”

“Jessica’s impossible to talk to on the phone, and I didn’t have half an hour to spare to try to keep her focused enough to answer my questions.”

That sounded like Jessica. She loved rambling during her sessions, telling Naomi things she probably shouldn’t know. But Jessica did that same rambling when Naomi had to settle her spa account, too, which had annoyed her.

Naomi bit the inside of her lip. It seemed wrong to remember being annoyed at her. Jessica hadn’t been a bad person. Naomi had even liked her, in a way.

“Detective, you have to understand this is just a coincidence.”

“And you have to understand, Dr. Knightley, that in my business, coincidences don’t happen very often.” The detective’s voice had deepened, grown more gravelly.

“I had nothing to do with her death.”

“Why did you need to speak to her now?”

“My sister’s wedding is in six weeks.”

“Why didn’t you try to contact Ms. Ortiz before this?”

“I did, but she wouldn’t take my calls.”

“And so you decided to force a confrontation in a public place.”

“I hoped she would be reasonable in public.”

“Any particular reason you picked this place?”

“I thought she’d be in a better mood here. She’s always happy to come here.”

“But she’s not happy, Dr. Knightley. She’s dead. Your ex-wife is dead.”

“What do you mean, you knew?” Naomi stared at her aunt as they stood on the other side of the foyer.

“Of course, I knew. I wouldn’t be a very good hostess if I didn’t know things about my clients’ personal lives.”

“Why would you need to know that?”

Aunt Becca gave her a hard stare. “Think about it. I might stick two mortal enemies in sessions at the same time so they’d meet in the common lounge, or in session rooms next to each other. The spa prides itself on giving high-profile clients a relaxing experience. Meeting someone you don’t like is not a relaxing experience.”

“But knowing things like that…Isn’t that gossip?” She had a hard time believing her religious aunt would stoop to something like that.

“It’s not gossip. I get my information from the clients themselves or the people involved.”

As acting manager, maybe Naomi ought to know these things as well. “Am I the only one who didn’t know he’s her ex-husband?”

“No, I doubt it’s common knowledge. I found out from Devon’s mother at a charity event we attended together last year.”

“How long have they been divorced?”

“At least two years. Before Jessica started coming to our spa.”

“Ahem.”

Detective Carter stood in front of her. Her heart slammed into gear like a revving truck engine.

“Miss Grant, could I speak to you alone?”

Naomi glanced at Aunt Becca, but her darling aunt, the woman who had protected and raised her since Mom died, threw her to the wolves. “Why certainly, Detective. I’ll just be over there.” Aunt Becca pointed to the receptionists’ desk several yards away. And then she was gone.

Could the detective smell fear? His “kind eyes” penetrated her sharply. Did he know she’d overhead part of his conversation with Dr. Knightley? His penetrating gaze made her struggle not to look away guiltily.

“Your father is the owner of this spa, but where is he?”

“At home, recovering from a small stroke he suffered a few months ago.”

“By himself?”

“My younger sister, Monica, is a registered nurse, and she left her hospital in San José to come home to nurse him.” And wasn’t too happy about it, either, but Naomi had to give Monica credit for making the sacrifice.

“Your mother is…?”

“She passed away when I was in junior high school.”

“I’m truly sorry.”

His sympathy made her blink harder. Mom’s death still felt like pinpricks in her heart, and Jessica’s death revived the old ache. She missed her mother’s murmuring endearments to her in Japanese, softly so Dad wouldn’t hear and complain he couldn’t understand.

“Do you have any other siblings?”

“My older sister, Rachel, is a dermatologist who does research in a laboratory facility built into the back of the spa. She develops the skin treatments we use. She was in her lab all morning and didn’t know about any of this, so we didn’t ask her to come out here. Did you need to see her?”

“Probably not.” He consulted his notes. “So Ms. Ortiz was a regular client of yours?”

“Yes, she came to the spa every few months. Her last visit was about four months ago.”

“Your staff mentioned that she always requested you for her massage.”

The way he said it was almost as if he’d caught her in a deliberate omission. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“You were with Dr. Knightley when you found Ms. Ortiz?”

“Yes.” Images of poor Jessica, weak and dying, made her press her lips together.

“Describe what happened for me.”

She told him in a low voice. She didn’t really want to go over it again.

“You mentioned that the massage room is yours. Do all the objects inside the room belong to the spa, or are some of them your personal items?”

“Well, yes. I have my own aromatherapy oils, some knickknacks—”

“A bear statue?”

The way he said it made her start to shiver again. “Yes, a teddy bear statue. It was a birthday present from Aunt Becca.”

“It’s larger and heavier than most of the other statues in the room.”

“It was a special commission from the artist who did the small stone statues in all the rooms—he usually does larger pieces. The teddy bear one was very expensive.”

The detective stared at his notebook, but she got the impression he wasn’t really reading it. His eyes lifted to hers. “The statue has a lot of fingerprints on it, Miss Grant.”

“I…I touch it all the time.” Her breath came in gasps. “It has that big round tummy. I rub it all the time. Because it’s cute.”

Detective Carter looked like the word cute wasn’t even in his vocabulary.

Her heart grew heavy. “Are you saying it was…the murder weapon? My teddy bear statue?”

Her statue. Her room. Her client.

Naomi pressed her hand to her mouth, only then aware of how badly she was shaking. She pressed the other hand to her stomach, to stop the roiling there.

“Several of your staff members mentioned that you had an argument with Ms. Ortiz this morning?” The detective’s mild tone had an edge to it.

“Not an argument,” she said hastily. “She…The last time she was here, her credit card had been declined. She gave us a second one, and that was fine. But because of that, this time I asked her to run her card through before her treatment.” She’d thought she was being a good manager-in-training and that Dad would be proud of her for her initiative. “Jessica wasn’t upset, really, more like…confused. She has a lighthearted way of saying things that makes you think it’s not a big deal.”

She’d just referred to Jessica in the present tense. The thought made her nose stuff up and a tremor run across her bottom lip. “She gave us her card and it went through fine. Everything was resolved.” Her voice broke on the last word.

The detective’s neutral expression gave nothing away, but Naomi thought she sensed a coolness in his manner. Why didn’t he believe her?

“Did you have any other problems with Ms. Ortiz?”

“No, not at all.” True, Jessica had always been a bit demanding and self-centered, but always so sweet-natured about it, even when Naomi told her no.

The detective paused a long moment. Could he read her not-quite-kind thoughts about Jessica? Naomi folded her hands in front of her to prevent herself from fidgeting. She swallowed. When would this be over?

“Can you think of any reason why someone would want to hurt Ms. Ortiz?”

She shook her head. “Jessica is—was so nice.” She took a deep breath. Calm down. “She was gorgeous, and that made some clients jealous of her.” She remembered Ms. Cormorand and Ms. Fischer. “And she talked a lot about herself, so that annoyed a few clients. But nothing that would make someone want to kill her.”

Detective Carter nodded as he took notes in his notebook. “I’ll speak to Ms. Itoh now. I might have more questions for you later. You also might not want to leave Sonoma anytime soon.”

This wasn’t happening to her. This couldn’t be happening. Jessica dead and herself a suspect! She couldn’t breathe. She was going to faint. No, she shouldn’t faint—she wouldn’t.

Naomi beckoned to Aunt Becca, who walked over. The detective hadn’t mentioned wanting to speak to her aunt alone, but Naomi backed up a few steps, enough to give them the semblance of privacy.

The detective turned to Aunt Becca. “Ms. Itoh—”

“Call me Becca, Detective,” she said, smiling.

He smiled back—faintly, responding to her charm, but not unreservedly. He consulted his notes. “You are a hostess for the spa?”

“Yes. We have two receptionists for here in the lobby area—” she nodded toward Sarah and Iona, who stood wide-eyed and stiff against the far wall “—but for the entire back area of the spa, I am general hostess to see to the clients’ needs.”

“And you’re also related to the Grants?”

“I’m their mother’s sister. I came to live with them after she died many years ago. It’s been so wonderful to raise my nieces. But I think sometimes Augustus is a little overwhelmed by having four women in the house.”

Aunt Becca must have been more nervous than she let on, because she was certainly running off at the mouth. The detective’s soft gray eyes seemed to smile at Aunt Becca’s rambling, but they were probing at the same time.

“Miss Grant?” a nervous voice whispered.

Naomi turned. Sarah and Iona stood at her shoulder, hunched over as if that would make the detective notice them less. “Yes?” she whispered back.

Iona cast a glance at Detective Carter. “Sarah and I were talking…We caught a glimpse of Ms. Ortiz when…well, when you first found her and before the police came. And we were both just noticing—”

“It’s so strange,” Sarah said, nodding. “We figured you wouldn’t mind if we mentioned it.”

“Mentioned what?” Naomi asked.

“Well, when Ms. Ortiz came in this morning, we both noticed her necklace.” Iona’s voice, already low-pitched, dropped even lower. “And when we saw her—you know, in the massage room—she wasn’t wearing it.”

“What necklace?” Detective Carter asked.

Iona started and Sarah turned pale as the detective’s eyes turned on them. Iona licked her lips. “Well…it might not be anything…”

Sarah shrugged. “It might just be in her locker, because who wears jewelry when they get a massage?”

“But we noticed she didn’t have on her Tiffany diamond necklace.”

“Did Ms. Ortiz have a locker?”

“Yes.” Aunt Becca dipped a hand into her silk pants pocket. “I have the master key. Sarah, will you find out Ms. Ortiz’s locker number on the computer, please?”

Sarah was off in a flash, her slender heels clicking smartly on the lobby’s tile floor as she headed to the receptionists’ desk. She hustled back with a breathless, “Number twenty-one.”

Naomi led the way back toward the women’s locker room, stepping under the yellow police tape, and Aunt Becca gave the key to Detective Carter. He opened cabinet twenty-one, and all three of them peeked inside.

There was a cream suit that looked expensive, hanging from the clothes bar. Salvatore Ferragamo shoes casually tossed on the floor. A minuscule Chanel clutch purse.

The detective rummaged in the purse but shook his head. No necklace. “We need to search the other lockers.” He raised eyes that were no longer soft gray, but steely.

Naomi glanced at Aunt Becca.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but we’ll need to insist on a warrant.” Aunt Becca’s voice was low but firm.

His mouth tightened. “You do realize we’re trying to solve a murder.” While his tone remained light and slightly gravelly, there was a frustrated edge to his words.

Aunt Becca licked her lips. “I do realize that, Detective, but you also have to realize that clients come to the Joy Luck Life Spa specifically for privacy and anonymity. We had a starlet in room thirty, a movie producer in room forty-five, and the CEO of a Fortune 500 company in room twelve.”

The detective’s cheek twitched, but otherwise he didn’t react to the impressive list.

“If we allowed you to search the lockers without a warrant, we’d lose our reputation and our clients. I’m afraid I must stand firm on this, sir.” Aunt Becca’s eyes narrowed at the same moment Detective Carter’s did, and they glared at each other with similar bulldog expressions. It was almost comical. Except for the fact he was a policeman.

Naomi’s stomach lurched. How could Aunt Becca have the backbone to stand up to him?

Detective Carter’s expression faded slowly. He straightened. “I’ll be back with that warrant, Ms. Itoh.” His low voice made it sound like a threat.

Aunt Becca nodded and gave a faint smile. “You do that.”

Naomi’s stomach didn’t settle, even when the detective followed them out of the locker room. They had to do this to protect the spa, but were they allowing the murderer to go free?

FOUR

Devon had already checked into his hotel in downtown Sonoma when he noticed that his cell phone was missing.

That alarmed him more than usual, simply because it had been such a bad day.

Where had he last used it? He didn’t remember using it any time today. He hadn’t called his sister or his admin, who had the day off since he wasn’t taking appointments today.

He didn’t remember dialing anyone for any reason. He’d avoided calling his sister to tell her what happened. Rayna disliked Jessica with a passion, but the news would still shock her. Plus, Jessica’s death meant it would be next to impossible to recover their mother’s Tiffany necklace now. It was probably lost somewhere in Jessica’s apartment, and he’d certainly never be able to show up and look for it.

He reined in his mercenary thoughts. Jessica was dead, and he could only think about his mother’s necklace? Maybe the years since their divorce had made him harder than he thought.

But today, seeing Naomi Grant again, something inside him had shifted…

For the past three years at the annual Zoe International dinner, he’d enjoyed talking with Naomi. He’d actually spent too much time talking with her. But the first time he’d met her, he was going through the divorce, and the other two times, he’d been trying to rebuild his business and finances. He hadn’t acted on his attraction because he’d been too distracted by other things. Plus, Naomi’s personality reminded him too much of Jessica’s—both bouncy and cheerful, although he sensed that Naomi had a more serious, responsible core.

Or maybe he just didn’t want Naomi to be too much like Jessica.

Logically, he knew that Naomi Grant was not Jessica Ortiz. Jessica’s family did have something in common with Naomi’s—they were both local but successful business owners. The Ortizes owned an exclusive clothing boutique with only one physical store in San Francisco, adding to the clothing’s appeal, allure and prices. Jessica had worked for her family, just as Naomi did—she’d been public relations manager for the store until she married him.

And then it had all changed.

She had spent all his money. Started running up huge bills and charging on credit.

And it was usually jewelry. Always jewelry.

And then came the divorce, when she’d taken him for everything that wasn’t nailed down.

Two years later, and he was finally starting to rebuild his finances. Luckily, his reputation hadn’t suffered; he’d continued to have a steady stream of patients in addition to his work with the Oakland Raiders.

He’d vowed he wouldn’t be betrayed by a woman again.

It wasn’t just the money—he’d truly loved Jessica for several years. But her personality had changed, and she’d hurt him in ways he hadn’t even admitted to his therapist.

The ugly divorce had made him more bitter toward her than he realized. Yesterday, when he’d found out from her personal secretary that she had an appointment at the Joy Luck Life Spa in Sonoma, he’d felt a sour anger that she could blithely go on with her life after ruining his.

No. He had to stop thinking about the divorce and focus on his cell phone. Naturally Jessica would be in his thoughts after what happened to her today, and he’d done all he could to help her….

Wait a minute. He had used his phone. Or specifically, Naomi Grant had used it to call the police. The dispatcher had put him through to the paramedics on their way so he could brief them before they arrived. And all the while, he’d been trying to stop the bleeding…but they’d been too late. She’d lost too much blood.

Jessica was gone before the paramedics arrived only minutes later.

Witness to it all, Naomi was dangerously pale, and he’d forced her out of the room.

He’d never retrieved his phone. There hadn’t been time. He’d spoken more to the paramedics as they tried to save Jessica. When they finally called the time of death, he’d left the room, but Naomi was gone.

He grabbed the hotel phone and called his cell. No answer. He called the spa, but again, no answer. Well, it was nine o’clock—the spa was probably empty except for the security guards left on the premises to monitor Dr. Rachel Grant’s research labs built into the backside of the spa building. He remembered Becca Itoh telling him about them a few years ago when he first met the Grants.

Wait, Becca would be able to help him. She liked him—or at least, she did before it seemed as if he were mixed up in his ex-wife’s murder.

He had her business card somewhere…No, he had her private number in his cell phone. But Martha would have that number, too. He called his admin.

“Have you forgotten you gave me the day off?” No hello. Typical Martha.

“Hello to you, too. Would you please get me the private number for Becca Itoh. I-t-o-h.”

“You’re assuming I have my computer with me.”

“You always have your computer with you. Don’t think I don’t know about the eBay stuff you do.”

She hmphed, but he also heard the clicking of computer keys. She rattled off the number and he copied it onto a piece of paper.

“Are you going to tell me why you needed me to look it up instead of dialing it yourself on your cell phone?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“You lost it, didn’t you?”

“There were extenuating circumstances. Speaking of which, something has come up and I have to stay in Sonoma for a few days longer.” Hopefully not in a jail cell. Just the thought made his stomach coil tighter.

“A few days? How many days?”

“You’ll need to clear my schedule for the next week.”

“The next week?” Her screech made the telephone vibrate.

“Martha, it has to do with Jessica.”

She immediately quieted. “I’m sorry. That woman has caused you more hurt and headache—”

“She’s dead. Murdered.”

“What?”

“And I’m the prime suspect.”

Silence.

“Martha?”

“This is awful. Just awful. Oh, God…”

“Your God isn’t going to help me now.” Why should He? He hadn’t done anything about the torrential divorce, what Jessica had done to his finances, what she’d nearly done to his reputation.

Martha didn’t tsk, but he heard it in her voice. “You’re not in a position to thumb your nose at Him.”

She was right. “Well, right now I need to recover my cell phone. I’ll keep you posted about how long I need to stay in Sonoma.”

“I’ll be praying for you, Devon.”

Her soft voice made the worry in his gut boil harder. “Pray I get my phone soon. Bye.”

He called his cell phone again, and the spa again, both with no answer, again. Then he dialed Becca Itoh.

“Dr. Knightley. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Becca, but I think Naomi has my cell phone.”

“Your cell phone?”

“She used it to call 911 earlier today.”

A brief pause. “Oh.”

“I called my cell and the spa, but there’s no answer. Is she with you?”

“No, she’s not home yet.”

“Not home?” It was full dark. And Jessica had been murdered in Naomi’s massage room. The killer was still out there…

“She was determined to take a late client at the spa tonight.”

“I thought the spa was closed.”

“We canceled all our other appointments, but Penelope Olson asked for a special session and Naomi agreed.”

“I realize she’s the senator’s wife, but isn’t it dangerous for Naomi to be there so late?”

“Don’t worry, we hired an extra night guard at the spa, and they’re looking out for her. I know she’s still there, and you’re in the Cronby Hotel, right?”

“Yes.”

“You can get there in only a few minutes. She should be finishing her session in about forty minutes, so why not meet her out at the spa to get your phone? I’ll call the security desk to let them know you’re on your way.”

“Thanks, Becca.”

“In exchange, you can follow her home to make sure she’s okay.”

She trusted him? When he’d shown up asking for his ex-wife?

She must have read his mind. “I trust you, Devon. I know you and your family. And I think God brought you here for a reason.”

God again. How odd for Him to be mentioned by both Martha and Becca, the only two women he knew who were such strong religious types.

But Becca’s trust made his heart feel lighter as he hung up.

“Thanks so much for taking me, dahling,” Penelope Olson cooed over her shoulder as she followed the security guard out the front door.

Naomi leaned against the receptionists’ desk, but jumped when the main phone line rang. Caller ID told her it wasn’t a client. “Hi, Dad.”

“I just heard you’re still at the spa. Why did you agree to Penelope’s special appointment after everything that’s happened today?”

“Well, we had to cancel all our other appointments today and Penelope didn’t know—”

“Is she still there?”

“Martin’s walking her out to her car, then he’ll come back to walk me to mine.”

“Good. You’re being safe anyway. I tried calling your cell phone but you didn’t pick up.”

She patted down her cotton uniform. “It must still be in my office.” She always emptied her pockets before taking a client.

“Did the police come back?”

“Yes, they came back this afternoon with a warrant to search everything. But I’m not sure what they found. They didn’t tell us.”

“I wish Jessica Ortiz hadn’t always asked for you whenever she came in,” her father said.

“There’s nothing suspicious in that, Dad. Lots of people are loyal to their favorite massage therapists.”

“Still…the police took the videotapes from the outside cameras, right?”

“They took those this morning.” In fact, Detective Carter had seemed a little annoyed that Joy Luck Life had such extensive outside video coverage and absolutely no inside coverage of the treatment and lounge areas. But he seemed to grudgingly calm down when Becca reminded him of the bankrolls of the spa’s clientele, and how those bankrolls paid for the privacy of the spa.

The door swung open.

“Martin’s here, Dad, I’ll be home soon.” She hung up.

Except it wasn’t Martin, her security guard. It was a stranger.

Devon drove from downtown Sonoma out to the spa, which stood in the middle of a vineyard deeper in the valley. It was too isolated. What was Naomi thinking to stay late at the spa alone?

There were two cars in the parking lot, one of them a very nice convertible. Was one of them Naomi’s car? Wouldn’t she park in the employee parking lot next to the valet parking?

As he eased into a stall, one of the cars—not the convertible—came to life and backed out. The security guard—visible in the summer dusk—waved at the driver as the car pulled away, then came to Devon’s vehicle.

“Good evening, sir.” Respectful but firm. “The spa is closed.”

“Naomi Grant has my cell phone and I need to get it back from her.”

The guard frowned. “Miss Grant didn’t mention you’d be coming by.”

“Becca Itoh told me she’d be here.”

“Ms. Itoh didn’t mention it to me, either.”

“If I could just speak to Naomi—”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you into the spa, sir. Especially in light of what happened today.”

“But I need my phone.”

“Did you try calling your cell phone, sir?”

He knew the guard had to do his job, but Devon’s temper started to sizzle. “Naomi isn’t picking up. That’s why I called Becca, who told me she was here.” She’d also neglected to tell the security guards he’d be coming. What could he do? “Here’s an option. Why don’t you escort me to the front door and let me speak to Naomi? Besides, I’m sure you don’t want to leave her alone in the spa while you’re out here talking with me.”

The guard stiffened and leaned back on his heels. “Miss Grant is perfectly safe, sir.”

“I’m sure she is—”

“In fact, there are extra security guards at the spa tonight.” The way he said it was almost like a dog growling, hackles raised.

“Well, that’s good, but I—”

“And none of us received a call from Ms. Itoh about you stopping by.”

“Um…you could call Ms. Itoh to verify that I’m supposed to be here.”

The guard seemed torn between leaving Devon out here alone and escorting a potentially dangerous man into the spa.

“I realize that you’re very protective of Naomi Grant, but I promise, all I want is my phone back. Becca Itoh will verify my story.”

The guard reluctantly stepped aside to let Devon out of his car, but he kept a wary distance.

The walk from the parking lot to the front door seemed very long. Then again, the last time he’d been here, he’d pulled up at the valet station, not in the parking lot.

“Hey!” Naomi’s raised voice drifted toward them from the spa entrance.

“We’re closed, sir.” Naomi’s shoulder blades snapped back and a river of steel ran down her spine. She tried to appear calm and professional, but she found it hard to breathe with her heart galloping so fast.

The stranger wasn’t even looking at her, instead darting his light eyes around the entry foyer. “I’m…uh…looking for someone.”

Was he on drugs or something? He was more nervous than a cat. “There’s no one else—er, I mean…” You just told him you’re by yourself!

Where was Martin? Would he be back soon? Her eyes drifted to the seats behind the receptionists’ desk and the emergency call button that would bring the other security guard to the entry foyer. She started slowly easing behind the counter.

The soft light from the lamps gleamed in his straight blond hair as he whipped his head around to look at her. “No one else? What about Jessica Ortiz?”

“Jessica Ortiz?” Her heart rammed up her throat and pulsed just below her jaw.

His light eyes turned wary. “Yes. Where is she?”

At the morgue. Except she couldn’t tell him that. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jessica’s friend.” He had gone back to casting his gaze uneasily around the room.

Only a few more feet before she could hit the call button. “What’s your name?” Detective Carter was going to love her for discovering this lead. If he didn’t continue to hold her as the prime suspect.

The man suddenly moved around the receptionists’ desk—the other side, blocking the call button—to close in on her. “Look, Jessica’s not here, so where is she?”

The man had several inches on her, but it seemed like several feet. Pull yourself together. He had a light build. She could put up a good fight and she might even win, since she had so much upper body strength from giving massages.

Where was Martin? she wondered.

“Where is she?” The stranger grabbed her upper arm with slender but strong fingers.

She tried to yank away, but his fingers bit into her muscle. “Let go of me.”

“I need to find her. Where is she?”

“I, uh…I don’t know.” Which was true, she didn’t know where the morgue was.

“You’re lying to me.” The strange intensity of his eyes gripped her harder than his hand.

“I’m not.” She jerked hard to try to break his hold.

He only stepped closer toward her.

“My security guard is coming back any moment.” She hoped. “Let go of me.”

He suddenly did, and she stumbled backward.

He had an inscrutable look on his face. “Something has happened to her.” It wasn’t a question.

Her heart had begun to slow now that he’d released her. “Do you…do you want to leave a message for her?” It was a last-ditch effort—she had to find out who he was.

He looked straight into her eyes, then he bolted.

“Hey!”

It was only then that Devon noticed the dark figure passing through the double doors of the spa, running straight toward them.

The guard stepped forward and reached for his flashlight. “You there—!”

But the unknown man barreled into the guard, knocking the flashlight away. He pinballed toward Devon.

Devon grabbed the man by his torso. The stranger had a light build but solid muscle under his cotton shirt. Devon grunted as he tried to stop him from running away. The security guard attempted to capture a flailing arm.

The man knocked the back of his elbow into Devon’s throat, then smashed something into Devon’s hand. It cracked and sliced into him, and his hold loosened enough for the man to burst free. The guard tripped and fell to the ground as the man sprinted away.

Devon raced after him, but the blow to his throat made it hard to breathe. The man leaped into the convertible and it roared to life as Devon reached out to touch the hood. With a squeal of tires and the heavy scent of burning rubber, the man was gone.

Then he realized. Naomi had been in the spa alone.

“Hey!”

Naomi rounded the other corner of the receptionists’ desk the same time the stranger did. She ran at him, but he sidestepped and swung his arm wide, knocking her to the floor. Her elbow and chin hit the cold marble painfully.

Martin’s voice filtered through the slowly closing double doors. “You there—!” Thank goodness, maybe Martin would stop the guy. She hadn’t even gotten his name!

Naomi hauled open the spa’s double doors in time to hear an engine roar, then fade as the car drove away. Scanning past the rose trees, she lifted on tiptoe but couldn’t see the parking lot from the doorway, so she stepped outside. Then she saw Martin with Devon Knightley.

“What are you doing here? And what happened?” She opened the doors and walked back into the entrance foyer, although part of her wondered if it were safe, even with Martin there. After all, Devon was Jessica’s ex-husband and he’d shown up very conveniently this morning.

Then she realized that he was injured. He wasn’t dripping blood, but scarlet lanced across the back of his hand.

“Are you all right? Did that man get away?”

Martin nodded. “Sorry, Ms. Grant.”

“You didn’t see him when you walked Ms. Olson to her car?”

He shook his head. “He might have taken another pathway from the parking lot to the front door.”

Jared, the other security guard, then rushed into the entrance foyer. “Miss Grant, are you all right?”

“Where were you?” Martin demanded.

“I’m sorry, Miss Grant, I was doing the walk-through rounds of the labs, so I wasn’t in the security room to see that guy on the outside camera when he came in. When I got back to the room, I saw him when he ran out. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but Devon…” She motioned him to follow her back into the therapy area. Each room had a first aid kit. “Let me get you something for that. Why are you here?”

“You have my cell phone.”

“I do?” Then she remembered dialing 911. She’d held the phone for him as he’d tried to…save Jessica. She must have slipped it into her pocket and then blindly thrown it on her desk before Penelope’s appointment. “It’s in my office. I have a first aid kit in there, too.”

She hesitated. Was that wise, taking this man into her office? A part of her said, You’re being silly, this is Devon Knightley. But the other part of her, the part that had recoiled at the sight of Jessica Ortiz bleeding on her massage room floor, told her, He’s her ex-husband, and he came in asking for her.

Martin’s eyes flickered over hers. “Ah…I’ll do the routine walk-through of the therapy rooms right now, just in case.”

Bless him. There was no “routine walk-through” of the therapy rooms—only the labs in the secure area in back—so Martin would be within shouting distance. “Jared, could you please call the police for me?”

“No problem, Miss Grant.”

She headed to her office, where she passed him a pink napkin, from a Victorian tea shop in San José that she had visited last weekend, to use to stop his bleeding.

He seemed almost embarrassed to look up at her, but he was smiling as he dabbed his hand with the napkin. “You treat me like a normal person rather than as the official orthopedic surgeon of the Oakland Raiders. You’ve always done that.”

“Oh.” His vulnerability warmed her. She busied herself getting the first aid kit out of a cabinet. “I guess you do get your share of fawning, same as we do.”

“Because of the spa?”

“Because of Dad’s money and the spa.” Naomi pulled out some alcohol wipes, antibacterial ointment and some elastic bandages. “How badly are you cut?”

“Those bandages will be fine.” He took the alcohol wipes from her. “Men target you and your sisters?”

“Monica seems to attract handsome-but-out-of-work actors. In fact, when she started working at that hospital in San José, I think she kept secret her ties to Joy Luck Life.”

“I don’t blame her. But people seem to find out somehow.” He winced as he cleaned his cuts with an alcohol wipe.

“I don’t know how that happens. Rachel hardly gets out at all, but some biochemist found out about her and pursued her. Rachel rarely gets mad, but she lit into him like a harpy when she discovered he was trying to see her research.”

“And yourself?” He glanced up at her, pausing as he tore open an elastic bandage.

“The men I meet always seem so nice at first, but then that ‘I want something from you’ message always seems to seep out.” If only it still didn’t pierce so deep. “Dad gets the same with women.”

Devon grunted in agreement as he applied ointment to the bandage and placed it over a deep cut.

Now why had she mentioned all that? She had slipped back into their easy conversation as if the events of this morning hadn’t happened.

Except she had taken Devon’s attention more seriously than she knew she ought to. She’d sat next to him at three Zoe charity dinners, and after each dinner, she’d spent a few weeks hoping he would contact her again. And he never had. A sigh escaped her.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes turning to onyx in the light, as if he could read her thoughts. “Not all of them want something from you.”

“What?”

“Those men. They could be wanting to talk to you because you’re witty and interesting.”

She suddenly couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t look away, as if there were something in her that he liked looking at. Almost…admiration. Captivation.

Then he blinked rapidly and looked away.

Air rushed back into her lungs, and she took a deep breath. What had happened? Had that really happened?

He was busying himself with his bandages. She felt silly, sitting there watching him. Hoping he’d look up at her again. Hoping he’d look at her that way again.

Now that was silly. He’d probably been thinking about something else entirely.

She cleared her throat. “You never told me exactly why you needed to speak to Jessica this morning.”

He paused for a moment—short enough that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

He smiled at her, but it was inappropriate, considering her question. And the smile never reached his eyes. “She was my ex-wife. There were some things we needed to discuss. Things to do with the divorce.”

Naomi was tempted to pry further, but that would be too rude, especially if those things had to do with financial matters. But a niggling in her head told her he wasn’t being entirely forthright with her. Why would he be evasive? What could he be hiding? This uncomfortable feeling in her gut, combined with Devon’s timing this morning, was not a good sign.

But this was Devon Knightley. She’d spoken to him—for hours, at each Zoe dinner. He couldn’t be involved in this nasty business, could he?

She didn’t want him to be involved in this. That was the bare, honest truth.

He finished bandaging his hand. “Did I tell you that my sister’s getting married in a few weeks?”

She reluctantly followed his change of topic. They chatted about his sister’s upcoming wedding and other inconsequential things—but the conversation never returned to that same comfortable footing.

It only took twenty minutes for Detective Carter to arrive. He’d happened to be nearby when the call came through.

He seemed a bit tired to be back at the spa for the third time that day, but he did say, “Miss Grant, pretty soon you’ll qualify for police frequent visitor points.”

He seemed very interested in the man who’d come into the spa looking for Jessica when Naomi gave her statement. As she left so Detective Carter could interview Devon privately in her office, she noticed the detective eyeing the garish pink napkin, still on Devon’s hand.

Devon hastily threw it away in Naomi’s wastebasket.

She walked down the hallway, but hesitated just within hearing range.

“Dr. Knightley, what did the man hit you with?”

“I think a pair of sunglasses. They broke against my hand, but there were no embedded glass or plastic shards, as far as I can tell.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Outside. I think the pieces are still on the sidewalk.”

“I’ll bag it. Did you want me to call an ambulance?”

“For this? No, thanks.”

Devon told the detective about his lost cell phone—which Naomi had also explained—but also about how Aunt Becca had told him to come to the spa to find her. She understood the need for him to get his phone back, but her aunt seemed to have been trusting Devon Knightley a bit too much.

Naomi called Martin in the security office to bring the outside video footage with him. He appeared and handed the video over, and then gave his statement to the detective in Naomi’s office.

After he was done, he paused a moment in the doorway, glancing first at the detective, then at Devon, and lastly at Naomi.

“Did you need to tell me anything else?” Detective Carter asked him.

“No, no.” He left to return to his station in the security office.

Had he wanted to say something to her, but couldn’t because Devon and the detective were here? Naomi ought to talk to him tomorrow to make sure it wasn’t anything important.

As the detective left, her cell phone rang. “Oh no! I didn’t call Dad back to tell him why I’m not home yet. Hello?”

“What’s going on?” His raised voice shot out of the phone. “I’m worried sick, here—”

“Sorry, Dad, something came up.”

“Are you okay?” Dad asked.

“I’m fine. Martin and Jared were here, and Devon’s here with me, too.”

“Devon Knightley? Why is he there?”

“I had his cell phone—”

“So you let him into the spa at this hour? The man who showed up just when you found the dying woman?”

Devon’s smile shifted to a pained expression, and a faint dimple appeared in one cheek. She’d never noticed it before…wait a minute, could he hear her father? “If you want to complain, talk to Aunt Becca. She’s the one who told him to drive out to the spa to find me.”

“Oh.” Dad’s voice dropped to normal decibels again. “Well, come home right now.”

“Yes, sir.” She ended the call.

“Naomi.” Devon’s voice, strong and low, planted her to the ground as effectively as the serious glint in his eyes. “I know it looks suspicious. But I didn’t kill Jessica.” He looked as if he needed her to believe him somehow.

“I…” What could she say? “It’s hard.”

His mouth tightened as he turned away for a second. “I know. But why would I deliberately ask for a woman I’d just killed?”

He had a point. She’d have found Jessica within a few minutes anyway, since the dying woman was in her massage room.

“Besides, the detective will see from the video surveillance that I never entered the building before walking in to ask for her.”

Well, that made her feel stupid. She looked down at her twined hands.

“How do I know you didn’t kill her?” Devon asked.

“What? Why would I kill her? Doing it in my own massage room?”

“It would make it look like you’re being framed.”

“Bringing down bad publicity on my own spa?”

Devon smiled. “Look, we’re both suspects even though I didn’t have the means and you didn’t have a motive. Why don’t we just call a truce?” He held out his hand.

He was right. “Sure.”

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