“I keep telling myself that it’s over, that I’m safe. But I’m so afraid.”

“What happened after he hit you?” Rafe asked.

Allie shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up on the kitchen floor. He had plenty of time to kill me, too.” She lifted her gaze to meet Rafe’s. “I don’t know why I’m still alive.”

Rafe’s mouth tightened. “The fact you are tells me he knew for sure you didn’t get a look at him.”

“Which is fortunate for me. Not for your client if he’s innocent.”

Rafe stared at her.

Seven years ago, she hadn’t known Rafe all that well. Still, Allie had been well aware that there had been something about Rafe Diaz, and it wasn’t only his dark, go-to-hell looks. He’d exuded some sort of innate, brooding sexiness that seemed to promise endless nights of pleasure. Watching him now, she realized that hadn’t changed.

Dear Reader,

Reconciliation. I have a soft spot for a story that brings characters back to someone they loved and lost. So, I thought, what about writing a connected trilogy of books about three couples with shared pasts? Stories where passion is intensified by memory and by deferred longing. And where better for lovers to come together again than in Reunion Square, an almost mystical enclave of quaint shops and businesses?

Three women. Three men from their pasts. Three different journeys that take us to the “ever after” part of love that was destined to be.

In the third of these books, lingerie shop owner Allie Fielding stumbles over the murdered body of a customer. To add to her shock, the private investigator who shows up to interview her is the man she helped send to prison. Hired by the slain woman’s accused lover, exonerated P.I. Rafe Diaz believes his client is innocent. And though dealing with the woman whose testimony put him behind bars stirs up a past Rafe thought he’d dealt with long ago, it also unlocks a passion neither of them expected.

Suspensefully,

Maggie Price

The Redemption of Rafe Diaz
Maggie Price

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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MAGGIE PRICE

Before embarking on a writing career, Maggie Price took a walk on the wild side and associated with people who carry guns. Fortunately they were cops, and Maggie’s career as a crime analyst with the Oklahoma City Police Department has given her the background needed to write true-to-life police procedural romances which have won numerous accolades, including a nomination for the coveted RITA® Award.

Maggie is a recipient of a Golden Heart Award, a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews, a National Reader’s Choice Award, and a Bookseller’s Best Award, all in series romantic suspense. Readers are invited to contact Maggie at 416 N.W. 8th St., Oklahoma City, OK 73102-2604. Or on the Web at www.MaggiePrice.com.

For my girls, Roxie and Lexie.

Thank you for all the joy you add to my life.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Prologue

Annoyed, exhausted, Allie Fielding whipped her Jaguar into the driveway of the two-story condo in one of Oklahoma City’s poshest neighborhoods. The dinner meeting she’d attended with board members of the investment empire she’d inherited had run late. She could have headed home after that, if only Mercedes McKenzie had shown up as scheduled when Allie closed her shop before the meeting.

I should have gone home, Allie thought as she studied the condo. She frowned when she found herself comparing its dark windows to sightless eyes. In reality, she knew that going home hadn’t been an option. Not while she still had the hot pink garment bag that held the silk robe, red beaded bustier and two come-and-get-me sexy lace teddies she’d designed. The order had been rushed due to Mercedes’s needing the lingerie before she and her lover left for Paris at midnight. Allie felt certain if she didn’t drop off the items now, the long-legged redhead with a practiced pout would call, claiming some catastrophe had prevented her from showing up at Silk & Secrets, and from returning Allie’s phone calls. Then she would wheedle Allie into making a delivery to the airport.

“No problem,” Allie muttered. She was determined to prove herself in a career that had no ties to the Fielding empire her father had amassed. Some people might think Franklin Fielding had willed his fortune to his sole biological child out of love. Allie knew better. The idea of his money falling into the hands of someone with no Fielding blood coursing through their veins would have struck him as even more reprehensible than leaving it to the daughter he’d never wanted and had shunned.

As for the empire, her father’s name was the one investors, board members and bankers related to, and his was the one they trusted. So she used it—grudgingly. Her own business, however, was her baby. She’d put all of her skill and experience and creativity into building it from the ground up. She would tend and nurture—and, yes, deliver items to the recalcitrant mistress of some wealthy man willing to buy her drawers full of lingerie.

But Mercedes had morphed into more than just a client, Allie reminded herself. The woman was dead-on savvy about fashion. At Allie’s urging, Mercedes had begun designing the line of jeweled evening bags that were currently flying off the shop’s shelves.

Allie climbed out of the Jag’s cool comfort into the hot night air that was as dry as old bones. While she retrieved the garment bag off the Jag’s backseat, the wind gusted, dragging strands of her blond hair from its sleek chignon.

The garment bag draped over one forearm, she headed up the drive, promising to treat herself to a glass of cold wine and a hot, frothy soak in sea salts as soon as she got home.

Although the neighborhood had private security patrols, she couldn’t bring herself to abandon her one-of-a-kind designs on the front porch. So she continued toward the rear of the condo, the click of her heels echoing against the driveway, mixing with the sound of a car’s engine thrumming to life.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the gleam of ruby-colored taillights as the car sped past.

She followed the lighted walk around the side of the condo to a patio furnished with iron tables and cushioned chairs. Overhead, tree branches swayed. In one corner of the patio, a fountain gurgled, its water bubbling into a brass sea shell. It was hard, in the middle of so much motion, to believe she was entirely alone.

The thought raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She skimmed her gaze across the patio. Then quickened her steps toward the back door.

There, Allie noted a dim light glowing behind one of the condo’s closed shutters.

She draped the garment bag over a chair, then opened her purse. After jotting a message on a sticky note, she pressed it against one of the glass panes in the back door.

And gave a startled gasp when the door slowly swung open.

“Mercedes?” Allie stared into the dimly lit kitchen. In the shadows, just visible across the room, the refrigerator groaned, cycling through a new tray of ice cubes. The clatter as they fell into their bin was as startling as a gunshot.

Allie pressed a hand to her throat. Her pulse pumped.

“Get a grip,” she whispered, even as the sudden sensation of being watched spread goose bumps over her skin. While the shiver worked down her spine, Allie caught something out of the corner of her eye.

She turned her head, looked down. Froze.

She was being stared at, all right, although it seemed the eyes watching her saw nothing.

Mercedes was sprawled inside the doorway, her well-toned body awkwardly turned on one side. Her pale face was propped on one outstretched arm as if she’d settled down for a lazy nap in the mint-green silk robe Allie had designed. But her eyes were open. Wide and unblinking.

Allie’s body went numb. She stopped breathing but realized it only when black cobwebs began to encroach on her vision.

Reaching out, she gripped the edge of a counter and forced air in and out of her lungs. Had Mercedes slipped on the marble floor? Allie wondered as her gaze flicked to the four-inch stilettos strapped to Mercedes’s feet. Fallen and hit her head? Did the blank stare signify death? Or could she just be unconscious?

The possibility the woman was alive propelled Allie forward.

“Mercedes?” Allie dropped to her knees. With trembling fingers, she nudged aside Mercedes’s diamond bracelet and pressed her fingers against the inside of the woman’s wrist, searching for a pulse. Allie felt no sign of life.

“Oh, God.” Confirmation the woman was dead tightened the knots in Allie’s stomach. Her blood pounded through her ears and she imagined she could hear the swish of it in her veins. Nine-one-one, she thought, her breath going shallow with the panic she felt closing in on her. She had to call 911.

Pushing herself up, she backed toward the open door while tugging her phone out of her purse.

The door’s sudden swing toward her was her only warning she wasn’t alone.

The heavy wood rammed against her shoulder. The force of the impact knocked the phone from her grasp and shoved her sideways.

A shriek rose up her throat when a dark form lunged from behind the door. She had less than a heartbeat to react before something hard slammed against her left temple.

The blow exploded stars behind her eyes. She landed hard on her side, the pain in her head a brilliant orange and red. Her breath shuddered in and out of her lungs while the marble floor seemed to tilt crazily beneath her.

Then everything went black and the world ceased to exist.

Chapter 1

Rafe Diaz’s long stride took him swiftly across the grassy, tree-shaded area that formed the center of Oklahoma City’s Reunion Square. He was a tall man, nearly six foot three, with a rangy disciplined build he’d honed to pure muscle during the years that others had control over his life. His slacks were black, his white dress shirt starched, the collar open. He’d bought his functional gray sports coat off the rack.

He strode past several boutiques, an antique shop and a bakery before halting on the sidewalk outside a wide display window that glinted in the morning sun. While he watched through the glass, the hot wind raked through his black hair like wild fingers. Rafe didn’t notice. Not with his attention focused on the woman inside Silk & Secrets.

Allie Wentworth Fielding, heiress, socialite and party girl. Former centerfold model. College graduate. She was as stunning as he remembered, in a slim yellow business suit that managed to look both professional and feminine. The trio of gold chains draped around her neck added flash. A small, sparkling clip held back one side of her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair. Her eyes were laser blue and whispered of seduction from beneath thick lashes. Her skin was luminous, her lips glossed in warm coral that might make a man fantasize the heat was kindling for only him.

The sudden fire blazing through Rafe’s blood had nothing to do with desire. It came from biting anger over how much had been stolen from him. Anger he didn’t know he still harbored until his newest client had brought up Allie Fielding’s name.

Seven years had passed since Rafe last laid eyes on her.

Seven years since he’d sat in a courtroom and listened to her testimony that had helped put him in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

He knew she’d told her version of the truth. Knew the evidence pointed to him. Still, he’d lost two years of his life and the chance to pin on a cop’s badge—the only career he’d grown up wanting.

Curling his hands into fists, he shifted his gaze to the clock in the brick tower in the center of Reunion Square as it began to bong in slow, ponderous tones. Rafe counted the nine strikes while waiting for the resentment chewing at his insides to ease. He was free, dammit. Had been for five years. During that time he’d carved out a life for himself. It wasn’t what he’d grown up envisioning, but it was enough.

He was his own boss. He lived alone. By his own design there was no one he had to answer to. For a man whose freedom had once been snatched away, having total control over every aspect of his life was all that mattered.

When he felt steadier, he turned his gaze back to the woman on the other side of the shop’s window. He watched in silence while she arranged a pair of shoes on a velvet-draped pedestal positioned beneath a single spotlight. The shoes were embroidered and beaded, and looked like something Marie Antoinette would have worn.

Or a pampered, spoiled socialite with money to burn and country-club parties to attend.

While Allie positioned a small placard beside the shoes, Rafe focused on the dark bruise marring her left temple. Only a few days had passed since she’d found Mercedes McKenzie’s body and gotten clubbed by the killer.

Standing beneath the strengthening sunlight, Rafe knew if he’d been gazing at any other woman, he’d be thinking about the fear that must have spiked into her when the killer lunged from behind the condo’s kitchen door. And the pain she’d surely suffered when he slammed a fist against the side of her head. But this was Allie Fielding, and his foremost thought was that she could have wound up as dead as he had felt when she testified against him.

Rafe rolled his shoulders in a futile attempt to ease the tightness that had settled in them. He reminded himself he was here on business anchored in the present, not the past. There wasn’t room for emotion, not when his client’s freedom was on the line.

Rafe had already acknowledged the irony that this woman might hold the key to his latest case. He’d been hired by Hank Bishop, the man accused of Mercedes McKenzie’s murder. Bishop swore he was innocent, and Rafe knew all too well that being accused of a crime had nothing to do with guilt. He was positive Hank Bishop was innocent, just as he had been.

“Get this over with,” Rafe ground out as he headed toward the shop’s beveled-glass door.

This time, he had no intention of allowing Allie Wentworth Fielding to play a part in robbing a guiltless man of his freedom.

Allie finished positioning a Plexiglas display cube over the shoes on the pedestal just as the chime at the shop’s front door sounded. Her mouth curving to greet the morning’s first customer, she gathered up her dust cloth, then looked across her shoulder.

And felt her heart clench.

Rafe Diaz.

She made herself turn slowly to face him. Emotion exploded through her. Each second seemed endless, drawn out, excruciating.

The same way it had felt in the courtroom during her testimony.

He was as tall as she remembered, but more muscular. Not even the gray sports coat could conceal shoulders that looked like he tossed around hundred-pound weights on a regular basis. His skin was the same burnished olive, but his face had changed. Hardened. Lines had scored into the corners of his eyes and mouth, giving him a taut aura of danger that hadn’t been there before. Looking so dark and foreboding, he could pass for a bad guy. But Rafe Diaz had never been a bad guy, and Allie had spent years dealing with the pangs of conscience over the part she’d played in sending an innocent man to prison.

The cool disdain in his dark eyes sent the message he hadn’t forgotten—or forgiven—her involvement, either.

Her fingers clenched on the dust cloth. “Rafe, what…are you doing here?”

“Business.”

Her gaze swept across the racks of silky lingerie and shelves of feminine accessories. “You came to buy something?”

“Hardly.” He kept his gaze locked on hers as he moved to the waist-high glass counter near the door. “I’m here on my business, not yours.” He pulled a card out of the inside pocket of his sports coat, laid it on the counter and waited.

The fact he hadn’t walked to her and handed her the card indicated he didn’t intend to make their meeting easy. Fine, Allie thought, as she moved toward the counter, her heels echoing against the polished parquet floor. After what he’d been through, she couldn’t exactly blame him for holding a grudge.

She stowed the cloth under the counter, then took in the information on the card. “What business does a private investigator have with me?”

“Hank Bishop’s my client. He’s been charged with murdering Mercedes McKenzie.”

“I heard he’d been arrested.” Allie swallowed hard. She hadn’t yet been able to rid her mind of the vision of Mercedes lying dead on the condo’s kitchen floor. “What has Hank Bishop hired you to do?”

“Prove he’s innocent.”

“Do you believe he is?”

“I believe in giving him the benefit of the doubt.” Rafe dipped his head. “Not everyone who gets arrested is actually guilty.”

Ouch. Allie felt heat flood into her cheeks. “No, they’re not.” She laid the card aside. “You were innocent, Rafe. As much a victim as Nina was, but in a far different way.”

Even after so many years, Allie still shuddered at the horrific memories. For the pain her best friend suffered. And what Rafe must have endured. “Does it make you feel better to hear me say you were innocent?”

She saw a shadow of emotion move in his eyes before the shutter came down. “What I want to hear from you are details. What happened when you found Mercedes McKenzie’s body?”

Allie eased out a breath. Okay, so his coming here didn’t include clearing the air about the past. Talking about finding a dead body wasn’t high on her list of subject matter, either.

“I went over everything with the police,” she said. “Several times.”

“I’m not the police.”

She hesitated when a long-ago memory stirred inside her. Nina, her best friend and roommate who’d been dating Rafe, had mentioned his driving goal was to be a cop. His conviction ended that dream. And though it had been expunged as if it had never happened, Allie didn’t think any police department would hire a man who had served time in a state penitentiary.

“I want whoever killed Mercedes put away, so I’ll tell you all I know about that night,” she said quietly. “But I’m still a little unsteady from the experience. I’d prefer to talk over there.”

His gaze tracked hers to the plush sitting area tucked into one corner of the shop’s main showroom. “Fine.”

When she moved past him, she caught the tang of masculine-scented soap. She had to stop herself from turning her head, inhaling deeply of the scent that was indescribably male.

As she walked across the shop, she was acutely aware of Rafe moving behind her.

Allie settled onto the powder-pink love seat. “You might as well get comfortable,” she said, gesturing toward the upholstered chair on the opposite side of the round glass coffee table.

Instead of sitting, Rafe stood behind the chair. “About that night?” he prodded.

She leaned back against the love seat’s cushions and met his waiting gaze. “All I saw was a dark form lunge from behind the door. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. I’m sure the police had reason to arrest Hank Bishop, but it wasn’t because of anything I told them.”

“He was arrested because he was Mercedes McKenzie’s lover,” Rafe said. “He owns the condo she lived in, his prints are all over everything, his DNA is on the sheets, he has clothes there. And he has no alibi for the time of the murder.”

“So Bishop could have killed Mercedes and assaulted me.”

“Could have, but didn’t,” Rafe said. “Do you know the exact time you got to the condo?”

“Right at nine-thirty. I paid attention to the time because I was miffed I had to deliver lingerie that Mercedes was supposed to have picked up here earlier.”

“Did you see anyone else? A neighbor out smoking a cigarette? Someone walking a dog, maybe?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anyone?”

“No,” Allie said, then paused. “I heard a car start. And saw it speed by the driveway.”

“Going which way?”

“East.”

“What kind of car?”

“It was too dark to tell. All I saw were the taillights.”

“How many?”

She blinked. “What?”

“How many taillights? What shape?”

She arched a brow. “The police didn’t ask me such specific questions.”

“I believe in being thorough.”

You would have been a good cop, Allie thought and felt a wrench of regret for the unfair hand life had dealt him. “The taillights were round. Two on each side.” She tried to picture something about the car during the few seconds she’d glanced its way. “I think they were high up, close to the lid of the trunk.”

Rafe nodded. “You didn’t see enough of your attacker to ID him. But did you get a sense of anything about him?”

“No, there wasn’t time. Everything happened so fast. Too fast.”

Before she could block it, the vision flashed in her head of the dark form lunging at her. The fear came barreling back, sending a wave of nausea lurching in her stomach. Leaning forward, Allie propped her forearms on her knees and shut her eyes against the blinding white spots spinning before them. God, would the image never start to fade?

“Are you all right?”

She flinched when Rafe’s voice came from just beside her. She hadn’t even heard him move. “I’m…fine.” A sheen of clammy perspiration enveloped her entire body. “Fine.”

“Fine, hell,” Rafe muttered. With one hand, he shoved her head between her knees. “You’re as white as chalk and about to pass out. Take deep breaths.”

With her head spinning and her vision dimming, Allie had no choice but to obey. Please don’t let me heave on his shoes, she prayed as she dragged in a series of shaky breaths against the nausea churning in her stomach.

Keeping his hand pressed against her spine, Rafe lowered himself onto the arm of the love seat. Despite her dazed senses, Allie felt the pressure of each of his fingers through the fabric of her suit, all too aware of the latent strength in his touch.

“You have some water around here?” His voice had lost some of its hardness.

“There’s…a small refrigerator off the fitting room,” she said, keeping her eyes on the blurred toes of her yellow leather heels.

“Where’s the fitting room?”

“Just beyond that arched doorway.”

Without further comment, he rose and disappeared out of her line of sight, his footsteps hollow echoes as he headed across the shop.

Lord, Allie thought. How many times over the five years since his release had she thought about contacting him? Or writing him a letter to let him know how horribly sorry she was. In the end, she’d done nothing. There was no way to make up for the wrong that had been done to him. That she’d done.

Rafe returned, unscrewing the lid off a bottle of water.

Bracing herself, Allie eased upright and took the bottle from him with both hands. “Thanks.”

She sipped slowly, concentrating on the simple act of swallowing the cool liquid.

When her vision came back into focus, she saw that Rafe had relocated behind the upholstered chair. “Feel like continuing?” he asked, his dark eyes measuring her.

“Yes.” She lifted her free hand to her bruised temple, felt her fingertips tremble against her tender flesh. “I keep telling myself that it’s over, that I’m safe. Then I see this blurry shadow careen from behind the door. I was so afraid.”

“What happened after he hit you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up on the kitchen floor.” Allie squeezed her eyes shut. “The first thing I saw were Mercedes’s dead eyes staring back at me.” A shiver ran up Allie’s spine and her voice broke. “I was unconscious for over half an hour. He had plenty of time to kill me, too.” She took another shaky sip of water, then lifted her gaze to meet Rafe’s. “I don’t know why I’m still alive.”

Rafe’s mouth tightened. “The fact you are tells me he knew for sure you didn’t get a look at him.”

“Which is fortunate for me.” Allie took another sip of water. “Not for your client if he’s innocent.”

Apparently assured she was no longer in danger of fainting, Rafe wandered past an array of display racks holding colorful, delicate silks. Allie noted that he moved with the sinuous tread of a big cat. No wasted motion, no abrupt movements.

Seven years ago, she hadn’t known him all that well—he and Nina had dated only a short time. Still, Allie had been well aware that there had been something about Rafe Diaz, and it wasn’t only his dark, go-to-hell looks. He’d exuded some sort of innate brooding sexiness that seemed to promise endless nights of pleasure. Watching him now, she realized that hadn’t changed.

“Speaking of my client,” he began. “Bishop told me that both his mistress and his wife shop here.”

With her mouth having gone dry for an entirely different reason, Allie took another sip of water. “True, but I wasn’t aware of that until after Hank’s arrest. Mercedes made no secret she had a married lover, but she never told me his name.”

“Who paid her bill?”

“She used a credit card in her own name.”

“Did she and Bishop’s wife ever cross paths here?”

“No. Mercedes always made a point to come here after regular business hours.” Allie set the water bottle aside. “Look, I didn’t pass judgment on Mercedes’s lifestyle. But the fact is, she had a married lover, who apparently wanted her to feel free to buy whatever she wanted in my shop. I saw no reason not to accommodate the arrangement.”

Rafe slid her a look. “And you wanted the profits.”

His judgmental tone had Allie bristling. “I’d be a damn poor business owner if I didn’t keep my eye on the bottom line,” she shot back. “And you apparently didn’t let Hank Bishop’s questionable morals get in the way when you agreed to take him on as a client.”

Rafe paused beside the velvet-covered pedestal to study the ornate shoes. “Point taken,” he said after a moment.

Allie felt a rush of satisfaction at his admission.

“Does Bishop’s wife shop here a lot?”

“Yes, Ellen’s a regular customer.”

“Did she know her husband had a mistress on the side?”

“If she did, she didn’t tell me.”

Allie’s gaze followed Rafe’s to the pedestal and the shoes that were to be auctioned at the upcoming benefit for the foundation she had established years ago. In the past, Ellen Bishop had attended the auction, but now that her husband’s affair was out in the open and he’d been charged with the murder of his mistress, Allie suspected it might be a while before Ellen was ready to show her face again in public.

“Bishop’s partner in his real estate business is Guy Jones,” Rafe said. “They’re brothers-in-law. Bishop said Jones’s wife and daughter shop here, too.”

“That’s right,” Allie confirmed. “The daughter is getting married. I’m designing her trousseau. Neither Katie nor her mother have ever mentioned Mercedes in my presence.”

Rafe turned, wandered toward a glass display case. “Do you have any other customers who had a connection to Mercedes?”

“Not directly.”

“Indirectly?”

“The purses.” Allie swept a hand toward the display case that held a number of jeweled evening clutches. “Mercedes designed those.”

Frowning, Rafe stared down at the case. “She made purses?”

“She designed them. She had a savvy eye for fashion. When I saw her designs, I bought them. I have them made at the same off-site warehouse my seamstresses work out of.”

“Interesting.”

The sardonic tone that had settled in his voice had Allie narrowing her eyes. “Why is that interesting?”

“In college, you were too busy partying to bother attending class. Now, you oversee a financial empire and own this shop.”

Irritation shot through her as she stared at his hard, emotionless face. Logic told her she should be able to shrug off his words. After all, what he’d said was true. She’d spent her time hooking up with wildly inappropriate boyfriends while thumbing her nose at her studies. Not because she hadn’t been capable of making good grades but because it had irritated her father, and that had been important to her at the time. But a whole lot of life had gone on since she had last seen Rafe, and she was a very different person from the looking-for-a-good-time girl he had known.

Something inside of her that she couldn’t define found it vitally important that he understand that.

“You’re right, I sit on the board of my family’s company,” Allie said coolly. “And I’ve built my own separate business from the ground up. I’m about to start direct sales of the lingerie I design via my Web site. Things change, Rafe. People change. Sometimes for the better.”

“Yeah.” He gestured toward his business card she’d left on the counter. “If you remember anything else about Mercedes or the night you found her dead, give me a call.”

Allie watched him turn, tracked his progress as he strode toward the door. And even though her muscles still felt like glass, she rose from the love seat. “Rafe.”

He paused, turned back to face her, his eyes as dark and hard as flint. “What?”

“I’m sorry about what happened to you.” Aware that her heartbeat was much too fast and labored for a woman standing still, she curled her fingers into her palms. “Truly sorry. I hope you know that all I did was tell the truth.”

His gaze stayed locked on hers as an emotion she couldn’t define flickered in his eyes. “You told what you thought was the truth. And I’m the one who paid for it.”

Chapter 2

“Dammit, I don’t care if Allie Fielding saw me at the condo. I didn’t kill Mercedes!”

Rafe studied his client across the real estate developer’s expansive desk. In his late fifties, Hank Bishop was powerfully built with black hair going gray at the temples and a strongly carved face with prominent planes. The stress of a murder charge hanging over him made those planes look glass-sharp.

“Miss Fielding didn’t see you,” Rafe said levelly. “She saw your car’s taillights when you drove off.”

Bishop dragged in a breath. “That should add muscle to my claim that I’m not the person who clubbed Allie in the head.”

Bishop’s comment shoved her image into Rafe’s mind. Despite his best efforts not to, he pictured how she’d looked sitting on that pink love seat, her temple bruised, her cheeks colorless.

He’d left the shop hours ago and he was still fighting to shake off the awareness that had jolted through him when he pressed his palm against Allie’s spine and nudged her forward. She’d been on the verge of passing out, yet the electricity that zipped into his fingers had been unmistakable. It was a connection he had not felt—had not wanted to feel—with another living soul over the past seven years.

The unexpected quake of emotion had pissed him off. He was still pissed off. He didn’t need this, didn’t want the memories spilling out, flashing in kaleidoscope tumbles, like the revolving red/blue lights on the police car that had driven him away from the life he’d once known.

“The killer had to have still been at the condo when I got there.” Bishop bounced a fist against the arm of his chair. “Maybe when I went out the front door he headed toward the back, thinking he’d get out that way? Instead, he ran into Allie.”

“That’s probably what happened,” Rafe agreed. “It’s just that her seeing taillights matching your Ferrari goes a long way in placing you at the scene of the murder.”

Bishop cursed. “My security chief recommended I hire you because you’ve got a reputation for digging up evidence that clears innocent people. That’s what I need you to do for me, Diaz. Not tighten the noose that’s already around my neck.”

“Before I accepted your retainer, I explained it’s possible that evidence doesn’t exist.”

“Dammit, it has to.” Bishop jerked his tie loose, then flicked opened the top button on his starched shirt. “Mercedes was dead when I got to the condo. There has to be a way for me to get clear of this.”

For a moment, Rafe said nothing. He had thought the same thing himself when his nightmare began. He’d been innocent, yet he’d wound up in prison.

“Let’s go over what you told me about that night. See if we can come up with something.”

Bishop eased out a breath. “Like I said, I arrived early to pick up Mercedes for our flight to Paris. I used my key to get in. She didn’t answer when I called her name, so I figured she was upstairs. I knew something was wrong when I saw the stuff from her purse dumped out on the bedroom floor.”

The mention of the purse sent Rafe’s thoughts to the display at Silk & Secrets of the sequined purses the dead woman had designed.

“I found Mercedes in the kitchen.” Emotion flickered over Bishop’s face before he looked away. His fisted hand trembled. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

To give his client time to get a grip on his emotions, Rafe swept his gaze around the office. As on his first visit to the downtown high-rise, he could find nothing compelling about the cool black furniture and white walls. The place had the same stark feel as the cell where he’d spent two years of his life.

“The killer dumped out the contents of Mercedes’s purse, so it sounds like he was after something she might carry around,” Rafe said after a moment. “Any idea what that might be?”

“I have no clue.”

“I found out the police discovered a state-of-the-art audio system in the condo. Did you have it installed?”

“No.” Bishop frowned. “You mean, a stereo system?”

“The wiring was hooked to a recorder. Hidden microphones were in every room. Apparently, Mercedes used the system to record conversations.”

Bishop scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know anything about that.”

Rafe studied the man for a long beat. “Maybe you told her information about your business that could hurt it or you if it got out? She could have recorded all of your in-bed sessions with an eye on blackmailing you.”

Bishop’s mouth thinned. “If she did record them, it’s news to me. And she never tried to blackmail me.”

“Were you the only man she was sleeping with?”

“Yes. I bought her a car, clothes, jewelry. Put a roof over her head. I made it clear if I caught her messing around, our deal was over.”

“Exactly what was your deal?”

Bishop shoved his chair back and rose. He stepped to the credenza, grabbed a crystal carafe and tumbler, then glanced over his shoulder. “Whiskey?”

“No, thanks.” Rafe let the silence continue.

“Mercedes was a gorgeous, exciting woman,” Bishop said. “She gave me something my wife and I haven’t shared for many years. In return, I fulfilled Mercedes’s needs.”

“Which were?”

“Material. She grew up the kind of poor where you don’t know where your next meal is coming from.” Bishop took a long sip of whiskey. “As for blackmail, if she thought it would get her a nest egg, I can see her doing it.”

“That’s an angle I’ll work on.” As he rose, Rafe glanced toward the credenza, focusing on the framed photo of a dark-haired woman in her late forties. “I need to talk to your wife. She won’t take my calls.”

Bishop scowled. “Ellen doesn’t know anything about this. She had no idea I was seeing Mercedes.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know Ellen. If she’d gotten wind of Mercedes, she wouldn’t have kept quiet about her.”

Rafe stepped closer to the desk. “You hired me to get you off the hook on a murder charge. The only way for me to do that is to find out who killed your mistress.”

“Are you saying you think my wife did?”

“I think a man did the killing. Mercedes fought hard. It would have taken a lot of strength to overpower her. Same goes for the blow Allie Fielding took to her head.”

“Then why do you need to talk to Ellen?”

“She could have hired it done.”

“No.” Bishop sat the tumbler on the desk with enough force to slosh whiskey over his hand. “She’s not talking to me or you because she’s irate and humiliated about the affair. Our grown son feels the same way. But neither of them would resort to murder.”

“Speaking of your son, he hasn’t returned my messages, either. Because he works here, I plan to stop by his office on my way out.”

Bishop’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t waste your time. After my arrest, Will informed me he’ll be out of the office a lot. Said he intends to spend time with his mother. That she needs his support now more than I do.”

“Did Will know about your affair with Mercedes?”

“You think I’d tell my son about that?”

“I need to talk to him and your wife,” Rafe said, ignoring the question. He’d worked enough divorce cases to know that secret affairs didn’t stay that way forever. “Any idea how to do that?”

Bishop blew out a breath. “You wind up at the same social event with them.” He moved back to his desk, shuffled through a pile of mail, then frowned.

Rafe waited while Bishop called his secretary. “Check with Guy to see if he’s got his invitation for tomorrow night’s benefit auction.”

Bishop’s partner, Guy Jones, was married to Bishop’s sister, making the men brothers-in-law. In the light of Bishop’s arrest for the murder of his mistress, Rafe figured gatherings of the Bishop/Jones clan might be tense for a while.

When Bishop hung up, Rafe asked, “Are you sure your wife will go out in public right now?”

“Positive,” Bishop said. “Social contacts mean everything to Ellen. She isn’t about to let anything I’ve done shame her into seclusion. She’ll make sure everyone knows what a bastard I’ve been to her.”

Both men looked across the office when the door swung inward. “Hank, you wanted to see this invite?”

“Yeah, Guy. Come in.”

Rafe studied Guy Jones as he approached. He was short and burly, his dark hair thinning at the crown. His pleated khaki slacks, striped short-sleeved dress shirt and black brogans were a far cry from the tailored suit and polished Italian leather loafers worn by his partner.

“That’s it,” Bishop said, checking the invitation. He told his brother-in-law why he wanted it, then introduced Rafe.

Guy offered a hand. “Diaz, I hope to hell you can get Hank cleared of the murder charge.”

“I’ll do my best,” Rafe said. The man’s grip was like a can crusher.

The piece of heavy card stock Bishop handed Rafe was an invitation to a silent auction. Rafe’s gaze narrowed on the small pair of ornate shoes embossed on the card’s upper center. He’d seen those embroidered, bejeweled shoes earlier on a velvet-covered pedestal at Silk & Secrets.

Rafe glanced up from the invitation. “The Friends Foundation. What does it do?”

“I’m not sure.” Bishop flicked a hand as if batting away a cobweb. “Ellen and I receive piles of invitations and I never pay attention to the who and the what. I just sign the checks and she deals with the details.”

Guy Jones shrugged. “Seems like Allie Fielding is somehow involved with this foundation. I know for sure you need more than the invitation to get in the door. You also have to have your name on the confirmed guest list. I can ask my wife to make some calls and try to get you in, but she’s busy planning our daughter’s wedding so I can’t guarantee she’ll get around to it.”

“I’ll get myself in.” Rafe stabbed the invitation into the inside pocket of his suit coat. He needed to talk to Bishop’s wife and son. Period. At this late date, the only way he could ensure getting into the auction was to use Allie Fielding’s connections.

In his mind’s eye, he pictured her cool, perfect face framed by silky blond hair, heard the echo of her sultry voice, and felt all over again something tighten inside him. It was that intense man-to-woman response that had kept his gut in knots since he walked out of her shop.

Then there was the memory of her faint, expensive perfume, which had been the best thing he’d smelled in years.

He shoved away the thought. Next time he saw her, he’d be prepared. Next time, he wouldn’t allow her to get past the wall of control he’d built around himself.

Paint roller suspended in one hand, Allie narrowed her gaze across the small bedroom. “Rafe Diaz shut down an entire street gang?”

“Not single-handedly,” Liz Scott replied while using a small brush to dab pale blue paint near the room’s sole window. The pane was open, letting in a breeze heated by the bright morning sunshine.

“But Diaz got the ball rolling,” Liz added. With her long coppery hair piled on top of her head, and the tube top and baggy overalls she wore, she in no way resembled the kick-ass cop she was.

“Wouldn’t that have put Rafe in danger?”

“After spending two years in stir, taking on a street gang probably seemed like a walk in the park.”

“I suppose so.” Allie closed her eyes. Seeing Rafe yesterday had forced the sharp-edged guilt she’d harbored for years to the surface.

She opened her eyes when Claire Castle settled a hand on her arm.

“Having Rafe walk into your shop yesterday must have been a shock.” The owner of the antique shop next door to Silk & Secrets had dressed for a day of voluntary labor in tattered jeans and a faded khaki shirt. The house they toiled in was being readied for a woman who’d escaped her abusive husband and had been living in a shelter with their kids. With help from the Friends Foundation, she was getting a fresh start.

“A total shock,” Allie agreed, and squeezed Claire’s hand.

One of the best things about having close girlfriends was knowing you could count on their support. Allie had opened her shop on the same day Claire finalized her purchase of Home Treasures. They’d met Liz that same night when she’d encountered them on the sidewalk outside their shops, drinking champagne toasts and attempting a tipsy ceremonial burning of a photo of the sexy federal agent Claire had walked away from.

After hearing Claire’s tale of love gone bad, Liz torched the picture herself. Since then, the friendship among the three had flourished.

Now, Claire was married to the sexy Fed and Liz was engaged to a gorgeous detective, who’d transferred from the Shreveport PD to the Oklahoma City force.

In Allie’s experience and twenty-seven years of observation, she had only ever witnessed love go bad, crash and burn. Seeing her friends genuinely happy in their relationships was an ongoing learning experience.

Turning back to the wall, Allie put more muscle into wielding the paint roller. “In fact, when I looked up and saw Rafe, I thought I was dreaming.”

“When you called to tell me Diaz had shown up, you sounded more like you’d had a nightmare,” Liz commented. “Which is why I checked him out.”

“How did he manage to take down a gang?” Claire asked.

“He’d finished getting his college credits while in prison, so he had a degree in accounting when he was released,” Liz replied. “His uncle owned a restaurant and needed a bookkeeper. Apparently he was uneasy about having his nephew do the job, but in the end he agreed.”

Allie replenished the paint on her roller. “Why was the uncle uneasy? Because Rafe had been in prison?”

“No. The uncle was being forced by a street gang to launder drug money through his business in lieu of paying them for protection. It didn’t take Rafe Diaz long to figure out what was going on. His uncle admitted the same thing was happening to other business owners in the area.

“Diaz got them all to agree to let him install surveillance equipment in their shops. Then he taped various gang members picking up payoffs. He took the recordings and the account books to the cops, and worked a deal to get immunity for the business owners on the money laundering. Between white-collar crime and the gang unit, they put away every member of the gang.”

“Impressive,” Claire said while positioning tape along the top of a baseboard.

“Word of mouth about what Diaz did was a boon to his PI business,” Liz added.

“He wanted to be a cop,” Allie said. “That’s one of the things I remember about Rafe. His conviction ended that.”

“But it was expunged, right?” Claire asked. “Doesn’t that mean the slate was wiped clean?”

“That’s what it’s supposed to mean,” Liz answered. “In truth, cops don’t like ex-cons. There are some cops who’ll always view Diaz as the guilty party, who caught a break and walked. That’s not right nor fair, but it’s the cold, hard truth.”

“Which is totally wrong because none of what happened was Rafe’s fault,” Allie said, frustration honing her voice to an edge. “He was innocent. But the evidence the police had seemed to point to his guilt.”

“What happened to Rafe was awful,” Claire said.

“It sucks,” Liz agreed. She stepped back and scowled at her work area. “So does my paint job. I’m sure there’s some technique to this, but all I know how to do is slop the stuff on and wait for it to dry.” She sent a look across her shoulder. “Al, why don’t you just pronounce me a failure? Then I’ll slink on home.”

Glad for change to a lighter subject, Allie stepped across the room to get a close-up view of Liz’s work.

“It looks fine to me,” Allie said. “But if you think your painting’s not up to par, I can transfer you to the scraping team. They’re starting on the outside of the house after lunch.”

Pursing her lips, Liz gave her work another considering look. Then she shook her head. “On second thought, I think I’m getting the hang of using this brush.”

Rafe braked his car in front of a small house that had paint peeling off it like dead skin. Sawhorses sat on the porch. Frowning, he rechecked the card the clerk at Silk & Secrets had jotted the address on to verify he was at the right place.

He was.

The clerk had told him Miss Fielding was spending the day painting in the Paseo District. Because this area of the city catered to emerging artists and trendy galleries, Rafe figured he’d find her in an art class, sketching some nude male model, which would have been right up the alley of the sexy party girl he’d known in college.

He climbed out of his car just as a beefy workman wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt, jeans and a tool belt lashed beneath his bulging belly lugged a ladder from around the side of the house. Not quite the male model he’d envisioned, Rafe thought as he headed across the yard.

Moments later, he followed the workman’s directions to the house’s back bedroom. The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air.

At the bedroom’s doorway he paused, taking in the lone woman working with her back to him. She was wearing an old, tattered pair of jeans with frayed hems. A rag stuck out of one of the back pockets. Her T-shirt looked as if it had once been beige but had been washed so often that it had faded to a soft cream. Her hair was stuffed up into a ball cap and her scuffed work boots were spattered with the same light blue paint she was rolling onto the wall.

“I’m looking for Allie Fielding.”

At the sound of his voice she jolted and did a fast, twisting about-face. The momentum of the turn had her fumbling the roller, dripping paint on the floor.

She glanced down, then looked back at him, her blue eyes glinting. “You scared me to death!”

For a moment, all Rafe could do was stare while Allie abandoned the roller to the paint tray, then jerked the rag from her back pocket. Muttering, she crouched and began swiping blots of paint off the wood floor.

In college, the money vibe had rippled off her like heat—the designer clothes, “in” shades and foreign cars so sleek they gave the impression they belonged in a cage. Even yesterday she’d looked like the millions of dollars she was worth.

The woman presently crouched at his feet looked like she’d just come from Goodwill. And because her face was bare of concealing makeup, the bruise on her temple was the deep purple color of a plum gone bad.

The unexpected quake of empathy that shot through him settled like a stone in Rafe’s gut. This particular woman had stirred enough emotion inside him for one lifetime.

“I didn’t expect to find you doing manual labor,” he said, the words sounding harder than he’d intended.

She flicked him a look from beneath her blond lashes. “I didn’t expect to have someone scare me half to death for the second time this week.”

Rafe’s imagination conjured up the dark form that had rushed out at her from behind the condo’s kitchen door minutes after she’d stumbled on Mercedes McKenzie’s body. He couldn’t blame her for still feeling spooked.

“I’ll make a point not to do that again,” he said evenly.

“Appreciate it.” She rose, tossed the rag on an area of the scarred wooden floor where newspapers had been spread.

Up close, he could see the ocean-blue facets of her eyes. Today, she smelled like soap. Just soap. A sharp kick of awareness left his solar plexus smarting.

Her eyes flicked over his starched shirt and slacks. “Something tells me you’re not here to strap on a tool belt and get to work.”

“No.” He knew he should just tell her why he’d shown up, get business over with, then leave. Maybe then he could get rid of the hard, hot ball of emotion in his gut. But curiosity pushed at him. “What’s going on with this house?”

“It’s owned by a foundation. We’re making it livable for a woman who got up the courage to leave her sorry husband. He thought she and their kids were his personal punching bags. All the labor is done by volunteers.”

Rafe glanced around. “You doing the painting by yourself?”

“Two of my girlfriends are helping today. They left to pick up lunch for everyone.”

“The foundation that owns this house,” he said just as the high-pitched wail of power tools drifted in through the hallway. “Is it the same one that’s sponsoring tonight’s silent auction?”

“Yes.” Using a finger, Allie inched the brim of her baseball cap higher. “Why?”

“Hank Bishop’s wife and son may show up there. I need to talk to them.”

Allie’s eyes widened. “Are they suspects in Mercedes’s murder?”

“At this point, everyone is.”

“Can’t you just go and see them?”

“I tried. They’re both angry at my client over his affair and they have little interest in helping him right now.”

“Do you blame them?”

“No. That doesn’t change the fact that I need to talk to them. I understand I can’t get into the auction unless my name is on the guest list at the door.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve been told you have a connection to the foundation.”

“And you want me to get your name on the guest list so you can get in and corner Ellen and Will Bishop.”

“Yes.”

“The silent auction is a black-tie affair, Rafe. A lot of prominent people will be there.”

In a fingersnap, cold hard tips of the anger he could never quite vanquish clawed through. “And an ex-con doesn’t fit in with that crowd,” he shot back.

She kept her gaze on his as color flooded into her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant. Your conviction was overturned—”

“You think that fixed things?” He took an aggressive step toward her. “Want to take a look at my résumé? There’s a two-year gap with nothing filled in. Makes it hard to explain when a prospective employer asks what I was up to during that time.”

She flexed her fingers, then curled them into her palms. “I told you I was sorry. I’ll tell you again—”

“I didn’t come here for a damn apology.”

Stepping away, he pulled back on every level. He stared out the open window while the thud of hammers, the buzz of saws, the whir of drills coming from other areas of the house filled the air. Dammit, why the hell had he come here? He should have known that seeing Allie Fielding again would shove all the bitter memories to the surface.

“Rafe, if I could go back and erase that night, I would.”

The unsteadiness in her voice had him looking back at her. She’d been an unwitting player in the event that had sent him to prison. She wasn’t to blame, logically he knew that. Still, it didn’t lessen the storm brewing inside him.

“What I was going to say,” she continued, “is that the Friends Foundation depends partly on the donations made during the annual auction. If you confront Ellen Bishop or her son and cause a scene, some of the donors are bound to get upset. They might decide not to make a contribution. That will hurt the people the foundation was established to help.”

Pulling in a breath, Rafe snapped control back in place. “I won’t cause a scene,” he ground out. “Most of the time I’ll be observing. Reading body language. You have my word.”

Allie’s chin angled while those stunning blue eyes narrowed speculatively on his face. “Something tells me you’d rather have been boiled in oil than ask me for this favor.”

“Make that any favor.”

Mouth pursed, she jabbed her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans. “I’ll make a phone call and add your name to the guest list. But I want something in return.”

“What?” His voice echoed the wariness he suddenly felt.

“We’re behind schedule on getting this house finished. My girlfriends have conflicts so they can’t work here next week. How about agreeing to put in eight hours of volunteer work?”

“I’m not much for painting.”

Allie lifted a shoulder. “Pick some other job. When you work is up to you. Deal?”

Rafe glanced around the small bedroom. Thought about the abused woman and her kids whose home this would be. That, and the fact he could schedule his time when Allie wasn’t around, clinched the deal. “Agreed.”

“Great.” She pulled a cell phone out of the front pocket of her baggy jeans. “Do you plan to bring anyone with you tonight?”

It took a moment for her meaning to sink in. “You mean, a date?”

“Yes. I’ll have to add her name to the list, too.”

Rafe wondered what she would say if she knew he’d designed his social life around a divorcee as adamant as he was about forming no emotional strings or connections. When they saw each other, it was solely for sating physical needs. Their sessions were dispassionate, verging on impersonal.

It was enough for a man who’d sworn to never again allow control of any aspect of his life to slide through his fingers.

“I’ll be alone,” he said.

“All right.” She flipped open her phone, then lifted her gaze to meet his. “Anything else before I make the call?”

Rafe paused, taking her measure. The college girl he remembered had oozed sex appeal and dressed for trouble. He could find no resemblance between her and the woman standing before him in paint-spattered clothes. Yet, there was only one Allie Fielding.

While he watched, she raised a hand to brush back a wisp of hair. It was the most erotic gesture he’d ever seen, her fingertips brushing over that bruised cheek, her full mouth parting a little.

He shifted position, trying to shake off the disturbing sensation that settled between his shoulders. What was it about her that elicited emotion when for so many years he’d allowed nothing—and no one—to reach him?

“There’s nothing else,” he answered. “I got what I came for.”

Whatever the pull he felt was, he wanted no part of it. He had his future mapped out. Allie Fielding was a part of his past.

And that was where he planned to leave her.

Chapter 3

The Friends Foundation’s annual silent auction was held in whatever location seemed the most lavish, the most luxurious, the place best suited for over-the-top elegance. This year, a luxury downtown hotel had offered the use of its refurbished ballrooms for free, and the foundation’s board jumped at the gift.

Although Allie had established the foundation, provided its initial funding and sat on the board of directors, she designated the members of the fund-raising committee to man the receiving line. That left her free to mingle and deal with any last-minute problems that might arise.

Tonight there were masses of people, delicious food on the buffet, ice sculptures, fountains flowing with chilled champagne and soft music overhead.

She moved from group to group to exchange pecks on the cheek and gripping handshakes. Some of the guests were friends, some customers of her shop, and all had made donations to the foundation in the past. Her goal tonight was to make sure they opened their checkbooks again.

She slid through the crowd with ease. Although she’d taken a chance wearing the red beaded gown with wire-thin straps when she had requested the hotel’s air-conditioning system be set on full blast, the press of bodies heated the room and kept her comfortable.

Until she spotted Rafe Diaz stepping through the doorway. Clad in a midnight-black tuxedo, he looked large and solid. Totally gorgeous. His thick, pitch-dark hair was slicked back, his dark eyes stared out of the chiseled, golden-skinned face, scanning the room carefully.

Adonis should have looked so good.

While she watched him divert around the receiving line, heat welled in Allie’s veins. Her heart pumped as though she’d just run a seven-minute mile. Her lungs tried to keep pace with her pulse, and her entire body was suddenly…hot.

No AC could cool her down now.

She had spent hours anticipating this encounter. And dreading it. Miss Manners had forgotten to cover the rules for how to best socialize with a man one had helped send to prison.

After taking a steadying sip of champagne, Allie began easing her way through the crowd to greet him.

Rafe paused just beyond the receiving line he’d avoided and surveyed the ballroom. It was huge and packed with people. Clad in tuxes and gowns shimmering with beads, pearls and sequins, the guests stood elbow to elbow under a dazzling trio of teardrop-shaped crystal chandeliers.

Enormous paintings in vivid, frenetic hues dotted the ivory-toned walls. There was enough color in the ballroom to make Rafe’s head swim. Yet through the crowd and the clashing tones, he saw Allie coming his way.

Her dress was a form-fitting glitter of flame with skinny, sparkling straps. As she moved, a side slit revealed a length of creamy thigh. Her honey-blond hair was clipped at the sides with something small and sparkling. Blood-red stones that he’d wager were real rubies fell in a rope from her earlobes to brush shoulders that looked as soft as her thigh. Her mouth and sky-high heels were the same hot color as the dress.

She looked, Rafe thought as his stomach muscles twisted, outrageously alluring.

When their eyes met, he didn’t return her smile. He might not be able to control his damnable physical response to her, but he wasn’t going to let her see it.

“Hello, Rafe.”

“Allie.”

She gestured toward a nearby waiter toting a tray filled with glasses. “Would you like something to drink?”

He flicked a look at the flute in her hand. “I’m here to work, not party.”

“What a coincidence. I’m working, too.”

Easing back one flap of his jacket, he slid a hand into his pocket and fisted his fingers. The scent she wore smelled like hot, smoldering sin. “Doing what?”

“Politely reminding the guests to slip into the adjoining ballroom where the auction items are on display. I stop short of making them swear to fill out bids. While I’m at it, I manage to squeeze in some wheedling for donations to the foundation.”

“Wheedling,” he repeated. “If you use the same tactics you did when you got me to agree to work at the house for the abused woman and her kids, I’d say you’re good at it.”

“Very good.” She lifted her chin, her red-glossed lips curving. “When it comes to acquiring donations, I’m known in wheedling circles all over the country.”

With his eyes locked on her lush, compelling mouth, Rafe felt the hard jolt of desire, unbidden and unwanted.

Instantly he pulled himself back. Since the moment he walked out of prison, he’d made certain he controlled every aspect of his life. He had learned to block out the remembered clang of a cell door sliding shut behind him. To erase the black and cloying memories of having been caught in a living nightmare. And—most importantly—to strap back all thought and emotion that might threaten that control.

Now facing a woman who had everything inside him straining at its leash, he deliberately dredged up the hated images from his past, which included Allie Fielding sitting on the witness stand, testifying against him.

It didn’t matter that he’d been free for five years. Didn’t mean a damn thing that he’d carved out a life for himself. He would never forget the vicious helplessness that had ripped through him while he sat in that courtroom. Nor would he ever put himself in a situation where he wasn’t positive he’d be the one pulling all the strings.

Like now. With her.

“Don’t forget the party queen circles,” he said, his voice a hard clip. “I imagine you’re even more famous in those. Or should I say infamous?”

He watched with grim satisfaction as her blue eyes flashed, boring into him like a pair of cold lasers. If he couldn’t trust himself to keep his distance, he could at least make sure he was the last man she’d want to be around.

Allie tightened her fingers on her glass. She understood why Rafe wasn’t interested in letting bygones be bygones. Her testimony had been one reason he’d lost two years of his life. Still, she wasn’t interested in spending time with a man who felt free to judge the woman she’d become based on past behavior.

“Since you’re here to work, I won’t take up any more of your time,” she said coolly. “I haven’t seen your client’s wife and son yet. Perhaps you’d better wait by the door so you’ll know if Ellen and Will Bishop actually show up.”

“Allie!”

Pasting on a smile, Allie shifted in the direction of the female voice that had called her name.

Katie Jones, twentysomething and so painfully thin that her eyes looked like they’d been drawn by a cartoonist, rushed to Allie’s side. “I about freaked when I heard you found my uncle’s mistress dead. And then almost got killed yourself! It must have been awful.”

“It was.” Allie didn’t have to glance across her shoulder to know that Rafe was still there. It was as if she could sense all the prickly intensity that seemed to simmer inside him. No doubt he had heard Katie’s comment and decided to hang around to hear what Hank Bishop’s niece had to say. Fine, she thought, angling her body back toward his. He was there to interview members of his client’s family. The sooner Rafe did that, the quicker he would be gone.

“Katie Jones, this is Rafe Diaz,” Allie said. “He’s a private investigator, working to clear your uncle.”

Pursing her mouth, Katie gave Rafe an appraising look. “According to my aunt, hiring you is a waste of time and money. She hasn’t come out and said it, but I think she’s convinced Uncle Hank is guilty.”

“I hope to prove him innocent,” Rafe said easily.

“Katie, how is your family?” Allie asked. “I’m sure this is a difficult time.”

Katie nodded. “Aunt Ellen has flipped out. So has my mom. She’s too upset to deal with all the stuff that needs to be done for my wedding. My dad said things at his and Uncle Hank’s office are super-stressed.” Tears welled in the young woman’s huge eyes. “It’s a terrible strain on everyone.”

Allie gave the girl a hug, which was the equivalent of embracing a bag of bones. “Is your fiancé here tonight?”

“He and Will are getting drinks,” Katie said, gesturing toward the far side of the ballroom. The movement sent light shooting off the gumdrop-size diamond on her ring finger. “Allie, will you be able to finish my trousseau?”

“Of course.” Allie frowned. “There’s no reason for you to worry about that.”

The girl’s face cleared. “I’ll tell Mom. We didn’t know how badly you were hurt.”

In reflex, Allie lifted a hand to her temple. She’d covered the bruise with makeup, but she was still plagued by a leftover ache from the concussion.

“I’m fine. And I’m looking forward to your fitting next week.” She patted the girl’s painfully thin arm. “Your trousseau is going to be gorgeous. I promise.”

Katie beamed. “I can’t wait to try everything on.” She glanced over her shoulder, waved to someone in the crowd. “I’d better get back to my family.”

Frowning over the young woman’s thinness, Allie watched Katie disappear through the throng of bodies.

“Something wrong?” Rafe asked.

She looked up. The intensity with which he studied her was unnerving. “No.” She forced a polite smile. “Thanks to Katie, you know that Will Bishop is at one of the bars, getting drinks.” Allie took a step backward. “Because he’s one of the two people you want to interview, I won’t keep you.”

“Careful,” Rafe said at the same instant he gripped her elbow and nudged her sideways.

She glanced across her shoulder, realized she’d almost stepped in the path of a waiter balancing a tray brimming with flutes of champagne.

“Thank you,” she said, conscious of the strength of the hand that gripped her elbow.

Their bodies were close enough to brush now, close enough for Rafe’s warm, masculine scent to slide into her lungs. When she felt everything female inside of her respond, she took a step backward, forcing him to drop his hand.

“Even though you didn’t come here because of the auction, you might want to bid on some of the items. In fact, there’s an Art Nouveau lamp that’s particularly interesting.”

His expression remained unreadable. “I’ll check it out.”

“Good. I need to touch base with the staff overseeing the auction. Hopefully you’ll be able to interview Ellen and Will Bishop while you’re here.”

“That’s the plan.”

She turned and walked away. And because she couldn’t help herself, she settled her hand over the spot where Rafe’s fingers had gripped her arm. She told herself it was just her imagination that her flesh still held the heat from his touch.

She had no hope, however, of discounting the fact that she was somehow far more aware of his touch than she’d ever been of any other man’s.

Having studied photos of Will Bishop in the society pages, Rafe easily spotted his client’s son among the attendees.

That done, he milled through the crowded ballroom, observing the young man. All the while, he felt himself being pulled, tugged at, by thoughts of Allie Fielding.

She was trouble. A smoldering package of temptation he in no way needed or wanted.

It rankled that there seemed to be various faces—bold, fragile, sexy, sensitive—of the woman he once believed shallow. Then there was the disconcerting knowledge that he’d spent the previous night with her face lodged in his dreams when he had worked so hard to erase that vicious wedge of his past she was a part of.

He shouldn’t even be here, he admitted. If he’d given it some thought, he could have come up with some other way to question his client’s son and wife. Allie Fielding was only a small part of the case, and he’d gotten all the information from her that he could. Instead, here he was, standing in a crowded ballroom, imagining he could still smell her sexy, compelling scent. He needed to get away from her—and stay away.

Forcing his focus back to his case, he watched Will Bishop step to one of the small bars set up around the outer edge of the ballroom. While he ordered a refill, Rafe studied his quarry.

Hank Bishop’s son was in his late twenties, lanky and good-looking, with longish sun-streaked blond hair and a deeply tanned face. He wore an expensively cut tuxedo, but had left the collar of his crisp, pleated shirt unbuttoned and forgone the requisite bow tie.

Rafe had watched the young man work the crowd, moving from woman to woman, smiling and flirting while projecting an air of nonchalant cool. From the number of intimate female smiles and longing gazes he received, it was apparent Will Bishop had his laid-back Mr. Charm persona honed to a T.

If he was at all upset about his father having been arrested for murder, it didn’t show.

Rafe stepped to the bar, positioning himself behind Bishop. When the younger man turned, gripping a tumbler of whiskey, Rafe stuck out his hand. “Will Bishop?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Rafe Diaz. I’d like a word with you.”

Bishop returned the handshake while Rafe watched his expression as he struggled to try to place him. After a moment, he frowned. “Do we know each other?”

“I’m a private investigator, hired by your father. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

A flash of emotion tightened the skin around Bishop’s eyes. Then his expression cleared. “Yeah, I got your messages.”

“You didn’t return them.”

“Been busy.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re tied up now.” Rafe inclined his head toward the pair of tall doors he had discovered earlier which led to an outside terrace. “We can talk out there.”

Bishop glanced toward the terrace, considered. “Okay. But I don’t have a lot of time.” He raised his glass, tossed back its contents, then set the tumbler on the bar. “Lead the way.”

Outside, the intense heat of the summer day had lessened with nightfall. But the air now carried the scent of rain and was muggy enough that none of the other guests had ventured out onto the terrace illuminated by massive carriage lamps.

Will Bishop walked to the railing bordering the terrace, then turned. “I meant it when I said I’ve been busy. My mother freaked when she found out about my father’s affair. And that he’d been arrested for killing his mistress.”

“Your father claims he didn’t murder Mercedes McKenzie.”

“I hope to hell he didn’t. But I’m sure wondering.”

“Did you know about his relationship with the woman?”

“Do you really think my father would have told me he had a mistress?” Will shot back. “That he’d put her up in one of the properties he owns? Paid all of her expenses?”

“No,” Rafe replied levelly. “I don’t think your father would have told you about her. But family members stumble over information about each other all the time. So, I’ll ask again, did you know about your father’s affair with the McKenzie woman?”

“No.”

“What about your mother? Did she know?”

In the glow of a carriage lamp, Bishop’s eyes sparked. “She wouldn’t have put up with it if she had. She’s hurt. Going through hell. She told her attorney to draw up divorce papers. Which, because I can’t remember a time when my parents weren’t arguing and sniping at each other, is long overdue.”

“You work in your father and uncle’s real estate investment business?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you do?”

“I scout locations to see if they’d make good investments.” His brow rose. “Dad thinks it’ll build character if I start at ground zero and work my way up.”

“Do you agree?”

“I think my dad should have paid attention to his own character building. He created the mess he’s in. There’s nothing I can do to help him.”

“Your father said you’ve been away from the office a lot.”

“After what he put my mother through, she needs a lot of attention and support. She’s my priority now. He and Uncle Guy can fire me if they want. At this point, I don’t much care.”

“Mind telling me where you were when the McKenzie woman was murdered?”

Bishop smirked. “Hell, yes, I mind. I told the police where I was. I don’t have to tell you.”

Will’s cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. After murmuring a few words, he hung up and met Rafe’s gaze. “I’ve got someone waiting for me inside. Any more questions?”

“That’s it. For now.”

Rafe stayed on the terrace, watching the young man stride away. When he pulled open the door to the ballroom, a tall, curvy redhead wearing a low-cut gown draped herself over his arm and gave him a pouty smile.

After Bishop stepped inside and closed the door, Rafe leaned a hip against the railing. Nothing Will Bishop said had put a blip on Rafe’s radar screen. And his claim that his priority was taking care of his mother was commendable. Still, Bishop didn’t fit the mold of a concerned son. Maybe that was because tonight he hadn’t once looked his mother’s way, much less spoken to her, during the entire time Rafe had spent observing him.

That, and the little twinge at the base of his spine, had him deciding to keep his eye on Will Bishop. And to find out where he’d been at the time of the murder.

Rafe checked his watch. Next on his agenda was to find Ellen Bishop and have a chat with his client’s angry wife.

Striding across the terrace, he scowled when his thoughts returned to Allie. She’d done him a favor adding his name to the guest list. So he would track her down before he left. Thank her. Once that was done, he could head home, conscience clear.

After that, when he was away from her and his lungs were free of her intriguing scent, he would shove all thoughts of the woman out of his head.

But before he could stop himself, he pictured her face, her lush, red mouth. That long length of creamy thigh. He gritted his teeth while need rose inside him like a hot wave.

He was going to need a damn bulldozer to help do that shoving.

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