Love isn’t part of the job...

A tough-as-nails cop, Chantel Harris faces whatever life throws at her, and then some. As part of Santa Raquel’s High Risk team—created by the town’s women’s shelter, The Lemonade Stand—she goes undercover to expose one of the community’s elite as an abuser.

Looking the part is easy, but gaining acceptance into upper society circles is a different matter. That’s where gorgeous and successful lawyer Colin Fairbanks comes in. But Colin is so much more than Chantel could have dreamed. Wanting him is dangerous. Falling for him could ruin everything...

“You’re different...”

Colin drew out the words, then added, “Compelling. In a way I’ve never known before.”

In a stunningly simple black short shift that was sexier for what it covered, not for what it left uncovered, she could have stepped out of a fashion magazine.

And those lips—so artfully painted—glistened with promise.

“You did hear me say that when I’m done with my book I have to return to New York?”

“I heard.”

“And you’re okay with that?” The worry in her gaze hit him harder than the kiss waiting on her lips. She cared, too.

“Yes,” he told her. She’d been honest. If, in the future, they needed to work out something...then they’d work it out.

Two nights ago his life had changed. He’d changed.

And it didn’t seem as if there was a lot he could do about that.

Except to see where it was all going to lead...

Dear Reader,

What can I tell you about Chantel Harris that will make you want to read this book? Whatever it is, please imagine me saying it. Chantel is the best friend...but has few friends. Her closest friend, a female cop, was killed on duty. Chantel was the first responder.

She never expects things for herself, she only asks how she can help others. She’s the kind of friend we all want.

If you haven’t read previous Where Secrets are Safe books, relax, you don’t need to. You won’t feel left behind. For those of you who have, you’ll have seen Chantel once before in book three, Husband by Choice, when she visited Santa Raquel to help her best friend’s widower after his second wife goes missing.

Now a member of the Santa Raquel High Risk Team, she goes undercover to ensure the safety of a boy and his mother and ends up finding something horrible going on in the society she infiltrates. I didn’t know, when I started this book, what was going to happen. I didn’t know until the end how it was going to end. I didn’t even know if the bad guy was bad. Chantel took care of it all. She took care of me. And she’ll take care of you, too, if you give her a chance!

I love to interact with my readers. You can find me on Facebook at facebook.com/tarataylorquinn and on Twitter, @tarataylorquinn.

Or join my open Friendship board on Pinterest! Pinterest.com/TaraTaylorQuinn/Friendship

All the best,

Tara

Love by Association

Tara Taylor Quinn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

An author of more than seventy novels, TARA TAYLOR QUINN is a USA TODAY bestselling author with more than seven million copies sold. She is known for delivering emotional and psychologically astute novels of suspense and romance. Tara is a past president of Romance Writers of America. She has won a Readers’ Choice Award and is a five-time finalist for an RWA RITA® Award, a finalist for a Reviewer’s Choice Award and a Booksellers’ Best Award. She has also appeared on TV across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. She supports the National Domestic Violence Hotline. If you or someone you know might be a victim of domestic violence in the United States, please contact 1-800-799-7233.

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For Lynda Kachurek, who started out as a fan and became a friend. I am very thankful you sought me out...

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT FELT WEIRD being in an interrogation room out of uniform. Not that thirty-two-year-old Chantel Harris spent much time interrogating suspects. She was a street cop, not a detective. But in the twelve years she’d been a cop, she’d been called in to sit with suspects on occasion and to help with questioning a time or two.

Even worse than being out of uniform was entering the room on stiletto heels, with makeup on her face and with her blond hair, which usually lived in a ponytail, cascading down her back in artfully curled waves.

“Excuse me, miss, but... Chantel?”

She almost turned and walked right back out as Detective Wayne Stanton—a friend from academy days—whooped. And grinned.

“Impressive, Wayne,” Chantel said, trying not to become too fond of the way the silk lining of her pants slid along her legs as she sat. Cops couldn’t afford Italian-made silk-lined clothes. Shrugging out of the matching slate blue jacket, she drummed her blunt-cut fingernails on the table. “Let’s get through this.”

“Actually, you’re the impressive one,” Captain Reagan said, coming in behind her and closing the door. “You clean up nice, Harris.”

“Thank you, sir.” The undercover assignment had been her idea. Hers and Wayne’s. She had no doubts about her ability to do the job. Or her desire to catch the rich scumbag who thought his money and power gave him the right to knock his wife around.

“I might make one suggestion, though.” The captain was holding back a smile.

“What’s that, sir?”

“Before you go to the fundraiser tonight, stop off at one of those walk-in nail salons—I believe there’s one on the corner of Dunbar and First. Get yourself some acrylic nails. No rich society woman’s going to show up with fingers that look ready and able to pull a trigger.”

He had a point. “Yes, sir.”

“The money you received was enough to buy you the clothes and things you need to see you through a six-week stint?”

Six weeks had been the operation’s initial approval window. Chantel hoped she could either get proof in that time or enough evidence to warrant an extension on the assignment.

“Yes, sir. I found a secondhand shop in LA that sells high-end designer clothes.”

“So just to be clear—” the captain looked at her and Wayne “—you’ll work your regular tour, with pay. For this operation you have your project budget, but your time spent is on a volunteer basis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” Wayne echoed. While the detective wouldn’t be undercover, he was not only going to be the person to whom she reported, but he would also be doing follow-up, including information dissemination.

The captain shook his head. “You’re both really committed to this High Risk team.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison. By bringing together members from all professions that came in contact with victims of domestic violence, creating an information pool that ensured that doctors and schools and legal aid and child protective services were all on the same page, the team was preventing domestic-violence deaths. Chantel had seen firsthand evidence...

The captain sat back. “You know, when I first read the memo on this team, I thought the folks in charge were nuts.”

Chantel’s jaw tightened as she bit back the ready defense that sprang to her lips.

“But I have to admit...domestic violence statistics, even here in Santa Raquel, are down remarkably.”

She relaxed.

“And you.” He nodded toward Chantel. “You know better than most...”

“Yes, sir.”

She’d first visited Santa Raquel from San Diego two years before, as a favor to a friend who believed his wife had been taken by her abusive ex-husband. Wayne, who’d been a member of the Santa Raquel police force, had helped her—also on his own time—and they’d saved a woman’s life.

As far as anyone knew, it had been Chantel’s first personal experience with domestic violence. And while she’d always known that what had happened with her stepfather had been a crime, she’d only in the past months begun to realize just how hideous his treatment of her had been. Helping Max and Meri Bennet had changed her in a lot of ways. Not only in how she viewed love. Through them she’d found her calling, found a way to put her own past to good use. To make lemonade out of her lemons. She was meant to help other women who, though they may have the strength of Hercules, couldn’t always fight their battles on their own. Innocent women who’d been betrayed in the vilest ways by the one person they were supposed to be able to trust above all others.

She’d applied for a position on the Santa Raquel police force, as well as with the High Risk team developed by The Lemonade Stand—a unique women’s shelter right there in Santa Raquel. The place where Meri Bennet—wife to Chantel’s close friend, Max Bennet—had run when her ex-husband, a Las Vegas police detective, had threatened the lives of her husband and young son.

In the time since Meri’s rescue from the hands of a madman, Chantel had not only grown to know her, but to consider her one of her closest friends.

When she thought about what would have happened to her if Max hadn’t been so adamant that his wife was in trouble...if Chantel hadn’t loved him enough to have enlisted Wayne’s help...

The captain tapped the table. “So, I’ve read the reports. We’re all on the same page here, and unless I hear from Stanton that we have a problem, I’ll expect normal reports on this sting until otherwise noted.”

“Yes, sir.” As a beat cop, Chantel wasn’t used to sitting down for one-on-one conversations with a department captain.

She wasn’t used to hobnobbing with the rich and famous, either. She hoped, during her debut that evening at the auction being hosted to benefit some art foundation, that she wasn’t as tongue-tied and awkward as she felt right then.

The captain seemed to have dismissed them, but he was still sitting there. And until he stood, she couldn’t. “I just have one question...”

“Yes, sir?” Wayne answered for the two of them.

“This collage thing... You don’t think this is overkill? The department’s money, going undercover, working your ass off for no compensation because some kid pasted pictures on a board during art class?”

“The boy’s father has a sealed juvenile record, sir,” Wayne said, immediately pointing out the information they’d found when they’d started asking questions about the wealthy, respected and well-known Morrison family, who lived just a few miles from them in nearby Santa Barbara.

“I understand. He hit his younger brother with a baseball bat.”

“The boy died.”

“That was more than forty years ago. Plus, as we’ve already said, the record was sealed.”

“Hospital records show that Mrs. Morrison is accident-prone.” Wayne was all business as, in his suit and tie—daily attire for him now—he sat forward, facing the captain.

“I understand. She’s not the only woman who appears to suffer from the malady. Believe me, I want domestic violence to stop. I don’t want anyone to suffer abuse at the hands of loved ones. I’m just trying to understand, between you and me, why we’re going to all this trouble because of a collage.”

Wayne looked at her, and Chantel found her tongue.

“The artist who works in the schools doing collages with students, Talia Paulson, volunteers at The Lemonade Stand, sir. She has now had formal training in domestic violence counseling. She works with all students, but part of her purpose is to read the collages, as a way to pinpoint problems students might be having that the adults in their lives are either unaware of or not tending to.

“Anger issues, self-concept issues, grief... It all comes out not only in the photos these kids choose, but in organization and color expression, too.”

She had Captain Reagan’s full attention now. And though she felt like a bug under his microscope, she respected the man and needed his buy-in.

Not to do the job. The project was already approved. But for her own sense of...she didn’t know what.

“Ryder Morrison is a straight-A student in a well-touted private school. He also used to be a star swimmer and was damned good at surfing, too. In the past year, he’s become withdrawn. Never wanting to leave home, or seemingly leave his mother’s side. Talia was called in. What she saw in Ryder’s collage alarmed her to the point that she called the High Risk team immediately.”

“I read the report,” Reagan said. “What was in the collage? That’s what I’m asking.”

“Baseball bats. A series of them, hidden among a collection of surfboards, sticking out of the leg of a pair of swim trunks, as a tattoo on a businessman’s arm. The bats were all small, and all black. The other thing that stood out was a collection of ads—all women selling house-cleaning supplies like furniture polish and floor wax. They also were spread throughout the other clear interest groupings. All of those were rimmed in red and purple. Colors that typically signify love and blood. Bruising. There were other things, but those were the most standout. Talia was alarmed and called us. Wayne checked it out and found not only that Mrs. Morrison was prone to being hurt—bruised—but that Mr. Morrison had had an episode with a baseball bat...”

“Did anyone think about asking the kid about any of this?” Reagan asked. “I didn’t see anything about it in the report.”

“His parents refused to let him speak with us,” Wayne dutifully reported.

Chantel looked at Captain Reagan and made a split-second decision to trust him. He was a powerful man in the small police force. She wanted to know they had him on their side.

“Talia spoke with Ryder,” she said. “He told her that he’d overheard something, but that when he’d asked his mother about it she’d told him he’d misunderstood. We don’t know what he was referring to. But that had been his reply when Talia had asked him about the significance of the baseball bats. He said they were black to represent misunderstanding.”

“A bit deep for an eleven-year-old.”

“Kids who are forced to grow up quickly tend to be that way.” Chantel knew.

Reagan frowned. “So you think what this kid overheard was something about his father killing his little brother?”

Wayne’s head tilted a bit as he said, “Stands to reason. It’s pretty clear that whether it’s something he overheard, or something going on in his home, Ryder has had a complete personality change in the past year and neither of his parents are acknowledging it.”

Chantel added, “They say his behavior changes are no more than a phase, due to his burgeoning adolescence. And because there are no signs of physical abuse against him, no sign that he’s being mistreated at all, there’s no more we can do to gain entrance through a front-door approach.”

“That family is in danger, sir,” Wayne told him. “The boy is clearly afraid.”

“I’m willing to work triple shifts without pay if need be to prevent Mr. Morrison from hurting his son. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if Ryder ended up hurt or, God forbid, dead because we did nothing.”

“Not to mention Mrs. Morrison,” Wayne added. “Her life is clearly even more in the balance than her son’s since she’s already exhibiting signs of having been abused. According to hospital records, she’s had a broken arm, a broken collarbone, multiple contusions on the back of her head and ribs broken in her back. Those are the injuries she sought medical help for. We have no idea how many others there have been. As you saw in the report, we’ve had three doctor notifications of suspected abuse over the past several years, but each time, both parties deny any wrongdoing. It’s clear she’s not going to press charges. Or even stand up for her son. She won’t let him talk to us.”

While it was true that Leslie Morrison had refused police access to her son, Chantel wasn’t as certain as Wayne that the woman wouldn’t stand up for him. She believed it was more a case of the woman keeping her son safe by covering for her husband—and taking his abuse herself.

Reagan shook his head, picking up his folder. “So, she won’t press charges against the bastard.”

The statement hung there between the three of them. Questions choking them with their lack of answers.

Until it became clear that the only way any of them were going to find the peace they sought was by getting back to work.

“You be careful out there,” Reagan said to Chantel as she walked down the hall of the station like she’d been born in fashionable heels. She’d been practicing in her apartment all week.

“I will, sir.”

“This man, if he’s guilty of all that we suspect—he’s dangerous.”

“I know, sir. Which is why we need a cop in there keeping an eye on things. Don’t worry. I’ll have my gun with me at all times.”

He nodded as he left them. Then it was just her and Wayne, standing by the back door.

“You got me on speed dial?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then go get them, Chantel. You’re born to do this job. If anyone can pull it off, you can.”

She hoped so.

Going against bad guys didn’t give her pause. Drug dealers. Thieves. Rapists. She was trained to take them down.

But act all girlie and glamorous? A woman who could laugh in all the right places and move like she wanted every man in the place to look at her?

That wasn’t her style at all.

CHAPTER TWO

“COME, ON, JULES, you know how much I hate going to these things by myself.” Thirty-one-year-old Colin Fairbanks stood outside his twenty-seven-year-old sister’s suite on the north end of the estate home they shared, talking to her through the door she’d just refused to open.

“Not tonight, Col.” Her voice was strong. Determined.

She wasn’t crying, didn’t sound damaged...tonight. Still...

Her door opened, and she stood, looking beautiful and...normal, in jeans and a sweater that matched the blue in her eyes. “I’m in the middle of a project,” she told him.

He could see the artist’s lamp lit over the table, the stool that she’d obviously been perched on. Paper and pencils were spread across the tilted surface.

A project. Writing and illustrating children’s stories that she wouldn’t send out to agents or publishers. The collection was building. Colin had had a friend of his print some up for her to see—thinking that if she saw them as real books she’d be driven to find a publisher.

“I asked you two weeks ago to accompany me tonight,” he told her. “You know way more about art than I do. And...”

“I told you I would think about it. I never said I’d go.”

In ten years’ time he’d managed to cajole, beg and probably guilt her into attending a handful of functions with him. Ten years of her life she’d never get back.

“Come on, Jules. A few hours out of your Thursday night is all I’m asking.” The law firm of Fairbanks and Fairbanks—named for his father and grandfather, both deceased—represented a good many of the contributors who would be attending this evening. It was expected that a Fairbanks be there.

He’d probably be instrumental in the closing of more than one deal that night. Which was fine with him. He liked the challenge afforded him by his job as sole owner of Santa Raquel’s most powerful law firm.

“I know you want me to think you need me there because of the art.” Julie nodded. “But you and I both know you’re just there for the legal contract part, Colin, not the value designation. We also both know you don’t have to go alone. Just put out the word that you want a date and you’ll have your pick.”

Her smile was almost reminiscent of the loving scoundrel Julie had been until her senior year of high school. But not quite. That shadow of perpetual resignation ruined the effect.

“And if I go alone, I’m going to spend what parts of the evening I’m not overseeing potential negotiations fending off whatever women manage to get to me first.”

Her eyes shone with sympathy, and a hint of the old mischief.

“Amber Winslow’s going to be there,” he told her. The woman—a classmate of his from the private high school they’d both attended—was a leech. And newly divorced.

In the olden days Julie would have been all over protecting him from that particular worm.

“So are the Smyths.”

He hadn’t heard, or he wouldn’t have asked Julie to accompany him. He was surprised actually. Smyth wasn’t a big supporter of the arts.

But that was that. As desperately as Colin wished his little sister could move on, he also understood why she couldn’t. In the ten years since David Smyth had gotten away with brutally raping her at a party, Julie had not seen him. Even from a distance. She’d refused to be anywhere that either David Jr. or his father, David Sr.—owner of one of the last family banks in the state—were in attendance.

In spite of the fact that that meant she was cut off from much of the social circle in which she’d grown up and thrived.

Not to mention losing the close relationship she’d had with Margaret Smyth, David Jr.’s mother.

With David Sr. being their father Michael’s closest friend, they’d all grown up together. When Colin and Julie’s mother had died, Margaret Smyth had been like a mother to them...

“Jaime told me they were on the confirmed guest list.”

Julie’s friend from grade school who’d moved to New York before high school, Jaime Mendonthol, had a couple of paintings in the evening’s fundraising auction. She was in town, and the two women had met for lunch the day before.

Jaime had been the reason Colin had been so hopeful that his sister would agree to the night out. Missing Jaime’s local show would be hard on her.

“I knew, anyway. Leslie Morrison sent me the guest list.”

Leslie Morrison, wife of James Morrison, owner and CEO of Morrison Textiles—a third-generation company that had been using Fairbanks and Fairbanks as lead counsel for more than seventy-five years—was, as far as Colin knew, the only person in their circle who knew what had happened to Julie the night that David Smyth slipped a drug into her drink and then proceeded to sexually violate her in every way possible.

Most people knew of, or had heard rumor of, a liaison gone bad between the two of them. But word among “friends” was that their sexual relations the night of the party had been consensual.

“Friends” including Santa Raquel’s esteemed police commissioner.

When it had become clear that Julie wasn’t going to get justice—due in large part to a law enforcement system that was willing to look away if the right money was involved—she’d begged Colin to keep the incident a secret. To preserve as much of the life she’d led as she could. He’d wanted to move, leave the country, even. Start over in Italy or someplace else beautiful enough to distract his little sister from the horror she wasn’t ever going to completely escape.

Julie was the one who’d convinced him they needed to stay home. Pointing out, rightly so, that a lot of people depended on Fairbanks and Fairbanks, trusted them, in a world where having an attorney in business was an absolute must. Pointing out, as well, that if he closed the firm, they’d not only put a couple dozen attorneys and more than a hundred support staff out of jobs, but they’d lose the income necessary to keep their family home on the California coast—a home their grandfather had built from scratch.

Why Leslie Morrison kept the secret, Colin didn’t know. Nor did he know, for sure, how she’d known what had happened. He’d just come home from law school one day, shortly after that horrible night, a twenty-one-year-old kid trying to raise his sister after their father’s heart attack the year before and their mother’s death from hepatitis the year before that, and found Leslie and Julie sitting on the couch.

Not all that unusual, seeing that Leslie chaired the county’s Pet Adoption and Rescue Fund, a charitable fund that raised much of the money that helped support more than twenty shelters and neutering programs in a thirty-mile radius along the coast. Julie had run for and won election to junior chair of the fund her sophomore year in high school.

She’d been sitting on the committee’s board ever since. Now with a college degree in finance, Julie was also part of the Sunshine Children’s League—which raised funds for children without families, providing funding for basic necessities but also some scholarships to California state universities.

She attended luncheons and organized fundraisers. She shopped at the stores she loved and occasionally went to dinner with a girlfriend or two.

But she didn’t date. She never frequented dinner establishments where she might run into a Smyth. She hadn’t been back to Santa Barbara—home to the Smyth mansion where the rape had taken place—in ten years.

And she almost never attended evening social functions.

Colin gave up trying to change her mind that night.

* * *

FROM THE MINUTE she walked into the glitzy ballroom Thursday night, Chantel changed. As though she’d been born to wealth, her persona slid over her, oozing a confidence that surprised her as she entered the elegant party in the five-star resort on the Pacific coastline.

For that night she was a woman of privilege. And she was a woman on the prowl. Not unlike most of the unattached—and probably some of the attached, as well—women there. But unlike the rest of her unlikely peers, Chantel, while prowling for a man, wasn’t there for personal gain. She wanted to pick up a man as badly as any of them. Maybe worse.

But she wasn’t hoping he’d take her home. To the contrary. She wanted him locked up in an eight-by-eight cell, where she knew he’d never be able to hurt his wife again. Picturing the key to the cell flying through the air and landing in the ocean beyond the wall of windows at one end of the elegantly appointed room, Chantel sent a silent promise to Ryder Morrison that he wasn’t going to spend the next several years watching his father beat up his mother. Or living in fear that his father would someday come after him with a baseball bat as he had his own little brother so many years before.

Not that arresting the man would guarantee that. They needed to build a case against him, find ample enough proof that no matter who came to the powerful man’s rescue, the prosecutor could still win a conviction.

It wouldn’t be easy. James Morrison was a respected and very rich man who’d funded many of the seated politicians in California’s congress. He probably had blackmail goods on others.

And that was where she came in. With her blond hair curling over her breasts, the ample cleavage that was visible in the V of the black, figure-hugging and glittering gown she’d worn for her debut evening as the daughter of an East Coast millionaire newly settling in California, Chantel remembered the mantra that Wayne had been repeating almost hourly the week since they’d won approval for this sting.

Patience.

“Undercover work isn’t about going in and getting it done,” he’d told her. “It’s about taking the time to become intimate with the life you’re infiltrating.”

Used to being the one who bulldozed ahead and made things happen, Chantel paused just inside the door of the richly decorated room. She’d passed her first test—handing off her invitation at the door.

Gleaned from the police commissioner himself. A man she’d never met, a man who wouldn’t be acknowledging her presence that night—though he would surely be there, even if just to put in an appearance.

He’d agreed to the sting, wanted her to get Morrison if he turned out to be guilty of beating up his wife.

But he was expecting Chantel to clear the textile magnate’s name. Morrison and Commissioner Paul Reynolds were golf buddies. They went way back.

Or so she’d been told.

Still, she couldn’t know the commissioner. Not newly arrived from upstate New York as she was.

And she wasn’t about to get cozy with James Morrison, either. No, her job was to infiltrate the community. Become friendly with those who knew Morrison. People who could let things drop that a police officer might be able to use to find the dirt on him. The truth about him.

Her job was to find out the man’s deepest secrets, and if those secrets involved raising even a little finger to his wife or son, to expose him for the criminal that he was. She was there to get the proof...

* * *

COLIN WORKED THE room as his father had taught him, making time for each and every one of the firm’s clients. Shaking hands. Being available to anyone who might need advice on the spot.

And making certain that Fairbanks and Fairbanks’s top-grade lawyers, all in their tuxes and sipping on nothing more lethal than club soda, were ready to step into any situation that required more complicated legal machinations.

Though Colin was certainly as skilled and capable as the best of them, his job as the rainmaker, and CEO, of Fairbanks and Fairbanks required that he know about every single deal his firm handled. Which meant that he couldn’t possibly give his wealthy clients the time and attention they required for drawing up complicated contracts with all t’s crossed and i’s dotted.

Colin handled the beginning and the end. The handshakes. Occasionally, on cases that took unexpected turns, he’d be in the middle, too.

His self-appointed job—his purpose in life—was to make certain that integrity was at the root of everything touched by a Fairbanks. He owed that to Julie.

And to the parents who’d died young and counted on him to protect her. He was a lawyer—educated at Stanford, graduated from the top of his class—and he’d been unable to bring his sister justice.

He’d learned young—and the hard way—that integrity was rare, and he couldn’t count on it from anyone but Julie. Ever.

He hadn’t seen Jaime yet—she was busy behind the scenes getting ready for the opening of the curtain that would highlight all of the night’s top auction pieces on the revolving stage that had been set up in the middle of the room—but he hoped to be able to say hello. To invite Julie’s friend to dine with them one night before she left town, to hear what Jaime thought of the Julie she’d seen that week.

Not that he’d gossip about his sister. But Jaime had known Julie before the incident. She’d gotten into trouble with her a time or two. Like the time they’d climbed to the top of the water tower to hold up a sign, a piece of artwork, really, made by Jaime, protesting the fact that they’d been told they couldn’t pray in school.

Catching sight of the police commissioner, he made a sharp turn and a beeline for the bar, where he ordered a Scotch and water. The water in deference to the fact that he was driving. He kept his back to the room. Commissioner Reynolds didn’t stay long at these things—usually leaving his deputy commissioner to the public relations duties required by the office he held—but with the Smyths in attendance, it was no surprise the commissioner had shown, as well. And if Colin turned around to look, he was sure he’d see Smyth, too. They were always together.

He hadn’t seen either of the David Smyths that evening. But it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. He’d faced them down many times, with polite indifference. Each and every time they were the first to look away.

He took some small measure of satisfaction in that. Not nearly enough to even hope to heal his sister’s wounds, the damage they’d done to his family, but it allowed him to walk among them.

Julie was determined that people like the Smyths—people who bought police commissioners off rather than being accountable to their actions—would not chase out of town the people with integrity, namely the Fairbankses.

And that was the strongest reason Colin hung around. Because it was what Julie needed.

He could be a good lawyer anywhere and might even be better suited at finding a woman who didn’t bore him if he weren’t still living in the same small society in which he’d grown up. Or at least find one that he trusted to like him for the man he was inside, not for the man who happened to have a few million in his bank account.

One thing was for certain. While there were ample numbers of women here who would be eager to wear his ring, not one of them was willing to sign a prenuptial agreement.

He knew. He’d made quite a reputation for himself a few years back when he’d been on the brink of proposing and had brought up the prenuptial subject as a way of leading into the proposal. He’d actually thought love drove the liaison that time. That the woman in question understood that unless Julie married, Colin’s inheritance would one day go to her.

He supposed it was lucky that he’d never made it to the proposal stage. He’d been saved from being married for his money. “A glass of Chateau Ste. Michelle Pinot, please?”

The voice, coming from just behind him on the left, seemed to pour over Colin’s shoulder and down his body. Smooth and cultured, like she’d attended one of those finishing schools that always seemed to take anything natural and real out of women. And yet...with a hint of husky, too. A hint that maybe this particular woman hadn’t been a complete success at that school.

He turned, expecting to see someone older, perhaps his mother’s age. An art lover up from LA. Or one who’d flown in from the East Coast, like Jaime had...

Blond hair came into his vision, flowing over the most perfect breasts... The glass in his hand dropped to the bar with such force he was embarrassed. His mouth would have dropped, too, if he hadn’t been so cultured himself.

She was most definitely not his mother’s age.

“Hello,” he said, making way for her to step up to the bar beside him.

“Hello.” Her East Coast accent wasn’t strong, but it was there. Another part of her the school couldn’t quite ameliorate?

“I’m Colin Fairbanks,” he said, holding out a hand to her.

He was a handshaker. It came with his job.

Her nails, conservatively longish and a sedate red, glistened as she returned his gesture. Her skin was surprisingly...not as soft as he’d expected, like she did her own gardening or, like Julie, had her hands in turpentine. Still, he wanted to hold on.

“I’m Chantel Johnson,” she said, pulling her hand back after a brief touch. And then, “Thank you,” with what had to be a heart-stopping smile to the bartender as he slid her wine toward her.

She took a sip, those glossy red lips managing to caress the edge of the glass without leaving any residual red paint behind.

“You in town for the auction?” He asked the obvious because for once in his life he didn’t have an interesting conversational tidbit to offer.

She turned that smile on him, and it was more potent than he’d imagined. The small shake of her head drew his gaze to where the blond curls were caressing her breasts.

Embarrassed, he immediately raised his gaze. She tilted her head. “Not much of a gentleman, are you, Colin Fairbanks?”

“I’m sorry.” He was mortified. “I don’t usually... Truth is, I haven’t... You aren’t in town for the auction, then?”

Some rainmaker he was.

More like opportunity-blower.

She shook her head again. His gaze stayed glued on hers.

“I’m here, tonight, for the auction, but I’m in town to stay. I’ve recently relocated.”

Hot damn. Chances were, since she clearly had an invitation to the night’s shindig, he’d be seeing more of her.

“Where are you staying?”

“In a hotel at the moment. Until I can find a place that suits me.”

He asked her what kind of place suited her and found out that she wanted something with beachfront—and property—but didn’t need anything overly large as she lived by herself.

Colin was grinning by that point.

“So what brings you to California?”

“I’m writing a book,” she told him. “My family is in publishing, and I want the book to be published, or not, based on its merits. I plan to submit it like anyone else would have to do and, knowing me, it’ll be easier if I’m not right there with everyone, having to make up stories about what I’m doing.

“Besides, until last week I had an office on the top floor—VP of marketing. If nothing else, that felt like a conflict of interest, though I can’t really say why. Marketing and editorial are separate entities...”

Publishing. Julie’s children’s books.

This was getting better and better.

“You’re from New York?” he asked, then said, “Publishing, and that little bit of an accent...”

“I was raised in upstate New York,” she told him. Her wineglass was still full.

“So, since you’re new here, I suppose you don’t know many people.”

“None, actually. A big black-tie charity event...if it’s anything like home, I figured this was the way to get to know them.”

He stood, almost full glass of Scotch in hand. “Will you allow me to introduce you around?”

He’d probably wake up in the morning and find out that he’d had one hell of a great dream.

“I don’t know, Colin Fairbanks,” she said, taking a step back and giving him a saucy grin. Yeah, that dream was getting better by the second. “If I’m seen with you, will it damage my reputation? For all I know, you could be Southern California society’s bad boy.”

For a brief moment, he wished he was. Because he had a feeling she’d like him that way.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Johnson. I’m the guy others don’t like because I tend to see the world in black-and-white—and aim for the white every time.”

“No shades of gray for you?” She ran her finger along the edge of her wineglass and then licked it.

He fought a very strong temptation to bring that finger to his lips but managed to simply shake his head.

“Disappointed?” he asked.

She sipped wine and studied him. “I’m not sure,” she told him. “Can I get back to you on that?”

So she expected to see him again. “Anytime,” he told her, one hand in his pocket.

His clients were probably watching him by now. Any other night, he’d have been out there with them—mingling, being seen, listening.

Appearing to enjoy himself.

Did it show that that night was the first time in a very long time that he actually was enjoying himself?

“What is it that you do?” she asked, still not moving on into the room.

“I’m an attorney. Owner of Fairbanks and Fairbanks.”

“Hotshot corporate lawyer,” she said. Her eyes might have darkened. He couldn’t be sure.

“You’ve heard of us.”

“Who travels in this circle and hasn’t?”

She had him there.

She was welcome to him anywhere.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE WAS OVERDOING IT. She’d never be able to pull off the femme fatale flirtatiousness on a longer-term basis. Chantel took the sexy steps she’d practiced across the room at Colin Fairbanks’s side, reminding herself that she had to be patient. To slow down. She was in this for the long haul.

As long as it took to build a strong enough case against James Morrison. Or to convince herself that, while the man had admitted to beating his little brother to death with a baseball bat, he really wasn’t a wife and family beater.

She smiled, said hello and shook hands as Colin introduced her around. She’d seen pictures of the Morrisons but had yet to see either of them that night. She hoped Leslie’s absence didn’t mean she had new bruises that she couldn’t bring out in public.

Always the cop, Chantel couldn’t ever lose her awareness of the darker side of life. Not even in the midst of a life as beautiful as that glitzy ballroom with its linen chair covers and tablecloths, real crystal glasses and more diamonds than she’d ever seen in one place. The flower arrangements were real. She could smell the roses as she passed.

And felt the heat as Colin’s tuxedoed arm brushed against the skin left bare by her halter-top gown.

“How long have you been in town?” he asked as they left a group of investors in conversation with a lawyer Colin had just discreetly motioned over.

“A week,” she told him. Wayne had gone over her story with her umpteen times. She’d delivered it without a hitch. He’d come up with the idea of her living in a hotel. It was easy enough for her to get picked up and dropped off from a hotel lobby. To take the hotel’s limousine service to functions and then to drive home in her older model Mustang to her small one-bedroom apartment across from the beach.

An added benefit to the plan was that Wayne had done a favor for the night manager at the hotel. If anyone asked about her using the hotel’s car service, or asked about her hanging around, she’d have an alibi.

The writing...that had been her stroke of genius. A job she could “do” without anyone ever seeing her. She had a maternal aunt by marriage whose family was in the publishing business. And their name was Johnson.

She saw Commissioner Reynolds tipping glasses with another man almost straight ahead of them, close enough that she heard their laughter. Colin was going to lead her right to them.

An awkward moment she’d prefer to avoid...

“I’m getting a little warm. Do you mind if we step outside?” she asked, raising her glass to her lips at the same time to hide any telltale twinge at the side of her mouth.

“Of course.” Colin sounded as pleased as she felt relieved; he took a right and led her to a pair of glass double doors that led to a balcony.

Thankfully, there were heaters out there. She’d freeze her tail off in this gown on what had turned out to be a forty-degree January night. Wishing she hadn’t left the shawl she’d bought on her bed at home, she allowed herself to be led outdoors.

Colin went for the balcony rail. She could hear the ocean in the distance but got as close to the nearest heater as she could manage.

“I can tell you’re from New York,” he said, smiling down at her in a way that she found more than a little distracting.

While she’d had more than her share of admirers in her more than three decades of living, Chantel didn’t usually find herself being viewed with tenderness.

She was a decorated cop. The men she worked with knew that. They respected her abilities to protect them as well as they’d protect one another.

She felt naked against the tiny white glittering lights strung around a couple of potted trees on either side of them.

“My accent gives me away every time,” she said, trying to tighten her mouth a little bit more around the words—instilling as much of her accented native tongue as she could. A sound she’d worked years to lose when, with her best friend, she’d migrated from upstate New York to LA right out of high school.

Neither of them had ever looked back.

“It’s not just your accent,” he told her. “Look around you.”

She did. There were three older men, all in matching monkey suits, to her right, seeming to be hiding out from the activities going on around them. Another two, farther away, to their left, were smoking.

“I don’t get it,” she told her companion. What about these guys gave her away as being from New York?

“There are no women out here. Even with the heaters, it’s far too cold. You’re obviously acclimated to colder weather.”

Nope. But she had tough skin.

She’d missed seeing herself as the “only woman.” Probably because she was used to being the only female among men.

She was perfectly comfortable that way, but felt like she was quickly losing control of her cover.

Like maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t do this.

“Well, perhaps I’m just counting on you to keep me warm,” she said. She would do this. A memory of the picture she’d seen of Ryder Morrison, of the collage he’d made and she’d studied, had her straightening her backbone. The medical records she’d been privy to as part of a law-mandated notice sent from the hospital to the police department sprang to mind.

She pictured her friend Meri, thought of the scars she still wore so long after the brutal beating that had almost left her dead, of the way she’d been near death’s door, mostly incoherent, and had still managed to get herself out to the street...

“You okay?” Colin leaned in toward her. She breathed in his musky scent.

“Of course I’m okay,” she sputtered, covering another lapse with a small sip of wine that took a long time to swallow.

So she wasn’t quite as good at this undercover thing as she wanted to be. It was her first night out. On her first gig.

And she cared more than she probably should about the ultimate outcome. But truthfully, what cop didn’t?

She forced a chuckle. “Makes me wonder about you, though, that you’d think there’s something wrong with me for counting on you to keep me warm.”

He moved closer, put an arm around her and pulled her in close, shocking Chantel with just how good that felt. “It was your eyes, not your words, that made me wonder,” he said softly, leaning his head down toward her ear. “You looked kind of lost for a second there.”

She had a poker face. Almost always. But she took note to work on it in front of the mirror in “rich heiress” mode.

“It’s all so new,” she said now, speaking the complete truth. “All of this...it’s nothing like my life in New York.”

“You didn’t live by the ocean, then?”

“No.” Her family, the broken fragments of it, had mostly lived in a brick house that looked like every other brick house in the row of brick houses. “And I always had friends close by,” she said, resuming character. One friend. Jill...

“I didn’t realize it was going to be so hard...not knowing anyone. Truth be told, I was kind of looking forward to meeting a whole new group of people.”

“Society life can be a little cloying, can’t it?” Colin surprised her by saying. “You grow up with the same people, go through school with them, attend charity events with them...”

“Oh, the life of the rich and famous.” She chuckled again but wondered at the very serious tone in his voice.

Initially she’d had him pegged as a privileged playboy, and then as an uptight, closed-minded, filled-with-his-own-importance type of guy.

She’d been profiling.

And he was proving her wrong.

She wasn’t there for him to prove anything to her. He pulled her closer. She wondered if he was as good in bed as it felt like he would be.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m not overheated anymore, that’s for sure,” she lied. A chance meeting with the commissioner might have been better than the balcony she’d traded it for.

“Colin?” The female voice behind them had Chantel spinning guiltily around.

What was she doing?

She had to get back inside and mingle. Clearly spending time with Colin Fairbanks wasn’t going to be the “in” she’d hoped. Because “in bed” wasn’t her goal.

“Leslie?” He turned, too, greeting the other woman with a warm tone. Chantel would have left, except that he didn’t let go of her.

“I thought that I saw you out here,” the other woman said. She was as beautiful as expected with a perfect figure and auburn hair that did all the right things, including tapering down to perfectly molded breasts. Probably due to inserts. “I’ve been looking for you.” Her moist lips moved, but the smile didn’t leave her face.

As she came closer in the dim lighting, Chantel got a better look at her.

She was a good ten years older than Chantel. And probably Colin, as well, if she’d been right in assuming him to be about her age.

“Leslie Morrison, this is Chantel Johnson. She’s new to town, and you’re one of the people I wanted her to meet.”

She reached out a hand, grappling with the twisted means of fate. Leslie Morrison. Her sexy, distracting, dangerous companion had just given her the means to speak with the woman Chantel was there to save.

Her meeting with Colin hadn’t been a mistake or foolishness on her part. It had been preordained.

Chantel was going to use it for everything it had.

CHAPTER FOUR

“CHANTEL’S WRITING A BOOK.” Colin spoke with bragging rights he couldn’t possibly have earned in the space of an hour. He heard himself and stood there grinning, anyway.

He’d been the first to find her.

So he was staking his claim.

They were still with Leslie but had moved inside and had new drinks in their hands. They’d been joined by others, in ones and twos, who’d moved on in the same fashion.

Couldn’t have high society looking like groupies. Or lose that slightly bored look in spite of the new flesh among them.

“A book?” Leslie’s head dipped slightly, showing that she was impressed. In Leslie’s case, Colin understood the gesture to be more than a show. While Leslie Morrison had grown up among the rich in Southern California and was considered old money, she also was one of the most genuine among them.

Which, along with the fact that the Morrisons and Fairbankses had been doing business together for almost a millennium, was probably why Julie felt so comfortable with the older woman.

With a bit of humility Chantel nodded a little shyly. He wondered what she hid behind the sip of wine she took.

Amusement?

Or real embarrassment.

He wanted to believe the latter but had ceased expecting the best from people—especially the people in his crowd—a long time ago.

“What kind of book are you writing?” Leslie asked.

Another bit of a pause from Chantel was followed by, “Women’s fiction police procedural.” She took another sip, and added, “It’s a woman-in-jeopardy story told from the point of view of a female cop.”

Not very ladylike material, which might explain her slight discomfort. But then she probably hadn’t been in California long enough to know that she’d fit right in.

Leslie’s eyes widened. “Oh, Colin.” She reached out as though to touch his wrist and then pulled back. “You have to get her to help us with the library project,” she said before turning to Chantel. “If you have time, that is...”

“Of course I have time,” Chantel said. “My calendar is empty at the moment. What’s the library project?” She looked at them, her gaze lingering a tad bit longer on Colin.

Pretty sure he wasn’t imagining her interest, he took a step closer to her, intending to give her the short version, when Leslie said, “Colin, the two of you would be perfect for the lead roles!”

He’d agreed to help out—partially because his firm was handling the estate and resultant legal details, and partially because he wanted Julie to have more exposure in the book world—but his assistance was to have been only behind-the-scenes.

“What lead roles?” Chantel gave her head a little shake, but she was smiling through her confusion.

“Oh, we’re hosting a decadent murder mystery dinner—at a thousand dollars a plate—to help purchase books for our own full-service library in Santa Raquel.”

He’d hoped Julie would be a part of it, but so far, she’d refused to commit to anything other than helping Leslie with behind-the-scenes paperwork, guest lists and contacting people she knew with personal rare-book libraries who might be willing to donate a copy or two.

“Katie Estrada, a childless widow, willed her family’s mansion to Santa Raquel with the caveat that it be used as a library,” Colin said. “A trust was set up with money left in her estate to fund the salary of one librarian and to cover basic operating expenses for the first ten years,” he added.

“Voters passed a one-time tax levy to fund the minimal renovations necessary to convert the first floor into usable library space,” Leslie popped in. “But a similar levy to purchase books failed in November. Colin came up with the idea of the fundraiser. We’re hosting it on-site, opening up the mansion for those on the guest list to have access to the upper floors and rooms, as well. The evening is based loosely on the children’s game Clue, with built-in characters who will be seen in different rooms in the house and on the grounds. Attendees will be expected to speak with as many of those characters as possible throughout the evening and to ask fellow guests if they’ve seen or spoken to the characters, like investigators would question witnesses.”

Chantel was following every word, grinning and nodding.

“My firm handles the trust and all estate matters.” Colin explained his involvement.

“The idea is wonderful,” Chantel told him. “And certainly not something they taught you in law school.”

“It allows guests to feel some affinity with the home, to make a memory there.” Leslie stole Chantel’s gaze from him.

“The point of the format is to bring guests together in a feeling of mutual support, rather than in suspecting one another of ‘murder,’” he added, not sure why he was promoting the event so heavily to this woman.

Because he wanted her to be his leading lady?

He wasn’t even planning to play a part. Let alone a lead role.

Her approving nod gave him his answer. He was trying to impress her. Might as well be honest with himself about that.

“We’re hoping, of course, that attendees will pledge continued monetary support,” Leslie added. “We’d like to be able to have the library open by summer. Colin and his sister, along with the rest of the committee, already have more than a hundred people confirmed for the event.”

“I’d be happy to help in any way I can.” Chantel didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been involved with library funding work in the past.”

Of course she had. Her family was in publishing. He should have thought of inviting her to the event; he was sure he’d have gotten around to thinking of it.

Just as soon as he got his head out of his pants. Chantel Johnson was a beautiful woman and new to town. But she was also a person who’d piqued his interest.

He didn’t just want to take her to bed—though there was no denying he wanted to do that—he also wanted to do it more than once.

Maybe even over a long period of time—if things continued as well as they’d started.

He’d been with her over an hour and she hadn’t raised his defenses or said a single thing he’d found boring. Everything about her was unique. And everything about him was interested.

* * *

OH, BOY. She was in over her head.

Thanks to the family that had largely left her to tread water in her formative years, Chantel was a good swimmer. Leslie leaned in, closing off their threesome from interruption from the rest of the room. “We have a basic script,” she said. “But it’s just that—basic. With the price we’re charging, I’ve been a bit nervous that the evening would turn out to be too much of a been-there-done-that with this crowd.”

Colin shifted. His arm brushed her bare shoulder again, but she was ready for the heat this time. She maintained the contact, her visible attention on the woman she’d hoped to meet that night.

But meeting Leslie Morrison wasn’t even close to getting the job done. Chantel needed a lot more time in the woman’s circle if she hoped to get the necessary evidence to save her life.

Or to gain her confidence enough to get her to press charges against her husband.

At the moment, Colin Fairbanks seemed like a fairly obvious godsend. He was her ticket to the circle—one that would not raise suspicion in anyone who might get nervous about Leslie suddenly having a new “friend.”

Her job, she suddenly understood, was to make certain that she kept him interested enough to keep her around.

Leslie was still talking. “But if we can give attendees an evening to remember, something that’s not easy to do with this bunch, we’ll get donations commensurate with their enjoyment. Some of us out here on the West Coast might be hard to truly entertain, but probably because of that, we’re very generous with our money when we do find ourselves having a good time.”

She was speaking freely because she thought Chantel was “one of them.” Chantel got that. It was up to her to keep Leslie and her crowd under that impression.

“So I’m thinking, with your writing skills...you could take the basic story and add twists and turns that will give them something they’ve never seen before, something unique.”

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. Her mother’s voice, of all things, popped into her mind from many years before.

“I’d be happy to have a go at it,” she said aloud, wondering how much it would cost the police department to hire a ghostwriter on short notice. One thing was for sure, her limited undercover budget wasn’t going to cover it.

Her mother’s brother’s wife, whose family, the Johnsons, were in publishing in New York, had a small nonfiction publishing company. Her aunt and uncle had been at her high school graduation, and Chantel hadn’t seen them since.

That contact probably wasn’t going to be much help...here.

A couple passed behind Colin. He shifted, placing a hand at her back as he stepped closer. He left the hand there.

“You’ll get a look at the lead parts, then,” Leslie said. The slightly sly grin she gave Colin made it obvious she was working him. “Seriously, I think you two would be perfect for them.”

“I’m not an actor.” Colin’s reminder was firm, but kind.

It would have stopped Chantel.

“Of course you are, my dear,” Leslie said. “We all are. It’s the only way to survive living among us all!” She chuckled.

And Chantel was chilled by the tragic truth she was certain she heard underneath the woman’s polish.

“I’m not sure I understand why you think Colin and I would be perfect for the parts,” Chantel said, an investigator, a high-society beauty and a writer all wrapped into one. While playing a part in the library’s mystery-event evening could very well provide her with access to Leslie as well as giving her the excuse she needed to stick close to Colin, to use him as her cover as she attended functions over the next weeks, she didn’t want him to have reason to avoid her.

Which he very well could if he didn’t want to play the part.

She also didn’t want to appear too eager. Was she adopting enough of the blasé attitude she’d observed on so many of the videos of the rich and famous she’d watched over the past week?

His hand caressed her back. Whatever she was doing, she had to keep doing it. She seemed to have piqued his interest.

“The story is based on a couple who are newly married and just moving into the mansion. They’ve inherited it and a couple of staff from his uncle. The day they move in, a couple of his uncle’s close friends stop by. They continue to check in. The couple has only been there a few of days when they discover a dead body that’s been dragged behind a hidden door in the upstairs hall. The two staff members, and everyone else who’d dropped by, are suspects.”

“But neither member of the lead couple is?”

“No.” Leslie shook her head. “You see, that’s why you and Colin fit the parts so well...” She had a little smile on her face, her eyes alight. And no matter her age, she was really quite beautiful.

“Leslie.” The one word was softly spoken, coming from just behind Leslie. A man had approached.

Chantel watched as Leslie’s face became instantly devoid of emotion and a split second later was smiling again. “James.” Leslie turned, taking the man’s hand and pulling him forward.

“James, good to see you.” Colin reached to shake the other man’s hand. She didn’t detect even a hint of stiffening in the other man’s presence.

Did he have any idea what James Morrison did to his wife behind closed doors?

God forbid, could Colin be part of the good-old-boy mentality that would cover up any hint of abuse with justification of one kind or another?

Or was the High Risk team wrong in their assessment of the situation?

“You’re monopolizing Colin’s time, my love,” James said to his wife, a tender look on his face as he wrapped his arm around her lower back. “The auction is about to start.”

Chantel zeroed in on the hand James had on his wife’s hip. She was pretty sure, in spite of the room’s elegantly soft lighting, that those fingertips had whitened with the application of pressure.

“No, I’m monopolizing her,” Colin quickly asserted. He glanced at his watch. “We’re making plans for the library. We’ve got another fifteen minutes or so before things get going. I promise to release her to you before then.”

His easy tone matched his expression. James hesitated, but only for a second, before kissing his wife’s cheek and telling her he’d meet her at their table.

“As I was saying...” Leslie was still with them, but the glow had gone from her eyes. “You and Colin just met—like the couple in our mystery just married. Embarking on the new, so to speak.”

Colin lifted a hand to cover his mouth as he half coughed. “I don’t know...”

“It’s perfect because Colin is in charge of all the legal, technical aspects of the evening, and you’ll be our creative administrator. You’ll both need to be there, owners of the mansion for the evening.”

Leslie smiled, and Chantel was fairly certain she saw a note of uncertainty on the other woman’s face now. Maybe she was imagining it all—James’s too-forceful squeezing of his wife’s hip, her loss of positive energy.

And maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe the woman’s husband had just sucked the life out of her with his reminder of the harsh realities in her life.

“I’d be happy to play the lead female role,” she burst out. And then glanced at Colin. In time to see his look of surprise.

An expression he quickly cloaked, leaving her with the brief thought to challenge him to a game of poker sometime.

“Then I accept, as well,” he told Leslie. “I can’t leave this lovely lady stranded without a hero in her first Santa Raquel story.”

His words reminded Chantel that she was going to be expected to write that story, or at least appear as though she’d done so.

She’d feel more confident bursting into a bar, gun drawn, to break up a brawl. At least it was something she’d done before.

Accepting Colin’s invitation to loop her arm through his and accompany him to the rows of seats up front to watch the auction, she promised herself a bowl of chocolate ice cream for breakfast.

Whatever it took to keep the panic at bay.

CHAPTER FIVE

“YOU’RE GRINNING.”

“What?” A piece of whole wheat toast halfway to his mouth, Colin looked up from his tablet—he read the news every morning over breakfast—and focused on his sister.

“You’re grinning,” she said again. Dressed in light-colored pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with her long dark hair curling over her shoulders, Julie looked about sixteen. Spoon suspended above her grapefruit, she was watching him.

They took breakfast together every day in the small room with a wall of windows that overlooked the ocean.

“What’s funny?” she asked now. In another half hour, she’d be leaving the dishes in the sink for their housekeeper and going up to shower. She had at least two meetings that he knew of that day—one in Los Angeles with executives from the Sunshine Children’s League. She was hoping to get funds for the Santa Raquel hospital to hire a child-life specialist to work exclusively with patients without family visitors.

“Nothing’s funny. I didn’t realize I was smiling.”

“You were staring at your tablet but haven’t scrolled in at least five minutes.”

She was exaggerating.

“I met the most marvelous woman last night.”

“Oh?” Leaning toward him, she said, “Do tell.”

“You can see for yourself,” he said over his bite of toast. “She’s agreed to help with the library project. She’ll be at lunch tomorrow.”

They were having it catered in what had been a dining room but was now a conference room at the Estrada mansion—giving the committee time to look around at the renovations that had been made since they’d last toured the place.

“You just met her and already roped her into helping us?”

He would have, if he’d thought of it first. “Leslie did.”

“And that’s how you met her? Leslie hooked you up?”

He might have been exasperated by his little sister’s nosiness if he wasn’t so damned glad to see the old teasing light in her eyes.

“No. I managed to make her acquaintance all on my own. She’s new to town...” Did he bring up Chantel Johnson’s publishing background now...or after Julie had a chance to meet—and like—her?

“And she was on the auction invitation list?”

“She’s from New York. I’m assuming her family had connections.” And if they hadn’t, they’d just have needed to make a call or two to ease their daughter’s introduction to LA society.

“Let me guess—she’s slender, blond hair, big brown eyes and isn’t quite as tall as you are, but she’s not short. Oh, and last night she was wearing a black halter dress that she’d probably purchased last season.”

Her grin had turned into a mischievous smile. She’d been messing with him. Lucky for her, he was in an unusually good mood.

“You’ve been talking to Jaime.”

“She called as soon as the auction was over. I’d asked her to. I wanted to know how she did.”

He’d have sought the woman out himself the night before, as he’d originally intended, but when he’d heard that Chantel had arrived in a hired car, he’d offered to see her back to her hotel.

“How’d she do?”

Julie named a figure that elicited a long whistle from Colin and then said, “So what’s her story? This Chantel person. She must be something to have monopolized your time the entire evening.”

Here’s where he could tell her that Chantel was a writer, too. That maybe her family could take a look at Julie’s series of children’s stories.

He ate a couple of bites of melon from the crystal plate in front of him instead. “I’d rather you find out for yourself,” he told her. “I’m interested in your opinion.” True. And also prevarication.

“Ohhhh...” Julie’s brows were raised, her lips still tilted slightly upward. “You’re looking for familial approval.”

He could have firmly denied the accusation. Laughed her off. “I like her,” he said instead.

Julie set her spoon down. “As in, you-want-to-see-her-again like her?”

Scrolling down on his tablet, he said, “I just met her last night.” And then—partially because she was soon going to find out, anyway—he added, “We’re going to be playing the leading roles in the murder mystery.” He left out the part about Chantel juicing up the script.

“You agreed to play a part?” Her mouth hung open.

Looking her in the eye, Colin nodded. It had occurred to him that perhaps part of the reason his little sister didn’t feel more of a drive to get out of the house and start really living again—as in looking for a relationship so she could start a family of her own—was because she was following his example.

It was one of his theories. Right along with the one where she’d go out with him, if he kept after her, because she felt safe with him. And once she started getting out more, she’d remember how much she’d enjoyed it. He’d been working off that one for more than a year...

“Wow. She must really be something if you’re coming out of the background at a party.”

He didn’t know about that. But Julie’s reaction did add to his suspicion that she held back more because he did. Could he help it that he took after their father? A man who preferred to observe and be aware? Julie had been more like their mother—the social one.

For a while, too long probably, he’d understood her reticence. But she was only three years from thirty. And hadn’t been on a date since high school.

“Well, I think that since I’m going to be way out of my comfort zone on this one, you could join me in that state by at least attending the event.”

She was still watching him. Her gaze more curious than guarded. She hadn’t said no.

“Will you? Please?” It was still a month away. She could think about it. And say yes and then change her mind, too.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He raised an eyebrow at her, while inside he was hosting a minicelebration.

“I kind of want to watch you with your leading lady...” Her expression pointed, her tone wasn’t filled with despondency. He took that as another small victory. “But it’ll depend on the guest list.” The last was issued with a matter-of-factness that had become a way of life.

It depended whether or not the Smyths were attending. He’d wanted to keep them off the list, but they both knew that he couldn’t. Not while maintaining Julie’s front of there being nothing egregiously wrong between the two high-society families. Because she didn’t want it known how damaged she’d been. She wasn’t going to let that family run her out of the town she’d been born to, raised in and loved.

Which was why, on rare occasions, she’d go to evening functions—to maintain her own status quo. But it was usually only when the Smyths were vacationing elsewhere.

And they weren’t going to be this time. He’d heard the night before that they’d be attending the library event. It was turning out to be the event of the year. Everyone was going to be there.

Except his sweet sister, who was helping to put on the event?

Julie went back to her grapefruit and toast. Colin scrolled on his tablet and thought about the woman he’d met the night before. Thought about the fact that he was still thinking about her.

About ensuring that, aside from murder-mystery business, he’d be seeing her again. Soon.

“She really had an effect on you.” He was deep in thought about him and Chantel on a yacht on the ocean—something about a private dinner at sunset—when Julie interrupted him.

Glancing up, he saw her studying him. This time minus the grin. “Who?”

But he knew who.

“You were grinning again,” she told him. “And not scrolling.”

Did Julie spend every morning watching him scroll, for God’s sake? Making a note to read his news before or after he got to the breakfast table—to spend those few minutes every morning paying more attention to his sister—he said, “There’s something different about her, Jules. She’s not like the rest of the women I know. I’m eager for you to meet her.”

Julie did smile then. “And I’m getting more and more curious.”

He hoped so. He wanted Julie to like Chantel. Not just because he did and hoped the woman would be around awhile, but because her publishing experience, her own drive as a writer, could help Julie take enough of a step out of her shell to submit some of her work for publication.

Maybe she’d even be able to help him convince Julie to attend the murder mystery gala. It would be a miracle.

But who knew? Colin being preoccupied by a woman was a bit of a miracle, too.

CHAPTER SIX

ON DUTY AT four on Friday, Chantel finished off a pint of chocolate ice cream for breakfast and lunch at a computer at the precinct, looking up names from the party the night before. Pulling police reports for any that had them. She already had everything there was to have on the Morrisons. Today she was looking at the others on the guest list.

A break-in, never solved. Several traffic incidents. A couple of DUIs.

First and foremost, she’d gone straight to the Fairbankses. And hadn’t been surprised to find not one single reference to them in the police database. You didn’t run a law firm as successful as Fairbanks, most particularly not with the types of clients they represented, if you were prone to mischief.

Still, a girl could never be too careful. If she was going to pretend an interest in the rainmaking attorney—and she was most definitely going to if she could persuade him to pursue her—she needed to be certain that he was going to help her case, not hurt it.

After brunch, already in uniform, she stopped to give the captain her report and then headed out in her car, driving by Max and Meri’s house—completely unnecessarily, given that the man who’d tortured Meri was in prison for life in Nevada, but it was something she still did several times a week, just the same. And she took a drive by The Lemonade Stand, too, going around the block twice, just watching. She was glad to see that the shops that fronted the unique women’s shelter were conducting business as usual. There was no reason for them not to be.

But the women who were fighting for their lives inside those shops, fighting for fresh starts, striving to live without violence, deserved to be watched over.

Then she went to the beach, to sit on a bench and watch the ocean. To clear her mind, relax a bit, so that she’d be prepared and focused when she hit the streets that evening.

What she saw, as she sat there, was an empty beach with an inner vision of her and Colin Fairbanks transposed onto the sand. They were walking, hand in hand.

And there the vision stopped. Even when she’d been in a serious relationship, Chantel hadn’t been the type who held hands on the beach. Or had her doors opened for her, either.

But boy, if ever she had been, a hand like Colin’s wouldn’t have been horrible to hold...

Giving herself a mental shake, she thought about Leslie Morrison and replayed their meeting the night before over and over. Making note of the “tells” the other woman had given her. There’d been too many to ignore.

Even accounting for the fact that Chantel had been specifically looking and could have made something out of nothing a time or two, she hadn’t imagined Leslie’s completely changed manner after her husband had joined them.

Whatever Chantel thought, personally, of Colin Fairbanks, whatever strange and possibly delicious feelings he’d raised in her undercover persona were irrelevant. If, indeed, he was presenting her with the perfect alibi for spending more time in his circle than a few charity events would afford, she was going to use him for all he was worth.

Because saving a woman and her son from brutality was far more important than Chantel’s social life.

She’d just have to make certain that Colin understood, from the beginning, that their time together had nothing to do with any real caring between them. She couldn’t let things develop beyond enjoying each other’s company. Maybe she’d have to change her story a bit—maybe she was only in California until she finished her story. Maybe the family would need her back in her publishing position as soon as her book was done. She was out to save a life—not to be cruel.

* * *

COLIN FELT LIKE a schoolboy as he pulled into the recently poured parking lot of Santa Raquel’s first and impressive full-service library just before noon on Saturday.

In business attire, minus the jacket, he perused the parking lot, wondering if she was there yet.

“You see her car?” Julie asked from the seat beside him. Guiding his Lincoln Continental to a stop beside a silver Mercedes—a birthday gift to Leslie Morrison from her husband—he shrugged.

“I have no idea what she drives. She was dropped off by the hotel’s limousine the other night.” And then he realized that he’d fallen into Julie’s trap. She’d never named whose car he might have been seeking.

Yes, he’d been thinking about Chantel Johnson. Looking forward to seeing her. It may also have occurred to him that she’d change her mind and not show.

After all, what did he really know about her? Except that she was beautiful and had made one hell of a first impression on him. She could be a total flake. Lord knew, there were enough of them in their set. There were people, young women in his set among them, who did exactly as they said they would do, too.

A long black limousine pulled into the grand entrance in front of the historic mansion.

“Is that her?” Julie asked, looking beautiful in tight black pants, and a long, figure-hugging black-and-white silk top with a black silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. She handled her three-inch spiked heels like they were tennis shoes as she shut the door of the Lincoln behind her. “She’s beautiful, Colin.”

“Yeah, that’s her.” Reminding himself to wait for his sister, Colin approached the front entrance, getting turned on as one long leg followed another out of the car. In a fitted blue dress that ended just above the knee, the blonde woman with her perfectly manicured nails and sleek makeup could be stepping out of the pages of a fashion magazine.

Except that she looked far too elegant to ever parade herself for hours in front of a camera.

“Chantel!” He greeted her just outside the massive front door. “Good to see you again.” She couldn’t be blamed for thinking he was stalking her—appearing just at the exact moment that she arrived. “I’d like you to meet my sister.” He drew Julie closer. “Julie Fairbanks, Chantel Johnson.”

Two slender hands met. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, the two women sized each other up. Julie’s interest he understood. But Chantel’s? Could it be that she really was as interested in him as he was in her? That the instant attraction between them was mutual?

Only way to find out was to pursue her. And so he would.

Holding the door, Colin followed both of the women inside.

* * *

THE LIBRARY COMMITTEE consisted of six members. Seven including Chantel. Each member of the committee was in charge of an aspect of the project—from catering to marketing—and each had people working with them. As they sat over lunch—a sample from the three top caterers in the running to provide the mystery dinner on gala night—one by one they reported on their progress.

Leslie, who was the committee’s head, ran the meeting. To her right, at a table set for eight in what had once been a dining room and was soon going to be one of several conference rooms in the Santa Raquel Public Library, sat Emily Longfellow, a thirtysomething woman whose plain features were accentuated with beautiful jewelry. Emily was in charge of arranging the mansion for the evening’s entertainment—including all furnishings necessary not only to accommodate dinner seating for a couple of hundred people, but for any necessary accoutrements for the mystery that would be unfolding throughout the night. Next to Emily was a little woman who must be at least seventy, Martha something or other, who was responsible for floral arrangements.

John Duncan, next to Emily, was a man Chantel had met the other night at the auction. He was a young attorney in Colin’s office who, having just recently passed the bar exam, was on the committee but was there to oversee any work that Colin determined was legally necessary. John’s father, Clemency Duncan, was chief of neurosurgery at Stanford Hospital.

And then, opposite John, was Colin. Chantel was in between him and Julie, who sat directly to Leslie’s left.

When Chantel was introduced as their artistic director, everyone smiled and welcomed her. She had a feeling every one of them had already known everything there was to know about her. What she’d led everyone to believe about her, she amended the thought as she smiled and greeted everyone before taking a stab at the salad in front of her. It had walnuts in it. And cranberries.

“Chantel’s going to be beefing up the script for us, but since I am giving it to her only this afternoon, she hasn’t had a chance to read it yet.” Leslie continued and then moved on to Julie, in charge of invitations and marketing, who reported that their guest count was closing in on the two hundred mark.

Obviously in her element, Leslie Morrison appeared to be exactly what everyone thought she was—confident, healthy, in control, in charge. There was nothing about her that even hinted at any kind of unrest at home. She asked for the committee members’ opinions as to whether or not they should raise the guest cap on the function in the event that response continued to be so positive. Leslie took a vote and the cap was raised by fifty.

Conversations broke out at that point, Leslie leaned over to say something for Julie’s ears only and Chantel relaxed for just a moment. Long enough to feel the brush of Colin’s thigh against hers beneath the table. He was engaged in conversation with John, and at first she thought the contact had been accidental.

Until his hand dropped to his lap, disappeared under the crisp white linen tablecloth and ended up on her leg.

He was taking a hell of a lot for granted, based on one night’s meeting. Or was simply being bold, telling her in the only way he could in that moment that he was interested.

His fingers didn’t slide up her leg. Or toward her inner leg. He wasn’t being a creep. Or disrespectful, either. He just held on.

And Chantel liked it.

* * *

“DO YOU HAVE some experience with scriptwriting?” Julie was trying the spinach quiche Chantel had shied away from, and, finished with whatever she and Leslie had been discussing, she was addressing Chantel while she ate. Her smile was warm and friendly, reminding Chantel of Jill—the best friend she’d had since grade school and lost to a crook’s bullet several years before.

“None,” Chantel admitted, breathing through the memory. And then, remembering her cover, said, “I’m a writer, though.” You didn’t have to be published to be a writer.

“Oh? What do you write? Anything I might have read?” Colin’s hand moved from her leg, leaving a cold place.

“Hardly.” She grinned and almost forgot to soften the edge of street life from her voice. “I’m not published. Yet,” she added to give the impression that she was serious about her pursuit.

“Do you have an agent?”

Did she? Trying to remember anything she might have heard about her aunt’s business, and the story she’d told Colin about her own publishing position, she decided on, “Yes.” And hoped she wasn’t digging a grave before she was ready to bury Chantel Johnson. She’d be doing publishing and agent research later that night.

“So what are you writing?”

“Women’s fiction. Suspense. It’s a woman-in-jeopardy story.” And before she saw any of these people again, she better have some kind of plot fleshed out. She’d go through her case files. Find an interesting arrest that had converted to charges and then a conviction.

Colin’s hand was back. Chantel’s body responded with a small feeling between her legs. She didn’t dare look at him. But she did notice that he was no longer speaking with John.

She assumed he was listening to her and Julie. So she slipped her hand under the table, leaving it on her lap. “My family’s in publishing,” she said, telling Julie that she’d left behind a position of VP of marketing. Colin’s hand slid over hers.

When her libido leaped in response, Chantel took a sip of water and then added, “I’m going to go back to it, though. I talked to my folks last night. They agreed to give me as much time as I need to finish the book, as long as I would return to the family business when it’s done. In the meantime, they’re going to be sending work my way. Things they want my decisions on.”

There. Cleared up a bunch of issues. Namely, any chance that Colin Fairbanks would think there was any future in a relationship between them. It also negated any need for her to be in the market for a permanent residence. Something she had a feeling this friendly and powerful bunch would be glad to help with.

His hand didn’t leave her lap. Julie didn’t respond, either. She was looking at her brother and was no longer smiling.

Did she know what Colin was doing to Chantel under the table? And she disapproved? She’d gotten the impression earlier that Julie had been pleased to meet her...

“What do you all think?” Leslie’s voice raised as she addressed the table, halting private conversations. In that first second Chantel froze, heat rising up her neck and face. Did everyone know how her body was responding to the chaste touch of a man’s hand?

“Did everyone get a chance to try everything?” Leslie followed her first question with a second.

Chantel hadn’t had any quiche. Everyone else nodded.

“We need to make a choice today.” The caterers weren’t being mentioned by name. A had provided the quiche. B was the salad and bread assortments. C had brought some kind of grilled chicken that, in spite of the fact that it was chicken, the meat that was served at every banquet Chantel had ever attended, was delicious. Leslie passed around menus provided by all three caterers minus any kind of identifying determiner.

Discussion ensued. Chantel listened. Agreeing with Julie on every point she brought up—the flavors that, while gourmet, wouldn’t please as wide a range of palette as others. The need for a variety of options for those who couldn’t tolerate rich food but yet preventing the dreaded “bland” moniker being slapped on the evening. Colin opted for the meat and potatoes option over fondue and finger foods, his fingers leaving little caresses just above her knee.

As conversation died down, Leslie called for a show of hands in favor of A, followed by B and C. C had the job unanimously.

And Colin leaned over to ask her if he and Julie could drop her off at her hotel after their tour of the mansion, preventing the need for her to call and then wait for a ride.

Her announcement that she wasn’t going to be around for long hadn’t seemed to slow him down a bit. He was knowingly embarking on a short-time flirtation.

Which made him fair game.

She accepted his offer of a lift.

CHAPTER SEVEN

COLIN WAS READY to take the tour and go. Julie’s gaze had bruised him a bit. His little sister was pissed at him for keeping Chantel’s publishing background from her. He’d known she would be. But if he’d told her right up front, she’d probably have refused to meet her with an open mind.

Ever since the rape, she’d been slowly becoming more closed-minded. Stubborn.

Could he be blamed for caring enough to try to help her?

And Chantel...maybe she’d be free to have dinner with him that night. Just the two of them...

As Leslie was concluding the business portion of the day, the outer door of the library sounded. Someone had just come in.

“Ladies and gentlemen, dessert has arrived,” Leslie said, smiling, as a couple of white-coated women came into the room, each carrying a large brown box. And right behind them was...Patricia Reynolds—Commissioner Paul Reynolds’s wife.

Colin stiffened. What in hell the police commissioner’s wife was doing there he didn’t know. And he wouldn’t have cared, if not for the fact that Julie was sitting just a few feet away from him.

This was why she didn’t go out much. To avoid unexpected appearances...

“Now that the catering decision has been made, I can tell you that Patricia Reynolds has volunteered to handle the catering details for the mystery gala. As you all know, her daughter and son-in-law own Beachside Catering and, to avoid a potential conflict of interest, Patricia didn’t want to take on her duties until our choice had been made.”

Patricia smiled, including everyone in her greeting. The woman gave endlessly to the community. Volunteering everyplace she could. Providing companionship and guidance through a youth program she’d helped develop to young women who’d gone astray. If not for the fact that she was married to a man who could be bought, Colin would have liked the woman.

“Regardless of who we chose, Beachside Catering was providing our dessert today. But now I can tell you that caterer C, your unanimous choice, is none other than Beachside Catering.” Leslie smiled as Patricia nodded toward the two women who were standing by a counter in the back of the room.

Crème de menthe parfaits were being passed around by the time Patricia settled into the empty seat at the end of the table between John and Colin, as far away from Julie as she could be while still being seated at the same table. Colin supposed Leslie was responsible for that.

But he had to wonder why the other woman had gone along with a plan to include Patricia on the committee at all. Leslie Morrison, the one person in their crowd who knew the details of Julie’s rape, was usually the one who ran interference for his sister, to avoid exactly the kind of situation they now faced.

Bad enough that Patricia was on the committee, but to have blindsided Julie...

He was going to have a word with Leslie.

Later.

* * *

CHANTEL HAD NEVER been in a home, free to wander in and out of every single room, as magnificent as the Estrada-mansion-turned-library. If she hadn’t been conscious of Colin’s time, and the fact that Julie didn’t seem to be feeling very well after lunch, she could have spent hours exploring the nooks and crannies of the place.

She couldn’t imagine ever living there, however. Seemed like a lonely existence to her, having so much space to separate family members. And the idea of having to dust the place...

Julie didn’t say much as they issued their farewells and made their way to Colin’s town car. She slid into the backseat before Chantel could offer to do so, forcing Chantel to sit up front with Colin.

Not a bad thing. Just a little awkward at the moment, considering that ever since he’d had his hand on her knee, she’d been half-turned-on.

She knew that when cops went under they had to do a lot of things to protect their cover—take drugs, even—but having sex for the sake of the job was not something she’d ever do. Or have the department expect her to do.

She’d be fine. She just needed a few minutes back in her own environment to process what had happened. She wanted out of the heels.

And to scrub her face. She remembered why she eschewed makeup. It made her skin itch.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to run Julie home first,” Colin said as he started the car. “I’m heading to the office, and the resort is in between.”

“That’s fine,” she said, and tried to ignore the tingle she felt at the realization that she was going to be completely alone with him for the first time.

Would he fill the time with small talk? Or try to get personal?

She needed him to get personal. To take the next step in making them an item. A temporary one. A spring fling.

Problem was, she wanted it, too...

“You okay with that?” Colin was looking in the rearview mirror, obviously addressing his sister.

“Of course,” Julie said and nothing else. Colin didn’t ask her if she felt okay or if anything was wrong. It wasn’t Chantel’s business, but...

“Did something at lunch not agree with you?” she asked, turning to look at the other woman. In her experience, guys didn’t always pick up on the obvious. And if Julie, who’d been so friendly earlier, was unwell, someone should notice.

“What?” Julie asked and then said, “Oh, I’m fine. I feel fine.”

Chantel didn’t need to be a cop to detect the lie. But she figured she’d been put in her place—a stranger who needed to mind her own business—and turned back around.

Colin glanced in the mirror again, his expression softening, but still said nothing.

He turned out into the street, drove half a mile and turned again. The silence in the car might not be bothering anyone else, but in Chantel’s world, it was weird—to have something lying there under the surface and not being addressed. But whatever. Must be how the rich and famous dealt with life.

Ignoring the messy parts.

Colin glanced in the rearview mirror again. For the fourth time.

“You want to come into the office with me?” Colin asked five minutes into the drive. “The preliminary child-life specialist contract should be drawn up. If you go over it today, we could have it vetted and ready to present as early as Monday.”

“Next Friday, as we originally agreed, is fine,” Julie said. “I’m not meeting with the Sunshine committee until then.”

Another couple of minutes passed. Chantel thought about chattering, except that she wasn’t a chatterer. There were questions she could ask about the ocean in the distance, the weather she could expect during spring in California, about places to eat and things to see. But when in Rome...and she definitely needed them to think she was in Rome.

“I’m fine, Colin.” The voice in the back of the seat didn’t sound sickly.

He glanced at his sister again.

“I really am.”

Another glance.

“I’m angry more than anything else.”

Okay, this probably wasn’t a conversation she needed to be hearing. Now that she knew Julie wasn’t coming down with food poisoning. Or the flu.

“I’m going to speak with Leslie.” Colin’s voice was firm. His jaw tight.

Chantel went high into cop mode. Why would Julie be angry with Leslie? What had she missed back there?

And to do with her subject?

“Why?” Julie’s question was sharp. “This has nothing to do with Leslie.”

“She should have given you a heads-up.”

“I never told her who he’d...” She broke off right when things were finally getting good.

Whether all eyes were on her or not, Chantel felt as though they were. In her world, she’d have turned around and asked what was going on. She’d have risked being told it was none of her business, but she’d have asked.

Her crash course in polite society hadn’t prepared her for this moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel as though I shouldn’t be here, and yet I can’t politely exit a moving car.” She spoke softly in character with Chantel Johnson, gentling her voice. But the Chantel Harris in her hadn’t been able to keep her mouth shut.

“No, I’m sorry,” Julie told her. “I’ve behaved horribly, letting my personal feelings put a damper on what was a really nice afternoon...”

“Your personal feelings matter,” Chantel said. Just as Leslie Morrison’s personal feelings mattered. People got upset for good reason. “Clearly you need to speak with your brother...” And she needed to keep her mouth shut.

Colin had glanced in the mirror a couple more times but was otherwise driving with his attention seemingly on the road.

“It’s just... Patricia Reynolds...”

Not Leslie Morrison? Chantel waited.

“She’s following me.”

What?

“She’s not following you, Jules.” Colin was stopped at a light and turned toward his sister.

“Yes, she is, Colin. She’s the police commissioner’s wife,” Julie said to Chantel, who’d also turned around. Chantel continued to face backward as the light changed and Colin was driving once again.

She’d known, of course, exactly who the woman was. Knew, too, as soon as she’d appeared in the room, that the woman had made an excuse for joining the committee late so that she could watch over Chantel. Either to report back to the commissioner on how his undercover rookie was doing in case she was screwing up and he needed to intervene or to provide inside support in what was a very sensitive investigation.

A question she’d intended to ask Captain Reagan first thing Monday morning.

“You think the police commissioner’s wife is following you,” she said now. Curious.

“I know she is.”

And the obvious response to that, in any society, had to be, “Why?”

“I’m on four committees, and she’s managed to somehow be involved in all four projects.”

“Our circle isn’t all that big,” Colin said. “Patricia has been heavily involved in volunteer projects since before she married Paul. You know that.”

Paul. To him. Commissioner Reynolds to everyone in Chantel’s circle.

“Yes, but over the past several months, she’s joined each project I’m involved with, and they didn’t just all start up,” Julie said. “I know I’m right on this one, Colin. She’s spying on me.”

With a mental step back, Chantel faced front but had to ask again, “Why would she spy on you?”

It would be weird if she didn’t ask. Right?

“I was...involved...in something. Years ago. And recently, another woman we all know had a situation...something that came out through her son at school...and Patricia, I’m sure at Paul’s behest, is watching me.”

“Why?”

Colin glanced at her then. “They want her to stay quiet.”

“About what she was involved in years ago? Or what happened recently?”

“Nothing happened recently,” Colin said. “It was just a misunderstanding stemming from the wrong interpretation of a harmless school project. But Julie’s friends with the woman. She thinks that Commissioner Reynolds is nervous that she’ll try to bring up old grievances.”

“I know he is. And it’s not just that I’m friends with...the woman. The things they’re saying...there’s something in it similar to my situation. And we know mine is true.”

Colin didn’t respond to Julie’s remark. This time Chantel followed his lead.

Heart pumping, she made a mental note to check Julie Fairbanks again. She’d already run a check on the family, the night after she’d met Colin. But maybe she’d missed something?

She had to find a way to get Colin to explain to her why he didn’t have much faith in his sister’s judgment on the matter. And why the commissioner would send his wife to spy on her for being friends with someone.

Maybe, if she got lucky, he’d even tell her what the matter was.

In the meantime, she’d gained an important piece of information for her case. The woman Julie had just mentioned—the one who’d appeared to have a similar problem, but didn’t—had to be Leslie Morrison. Surely there weren’t two kids with school projects that had been interpreted to mean trouble in their admittedly small circle.

That would be too much of a coincidence. And as a cop, Chantel didn’t put a lot of stock in coincidence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WHILE JULIE’S SUSPICIONS had put a definite damper on the mood in the car that afternoon, Colin found that the changed atmosphere didn’t dim the flame of his desire to see Chantel again. As quickly as possible.

Because that was a first—him feeling driven from within to pursue something non–Julie related when his sister was obviously upset—the urge grew in intensity. That Chantel was attracted to him, too, wasn’t a huge surprise to him.

But even the possibility that she could be like most of the women who made their attraction to him obvious—after him for his money as much as anything else—didn’t put a damper on his fervency.

So he asked her to dinner. She accepted. And as he went on with his day, he had a smile on his face.

* * *

IN JEANS, a button-down shirt and over-the-ankle hiking boots, Chantel spent a couple of hours at the precinct Saturday afternoon. She checked in with Captain Reagan. Filled Wayne in on lunch. And told him that she’d be having dinner with Colin Fairbanks again that evening.

“Didn’t take you long to find an ‘in,’” Wayne said, studying her.

Chin up, Chantel withstood his visual interrogation without as much as a held breath. “I’m good at my job,” she told him. Married to it, was more like it.

“You are good at your job,” Wayne said, pulling out an empty chair at the table where she sat with a department-issue laptop in front of her. “Maybe too good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You put the job above everything else.”

“Lots of guys do.” And she was one of the guys. They had one another’s backs.

He looked away. “And many of those who do also spend some of their off time in strip clubs.”

“You think I should go to strip clubs?”

“I think you’re a healthy, three-dimensional human being who is living a two-dimensional life. Eventually, that’s going to catch up with you. I just don’t want it to be now.”

She wanted to continue to pretend ignorance. Recognizing it as a weak ploy, she said, “You’re thinking that I might fall for Colin Fairbanks?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Because he’s rich?”

“Because you’re out of your element.” He was being a good friend, telling her what he thought she needed to hear, not what she wanted to hear. She took offense, anyway.

“You don’t think I’m up to running with the rich folks?” She was keeping her emotions in check. It was what she was trained to do. You had to when you were on the job.

“I’m more concerned with the part you’re playing,” Wayne said. “You’re hot as hell, Chantel. You play it down here—like now, your hair pulled back tight, no makeup, loose clothes and those hiking shoe things you seem to wear night and day, even at the company picnic in the middle of summer...”

He broke off, as though realizing what he was revealing—the fact that he’d not only noticed how she was dressed last summer at the picnic, and all the time, but that he remembered in such detail.

Still smarting from his insinuation that she wasn’t up to this assignment, Chantel let him swim in his own stew.

Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he seemed about to tell her something confidential. In a lowered voice, he said, “When I saw you the other day, in character...”

He’d just turned up the heat on his pot. Chantel smiled.

“Sounds to me like you’re the one with issues here, Wayne,” she told him. Because, after all, friends said what the other needed to hear, not what they wanted to hear. “Maybe you should be the one visiting a strip club.”

The statement was mean. She knew the second it hit its mark and felt bad. She and Wayne were such close friends because, when they’d been trainees together many years before, his wife, Maria, had caught him out in a bar with a stripper and Chantel had stepped in and helped saved his marriage.

“You get prickly when you’re feeling defensive.”

“That’s right. You had no business implying that I can’t do my job.”

“It’s not your job I’m worried about,” he said, still leaning close. He rubbed his hands together. “I don’t think there’s doubt in anyone’s mind that you’re the best man for the job. That’s not what I’m talking about. And I think you know that.”

Okay, yeah, she’d known. But...

“You work so hard to be an equal here, Chantel, that you go overboard. You seem to forget that you’re a woman. Like it’s a bad thing, so you pretend that part of you doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not a woman at work. I’m a cop.”

“And when you’re not at work?”

She thought about work. Or ate chocolate ice cream. Or went to the gym to keep in shape for work.

“I hang out with Meri and Max,” she said. Wayne knew them both. He’d been instrumental in saving Meri from her fiend of an ex-husband. He also knew that Max had once been married to Chantel’s best friend, Jill. And that Jill had died on the job, saving another cop. “The baby’s over a year old now, and Caleb’s four. I watch them at least once a week so Max and Meri have time to enjoy each other.”

Because she’d never seen a love like the one they shared.

Wayne was still watching her, his glance more focused than she liked. He was a great detective.

Partially because, when he looked, he could see things most people missed. Uncomfortable with that eye turned on her, she shored up her defenses again.

An instinctive maneuver, not a conscious choice.

“I’m a woman, Wayne. I love children and nurture them. I have friends. I go to the beach...”

“Have you been out on even one date since you’ve been here?”

Chantel thought back. Had it really been over a year since she’d moved from Las Sendas up to Santa Raquel?

“I’ve been busy finding a place to live, setting it up, spending time with Max and Meri, staying in shape, getting up to speed on the High Risk team. It’s not like I’ve had a lot of spare time.”

“You’re thirty-two years old. If you’re going to have a family, you should start thinking about doing so...”

“You and Maria don’t have kids.”

His head dropped enough that she couldn’t see his expression. “We’re trying,” he said, leaving her to wonder if they were having problems conceiving.

“You’re human, Chantel,” Wayne said, lifting that gaze up to pierce her again. “Young and healthy. It stands to reason that at some point...”

“Hold it right there.” Her voice hard as rocks, it was her turn to stare down. “Before you say something we’ll both regret...”

But why shouldn’t he express his concerns? She wanted to be one of the guys, and guys talked about sex all the time.

If she weren’t the cop in question, if they were talking about someone else, she might even share his concerns.

“Look.” She softened her tone. Remembered that she was talking to her friend. And recognized that he had a point. She’d proved it for him with her less-than-stellar behavior. “I admit that the idea of having someone to go out with is...not unpleasant. I’ll even go so far as to admit that Colin Fairbanks is extremely...easy...to be with. I like him. But you have nothing to worry about.”

“Forgive me, but those statements give rise to concern rather than alleviate it. And you know as well as I do that telling me not to worry raises more concern because I have to wonder if you’re in denial.”

Calm now, Chantel nodded. “I know. But I’m not. Listen, Wayne, like you said, I’m thirty-two years old. And yes, I’m healthy, of course I have sexual feelings, and maybe it would be easier if I could visit a male strip club now and then, but I’m just not into that.” She grinned, and then, serious again, said, “I’m thirty-two, not twenty-two. I’ve had relationships. And painful breakups, too. Life experiences teach us things, and I’ve learned some things along the way. Two of them...”

She stopped. Feeling a little stupid, sitting there ready to share her innermost thoughts with another cop.

“You’re going to tell me what they are, right? We’re just waiting for you to get there?”

Guy talk, Harris, she reminded herself. And was struck with the thought that she was hiding behind it. Which was ludicrous.

It bothered her—that she’d think such a thing. She loved her job. And really liked having male friends...

“I’m assuming one of the broken relationships, and lessons learned, had to do with Max?”

“What? No! Why would you think that?”

“Don’t insult me or cheapen our friendship, Chantel. Either be honest or tell me to go to hell. But don’t sit there and lie to me.”

“I learned something from Max, yes, but not one of the two things I was talking about. And there was no breakup. That’s the honest-to-God truth.”

She couldn’t lose Wayne’s respect. It was one of her most valued assets. Clasping her hands together, she faced him fully. “You’re half-right. I did think I was in love with him. But it started long before Meri’s disappearance last year. I fell in love with him when Jill did. And when I saw her putting the job before him, risking her life unnecessarily while he was at home trusting her to keep herself safe...it was the one time I really had a problem with her. I’m not saying that what she did...saving that rookie’s life... It was the right thing to do. I’d have done the same. So would you have and any officer worth his salt. But there were times... I don’t know, it was just like Jill thought she was invincible or something...”

Picturing her friend, in uniform, with a grin on her face and a gun in her hand—just after shooting practice when Jill had hit three bull’s-eyes—Chantel’s gut clenched with a longing that nearly killed her. Like when Jill had first died.

Would she and Max have ended up together if Chantel hadn’t been too lost in her grief to pursue him?

“Anyway, so, yeah...when I came up here to help him last year, the old feelings...they were still there. But seeing him with Meri, or rather, not with her, seeing how much he believed she was in serious trouble, when all of us were certain that she’d left him of her own free will, seeing how hard she fought to stay alive, to get out of that house when she should have been passed out on the floor—I’d never felt anything like that. But I knew, then and there, that I wanted it and that I couldn’t accept anything less. I’m not going to date a man until I feel something more for him than a desire to not be alone.”

She looked at him, expecting derision, and instead met the serious expression on his face.

“You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”

“No, honestly, I feel sad for you.”

“Because I’ve never been in love?”

“Because you didn’t even recognize what love is.”

“You’re telling me that you believe in being in love?”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I was ready to jump off a roof when I thought I’d lost Maria all those years ago? And why do you think she took me back?”

“Because I was pretty damned persuasive?”

“Probably.” He grinned. “But also because she’s in love with me as much as I’m in love with her.”

Damn. So it happened more than once in a blue moon. Who’d have guessed?

“Jill wasn’t in love with Max like that.” Jill had been turned on by Max. She’d loved him. But she hadn’t been in love. Chantel, as her most trusted confidante, was certain on that score.

So, well, she had hope, then. Maybe someday...

“You were going to tell me about the two things you’d learned.”

Right. Thanks for the reminder, Stanton. She didn’t have a hell of a lot of hope. Maybe someday... Not. Maybe when hell froze over.

“First, I’m attracted to alpha men. You know, the strong, protective types. The ones who rule the world.”

“Aren’t all women?”

She didn’t think so. Since there were men who weren’t so filled with testosterone that they’d fight first and ask questions later. Not all men were aggressive go-getters. And yet, there were women who loved and needed them.

She just wasn’t ever going to be one of them. More the shame.

“I guess I wouldn’t know,” she told Wayne. “Jill was. I am. Meri is. That’s pretty much the sum total of my experience. And it doesn’t really matter,” she said. “Because the second thing I’ve learned is that aggressive men don’t like aggressive women, unless it’s in their beds, and then only when they want it that way. Protective men like to protect. They don’t want a woman who says, ‘Stay down. I’ve got this,’ while facing the bogeyman alone with a gun in her hand. Near as I can tell, it emasculates them. Or, at the very least, makes them feel incompetent.”

Wayne’s silence wasn’t a surprise. Because he was one of those protective guys.

He knew she was right. The upside was, he left her alone after that so she could pursue the work she’d stopped in to do.

To no avail.

No matter how she searched, either as victim or perpetrator, Julie Fairbanks was not in the system.

Keeping an eye over her shoulder, lest someone see what she was doing and wonder why she was looking at the commissioner’s wife, she tried to find what she could about Patricia Reynolds. It took her two seconds to discover that the woman didn’t have a police record. No real surprise there.

The society pages were filled with her. The queen of philanthropy, she’d been an advocate for the downtrodden since high school, using the influence of being the daughter of a senator—before she’d married Paul Reynolds—to draw attention to matters that bothered her.

She and the commissioner had no children—due, one article said, to her own infertility. She sat on the boards of three different infertility clinics as fundraising chairperson.

And there Chantel had it. Too bad “it” wasn’t anything she could use.

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