He’d do absolutely anything to protect her...

Security expert Royce Morgan has fought like hell to change his ways. Since Jules Cambridge left him and married someone else eight years ago, he’s not the man he once was. But he casts the past aside once death threats propel Jules back into his life again, this time in need of his protection.

In Las Vegas for a conference—and on a quest to untangle the chilling secrets in her mother’s diary—Jules might not make it out of Sin City alive. Every step toward the truth brings her closer to danger. And every moment with Royce brings back passion that could destroy or save their future.

“When we get to the room, I need you to let me know if anything doesn’t look right or feel right. Go with your gut.”

Her gut was telling her that it had been a mistake to think that she could be with Royce 24/7 and not relive the memories of that summer. The best summer of her life.

“Okay,” Jules said.

He opened the door, checked the hallway, then motioned for her to come. At the stairway entrance, he quietly said that he’d go first.

He’s just being careful, she told herself. No need to start seeing shadows in the corners.

They got to the third floor and he smiled at her reassuringly, as if he’d sensed her nervousness. “So far so good.”

She swallowed hard. “Really good.”

Royce reached out his hand, wrapped it gently around her arm. His skin was very warm and she could feel the transfer of heat. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “I will not let anything happen to you.”

* * *

Don’t miss the next romance in Beverly Long’s exciting new miniseries, Wingman Security!

Dear Reader,

While I’ve been a part of the Harlequin family for many years, this is my first Romantic Suspense. I’m excited to be joining all the very talented Romantic Suspense authors that I have enjoyed reading for so many years.

Bodyguard Reunion is book one in the four-book Wingman Security series. Wingman Security is an elite security firm, specializing in both personal and property security. The four partners are all former air force. Wingman Security is headquartered in Vegas, and that’s the setting for the first book.

In Bodyguard Reunion, Royce Morgan unexpectedly has the opportunity to provide personal security for pharmaceutical CEO Juliana Cambridge, who is visiting Vegas on business. It should be a routine job. But given that Jules is the woman who broke his heart eight years earlier when she married another, it’s anything but routine. Especially when it becomes clear that someone is trying to kill her.

JC, as she’s known in the corporate world, can’t run from her troubles or from Royce. She needs to be in Vegas for a reason that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with unraveling secrets that her mother took to her grave more than fifteen years earlier. Secrets that could destroy her father, a man Royce Morgan has good reason to hate.

I love reunion stories, love the idea that sometimes you really can have a second chance, a do over if you will, to beat the odds and finally get that happy ending with the one you loved and lost. I’m hoping that you’ll be rooting for Royce and Jules!

All my best,

Beverly

Bodyguard Reunion

Beverly Long

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BEVERLY LONG enjoys the opportunity to write her own stories. She has both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in business and more than twenty years of experience as a human resources director. She considers her books to be a great success if they compel the reader to stay up way past their bedtime. Beverly loves to hear from readers. Visit beverlylong.com, or like her at Facebook.com/beverlylong.romance.

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Royce Morgan stood under the hot water and let his tired muscles simply enjoy. He’d spent the last six days providing security for people who had too much money and too few manners, on a mountain in Wyoming, wearing skis, with daydreams of a warm fire and bourbon the only thing keeping him sane.

He was grateful to be back in Vegas where a brutal February day was forty-five degrees.

He dumped some shampoo in his hand, scrubbed his very short hair and stuck his head under the spray to wash it out. When he was done, he realized his cell phone was ringing. Reluctantly he shut off the shower, shoved the sliding door open, and grabbed for a towel and the phone in one swipe.

“I am not late,” he answered, looking at the number.

“Not yet,” Trey said.

His business partner believed that arriving any later than an hour early was the height of slothfulness. “Listen,” Royce said. “I almost froze my ass off out there.”

“Lose any fingers or other important appendages?” Trey asked.

Royce looked down at his naked self. “Everything seems to be attached.”

“Good to know. Be an interesting worker’s comp claim.”

“Don’t I know it.” In addition to a full caseload, Royce handled the finance and risk management for Wingman Security. Made sure everybody got paid, that the bills didn’t stack up and that their assets were protected.

He put the phone on speaker and set it down so that he could dry himself off.

“Look,” Trey said, “we got an inquiry on the voice mail. Some guy who needs protection for a company executive. He wants a callback first thing this morning.”

Royce wasn’t usually responsible for contracting new business. That was Rico’s domain, but since Rico and Seth, the third and fourth men of the four-man partnership, were currently enjoying themselves on a beach in Mexico, that left him and Trey to pinch hit. Trey had evidently decided it was Royce’s turn at bat. “What’s the number?”

Trey rattled it off and Royce used his finger to write it on the fogged-up mirror. “Got it.”

“Remember that I’m tied up with the Anderson project for another two weeks,” Trey said.

“Understood,” Royce said. Trey was part of a team watching the private airfield of Billy-Bob Anderson, an eccentric billionaire from Maine who spent the winter in Vegas. He flew his own experimental aircraft and worried incessantly that everyone from Russia to Elvis’s ghost was intent upon copying his design. His plane was under twenty-four-hour guard.

That was probably the only reason that Trey hadn’t taken the call himself. “I’ll let you know once I talk to the guy.” He clicked off and took a second to enter the number into his phone.

Wingman didn’t take every job that came their way. It was probably what had allowed them in four years to build a very successful niche security business. However, executive protection was in their wheelhouse, so Royce was hopeful.

He walked naked into his kitchen and poured a cup of freshly made coffee that he’d had the good sense to start before getting in the shower. He stood at the counter, sipping gratefully.

Then he pushed Send on his phone and listened to it ring. He figured it was just about to go to voice mail when it was answered. “Hello,” a man said.

“This is Royce Morgan. I’m returning the message you left at Wingman Security.”

“Oh, thank God,” the man said.

Whatever the issue, this guy was rattled. Royce straightened up and set down his coffee cup. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m Barry Wood, the chairman of the board of Miatroth. We’re a pharmaceutical firm and the CEO of our company needs security.”

Drug companies. Lots of people hated them. Thought they were screwing the consumer with inflated prices. “Where are you located?” Royce asked. They primarily worked in the western portion of the United States.

“New York City,” the man said.

Royce felt a pang in his middle. He took a quick sip of coffee. He hadn’t set foot east of the Mississippi River for over eight years. He didn’t even like to fly over the Atlantic coast. Too many memories. Too many regrets.

“I’m not sure why you’ve contacted Wingman Security,” Royce said. “We’re located in Vegas.”

“Our CEO is attending a conference there.”

“When?”

“Right now. And last night, there was some trouble. Can you meet us at the Periwinkle Hotel?”

Swanky place that stood out in a world of lavishness. “I can be there in a half hour.”

“Excellent. Suite 1402. We’ll be expecting you.”

Royce finished getting dressed, pulling on dark slacks, a blue button-down long-sleeved shirt and a sport coat. Then it was into his BMW. Reluctantly, he kept the top up, hoping that by noon it would be plenty warm enough to drive around with it down.

The Periwinkle was a mammoth structure of stone and glass with a few thousand tons of iron thrown in. At least forty stories, with a corner location, it had a presence on the Vegas Strip. They had staff parking cars, opening doors, offering water and dark chocolate, and pushing elevator buttons. That was all before he reached the main lobby on the third floor. Once there, he switched elevators and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor.

The carpet was thick and quiet as he walked down the hall. He rapped on the door and waited. And waited. He knocked again. He pulled his phone, looked at his recently called numbers and was just about to press Send when the door swung open.

A thin man, maybe early sixties, stood on the other side. He wore a dark suit, and with his pasty complexion, almost screamed “Undertaker.” He was wringing his hands.

“Mr. Wood?” Royce asked. “I’m Royce Morgan.”

“Thank you for coming,” the man said.

“I thought for a minute that you might have changed your mind when the door didn’t get answered.”

“I...I was talking with JC,” Barry Wood said. “To be perfectly honest, she’s being a good sport about this but I’m confident that she’s not overly enthusiastic about us arranging for security.”

She. Royce looked over the man’s shoulder. The suite was big, probably over two thousand square feet if the bedrooms, which he couldn’t see, were in proportion to the living room and dining area that he could. There was leather furniture the color of butternut squash and a glass-topped table that had a massive iron base. Two of the six chairs at the table were pulled out, as if they’d recently been sat in. On the table was a manila folder with papers inside.

Had his knock sent the client scurrying off to her bedroom? “Define not overly enthusiastic.”

“Resigned to the inevitable.” He led Royce into the suite. “She had to make a quick phone call. It will just be a minute. Have a seat,” he added, waving toward the leather couch.

Royce sat.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Barry asked.

Royce shook his head. It was likely that he wasn’t going to be here long enough to drink it. In addition to turning down jobs that weren’t right for them, they generally declined to offer security to those not really wanting it. It just never worked out well. A good security plan required cooperation between the person providing it and the person benefiting from it. “Can you tell me what has happened?” he asked.

“Yesterday was the first day of the conference. We got in around noon. JC took a few people out to dinner. It was just four blocks so they walked. They were returning to the hotel, and were very close, when she was almost struck by a car.”

“How’d that happen?”

“They were on the sidewalk and the car careened toward them before suddenly straightening out and speeding off.”

“She wasn’t hurt?”

“Well, one leg is scraped and bruised. She had to leap out of the way and unfortunately encountered a piece of rough stone that decorates the corners of this hotel. But other than that, she’s fine. Lucky.”

“What did the police say?”

“Nothing. We made a report once she was back inside but the only description we have is that the car was a black sedan. There’s probably thousands of them in Vegas.”

“How do you know that it was JC that the vehicle was aiming for? You said that she was with several others.”

“We can’t know for sure. But since she has been getting death threats in the mail, it’s our best guess.”

“Death threat, Barry,” a voice said from the hallway. “Let’s not exaggerate the...”

Royce didn’t hear the end of the sentence because his damn ears were ringing. He knew that voice. He’d heard that voice in his dreams for years.

He turned fast. And there she was. Juliana Cambridge.

The woman he’d loved. And lost.

Because he wasn’t good enough.

She was still very beautiful. Fine, delicate features. Dark shiny hair, worn short. Very blue eyes that had sometimes appeared violet in the morning light.

“Hello, Jules,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

* * *

JC hated looking stupid. But knew, caught midstep, one foot in the air, with her mouth open, it was hard to look anything but.

“Royce,” she said, her voice too high. She swallowed hard, managed to get both feet solidly planted and pressed her lips together.

He looked good. Wonderful, really. Broad shoulders, trim waist, long legs that had eaten up city blocks. His dark hair was shorter now, not even skimming his collar. His hazel eyes had a few lines at the corners but it simply made him look more handsome.

“You’re JC?” he said, his tone incredulous.

In many boardrooms across the country, it was still a man’s world. The good news was that it was changing. But there was still a benefit to someone not immediately knowing that Miatroth Pharmaceuticals was led by a woman. “Yes,” she said.

For someone known for her attention to detail, she hadn’t even thought to ask Barry the name of the security specialist who was en route. He’d been going on and on about the credentials of Wingman Security, how he’d verified that they were the best in the region. She, quite frankly, hadn’t wanted to hear anything more.

“You worked at Geneseel,” Royce said, his voice even. Too even.

“I changed jobs about three years ago,” she said. He’d have known that if he’d bothered to keep tabs on her. But then again, she’d stopped typing his name into the search field after the first year.

Too painful.

Barry stepped forward. “I didn’t realize the two of you knew each other.”

“Yes, uh, Royce lived in New York a long time ago. We...we had common friends.”

That was true. There was no need for Barry to know more.

Barry frowned. “Well, maybe that’s good,” he said. “Addresses your concern of having a stranger with access to the intimate details of your life.”

Royce would be much worse than any stranger. She looked at her shoes. “So, how have you been?” she asked, like an idiot.

“Fine,” he said.

This was so awkward. She slowly walked around the couch and sat in a chair opposite it, trying to give herself some recovery time. She tried never to think of Royce. To have him here in her living room was startling at best.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But there’s been a mistake. I’m not interested in additional security.”

“But...” Barry said.

She’d known Barry for her entire life. And she knew she was throwing him a curveball. “Perhaps we can discuss offline.”

“It would be negligent of the board if I didn’t insist. It would be negligent of you not to accept,” Barry said, his voice stronger than before.

“Perhaps I should step out,” Royce said.

She felt a pain near her heart. The emphasis was intentional. It had to be. It settled the question of whether he remembered their last meeting, eight years ago. The one where she’d ask him to step out for just a moment.

So that she could have a conversation with her father.

Which had ultimately led to her staying in New York and Royce returning to Texas.

What the hell was he doing in Vegas?

Chapter 2

“That’s...not necessary,” she said.

Her delivery was clipped. He’d hit a nerve.

It should have felt better. “Tell me about the death threat,” he said.

She tucked a wayward piece of hair behind her delicate ear, a gesture so familiar that it was as if he’d seen it yesterday rather than eight years ago. She looked tired. And when she’d rounded the corner of the couch, he’d seen the slightest hint of a limp, as if her scraped leg might be sore.

All of that pulled at his gut and he reminded himself of all the reasons that he had to be mad at her.

“There have been three letters,” she said.

“Three,” he repeated. “I thought you said threat. Singular.”

She waved a hand dismissively and he noticed that she wasn’t wearing any rings. Eight years ago, she’d told him she was marrying another. And like some idiot, he’d set up an alert on his computer, so that when it happened, he could rub his own damn nose in the happy news. And sure enough, four months after he’d stormed out of her father’s house, his computer had practically blown up with news media reporting on the marriage of Juliana Cambridge to Bryson Wagoner.

After that night, he’d stopped looking, stopped hoping that she was going to magically wake up one day and decide that she’d been a fool.

He’d been the fool.

“Three letters,” she said, bringing him back. “I think they’re all from the same person.”

“Is that what the police say?” he asked, looking over at Barry, who was back to wringing his hands together.

“They can’t say conclusively,” Barry said. “But there is a similarity in tone between the documents. But they were postmarked in different cities.”

“What cities?”

“Boston, New York and Vegas,” Barry said. “In that order. All arriving within the last month.”

“Yet you still decided that attending a conference in Vegas was a good idea?” he asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. This was probably why contracting new business was generally up to Rico. Diplomacy came naturally to him. Royce had to work very hard at it.

Jules—he could not think of her as JC—sat up straighter on the couch. She was wearing a light blue sweater and a matching blue-and-black-checked skirt with black tights. She looked very much like the pretty young girl he’d taken to dinner that first night, except then she’d been animated and now she was controlled, her somewhat pointed chin almost rigid.

“The last one arrived in our New York office just yesterday, after we’d already arrived here.”

“Yet you stayed.”

“We’re a major sponsor of the conference. I’m part of a panel presentation tomorrow and then speaking at the awards dinner two days from now.”

That would be Thursday. “How big of an event?”

“Couple hundred.”

Lots of people to watch. Lots of potential threats. “Do you have any of the letters with you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Barry stood up. “I have copies,” he said. The man picked up a briefcase that had been on the floor, leaning against a wall. He opened it and pulled out papers.

“This is the first one. Like I said, from Boston.”

Royce took it. One sheet. It appeared the sender had cut letters or portions of words out of a magazine and strung them together in a simple poem.

Pills and potions

A witch’s brew.

Danger comes to those

Who lay claim to the stew.

He took the second sheet. Same look, a different four-line verse.

Those who cause death

Must be made to pay.

I will have justice

And ensure He has his say.

Was H capped in the fourth line for a reason? Or had the sender simply not been able to locate a lowercase H?

A cap suggested importance. Or respect. Ensure He has his say. Ensure who had their say? A tightness settled in his shoulders. Revenge was a powerful motivation.

He picked up the third. The one that had come most recently, from Vegas.

You will beg for mercy

I will enjoy witnessing your pain.

The world will know the truth

That your greed was a runaway train.

He read it a second time and then tossed it aside. The idea that these letters had been directed at Jules made him sick. “You have no idea who sent these?”

She shook her head no. “The police are investigating. As you probably know, they can test paper and ink and even trace it back to the original publication. All we know is that whoever sent this has access to twenty-weight copy paper sold in almost every big-box store in America, and People magazine. Miatroth products are distributed across the United States and in many other countries. Millions take a Miatroth drug every day. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“But they upped the ante last night when somebody took a swipe at you?” he said.

“Somebody maybe took a swipe at me,” she said. “I have my doubts. I think it’s very possible that it was somebody who was texting and suddenly realized they’d veered off course. Fortunately, they corrected. Or it was somebody who’d been drinking and wasn’t their best at driving in a straight line.”

She could be right. People were idiots in their cars, seemingly forgetting that they were in control of several tons of moving equipment. “But they didn’t stop.”

“They didn’t hit anyone. No reason to stop.”

“There are very few coincidences in real life,” Royce said. She could have been badly injured. Somebody should have been there to protect her. Why wasn’t Bryson Wagoner with his wife after she’d received the first two threats? “Is your...husband traveling with you?” he asked, finding it hard, even after all these years, to say the word.

Jules licked her lips. “No husband. I’m divorced.”

He felt almost light-headed. Divorced. He shouldn’t be shocked. Lots of people were divorced. But for some reason, it wasn’t what he’d expected from Jules.

He had a thousand questions.

Most of them inappropriate. “Recently?” he asked. An enraged former spouse was always a security concern.

She shook her head. “Six years ago.”

He worked really hard to keep his expression neutral. His head was spinning. That meant...hell, she’d been married for less than eighteen months. “What’s your relationship with...him?” He knew his name. Bryson Wagoner. Appropriate since the man had needed a damn wagon to carry all his family money.

“Fine,” Jules said.

Fine. What the hell did that mean? The silence in the room stretched out.

“Well, what do you think?” Barry Wood asked.

He thought that very little surprised him anymore, but Jules had knocked his socks off. He thought his heart was beating too fast. He thought she was still the most beautiful woman that he’d ever met. “I think you’re right to be concerned,” Royce said.

“We appreciate your opinion.” If possible, Jules’s jaw was even tighter, and her lips barely moved when she spoke.

“It’s what I do,” he said, suddenly defensive. He and his partners were damn good at providing security. They had celebrities, politicians—hell, even some royalty—on their client list. A pharmaceutical CEO was nothing.

But that wasn’t true. Jules Cambridge had never been nothing. Royalty in her own right, she’d been her father’s little princess.

And in contrast, he’d been the commoner, who should have been content to stay outside the walls of the Fifth Avenue fortress, admiring from afar.

He’d been so damn stupid.

“Will you help us?” Barry asked.

There was no way.

Jules stood up, her movement jerky. “Barry, we need to discuss this. I can assure you that Royce is not going to be interested in providing the service.”

That was exactly what he’d been thinking. She had no right to take away his opportunity to turn her down. And it irritated the hell out of him to hear her say it so matter-of-fact.

She could take her business down the street. There were other security agencies in Vegas. A couple that were very decent. Not as good as Wingman Security, that was true. If only one of his other partners was available, he could refer her internally, but that wasn’t the case.

Jules was in trouble. You will beg for mercy. I will enjoy witnessing your pain. “Actually, it’s your lucky day,” he said, his gaze steady on her.

She opened her mouth.

“What you two need to do,” he said, switching his eyes to Barry, “is lock the door behind me. Don’t open it to anyone but me. Can you manage that?”

Barry nodded.

“Good. Then I’ll be back within the hour with my clothes and a contract.”

Chapter 3

“I’m sorry, JC,” Barry said, just seconds after the door closed behind Royce. “But I’m confused. You look very upset. I thought we’d agreed.”

She managed to smile at the man. She understood that he was worried. “I suspect you’re thinking that one hell of a slam is coming.”

Barry settled back against the cushions. “That was quite a night. You stalked off to your bedroom, your nose in the air. And it was a ferocious slam. Knocked the trim right off the frame.”

“All because I couldn’t go to a Metallica concert. I was fifteen.”

“Your father hated to disappoint you but he hated the idea of you getting hurt even more,” Barry said.

She was eighteen years older now. And while she hadn’t been able to understand her father’s motivations at the time, she did understand Barry’s now. She also understood the very real business reasons behind them. There was a twenty-million-dollar insurance policy on her life. As a result, they’d had to report the threats to the insurance company and they were insisting on added security.

So she had quietly acquiesced. Never dreaming that Royce would walk through the door.

Barry would have had no way of knowing about the relationship. After all, by almost anyone’s standards, it had been rather short-lived. And her father, if he had deemed it necessary to discuss Royce with Barry, would have only referred to him as Juliana’s summer indulgence. As best she could remember, he had never called Royce by name.

But he’d known his name and he would remember his name. It was the one way that she could very easily get Royce kicked off the job. If she mentioned it to her father, the man would immediately demand that Royce be replaced. He’d call his good friend Barry and that would be that.

And she’d be responsible, again, for causing trouble for Royce.

It was a few days. If they were indeed the best, that’s what she wanted, right?

She did not believe that the car last night had deliberately tried to kill her. If so, why back off? But the letters were not so easily dismissed. In a world where crazy things seemed to happen more and more often, the idea that somebody had come unhinged and was intent upon causing trouble for the CEO of a drug company was not a comfortable one. She’d been all for reporting them to the police.

She was all for staying safe.

She certainly didn’t want anybody on her team to get injured because she couldn’t get past history.

Plus, she had a very good reason for staying in Vegas. Family. She hadn’t told Barry, didn’t intend to. Knew it would get back to her father, and there was no way she was ready to have that conversation yet.

“It’s fine, Barry. We’ll make the best of it.”

Royce had said he was coming back with clothes. Which meant that he intended to stay with her.

There were two bedrooms in the suite. Plenty of space.

Right. When he’d run back to Texas and she’d stayed in New York, that had barely been a comfortable distance.

“I’m going to get some work done,” she said, “before Royce comes back.”

“I’ll stay,” Barry said.

She shook her head. “It’s not necessary. Go back to your own room and get some rest. I don’t think either one of us got much sleep last night.”

“You heard Royce.”

“I know, I know. I won’t open the door to strangers. I promise.”

Barry stood up. “I appreciate you going along with this. I really do.”

“I appreciate that you haven’t said anything to my dad about the threats.” She’d asked him not to and he’d reluctantly agreed. Of course, he had no way of knowing how strained her current relationship was with her father. For so many reasons, some known only to her.

“I won’t as long as we’re doing everything in our power to keep you safe. I’m not underestimating how uncomfortable it might be to have a shadow 24/7. But you know your safety is important to me. For a lot of reasons.”

She reached for his age-spotted hand. Squeezed it. “I know that it might be highly improper for the CEO to say this to the chairman of the board, but I love you.”

He smiled. “You’ve always been like a daughter to Eileen and me.”

“I know.” She walked him to the door and locked it securely after he left. Then she stood with her spine against the door, feeling the wood press against every one of her vertebrae.

Eight years ago, she’d made a bad decision for what she thought were all the right reasons.

And after he’d stormed out of her father’s house, she’d tried to forget about the hurt in Royce Morgan’s eyes. The hurt she’d caused.

It hadn’t been easy. Even though she’d thrown herself into her work, into planning her wedding.

And then into her marriage.

Her short, disastrous marriage.

Royce had looked shocked when she’d said she was divorced. He hadn’t known. But now that he did, would he demand an explanation? Would he think he was still entitled to one? Or would he not care enough to even ask? She wasn’t sure which question scared her more.

The only answer was to keep it strictly professional between the two of them, to not even venture into conversations that could take on a personal bent. To avoid a trip down a memory lane that was blighted by deep potholes full of deceit and regret.

She walked over to the table and picked up the folder that Barry had tried to show her earlier. Skimmed the executive summary that had likely been prepared by Barry’s assistant. It hit the high points of three different Vegas agencies and ended up with a paragraph that supported the recommendation of Wingman Security.

Elite security team. Top-notch references. Impressive clientele. Professional demeanor.

There was a handwritten note. “A little more expensive than the others, but consensus is, they’re worth it.” She didn’t recognize the writing.

That’s probably what had swayed Barry. He was nicer about it but came from the same school of thought as her father. If it cost more, it must be better.

Royce had clearly made a success of himself. And security made sense. She remembered him telling her that’s what he’d done in the military.

He’d been a decent and principled young man, although there were times when those qualities had been overshadowed by his beat-up leather jacket and motorcycle boots, his hair that was long enough to pull back in a ponytail and his language that was likely appropriate for the battlefield but not the boardroom.

He’d been different than anyone she’d ever met.

Now he was wearing silk pants, shirts with monogrammed cuffs and Italian shoes.

Time had changed them both. Things had been said. Actions taken. There was no going back.

Only forward. And the best thing she could do was try to get a few things done before Royce returned. Her laptop was still in her bedroom. She pulled herself away from the door.

As she crossed the threshold of her bedroom, she heard a buzz from the cell phone that she’d left on her bed. She glanced at the number and let out a sigh of relief. Charity was finally calling back.

“Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual. “How’s it going?” Their relationship was too new, too fragile, for her to chastise the young woman about taking a full day to return the call.

“Not so good,” Charity said, her voice barely a whisper.

“What’s wrong?” JC asked, picking up her pen. She always thought more clearly when she had something to write with.

“Nothing.”

Charity sounded...bad. Not that JC had that much experience talking to her. This was only their second conversation in two months. “I was hoping we could meet for lunch,” JC said.

“That’s probably not a good idea,” Charity said.

No way. She was not going to let Charity blow off the meeting. She’d told Royce that she’d come because Miatroth was a major sponsor and she was presenting. That was true, of course. But the real reason she’d agreed to attend was that it gave her a reason to be in Vegas, an opportunity to get to know Charity better.

A woman should know her sister.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” she said, still keeping her tone light.

There was silence on the other end. Then a sigh. “Listen,” Charity said. “I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” JC asked, clenching her pen.

“The kind I don’t want to talk about on a cell phone. Can you come here?”

Royce had been very specific—she was not to leave the hotel. And she’d promised him. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t everything?” Charity said, sounding resigned. “Never mind. I’ll figure something out. I’ll call you—”

“Where are you?” JC interrupted. She just knew that if she failed Charity this one time, the woman might never call her again. She could not risk that.

Charity rattled off an address. JC scribbled it down, then read it back.

Since the day she’d discovered her dead mother’s diary and realized that everything she’d believed to be true might not be, she’d had so many questions.

And Charity might be the only one with the answers. “I’m on my way,” JC said. “We’ll talk when I get there.”

* * *

Royce called Trey from the car and got him started on the contract. Then he swung by his apartment and packed enough dress shirts and slacks to get him through a couple days. He added a few more casual things and his toiletries. Before zipping up the bag, he added boxes of ammunition for the Glock he carried. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t need it, but he believed in being prepared.

Then he was out the door a second time. When he got to Wingman Security, the paperwork was ready.

“Rico is going to be impressed,” Trey said. “You wrapped this one up fast.”

Royce debated telling Trey that he had known the client years before. The partners didn’t keep secrets from one another.

But he just wasn’t ready to talk about it. Wasn’t ready to admit that seeing Jules had been a blow, almost taking his breath away. He folded the papers and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. “I’ll be at the Periwinkle for the next few days. Suite 1402.”

“Nice digs,” Trey said. “Have you had a chance to check out the hotel?”

“Some.” He’d looked on his way out. “Main entrance is on ground level. Both an elevator and an escalator gets you to the lobby, which is on the third floor. Elevator from there goes to floors four through forty. No key-card access required for any floor.” That meant that anybody could access any floor, which was not good. “On the fourteenth floor, there are six suites—three on each side of the elevator bay, which is in the middle of the hotel. Stairs at both ends of the hotel. Those do require a key card to open the door on any floor, including the first.” That was better news. That meant that people couldn’t simply wander in off the street, find the stairs and get anywhere in the hotel. “Hotel connects via overhead walkway to a separate three-story conference center.”

“Sounds good,” Trey said. “Stay in touch.”

“I will,” Royce said, and walked out the door.

When he got back to the Periwinkle, he pointed at the spot where he wanted his car parked and gave the valet an extra hundred bucks to convince him. Nothing impeded a quick getaway like having to wait for a car to be brought around. That was a beginner mistake.

He hadn’t even been a beginner when he’d started the agency four years ago. Not with his military experience.

He liked to think that he always had a plan, a backup plan and an it’s-going-to-hell-fast plan.

Twenty feet inside, remembering Jules’s love for dark chocolate, he extended his arm toward the sterling silver tray, only to draw it back fast. His job wasn’t to bring her candy. His job was to ensure that the CEO of Miatroth stayed safe while in Las Vegas.

He got to the fourteenth floor, walked down the hallway and rapped on the door. And waited. Just like before. This was getting old.

He knocked sharply, loud enough to make most everybody on the floor take a look out their peephole to see if it was their door getting assaulted.

When that didn’t get a response, he yanked his phone out of his pocket, jabbed his index finger on Barry Wood’s telephone number and took a deep breath.

“Hello, Royce,” Barry said.

“Are you going to open the damn door?”

“What?”

“I’m standing in the hallway. I’ve been standing in the hallway for five minutes.”

“Royce, I’m back in my room on the twelfth floor. JC had some work to do. I made sure she locked the door behind me when I left.”

A chill spread across the back of his neck, as if someone had slapped an ice bag on it. “Call the front desk. Get somebody up here with a key. But text me her cell number first.”

Royce hung up and waited for the text. It came and he dialed. He heard it ring, then switch to voice mail. He swallowed. “This is Royce,” he said fast. “Call me. Please, just call me.”

He called twice more before Barry and somebody in a navy blue suit wearing an assistant manager name tag showed up. He waited impatiently while the man used his key to open the door. Then he was into the suite, moving swiftly through the rooms.

She wasn’t there.

Her clothes were still in the closet. Her sundry items still on the bathroom counter. Her stupid phone on the bedside table.

No signs of struggle.

He turned to the manager. “I need to know if Ms. Cambridge left this hotel and I need to know it five minutes ago.”

“Can you describe her?”

Right down to the heart-shaped tattoo on her left inside thigh. “Five-six. A hundred and twenty pounds. Dark hair, above the collar. Fair complexion. Very dark blue eyes. She’s...beautiful.”

The man relayed the information to whoever he’d dialed on his cell phone. From what Royce could tell, the call got transferred a couple times. Finally, the man nodded. “She got into a cab about twenty minutes ago. By herself. Seemed fine. Gave the valet a five-dollar tip.”

At these kind of places, the valet gave the cab driver the instructions. “Does he remember the address?”

Royce waited impatiently while the question was asked again and answered. The manager nodded. “Bell Street and Howard Avenue.”

Royce knew Vegas like the back of his hand. There could be absolutely no good reason for Jules to be in that part of town. Drugs were sold there. But not the kind you bought with your prescription card.

Add in the guns and the human trafficking and you had all the things that tarnished Sin City’s sparkle.

He was running for the elevator when he heard Barry call from behind.

“What are you going to do?”

“Whatever it takes,” he said.

Chapter 4

Sweat was running down the back of JC’s neck by the time the cab came to a complete stop. She’d wanted to ask the driver to turn down his heater, but for the last fifteen minutes she’d listened to the man, who was probably fifty in a world where fifty didn’t look like thirty, quietly beg the person on the other end of the phone to please let his mother keep her dog. He’d promised repeatedly to replace the carpet that said dog must have ripped up.

Her own mom had loved her little Yorkie. And after she’d died, the dog had never been the same, even though JC had watched her father try to woo the dog over. Instead, the animal had seemed to mope around her parents’ home for months until one night the little guy had fallen asleep and never woken up.

She’d figured he’d died of a broken heart. She’d understood the feeling. The loss of Lara Cambridge had been sudden and very horrible.

“Twenty-six fifty,” he said.

She gave him a hundred and got out of the cab.

He rolled down his window. “I don’t have change, lady.”

“I don’t want any,” she said.

It was enough that for a brief second, the man’s tense posture, the stiff way he held his head, it all seemed to relax. He rolled his window up. Stopped halfway.

“Best be careful in this neighborhood,” he said. Then he pulled away, leaving her alone. Cars, mostly old, were parked on both sides of the street. There was little grass and only a few trees to soften the rough appearance of the small wood-framed houses that lined the road. A big dog running behind a chain-link fence barked, startling her. She saw a swing set in one yard with a rusty slide that couldn’t possibly be safe for a child.

Across the street, several houses up, she saw an old woman wearing a housedress, her back to the street, sweeping her sidewalk. She glanced again at the scrap of paper where she’d written down the address and Charity’s brief directions. Apartments on the corner. Had to be the three five-story brick buildings that were bunched together as if there might be safety in numbers.

She’d been so distracted after talking to Charity that she’d run out of the hotel without her phone. Hadn’t realized it until she was already blocks from there. If she had it, a quick call to Charity would have made it easier. Instead, it took her several minutes to identify that apartment 302 was in the middle building. She walked across the yard that was more weeds than grass, grateful that she’d pulled on her flat-heeled boots before leaving the hotel. She was almost at the door when she saw a police car cruise by.

It was the kind of neighborhood that likely required regular patrol. There were two officers but neither seemed to glance her direction. Eyes were focused straight ahead.

She reached for the handle of the glass door that looked as if someone had thrown a slice of pizza at it, hadn’t been happy with their aim and tried it again. That or it was dried vomit.

She was sticking with pizza.

Inside, there was a very small lobby, maybe five feet by five feet. Mailboxes, thirty of them, lined one wall. Directly across was the elevator that looked a hundred years old, which she thought was likely not possible, since the building had probably been built in the seventies or eighties. But the painted doors were scratched and dented and when they opened, the smell of urine was oppressive. She got in and pressed the three with her elbow.

The idea that Charity was living in the place made her sick. And the knowledge that if circumstances had been different it might have been her instead made her arms feel heavy as the elevator slowly climbed to the third floor.

When the doors opened, the heat hit her. How could it feel as if it was eighty-five in the hallway when it was fifty degrees outside? She quickly glanced both directions. All five doors were closed.

She found apartment 302 at the end of the hall. Stood outside the door, her fist raised to knock.

She had some idea what to expect. Charity had no social media accounts, at least that she’d been able to find. But the private investigator she’d hired had unearthed a senior class picture of the girl taken six years ago.

She’d stared at that photo for weeks that had turned into months, working up her nerve. The idea that she was opening a door that might never be fully shut again was a bit terrifying. She could be inviting trouble into her life, into her father’s life. Maybe unnecessarily.

She’d almost managed to convince herself that it was too great a risk, that it didn’t matter. But in the end, she’d realized that she had to know. She had to know if what her mom had believed to be true was indeed fact.

Had to know the extent of her father’s betrayal.

She pressed a hand flat against her stomach, which was rumbling with nerves. What was Charity going to think of her? If she’d done any searching, she’d have seen plenty of JC. Miatroth’s recent clinical trials in the war against pancreatic cancer had gone amazingly well, and in the last month, JC had been interviewed many times.

She’d have preferred to orchestrate a meeting, to set it up just so to give her and Charity the optimal opportunity to get to know each other. But Charity’s admission that she was in trouble had changed all that.

Her plan was to meet Charity, find a solution to whatever trouble she was in and get back to the hotel before Royce returned so that he never had to know she’d left in the first place.

Otherwise, he was going to have one more reason to believe that she couldn’t be trusted.

JC knocked sharply on the door.

It swung open. And there she was.

Charity had big dark eyes that seemed to fill her narrow face. Her straight hair was almost black, much darker than it had been in her senior class picture, and hung down past her shoulders. There was a silver ring at the edge of her right eyebrow and her nose was pierced. Those were also new in the last six years. She was wearing a shapeless olive green cotton dress with a drawstring waist and flip-flops.

Too thin, almost waiflike, and JC’s first impulse was to feed her. “Hello,” said JC. Should she hug her? Nothing about Charity’s body language told her that would be the right move. She settled for extending her hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m JC...uh...Juliana, but I go by JC.”

Charity didn’t move. Instead, she glanced at JC’s extended arm, then settled her gaze back on JC’s face. The silence stretched on.

And JC silently lectured herself not to fill it. She sometimes did that when she was nervous.

“I guess I wasn’t sure you would come,” Charity finally said.

JC tried not to take it personally. Trust had to be earned. Basic tenet of doing business. “I was concerned,” JC said. “May...I come in?” she asked.

Charity shook her head. “We’ve got to get out of here before Bobby comes back.”

“Who’s Bobby?” JC asked, already knowing the answer. The investigator that she’d hired had unearthed the name of the man she was living with. But she couldn’t let Charity know that. She looked over the girl’s shoulder. She was at least three inches shorter than JC’s own five foot six.

Charity tossed her hair. “Just this guy. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

She turned and that’s when JC saw the open suitcase on the couch. Wadded-up clothes were hanging over the edges of the inexpensive luggage. Two pairs of gladiator sandals, one black, one brown, seemed to be taking up most of the room.

“You said you were in trouble,” JC said. “The kind of trouble where you need to leave?”

“The kind of trouble where I think it’s possible that I’m going to be that poor girl on the ten o’clock news,” Charity said, her voice low. “Bobby’s got some anger issues and I don’t feel safe. It was probably a mistake for me to move in here.”

In the information that had been gathered about Charity, there’d been no mention of violence involving her and Bobby. “How long have the two of you been together?”

Charity ran a hand through her long hair. “Not that long. A few months.”

“Where were you planning to go?”

Charity shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got a couple hundred bucks. Should get me a place to stay for a week or so until I figure things out.”

Not a nice place. But they could have that discussion once she was safely out of the apartment. “Maybe you better finish packing,” JC said. She looked around. The apartment was very sparsely furnished with just a couch and two folding chairs. A flat-screen television was perched on top of two stacked red plastic crates. A counter separated the kitchen from the living room and it was loaded with dirty dishes, potato chip bags and empty ice-cream-sandwich boxes. There was a big orange cat lying on the far end, its head lifted, perhaps interested in the visitor but not quite enough to be concerned.

Charity wasn’t moving. Just standing there, watching JC.

“Can I...help you with anything?” JC asked.

It took Charity a minute to answer. “I guess I’ll need Hogi’s food,” she said finally, her head moving in the cat’s direction. She walked toward her suitcase.

JC had no idea whether or not the Periwinkle allowed cats. But if not, she suspected that a special damage deposit might take care of the problem. “Do you have a cage for him?”

Charity looked at her as if she might be stupid and used her elbow to point at the top of the fridge.

Well, of course. JC set her teeth. Now wasn’t the time to get into an argument. She wanted to get out of there before Bobby decided to come back.

She found the cat’s food in a bag near a filthy litter box that caused her to breathe through her mouth. She grabbed the small bag of food and backed away. Then she reached for the cat cage on top of the refrigerator.

The cat turned his head, saw what she was doing and, showing more energy than she’d expected, bolted off the counter and down the hallway.

“Oh, my God,” Charity screamed. “Don’t let Hogi see that. He’ll think he’s going to the vet.”

“I’ll get him,” JC said.

Charity held up her hand. “Just wait here. He’ll be under the bed. You’re a stranger. He’ll never come to you.” She picked up a photo album that had been wedged behind the suitcase. “I had these pictures. I thought you might want to see them. Since my mom is in them, you know.”

“Thank you,” she said. She took the album.

Charity ran down the hall, leaving JC alone in the squalid little living room. The cover of the photo album was a brown padded vinyl. JC flipped it open. Inside were ten or twelve plastic sheets, most of the four-by-six slots filled.

Baby pictures. They had to be of Charity. The eyes gave it away. Unable to resist, she flipped a couple pages, looking for the woman who had been Charity’s mother.

There. Holding Charity.

Pretty, with long blond hair. Not as thin as Charity but still slender. She was slumped in a chair, like she might be exhausted.

Had she already realized by that time that she’d be raising Charity alone? Or had she known that from the minute she’d gotten pregnant?

So many questions.

But maybe now she was finally close to getting answers. She could hear Charity calling to the cat. “Come on, Hogi. Come out right now.”

Her sister had a hint of the South in her voice. JC was so intent upon listening to it that it surprised the heck out of her when the apartment door suddenly swung open.

A man, his gut hanging over his belt, wearing a black tank top and gray cargo shorts, stared at her. His hair, long and pulled back into a ponytail, was a dirty blond. He was maybe thirty. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

When she didn’t answer immediately, he looked beyond her. “Charity,” he yelled.

JC stepped forward. “You must be Bobby. I’m JC.” Instinctively, she extended her hand.

He ignored it. He was staring at the suitcase and she could see red spread up his neck. He turned.

JC moved fast and got in front of him, blocking his way to the hallway. “Hey,” she said, “let’s talk—”

He pushed her and she stumbled backward. But years of staying upright on a soccer field had her quickly back in his face. She kicked his shin, right above the ankle joint, right where she knew it would hurt most.

“You little bitch,” he said, punctuating his remarks with a right hook.

JC managed to duck the first punch. “Help,” she screamed. “Somebody help us.”

But help wasn’t coming. And when he grabbed her and shoved her back, knocking her head against the cheap drywall, she knew she was in terrible trouble.

She kicked and twisted but he was strong enough to fight off her attempts with one hand and keep his other hand around her neck, anchoring her to the wall. And his hand was squeezing, closing her airway.

And she knew that she was going to die.

Far away, she heard Charity yelling. “Stop it. Stop it, Bobby. You’re going to kill her.”

She was right.

“Run,” JC managed.

But Charity didn’t. Instead, she pounded on the man’s back, yanking at his hair, scratching his skin.

But still he hung on.

Until suddenly, his hands were gone. And she sank to the floor, gasping in air. There was a terrific buzzing in her ears and it took her seconds to realize that the sound she heard was someone’s fist pounding into flesh.

If she wasn’t mistaken, Royce intended to beat Bobby to death. “Royce,” she said weakly. She staggered to her feet. Another punch. She lurched toward Royce. “Stop,” she said.

But he didn’t until she fell into him. He turned and caught her before her face hit the floor. Which was good because if not, both she and Bobby would have been out cold.

“Jules,” Royce said, his eyes wild. “Damn, honey. Are you—”

“Las Vegas Police Department. Open up.”

Before they could do that, however, two Vegas cops burst through the door, guns drawn.

Royce kept one arm around her and raised his other. “I’m Royce Morgan of Wingman Security. This is my client Juliana Cambridge, and that—” he looked at Bobby, who was just coming to on the floor “—is the piece of crap that attempted to kill her.”

As far as introductions went, it was one of the most concise that she’d ever heard. She looked around for Charity and realized she’d disappeared back into the bedroom.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

She was confident the responding officers were the same ones she’d seen cruising by. She nodded, not sure her voice was steady yet.

“She needs an ambulance,” Royce said.

She shook her head. “Maybe later,” she said softly.

Royce didn’t look satisfied, but he pressed his lips together.

“Who are you?” the shorter officer asked, pointing at Charity, who was now slowly walking down the hall, holding her cell phone. JC assumed that she’d been the one to call the police.

Even being in the neighborhood, they would have arrived too late. If Royce hadn’t come, she’d be dead. How had he found her?

“I’m Charity. Charity White.”

“Do you know this man?” the same officer asked.

Charity nodded. “Bobby. Bobby Boyd. This is his apartment. I’ve been...living here.”

The cop began writing in the small notepad he’d pulled from his breast pocket.

“And what’s the relationship between you and Ms. Cambridge?” the taller Hispanic officer asked.

“We don’t have a relationship,” Charity said. “This is the first time I ever met her. Her mom was friends with my mom.”

That wasn’t exactly what JC had told Charity. My mother knew your mother. That had been her explanation as to why she’d sought out Charity.

But JC kept her mouth shut. It certainly wasn’t the time to blurt out that she and Charity might be half sisters.

From there, things moved pretty quickly. The cops talked quietly to Bobby, who was coming around. An ambulance arrived. Bobby looked small and nonthreatening on the gurney. His eyes were filled with anger but he stayed quiet, as if he’d maybe been in this situation before and understood the importance of keeping his mouth shut.

After he was gone, Royce guided her over to the couch and made sure she was sitting before talking quietly to the cops in the kitchen.

Then it was Charity’s turn. The heavier, younger cop motioned for Charity to join him in the kitchen. JC twisted her neck, watching, but the cop stood in front of Charity, blocking JC’s view.

The Hispanic officer pulled up a folding chair in front of her, forcing her to turn her back to Charity. It dawned on her that it was not by chance they were doing their best to question them separately in the small apartment. No doubt they wanted to see if their stories matched.

Royce stood behind her, his hands flat on the back of the couch. He did not interrupt or ask any questions, which was probably why the cop let him stay. The questions were easy at first. Full name. Address. Phone where she could be reached.

“Walk me through what happened once you arrived here,” the cop said.

“Charity was in the bedroom, trying to get her cat, when Mr. Boyd arrived home. I tried to engage him in conversation. But he appeared angry and I was concerned for Charity’s safety. She’d already confided in me on the telephone and in person that she was afraid of the man. He pushed me, I kicked him in self-defense and then he took a swing at me. I ducked but then he started choking me.” She kept her voice steady, dispassionate, as if she was reporting revenue figures at a board meeting.

The cop looked up from his report. She could almost see the message that passed from the cop to Royce as the two locked eyes. She’s damn lucky you got here.

Nobody needed to point that out to her.

The officer stood up. “I think I’ve got this.”

It was just a few minutes more before Charity and the other officer completed their quiet conversation in the kitchen. Then the two cops left almost as quickly as they’d arrived.

JC stood in the living room. The space was strangely quiet. She looked at Royce. “This will be inadequate, but thank you.”

Chapter 5

Thank you. She’d probably been less than a minute away from being choked to death and now she was calmly thanking him. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking,” he said. Better that than tell her she’d taken ten years off his damn life. “I told you to lock the door. I assumed it was understood that you needed to stay behind it, stay locked in, protected.”

He was practically spitting his words. He took a breath, reaching for calm. Charity was watching them closely, obviously listening. The woman looked to be early twenties and she might be very pretty with a little more meat on her bones and those stupid piercings removed.

So their moms had been friends. That was nice, but given that Jules had never actually met Charity, wasn’t it a bit much that she’d immediately dropped everything to come to the woman’s rescue?

Of course it was. If it had been anybody else. But Jules was...a good person. Truly decent. Despite everything, he believed that. Once she’d realized that Charity was in trouble, she’d have wanted to help.

He could easily imagine the convoluted reasoning. Their mothers had been friends. Ergo, Jules’s mom would have wanted her to help Charity.

He knew, from the many conversations they’d had eight years ago, that the summer Jules was fourteen, she and her mother had been in a car accident. Jules had suffered a serious leg injury but survived. Her mother had died. It had been a devastating loss and Jules had confessed that most everything she’d done or accomplished after that had been because it would have made her mom proud.

Graduate at the top of her high school class. Proud mom.

Finish college in three years. Proud mom.

Go to graduate school and get a great job afterward. Proud mom.

So he wasn’t second-guessing her motivation to help Charity. None of that, however, made him any less angry that she hadn’t thought twice about the promise she’d given him to stay at the hotel.

She could have died. He’d blown every red light and totally disregarded any speed limit. But still, he’d almost been too late. She needed to understand that she’d been both foolish and very, very lucky.

So that she never did anything like it again until he could figure out where this threat was coming from and neutralize it.

“How did you know where I was?” she asked.

“Valet remembered the intersection. Once I got here, there was an old woman sweeping her sidewalk.”

“I didn’t think she saw me.”

“Old people watch what’s going on in their neighborhoods. She saw you come into this building. Otherwise, I’d have had no idea where to search.” He’d yelled at the old lady, asking if she’d seen a dark-haired woman in a blue sweater, and she’d pointed at the middle building. He’d wasted precious minutes on the second floor before he’d gotten to the third and heard Jules yelling for help.

He’d come through the door, knowing that he was going to kill whoever was harming her. He supposed he was lucky that he’d had to stop to keep her from dropping like a stone to the floor.

Otherwise, it would likely have gone very differently with the cops.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” he asked. Her neck was still red and he knew the bruising was coming. He’d feel a lot better if she was checked out.

“No,” she said. She looked at Charity. “Get your cat and let’s go.”

“But Bobby’s going to jail,” the young woman said. She reached for one of the half-full chip bags on the counter, as if the last fifteen minutes had solved all her problems.

“If charges are pressed, which I hope they are, he’ll still likely get bail,” Jules said. “He won’t be behind bars for long. I don’t think it’s in your best interest to be here when he comes back.”

“She’s right,” Royce said. He tried to ignore the heat that spread from his gut to his neck when Jules shot him a grateful look. He was mad at her. For so many things. Gratitude wasn’t going to sucker him in, make him forget.

“Who are you again?” Charity asked, likely irritated that it suddenly seemed as if it was two against one.

He glanced at Jules, wondering what she’d shared with Charity. Before he could speak, Jules jumped in.

“His name is Royce Morgan.”

“Okay,” she said dismissively. “But what’s with the two of you?”

Royce realized that the girl had not heard his introduction to the cops. From the corner of his eye, he’d seen her beat feet back to the bedroom and had considered that she was fleeing down the fire escape before she’d reappeared a minute later. He just bet that the girl had some drugs or other illegal contraband in the bedroom that she hadn’t wanted the cops to stumble upon.

“We can get into that later,” Jules said.

Charity shrugged, as if she really didn’t give a damn.

“You said earlier that you would need to find a place to stay,” JC said.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“I was wondering if you’d consider staying with me,” Jules said.

Charity chewed on the nail on her right index finger. “Why would I do that?”

“It will give you a chance to think about alternatives. I’m in town for just a few days, so it wouldn’t be for long, but it might save you a few bucks.”

Royce wasn’t happy. He’d known Charity for about ten minutes, but the impressions were forming fast. She didn’t choose her friends well and she had terrible manners. She’d not offered one bit of thanks to Jules for trying to save her ass.

He didn’t relish the idea of her being around. But if the alternative was that Charity would be staying in some dive and Jules would feel the need to visit, that was even more unacceptable.

Charity shoveled in a big handful of chips. “I don’t know. There shouldn’t be any more danger,” she said, talking with her mouth full. “And it’s not like we’re friends.”

“We could be friends,” Jules said. “Please, I’d really like to do this for you.”

Charity shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

As far as rocking endorsements, it fell a little flat. But there was something not quite right. Charity’s words and tone were mildly accepting but her eyes seemed brighter, as if she might really be excited about the offer.

Maybe the kid was more scared than he’d given her credit for.

Jules smiled at Charity. “Go get your cat. I’ll feel better when we’re out of here.”

When Charity was back in the bedroom, he spoke quickly. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“I’m grateful for your discretion,” Jules said, her voice low. “I’ll tell her what’s going on but not just yet. But, Royce,” she said, her voice a little sharper, “please understand that while I respect your opinion, I make my own decisions.”

He shook his head. “You might be the CEO, but right now, I’m in charge of your safety. You need to keep your head in the game. This just seems a little hasty.”

“I have the ability to offer her some temporary shelter, to give her a chance to get her act together. I think my mom would have wanted me to do that.”

Bingo. It was always going to come back to that.

“Fine,” he said.

“But for now, I don’t want her to know what’s going on. That I need protection.”

Great. She not only wanted to tie his hands, she wanted to put a bag over them. “That won’t work. If she’s staying with you, she’s going to have to understand the rules.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I’ll tell her that you’re providing security. That’s it. Nothing about the letters, nothing about the car that may or may not have been aiming for me. I don’t want her getting frightened and running away.”

“You seem to be really concerned about a girl you just met. I understand that your mom was friends with her mom, but—”

“Please, can we talk about this later? I just want to get out of here.”

The plea pulled at his gut. Jules looked tired, and he realized that while she had dismissed her need for medical care, the attack had still taken a toll on her. “Fine. Let’s make tracks.”

* * *

Make tracks. That took her back. Way back. To eight years ago. She’d been working and living in Manhattan.

It had been crazy busy at work, where she was already a senior director at Geneseel Drugs after just three years on the job. For weeks, she’d been working day and half the night, too, tying up the loose ends of yet another acquisition of a smaller, less profitable competitor. When friends planned the inevitable Memorial Day get-together, she’d declined. They’d been relentless.

“It’s the first summer holiday,” they’d said. “You have to come.”

She’d finally agreed and walked the six blocks through the financial district. She didn’t need directions. She was as familiar with that part of the city as her own neighborhood. She’d gone to a private high school close by and every day after school, she’d walked to her father’s office, where he’d been an executive vice president at one of the largest banks in the city.

He made a good salary. That was obvious. Maybe not when she’d been a young child, but once she’d gotten into middle school and high school, she’d always known that her dad probably made more money than the dads of her friends.

Music lessons. Dance lessons. Club soccer. European vacations. Whatever she’d needed or wanted, he’d worked hard to provide it for her.

Because he hadn’t wanted her to miss her mother. She had, of course. But she’d tried to never let him know how much. Hadn’t wanted to add to his pain.

By the time she’d arrived at the rooftop bar that warm windy spring night, the party was in full swing. She’d chatted and mingled and downed two glasses of wine on an empty stomach. Almost burped it back up when she caught a glimpse of Royce across the room and he smiled at her.

He was simply the most handsome guy she’d seen in a long time. He had presence. That was the only way to put it. Tall, certainly over six foot, and solid with wide shoulders and a broad chest. He was casually dressed in a gray T-shirt, faded blue jeans and scuffed motorcycle boots. She could see the edge of a tattoo on his right bicep, all swirly lines and irregular shapes. He was drinking a beer.

He totally looked as if he could kick some butt.

And the immediate attraction she felt was hard to ignore. But she did, giving him just a brief smile in return before turning her attention back to the woman she was chatting with. The woman had noticed her interest, however, and confided that he was recently back from serving overseas, and a friend of a friend.

And she’d had a crazy desire to talk to him. But she didn’t. Her breakup with Bryson was too fresh. She wasn’t ready. Intellectually she knew that.

Even though her body was practically humming at his blatant sex appeal.

Forty minutes after arriving, she was on the curb, waiting for a cab to take her back to the office, when the storm broke and pouring rain hit.

Out of nowhere, a big umbrella appeared, held by the man from the party. Up close, he was even better looking. “Tough night to be making tracks,” he said with a wickedly sexy smile as the wind threatened to rip the umbrella out of his grasp.

“You don’t look like the type to carry an umbrella.” It was a stupid thing to say but the only thing she could think of.

He laughed and a shiver of heat had run up her spine. “Belongs to the bar.”

“Don’t you need to give it back?”

“I will. Tomorrow.”

They shared a cab and when he asked her to have dinner with him, she said yes. Maybe it had been the wine, maybe it was the storm. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she didn’t want to go back to her office, she didn’t want to go home to her empty apartment, and she rather desperately wanted to have dinner with him.

A relative stranger. Friend of a friend. Not likely a serial killer.

The thoughts had tumbled upon one another until she’d been nodding yes. She thought dinner might be awkward but it wasn’t. He spoke proudly of his years in the air force and made it seem as if it really wasn’t a huge deal to have served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. He talked of the people he’d served with, the people they’d helped, even the enemy. And she ate her pasta and felt like a Lee Greenwood song, simply proud to be an American.

She talked of her work, the intricacies of acquisitions, the theatre she’d seen the previous week, and showed him pictures on her cell phone of her best friend’s little girl, who at eighteen months had her very first tutu.

She told him about Bryson Wagoner. Not much because she figured it bad form to talk to one man about another. But he’d asked if she was currently seeing anyone and she’d confessed to breaking off the relationship after Valentine’s Day, when he’d tried to propose.

They lingered over coffee and dessert, and like a crazy person, she thought about inviting him back to her apartment. But finally, when the restaurant was shutting down, he hailed down a cab and carefully put her inside, with just a casual peck on the cheek.

And she realized that she might have just had the best night of her life and it wasn’t going to happen again. At the last minute, she pressed her business card into his hand.

It had taken him two days to call, two frantic days of jumping every time her office phone rang only to be disappointed. She didn’t tell anyone about him. Didn’t want to admit to her esteemed colleagues that she’d been duped by some guy or that it simply hadn’t been as special as she’d built it up in her mind. At least not for him.

She’d been practically shaking when his call had finally come in. She’d—

“I’m ready,” Charity said, interrupting her memories. She was holding the cat cage and it was swinging as Hogi turned circles in the small space.

“Great,” JC said. What was important now was that Charity was coming home with her. They would get a chance to know one another, to become friends.

A chance to find the truth.

She reached for the doorknob but Royce beat her to it. “I’ll go first,” he said. “Keep close behind me. Do exactly what I say when I say it.”

“Fine,” she said. She made a deliberate attempt to relax her jaw. Her poor teeth did not deserve to be mashed together. She managed to smile at Charity. “Doing okay?” she asked.

“I guess,” the young woman said. “Are you some kind of cop?” she asked Royce.

“No,” he said.

“Royce is part of my security detail. Goes with the territory of being a CEO,” JC said, making her tone light.

“Cool,” Charity said. “I’m kind of hungry.”

“We can get lunch at my hotel,” JC said, happy that the young woman didn’t have more questions.

“Is there a pool?” Charity asked, her eyes big, looking more like a little girl than a woman old enough to be living with an abusive boyfriend. JC thought longingly of what it might have been like to have Charity live with her, like a real little sister.

“Of course,” JC said.

“Not going to be any damn swimming,” Royce said. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 6

Her red dress had gotten his attention. He’d been nursing a beer, thinking about leaving, when he’d seen her across the rooftop patio. The wind had been playing with her skirt, making it swirl around her legs, and he’d had to tighten his grip on his bottle because his damn hands were simply itching to know if her skin was as soft as it looked.

She’d given him a dismissive smile and he’d been just reckless enough to think the hell with that. The rain had been fortuitous and he’d been ready to insist upon dinner when she’d graciously agreed.

And he’d had a great three hours. Still, when the night had ended, he’d been prepared to let her go. Had told himself to be content, to simply enjoy the serendipity of their meeting. She was out of his league.

But damn her, she’d pressed her business card into his hand and he’d gone home and slept with the damn thing under his pillow. For two nights. And when he wasn’t sleeping, he’d been staring at it. Until finally he’d called.

Yes, the red dress had made an impression. But it was a strapless white bikini that had been his Achilles’ heel. Two weeks into their relationship, he’d met Jules at the pool that was on the roof of her condo building. She’d been all long legs and sweet curves in a bit of nothing that had him instantly breaking into a sweat.

And she’d been a damn fish once she got into the water. But he was a good swimmer, too, and he caught her. And when her warm body brushed up against him, he cursed the few other guests lounging around the pool.

He somehow managed to let her go, to let her swim away. Had managed to lie next to her on the beach chair, like a reasonable person, pretending to read a damn book. Had managed not to touch her.

It had almost killed him.

It was their sixth date in two weeks and he desperately wanted her in his bed. But he was waiting for a sign that she was equally needy, equally ready.

Jules was different. Jules was important.

They shared a bottle of chilled white wine that she had in her bag. And hours later, after the summer sun had finally slipped beneath the horizon, and they were the only two left at the pool, he didn’t protest when she led him toward one of the curtained cabanas. And when she confidently stepped out of her suit, he wondered how much more wonderful he could stand.

They made love. And afterward, he realized as he held her still-quaking body close, that it had been a terrible mistake.

It was going to be so hard to let her go.

Ten weeks later, at the end of summer, he’d found out just how god-awful it could be.

And now, eight years later, he was helping her herd a belligerent teenager and a mangy cat into a dirty elevator. Really hadn’t seen this one coming.

“Nice car,” Charity said when they got there.

He didn’t answer. He was busy looking up and down the street, trying to spot anything unusual. He wanted Jules back inside her hotel.

The back seat of his BMW was barely big enough for Charity, her suitcase and the cat carrier. But once she got wedged in, and Jules had taken the passenger seat, he didn’t waste any time getting the car started and driving.

The only sound inside the car was the damn cat, making some kind of squealing noise that wasn’t a purr, or a meow, or anything faintly resembling any noise a cat should make.

When they got back to the hotel, he saw two of the doormen look at the cat carrier and exchange glances, but nobody tried to stop them as they proceeded up to the fourteenth floor. Thankfully, the cat had stopped squealing now that it was out of the car.

Once inside the hotel room, he had Jules and Charity wait near the door while he did a quick inspection of the rooms. When he was confident the space was clear, he motioned them forward. Charity, still holding the cat cage, turned in circles.

“Wow. I’ve never stayed in a hotel like this before,” she said.

“There’s your bedroom and bath,” Jules said, pointing off to the left.

Charity nodded, still looking awestruck. “I guess I should let Hogi out. He really liked it when we stayed at the Super 8.”

Well, then, the cat should be ecstatic at the Periwinkle. Calling up all his cat friends, inviting them over for tuna.

The vision in Royce’s head made him think that he might really have lost his mind. But then again, it was easier to think of stupid things than remember what it had felt like to see Jules’s body up against the wall, her air supply being shut off.

Her, being there in that squalid little apartment, in that kind of danger, it made him crazy.

Once Charity and her cat had gone off to her bedroom, he turned to Jules. “All of this was unnecessary,” he said. “All you had to do was stay here. Like I asked.”

Jules sighed. “I’m sorry, Royce. I really am. But in retrospect, I’d do it again. If that man had come home and seen Charity all packed up and ready to go, well, like she said, she might be one of the horrible news stories that we hear about and shake our heads. I couldn’t have lived with myself if that had happened.”

And I couldn’t have lived with something happening to you. He thought it, but he didn’t say it. They’d ended their relationship eight years ago; there was no reason for her to know that the old feelings that he’d long believed buried had sprung up from the dead and were now a waving red flag. And he was the sorry-ass bull that couldn’t keep from charging.

“So you two have been corresponding back and forth for some time?”

“Today was our second conversation and our first face-to-face meeting. But what does it matter?” she asked, her tone suggesting that he was pushing some buttons.

“Because my job is to provide security for you. And you’ve just introduced a new person into the mix. So now my job is to figure out who this new person is and identify any risks that she may pose to you. It’s what you’re paying me for.”

“Fine,” she said, her mouth barely moving.

“What’s her mother’s name?”

“Linette White.”

“And how did your mom and Linette become friends?”

“She came to the house to wash windows,” she said.

He supposed odder things had happened. But not much odder. “There had to be more than that.”

“Of course.”

Royce had trained himself to hear even the slightest nuance in a person’s delivery, to note a change in tone, pace or inflection. And that’s what he heard now. Was she lying to him? Why?

“And that was...?” he prompted.

“I think my mom was impressed by her work. She must have thought that Linette could do more. Ultimately, she recommended Linette for a position at the bank where my father worked.”

“So your dad was friends with Linette, also?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure about that. I just know that my mother kept in contact with Linette for several years after she stopped coming to our house to wash windows.”

“When’s the last time your mom saw Linette?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’m not sure,” she said. She looked him squarely in the eye. “Linette died eight months ago. I guess that takes her off the list of suspects who may or may not be trying to harm me.”

He didn’t take the bait. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

She didn’t acknowledge his half-baked consolation. “Is there anything else?”

“How is it that you and Charity found each other?”

“Recently I remembered that Linette had a daughter and I hired someone to find her.”

“You just remembered this? And felt compelled to find someone that you’d had no contact with?”

“Yes.”

Now he was fairly confident that she was lying. But he didn’t think she was about to tell him the truth.

He wanted to know more. But since his gut was telling him that it was unlikely Charity had written threatening letters and postmarked them from three different cities, he decided it could wait. He opened the leather briefcase that he’d pulled from the car. “I have the contract,” he said.

She took it, glanced at it and tossed it on the coffee table. “I’ll give it to Barry.”

“Tell me about Barry,” he said.

“I thought we’d covered that. He’s the chairman of the Miatroth board.”

“And...”

“How do you know there’s an and?”

He glanced at his watch. “We could probably get through this more quickly if you were more forthcoming with the answers.”

She sighed. “I’ve known Barry since I was a kid. He’s my dad’s friend.”

He did not want to talk about Jules’s father. “And that’s how he got to be the chairman of the board of Miatroth?”

“Of course not. Barry was an executive at Geneseel. That’s where we met. He later retired. It’s not unusual that former industry executives become board chairmen somewhere else.”

He had sensed that Barry cared deeply about Jules. He was confident the man was not a threat to her.

“Tell me about your schedule,” he said. “We need to start planning.”

She nodded, as if she’d accepted the inevitable. “Fine. But I’m going to order some lunch first. Charity said she was hungry. What would you like?”

To hear the truth. “Anything is fine.”

“Still like burgers?” she asked, already picking up the receiver of the phone.

“Still like turkey clubs?” he asked.

The air in the room seemed to still. They had a history. Brief, perhaps. But significant. They knew things about one another. Simple things. And very intimate things.

She put down the phone. “Is this going to work?” she asked.

“It might be best if we stop making assumptions about the other,” he said, talking as if he had a stiff board up his butt. He was rattled and hated the feeling.

“It’s hard,” she admitted. “In some ways, it doesn’t seem as if eight years have gone by. Maybe that sounds silly to you.”

No, it didn’t. But he couldn’t admit that.

She was staring at his left hand. “You aren’t wearing a wedding ring, Royce. Did you ever marry?”

Had barely dated. Had told himself, and the others who were brave enough to ask, that he was too busy working and going to school. Hadn’t been a monk, that was for sure. But the relationships were brief, unencumbered.

He hadn’t been stupid enough to think he was waiting for Jules. Just hadn’t been willing to accept something that was so much less than what he’d known that summer in New York.

“No,” he said. “Appears you weren’t married for long.”

“No,” she whispered. “Bryson deserved better.”

He could not have a conversation about the man. Eight years ago, she’d told him it was over. He’d believed her.

Had never guessed that she’d lie about something so important. Had never guessed that a few short months later, she’d hurt him so badly.

Chapter 7

JC ordered lunch and then handed Royce a paper copy of her electronic calendar. It was color coded. “My assistant does that,” she said, a little embarrassed to be caught being so anal retentive. But he didn’t appear to care how she kept track of her life.

He pointed at the first entry, a two-hour block this afternoon, that she’d labeled “Financial Review/Cole Hager/Wallington Hotel.”

“Cole Hager. Who is that?” he asked.

“He’s the senior analyst for a large mutual fund. Our board is hoping that he’ll come out strong in support for us.”

“Isn’t it the CFO’s job to talk to investors about financial results?”

“Yes. And he’ll probably do that. But I’ve met Cole once before and it’s not that strange that he’d want to talk to me, too.”

“He can’t come here?”

“I don’t want to ask him to do that. At this point, it would look like a power play on my part and that’s not in my best interest.”

He made no response to that. Simply settled his index finger on the X that she’d used to block out 10:00 a.m. to noon the next day with Sparrow next to it. “What’s this?” he asked.

She’d written the information on the sheet after she’d printed her electronic calendar. Her assistant would be upset that it wasn’t appropriately color coded. “Sparrow is the room name,” she said. “Evidently, all their meeting rooms are named after birds.”

“What’s happening there?” he asked.

“That’s the panel presentation I mentioned this morning. I wasn’t originally scheduled to do it but evidently one of the original presenters had a conflict. Wayne Isman contacted me and asked if I’d fill in.”

“Wayne Isman. Your old boss at Geneseel?”

She was surprised that he’d remembered. “Yeah. We’ve kept in touch over the years. We do some humanitarian work in Africa together. This particular presentation is on new pathways to fighting drug-resistant bacteria. Wayne knows that’s a topic near and dear to my heart and he figured I wouldn’t need much prep time.”

“Who else is on the panel?” he asked.

“Besides Wayne and me, there’s a physician from Mass General.”

“Name?”

She knew where this was going. “Really, Royce? You think my two fellow panelists are hit men in disguise?”

“I think that they’ll be the two closest to you during the event. That automatically puts them on my watch list.”

“Fine.” She reached into her bag that was at the end of the couch and pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is hot off the press. Wayne is getting enough printed that we can give one to every attendee.”

He stared at the paper and she regretted the impulse to show it to him. Not only were there biographies for Wayne Isman and Dr. Lilah Moorhead, there was also one for her. He knew her educational background and her work history. But would he be surprised to learn that she’d served on a presidential committee? Or that she authored a white paper that had gotten her an appearance on the Today show?

“I remember you thinking a lot of Wayne Isman,” he said, pointing at the man’s picture.

She was grateful that he didn’t want to talk about her. “He was a wonderful boss. I learned so much from him. Very bright and, of course, he’s got that killer accent, too,” she added.

“Australian, right?” he asked.

She nodded. “I could listen to him read the phone book and be totally entertained.”

“The phone book, huh? I haven’t run across one of those, but there’s a manual that describes how the dishwasher works in that cupboard.” He pointed across the room.

It was a spark of the old Royce, the one who made easy jokes and found pleasure in silly things.

“I’m sure that would be lovely, too. Wayne is one of the most respected people in the industry,” JC said. “The project we’ve been collaborating on is making children’s vaccines more readily available in underdeveloped countries.” She paused. “Of course, I let him do most of the talking in the meetings.”

“The accent thing,” he said. “I got it.”

He was staring at the paper. Wayne was a good-looking man. Was it possible that Royce thought they were collaborating on more than the vaccine project?

“Wayne Isman has been married for many years. He talks about his wife all the time. I met her once and thought she was lovely. And he’s crazy about his three daughters.”

“How nice for him,” he said, as if he couldn’t care less.

Maybe she’d read him wrong. Or maybe she’d been hoping that he was just a teensy bit jealous.

She was pathetic.

“Do attendees preregister for these sessions?” he asked.

“No. This is like most conferences. There are concurrent sessions and attendees are free to choose whatever sparks their interest at the time. There are probably seven or eight different sessions in each time slot. Presenters have been advised to plan for 150 to 200 attendees.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said.

“We’re not confident that it’s even a real threat.”

“We’re not confident that it isn’t.”

She sighed. “Look, I don’t want it to be obvious that I’ve got security.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” he said. “But no promises. If I feel that the situation warrants it, I’m going to shut it down.”

“The session?” she said incredulously.

“At least your participation in it.”

He was serious. “Royce, I have a professional reputation to maintain.”

“My job is to keep you safe. That’s the priority.”

Of course that was what she wanted, too. “All I’m asking is that if it’s possible, I’d like the two goals not to be mutually exclusive.”

He shifted his attention back to the calendar. Six to ten on Thursday night was colored green and labeled Ballroom. “Is that the awards dinner?” he asked.

“Yes. It may not last that long, but I wanted to plan on the careful side.”

She was not the type to arrive three minutes before going onstage—after anyone remotely responsible for the event had had a mild stroke for fear that she wasn’t going to show—and then leave as soon as the applause had ended.

She would arrive on time, mingle with other attendees, participate in dinner conversation, hopefully give a great speech and then hang around to answer questions afterward.

He leaned back in his chair. “Who else has access to your schedule?”

“Glory, my administrative assistant, and I are the only one who can see the details. Others, many others, of course, can look at my calendar and know if I’m busy or out of the office. Makes it easier to schedule things.”

“We need to change that. Immediately.”

“But—”

Royce shook his head. “Can Glory do that on your behalf?”

She nodded. This was a small hill. Certainly not one she intended to die upon. “Yes.”

“Good. And I need Glory’s information. Full name, address, social.”

“Miatroth has a rigid background screening process, I assure you.”

“I don’t care. How long has she worked for you?”

“Five years.”

“No recent issues? Strange behaviors? Odd conversations?”

She shook her head. “She’s amazing.” She wanted to implore Royce not to do anything that might upset Glory. The woman was already a little irritated with JC because she hadn’t gotten to come to Vegas, one of her very favorite places. “A good assistant is worth his or her weight in gold.”

“Noted,” he said.

A knock on the door made her jerk. Royce motioned for her to stay where she was. He looked through the peephole. “Room service,” he whispered, turning to look back at her. “Fast.”

“Bet the orders from the suites get priority.”

This from Charity who’d again emerged from her bedroom. She was carrying Hogi. The cat seemed calmer and when Charity put him down, he promptly jumped into one of the deep windowsills and pressed his nose up against the pane.

Royce opened the door and motioned the young man outside to come in. Then he watched him like a hawk, as if confident that he was intent upon doing them harm versus getting the tray delivered and returning to the kitchen for the next one.

She signed the room charge slip and added a generous tip, not only because of Royce’s scrutiny but partially in pity for the checkered bow tie and cummerbund the poor man had to wear. She’d always thought periwinkle blue was sort of a pretty color before this, but the combination of it and olive green just wasn’t nice.

Once he was gone, the three of them sat down at the glass-topped table. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room was silverware softly clicking against the plates.

Royce was almost half-done with his burger before he spoke again. “So, Charity, are you a student?”

“Like in college?” Charity said, her upper lip raised in a sneer.

Royce nodded.

“Not for me,” Charity said.

Royce put down his fork. “So you’re working?”

“I would,” Charity said. “But nobody seems inclined to help me have the American dream.”

If Charity had come across as snippy in the interviews as she was acting now, JC understood why she was unemployed. But based on what the private detective had been able to dig up, the kid had had some hard knocks and she suspected some of Charity’s bravado was more for show. “I have a few contacts,” JC said. “I’d be happy to make some calls.”

“We’ll see,” Charity said.

JC snuck a look at the clock in the kitchen. She did not live in a world where one wasted a whole morning. Not that meeting Charity had been a waste. No, that was totally worth it. But to miss a whole morning of work was going to set her back substantially. “I have to be at the Wallington in an hour,” she said, looking at Royce.

He nodded. “That hotel is fairly new, at the far end of the strip. Will take about fifteen minutes to get there.”

JC pushed back her chair. “I’m going to get ready,” she said.

Charity stood up, too. “I’m going down to the pool.”

She smiled at the young woman. “Great. Have a good afternoon. Let’s plan to eat dinner together at seven.”

* * *

He knew there really was no reason that Charity couldn’t use the hotel services. While they’d arrived back at the hotel together, it was still unlikely that anyone would readily connect her to Jules. And, even if scumbag Bobby had somehow already wrangled a way out of jail, he wouldn’t know to come to the Periwinkle.

Besides, it wasn’t his job to protect Charity.

But for whatever reason, it seemed as if Charity was important to Jules, and that quite frankly made her important to Royce. Even if she was uneducated, unemployed and not terribly concerned about either.

Not in school, not working. Not impressive. If she intended to shake down Jules for money, he hoped Jules was smarter than that.

While Jules got ready for her meeting and Charity got ready for the pool, Royce made phone calls. The first one was to a trusted contact within the Vegas police department. After their brief conversation, Royce was satisfied that he’d know about Bobby’s release before Bobby would.

The man had had his hands around Jules’s neck. That vision was going to linger in Royce’s brain for a while and it put Bobby on the list of people to watch.

Next he started a background search on Charity. Jules seemed satisfied that their mothers had been friends, so that automatically made Charity a friend. Royce wasn’t so easily convinced. He suspected Jules would be irritated that he’d initiated the background search, but that wasn’t his concern right now.

He was focused on keeping her alive.

When Jules came out of her bedroom, she’d changed out of her casual sweater, skirt and boots to a sapphire-blue suit with a white blouse. She looked crisp and professional, and he knew that when she walked into a room, both the women and the men there would take notice. The women would be a little jealous, secretly wishing they could pull off the same look.

The men—well, that was simple. They’d all want to have her in their beds.

It had gotten him in trouble once before.

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