Deadly Intent

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn’t get involved.

But he already was involved.

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

CAMY TANG

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

Deadly Intent

Camy Tang

The Lord your God is with you,

He is mighty to save.

—Zephaniah 3:17

To Mom and Dad—my “publicist” and

“local bookseller.”

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to speak to Jessica Ortiz.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bingo.

She flipped open the basketweave lid.

And screamed.

TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was not good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I suppose you have another option?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hopes popped and fizzled.

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

“That’s a good idea. Thanks, Betsy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she mention any of her appointments today?”

“Her massage.”

“Did she mention when or with whom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A low moan issued from the room.

His heart pulsed hard. He pushed open the door.

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

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

He dropped to his knees to turn her over.

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

“Towels?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Andrea,” she whispered.

And closed her eyes.

THREE

Naomi had never seen someone die before.

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

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

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

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

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

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