“Chantal, we need to talk.”

She froze and whirled back around to face Luke in horror. “How do you know my real name?” She’d been so careful to make sure nobody here knew her as anything but Carol Worth. How long had he known her real identity? How the devil had he found out?

He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the scent of minty soap and his spicy cologne. That’s one thing she’d noticed about him—no matter how disreputable he looked, he always smelled clean and good.

“Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me. I’m not worried about where you live or what’s in your bank account. I’m more worried about the fact that according to my sources you now have a price on your head.”

Dear Reader,

I confess, I have a passion for high heels, and my heroine in Hell on Heels embodies that passion. Chantal Worthington. I loved her the first time she popped into my head. Young, wealthy, smart and savvy, she’s a girl after my own heart. Best of all, she has a fierce loyalty to her friends and a heart the size of the price of the designer clothes she loves.

Of course, Chantal needs a strong counterpart—and crazy Luke Coleman is just the ticket. These two characters are such fun! I hope you enjoy reading their story as much as I loved writing it.

Carla Cassidy

Hell on Heels
Carla Cassidy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CARLA CASSIDY

isn’t a secret agent or martial arts expert, but she does consider herself a Bombshell kind of woman. She lives a life of love and adventure in the Midwest with her husband, Frank, and has written more than fifty books for Silhouette. Look for Carla’s next Bombshell, Pawn, an Athena Force adventure, in July 2006.

To my fellow MARA members,

Thanks for putting up with my craziness and never telling me to go away! I appreciate all of you.

Contents

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 1

The fundraiser had been a smashing success. The staff at the exclusive Kansas City Club had worked overtime to ensure that the decor and the service for the two-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner was impeccable.

Everyone who was anyone had been there, afraid that if they weren’t then they’d be fodder for gossip during the evening. Of course if there was one thing the wealthy of Kansas City loved to do more than spend money, it was to talk about one another.

“I could live on this.” Belinda Carlyle scooped up a cracker full of caviar and popped it into her mouth.

Chantal Worthington wrinkled her nose at her best friend. “Not me, I can’t stand the stuff.”

The two women stood next to a buffet table. The fancy appetizers had been picked over hours earlier. Chantal would have left long ago but her mother had been in charge. Chantal knew her mother would expect her to stay until the last party gasp.

“See the waiter over there? The one with the flashing dark eyes and tight pants? I’m thinking of having him on a cracker later this evening.”

“Honestly, Belinda…” Chantal bit back the lecture that sprang to her lips, knowing from past experience that it wouldn’t do any good.

Belinda had been on a path of self-destruction for years and Chantal knew there was nothing she could do except be there when her friend fell…which she did often.

“Your mother looks good. Botox?” Belinda asked as she grabbed another cracker.

Chantal looked across the room where her mother stood talking with the mayor. At sixty-five years old Katherine Worthington was still a beautiful woman, thanks to a man named Pepe who was paid an inordinately large amount of money to keep her hair the perfect shade of champagne blond and her skin like that on a baby’s butt.

“If she’s had it, she’ll never admit to it,” Chantal replied dryly. “She’ll simply say her ageless beauty is the result of good genes.”

“I met a guy in the bar earlier whom I would have liked to talk right out of his jeans.” When Belinda got no rise from Chantal she changed the subject. “How’s the bounty-hunting business?” Belinda shook her head, her highlighted brown curls dancing on her painfully thin shoulders. “I still can’t believe my best friend is a bounty hunter.”

Chantal grinned. “There are times I can’t believe it myself. Mother insists it’s a form of late rebellion.” Belinda was one of only a few people who knew what Chantal did during her free time.

Belinda raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Is it?”

Chantal didn’t answer immediately. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I was bored, looking to challenge myself with something more than shopping and doing lunch.”

“Seems a little extreme,” Belinda observed.

“So does taking home waiters you don’t know to have meaningless sex,” Chantal retorted.

“Darling, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Belinda purred. Then she widened her eyes. “Oops, I forgot, you did try it. What was his name? Larry or Harry?”

Chantal laughed and nudged her friend with her elbow. “Gary, and that was definitely a wild, crazy rebellion.” Gary Burkett was a poet she’d met at a literacy function.

He’d been intensely handsome with soulful eyes. They’d spent thirty minutes talking at the bookstore then had left and had spent the next two days in bed.

Chantal had begun to believe she’d found Mr. Right, then they’d gotten out of bed. What was it about silk sheets that could make a man irresistible but once the sheets were off transformed him into an asshole?

“I can tell you why you were so bored with your life,” Belinda continued. “You don’t have enough dysfunction. You’re the only person I know who doesn’t have a therapist.”

“You have two. Me not having one keeps the world in perfect balance.”

Belinda picked up her purse from a nearby chair. “On that note, I’m going home. Call me tomorrow?”

“As always,” Chantal replied.

Belinda pulled her keys from her purse, then looked at Chantal again, all trace of humor gone from her pretty features. “Did you hear that the case went to the jury late yesterday afternoon?”

Chantal didn’t have to ask which case Belinda was referring to. The Willowby rape trial had been one of the most highly publicized cases ever tried in the state of Missouri.

Ten months before, Marcus Willowby, heir to the Willowby Whisky fortune had been arrested on two counts of rape. It was alleged that twenty-eight-year-old Marcus had drugged the victims with GHB, then videotaped himself raping the unconscious young women.

The crimes were brought to the attention of the police by a young woman and her friend who had spent the night at Willowby’s condo after a night of dancing and partying at a local club.

According to the young women they had gone to Willowby’s place and had a few drinks and neither of them remembered anything after that. They’d awakened the next morning in Willowby’s spare bedroom, fully clothed on top of the bed. Willowby had been in the kitchen fixing them all breakfast.

It wasn’t until one of the women went to use the bathroom and discovered her underwear inside out that she became suspicious that something had happened that shouldn’t have. She and her friend had left Willowby’s and gone directly to the nearest police station where rape kits were performed on the two women and traces of semen were found on their underwear and skin.

An investigation had yielded the videotape of the two women being raped by Willowby while they were unconscious. Although the police suspected there were other victims, no other videotapes had been found and no other women had come forward.

It was an ugly case, but there had been very little gossip among Chantal’s friends and peers. Willowby was one of their own, but the heinous nature of the crime and the power wielded by Rebecca and Roger Willowby, Marcus’s parents, had kept public gossip at a minimum.

But Belinda and Chantal had spent a lot of time talking about Willowby. Ten years ago Marcus had raped Belinda.

“I hope the bastard rots in hell,” Belinda now said, her voice husky with suppressed emotion. “I hope somebody kills him in prison.”

Chantal placed a hand on her friend’s arm. She knew the devastation that single night had wreaked in Belinda’s life. She knew the emotional scars had been ripped open again when details of Willowby’s arrest had hit the news.

“Belinda, he’s not going to get away this time,” she said softly. “According to everyone there’s no way the jury can come back with a not guilty verdict.”

“I know…I just wish…” She shook her head once again. “I’ve got to go home. I’m getting one of my headaches.” She leaned forward and kissed Chantal on the cheek, then turned and headed for the banquet-room exit.

Chantal watched her friend go, her heart aching. She and Belinda had been best friends since seventh grade when the two of them had attended an exclusive summer camp and discovered they both had a passion for mint chocolate truffles from the Tenth Street Bakery, Vogue magazines and late lunches at the Plaza.

During those early teenage years, they had shared their despair over the fact that high fashion came to Kansas City six months later than every place else on earth and that the grapefruit diet didn’t really work.

They’d shared the joy of discovering that Calvin Klein jeans actually made their butts look good and that bitchy Susie Winchester had become a cliché and run off with her family’s gardener.

Those had been the most carefree years Chantal had enjoyed, even though, looking back, she recognized that she and Belinda had been totally self-absorbed and shallow as only teenagers can be.

The night of the party at the Willowby mansion had changed everything. They’d been sixteen, and, despite not really hanging out with Marcus and his friends, they hadn’t been able to resist a party at the Willowby home.

The house had crawled with teenagers. Drugs and liquor had flowed freely and in the space of the thirty minutes that Belinda and Chantal had been separated, Marcus Willowby had nearly destroyed Belinda’s life.

Chantal had tried to talk Belinda into going to the authorities and reporting the crime, but Belinda had been afraid. She’d been afraid of what Marcus might do, what her parents would think, and the gossip that would surround her if she told.

While Chantal and Belinda’s friendship had only grown stronger, Belinda had transformed from a happy, carefree teen to a neurotic mess who only occasionally allowed glimpses of the happy girl she had once been.

“Darling, where are you?”

Chantal blinked and realized her mother stood before her. She smiled. “I got lost in my thoughts for a moment.” She leaned forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. “The evening was a huge success.”

Katherine frowned, a dainty wrinkle forming in the center of her forehead. “The salmon was overcooked and the salad wasn’t chilled enough, but the good thing is, according to my best guess, we raised almost twenty thousand dollars for Kansas City Kids.”

Kansas City Kids was one of Katherine’s pet charities, an organization that provided medical and dental treatment to the underprivileged children in the city.

“That’s wonderful, but certainly not a surprise. You’re definitely an expert at fundraising.”

Katherine smiled. “Your father used to say that if necessary I could raise a million for a family of toads.” Her smile grew wistful and Chantal knew she was thinking of Chantal’s father, who had died unexpectedly of a heart attack five years before.

“He’d be proud of you,” Chantal said softly.

“Yes, I think he would be,” she agreed. “So, are you heading straight home?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to check in with Big Joey and see if anything is happening.”

The frown that had disappeared from Katherine’s forehead appeared again. “You will be careful?”

“Heavens, why would I want to do that?” Chantal teased. “You know I will be,” she added and kissed her mother’s cheek once again.

Minutes later she walked out of the lobby and into the sultry mid-June night and waited for the valet to bring her car around. She was glad the fundraiser was over. This had been her third one in the past two weeks. Friends of the Zoo, People for Pets, Save the Whales…everyone needed money and Chantal was on everyone’s list as a benefactor.

As she waited for her car she pulled her cell phone from her purse and hit the speed dial for Big Joey’s Bail Bonds.

Even though it was after eleven, she knew Joey would be in. Joey was almost always in. He slept, ate and drank his bail-bond business, and that business was never closed.

The phone was answered on the first ring. Monica Hyatt, Big Joey’s assistant, barked a hello. “Monica, it’s Carol. Is the boss in?”

“Nah, he left about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Everything all right?” Chantal asked in surprise.

“Fine, just the slowest Saturday night we’ve seen in years. Every criminal in the city either went to bed early or decided to take the night off.”

“So, there’s nothing popping?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Anyone else around?”

“James and Brian are playing cards and keeping me company, bitching about the slow night.”

“Thanks, Monica, I’ll check in sometime Monday.” Chantal ended the call as the valet arrived with her car.

As she drove away from the hotel she contemplated her options. She could go straight home and get out of the sinfully short, clingy, red Valentino dress and the Gucci heels that made her long legs looks sexy but pinched like hell, or she could swing by Ruby’s and see if Wesley Baker was as dumb as his rap sheet implied.

She decided on the latter. She headed toward the west side of town where Ruby’s was located. As she drove, her thoughts were scattered, shooting first in one direction, then another.

For the last eight months she’d been living a lifestyle that would please a schizophrenic. Her life as Chantal Worthington revolved around fundraisers and parties, lunch dates and social events.

When she wasn’t being socialite Chantal, she was working hard at being Carol Worth, bounty hunter. From the moment Big Joey had hired her she decided the smartest thing to do was keep the two lives as separate as possible.

She was wise enough to understand reverse snobbery, that the men she worked with at Big Joey’s wouldn’t trust her, wouldn’t respect her if they knew where she came from and what her bank account contained. As it was, even after several decent collars she didn’t feel as if she’d gained the respect of her coworkers at Big Joey’s.

As a bounty hunter she used the name Carol Worth and worked from a post-office box. Only Big Joey knew that in reality she was heir to Worthington Boat Industries and worth a small fortune.

Ruby’s was a hole in the wall, a bar that catered to a leather-and-Harley clientele. Chantal parked across the street, shut off her engine and rolled down her car window.

You could always tell how business was at Ruby’s by the number of motorcycles parked out front. Tonight there was an even dozen, all chromed and shiny in the illumination from a nearby streetlight.

For the last four nights Chantal had been watching Ruby’s, waiting for one Wesley Baker to show up. Baker’s latest crime, an attempted robbery using a Slim Jim beef stick as a pretend gun in his pocket had gone bad when the convenience-store clerk had pulled a very real gun on him.

Baker had no known address, unless you counted Ruby’s, where on most nights before his arrest he could be found. He’d missed his court date a week ago and Chantal had a feeling it was just a matter of time before he showed up back here.

It was a funny thing about criminals…most of them were stupid.

Closing time was two and she settled back in her car seat to wait and watch. As always, a small kick of adrenaline filled her as she anticipated catching her quarry. The burst of adrenaline was as addictive as Godiva chocolate.

It had been her personal assistant, Harrah, who had gotten her into the bounty-hunting business. Harrah was a struggling jewelry designer who had come to work for Chantal a year ago as a stepping stone into the society she hoped to cultivate as clients.

Harrah had come up by way of the school of hard knocks. One of four children raised by an alcoholic mother and an absentee father, Harrah had big dreams and a willingness to work for success.

One day while she and Chantal were working together, Harrah confessed that her brother, Jimmy, had a court date in two days and had disappeared.

Harrah had gone through Big Joey’s Bail Bonds to secure her brother’s bond and was scared to death he didn’t intend to show at court and Big Joey would come looking for her.

On a lark, Chantal told Harrah not to worry, that she’d help her find her errant brother. For the next forty-eight hours Chantal and Harrah had pounded pavement, knocked on doors, and had finally located Jimmy two hours before court time.

It had taken every minute to talk him through his fear and convince him that it was in his best interest to show up and take his punishment.

In those forty-eight hours, a couple things happened that had changed Chantal’s life. She’d met Big Joey and she’d realized she loved the hunt.

Harrah’s brother had gone to prison to serve a three-year sentence on drug charges and Big Joey’s Bail Bonds had hired Chantal as a bail-enforcement agent.

She sat up straighter as she saw a tall young man approaching the bar. Despite the heat of the night he wore a jacket, the collar pulled up as if to hide his facial features from view. Dark hair, a lanky build and suspicious clothing. She had a feeling it was her man.

Adrenaline once again twisted in her gut as she grabbed her purse from the seat next to her. She peeked inside, making sure she had both her handcuffs and her pistol.

Even though she’d been watching Ruby’s for the past four nights, she’d never ventured inside. It definitely wasn’t the kind of place she’d choose for a night out.

As she got out of her car she wished she were wearing black leather instead of Valentino. She had a feeling she was going to stick out like a bad cubic zirconia among a scatter of Harry Winston diamonds.

She approached the entrance, her heels clicking against the pavement that still radiated the heat from the day. Raucous music and laughter poured from the opened doorway. She began her mantra.

“Prada handbags…sunny days…lunch with Mom…Chloe jeans.”

Whenever she was going into what might be a dangerous situation her habit was to list in her head all of her favorite things. That way she figured if something went wrong and she was killed, the last thing her mind would remember was something she loved.

“Facials at Mimi’s…sad movies…slumber parties with Belinda…” She stopped as she walked through the front door of Ruby’s.

The smoke was as thick as socialites at a Versace sale. The bar was to her left, a long expanse of scarred wood holding up a handful of drunken men and women. To her right were the biggest, meanest men she’d ever seen playing at two pool tables.

She scanned the people inside and spied Wesley Baker at the far end of the bar. He’d removed his jacket and looked at ease as he nursed a beer.

As she moved toward the empty stool next to him, she consciously made no eye contact with anyone. She didn’t want trouble. She just wanted to get Baker outside and into handcuffs.

“Hey, baby, slumming tonight?” a deep voice said from behind her.

“Get lost on the way to the prom?” a woman laughed.

Chantal ignored them and wove her way toward the empty stool, walking as if she was lit like a Christmas tree. She sat on the stool and slumped forward, elbows on the bar. “I think I’m lost,” she slurred. She offered Wesley a loopy, but friendly grin.

She knew from all the information she’d gathered on him that Baker considered himself a real ladies’ man. Maybe in a worm colony, she thought.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Wesley asked, then raised a finger for the bartender.

Chantal giggled. “I can’t remember the address. Maybe a little drink will help.” She grinned at the bartender, a bear of a man sporting more tattoos than hair. “How about a little top-shelf Scotch on the rocks?” She turned to look at Wesley, who had a cheap beer in front of him. “How about a Scotch on me?”

“Now you’re talking.” He shoved the beer aside as the bartender poured the two Scotches.

For the next few minutes Chantal small-talked with Wesley, who proved to be as charming as a Brazilian wax. Although anyone seeing the two of them interacting would assume her attention was focused solely on Baker, she was conscious of everything going on in the bar around them.

She needed to get Baker outside. There were too many men in the bar who looked as though they walked on the wrong side of the law, and if she tried to take him down inside she had a feeling she’d wind up wearing her own handcuffs, or worse.

She wasn’t just worried about the men she could see, but there were others hanging out in the hallway near the bathrooms and in the poolroom. Chantal didn’t mind taking risks, but she wasn’t suicidal.

“I just remembered where I’m supposed to be,” she said, after taking only two tiny sips of her drink. “At the Radisson Hotel.”

“Sweetcakes, you’re about two freeway exits off. You need to get back up on the interstate and take the Broadway exit.”

“Is that left or right?”

He stared at her blankly. “Where are you parked?”

“Out front.”

Wesley finished his drink. “What direction are you facing, north or south?”

“North…no, south.” Chantal released what she hoped sounded like a half-drunk giggle. “Wow, I’m so turned around I’m not sure.”

Wesley slid off his stool. “Come on, I’ll walk you out and we’ll see where you need to go.”

The taste of sweet success filled her mouth. This was going to be a piece of cake. Once she got him outside and away from the crowd, she’d slap the handcuffs on him and take him to Big Joey’s. From there he’d be taken to the police station.

The outside air smelled wonderful as they stepped outside of the smoky alcoholic haven. Chantal frowned as she saw a couple of men loitering by the row of motorcycles.

She’d hoped that nobody would be out front. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to try to get involved in her collar.

As they walked across the street, she opened her purse so she could gain access to her handcuffs. “Oh, wow, I can’t find my keys,” she said and pretended to rummage in the bottom of her purse.

“Maybe you left them in the car.” As Wesley reached the driver door he bent down to peer into the window.

Chantal yanked the cuffs from her purse and slapped one on Wesley’s wrist. It didn’t fasten. “Hey, what the hell?” He attempted to whirl around to face her, but she held his wrist and tried to get the damned handcuff to connect.

“What’s going on over there?” a deep voice yelled.

As Chantal and Wesley fell to the pavement, she was aware of the sound of running feet. It wasn’t exactly music to her ears, but she refused to release her death grip on Baker’s wrist.

“Everybody back off. This is official business,” a deep, familiar voice rang out.

A wave of dread swept through Chantal. Of all the men she wanted to see right now, Crazy Luke Coleman was the last. Just her luck that he would appear at the moment she suspected she was about to get her ass kicked.

With irritating ease, he grabbed Baker, yanked him up and cuffed him, then reached out a hand to help her up off the sidewalk. “Darlin’, you’re in way over your head,” he murmured as he held out her cuffs.

She snatched the cuffs from him and jammed them back in her purse, aware that the group of men who had begun to advance had gone back to the opposite side of the street.

She eyed the tall man who now had control of her prisoner. “I could have managed on my own,” she exclaimed.

Luke Coleman, or Crazy Coleman as he was known in the bounty business, looked as if he belonged at a biker bar. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and his jaw was covered with more than a day’s dark stubble.

His sleeveless shirt exposed not only bulging biceps but also an intricate tattoo of an eagle. His jeans were worn and fit snugly on his long, muscular legs. He looked edgy, dangerous and more than capable of taking care of himself.

The other bounty hunters who worked for Big Joey spoke of him as if he was a demigod. In the time Chantal had worked for Joey she’d found Luke Coleman to be arrogant, irritating and unsettling. He was also the most successful bounty hunter in a four-state area.

“Wait! What are you doing?” she asked as he started to lead Wesley Baker away from her car.

“I’m taking my prisoner to my truck,” he said, then turned and proceeded to walk away from her.

“Stop!” She hurried after him and grabbed him by the arm. “What do you mean your prisoner? He’s my prisoner.”

Coleman turned to look at her once again, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “My cuffs, my collar.”

She watched in outrage as he continued toward his truck, her prisoner in tow. “Bastard,” she hissed. He had the audacity to turn and salute her.

She remained on the sidewalk, cursing a blue streak as Crazy Luke Coleman drove away with Wesley Baker.

Chapter 2

“That bastard will never take another one of my collars,” Chantal exclaimed to her assistant as she gripped her handcuffs in her hand. “Come on, let’s try it again. Pretend you’re just walking along and I’ll grab your wrist and handcuff it.”

It was late Monday morning and the two women were in Chantal’s living room where, for the past hour, Chantal had been practicing slapping cuffs on Harrah’s wrists.

“You don’t pay me enough for this,” Harrah grumbled.

“Nonsense, I pay you three times what you’re worth. Now, come on, just one more time.”

“I go home with black-and-blue wrists and Lena will think I’m seeing somebody who’s into bondage,” Harrah exclaimed.

“Lena knows you’re devoted to her, now stop bitching and walk like a criminal.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Harrah walked in front of Chantal. Chantal grabbed one of her wrists and slapped the handcuff over Harrah’s smooth mahogany skin. Harrah twisted her wrist and the cuffs dropped to the ground.

“Damn,” Chantal muttered. She picked up the cuffs and threw herself onto the overstuffed burgundy sofa. “You know, they make it look easy in the movies, but apparently there’s a finesse to handcuffs that I still haven’t figured out.”

She frowned with irritation as she thought of how easily Coleman had cuffed Baker on Saturday night. “I still can’t believe he walked away with my prisoner. He’s the most irritating, arrogant man I’ve ever known.”

Harrah didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. Her full lips curved into a smile as she sank into the wing chair opposite the sofa. “He might be arrogant, but that bad boy is sexy enough to make me rethink my sexual preference.” Harrah was a self-proclaimed lipstick lesbian who had been in a relationship with her partner for over five years.

Chantal scowled. “He looks as disreputable as the people he hunts.”

“I hate to change the subject while you’re nursing a grudge, but I need to get those invitations in the mail today.”

“Invitations?” Chantal looked at her blankly.

“You know, the dinner party you promised your mother you’re giving next week for Mr. Barnes? They’re already going to be sinfully late. I’m going to have to overnight them. I’ve got Enrique catering and he’s also taking care of the cake.”

The dinner party was for Jeffrey Barnes, financial advisor and close friend of both Chantal and her mother. Jeffrey was turning sixty next week and Katherine had thought it would be nice if Chantal put together an intimate dinner party as a birthday celebration.

“I’ve got the list for you in my office. I’ll get it so you can get started.” Chantal got up and left the living room to go into her office off the kitchen.

The first thing that greeted her was the view, a stunning panorama of an exclusive golf course. Chantal didn’t play, but when she’d house-hunted a year ago she’d fallen in love with the four-bedroom, story-and-a-half home and the pleasant surroundings.

Besides, there was nothing better than sitting in her office on a hot summer day and watching sweaty, well-built men swing a golf club.

In addition to the floor-to-ceiling windows across one wall, the room sported a wall of bookcases that held her favorite novels and knickknacks, a massive desk and a computer with all the latest bells and whistles that money could buy.

It was in this room that she did not only her work for various charities and organizations, but also much of her bounty-hunting work. Most people thought bounty hunting was all about bursting through doors and hopping over fences in pursuit of a bail jumper, but that wasn’t reality.

Reality was long hours on the phone, using the Internet as a tool, talking to snitches and watching a particular location while fighting off sleep. The rush of a capture was the payoff for all the boring, tedious hours it took to get to that point.

She sat at the desk and opened a drawer to pull out the guest list she’d written out several days earlier. Thank God for Harrah, who managed to keep her life organized.

She leaned back in her chair and smiled as she thought of the day almost a year before when Harrah had shown up to apply for the position of Chantal’s personal assistant.

“I’m black, gay and named after my mama’s favorite casino, but I’ll be the best damned personal assistant you’ll ever have,” she’d pronounced.

She hadn’t lied. There were days Chantal didn’t know how she’d functioned before Harrah. Harrah was tall and beautiful and the most efficient person Chantal had ever met. Harrah not only kept track of Chantal’s appointments and social engagements, she also kept the house clean and occasionally cooked.

As if conjured up by mere thought, the woman appeared in the office doorway. “Got it?”

Chantal nodded and handed her the list. “Do I have anything on my schedule for today?”

“Nothing,” Harrah replied.

“Once you get the invitations mailed off you can take the rest of the day off. I think I’ll head to the Plaza and work out in the Gym, then go to Mimi’s and get a facial and a massage. I’ve been tense since Saturday.”

Harrah grinned, exposing perfectly straight white teeth. “Kicking his ass would probably do you as much good as a trip to Mimi’s.”

Chantal laughed. “Yeah, but a trip to Mimi’s is a lot less dangerous.”

With plans made for the day, Chantal left her office and headed for her bedroom to change clothes. It had been the master suite that had ultimately sold Chantal on the house.

The room was huge with windows that overlooked the ninth hole. She’d chosen melon tones to decorate: lush cantaloupe and cool honeydew colors that she found sexy yet restful.

In the center of the king-size bed, a large gray cat raised its head and hissed as if to protest her very presence in the room.

She’d found the cat six months ago in a box near the Dumpster behind Big Joey’s Bail Bonds. It had been a miserably bitter January day with snow in the forecast. Chantal had brought the cat home and named it Sam, after her beloved father.

When she’d first found him she’d entertained fantasies of a warm purring fur ball against her chest, a little creature who would coil affectionately around her legs the minute she got home.

She’d obviously been delusional. Savage Sam, as she liked to refer to her roommate, didn’t seem to have an affectionate bone in his body and she had yet to hear him purr.

It took her only minutes to change into workout clothes, pull her shoulder-length blond hair into a ponytail, then grab her gym bag and leave the house. It was a thirty-minute drive to the Plaza, a high-rent, beautiful shopping area of the city.

The gym where Chantal worked out wasn’t an exclusive one and catered only to the serious-minded exercise freaks. The Gym was as simple as its name, a place that smelled of sweat. It definitely wasn’t a place for social gatherings or chitchat.

Power shopping was as close as Chantal had gotten to exercise before going to work for Big Joey. But she’d realized that if she intended to be a successful bounty hunter, she needed to make sure she was in the best physical shape possible.

She worked out for a little over two hours, until her muscles were limp as linguini, then showered and dressed in clean clothes for a trip to one of her most favorite places in the whole world.

Mimi’s was an exclusive club with membership reserved for those people who had the right name, the right connections and the ability to pay exorbitant fees for massages, facials and tanning sessions.

Chantal decided to have a full-body massage. As Mary, the masseuse, worked her magic on her tense muscles, Chantal’s thoughts turned to Luke Coleman.

She still couldn’t believe what he had done Saturday night and wondered if he had been at Ruby’s to score Wesley Baker or if that was one of his usual hangouts?

She knew little about the man, only that he was a loner. He’d worked for Big Joey for the past five years and in that time had garnered a reputation for being tough and having the best street contacts in the business.

“You are one big bundle of tension,” Mary said as she kneaded Chantal’s shoulders. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

“The usual stresses. I’m giving a dinner party next week.”

“Oh honey, no wonder you’re tense. We all know how stressful entertaining can be.”

Chantal didn’t reply. Entertaining was nothing. Stress was watching a Neanderthal saunter away with the criminal she’d collared. It was as if she were a gold miner and had spent hours, days digging for gold. She’d finally uncovered a nugget and some other prospector had reached over her shoulder and stolen it away.

She didn’t care about the fee that she’d have earned for delivering Wesley Baker. Money wasn’t the reason she’d gone into this business in the first place. What bothered her more than anything was Luke’s assessment that she was in over her head.

By the time Mary had worked her magic, Chantal had managed to put Luke Coleman out of her mind. She left Mimi’s feeling rejuvenated. After a fast lunch at a nearby restaurant, she headed for Big Joey’s to see whose mug shot had made it to his wall of shame.

Big Joey’s Bail Bonds was located in downtown Kansas City, three blocks from the city square that held the court house, the police station and various other government buildings.

On top of the flat, one-story business, a neon sign—as gaudy as that on any Vegas casino—flashed, despite the brightness of the afternoon.

At this time of the day the heat radiated up in fierce waves from the blacktop parking lot, intensifying the scent of motor oil and rotting garbage that permeated the area.

Chaos ruled the front office. Chantal had never been in the place when the desk wasn’t littered with mounds of papers and fast-food wrappers, the phones weren’t ringing off the hook and the scent of burnt coffee, sweat and fear didn’t saturate the place.

A large bulletin board sporting mug shots of the people who had jumped bail and not made their court appearances covered one wall. Skips, as they were referred to in the business, were the people Chantal and her fellow bail-enforcement agents hunted.

Monica Hyatt sat behind the only desk in the room and she waggled two fingers in greeting at Chantal as she continued talking into the phone. As usual, she wasn’t the only one in the room.

Two other bounty hunters played cards at a table in the corner and a pizza-delivery boy stood impatiently waiting for somebody to pay him for the pizzas that teetered precariously on the edge of Monica’s desk.

“Hey, Carol,” James Walker, one of the card players, greeted her. “Heard Coleman trumped you Saturday night.” He and Brian Cooke, the other card player, laughed.

“I’m glad you two are so amused,” she replied and walked over to the wall to see if any new photos had been put up since Friday when she’d last been in the office. There were two and she pulled a notepad from her purse and wrote down their names and all the pertinent information about their crimes.

“Honey, I’d never have done anything like that to you,” James said.

Chantal raised one of her blond eyebrows to gaze at the older man. “James, you’d cuff your own mother and bring her in if you thought a fee was involved.”

She turned back to Monica and motioned toward the inner-office door. “Is he in?” she mouthed. Monica nodded and indicated she should go on in. Chantal knocked on the door, then pushed it open.

Big Joey Barlow stood less than five feet tall and weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, but he had the attitude, the aggression and the guts of a man four times his size. The biggest mistake people made with Joey was to underestimate him because of his stature.

“Just turn yourself in, Pete,” Joey said into the phone as he gestured Chantal into a chair in front of his desk. “If I have to send one of my people after you I can’t guarantee things won’t get ugly.”

As Joey alternately cajoled and threatened whoever was on the receiving end of the call, Chantal sank into the chair opposite the desk and waited.

In the eight months that Chantal had been working for Joey she’d found him to be a generous, kind man unless you crossed him, then all bets were off.

“Just get your ass in here,” Joey yelled into the receiver, then slammed it down and grabbed a bottle of antacid tablets from the desktop. He popped two of the chalky tablets into his mouth and chewed feverishly.

“Some days I think I should get out of this business, sell it and spend the rest of my days living on a beach somewhere and sipping drinks with those pretty little umbrellas stuck in them.”

Chantal smiled at her boss. “You’d go crazy with boredom within a month and use one of those umbrella toothpicks to put yourself out of your misery.”

He laughed. “You’re probably right. This business is in my blood.” He reared back in his chair and gazed at her with his intelligent brown eyes. “So, you in here to bitch?”

She frowned. “Why would I bitch?”

“Two words. Luke Coleman.”

Chantal sighed in exasperation. “What did the man do? Take an ad out in the paper?”

“He came in here Saturday night and explained to me what had happened so I’d have a heads-up if you had a beef.”

Chantal bristled with irritation. “I’m not a crybaby or a tattletale. I’d had no intention of even mentioning it to you,” she replied.

“If I thought you were either, I wouldn’t have hired you,” Joey replied.

“I just wanted to check in. I see we’ve got a couple of new glamour shots on the wall.”

“Yeah, mostly penny-ante stuff.” Joey pulled a big cigar from his top desk drawer. He stuck it into his mouth, but didn’t light it. “I’m much more interested in a phone call I got a little while ago from my source close to the DA’s office.”

Chantal leaned forward. “About what?”

Joey frowned and his eyes narrowed, giving him a dangerous look that only a fool would fail to see. “According to my source, Marcus Willowby failed to make his noon check-in with the authorities.”

Chantal checked her watch. “But that was over an hour ago.”

“Nothing official has come down. His lawyer is supposedly on top of it. He’s sure it’s nothing more than a monitor glitch of some kind.”

“You’ll let me know what you find out?”

“Honey, if that pervert tries to skip out on me, I’ll call in every bounty hunter I know, every marker I’m owed, to see that bastard’s balls tied to the highest tree.” There was a soft menace in his tone, a menace that made her believe all the rumors she’d heard about him.

Joey leaned back in his chair and his frown deepened. “I didn’t feel good about this from the very beginning. I should have told them to go to another bail bondsman.”

“Why did they have to use a bail bondsman at all?” she asked. “I thought the Willowbys had more money than Trump.”

“Just because you got a lot of money on paper doesn’t mean you have a lot of ready cash. Willowby was arrested on a Saturday night and apparently he couldn’t get his hands on ready cash right away. He didn’t want to spend a minute in jail so he contacted me. And now this.” He scowled.

“Has any of this made the local news?” she asked as her thoughts shifted to Belinda. If her friend got wind of this, she’d be beyond distraught.

“I don’t know, but I’d doubt it, since nothing official has been announced yet.”

Chantal stood. “I’ve got to run. Let me know as soon as you know anything about Willowby.”

“Will do,” Joey replied.

Minutes later as Chantal drove toward home, she thought of the man who was her boss. Rumor had it that years ago Joey had been engaged to a beautiful woman. A week before their wedding she was killed by a drunk driver who had half a dozen DUI arrests on his record. Joey went crazy. He hunted the man down and three days later beat him to death with his bare hands.

Joey went to prison for ten years. With his physical stature alone, prison should have been hell for the man, but Joey had not only survived, he’d thrived. He’d come out of prison with a zeal to right the wrongs of his past, and thus Big Joey’s Bail Bonds was born.

Before Chantal had gotten into bounty hunting, she, like so many others, had a romanticized view of the business. She’d thought bounty hunters were honorable men fighting for justice and righting the wrongs of an inadequate legal system.

In truth it was a business shadowed with darkness. Perhaps there were some honorable men, but there were also men drawn to bounty hunting by their own propensity for violence and power and control.

By the time she pulled into her driveway her thoughts were back on Belinda. She knew the emotional investment Belinda had in seeing Marcus Willowby tried and convicted for his crimes. She also knew Belinda had no support system other than Chantal.

Belinda was the cliché of the poor little rich girl. She had no siblings and her parents had always been more interested in traveling than in their only daughter. Belinda had been raised by a variety of nannies and had never connected with the people who had given her life.

Sometimes Chantal thought Belinda had been drawn to her because of the relationship Chantal had with her own parents. Katherine and Sam, while he’d been alive, were loving, caring people who always had time for their only child.

Belinda had loved spending time at Chantal’s house when they’d been growing up, and she’d mourned the death of Sam almost as deeply as Chantal and her mother had.

Chantal and Belinda had spent many hours discussing the differences between their parents. Belinda insisted that she thought it was because her parents had been born wealthy and Chantal’s parents had made their money.

Inside the house, Chantal went directly to her office. She sat behind her desk and turned on the television with the remote control. She channel-surfed, seeking any news report on the Willowby trial.

Since the case had gone to the jury late Friday afternoon. Marcus wouldn’t have been required to show up in court today unless a verdict had come down. However, he was required to wear a monitoring device and check in with the authorities at specific predetermined times during the day and evening.

There could be a hundred innocent reasons why he had missed his noon check-in or there could be one reason why he hadn’t…and that was because he’d run.

When she found nothing on the news, she turned on her computer and went to the Web site devoted to the trial. It was run by a group that identified itself only as Women Against Rape and had sprung to life the day after Willowby had been arrested.

The headline across the first page read: Willowby on the Run?

The provocative headline wasn’t substantiated by the blurb beside it, which indicated only that Willowby had missed a check-in and his lawyer had assured the authorities it was some sort of technological glitch. She shut down the computer, picked up the phone and dialed Belinda’s number.

Margaret, the Carlyles’ housekeeper, answered the phone on the second ring. “Hi, Margaret, it’s Chantal. Is Belinda there?”

“Ms. Belinda is resting.”

It wasn’t unusual for Belinda to nap during the day, but Chantal needed to speak to her friend, needed to find out if Belinda had gotten word about Willowby. “Could you get her on the phone? I really need to speak with her.”

“Just a moment.”

Chantal tapped her sculptured nails on the top of her desk as she waited for Belinda, hoping that her friend hadn’t seen the Web site, had no idea that there was even the most remote possibility that Willowby had fled the jurisdiction.

“Ms. Chantal, I can’t get her awake and there’s an empty pill bottle next to her bed.” Margaret’s voice held a frightening urgency.

“Call 911 and tell them to take her to St. Luke’s! I’ll be there as soon as possible.” Damn. The minute Big Joey had told her about Willowby’s missed check-in, she’d been afraid that Belinda might get word of it and do something stupid.

Chantal jumped out of her chair, grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

As she drove to St. Luke’s Hospital, her heart beat a frantic rhythm. This wasn’t the first time Belinda had done something stupid. Twice before she’d taken an overdose of pills.

“Damn it, Belinda,” she murmured. The thought of losing her created an ache inside Chantal’s chest. Belinda was more sister than friend. Belinda was the keeper of secrets, Chantal’s partner in joy and sorrow and she couldn’t imagine not having her best friend in her life.

By the time Chantal arrived at the hospital, Belinda had already been taken into the emergency room. “I’m here for Belinda Carlyle,” Chantal said to the receptionist.

“And you are?”

“Her sister, Chantal.” She knew the only way to get information was to pose as an immediate family member.

“If you’ll just have a seat in the waiting room I’ll let them know you’re here.”

Chantal sank into one of the chairs and tried to still the rapid beat of her heart. Thank God she’d decided to call Belinda. She prayed they had found her in time.

“Nine-hundred-count sheets, anything by Armani, chocolate-covered strawberries.” As the stress built up inside her, she began her mantra beneath her breath.

She wanted to wring Belinda’s neck, kick her in her butt, and pull her against her heart and make her swear she’d never do anything like this again.

What if Chantal hadn’t called her? What if Margaret hadn’t gone into the bedroom? What if…what if…Those kinds of thoughts could eat you alive.

It was a little over an hour later that she was allowed into the emergency-room area where a doctor told her they had pumped Belinda’s stomach and he’d summoned a mental-heath associate to speak to her.

“May I see her?” Chantal asked.

He nodded and motioned toward exam room seven. Chantal hurried into the enclosure to find Belinda with her head turned toward the wall in the semi-dark room.

“Belinda, it’s me.” Chantal sat in the chair beside the bed and reached for her friend’s hand. Without turning her head to acknowledge Chantal in any way, Belinda released a deep, heart-wrenching sob and squeezed Chantal’s hand.

For a long moment they remained that way, neither of them speaking, their hands clasped tightly together. Every woman, no matter what her age, needed a best friend in her life. Men were great for sex and opening difficult pickle jars and a few other things, but only another woman could understand the complexities, the joys and sorrows of being a woman.

It was Belinda who finally broke the silence. She turned to look at Chantal, her face pale and her eyes dark and haunted. “He’s going to get away. I knew he’d never be punished. I knew somehow he’d escape.”

“Belinda, you don’t know for sure what’s going on. Nobody does. They think it might be some sort of monitoring malfunction.”

“Bullshit.” The word exploded from her as tears filled her eyes. “He’s going to get away with it just like he did years ago. There’s no monitoring malfunction. He’s running and he has the money and the means to run where nobody will ever find him, where he’ll never have to face up to the lives he’s destroyed.”

She jerked her hand from Chantal’s and half rose in the bed. “Don’t you understand? It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. If I’d done the right thing years ago then none of those girls would have been raped. That bastard would have been in jail a long time ago.”

She fell back to the bed and shook her head wearily. “At least they were drugged when it happened. They were unconscious and don’t remember the smell of his breath or the feel of his hands or the things that he said.”

“What things did he say?” Chantal asked. In all the times they had spoken about Willowby, Belinda had never gone into the details of the rape that night in his mansion.

She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes feverish. “Sometimes I can’t get his voice out of my head. At first he didn’t say anything, he just grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bathroom. Before I even understood what was happening he was pulling up my skirt and yanking down my panties.” She drew a deep breath and released a sob.

“Belinda…you don’t have to…”

“No, I want to talk about it. Maybe if I talk about it I’ll be able to forget it.” Once again she reached for Chantal’s hand and grabbed it painfully tight. “I was so shocked, I didn’t even fight him. He shoved me back against the sink and it was over almost before it began. I started crying and he looked at me like I was nothing, like I was dog shit that he’d accidentally stepped in.”

She shivered, as if the devil himself had grabbed her soul. “I remember as clearly as if it happened yesterday, that look in his eyes, then he said, ‘You won’t tell.’ I told him I would, but he said nobody would believe me, that I was a fat girl with zits and he’d tell everyone I came on to him and it was nothing more than a pity fuck on his part.”

A rage of indignation swelled in Chantal and for a moment speech was impossible as the anger swept over her.

“The awful part was that I knew he was right,” Belinda continued as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I was fat and I did have bad skin and he was the handsome, popular Marcus who could have any girl he wanted.”

“I can’t take those ugly words out of your head, Belinda,” Chantal said softly. “But you know you didn’t deserve what he did to you.”

Belinda sighed and swiped the tears from her cheeks. “I’d rather be dead than know he’s out there raping more women, destroying more lives.” She turned her face to the wall once again.

“Belinda, that’s not going to happen,” Chantal said vehemently. “He’s not going to get away. If he runs, then I’ll find him. Have you forgotten that that’s what I do? I swear I won’t let him get away.”

Once again Belinda’s hand gripped Chantal’s and she turned her head to gaze at Chantal once again. “You promise?”

“Pinky promise,” she replied, a term from their youth. “And you need to make me a pinky promise.”

“I know, I know. I was stupid.” She released a tremulous sigh. “When I heard that he’d missed his check-in, I just felt the deepest, blackest despair I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“Then you should have called me,” Chantal replied. “Because I can’t imagine my depth of despair if I didn’t have you in my life.” It was true. She couldn’t imagine not having her best friend in her life. “He’s not worth it, Belinda. He’s nothing but scum.”

Dusk had fallen and night was only minutes away when Chantal finally left the hospital and headed home. She was exhausted. The afternoon had been a mental roller-coaster ride and all she wanted to do was go home and curl up in her bed.

Back at home, she headed for the master bath and changed into her favorite silk pajamas. Sam, who was curled up in the middle of her bed, glared at her balefully as she stepped into the room.

As she approached the bed he hissed and dove for the doorway, then disappeared down the hallway to an unknown destination. Just her luck, the one and only male she’d allowed in her house and he had attitude.

She slid beneath the sheets and grabbed the remote control from the nightstand. She was just in time to catch the ten o’clock news.

She sat up as an attractive reporter announced that the Willowby jury had delivered a verdict late that afternoon. “Guilty,” the reporter exclaimed, as if personally pleased with the jury decision. “But the real news is that Jonathon Mathis, Willowby’s lawyer, was unable to produce his client for the verdict. Tonight a warrant has been issued for Marcus Willowby. Anyone with any information as to his whereabouts is asked to call the TIPS hotline.”

Chantal lowered the volume of her television and picked up the phone receiver by her bed. She quickly punched in Big Joey’s number. Busy.

She got out of bed and headed for her computer, sleep the last thing on her mind. Her conversation with Belinda played and replayed in her mind and the rich anger that had filled her then consumed her now.

She hadn’t realized when she’d made the promise to Belinda that Willowby had already flown the coop. Chantal didn’t make promises easily and she never made promises she didn’t intend to keep.

Because of her love for Belinda, because of what Willowby had done to her and to so many other helpless women, Chantal would use whatever means necessary to hunt him down and see that he faced the justice that he’d managed to escape for so many years.

“Game on,” she murmured as her computer connected her to the Internet.

Chapter 3

Sleep deprivation made Chantal cranky, so did dieting, rude salespeople and non-returnable policies on anything, but lack of sleep was the worst. She was a nine-hour-a-night kind of woman and actually preferred ten to twelve whenever possible.

It used to drive her mother crazy, Chantal sleeping away half a day. “Life is passing you by while you’re dreaming,” Katherine would say. For a while Chantal had tried to exist on six to eight hours of sleep a night, but within weeks she was back to her normal pattern.

When she pulled into Big Joey’s the next morning she was definitely feeling the effects of a night with too little sleep and she was more than a little crabby.

She’d spent most of the night printing off whatever she could find about Marcus Willowby’s life and trial. She had a feeling that somewhere in the ream of paperwork she’d printed off was a clue as to where he might run. All she had to do was find that clue.

Her foul mood instantly intensified when she pulled into Big Joey’s parking lot and saw Luke Coleman standing outside the bail bonds building.

As usual, Luke was dressed in a white T-shirt that displayed muscled biceps and worn jeans that hugged his slim hips and long legs.

Despite the early-morning hour, dark whiskers covered his firm jaw, making her wonder if the man even owned a razor. The brilliant sun managed to pull highlights from his shiny, long, dark hair.

As she got out of her car she felt his gaze on her, and, as always, a small knot of tension balled in the pit of her stomach. What was it about the man’s very presence on the earth that bothered her?

She wondered what he was doing standing outside the building in air that was already far too hot for mid June.

Maybe he’d been fired, she thought optimistically. Yeah, right, and maybe Paris Hilton would go to work for the Peace Corps.

“We need to talk,” he said as she approached.

“I can’t imagine what we’d have to talk about,” she replied with just the right amount of cool disdain in her voice. “Unless of course you feel the need to apologize for your behavior on Saturday night.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward and his dark eyes lightened in obvious amusement. “Why should I apologize for saving your ass?”

“You didn’t save my ass, you stole my collar.” She tried to keep her tone cool and calm even though she wasn’t in the mood for him, especially if he intended to gloat. “I’d staked out that bar for four nights to get Wesley Baker.”

“You’re handcuff-challenged and you made a lot of mistakes,” he returned, “but that’s not what I need to discuss with you.”

“And I told you we have nothing to discuss.” She walked past him and headed for the door.

“Chantal, we need to talk.”

She froze at the sound of her real name and whirled back around to face him in horror. “How do you know my real name?” She’d been so careful to make sure nobody here knew her as anything but Carol Worth. How long had he known her real identity? How in the devil had he found out?

He stepped closer to her, close enough that she could smell the scent of minty soap and his spicy cologne. That’s one thing she’d noticed about him, no matter how disreputable he looked, he always smelled clean and good.

“I knew who you were the day after you started working for Joey. I make it my business to know the kind of people I work with.”

“I don’t work with you and you need to forget anything you think you know about me.” She wasn’t sure why, but the idea that Crazy Luke Coleman knew her real identity made her feel vulnerable.

“Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me. I’m not worried about where you live or what’s in your bank account. I’m more worried about the fact that according to my sources you now have a price on your head.”

“What are you talking about?” How she wished she’d gotten more than three hours sleep the night before. How she wished she’d taken the time to put on mascara before leaving the house that morning. The utter irrationality of this thought let her know she was beyond sleep-deprived. She was positively delusional.

“Remember Perry Mundy?”

“Of course,” she replied. Perry Mundy was a two-bit dope-dealing punk who had skipped bail and taken to the streets. Chantal had brought him in and she’d heard that only a week earlier he’d been sentenced to five years in prison. “What about him?”

“My street sources tell me he’s put out the word that he wants you dead and he’s willing to pay for the job. I’d say the best thing for you to do is to take a little vacation, get out of town until Mundy cools off and calls off his dogs.”

She stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and horror. A price on her head? Was that possible? Disbelief quickly won over horror.

“What’s the matter, Coleman? Can’t handle a little competition?”

He frowned, eyes narrowed to mere dark slits. “What are you talking about?”

She shrugged. “I just find it interesting that yesterday Marcus Willowby jumped bail and this morning you’re telling me to take a vacation because some punk has put out a hit on me. The timing is just a tad suspicious to me.”

Once again she turned to go inside, but squeaked in surprise as he grabbed her by the upper arm and spun her around to face him once again.

Her heart thumped wildly as his gaze bored into hers. All trace of amusement had fled from his black eyes and his mouth was nothing more than a grim slash. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “This isn’t one of your little society soirees, this is a very real threat that you’d better take seriously.”

She jerked away from his grip and stumbled two steps backward. “Fine. You’ve delivered the information. I’ll take it under consideration.”

She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t stop her from going inside. It took her only ten minutes to find out that Big Joey knew nothing more about Willowby’s disappearance than she’d managed to glean from the news.

However, there was an intensity vibrating in the air inside the office. Big Joey had put up the bond for Willowby and he was beside himself with rage. When Big Joey wasn’t happy, nobody in the office was happy.

When she discovered he didn’t have any information that she could use to find Willowby, she left, realizing she was going to have to use every resource at her disposal in an attempt to figure out where he might be.

Chantal was glad Coleman was nowhere to be seen when she left the office. She got back in her car and headed home. As she drove, she thought of what Luke had told her about the price on her head.

As dope dealers went, Perry Mundy had been small change, but he’d considered himself a bad-ass gangsta and had surrounded himself with a couple of meatheads who he called his boys.

She supposed it was possible Mundy had gotten word to his old friends on the street that he wanted her dead and was willing to pay for the pleasure. She just wasn’t sure she was willing to take Luke’s word on the situation.

On impulse, instead of going directly home, she headed downtown. The smart thing to do was to check out the rumor and there was only one person she knew who might have heard this latest news about a threat to her life.

Christopher Carson, Chubby Cheeks, lived on the streets near a homeless shelter in the blighted downtown district. Chantal had met him six months before when she’d been looking for a friend of his who had skipped out on bail.

She’d discovered Chubby to be an invaluable source of information about all kinds of things, in particular street crimes and people. He seemed to have his ear to the ground when it came to information.

She drove slowly down Twelfth Street and pulled to the curb in front of the Italian Pizza Place. The business had changed locations years ago, but the sign still hung in the window of the abandoned building.

Chubby sat in the alcove of the doorway and when he saw her familiar red sports car he stood, walked to the car and got in the passenger side.

He was a big man of an indeterminable age, and he brought with him the smell of the streets, the odor of unwashed clothing and sweat and filth. “Been waiting for you,” he said as she pulled away from the curb.

“You got something for me?” she asked.

“You got a price on your head, baby girl.”

So, Luke had told her the truth. For the first time a whisper of apprehension swept through her. “And what’s the price?”

“Five thousand,” he replied.

Five thousand? If she wasn’t so worried she’d be offended. “I spend more than that in a year on hair products.”

“You ain’t careful you won’t be needing any hair goop,” Chubby said. “That punk-ass kid you put away seems to think he’s some sort of a godfather.”

Chantal slowly digested this information. Still, even though it was disturbing, she had another case to think about as well. “You know anybody in the city who provides false identification and passports?” Willowby would probably need false identification if he intended to get out of the country.

Chubby shook his head. “I know a guy works out of his car over on Grand, mostly does fake ID for kids. I don’t think he’s good enough to do passports or nothing like that.”

Chantal rounded the block and pulled back up in front of his alcove. “You doing okay, Chubby?”

“You know me. I get by.”

She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. “Get yourself a decent meal.” She gave him a twenty anytime she talked to him, whether he had information or not. She didn’t know whether he used the money to buy food or to purchase a bottle or two of cheap wine, which he told her he had a fondness for.

He took the bill and flashed her a bright smile. “And you watch your back.” He got out of the car and disappeared back into the shadows of the doorway.

Five thousand dollars was definitely insulting. But, whether the bounty was five or five hundred thousand dollars, dead was dead.

She tried to tell herself that the young men who had been friends with Mundy didn’t have the intelligence to pull off a hit on her, but she knew that wasn’t true. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to point a gun and pull the trigger.

The only comfort she could find in the entire situation was that they would be looking for Carol Worth. This was one of the reasons Chantal had decided to use a fake name in this line of work.

Her mother was a wealthy woman all alone and Chantal’s main reason for not using her real name was to protect her mother from any form of revenge that might happen because of Chantal’s work.

Chantal would be a fool not to take this threat seriously. She recognized that the first thing she needed to do was stay away from Big Joey’s, which wouldn’t be a problem since she intended to spend the bulk of her time hunting for Marcus Willowby. He certainly wasn’t going to be found at Big Joey’s Bail Bonds.

A smug smile curved her lips. She had a feeling all of Luke’s contacts would be of no use to him when it came to locating Willowby. The “social soirees” he’d mentioned earlier would be her ticket to the information she needed.

Willowby wasn’t a common criminal and he was a creature accustomed to certain comforts. He wouldn’t be found in a hole or a hovel. He wouldn’t take to the streets to evade capture. She would eventually talk to somebody, one of her social peers, who would have a clue as to Willowby’s whereabouts. All she had to do was identify who that peer might be.

Harrah met her at the front door of Chantal’s house, notebook in hand. “Enrique called. He wants to go over the menu with you for Saturday night. Your mother called and wants you to call her. Belinda called and said they’re releasing her from the hospital around noon so she’s planning on being here by one or two at the latest.”

Chantal had insisted that Belinda come stay with her for several days when she was released from the hospital. Chantal hadn’t wanted her friend to go home and be alone while she was so emotionally vulnerable.

“Call Enrique back and tell him I trust him with the menu,” Chantal said as she walked through the living room toward her office. Harrah followed behind her and stopped in the doorway as Chantal sank down at her desk. “Then call Sarah Birmington and see if it’s too late for me to get a ticket to the fund-raiser tomorrow night.”

Harrah raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d decided not to go.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Chantal replied. “It might be the perfect place for me to hear some snippet of news about Willowby. Would you check to see if my red Gaultier is back from the cleaners?” Chantal picked up the phone to call her mother while Harrah disappeared from the doorway.

Her mother’s housekeeper, Edna, answered the phone and connected Chantal. “Darling,” Katherine said. “I called earlier to see if maybe you were free for lunch today.”

“No way. I’ve got tons of work to do. You heard Willowby skipped out?”

“I spoke with Rebecca this morning. The poor woman is beside herself. You know she absolutely dotes on that boy, both she and Roger do.”

“Does she know where he might be? Is it possible she’d help him get away?”

Katherine paused thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. She has certainly been eager for the trial to be over with and didn’t believe he was guilty of the charges, but I don’t think she’d encourage him to run. Rebecca isn’t that kind of a woman.”

Chantal frowned. She wasn’t so sure. Rebecca’s devotion to her only son was legendary, which Chantal suspected was part of Marcus’s problem. He’d been spoiled and indulged from the moment he been born.

Rumor had it that Roger and Rebecca had suffered infertility issues and that at the age of thirty-seven, Rebecca had finally gotten pregnant with Marcus. She and Roger had considered the boy a gift from God.

“She’s distraught over the fact that reporters have camped out in front of her house,” Katherine continued.

Chantal had suspected as much. The odds were minimal that Willowby had gone to his parents’ house. But the moment he’d missed his check-in, cops and reporters would have descended not only on his condo, but also his parents’ residence.

“I’ve decided to go to the Folly Theater open house tomorrow evening,” Chantal said. “Are you going?”

“Yes, and I’m so pleased that you’re going. It seems lately the only time I see you is at a social event.”

“Do you have an escort?” Sometimes Katherine talked Jeffrey Barnes into attending functions with her.

“No, I’d planned to go alone.”

“Why don’t we go together? I can pick you up,” Chantal offered.

“That would be lovely,” Katherine exclaimed, her pleasure obvious. “It will be a girls’ night out.”

“Why don’t I plan on picking you up at seven?”

With arrangements made for the next evening, Chantal logged on to the Internet and checked for any updates on the Willowby case.

“If I were a convicted rapist and had money and connections, where would I run? Where would I hide?” she muttered aloud.

Somehow, someway, she needed to get into Willowby’s head. She needed to find out what made him tick, his thoughts, his fears, his friends and his fantasies.

She had a feeling that if she succeeded and did manage to get into his head, it would be an ugly, perverted place to be.

Chantal stood in front of her dresser mirror, giving herself one last look before leaving to pick up her mother. Chantal had never had any illusions about her physical appearance.

She was average height and average weight. Her shoulder-length hair was a medium blond, not ash or wheat, and her eyes were a simple blue, not azure or sapphire.

Her features were regular and she’d long ago accepted the fact that she would always be average. Average wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she supposed. She never had to worry about being particularly memorable.

The fire-engine-red Jean Paul Gaultier gown, with its plunging neckline and cut-out shoulders definitely made her figure look better than average. Harrah had provided her jewelry, a dazzling pair of gold earrings and a necklace to match.

She turned from the mirror to look at Belinda, who was sprawled on her bed with a drink in her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Belinda tugged at the belt of her dressing gown and shook her head. “No, I’m not in the mood to socialize. You go on and have fun. I’ll just read some magazines and watch TV until you get home.”

“Tonight isn’t about fun,” Chantal said. “I’m hoping I’ll get some information.” She sat on the edge of the bed next to her friend. “You want me to call Harrah and Lena and see if they can come over for a while?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Belinda replied irritably. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Besides, I’ll be waiting for you when you get home so I can hear all the gossip.” She got up off the bed as Chantal checked her watch.

“I don’t expect to be late,” Chantal said as Belinda walked with her to the front door. “The open house runs from seven to ten and I doubt if Mom will want to stay the whole time.”

“I’ll be here whatever time you get home. If I happen to fall asleep wake me up.”

“Sure,” Chantal agreed even though they both knew that wasn’t happening. Waking Belinda once she fell asleep was as easy as transforming a discount store dress into high fashion.

Twenty minutes later Chantal pulled up in front of the house where she’d been raised. The two-story home boasted over seven thousand square feet and was surrounded by five acres of lush lawn and gardens.

Chantal had been raised with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. She’d had the best of everything that money could buy, but she’d also been lucky enough to be raised by people who never took their wealth for granted, people who, while enjoying the fruits of their labor, never forgot their early struggles and sacrifices.

Edna answered the door and Chantal kissed the housekeeper on the cheek as she greeted her. Edna had worked for the Worthingtons since Chantal had been a baby.

“Is she ready?” Chantal asked.

“I’ll go up and see.”

As Edna disappeared up the wide, winding staircase, Chantal turned her attention to the photos that lined the entry. She smiled as she gazed at her parents’ wedding photo. They had made a handsome couple, despite the fact that they’d both been poor as church mice.

Even though he’d only been twenty-three years old when he’d married his bride, a burning light of ambition had lit her father’s eyes. He’d been a man with a dream and had lived long enough to see his dreams realized.

“Darling, you look beautiful,” Katherine said as she descended the stairs.

“Thanks, Mom. You don’t look too shabby yourself.” Her mother wore a silver gown that complemented her blond hair and bright, not average, blue eyes. She swept down the stairs like a queen and gave her daughter a warm hug, then turned to look at the photos.

She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the glass of a photo of Chantal’s father standing next to a shiny red boat. “Who would have thought those little boats your father dreamed of building would sell so well?”

“Those little boats” had been the beginning of an empire. Worthington Bass Boats had become the industry standard for fast, affordable and functional fishing crafts and they had made Sam Worthington and his family millionaires several times over.

After Sam’s death, Katherine, as a major stockholder, held the position of CEO of the company, but she had little to do with the daily running of the business. Instead she relied on a loyal business manager and a staff who loved the business and had loved Sam.

It was a thirty-minute drive to the Folly Theater where the fundraiser was taking place. The two women passed the drive by chatting about upcoming events and mutual acquaintances.

By the time they arrived the fundraiser was already in full swing. The Folly Theater was located in downtown Kansas City, in an area not far from Big Joey’s Bail Bonds. The Folly had begun life in the early years of the city as a house of burlesque. The building itself, both inside and out, was a masterpiece of design from years gone by.

Most recently the town leaders had been trying to decide what to do with the old lady. Tonight was only one of many fundraisers that would be necessary to raise enough money to provide the old building with some sort of future.

It was the usual champagne-and-hors d’oeuvres gathering, with the same faces that usually attended these kinds of functions.

Chantal snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and began to work the crowd. She talked about fashion and facials, about who was divorcing and who was getting married and managed in each conversation to bring up the topic of Willowby.

Her subtle inquiries were met with a variety of responses…blank stares, whispered expressions of shock and pointed changes of topic. What she didn’t get was any information that might help her in her hunt for the convicted rapist.

By eight-thirty Chantal was bored stiff. That’s when she saw him. He stood near the buffet table, looking as out of place as a palm frond on a ski slope. Although he was dressed in a respectable three-piece suit and had his hair neatly tied back at the nape of his neck, he looked only half-civilized as he perused the guests through narrow eyes.

How had Luke Coleman managed to get a ticket to this affair? She had a feeling he wasn’t on anyone’s list as a patron of the theater. It irked her to no end to see him here, in her world.

His gaze caught hers and he gave her that sexy half smile that twisted her stomach into a knot. She approached where he stood. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“And a good evening to you, Ms. Worthington.” His gaze slowly slid down the length of her. “You’re looking exceptionally fine this evening. Red is definitely your color.”

“What are you doing here?” she repeated, refusing to be swayed by his compliment but ridiculously pleased she’d chosen the red Gaultier for the evening.

“Probably the same thing you’re doing here. Fishing.”

“This is a ticketed, invitation-only event. How did you get in?”

At that moment Brandy Hamilton slid up to him and smiled. “There you are,” she said. “I was wondering where you’d gone. Hello, Chantal, have you met Luke?” Brandy’s eyes shone with the glaze of a woman who had imbibed too much champagne and who enjoyed too little natural intelligence.

“We’ve met,” Chantal replied. Brandy Hamilton was four years older than Chantal and although the two were social acquaintances, they had never been friends.

How on earth had Luke Coleman hooked up with the twice-divorced socialite who had the reputation for being an alcoholic man-eater?

“Luke does work for Daddy occasionally.” Brandy put a hand on Luke’s chest and smiled up at him. “Isn’t he yummy?”

“Yummy,” Chantal echoed dryly.

She murmured a goodbye and walked away. She shouldn’t be surprised that Brandy was the kind of woman Luke would like. Vapid and promiscuous, of course that would be his cup of tea. Not that she cared.

Still, it irritated her that he was here. This was her territory and she didn’t like the idea that he had the same access to information that she might have.

For the rest of the evening she felt his gaze on her often. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. She always felt half-naked beneath his dark intense gaze.

There was some comfort in knowing that although he wore a decent suit and was accompanied by Brandy, he would still be considered an outsider and she doubted very seriously that anyone would give him any information he could use.

By nine o’clock she was ready to go home. The evening had been a bust. Either nobody knew anything about Willowby or they weren’t talking about what they did know.

She rejoined her mother who indicated she was also ready to go and together the two women left the old theater. “Joan is divorcing Raymond,” Katherine said as they waited for the valet to bring them Chantal’s car.

“Why?”

“She found out he’s been having an affair with his secretary.”

“But, I thought Joan was having an affair with her yoga coach,” Chantal said.

“She is, but in this case what’s good for the gander is not good for the goose.”

Chantal sighed. “Sometimes I think relationships are just too much trouble.”

“They are a lot of trouble,” Katherine agreed. “But, when they’re good, they’re worth every ounce of that trouble. Your father and I got it right. He wasn’t just my husband, he was also my best friend.” Katherine smiled at her daughter. “I hope someday you find the same kind of thing.”

A wave of longing filled Chantal. She couldn’t seem to get it right. Her relationships so far had been flawed in one way or another and the flaws had been too big to overlook. When she dated a man who was from her same social background and standing it didn’t take long for boredom to creep in. If she dated somebody who was not of her social background she wondered if they were drawn more to her money than to her.

Although she loved her independence and loved her life there were times she wished she had somebody to share it with, somebody who would be her friend, her partner as well as her lover.

She mentally shoved away the wistful thoughts as her red sports car arrived. The two women got in and Chantal took off. She’d only driven two blocks when she first noticed the car behind them. It was a beat-up dark Chevy and it was following her way too closely.

“Doris has had a face lift since last time I saw her,” Katherine said. “She says she just took a little vacation, but I’d bet the farm that she took that vacation to a plastic surgeon.”

Chantal only half listened to her mother detailing the latest gossip as most of her attention was focused on the car behind them.

Back off, she thought as she stepped on the gas to gain some distance. But, before she could get any distance she came to a red light and had to stop.

The Chevy crept up so close behind her the glow of the headlights disappeared. She saw the flash in her rearview mirror just as the back windshield shattered.

“Get down,” Chantal screamed at her mother. At the same time she floored the gas pedal and shot through the red light.

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