Praise for the work of Meryl Sawyer

“If you like your suspense intriguing and your sexual tension high, look no further!”

—RT Book Reviews on Death’s Door (4 ½ stars)

“Sawyer’s gift for building great and believable characters makes the danger they face all the more intense.

Outstanding!”

—RT Book Reviews on Kiss of Death

(4 ½ stars, Top Pick)

“Sawyer spins a tale to captivate and entertain …

Wonderfully crafty and extremely entertaining.”

—Romance Reader’s Connection on Half Past Dead

“Nail-biting suspense punctuates this thrilling romantic adventure. The name Meryl Sawyer is synonymous with exceptional romantic suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews on Better Off Dead

“A riveting work of romantic suspense … near perfection.”

—Publishers Weekly on Tempting Fate

“Meryl Sawyer has become a brand name known for taut, sexy and very intriguing romantic suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews on Closer Than She Thinks

“A page-turner … glamour, romance and adventure on a grand scale.”

—Publishers Weekly on Promise Me Anything

“Count on Meryl Sawyer to deliver a fast-paced thriller filled with sizzling romance.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jill Marie Landis

About the Author

MERYL SAWYER grew up in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the only child of a single mother. She gives her mother credit for her love of books and encouraging her to write. When Meryl was in the third grade her birthday gift was an ancient Underwood with the E key missing. That didn’t stop Meryl! She wrote stories and went back and put in the E with a pencil. She’s been writing ever since—first on a typewriter, then a word processor, then a computer.

When Meryl finally decided to get serious about writing—by serious she meant wanting to see her work in print—Meryl attended the Writers Program at UCLA. She had graduated from UCLA years earlier but this time she returned to study writing. There Meryl was fortunate to meet Colleen McCullough, author of The Thornbirds. She was on tour and one of Meryl’s instructors threw a cocktail party to introduce Colleen to some aspiring writers. Colleen was unbelievably warm and charming and helpful. “Write what you like to read,” she told the students. Meryl had always wanted to be a female Sidney Sheldon—so that’s the direction she took.

Meryl completed a novel, attended seminars, met an agent and had offers from four different publishers within two months of finishing the book. That’s not every author’s experience, but it happened that way for Meryl. She jokingly says, “I thought I would be famous by Friday—Saturday at the very latest. Here I am eighteen years later. Not famous but successful, and more importantly, happy.”

One thing all Meryl’s books have in common is animals. Her canine buddies have even helped Meryl’s career. They have spent countless hours under her desk while she was writing.

Meryl loves to hear from readers. She may be reached on the web.

Play Dead

Meryl Sawyer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PROLOGUE

“ANDY,” CALLED HAYLEY before she remembered he was gone. She walked out onto the third-floor balcony and gazed at the water as the breeze off the bay ruffled her hair. It was way too soon to leave, she decided, but her loft seemed so empty.

She’d been lonely for a long time, she realized with an ache too deep for tears. It was reflected in her paintings, or so she’d been told. Ian never lied. Why would he? Ian Barrington had been the first person to recognize her talent and offer to sell her paintings in his gallery. Hayley’s earlier works had portrayed her happy outlook on life.

But in the two years since she’d secretly begun selling her art, Hayley’s life had taken an abrupt turn. The familiar sadness, the melancholy seeped through her each day. Betrayal and death changed you radically, she reflected. She thought of her parents and her heart contracted with an overwhelming sense of loss.

“Don’t feel sorry for yourself,” she said out loud, watching a boat passing by. The guys on the deck were wildly waving to get her attention.

She knew what they saw: a young woman dressed in a short skirt and sleeveless blouse. Her brown hair was streaked with copper highlights, making her look more like the beach bunny she’d been in her teens than the artist she was today.

Maybe she should cut her hair short and stop streaking it. What would it feel like to have short hair? For as long as she could recall, Hayley had worn her hair long. The style made the hazel-green eyes that dominated her face appear larger than they actually were.

The needs, the longings for a past that would never come again nagged at her. Time for a change, Hayley reminded herself. In another few weeks, her life would move in a different direction. This would be a great opportunity for a new hairstyle. The fresh start she’d been planning.

She checked her watch. It was too early to leave. She’d already packed her purse that doubled as a backpack with the few things she would need. She’d placed her treasured set of paint brushes in their wooden box and wrapped it in the shorts and T-shirts she planned to wear.

She realized how much she was counting on her life making a dramatic change. How much she was looking forward to the future. Once she altered the course of her life, there would be no going back.

Bring-bring. From the loft’s studio behind her, Hayley heard the sound of the telephone. She decided not to answer; let the machine pick up. She wasn’t in the mood to talk.

A shaky voice came through her machine. “H-Hayley, are you … you there?”

Hayley charged back into the loft, recognizing the anguished tone of her friend Lindsey Fulton. She was stunned Lindsey was phoning. She never called.

Hayley snatched the receiver from the cradle, saying breathlessly, “I’m here. I’m here. What’s happening?”

“Hayley,” her friend said, her voice choked with tears. “Oh, Hayley.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I’m at a payphone,” replied Lindsey, sobbing now. “I’ve got to get away. Now! I can’t waste a second.”

This was the call Hayley had been expecting—and dreading—for so long. Why now? she silently asked. The timing couldn’t be worse. Hayley was just hours from changing the course of her own life. It didn’t matter, she decided in the next instant. All that counted was saving her friend.

Hayley suddenly realized how she could help her friend while getting a fresh start. The perfect solution, she decided. “Lindsey, listen to me and do exactly what I tell you.”

WHAT WAS TAKING SO LONG? Hayley Fordham had been in Gulliver’s for over two hours, no doubt slurping down cosmos. Didn’t she know the hunt was on? Didn’t she realize time was running out, trickling away like the last grains of sand in an hourglass? Couldn’t she sense this evening was different from all previous nights in her life?

Of course not. The bitch was clueless—as usual.

Hiding at a safe distance, concealed by the trees and the Dumpsters at the back of the trendy restaurant’s parking lot, was boring as hell. While the waiting was a total downer, the building anticipation was as heady as a powerful narcotic. Exhilarating. Arousing. The sensation transported the predator to an unimagined height of excitement. Annihilating an unsuspecting victim—just the thought of it—ignited a thrill so profound that it rivaled sex.

Wait.

Just wait. Hayley’s charmed life—all thirty-three years of it—was almost over. Charmed? Damned was more like it. She would get what she deserved—in spades.

The killer took stock of the surrounding area, sensing more than seeing the objects nearby and ignoring the rank smell coming from the Dumpster. Death belonged to the night. It always had, always would. Darkness provided a natural shield, especially a moonless night like this. Victims could easily be tailed without the stalker being detected or questioned.

In the light of day, someone from the nearby office building would have spotted a person hunkered down behind the Dumpsters, but not at night. As an extra precaution, the predator had smashed the nearest security light with a rock. There was a security camera at the back door of the restaurant. A quick squirt of Pam ensured nothing but blurry images would be recorded. There hadn’t been time to do more than destroy the one light, but then extra precautions hadn’t been necessary. Lady Luck had smiled, bringing Hayley to this restaurant and having her park in the rear—in the shroud of shadows cast by the line of tall, dense shrubs that separated the parking area from the office buildings behind it.

With a deafening roar and whoosh of air, a jet streaked into the sky from John Wayne Airport, which was opposite the restaurant. Convenient. Very convenient. The killer hadn’t planned it but Hayley’s destination tonight had been perfect. The noise from the airport would add to the confusion, the terror.

A gloss-black limousine pulled up to the rear of the restaurant, its engine purring almost inaudibly. Since Gulliver’s faced the busy street across from Orange County’s airport, the back entrance was the only way in or out of the restaurant except for the fire exits used only in emergencies. With the stretch limo blocking the view, it was impossible to tell who was leaving. Or was someone arriving?

Not some celebrity. The OC had a smattering of them—nothing like L.A. But the Newport Beach area was filled with people who had money up the wazoo to use a limo at an upscale restaurant like Gulliver’s, which was well known for its bar scene. The limo drove into the night and disappeared from view.

The predator waited and waited. A few groups of people trickled out of Gulliver’s. A couple so hot for each other that they almost did it on the hood of his Corvette was mildly distracting, but time ticked on and on. Finally a slim woman with shoulder-length hair emerged, stood on the walkway exit and glanced around warily.

The air shifted with a sense of hushed expectancy. Something seemed to be … off. Had she sensed … danger?

“No way,” the killer whispered. Nothing was wrong. Things were going according to plan. Then why was Hayley just standing there? She usually sauntered along oblivious to everyone around her, glistening brown hair streaked with copper bobbing on her shoulders. Hayley couldn’t be waiting for a valet. Gulliver’s was a self-parking facility.

Noise exploded from the Acapulco restaurant at the far end of the lot it shared with Gulliver’s. A bunch of guys barely out of their teens staggered through the double doors from the Mexican cantina, revealing they’d consumed enough tequila to make them rowdy.

They’d better get to their cars and get outta Dodge in a hurry or—hell, who cared? Killing innocent bystanders wasn’t the goal, but collateral damage had been factored into this scheme.

Hayley hesitated, gazing at the group. They were too far away for her to be concerned about them, but the killer thought she might be feeling threatened by something. It showed in the slump of her shoulders and in the way she hurried toward her car. Never underestimate women’s intuition. She might have sensed death lurking in the shadows.

Her older model Beamer was parked at the rear of the lot like a black toad, which had made this job a piece of cake. The dark area wouldn’t be safe in most cities, but this was Newport Beach. Women felt secure here, and most of the time they were.

Most of the time.

Tonight an ominous undercurrent of danger and death filled the balmy night air. A cunning person could pick up on it the way some animals had realized a tsunami was heading their way. Even the predator’s bones could sense the danger and the sensation heightened the anticipation.

Hayley seemed to fumble with the door lock. Was she drunk? It wasn’t like her. From this far away and with the lack of light, it was difficult to tell much about the snotty bitch.

Get on with it already.

Hayley opened the door and slid into the car. The interior light illuminated her shimmering hair for a second. The killer couldn’t help smiling. This would be the last time anyone would admire that shiny mane.

The killer eased around to the back side of the Dumpster for protection and flipped the metal lid backward to act as a shield. A full minute passed. The killer risked a peek around the protective corner of the Dumpster. What in hell was Hayley doing?

The interior light in her car was off. A faint blue glow came from the dashboard. She appeared to be leaning forward, fooling with something. The GPS? Was she programming in her next destination?

“Hayley, your next stop is hell.”

A convertible pulled up and a noisy group of guys, already half in the bag, vaulted to the pavement without opening the car doors. Get inside, the killer silently warned. They hustled toward the entrance and the driver sped away to find a parking spot. Lucky for him, the guy headed for the open spaces behind the adjacent Mexican restaurant.

Lethal silence. A second later a supersonic crackling—KA-BOOM!

The explosion knocked the Dumpster sideways like an eardrum-splitting hatchet blow. The impact of the detonation assaulted every lobe in the killer’s brain and blackness eclipsed everything for a few seconds.

“Aw, shit!”

Debris rained down, pummeling the Dumpster lid with shrapnel-like objects. They bounced off the sturdy metal and crashed to the ground nearby. The acrid smell of smoke and burning rubber roiled through the air like a noxious fog. Jolted by the shock wave, nearly a hundred car alarms shrieked simultaneously.

Ears ringing, the killer ventured a look and saw the orange-red inferno that had been Hayley Fordham’s BMW. Flames shot out in all directions and lit up the darkness while a cloud of white smoke mushroomed skyward.

Hayley would be reduced to ashes in seconds by the inferno. What remained of her. No doubt the explosion had sent body parts flying. There were something like twenty bones in the human skull. Hayley’s head was now in twenty million pieces. The fire would incinerate anything else.

Identifying Hayley Fordham would be a bitch. The killer had foreseen this. Hayley’s rear license plate had been removed and scorched with a cigarette lighter, then tossed into the shrubbery behind her car to make it appear that it had been blown off during the explosion. The police would know exactly who had died in the car bombing.

Panicked, hysterical people stampeded out of Gulliver’s, screaming and holding up cell phones to photograph the geyser of smoke and flames. Others were yelling at 9-1-1 operators. No doubt the emergency switchboard was lit up like the fourth of July.

To the killer, the sounds were muffled, as if they were coming from underwater. Should have used earplugs. Even if the chaos couldn’t be fully heard, it was exciting. It made the waiting, the planning worthwhile.

Windows were shattered in the cars parked nearby. Some had suffered major damage from the flying debris. Windows and doors in both restaurants had been blown inward by the force of the blast. The destruction was mind-blowing. Worse than expected.

Who knew? Excitement like a live wire arced through the killer. Inching along in the shadows to where the rental car was parked behind the three-story office building to protect it from the explosion, the killer couldn’t resist a smile of self-congratulation.

Hayley Fordham was dead. What a trip! Everything had gone exactly as planned.

CHAPTER ONE

TRENT FORDHAM took the turn off Pacific Coast Highway in his Porsche at nearly one hundred miles per hour. It was after two in the morning, so no cars were around. He rarely had the opportunity to see what his baby would do. He floored it and the needle shot up to one-twenty.

“Slow down,” screeched Courtney from the seat beside him. “You’ll get another ticket.”

His wife was right, he silently conceded. He could not afford to be stopped tonight. It might result in a sobriety test. Not that he’d been drinking … but it was best to be cautious. After all, he was now a CEO of a company. Not a major player—yet—but he was well on his way up the ladder of success. Another speeding ticket was the last thing he needed.

He eased off the accelerator to an audible sigh of relief from his wife and watched the needle drop. They drove in silence—what was there to say?—up to the gated entrance to their exclusive community. He slowed, expecting Jerome, the night guard, to wave as they passed. Instead, the guard signaled for him to stop.

“What’s up?” Trent asked.

“The police are waiting for you.”

“Why?” He wasn’t worried; this had to be some mix-up.

Jerome shrugged. “Wouldn’t say.” He shrugged again, his voice apologetic. “I had to let them in.”

“Of course.” Trent tried to sound unfazed, but a yellow flag of caution shot up in his brain. “Thanks for the heads up.” That’s why he tipped the guards handsomely at Christmas—just for times like this.

He roared through the ornate, twenty-foot-tall gates. He sped by mansions lit up like national monuments. What was going on? he wondered silently.

“It can’t be Timmy. The Scouts would have called my cell or yours. Something’s wrong at Surf’s Up,” Courtney said, sounding only slightly worried.

“No way,” Trent told her. “Security would have contacted me.” His mind was whirling like one of those dervishes he’d read about. Why would the police be waiting for him in the middle of the night?

He stopped at the small park area. The green belt had created open space between mansions that took up most of each lot, leaving little grassy areas. During the day, nannies would be there with children and maids walking neighborhood dogs would be strolling along the meandering flagstone paths.

“What are you doing?” Courtney cried.

Trent turned off the sports car and climbed out, saying, “That was pretty awesome shit we were smoking. I want to hide my jacket in the trunk. It probably reeks.”

“You were smoking,” Courtney said, “with your buddies. I—”

Trent tuned her out. Courtney should talk! She was high on pain pills. All day; every day. He shared a spliff or two with the guys on weekends only.

Bile had risen in his throat; he needed air. He tossed the jacket into the trunk and looked up at the stars. He forced himself to inhale a few deep, calming breaths. The Milky Way slipped in and out, back and forth like a kaleidoscope. He tried lowering his head, then sucking in more air. Better, but not much.

“Oh, my God!” Courtney cried her voice high-pitched. “Maybe something did happen to Timmy. They might not have been able to reach our cells. You know, a tower outage or something.”

Trent stood up and rushed back to the driver’s side. Their son was with the Boy Scouts at the San Diego Zoo’s Wild Animal Park for something called a Roar and Snore sleepover. The kids stayed up half the night to watch the lions feed, then they slept in tents.

A thought hit him, kind of wobbly, fading away almost before he could grasp it. The Scouts required all sorts of emergency information before they took the kids anywhere. He was as sure as he could be when he was this mellow that nothing had happened to his son. “Don’t worry, honey. Timmy is fine.”

“I hope so.”

“Unless,” he said as he put the Porsche into gear, “they caught him with dope again.”

“Impossible! You know he’s being bullied. Those kids planted it in his backpack. None of those little monsters are Scouts.”

“Right. So you said.” Trent wasn’t buying that bridge. He’d been Timmy’s age not so long ago. True, his son was just eleven and Trent had been older before he’d first experimented. But today’s kids were getting into trouble at a younger age.

The problem with Timothy Grant Fordham wasn’t experimenting with drugs. His son was a wimp. How could he grow up in a family who made a fortune from surf and skateboard equipment and not even be able to ride a boogie board? Timmy only used his skateboard when Trent insisted.

The kid should be a surfer or least a skateboard champ, the way Trent had been at the same age, if his mother didn’t do her best to make him a sissy. The kid wanted piano lessons. Now whose idea was that? Courtney’s. She was a frustrated singer who’d sung backup for a local band before he’d met her. She had music in her blood and claimed Timmy did, as well.

Trent rounded the corner and forced his mind back to the problem. The police cruiser was parked right in front of his house, which, like all the other houses around, was still lit up even though it was well after midnight.

Maybe Timmy had been caught with drugs again. Perhaps the Scout leaders had found his stash and called the police. The Scouts did not like having their name dragged through the muck, so it seemed unlikely that they had called the cops.

Then he noticed the panda car belonged to the Costa Mesa police. Newport Beach patrol cars had ocean blue stylized italic lettering on the sides. Very beachy—for cop cars. Timmy was in San Diego County. If there’d been a problem, the Newport Beach police would have contacted him. Wouldn’t they? They lived in Newport, not the lower-middle-class Costa Mesa where Trent had grown up. It bordered Newport but was worlds away financially, socially.

Trent pulled to a stop in his driveway near the rear of the police car and got out. A uniformed officer stepped out of the driver’s side of the cruiser while a man in a sports jacket emerged from the passenger side.

“Mr. Fordham?” asked the officer.

“Yes?” Keep it together, Trent warned himself. “Is something the matter?”

“Could we go inside?” This from the suit. Trent assumed he was a detective.

Trent leaned into the Porsche, turned off the ignition and switched off the headlights. Courtney was already out of the car and waiting near him. Tears clouded her dark eyes. She cried so damn easily. Once he’d found it touching. Now was not the time to bawl. Something was really wrong. He needed to be firing on all cylinders, which he wasn’t, thanks to the heavy-duty shit he’d shared with his buddies earlier.

“T-Timmy.” Courtney’s lips quivered around the kid’s name. “My son …” Tears gushed and Trent put his arm around her, knowing the meds she took often triggered crying jags. She collapsed against him, sobbing softly.

“Mrs. Fordham, this isn’t about your son.”

Courtney lifted her head. “Really? Timmy’s all right?”

“As far as I know,” the detective assured her.

There was something ominous about the way the man responded. It was as if the guy thought they should know why he was there. Trent was nervous, which was unusual when he was high. He sucked in a deep breath and held it in his lungs to clear his head. He let it out slowly so no one would notice.

They walked up the flagstone path to the massive double doors that led into the house. For a second, Trent wondered what they thought. The place was impressive, he had to admit, but it wasn’t anything compared with the Pelican Point mansion where they’d attended the party tonight. Trent hoped to move there—just as soon as his parents’ estate went through probate and he received his share.

If the economy tanked any more, he’d need the money from the estate to keep the company his father started afloat. And pay the mortgage on this house. The cops probably didn’t envy him. No doubt they were glad they didn’t have this overhead.

Trent unlocked the door and disarmed the security system. The cloying scent of too many roses bombarded his nostrils. Courtney insisted on having five dozen white roses arranged in a crystal vase in the entry hall each week even though he’d told her to cut back. Above the spacious marble entry a vaulted ceiling rose to the second floor. Dead in the center of the foyer was the spectacular floral arrangement on an antique table.

He took Courtney’s hand and led the group into the spacious living room that was rarely used. He punched the control panel on the wall to make the low-level lighting in the room brighter.

Trent settled Courtney on one of three sofas that faced a fireplace befitting a castle. The men took chairs nearby. The detective settled back, but the uniformed officer teetered on the edge of the silk chair that some fancy decorator had found, as if the officer believed his gabardine slacks would snag the delicate fabric.

Courtney suddenly began to sob loudly. Now what? Trent wondered.

“Honey, they said Timmy is okay. Stop crying.”

“Th-this … is b-bad news. I—I can tell.”

“Now, Courtney—”

“I’m afraid your wife is correct,” the detective said in a level voice.

The words were like a shard of glass entering Trent’s spongy brain. This reminded him of the night a little over a year ago when he’d received the telephone call that his father’s plane had crashed, killing Trent’s father and stepmother. Allison’s death was no loss, but Trent had been devastated that his father—his idol—was no longer around to guide him.

“I understand you’re next of kin to Hayley Fordham.”

It took a second for the words to register. He’d always thought of Hayley as “the step,” never his next of anything, but he realized the death of his father and Hayley’s mother meant that he was Hayley’s closest relative except for her aunt Meg.

“Oh, no,” wailed Courtney. “Has Hayley been in an accident?”

Trent didn’t have much use for his stepsister beyond her value as a designer for Surf’s Up. That role had taken on greater significance when Hayley’s mother Allison had been killed with Trent’s father in the plane crash.

He had to admit Hayley had been instrumental in aligning their company with Mixed Martial Arts. Illegal in many states, MMA—the human equivalent of cockfighting—was the fastest growing sport in America. Hayley had picked up on this multibillion dollar business and designed a line of clothes for The Wrath to wear. The Wrath was National MMA champion and one scary dude, but he was to MMA what Tony Hawk was to skateboarding. The MMA line kept the bucks rolling in just when surfboards were tanking, another victim of cheap Asian imports and a nosediving economy.

Trent might not care for his stepsister, but he admired her business sense. His wife was another story. Courtney adored Hayley. An artist-to-artist thing, he supposed.

“What’s happened?” Even as he asked the question, Trent knew this couldn’t be a simple accident. A telephone call would have done the trick. His skin prickled with anxiety as reality began to penetrate his usually sharp mind.

“I’m afraid,” the detective began in that same irritatingly level tone, “she’s been killed.”

“Oh, my God! No!” Courtney jumped to her feet. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

Trent pulled her back down beside him. Breath gushed from his lungs in short bursts. His mind struggled to get a grip on what he’d just been told. Her death changed—everything. For the better, he had to admit.

“Her car was blown up by a bomb at about eight o’clock this evening,” the uniformed officer informed them in a voice barely loud enough to be heard over Courtney’s sobs.

“What? That’s terrible—a tragedy.” Trent shaded the truth. He’d be a hell of a lot richer with Hayley out of the way. “Car bombs happen in the Middle East, not Newport Beach.” He tried to keep his mind off the money, adding, “Besides, who would want to kill Hayley?”

“DEAR LORD, WHAT IS the world coming to?” Meg Amboy asked the nurse who’d brought her breakfast just after dawn. Along with it came her medication and the morning paper. “Did you see there was a car bombing right here in Newport Beach last night?”

“Umm-hmmm,” the middle-aged woman with a chest like the prow of a battleship responded. “It was out by the airport. That’s Costa Mesa.”

Meg noticed the nurse had dismissed the incident as if it had happened on another planet. Typical attitude around Twelve Acres. The staff had been trained to be elitist. Newport had money and cachet while Costa Mesa, which bordered on Newport, was decidedly middle class with an area that could only be termed a barrio. Meg knew most of the help in the kitchen and the housekeepers lived in Costa Mesa or just beyond in Santa Ana.

Meg prided herself on not being a snob. True, she spent her money on the best assisted-living facility she could afford because she knew she didn’t have much longer to live. But she remembered with fondness growing up poor and earning her own way. Making a fortune with no one’s help.

The battleship nurse, whose name Meg always failed to remember even though Meg had been at Twelve Acres for two years, left. Meg went back to the paper, content to read it until it was time to go downstairs for a second cup of coffee with Conrad Hollister. After they’d finished, she would walk beside his wheelchair to their morning game of bridge.

“Conrad,” she whispered and lowered the paper. She stared out at the craggy shoreline framed by her huge window. The rampartlike bluffs had been weathered by wind and the unrelenting surf. Now scrims of early morning mist clung to the shore. Short trees bowed by the elements stooped like hunchback sentinels along the tops of the bluffs where mansions were perched.

The view was breathtaking but she often experienced a haunting, solitary feeling when she gazed at the sweep of the deep blue sea. It made her lonely, which was an emotion she’d rarely experienced when she was younger, but she had more time to reflect now. Too much time.

“What might have been?” she whispered to herself. What if she’d met Conrad Hollister ten, twenty, even thirty years ago?

Meg refused to allow her thoughts to stray in this direction. At eighty-five, she had the same sharp mind that had guided her as she amassed an empire in real estate. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have a heart that refused to recognize her brain was still young. Why dwell on what might have been when she had accomplished so much?

Conrad was nothing more than an intellectual companion. They enjoyed many of the same things, like competitive bridge, but they weren’t lovers and probably never would have been. Still, once in a while thoughts crept into her mind and she speculated like an old fool.

“It’s people who matter,” she quietly assured herself, then realized she’d been talking to herself more and more. There were plenty of folks at Twelve Acres to talk to—besides Conrad—but Meg missed her baby sister. Allison had been killed in a plane crash. Until she was gone, Meg hadn’t realized how much she counted on conversations with her sister.

There was Hayley, of course, but her niece had her own life. She visited often, making time for an old woman. Hayley was going to Santa Barbara, then on to San Francisco to buy fabric for the fall line of clothes she was designing. It would be ten days or so before she returned. Until then, Meg would be on her own.

CHAPTER TWO

FARAH FORDHAM pulled her sleek black Ferrari into the Twelve Acres parking lot just after 6:00 a.m. The facility was situated on prime real estate on Pacific Coast Highway, overlooking the coastline between Newport Beach and Laguna Beach. Why they called it Twelve Acres was beyond her; the place was a little over an acre of Cape Cod–style buildings shaded by stately palms.

When Trent had called her at three this morning, he’d insisted she deliver the news of Hayley’s death to her old battle-ax aunt. Before he’d gotten that far, Trent had asked, “Did you do it?”

“Do what?” Farah had been engaged in some extremely kinky sex—she loved being the dominatrix—with Kyle, her boyfriend.

“Kill Hayley.”

“That’s a hell of an idea.” Their father’s estate was currently in probate. As a CPA, Farah knew how big a chunk the state would claim, then the rest would be split three ways. Two would be better. One would be ideal.

Despite having a successful business, Farah was overextended and trapped in the economic downturn. To make matters worse, her boyfriend was a residential real estate developer. His career was in limbo and she was supporting him.

“Seriously, Hayley was blown to kingdom come by a car bomb.”

“You’re kidding.” She tried to sound upset but doubted she’d fooled her brother.

“I’m not joking. I’ve got to go to the station and give a statement. You have to tell Aunt Meg.”

Great! Just great! Farah would rather be interviewed by the police than deliver bad news to Meg Amboy. The old crone was giving ninety a hard shove but she was still tough, the same woman who’d turned meager funds into a real estate empire by buying up what people assumed was worthless land east of L.A. Soon urban sprawl drove hundreds of thousands of people to what was laughingly called the “Inland Empire.”

As far as Farah could tell, Meg Amboy loved two things. Money and Hayley. The old biddy had a heart condition; the news would probably kill her. The thought made Farah grin as she slithered out of the sports car she really couldn’t afford but loved with a passion. What would happen to Meg’s money with Hayley gone?

Farah wondered if she could ingratiate herself with the old biddy. Considering the money involved and Meg’s lack of relatives, it wouldn’t hurt to try.

MEG STARTED at the knock on the door to her suite. She made her way to the door and opened it. Farah Fordham stood there dressed in an expensive suit with a handbag that probably cost more than any nurse at Twelve Acres made in a month. What was she doing here?

“May I come in?”

Meg decided these were probably the first words Farah had ever directed to her other than a polite hello and goodbye at family functions. She eased the door open and watched the young woman saunter in. Meg saw something of herself in Farah—not in the arrogant manner, but in the self-made young woman who’d put herself through college. Her brother, Trent, had ridden on his father’s coat tails, going into the family business. Not Farah; she had her own CPA firm.

“Let’s sit down,” Farah said, looking as if she were facing a firing squad.

Meg’s stomach heaved then took a sickening plunge. She staggered backward toward the small sofa where she’d been reading the paper. “Hayley,” she cried. “What’s happened?”

Farah had hold of both Meg’s arms. She eased her down on the sofa before speaking. “There’s been an accident.”

Relief washed through Meg, leaving her weak; blood pounded like hail in her ears. An accident. Well, she could deal with that. This might mean a prolonged stay in the hospital or special care. That’s what money was for; she could help her niece recover.

Then she read Farah’s calculating blue eyes. Like a bolt of lightning, the truth almost knocked her to the floor. “Hayley’s dead,” she managed to whisper.

“I’m afraid so.” Farah sat in the wingback chair next to the sofa. “I’m sorry. I wish …”

“How? A car accident?” she asked, but Farah shook her head. “How? I want to know.”

A suffocating silence filled the room, finally Farah said, “A car bomb.”

Suddenly Meg recalled with startling clarity the article in the morning’s paper. A car had been blown up in a restaurant parking lot near the airport early yesterday evening. It had seemed so distant, so unbelievable. It couldn’t have happened to the one person she loved more than anyone on earth.

In the next heartbeat, Meg’s vision became spotty, then all she saw was a tunnel of blinding light. She vaguely heard Farah yelling at her but she couldn’t make out the words. Suddenly, the room pitched into complete darkness.

EARLY MORNING at the Wedge and glorious sunlight streamed across the ocean and the flawless blue sky. The cool air was turning balmy. Another friggin’ day in paradise, Ryan Hollister told himself.

Already a dozen surfers were riding the twenty-foot waves at Newport Beach’s famous bodysurfing spot. The Wedge was a unique place. There wasn’t any other spot just for bodysurfers—no boards of any kind allowed where giant waves formed.

Ryan ambled along, envying the daredevils, tackling the waves without boards. The surf pummeled the jetty at the entrance to the harbor with such force that spray shot into the air and could be seen on the mainland. All but the most talented bodysurfers were hurled against the shore like a piece of driftwood or hauled under and towed out to sea.

Not that he was much of a surfer but Ryan would like to give those awesome waves a try. When you were successfully riding one, they called it “the green room” because your mind went into a zone where nothing mattered but you and the wave. It was a natural high unlike anything else.

Aw hell, even if he was allowed to surf, the green room wouldn’t change a damn thing. Chill, he reminded himself. He’d come to the beach to relax, to forget.

He turned his back on the Wedge and ambled along the shore. Overhead a swarm of gulls circled, riding a thermal, cawing, scolding each other. One spotted a fish and dove like an arrow into the waves. Two seconds later it emerged triumphant.

Ryan smiled in spite of himself. There was something about the ocean. It represented the natural order of things—a world bigger than man. The sea could soothe a troubled soul the way nothing else could. He inhaled the briny scent of the ocean and let it fill his lungs. He stared down at the sand pockmarked by crabs’ air holes.

He exhaled slowly and walked forward, his beach towel slung over his bare shoulder to hide the scar. He didn’t care what people thought, but he didn’t want to answer questions. When you got right down to it, he didn’t want to talk to anyone.

“For crissakes, get a grip,” he muttered to himself.

Garlands of seaweed were being nudged onto the shore by waves that rolled across the sand, tumbling like dice. He kicked idly at a free-floating piece of seaweed. It felt slick as an eel when he flung it back into the water with his toes.

Something in the distance caught his eye. A chestnut-colored dog had just emerged from the waves, a tennis ball in his mouth. The dog raced toward a teenage girl who was clapping her hands.

Buddy, he thought. His breath solidified in his lungs. He’d found his lost dog. Make that stolen dog.

Ryan halted in his tracks. Sand dragged by the retreating waves swirled around his feet. He must be losing it—big-time. Buddy—even if he’d lived beyond normal life expectancy—was long gone.

Dead. Dead for many years.

Buddy had been his dog when he was sixteen and living in Northern California. Part golden retriever, part Labrador, Buddy had been Ryan’s best friend in the year following his mother’s death and a move to a new town. He’d trained the dog all by himself, using a library book as a guide. Buddy faithfully waited on the front porch every day for Ryan to come home from football practice.

Then one day, Ryan returned and Buddy had vanished. A neighbor reported seeing a strange car in their driveway. Ryan knew Buddy wouldn’t have gotten into a car with a stranger. Buddy had been distrustful of anyone but Ryan and his father. Unless Ryan or his father was around, the dog growled at strangers. They figured the dog must have been abused before they adopted him from Cloverdale Rescue.

Ryan put up posters, searched everywhere, checked pounds in the surrounding area, and used his allowance to put an ad in the paper. Nothing. Only the report of the strange car in their driveway.

He’d gone to bed each night, trying not to let his father know he was crying. Sixteen-year-old football players don’t cry. He couldn’t hold back the tears as he prayed that whoever had Buddy wasn’t mistreating him. He was getting good kibble and lots of fresh water. Runs. Sessions with a ball.

No matter who had Buddy, the dog would never be theirs. Ryan had taught him to trust, then taught him a slew of tricks. Buddy only belonged to Ryan. No one else.

Then there were the nights when Ryan imagined Buddy in a cage too small for his large body. Could be a pound or worse, a lab where they were experimenting on dogs. Ryan could see Buddy’s black nose between the bars, his eyes glazed with fear, the way they’d been the day Ryan rescued Buddy. His dog was silently asking: Why did you do this to me?

The thought of Buddy somewhere alone and forsaken haunted Ryan. He kept hearing the dog: Why have you deserted me?

The lingering memory of Buddy had been part of the reason Ryan had gone into the FBI. What would it be like not to know what had befallen a loved one? Thousands of people vanished each year without a trace.

The academy had been a challenge, but he’d enjoyed the training process, the winnowing out of those who couldn’t cut it, the air of camaraderie. In a way, it felt as if he were playing football again.

Back then, he’d enjoyed being part of a team. Just when had he turned into such a loner? He supposed facing death day in and day out did that to a person. When death finally arrived and stole the one you loved, you didn’t much feel like reaching out, being part of a team.

Reality about FBI work hadn’t set in until Ryan’s first assignment at a field post in Minneapolis. It was boring beyond anything he could possibly have imagined. He’d watched too much television in his formative years, Ryan decided. There wasn’t much action in the field offices.

After two years, Ryan applied for advanced training in the computer sciences unit and was accepted because he’d been a math major at Duke. The training concentrated on white-collar crimes and identity theft. It wasn’t what he’d envisioned when he’d joined, but at least he was solving crimes, not pushing paper in some field office.

A bonus had been his assignment to the capital of white-collar crime, Los Angeles. Not only was there plenty of activity, it meant he could be closer to his father, who had suffered a stroke and was living in a facility in Newport Beach, south of L.A.

“Hi,” called the young girl with the dog as he approached. Nearby her friends were lounging on beach towels, wearing bikinis no bigger than eye patches. “Isn’t Dodger great?”

“He’s special, all right.”

The dog bounded up to Ryan and offered him the dripping wet tennis ball. Ryan took it and threw it into the ocean with his good arm. The dog was off hell-for-leather after the ball. He splashed through the breaking waves with the same happy abandon that Buddy used to have. Dodger swooped under the water with amazing agility and came up with the ball. He trotted back to the girl. Ryan marched on; he already had a spot picked out where he intended to stretch out and try to sleep. As he walked away from the girls, he heard one of them call him a studmuffin.

Get outta here, he thought. He was old enough to be her father. He was tall—almost six and a half feet tall—but he no longer had the muscular build of the running back he’d been in college. He was slim now, too slim.

He spread his beach towel on the sand and slathered sunblock on his body as best he could with his left hand. He had a limited range of motion with his right arm but it was quickly improving. Meanwhile, he was getting to be quite adept at using his left hand. He lay down on his beach towel and closed his eyes.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. The chirping from some distant spot awakened him. Wow. He had been sleeping. A first. He automatically reached for the cell phone in the side pocket of his swim trucks with his right hand. Pain shot up his arm and settled in his bum shoulder. He grabbed for the phone with his left hand and saw Caller ID showed Conrad Hollister. Had something happened to his father?

“Are you all right, Dad?”

“I’m fine. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“I’m on my way.” Ryan disconnected and stood up, shaking the sand from his towel with his left hand. He saw that he must have been asleep for some time. It was nearly noon. Dozens of people were now on the beach and umbrellas had sprouted from the sand like mushrooms. The girl with the great dog was gone.

“WEIRD,” RYAN HEARD himself say, but his voice seemed to belong to someone else. “Car bombs are unusual.”

His father hadn’t developed a medical problem. He had summoned Ryan to hear this story. Ryan had a sneaking suspicion—hell, more than a suspicion—where this was going. He should just haul ass now, but he needed to let his father down gently. Conrad Hollister wasn’t what he used to be. Confined to a wheelchair, his world now revolved around Twelve Acres. And Meg Amboy.

After Ryan’s mother’s death, Conrad had never remarried, although he’d had numerous girlfriends and plenty of chances. He seemed more attached to Meg than he had to any of them, which was unusual since they couldn’t possibly be having sex at their age. Could they? Don’t go there.

“Hayley was like a daughter to me,” Meg said, the threat of tears in her voice.

“I’m sorry.” Ryan searched for the right words. “It’s such a tragedy.”

“I told Meg that you could help us,” his father said.

There you go. Ryan would have bet anything that this was the reason he was here. “I’m sure the police are all over this. Since it happened so close to an airport, the Joint Terrorism Task Force must be investigating, too.”

His father’s lips clamped together in resentment and tears shimmered in Meg’s eyes. The air around them was fraught with pain and desperation. Ryan could see that they had no idea of the magnitude of this investigation. He wouldn’t add a damn thing.

“The Joint Terrorism Task Force includes the FBI, local fire and police, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives as well as Homeland Security. That’s tremendous manpower focused on this crime. They’ll solve the case.”

“They’re not you.” Determination was etched on every time-worn line on his father’s face. “This isn’t personal to them.”

Something inside Ryan clicked, a painful echo of the larger than life man his father had once been. Back then, Conrad Hollister would never have begged anyone for help. A host of conflicting emotions warred inside Ryan. It wouldn’t be long, he realized, before he lost the only other person he loved.

“You know I’m not an investigator. I’m a computer jock.” He said this more to Meg than his father. Meg knew what he did; they’d discussed it the first time he’d met her. But she looked so stricken, as if she’d keel over any second, that he felt he had to explain.

“I don’t trust them,” Meg said in a surprisingly firm voice. “They were here to interview me. They don’t have a clue. The car bomb has thrown them. The police think there’s some foreign connection. I tried to explain Hayley designs clothes. She doesn’t have foreign connections, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Can’t you just look through Hayley’s things?” his father pleaded. “See if the police missed something.”

The tone of his father’s voice triggered a raw ache in Ryan. He’d miss his father as much as—if not more than—he missed Jessica. “The police won’t let me waltz into her place—”

“My place,” Meg corrected him. “I own the loft. The detectives who interviewed me said they would be through with it this afternoon. I asked because I need to find one of Hayley’s dresses for the funeral.”

Ryan struggled to hold in a gasp. After a bomb, what could be left? He couldn’t imagine a coffin with nothing in it but a dress.

Meg rose and walked with surprising agility across her suite, returning to where they were sitting with a photograph in a sterling silver frame.

“This is my Hayley.” Meg’s voice cracked. “She’s all I have.”

Kicking himself for getting into this, Ryan gazed at the girl in the photo as Meg handed it to him. It was a candid headshot obviously taken at the beach. Tousled brown hair shimmering with coppery highlights. Clear hazel eyes blazing with happiness.

Pretty. Healthy. Sexy. The typical California girl.

Except for the arresting smile that hit Ryan like a sucker punch to his gut. She had a mysterious glint in her eyes that made him wonder just what she was thinking. Something told him that there was nothing “typical” about Hayley.

He studied the photograph more closely. Those full pouty lips. Did they taste as good as they looked? And that skin the color of honey. Would it be silky smooth to the touch? His pulse kicked up a notch.

Annoyed at the direction his thoughts had taken, Ryan realized he felt some sort of connection with this woman, which was totally unexpected. Since Jessica’s death, not one brain wave had focused on sex for over a year. Why now?

“All right,” he said, feeling like a cat who’d just horked up a hairball. “I’ll check her place. I’ll also make a few phone calls and see what I can find out.”

This was like dancing on eggs. He didn’t want to give them false hope that he could personally solve this. “It may be hard to tell much at her place. I’m sure the task force has removed a lot of evidence.”

“Thank you, son,” his father said in a low-pitched voice that couldn’t hide his emotion.

“Bless you,” Meg added. “Bless you.”

Doing this small favor that meant so much to his father wasn’t a big deal, he assured himself. Still, he had the disturbing feeling that he shouldn’t be doing this. His sixth sense kicked in, telling him that Hayley Fordham was nothing but trouble.

CHAPTER THREE

“WHATDAYA THINK?” Ed Phillips asked Ryan.

“Too soon to tell, but so far I’m not finding much.”

Ryan had arrived at Hayley Fordham’s loft to discover the authorities were still there. He wasn’t surprised. He’d thought releasing the crime scene as early as Meg indicated was unlikely. His bad luck had not run out when he’d agreed to help Meg. The first person he saw when he walked up was Phillips.

The special agent worked with Ryan in the L.A. office. Phillips was a senior criminal intelligence analyst while Ryan was in cyber crimes, but they knew each other from previous cases. Phillips had been sent to represent the FBI on the Joint Terrorism Task Force that Ryan had predicted would investigate this case. A car bombing so close to an airport was a huge red flag for a terrorist act.

Phillips had immediately enlisted Ryan to check Hayley Fordham’s computer and introduced him to the local detectives investigating the murder. He also spoke to the ATF guys, who were still called ATFers even though their official title was now Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.

“This is the computer guru who cracked the Rosier case,” Phillips announced to the team gathered in the makeshift command post set up in the ground-floor garage of Hayley Fordham’s loft. This introduction wowed the group. The Rosier case had been a fraud scam that made headlines early last year. The information that hung Carleton Rosier had been encrypted and buried on his corporation’s computers. Ryan had figured out how the con artist had created two sets of books on his computers.

“What have they got?” Ryan asked as he kept punching keys and concentrating on Hayley’s twenty-one inch screen. Phillips was standing behind him, watching. This was annoying but Ryan didn’t say anything because he needed to find out as much as he could about Hayley.

“Nothin’ unless ATF finds out something.”

ATF bomb experts spent so much time training that even though the FBI had their own team, they took a backseat to ATF. They would be looking for bomb-making equipment, although Ryan thought it was unlikely that Hayley made the bomb that killed her. Yet stranger things had happened. The bomb could have been intended for someone else and she’d accidentally detonated it.

“Nothing like this case on VICAP,” Ryan said, referring to the Violent Crimes Apprehension Program that maintained a massive database on crimes at their headquarters in Quantico.

Phillips shook his head. “Whoo-ee, this is one for the books. We get two, maybe three car bombings a year, most of them along the border. Mexican cartels have a buncha’ crazy muthafuckers who rig bombs.”

Phillips had grown up in Alabama and his roots could be heard when he talked and in the expressions he used, which was unusual at the Bureau. They encouraged the neutral cadence of newscasters. Accent aside, Phillips was one of the sharpest guys Ryan had encountered at the FBI.

“Could Hayley Fordham have been involved with drugs? Should I be looking for something like that on her computer?”

Phillips shrugged. “I doubt it, but shee-it. Who knows?”

“Are we sure that it was Hayley who was killed?”

“Ninety-nine percent sure. She used her credit card just minutes before her dadgummed car blew sky high. The license plate flew off or we wouldn’t have been able to ID the car. No body parts. She was vaporized.”

Ryan imagined the dress that Meg was coming to pick out tomorrow. Evidently, the poor woman had no idea her niece’s body was dust. “What about the security cameras? What do they show?”

“The camera at the entrance nearest the car was on the fritz but the ones in the restaurant clearly show the woman Trent Fordham identified as his half-sister, Hayley. She had drinks with an unidentified female friend, then got in her car and yow-zer. That’s all she wrote.”

“What does the friend say?”

Phillips quirked one dark eyebrow. “The brother didn’t recognize the woman and the locals haven’t tracked her down yet.” He sounded as if he didn’t have much confidence in the police.

Ryan stared at the computer screen as he tapped a few keys. His mind was on the intriguing face in the photograph. Hayley was something else, and according to her aunt, talented and smart. Who would want her dead?

They were on the loft’s third floor, which Hayley used as an office/studio. The small desk with her computer was a fire hazard of notes and sketches. There was a work table with some fabric laid out. Two empty easels faced the twelve-foot floor-to-ceiling windows that provided natural light during the day. Racks of oil tubes and brushes were on the wall next to pegs for oilcloth to cover artwork and paint-splattered smocks. Several completed oils were stacked against the far wall.

Ryan again thought about what Meg had told him about her niece. Hayley was the clothing designer for Surf’s Up, the family company. Except for the fabric on the table, this place looked more like an artist’s studio. But hey, what did he know?

Hayley did have a CADCAM with a clothing design program loaded on her computer. There were lots of designs in the archives; some of them were downright weird. He didn’t see much else but he hadn’t checked her e-mails or looked for trapdoors.

“We’re cutting out,” the ATFers told them.

“Any sign of explosives around here?” Ryan asked over his shoulder. “Or drugs?”

“Nothing except a half-full bottle of prescription sleeping pills.”

“I think the guys from the office and the police are ready to pull out, too,” Phillips told him. “You almost finished?”

He was, but Ryan wanted time alone to look around the place. “Nah. I’ll be awhile. Go on. See if you can get me cleared to stay.”

“No problem. I already called the office and had you put on the case.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “Guess your vacation is over until you check out this computer. Catch ya later.”

Detective Wells, the lead detective with the Costa Mesa police, came up, asking, “Anything?”

“I’m still checking. It’ll take me a few hours.”

Wells paused a second, then said, “I understand you’re a friend of the family.”

Ryan wasn’t sure where or how he’d obtained this information. “Not the family exactly. My father is close with Meg Amboy, who is Hayley’s aunt.”

“We interviewed her.”

Ryan turned away from the computer to ask, “You personally or one of your men?”

Wells, a dapper-looking older man with silver hair and intelligent blue eyes shrugged. “I sent one of the guys. Didn’t seem likely that she’d know much.”

“She’s a pretty sharp gal. Made a fortune on her own.”

“What’s she saying in private?”

“She believes it might be a member of the family. They own a local surf store that sells their clothing nationwide. It was started by the father who was killed late last year in a plane crash.” He thought Wells knew all this but since the guy hadn’t interrupted him, the detective might not have received a report from his men yet. “The three children will inherit the business and other property when the probate is settled. It’s a sizable estate.”

Wells nodded. “Farah and Trent Fordham have alibis, although it is possible they hired someone. Bomb-making instructions are easily found on the Internet but not many people are willing to risk making one.”

“I’m a computer guy—”

“Yeah,” Wells said with a knowing smile, “and you played two years in the NFL until your shoulder was ruined after a questionable tackle.”

Ryan nodded; he never mentioned his pro career, but buffs like Wells remembered him. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m not an expert, but bombings are usually revenge crimes. The killer wants to obliterate the person.”

“I know. It’s a strange one all right.” Wells pulled a card out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve got a man posted downstairs. When you leave, he’ll lock up. I want you to call me with a report no matter how late it is.”

Ryan checked the e-mail log and it yielded only a few interesting items. Apparently Hayley had some sort of business arrangement with an Ian Barrington. He appeared to be an art dealer. He was expecting several oil paintings for what must be a show. That would account for all the art supplies and easels in the room.

He rummaged through the papers on Hayley’s desk, assuming the police had already checked them and removed anything important. He found a CD labeled The Big 3-0. He popped it into her computer and watched the family barbeque given for Hayley almost two years ago. Most of the jerky footage was of a laughing, smiling Hayley opening gag gifts. There wasn’t any sound on the CD but it wasn’t hard to tell what was happening.

At her side was a man that most women would call drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, lively blue eyes. For some reason, Ryan experienced a pang of something that he didn’t want to call jealousy. Why? He’d never met Hayley or the man, who must be her former fiancé. Wasn’t his name Chad Bennett? Meg had said Hayley had dumped him after catching him cheating.

He watched the very sexy Hayley blow out a platoon of candles on a cake with the inscription Over The Hill. Yeah, right. Hayley was anything but over the hill. Just at her prime was more like it.

She looked right into the camera and blew a kiss as the CD ended. Ryan sat staring at the screen, half-convinced she’d meant the kiss for him. He must be losing it big-time. He removed the CD and forced his attention back to checking her computer.

Since Phillips had Ryan officially on the case, he logged into the network in his L.A. office and let the special software he’d designed run a check for trapdoors on Hayley’s computer and see if anything was hidden. It would take half an hour to thoroughly scrutinize all of her files. That would give him time to look around.

He climbed down the high-tech stainless-steel stairs from the third floor office/studio and master bedroom to the middle level, where the kitchen and living room took up the entire floor. He stood still beside the refrigerator, the strangest sensation coming over him. He felt as if he’d been there before. No, that wasn’t it. He felt as if he belonged here somehow. It made no sense.

Get real, he thought, kicking himself. Lofts were just huge open rooms portioned off by walls that weren’t attached to the rafters. He’d never been in a loft, but he’d seen them on TV. Still, something there spoke to him.

What? He looked around. Honest to God, he couldn’t figure out his strange reaction. The entire place was covered with fingerprint dust, a fine charcoal-colored powder. He grabbed a tissue from a dispenser and covered his fingers to open drawers without leaving prints. Not that the crime techs were coming back, but he was too much of a professional to contaminate a crime scene.

The kitchen drawers revealed little except for a utility drawer that had a stash of notepads and matches from various restaurants. There wasn’t a personal telephone book, but he didn’t find that unusual. Most people Hayley’s age kept that info on their cell phones.

He noticed a dog’s water bowl and dish on the floor near the refrigerator. The fine dark powder around it indicated that the dishes had been dusted for prints. The local crime scene techs were thorough, he’d give them that.

Stylized surfboard magnets held several photographs to the refrigerator door. One was of a golden retriever with a red ball in its mouth. Another was of a stunning auburn-haired woman—Hayley—sitting on the beach, hugging the dripping-wet retriever. The third was of a weird-looking dude in a T-shirt with the Grim Reaper on it. Obviously, it was a publicity photo. Scrawled at the bottom were the words Hayley, you’re the bomb. It was signed The Wrath.

The Wrath? The name dinged some distant bell in Ryan’s brain. Then it came to him. The Wrath was the Mixed Martial Arts national champion. Ryan had watched a few matches while he’d been home with his shoulder injury. It combined boxing, wrestling, kickboxing, judo and other fighting techniques in a no-holds-barred smack-down fight. The barefoot fighters wore shorts and padded gloves. The only rule that governed their fight was no biting or eye-gouging.

Interesting, Ryan thought. Hayley didn’t seem like a woman who’d hook up with an MMA fighter, but what did he know? The way Ryan had responded to her blowing a kiss at the end of the CD still had him on edge. How could he react so strongly to someone he’d never met?

He wandered out of the kitchen and into one of two bedrooms sectioned off from it that opened onto a living room overlooking the bay. It was Hayley’s room, he realized the instant he entered. The crime techs had dusted everything and removed the sheets from the bed.

Something swept through him, like an adrenaline rush but stronger. Ryan opened the closet door and a delicate scent came from the clothes hanging in front of him. He inhaled deeply. Vanilla, he decided. The perfume Hayley wore had a trace of vanilla in it.

Lavender was her favorite color, he realized. And she didn’t own a suit unless the crime techs had bagged one as evidence, which he doubted. Most of the items hanging in her closet were casual clothes. He checked the dresser drawers, knowing they’d been searched but wanting to get a feel for this woman.

Okay. She loved skimpy thongs and lacy bras—size 34C. Not centerfold material, but Ryan always said anything more than a handful was wasted. Honest to God, what was he thinking?

Ryan slammed the drawer shut and stood there, furious with himself. He caught his reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. He hardly recognized the image. In his mind’s eye, he always saw himself the way he’d looked in his wedding picture, taken just before the season that ended his career.

Time and Jessica’s illness had changed him. Even though he was just thirty-five, Ryan thought he looked older. It was because he was thinner than he’d ever been and his face seemed gaunt. Black stubble shadowed the square line of his jaw, making him look more serious than he felt. He tried to smile, the way he once had so easily, but it was just a grimace.

A tragedy, sure, he told himself. You’re still alive. You’ll get past this eventually. He didn’t want to get over Jessica. But another part of him must feel the need to move forward with his life. That’s why he was reacting so strongly to Hayley.

He forced himself to look through the books and mementos that must once have been artfully arranged on a bookshelf. They were askew now and covered with fingerprint powder. More photos of the dog and Hayley’s family.

He flipped open his cell phone and dialed Meg’s number. It was late, but Hayley’s aunt had assured him that she wouldn’t be sleeping and to call with any questions.

“What did you find?” Meg asked the instant he identified himself.

“Not much.” This was the truth; he didn’t want to get Meg’s hopes up. “The police have taken a lot of evidence. They might discover something. I do have a couple of questions. Where’s Hayley’s dog?”

Two long beats of silence. “With her, I’m sure. She took Andy everywhere. The police said Hayley parked at the back of the lot under the trees. I know it was dark, but it was early evening and still warm. It would have been cooler under the trees. She probably left him in the car while she went inside.”

Aw, hell. Just what he didn’t want to think about. The dog that Hayley had obviously loved so much—pulverized.

“What was her relationship with Ian Barrington?” he asked to steer their thoughts away from death. “She has several e-mails from him.”

“Hayley knew him from design school in San Francisco. I guess they remained friends when she moved home.”

Interesting, Ryan thought. The e-mails he’d read clearly indicated a business relationship. Obviously, Hayley hadn’t told her aunt everything. What else had she kept from her?

“Did she mention a guy called The Wrath?”

This brought the suggestion of a chuckle from Meg. “Of course, the man who fights in a cage.”

True, he thought. MMA fights were held in chain-link enclosures called cages. There was no escape until one man won—and the other lay bloodied on the mat.

“They have clothing sponsors just like other sports figures,” Meg told him. “Hayley created a line sold at Surf’s Up that The Wrath wears. You know, she had a better head for business than Trent. She knew Tap-something—the designers with the bats on their clothes—”

“TapouT.” The only way to end an MMA fight short of getting knocked out was to physically tap on your opponent or the mat to signal you gave up. TapouT clothes had stylized bats on them. The T-shirts were so popular that even Ryan recognized them.

“That’s it! Hayley figured the surf craze has peaked. MMA clothes will be the next big thing. Her line has really done well so far.”

MMA the next big thing? Who knew? “Did she have a personal relationship with this Wrath guy?”

“N-not really,” Meg replied a bit hesitantly. “They’re just friends.”

He’d asked about current boyfriends and Meg had told him that Hayley hadn’t been dating anyone special since her breakup with the sleazy lawyer who cheated on her. There was no evidence around the loft that a man spent time here.

“She hasn’t been dating. She hadn’t quite gotten over Chad’s betrayal.”

Ryan thanked Meg and hung up. He sat down on Hayley’s stripped bed, thinking. What kind of a man could cheat on a woman like Hayley?

He lay back on the bed and stared up at the loft’s industrial-style rafters, imagining himself there with Hayley. He was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t explain and it bothered him.

CHAPTER FOUR

MIDAFTERNOON two days later, Ryan was standing under the rotunda near the valet-parking stand at the Balboa Bay Club with Ed Phillips. They had just been to Hayley’s standing-room-only memorial service at All Saints Church. He was waiting for his father to arrive with Meg in one of the limousines for the reception while Ed spoke on his cell phone to a bomb expert in Quantico.

Phillips clicked off his cell and tucked it into his pocket. “They have a preliminary report from analyzing the bomb debris.”

Ryan braced himself to hear about body parts. At the service, there had been a huge photograph of Hayley. Her head had been thrown back slightly as if she were on the verge of a laugh. It had been an even more provocative photo than the one Meg had first shown him. Hayley’s haunting eyes followed Ryan no matter where he moved in the church.

“The explosive device was attached with a magnet and a wire to her car’s electrical system. It left a two-foot-deep crater under the car and flash melting on metal three cars away. The instant she turned the ignition, the bomb detonated.”

“How do they know that?” Ryan asked. He hadn’t received any training in bomb-making and none in detection.

“They use infrared spectrography to analyze bomb fragments. The type of device used shows the window of time necessary to place the bomb and where it was located. It was installed after she parked. It didn’t take long to attach it but the killer must have crawled at least partway under the car.”

“And risk being seen? What about the dog in the backseat? Didn’t he bark and put up a ruckus?”

Phillips shrugged. “Maybe. The locals are interviewing people to see if anyone saw anything. So far—nothing. But it does establish the time frame when the killer planted the device.”

“Anything left of the body?” Ryan hated to ask. When Meg had discovered there was nothing to bury, she’d arranged a memorial service. The elderly woman was devastated and he couldn’t blame her. He’d gone through a tough time when he’d buried Jessica, but at least he knew where she was.

“Nosiree. Nada. Bits of bone, a few hairs—most were canine. That’s all they recovered. The rest was vaporized.”

The thought of that beautiful young woman exploding into nothing more than a fine mist depressed Ryan even more. He thought of the CD he’d seen of Hayley’s birthday party. She’d been so happy, so alive. So attractive. Suddenly he felt guilty, as if he’d betrayed Jessica in some unspoken way by admiring—and thinking about—another woman.

“Here’s what I need you to do,” Phillips told him. “Go in there without me. Talk to folks. They oughta tell you more ‘cuz you know the family. Know what I mean?”

Ryan nodded; he’d been introduced to the family on the steps before the service. He didn’t have a feel for any of them except Meg Amboy. But his connection with her did give Ryan an excuse for being present and he could ask questions without alarming anyone. He’d had the initial FBI training in interrogation but he hadn’t really practiced it except for a short time in the field office.

“Check the whole shebang but watch for passion. The Behavioral Analysis Unit profiler who worked on this bets it was a crime of passion.”

“Could be the ex-fiancé, Chad Bennett. I haven’t met him yet, but I understand he was really pissed off when Hayley gave him back his engagement ring. Meg says he’s been trying to get back together with her.”

“Anythang’s possible,” Phillips replied, his twang more noticeable than usual. “Wells, who heads up the locals, thinks it might be related to the family business. Seems the father who died last year was dead set against importing cheap surf- and skateboards from China the way most of the major companies do. As soon as he was gone, Trent took over the business. The son ordered a container full of boards from Asia. Drugs could have come in with them. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Why would that translate to a bomb that killed their designer?” Ryan asked, but something tripped an internal alarm. Alison, Hayley’s mother and Meg’s sister, had been the lead designer until the plane crash. Two designers dead.

“Jeez-a-ree, who knows?”

“Are they sure the plane crash was an accident?”

Phillips’ dark eyes narrowed as he studied Ryan for a moment. “Where are you goin’ with this?”

Ryan saw three sleek black limos in the valet parking line. His father would be here soon. “Just wondering. Both designers for Surf’s Up get killed? How important are the designers? I could nose around.”

“G’wan. Trust your gut instinct.” Phillips walked away.

Phillips was a bit of a maverick, Ryan decided. He liked working with him. He dodged the chain of command and avoided paperwork wherever possible. Ryan had forwarded his report—nothing interesting on Hayley’s computer—to the L.A. office, the task force and Detective Wells. Ryan was officially off the clock and on his own now. He still had three weeks of vacation before he had to report back to the office. No one except Phillips knew he was investigating this case as a favor to Meg Amboy.

He would find himself in deep shit if his boss found out, but Ryan didn’t give a rat’s ass. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay with the Bureau. He’d been drifting along, half-heartedly doing his job since Jessica’s death. A contact had offered him a job with a private security firm specializing in computer security for corporations. It was right here in Newport Beach; he wouldn’t have to slog his way through traffic from L.A. He could see his father every day.

If Ryan closed his eyes, he could see an image forever imprinted on his brain. Conrad Hollister watching with unconcealed pride from the stands at Ryan’s football games. His father hadn’t missed one game from junior high through a two-year stint in the pros.

His father was going downhill—even though he’d never admit it. Ryan wondered how long his father would live. He had to prepare himself for the worst and see him as often as possible.

AN HOUR LATER, Ryan was roaming the second floor members-only dining room where the reception was being held. Someone had transferred the photograph of Hayley from the church to the reception. Her compelling eyes kept following him as he moved from food station to food station in the packed room. It was his imagination, of course, but those eyes seemed to implore him to find her killer.

He’d brought his father up the elevator in his wheelchair and had him stationed at a table overlooking the bay with Meg at his side. A constant stream of guests kept offering their condolences to Meg and the other members of the family seated at the table.

“Aren’t these shrimp to die for?” asked a female voice at his elbow.

Ryan realized he was at the seafood station where shrimp were being served in shot glasses of cocktail sauce. Had he eaten any? He’d been so intent on looking around the crowd for Hayley’s ex-fiancé that he wasn’t paying enough attention to what he was doing.

He turned and flashed a smile at Farah Fordham. He’d met the striking brunette at the church and he’d reviewed her background in the jacket Phillips had given him. He’d checked the files on all the other suspects, too. “They’re good, all right.”

Farah gazed up at him with inquisitive brown eyes that had enough makeup on them to stock a cosmetics counter. “Are you related to Meg?”

He could understand why she asked the question. Meg had quickly introduced him by his first name at the church. “No, I’m just a friend.” His instincts told him to play his cards close to the chest.

Farah reached for another shot glass with a shrimp perched on the rim. “Really? Have you known her long?”

“Awhile.” Why was she asking? Ryan wondered. Then the light dawned. He knew from talking with Meg that her only sister, Hayley’s mother, was dead, and now, with Hayley gone, Meg didn’t have obvious heirs. He also knew from reading her jacket that Farah was overextended financially. Her CPA firm was doing well, but her lifestyle—and her boyfriend—outpaced her income.

“Hey, babe, here you are.” A tall man with a surfer’s blond hair and tan strode up to them, his smile revealing perfect white teeth. Phillips would have called them “SoCal teeth” because so many people had invested in braces and teeth whiteners. It was the land of beautiful people with perfect teeth.

“Kyle, this is Ryan …” Farah waited for him to supply his last name.

Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan Hollister.”

Kyle shook his hand with a firm grip. “Kyle Wilfert.”

“You’re Conrad’s son,” Farah said.

Ryan nodded; he could see the light going out of her eyes. He was right; she was checking out possible heirs. He wondered how close she was to Meg. Did it matter? Maybe it did. Phillips said at this stage of an investigation, everything should be considered.

“I’m in real estate development,” volunteered Kyle as he grinned at Farah and slipped his arm around her waist. “Not that there’s much going on right now with the lagging economy and all.”

He’d skimmed the jacket on Kyle and he recalled the file said the boyfriend had declared bankruptcy and moved in with Farah earlier this year. The guy didn’t have a pot to piss in—not that you’d know it from his surfer-dude smile.

“What do you do?” Farah asked.

“Computers.”

“Oh,” Farah said, totally uninterested.

A tall man with broad shoulders and thick brown hair walked up, saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about Hayley. What a tragedy.”

Ryan eyed the man who seemed to know Farah and Kyle quite well, but Ryan didn’t recognize him from any of the jackets Phillips had given him. The guy didn’t sound too sincere, but then neither did Farah or Kyle. During the service the only ones who’d cried were Courtney Fordham and Meg.

“I’m Laird McMasters.” The man introduced himself to Ryan with a firm handshake. “I own Rip Tide.”

Ryan nodded, recognizing another surf/skate company. It also had a line of clothing that competed with Surf’s Up.

“Laird offered to buy Surf’s Up,” Farah informed him, “but Hayley wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Really?” Ryan immediately put Laird on his list of people to investigate.

“Now’s not the time to talk about it,” Laird said. He set his glass on the table nearby. “I’m sorry about Hayley, but I have to leave. I’ve got a meeting.”

“We couldn’t sell the company now even if we wanted to,” Farah explained even though Ryan hadn’t asked. “It has to come out of probate.”

“Should be soon,” Kyle said.

“Excuse me,” Ryan said. “I see someone I need to talk to.” He turned away and edged his way through the crowd to where The Wrath was standing alone, sipping a bottle of water with a black image of a hooded Grim Reaper on it and studying the mesmerizing photo of Hayley.

“It’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan asked. “A waste.”

“Fuckin’ A,” The Wrath said without looking at him. “Hayley was totally rad.”

“Did you know her well?”

The Wrath turned to face him. The guy was tall and impressively built. He must spend most of each day in the gym. His hair was probably light brown like his eyes but it was slicked upward like a rooster’s comb and appeared black. Cantilevered eyebrows like caterpillars almost concealed his eyes.

“Yeah, we were friends. She was smart—a lot smarter than the rest of them.” The Wrath looked toward the table where Trent and his wife, Courtney, were now talking with an older woman with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei.

“I understand you went to Surf’s Up for sponsorship and Hayley wanted to back you while her brother didn’t.”

The Wrath trained his gaze on Ryan with obvious suspicion. “Damn straight. Trent can’t see beyond board sports. Surfing or skating. But Hayley could. Trent’s singing a different tune now that the MMA line Hayley created for me is raking in the dough.”

“MMA is on the rise. Their products are hot.” He’d read a bit more online about Mixed Martial Arts since he found The Wrath’s picture on Hayley’s refrigerator.

“Who the fuck are you?” The Wrath asked. His belligerent tone suggested the guy had testosterone poisoning, but Ryan had played football long enough not to be intimidated.

“I’m Ryan Hollister. My father’s sitting next to Hayley’s aunt—”

“I know Meg.” He pointed to the T-shirt he was wearing under a lightweight black blazer. It was a stylized Grim Reaper that Ryan recognized from Hayley’s computer designs. The slogan beneath the macabre face said: Kick Fear—Believe. “Hayley’s aunt added the ‘believe’ to my motto—Kick Fear.”

“Great idea,” Ryan said, and he meant it, although he would never have suspected Meg would come up with a tag word that gave such punch to a design. “Do you have any idea who would want Hayley dead?” Ryan wasn’t sure why he’d asked; he certainly hadn’t established any rapport with the fighter. It was just a hunch that this man hadn’t been involved and could know something.

“Haven’t got a clue. But there’s something going on with that family. Ask Courtney. She’s always high. She might tell you something.” The Wrath set down his empty bottle of water that Ryan now realized was The Wrath’s own brand when he saw the slogan written in bold black letters beneath the Grim Reaper.

“I’m outta here.” He handed Ryan a business card with the same logo on it. “I’m in the cage next week at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas. Wanna see me fight, give me a buzz and I’ll have ringside tickets at Will Call for you.”

Ryan took The Wrath’s advice and hung around to see if he could catch Courtney alone, or if Chad Bennett would put in an appearance. He hadn’t come to the service. Strange. Meg had told him that Chad still did legal work for the company and was a good friend of Trent’s despite the broken engagement.

Finally Courtney left the table, apparently headed for the ladies room, and Ryan intercepted her in the hall. “Excuse me,” he said as he walked up beside her. “Are the restrooms this way?”

“Yes. Just down the corridor.” Her voice was pitched so low that it was barely above a whisper. The Wrath was dead-on. Courtney’s blue eyes were just thin hoops of color around dilated pupils. She was on something, all right.

“I’m Ryan—”

“Conrad’s son,” she responded. “You fix computers. I met you just before the service.”

“Right.” He’d instructed Meg and his father to say he was in computers so no one would realize that he was with the FBI. He’d hoped to get more information that way but so far, zilch. “I understand you were good friends with Hayley.”

“Yes. We’re creative spirits in a family of … of …”

“Business types,” he supplied when she seemed to be drifting.

“Exactly.” Courtney paused outside the entrance to the ladies’ room. “I’ll miss her terribly.”

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Who do you think killed her?”

Courtney’s enlarged pupils welled with unshed tears. “I can’t imagine …”

She walked into the restroom. Something lingered in the nerve endings of Ryan’s skin. His sixth sense told him Courtney knew more than she was saying. Or was it just his imagination? He could be wrong. Anyway, why would Courtney Fordham tell him—a total stranger—anything?

Ryan wandered back into the reception, hoping his father and Meg were ready to leave. He immediately spotted Chad Bennett in a corner talking to Trent. From the looks of it, their discussion was very serious. Ryan went to get another steak on the stick from the beef station and watched the men out of the corner of his eye.

In two gulps, Bennett knocked back a martini with a parade of olives on a pick as he listened to whatever Trent was saying so intently. He munched on the olives.

Bennett was just above average in height but he had an easy smile and long-lashed blue eyes. The man signaled a passing waiter for another martini and Ryan wondered if the attorney had a drinking problem—or was he drowning his sorrow? He was listening to Trent but Bennett’s eyes kept straying to the huge photograph of Hayley.

Ryan waited and Trent finally left Bennett when Courtney came teetering into the room. Obviously, she’d done more in the restroom than use the facilities, Ryan decided. The Wrath had been right. Courtney had a problem.

Bennett wandered over to the photograph and Ryan joined him, sipping a glass of sparkling water. Bennett had a fresh martini with another skewer of olives in it. Obviously, the guy thought this was the veggie course.

“Damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan knew he was repeating what he’d said to The Wrath, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

“Got that right,” Bennett replied, facing him.

Another set of dilated pupils. Welcome to the real word, dude, Ryan told himself. Playgrounds of the rich were havens for drugs and alcohol. Look on the upside. Maybe he’d get more out of Bennett like this than he would if the attorney were sober.

“You’re Hollister’s kid, right?” Bennett didn’t slur his words or act inebriated. “I sat next to your father at Thanksgiving two years ago. He told me all about your football career. Your job with the FBI. Computers, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I wish I’d known Hayley.” He was surprised at how true this was, even though he was merely trying to change the subject. He hadn’t been able to get Hayley out of his mind since Meg had first shown him the photo.

“You know Meg Amboy. She’s an older version of Hayley. Sharp. Unforgiving.” The last word wobbled just a bit as he said it.

“I understand you were engaged to Hayley.”

Bennett kicked back the last of his martini and sucked on the olives for a moment before, saying, “Until I fucked up. Then it was over with a capital O. Hayley is just like Meg. Never forgive. Never forget.”

Ryan nodded slowly. “Who would kill her so brutally?”

“You’ve got me.” Bennett shrugged and a cord seemed to be pulsing unsteadily in his neck.

THE NEXT evening it poured, which was unusual for Southern California in May, Ryan told himself as he stood in Hayley’s loft looking at the rain pounding the dark water in the bay. He’d promised Meg that he would pack up Hayley’s personal things. Tomorrow movers would remove the rest of her belongings so Meg could sell the loft.

A flash of jagged-white lightning seared the darkness and a few seconds later a deafening clap of thunder shook the loft. The lights at the Blue Water Grill across the small inlet where the loft was located suddenly went dark. The single lamp Ryan had turned on beside Hayley’s computer went out, too.

“Great,” he muttered. A power failure. With this storm no telling how soon Edison would fix it. This would make his job harder and it would take longer. Hadn’t there been a flashlight downstairs in one of the kitchen drawers? He slowly made his way to the staircase to go to the lower level where the kitchen was located. The freestanding staircase was an accident waiting to happen. A fall could land him flat on his back on the first floor where the tiled entrance and garage was located. It was three floors down—a neck-breaker if there ever was one.

He slowly felt his way down the stainless steel staircase. A noise from below, like metallic creaking, made him stop. What was that? It was hard to tell with the wind-driven rain beating on the bank of windows facing the bay. Probably homesteading rats, he thought. The Cannery, a trendy restaurant, was just a few doors down. A rat magnet for sure, he decided as he continued down the stairs again.

Vaguely uneasy for some reason, he reached the kitchen and felt his way across the granite counter. Beneath his hand traces of the fingerprint dust collected. He reached the bank of drawers near the refrigerator. That’s where he thought he remembered seeing a flashlight. He pulled open a drawer and fumbled through the contents. Wrong drawer. He was reaching for the handle on the next, when he heard the creaking noise again.

His attention was drawn from where he was standing to the living area across from the kitchen. He detected movement—a darker silhouette in a pitch-dark room. Shapes were discernible only by varying degrees of darkness.

A form or a trick of the shadows? He squinted hard, concentrating on the far side of the loft. Something was there. A man. The killer? Had he returned to remove incriminating evidence or was this a burglary? Often thieves broke into homes of the deceased because they knew they were vacant.

A flicker of lightning in the distance—almost nonexistent—faintly illuminated the room for a fraction of a second. The man was short, Ryan saw that much, and he had a weapon in his hand. Ryan thought of opening a drawer and extracting one of the knives he remembered but he didn’t want the man to turn and shoot.

He flattened himself against the refrigerator, thankful the intruder hadn’t spotted him. From his brief glance, Ryan knew the man wore a trench coat with the hood up. The gun he carried must have at least six shots. Ryan would need to take the intruder by surprise to stand a chance.

This was when years of playing football would pay off. He could sprint across the room and hit the guy with a flying tackle before the jerk could turn around and fire the weapon. In a split second, Ryan exploded into the room and clobbered the man full-force. The air blasted from the prick’s lungs in a loud whooshing grunt as their bodies collided.

They both hit the tile floor, a jumble of limbs with Ryan on top. A sharp, bone-deep pain shot through his injured shoulder into his chest, but he ignored it. The weapon the intruder carried bounced across the floor with a thunk.

The little guy was a fighter. He arched his back, twisting and bucking with surprising strength. The gutsy prick swung one leg out and around, attempting what must be some weird move—probably jujitsu or something like it. Ryan immediately thought of The Wrath. Could this be one of his henchmen?

The man was too small to pull off the maneuver and Ryan easily straddled him with his larger frame and pinned him down, but the intruder kept writhing beneath him. Ryan rolled the squirming idiot onto his side. He grabbed for one of the man’s arms, determined to pull it behind his back and force the guy to his feet. He fumbled with the raincoat for a second, trying to capture a thrashing arm. He encountered a soft fullness and a fragrant hint of a scent that stunned him. Common sense said to double-check. He ran his hands over the soft mounds. No doubt about it.

A woman.

Couldn’t be!

But it was. Holy shit! She moaned and gasped for breath. Women were every bit as dangerous as men, Ryan reminded himself. This one had arrived armed. And tried a martial arts maneuver.

She thrashed and kicked, trying to escape, but he had her trapped by his large body. The more she squirmed, the softer she felt beneath him. She cut loose with a screeching cry that could be heard in Japan. She kept screaming at the top of her lungs even though no one could hear her over the roar of the storm.

“Stop it!” He lifted his body and flipped her onto her back. He had a vague impression of a pale face and light-colored eyes. She yanked at his hair, pulling it with astonishing strength. “Cut it out or I’ll have to hurt you.”

He grabbed her throat, planning to scare her a little. She responded by biting hard on his hand. “I’m warning you—”

“P-please … don’t hurt me,” she cried. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t rape me.”

“Rape you?” He stood up, hoisted her upright without letting go. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still while I call the cops.”

“You’re calling the police?” she yelled at him, but she sounded scared spitless.

He hauled her with him toward the kitchen’s wall phone. “You bet I’m calling them. You were trying to rob the place.”

“I wasn’t robbing—”

“What about the weapon in your hand? You broke in armed with a gun.”

“Gun? I just had my collapsible umbrella, you jerk! Who are you? What are you doing in my loft?”

Ryan stopped dead in his tracks, holding her close. He was afraid of the answer, but he asked anyway. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Hayley Fordham. This is—”

She said something about this being her loft and she was calling the police to report him. Ryan reached for the drawer with the flashlight and pulled it out, still not letting go of the intruder. He turned it on and trained the light on her face.

The brown hair highlighted by copper strands that he’d dreamed about running his hands through hung in damp hanks around her pretty face. The gray eyes that had fascinated him were wild with terror and almost green in this light. The full lips that he’d imagined kissing were trembling.

The girl of his dreams—back from the dead.

CHAPTER FIVE

PANIC COURSED THROUGH HAYLEY. Her breathing was erratic and she was trembling uncontrollably, fear a high-pitched scream in her veins. This monster intended to kill her. She couldn’t see him. The man was nothing more than a looming form and that was going to be the last thing she saw before she died.

The jujitsu kick The Wrath had taught her hadn’t worked. This man was too tall, his body too muscular for her to fight off. Her pulse ricocheted against her temples. If she didn’t do something, he would grab one of the kitchen knives and slit her throat.

“Let me go,” she pleaded, although she doubted it would do much good. Dread and defeat permeated her body and settled in her bones.

In response, he swung her around, his powerful arm just below her breasts. He manacled both her wrists in one fist, his fingers like steel bands. She was trapped by his muscular frame, his height. Even through her raincoat she felt the heat of his menacing body.

He grabbed something out of one of her kitchen drawers. She struggled to wrench herself free by biting him again, but couldn’t move. Out of nowhere, a blast of light blinded her and she squeezed her eyes shut—expecting to die in the next second.

“Who the hell are you?” he unexpectedly asked.

She opened her eyes, not able to distinguish anything but the blaring light and spit out, “I’m Hayley Fordham. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

His grip relaxed but he didn’t let her go. “I’m Ryan Hollister. Your aunt Meg sent me to get your things.”

“You’re lying! Why would Aunt Meg want my …” As she spoke, his name registered. “You’re Conrad’s son?”

“That’s right.”

She tried to get a better look at him, not knowing what to think. Her throat was so tight that she could hardly swallow, and her breath came in ragged surges. The strange acrid scent she’d noticed when she’d first come into the loft seemed stronger now.

“I think we’d better sit down,” he said, absolutely calm. “I’ll explain what’s happening.”

“I don’t need to sit to hear this.” She twisted out of the arm he had around her, but they were still standing nose to nose. The acrid scent wasn’t coming from this nutcase. Evidently, he wore a woodsy aftershave. “This better be good.”

He’d lowered the flashlight to waist height. In the low beam, she saw he was tall and dark and utterly menacing. His brown hair was damp from the rain. His polo shirt revealed impressive shoulders and a wide chest that narrowed at the waist. A quick glance down told her that he had an athlete’s powerful legs. Hadn’t Conrad bragged that his son had played pro ball?

She sucked in a steadying breath. He could snap her neck with just one hand. What was he doing here? Just because he claimed to be Conrad’s son didn’t mean he was telling the truth. She didn’t dare trust him.

Abruptly, he pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. He directed the flashlight on a badge that read: Department of Justice. “I’m with the FBI. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask as she took in the shield and the name Ryan W. Hollister, Special Agent.

“Your BMW was blown to hell by a car bomb. Everyone assumed you were in it. Meg, your family, the police—they all think you’re dead. They’ve had a memorial service, the whole works. Your aunt is too upset to remove your personal effects so she asked me to do it.”

It took a second for his words to register. Images of car bombings she’d seen on television burst in her brain. It could not be true. “You’re making this up. I’m calling the police.” She lunged for the wall phone but he blocked her with his powerful body.

“Wait. You have some explaining to do.”

“Me? You’re certifiable! I haven’t done—”

“Where have you been for the last ten days? Didn’t you hear about the car bomb?”

Another scathing retort was on her lips but it vanished as she realized he was dead serious. Shock seeped from every pore, spreading through her body with a mind numbing punch. “Car bomb? My car?”

“Didn’t you park your car at the back of Gulliver’s lot under the trees last Tuesday?”

“Oh, my God!”

Ryan gently guided her into the living room. He eased her down onto the sofa and set the flashlight on the glass coffee table. The amber light barely illuminated the dark area.

“I’ve been in Costa Rica doing a huge wall mural in Ramon Estevez’s new resort. I lent my car to my friend, Lindsey Fulton.” Hayley could barely choke out her next question. “Where is Lindsey?”

Two beats of utter silence from Ryan Hollister. The rain drummed on the glass windows like a flock of pecking birds, but he didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t have to; she knew.

“Apparently she died when she turned the key in the ignition.”

Hayley felt as if her breath had been choked off. Holding raw emotion in check, she assured herself this could not be true. But Ryan’s troubled expression told her something terrible had happened to her friend. “No, please! It’s not fair! She had so much talent, so much to live for.”

“Everyone assumed it was you. No one knew you were out of town. Why not?”

A paralyzing numbness spread out from her chest. If she closed her eyes, Hayley could see Lindsey. She envisioned the way her friend’s eyes would narrow as she stood back and studied a painting. The anxious habit she had of checking her cell phone for messages from her husband. Her toothy, endearing smile.

It took a minute before Hayley could muster a response. “I had a couple of reasons. First, my parents were killed in a small plane crash. I flew down to Costa Rica in Ramon Estevez’s jet. I didn’t want Aunt Meg to worry about the plane crashing so I made up a story to cover my absence. Second, I didn’t want Trent to know that I’m planning a career switch. I’ve always wanted to be an artist, not a designer.”

“Didn’t you hear about the car bombing?”

Hayley shook her head. “No. I painted almost nonstop. I didn’t watch TV once. I wanted to finish as soon as I could and get back before anyone realized I was gone.”

“Okay, but I don’t understand how airport security didn’t have you on a flight log. There’s a whole task force working on this. I’m sure they checked the airport.”

“We left from the private Million Air terminal. The limo was late picking me up at the restaurant. I had to run for the plane. No one looked at my passport until I arrived in Costa Rica.”

Ryan shook his head, clearly disturbed. “It’s lapses like this that leave the country vulnerable.”

She barely heard him explaining about security cameras with shots of her and the bar receipt. All she could see was the look of hope in Lindsey’s eyes as they had talked about her future.

“Do you know anyone who would have wanted to kill your friend?” he asked.

“Lindsey’s husband. He beat her up several times—that I know about. He’d threatened to kill her if she left him.”

“She was the woman in the bar with you?”

“Yes. Lindsey lives—lived—in San Francisco but we met at Gulliver’s because it was so close to the airport. I was leaving as she was arriving. I told Lindsey that she could stay at my place and use my car while I was gone. When I returned, we planned to figure out what to do next.”

“We’d better call the police and let them know. They believe the car bombing has something to do with your family business and drugs. They don’t know it was a domestic dispute.”

She put a hand on his forearm as he rose and was surprised at its firmness. He tensed powerful muscles beneath her fingers. “Wait. There’s no way Steve Fulton could have known where Lindsey was. She took an express shuttle to San Jose then flew from there. That was my idea in case her husband checked the flight rosters out of the bay area.”

A puzzled expression appeared on Ryan’s face. In that instant she realized how much he did look like his father. They had the same inquisitive blue eyes and angular features. He really wasn’t scary looking. He’d just taken her by surprise.

“You can’t imagine how closely Steve watched Lindsey. She tried to leave him once before but he found out and beat the hell out of her. It kept getting worse and worse. The last time I saw her, which was a month ago, we sewed one hundred dollar bills I brought into the lining of her jacket. That way she’d have money to get away.”

“Why didn’t she go to the police?”

Hayley shook her head. “I know it’s crazy but Lindsey felt she owed Steve big-time. You see, she’d been hooked on drugs, living on Haight Ashbury’s streets when she met Steve. He helped her get clean, paid for her art lessons, then married her. She believed he loved her but was just too obsessive. She didn’t want to get him into trouble after all he’d done for her.”

He leaned closer to her, looking at her intently. “You don’t think the husband had the chance to kill her.”

“No. How could he? Lindsey left Wednesday afternoon. That’s the day her husband, who’s an engineer, goes into the office. He works at home the rest of the week. Besides, Lindsey has relatives in Oregon. Last time, he caught her with a plane ticket to Portland. I’m sure that’s where he’d look first.”

“He didn’t know about you?”

“Not really.” Hayley explained how careful they’d been since they’d met at Ian’s gallery and become friends. “I always called her on Wednesday when Steve was out of the house. She never called me because he checked the phone bills.”

“You’re right,” Ryan said, his voice measured. “How would the husband get explosives through airline security? He would have had to fly to make it here in time to plant the bomb. It wouldn’t have been possible—assuming he could smuggle the bomb aboard—unless he had known in advance—”

“He didn’t. Lindsey called me, wondering what to do. I came up with the plan on the spot.”

Ryan nodded slowly; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“You don’t suppose someone was trying to kill me.” The first hint of tears broke in her voice as she expressed the unimaginable.

Again, he didn’t answer. She knew what he was thinking. “That’s absurd! Why would anyone want me dead?”

“Isn’t your parents’ estate in probate? Wouldn’t Trent and Farah receive a lot more money with you gone?”

“They would never—” She caught herself wondering if it could possibly be true. “I’m an important part of the company. Trent relies on me for designs. Farah has her own successful business.”

“People have killed for amazingly small amounts of money.”

She just didn’t believe it. “There isn’t that much money at stake. The business is successful in a small way. It supports us nicely but we’re not rolling in dough. Since my father didn’t have a trust, the state will get a big chunk.” She shook her head, saying to herself, “I can’t believe Daddy didn’t have a trust.”

“What about that Laird guy? He offered to buy the business. Wouldn’t selling out generate more cash?”

“That’s news to me. I didn’t know Laird offered to purchase Surf’s Up.”

“I thought you opposed the sale.”

“No way. Surf’s Up was my father’s dream. I’d like to get out from under it and concentrate on my art.” It occurred to her that this man knew an awful lot about her business. “How do you know so much about my family?”

“Your aunt strong-armed me into using my contacts to investigate your death.”

A surge of fondness swept through her. Strong-armed. That was Aunt Meg, all right. If Hayley had died, Meg Amboy would have moved heaven and earth to find the killer.

“Can you think of anyone else who would want you dead?” he asked.

“No. Of course not.” Hayley thought about the car bomb and her friend. Her relief at having escaped death was blunted by guilt about Lindsey. If Hayley hadn’t loaned her the car, Lindsey would still be alive. “I guess there was nothing left of Lindsey’s body or the police wouldn’t have thought it was me.”

“Nothing,” Ryan confirmed.

Her breath caught as her heart lurched painfully in her chest. She was frightened but not as much as she should be. This whole thing had a surreal quality to it. Whoever heard of anyone in this country dying in a car bombing? It didn’t seem real, but Hayley had no reason to doubt Ryan Hollister. He was an FBI agent and he was far too serious—and convincing—to be putting her on for some weird reason.

“What about your relationship with Chad Bennett? Was he angry enough to want you dead after you broke the engagement?”

“No. It was his fault. He’d cheated on me. He keeps trying to get back together. I don’t think he’s given up hope. He wouldn’t try to kill me.”

“Somebody did.”

“Couldn’t it have been a mistake?” It had to be, she told herself. Nothing else made sense. A bleakness, a hollow sensation settled over her.

“That’s a long shot. Someone had to get under your car to attach the device. They risked being seen. People are usually careful in those circumstances to make certain they have the right vehicle. Plus the killer deliberately dismantled the security camera that records activity in the parking lot.”

“I need to call my aunt right away. I—”

“Not yet.” The currents in his eyes eddied and she wondered what he was thinking. “Aren’t you concerned about your dog?”

“Has something happened to Andy?” Oh, God, she couldn’t lose him, too.

“Wasn’t he in the car?”

“No. I didn’t want to board him. My neighbors volunteered to take him for two weeks to their place on Bass Lake. I knew Andy would love it.”

“Good,” Ryan responded. She thought he looked unusually relieved, considering it was her dog.

“You thought Andy was in the car when it exploded?” She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the golden retriever blown to bits. This just kept getting worse and worse. She was having difficulty putting it all together. Weary from a long plane ride, Hayley didn’t seem to be able to think as clearly as usual. All this seemed to be a bad dream. Surely she would wake up and things would be the way they’d been when she’d left sunny Costa Rica.

Estevez had offered her a contract to do murals in several of his hotels. That, combined with the art Ian was selling in his gallery, meant she could start her life over—doing what she loved. Now this.

“The lab found canine fur in the debris. What were they supposed to conclude?”

Hayley tried for a laugh, but it sounded more like a witchy cackle. “I haul Andy everywhere with me. Friends call it ‘the fur mobile’ because it smells like a rolling kennel. The backseat has a dog liner but Andy sheds a lot.”

A blue-white bolt of lightning followed by a crack of thunder that rocked the loft made Hayley flinch. She rose and walked over to the bank of windows facing the bay. With the power out and clouds obscuring the moon, there wasn’t much to see, just rain beating a tattoo against the wall of glass. The fresh scent of rain filtered into the loft.

Lindsey dead. Someone might have wanted to kill her. Hayley was having difficulty keeping her mind on track but she did realize her life would never be the same. Hot salty tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks like the rain against the glass.

Unexpectedly, the lights came on across the cove at the Blue Water Grill. She heard the snick of a lamp as Ryan turned on a light in the loft. She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, then turned to face Ryan.

Her eyes swept across her loft. Everything had been shoved out of place and the surfaces were covered with a charcoal-colored dust. “Oh, my God! What happened?”

“The Task Force searched your place, dusted for prints.” He walked toward her. “Searched for evidence.”

If she’d had any lingering doubts about him making this up, they evaporated. The loft had been thoroughly tossed and dusted. Now she realized the acrid smell was the fingerprint powder. She watched Ryan as he strode over to her.

Ryan Hollister was nothing if not sexy. He had an effortless masculinity that must be irresistible to most women. Where had that thought come from—at a time like this? Considering what she was going through, it was unnerving to realize she was attracted to this man. But she couldn’t deny the ripple of heat that swept through her body as Ryan halted in front of her. Close. Way too close.

Now that the lights were on, she had a better look at him than just an initial impression. Evidently, the Hollisters had Nordic ancestors. That would account for their height and masculine jawlines. And Viking-blue eyes. His gaze met hers and Hayley suddenly felt light-headed. What was wrong with her?

“Do you understand how serious this is, how much danger you’re in?”

“Yes,” she whispered. It had been dawning on her by degrees, but seeing the physical state of her loft made it too real. The hollow ache in her chest would not go away. She was in terrible trouble and didn’t know what to do about it.

“Let me help you.” He looked into her eyes with an intimacy she found disturbing. “I’m a pro. I have contacts.”

The air was fraught with tension and an undercurrent of something she couldn’t define. Maybe this situation was too much for her and she was merely imagining things.

“Can’t the police—”

“Come on. I have an idea.” He took her arm and she was stunned at how reassuring it was to have him touch her. In a situation that seemed so unreal, this man was a lifeline.

They sat on the sofa again. Hayley looked down at her hands and saw they were smudged with the charcoal powder from where she’d touched things as she came into the dark loft. She self-consciously rubbed them on her raincoat. It helped a little.

He was studying her in that disturbing way of his. What was he thinking? His face was utterly expressionless. If he’d been a card shark, she wouldn’t have a clue if he held a winning or losing hand.

“Wait a few days before you tell anyone you’re alive. Otherwise you’re exposed and the killer might try again. There’s a really talented FBI agent who’s working on your case. See what he and I can find out. The task force might also be able to solve this without putting you in danger.”

“I’m not worried,” she fibbed. “I’m sure the police will provide protection of some sort.”

“For how long? Not indefinitely. If this isn’t solved, you’ll be looking over your shoulder until he kills you.”

He had a point, and she couldn’t deny it. Catching this maniac was essential for her safety. Even if she had protection, how could she live with someone dogging her every move? “All right. I’ll stay out of sight here for a few days.”

“Not here. Not only is the place a mess, the cleaning lady is coming tomorrow. It’ll take a couple of days to clean up this mess.”

“I’ll call my aunt—”

“No way. I’m the only one who will know you’re alive and where you are or you won’t be safe.” He said this with such conviction that she couldn’t argue.

“How will I pay for a hotel? Credit card activity can be traced, can’t it?”

“You’ll stay at my father’s place. No one will think to look for you there.”

“Good idea. If someone should be looking for me, I’m sure they’ll check friends and the hotel, not your father’s home.”

He stood up and reached out a strong hand to help her rise. She took it, wondering if she’d made the right decision. She shuddered, fear rising inside her like a rogue wave about to engulf her.

“Let’s get the things you absolutely need. Nothing more. We don’t want to tip off anyone by removing too much.”

CHAPTER SIX

MAYBE BLOWING up Hayley’s car so close to an airport hadn’t been the most brilliant idea. Who knew it would activate the Joint Antiterrorism Task Force, which included the FBI and every other police agency on the planet, including Homeland Security? They were asking endless questions, looking at all kinds of records and poking into things that were absolutely none of their business.

The good news was the arrogant pricks hadn’t discovered squat. They were convinced the car bombing was drug related and were currently pulling Surf’s Up’s records apart, examining every shipment, every business transaction.

The best news was Hayley Fordham no longer walked the earth. A car bombing might have been overkill but it did the trick. She was dust. There hadn’t been enough to bury.

The killer wasn’t worried that the forensic team would trace the bomb. The small device had been purchased in Mexico well before the killing. It had been tempting to use it immediately, but waiting and anticipating the murder had been more exciting.

If the authorities did ID the bomb, they would blame one of the Mexican cartels because one of their men had sold the bomb. Making contact with the sleazy Mexican had been a fluke. But fate was like that. It played into your hands, if you were intelligent enough to take advantage of the situation.

A smart person went with the flow. A smart person didn’t panic at such an intense investigation. A smart person concentrated on what was important.

Hayley Fordham was dead. That had been the goal. Mission accomplished.

THE FRAGRANT AROMA of coffee awoke Hayley on the morning following her return from Costa Rica. For a few seconds she didn’t recognize the room decorated in tan and black where she had slept. A partially open window brought in the rustling of palm trees and the whump-whump of waves battering the shore. She instantly remembered where she was.

Her limbs seemed leaden as she tried to get out of bed. It was like waking up in someone else’s body. Suddenly, she recalled the car bombing that had killed Lindsey. Her emotions unraveled like an old sweater as she stumbled out of bed and toward the adjacent bathroom.

A weariness so deep it went beyond the physical gripped her. Shell-shocked. Now she understood what that expression meant. Like a distant star, her past seemed faraway, untouchable. She felt adrift, empty.

She clutched the counter and gazed at the disheveled face in the mirror. Dark circles limned her eyes and her hair hung in tangled hanks around a haggard face. She didn’t care. Guilt had a stranglehold on her emotions.

Like a serrated blade, despair ripped through her chest. Lindsey was gone. Someone wanted Hayley dead and had killed her dear friend by mistake. She was precariously balanced on the jagged edge between anger and tears.

“Pull yourself together,” she told her reflection. “This isn’t helping.” She had a purpose—find Lindsey’s killer. And save yourself.

She relieved herself and walked back into the bedroom. She found the small suitcase with the few things Ryan had permitted her to take from her loft. Don’t let anyone suspect you’re alive, he’d told her. Take only what you absolutely need.

She’d allowed him to bring her to his father’s home, not knowing Ryan was living there as well. By the time he’d opened the door of the oceanfront house, her body had shut down, succumbing to weariness and anxiety. She’d realized Ryan was staying there, but she’d merely followed his directions and stumbled into the downstairs guest room while he’d gone upstairs to spend the night.

Hayley had crawled into bed in her underwear, surrendering to her body’s demand for sleep. Her eyes had closed immediately as she admitted to herself that having Ryan in the same house made her feel safe.

She quickly showered and brushed out her tangled hair. The situation didn’t call for makeup, she assured herself, but she brushed a little mascara on her eyelashes. She walked out of the guest quarters toward the kitchen area, now smelling bacon as well as coffee. Her stomach rumbled.

Ryan stood at the counter, his head tilted forward. Seen in profile, his nose and jawline appeared even more chiseled than they had last night. A hairline fracture in her self-composure opened and a knot of pure sensation formed in her chest. Last night had not been a reaction to her grim plight. Sexy didn’t begin to describe him. Ryan Hollister was an extremely appealing guy.

The faded blue T-shirt he was wearing emphasized shoulders even wider than she’d remembered. Well-washed navy sweatpants hung low on his narrow hips. She was fairly certain he wasn’t wearing anything beneath them. He had a great butt—tight, well rounded. At the thought, she felt herself blushing. Why? She rarely blushed.

Mentally she gave herself a hard shake. You’re in terrible trouble. Forget Ryan is a hottie. She was grateful for his protection. Nothing more.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked without turning.

“I was out the minute my head hit the pillow.” She walked into the room and saw he was beating a bowl of eggs with a fork. “I hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.”

“Good.” He turned to greet her with a smile that would have tested a nun’s vows. “Coffee’s made. I’m working on scrambled eggs. That okay?”

“Sure. I’m starving. I was the only one on the jet. I didn’t want to make the flight attendant mess up the galley, so I just had a soda and yogurt.” Hayley hoped she sounded nonchalant but she felt incredibly awkward. Staying with a man she hardly knew—a guy too hot for words—made her uncomfortable.

“Fix the toast, will you? I’ll cook the eggs.” He moved over to the range and poured the eggs into a frying pan.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she placed four slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster. He seemed perfectly relaxed. Well, why not? A guy like Ryan probably had women over all the time.

“There are some newspapers on the counter,” Ryan told her. “I pulled them out of the recycling bin so you could read about the car bombing yourself.”

She moved to the stack of papers and stared at the picture of the charred remains of cars in the parking lot, then scanned the front-page article. Not that she doubted Ryan, but she wanted to see for herself what had happened. As she read, emotion gathered force inside her like a hurricane. So much damage! So many cars destroyed. It was a miracle only one person had died. Lindsey.

Another wave of guilt engulfed Hayley and she had to force herself to concentrate or she would dissolve into tears. Why? Why? Why? kept echoing through her brain. Why would someone want her dead?

“I’ll butter the toast,” Ryan said, breaking into her thoughts. She hadn’t heard the toaster pop.

“It’s okay. I’ll do it. I’ve read enough.” She turned, blinking back tears, and removed the slices from the toaster.

They sat at the kitchen table that was already set and had orange juice at both places. From the window, Hayley saw the storm was long gone. The air had been washed clean, the sky a resplendent blue above a wind-ruffled ocean. She’d bodysurfed this area so much as a child that she instantly recognized the stretch of beach near the Wedge. Wow! This was the Gold Coast of real estate. Ryan’s father must have made a fortune.

She looked down at her plate of bacon and eggs. Her appetite had suddenly vanished. All she could think about was Lindsey turning the key in the ignition. Hopefully Lindsey hadn’t felt any pain.

“Eat,” Ryan said. He was shoveling a heaping forkful of eggs into his mouth and holding a piece of bacon in his other hand. His dynamic eyes catalogued her every move.

She tried for a smile and speared some eggs. “Do you think Lindsey died instantly?”

“Yes. No question about it.”

Hayley told herself that she was thankful. If her friend had to die, at least she didn’t suffer. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Hayley forced herself to eat half the eggs, a piece of toast and part of a slice of bacon. The food seemed to lodge somewhere in her upper chest like a chunk of cement.

“Do you live with your father?” she asked to fill the silence. She knew Conrad Hollister had been at Twelve Oaks for at least two years because that’s when Aunt Meg had moved to the facility and Conrad had already been there.

Ryan shook his head and patted his lips with a napkin. “No. I work out of the L.A. office. I’m just down here rehabbing.”

Drugs? Alcohol? He didn’t look as if he had a habit but she’d been in Southern California her whole life and knew appearances could be deceiving. Chad Bennett had been hooked on “vitamin R,” as the college kids called Ritalin. It wasn’t a narcotic but Chad relied on it for a “brain boost” to improve his concentration as had many of her classmates.

When they’d been together, Hayley had told him that he didn’t need the so-called “smart pills.” But no matter how much she encouraged him to get off them, Chad hadn’t listened.

Ryan put one hand on the opposite shoulder. “Physical therapy for my shoulder,” he explained. “I had an old football injury that I reinjured in a multicar pileup on the freeway.”

“I see.”

Hayley gazed out at the blue expanse of water. The house was set back from the sea and separated from the public beach that stretched along the shore by a stand of wild grass, but the crystal blue of the ocean seemed to flow out to the horizon.

She’d come to this part of the beach often as she’d been growing up. Her father had insisted she learn to bodysurf. She’d loved it and took up board surfing at about the same time—to please her father. Even though he was dead, Hayley still felt her father’s power over her. Oh, how she’d longed to please him.

Ryan cleared their plates and put them in the sink. Hayley volunteered to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. He told her to leave everything for now. She could work on it when they’d finished. He took a notepad from the nook beside the refrigerator and returned to the table.

“Okay. Let’s make a list of anyone who—for any reason, no matter how trivial—might want you dead.”

Hayley groaned and tried to imagine who would be diabolical enough to blow her to bits. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone—”

“Name anyone who just plain doesn’t like you.” His expression said only a fool would believe they had no enemies.

Someone had tried to kill her. She put her shattered illusions aside and tried to concentrate. “I guess Cynthia Fordham despises me. She’s Trent and Farah’s mother. She never forgave my mother for stealing her husband. She thought I got everything, while her kids never received enough from my father, although believe me, he tried to be fair.”

Hayley knew it was more than this that bothered Cynthia. Russell Fordham had been just another surfer with a small board-making operation when he left Cynthia for Hayley’s mother, Alison. Later the company had prospered, mostly due to the successful clothing line Alison designed. Cynthia had been left behind financially because the money had been earned after the divorce.

Cynthia had taken the whole situation very personally. The money seemed to be a huge factor, but there was also a vehement sense of betrayal. Hayley could relate; she still experienced a surge of anger when she thought of the way Chad had betrayed her—and they hadn’t even been married or had children.

“What about Farah and Trent?” Ryan asked.

“They’re like … oh, I don’t know. Cousins, I guess. They spent most vacations and every other weekend with us, when I was growing up.”

The width of the table hardly seemed sufficient to buffer Ryan’s penetrating gaze. “How did you three get along?”

Hayley considered this for a moment. “Trent and I were buddies. My father loved it. I was a good surfer and Trent surfed, too, but he became a junior skateboard champ.”

“What about Farah?”

Hayley shrugged. “Farah had no interest in sports. She never even tried. She got good grades and concentrated on getting a scholarship to college, which she did. She went to SC and became a CPA. She never looked to my father for anything.”

“Commendable, but how did you two get along?”

“Fine. There weren’t any problems,” she replied, but this man was far too perceptive. She added, “I guess I was a little envious because good grades never came easily to me. I was always more interested in art and sports.”

He tapped the pen against the pad. “No arguments with either of them?”

“Not really. I knew they resented me living in a big house when they lived in a small place in Costa Mesa. I went to a private school because it offered art classes while they went to public schools. I don’t think that mattered to them. Trent was a skateboard king no matter where he was. Farah qualified for a college scholarship because she was at a public school. But I think they envied the house, the cars.”

“What about your aunt? If you died, who would get her money?”

Hayley drew in a deep, shuddering sigh. After the death of her parents and now Lindsey, her throat tightened at the thought of losing Aunt Meg. “I don’t know. She told me that she’d split her money between my mother and me, but then Mom died. Aunt Meg reworked her trust. I honestly don’t know what she would do if I died.”

“But you don’t think Farah or Trent—”

“I can’t imagine it. They see each other only at Christmas and Easter when the family gets together.”

“What would Laird McMasters stand to gain if he bought Surf’s Up?”

Hayley remembered Ryan saying Laird had tried to buy their company but she had held up the sale, which wasn’t true. “Laird’s a rich kid who’s never acted like one. Believe me, I’ve known him all my life. He’s always been an overachiever. He was good at everything and excelled whenever he wanted. He went to Yale, became a successful businessman.”

“With a surf shop.”

“Right. He didn’t make boards, though. He imports them from China.”

“Why does he want to buy Surf’s Up?”

Hayley shrugged; she didn’t see what this had to do with Lindsey’s death. “Hurley, Quicksilver, Billabong—all the big-name surf companies have gone public. That’s meant huge money for the owners. Smaller operations like ours and Laird’s can’t really compete unless they grow larger.”

“Then one of the giants might buy them, right?”

“Exactly. They often do that to shut down competition. I guess Laird would like to cash in on the trend, but with the economy so slow …”

“At some point, it’ll pick up again and with your MMA line, Surf’s Up will have something no one else has.”

“We beat them to the punch on that one.”

“I understand you did it. Trent didn’t want anything to do with The Wrath.”

“True,” she conceded, not wanting to brag, but Trent had been short-sighted. It had taken a lot of convincing to get him to go along. “It paid off big-time. As long as The Wrath is champ, we have a corner on the market. Others can sell their designs but The Wrath is what draws the big bucks.”

“I think your Grim Reaper design has a lot to do with it.”

Hayley banked a smile. She wouldn’t have thought Ryan Hollister would have known what her signature design looked like.

“Tell me what you know about The Wrath.” There was an ominous edge to his voice. “Does he have drug or criminal connections?”

Hayley instantly shook her head.

“Really think about it. I know it can be painful to answer these questions, but just remember, your life is at stake here. The more I know about the people close to you, the better.”

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