She can’t make the same mistake again

Claudia Goodwin loved and trusted once. Now she’s running from the man she thought would never hurt her. Hiding in the breathtaking beauty of a private Florida island until she can testify against her ex-husband, a ruthless terrorist, she has to stay focused on survival.

Sexy security expert Jackson Richards is the perfect man to have on her side, but trusting anyone—even him—isn’t an option. The one thing she can’t keep hidden is the crackling attraction between them. And desire for the man keeping her safe might not be enough to protect her heart...or her life.

“Are your fingers numb?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t feel them.”

He laughed, his chest rumbling beneath her cheek. “Let’s sit down.”

He led her to the sofa, where they sat with the blanket tented around their shoulders. He gently chafed her frozen hands between his large warm ones.

As his body heat seeped into hers, Claudia became aware of the man next to her, of his planes and edges, muscles and bones. She knew better than to trust this man, a stranger really, but she relaxed. Because of the cold, she’d been holding herself stiff for hours. No, for days. She’d been constantly on guard since the night she’d fled her apartment, and the tension had exhausted her. Right now it felt good to just let go, to dissolve into a puddle of warmth.

She’d worry about the danger again when her body temperature returned to normal.

Dear Reader,

I loved writing Accidental Bodyguard! The heroine, Claudia Romero (nee Goodwin), was a minor character in The South Beach Search, a 2014 Superromance, and her backstory always tugged at me. She’s a courageous woman willing to testify against her murdering ex-husband even though she’s been warned to keep her mouth shut. Her ex bribed someone in the US attorney’s office, so she doesn’t trust the federal government to protect her and refuses to go into a safe house. She doesn’t dare involve her family or risk endangering them. Claudia is on her own, on the run and struggling to stay alive.

I had to know what happened to her. How did she avoid being killed by the terrorists that want to keep her quiet? She needed help, so Jackson Richards, sexy ex-cop and security expert extraordinaire, stepped up as her bodyguard.

Claudia doesn’t trust anyone. Not herself and certainly not a man who turns her on every time she looks at him. Since Claudia lied her way onto the ritzy island where Jack works as security director, he’s convinced she’s a con artist stringing along a wealthy sugar daddy.

I hope you enjoy watching the sparks fly when these two strong-willed people fall in love.

Namaste,

Sharon

Accidental Bodyguard

Sharon Hartley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHARON HARTLEY recently survived (barely) a move from Miami to St. Petersburg, Florida. She still doesn’t know where most of her clothes are, but hopes they’ll turn up soon. Her orchids survived the trip, and, fortunately, so did her computer, where she can be found every morning creating stories where people make mistakes, endure perilous journeys, learn about life and always find a happy ending. She misses her friends in South Florida, but the birding is fabulous on Tampa Bay and she can practice yoga anywhere. Sharon loves to hear from her readers. Please visit her website at sharonshartley.com.

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For my sister, Sandy Clark. I miss you every day.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CLAUDIA GOODWIN DROVE into her assigned parking space at Brasilia Apartments, turned off her demon car and held her breath. This time the engine kept chugging for only about five seconds before it finally hiccupped to a stop. With a weary sigh, she pulled herself out of the old clunker and into the cool late-January evening.

Thank the nursing gods she was off tomorrow and could sleep late. Although first she had to check on Maude Spalding.

Claudia entered the pleasantly lit courtyard of the small complex and reminded herself she loved her job at West Miami Children’s Hospital. She’d chosen the option of working three days straight and then four off. One of those seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time deals. Funny how lots of things seem like a good idea at first and later prove, hey, not so much.

Pushing away useless regret, she took a deep breath and inhaled the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. She closed her eyes to savor the scent and relaxed her shoulders. The courtyard was filled with tropical foliage—towering palms, hibiscus, terrestrial orchids and bromeliads. Even a live oak or two. Meant to remind visitors of a mini rainforest, this garden-like refuge was why she’d moved in.

And she’d move again as soon as the trial was over. A niggle of worry about her testimony crept into her thoughts, but Claudia shrugged it away, rapping on her downstairs neighbor’s door.

Though it was after midnight, Maude would be up. The feisty eighty-six-year-old seldom slept. She’d lived by herself in the Brasilia for over thirty years and refused to go into assisted living.

“Maude?” Claudia called softly.

“Come on in,” Maude answered in her breathy voice.

Claudia entered and, as always, felt like she’d been transported into an over-the-top holiday extravaganza. Every available surface contained some red-and-green or gold ornament. There were Santas, Mrs. Santas, snowmen, elves, wreaths, twinkling lights and hundreds of Christmas trees, big and small. Glitter everywhere.

Claudia called Maude Our Lady of Perpetual Christmas.

December 25th was long gone, but Maude kept Christmas year-round, never putting away any of her knickknacks. They reminded her of happier times, of her family, now all dead.

Claudia approached her tiny, gray-headed neighbor in the large recliner where she spent most of her time watching television, noting she was using her oxygen.

“You been upstairs yet?” Maude demanded, with an odd, excited expression. Her eyes appeared huge behind her thick glasses.

“No,” Claudia answered, feeling for her neighbor’s pulse. “Any palpitations tonight?”

“Was some kind of ruckus in your unit,” Maude blurted.

Claudia dropped Maude’s wrist. “Ruckus?”

Maude nodded. “Sounded like furniture being moved, dishes being thrown every whichaway. I almost called the police, but I didn’t want to get you in no trouble.”

Claudia stepped back, her stomach cramping hard. Had Carlos finally decided to take action against her? “Why would you think—”

“I been around a long time, Miss Claudia. I can tell when someone’s got something in their past they’re not proud of.”

Claudia looked up. Her unit was directly over Maude’s. “I promise I’m not wanted by the police. My problem is I agreed to help them.”

“You may not be hiding from the law, but you’re keeping your head down trying to avoid trouble.”

Hoping my ex forgets about me. Claudia swallowed, suddenly worried about Moochie, the black stray cat who’d adopted her when she moved in to the Brasilia.

“Did you see anyone?”

“Two men ran down the stairs after the commotion. I didn’t notice them going up.” Maude sighed. “With my eyesight, I couldn’t tell you nothing about the way they looked.”

“I’d better go see what’s going on,” she said.

“You still got that stun gun?”

Claudia nodded and patted her purse.

“Have it at the ready.”

Claudia hurried up to her apartment. Had Carlos decided she was a liability? Maybe it was time to go in to hiding.

Her front door stood open. Not closed and locked as she’d left it. She took a deep breath. Now the jasmine seemed sickeningly sweet, making her faintly nauseous.

Most people would call the police before entering, but she couldn’t do that. Not because she was hiding from them as Maude thought, but because she didn’t trust them to protect her. Cops could easily be bought. Her ex, the infamous Carlos Romero, had taught her that. So she’d made her preparations months ago. The day she realized she was being followed.

She was on her own.

Everything she needed, courtesy of a grateful patient’s father, waited for her in a safe-deposit box.

Claudia pushed the door wide and gasped. She waited at the threshold, absorbing the chaos before her. Maude’s description had nailed the condition of her home. Furniture had been tossed and ripped. Drawers opened and thrown. Dishes and appliances smashed on the kitchen floor.

No doubt they were looking for her journal.

“Moochie?” She stepped into the living room, her heart beating so hard and fast her blood pressure had to be off the charts. “Moochie,” she called again. “Where are you?”

She entered the bedroom and discovered more destruction. They’d ripped her nursing scrubs into shreds. Fearing the worst, she kept searching.

In the bathroom she found Moochie, drowned in the toilet.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Oh, Moochie. You poor sweet thing. I’m so sorry.

She raised her eyes to the mirror and stared at words scrawled in red lipstick: KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

* * *

JACKSON RICHARDS ACCEPTED the coffee he’d ordered from the dark-haired barista, thanked her and took a hesitant sip. Strong and hot. Just as he remembered. No one brewed a better cup than the Collins Island Café.

Jackson exited the café into a cool, salt-laden breeze off the Atlantic Ocean and walked the short distance to the security office. He had a golf cart at his disposal, but he preferred to walk.

Colorful tropical landscaping and the soothing sound of waterfalls surrounded him. He was on the job, but this assignment was more like a forced vacation. His boss insisted he needed a break after his last two missions, which, yeah, had both been bitches. He took another sip of the excellent coffee.

Maybe Lola was right, but he’d resisted taking this cushy gig as Security Director on Collins Island, a private island off Miami Beach accessible only by boat where his employer, the Protection Alliance, provided security. PA operatives rotated in and out as the live-in chief, usually delighted for the opportunity.

Most of the residents were seasonal, and this was the height of the season. Crime was nonexistent on this island paradise. All he had to do for the next month was keep his staff on schedule, act friendly to the wealthy residents and enjoy the resort-like atmosphere.

But it was always boring as hell. And he hated sucking up to trust fund slackers.

A blast of hot air greeted him when he pushed open the door to the security office. He groaned at the decor as he moved to shut down the heat. Pink-and-gray Art Deco was definitely not his style. And what idiot had decided heat was needed just because a weak cold front had swept through south Florida last night? Not him. He was a north Florida man. Jackson opened a window.

He shrugged off his jacket and hung it in the closet. Another thing he didn’t like about this gig was the requirement to wear a blue blazer. Damn thing made him feel like a polo player. His khakis and the knit shirt featuring the Collins Island logo over the pocket were enough of a uniform.

He sat at the desk to review the security force schedule. The most critical duty was clearing arrivals for the ferry on the Miami side. The ferry ran every fifteen minutes, and no one was allowed to place a toe on Collins Island without clearance from an owner. Even daily maids were checked and their bags searched. Two guards handled that assignment on three eight-hour shifts, with two more guards on the island side to supervise debarkation. Another two circulated the island on golf carts, constantly alert for any sort of trouble. Of which there was, fortunately, seldom any.

He noted all six positions on all three shifts were staffed with regular PA personnel for the next week. Excellent. That made the transition easier, but he’d make a late-night visit to the docks to ensure no one was catching a nap, looking to take advantage of the new guy in the director’s chair. Not likely, though. Guards loved this job because it came with a lot of perks like big tips and expensive gifts—especially during the winter season.

Still, you never knew what could happen. He wanted no screw-ups during his stint as chief.

Looking for any anomalies, he reviewed the security logs for the last week and reached for the phone when it rang.

“Security.”

“Hey, Action Jackson. Are you bored yet?”

Lola, the office manager from Protection Alliance’s main office. He pictured her pink hair, always worn in short spikes. She looked crazed but possessed a laser-sharp mind and never forgot a thing. Jackson relaxed back in his chair, making the leather squeak.

“I’ve only been on the job forty-five minutes, Lola.”

“That’s usually all it takes.”

“Maybe I’m looking forward to a month of not having to duck bullets.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll remind you of that in a week.”

“Hey, this was your idea, boss. I’m ready to go back in the field anytime.”

“You are in the field.”

Jack snorted. “Field of dreams.”

“Did you get settled in the apartment? Everything to your liking?”

“Ocean view. Great coffee. I can walk to work through a tropical paradise. What’s not to like?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Jack.”

“I’m going with the flow.”

Lola laughed, a throaty sound. “By the way, we received a very nice thank-you bonus from that rapper Jazzy Bones Boy yesterday. He’s grateful for your services.”

He ought to be. The jerk almost got me killed. “How grateful?”

“I think your cut will make you happy,” Lola said.

“Is that why you called? Couldn’t have already been a complaint about me.”

“I wanted you to know there’s a tenant arriving sometime today.” Jackson listened as Lola shuffled through paper. “A Mr. Rodolfo Santaluce has rented the pool house of his villa. He wants us to assist with the arrival, make sure security doesn’t hassle his new tenant.”

“Isn’t renting a bit unusual? I can’t imagine the owners here needing extra income.”

“It put up a red flag for me, too, so I questioned his assistant, who informed me that Mr. Santaluce got where he is today by being frugal. The assistant’s tone suggested it wasn’t any of my business what his boss did.” Lola hesitated, then added, “I’m thinking it’s a mistress.”

“Who’s Santaluce?”

“Big deal Italian businessman. Married, two kids. The family is in Hong Kong for the winter.”

“What business?”

“Questionable.”

“Got it,” Jack said. “Give me his address. I’ll meet the mistress and expedite her transition into the love shack.”

“Thanks, Jack. Her name is Louise Clark.”

After disconnecting, Jack donned his jacket and exited the office for a trip to the docks to give clearance for one Louise Clark, a lucky lady with a mega-rich sugar daddy. He could do that by phone, but wanted to introduce himself to his staff and make certain they alerted him when Ms. Clark boarded the ferry on the Miami side.

He climbed into the golf cart with Security Director stenciled on the rear and turned a key conveniently in the lock, shaking his head. Weren’t many places in south Florida where you could leave a key in the ignition without worry of theft. The quiet electric motor ignited immediately, and he headed toward the dock. Not a speck of trash anywhere on the streets or the neatly mowed grass. Palms, oaks and other landscaping were trimmed to perfection. Gently cascading fountains sounded all around him, clear of any leaf debris because they were cleaned twice a day.

Jack couldn’t imagine—but could easily find out—what the monthly maintenance fee was on Collins Island. Had to be astronomical because per square foot there weren’t that many residences. Only ten large villas on the eastern shore of the island—where Ms. Clark would soon take up residence—and forty town homes on the west housed in four three-story buildings.

The graceful structures were constructed in a coordinated Mediterranean style with coral-color barrel-tile roofs, featuring arches and supporting decorative columns. Colorful ceramic tile mosaics detailed many of the architectural elements, including the addresses.

Nobody out on this fine Monday morning, except a maid actually dressed in a starched gray uniform walking two French bulldogs. Jack nodded at her, and she responded with a shy smile.

The 10:00 a.m. ferry, laden with only six vehicles, approached the dock when Jack arrived. He parked his cart by the guard shack—constructed in the same architectural style—and watched the dock personnel do their job. Tanned men and women in blue shorts and crisp white shirts efficiently tied the boat to the landing, secured the sturdy metal ramp and motioned for the cars to drive off in a particular order. Three walk-aboards also exited.

The guard on duty, a uniformed twentyish black male, watched the process with alert attention. All clearance was completed on the Miami side, so all he had to do was make a head count, answer questions and direct approved visitors to their destination.

When debarkation was complete, Jack approached the guard and shook his hand. “Jackson Richards.”

“Ike Gamble. We were expecting you today, sir. Welcome to Collins Island.”

“Thanks, Ike.” Jack crossed his arms to observe the ferry staff prepare for the next trip. “Everything go okay this morning?”

Ike shrugged. “We seldom have any glitches, sir.”

Jack winced at constantly being called sir. He was maybe five or six years older than this guy, but understood it was a matter of respect. “You can call me Jack.”

“Yes, sir.”

So much for informality. “I need to talk to the guards on the other side,” he told Ike.

“Of course, sir.”

Ike removed a walkie-talkie from his belt, contacted the Miami guards, who responded in seconds, and handed the device to Jack. Viewing the distant guardhouse across the channel, a shipping lane also used by enormous cruise ships, Jack explained about the new tenant and approved her to board the ferry.

“Make sure you call the office when Ms. Clark shows. Leave word for the next shift if you go off duty before she arrives.”

Confident his instructions would be followed, Jack returned to his cart. He sat for a moment, watching the ferry depart, wondering what the mistress looked like and when Mr. Santaluce would arrive. A clandestine love affair on an island this small would be hard to hide. A lot of people could be hurt. Jack’s thoughts drifted to his momma—which trashed his relaxed good mood.

His divorced momma didn’t believe in the sanctity of marriage vows either, but her lover, a north Florida sheriff and his old boss, was nowhere near Collins Island rich. Did that make her indiscretions worse or better? He could hear Momma’s voice as she explained her lies, I’m in love, Jack. You don’t understand. You’ve never been in love.

Considering what a fool Momma had made of herself over Chuck Wheeler, he seriously hoped he never fell in love. Who needed that shit?

* * *

CLAUDIA DRUMMED HER fingers on her steering wheel as the Collins Island ferry chugged across the narrow channel. Her windows were down, and a stiff ocean breeze flowed into the car, cooling her flushed face. She wished she could stand at the railing, but didn’t dare. Too exposed.

She focused on the dock, watching it get closer and closer. Almost there. I’ve made it this far. I should be okay.

Similar self-pep talks had helped her through each step of the journey. She’d checked in and out of a fleabag motel without getting blown to bits. She’d made it to the bank vault to retrieve her fake IDs and the Glock, and emerged still breathing. She’d even managed to purchase new clothes in a mall she never frequented. That was the most nerve-racking but couldn’t be helped because she’d left everything behind in her trashed apartment in case they’d put a tracking device somewhere. Better to be safe.

And she’d made it out of the grocery store without a hitch. Could Carlos’s people hack into her credit card records? Probably, but she didn’t have to touch her maxed-out cards again. Once she got to this island with its legendary security, there was no way anyone could get to her.

She’d crammed her car with enough groceries to last until Carlos’s trial. She would have loved to obtain a new vehicle, but lack of time and funds made that impossible.

She’d be fine as long as she kept out of sight and remembered her new name. It’d been three days, and so far she’d stayed beneath their radar.

The last and most difficult step was boarding this ferry. It was a wonder she hadn’t stroked out while the security guard checked for her name on his list. He’d frowned at her rusted twenty-year-old vehicle, scrutinized her fake driver’s license, then looked at her face for so long she thought he was trying to memorize her features. His gaze had shifted back to the license, then the car again to check out all the bags in the backseat.

Finally, his jaw clenched in obvious disapproval, he scanned the license with a small device, made a note on his clipboard and motioned her aboard.

She closed her eyes, remembering her near panic. God, what would she have done? Accept the US Attorney’s offer of a safe house? No way. Carlos had bragged that he’d bribed an employee, so that was a sure death sentence.

Her ex had taught her to trust no one. The attorney she’d been working with on her testimony would worry when he couldn’t contact her, but she wanted her trail ice-cold. She’d reach out to him later.

She felt a gentle bump and opened her eyes. Relief swamped her. They’d reached the other side. She was safe.

The car in front of hers, a bright red sporty Mercedes, started its motor. Claudia turned her key to do the same and heard nothing but an empty click.

Please, not now. Not when I’m almost there.

She tried the key again, but still nothing. Of course her devil car had chosen this exact moment to quit working.

The Mercedes proceeded down the ramp, and a ponytailed, brown-haired female ferry attendant motioned for Claudia to follow. With a sigh, she popped her hood and exited the car.

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” the attendant asked politely.

“My battery is dead,” Claudia replied.

The attendant, whose name tag read Julie, frowned. “Okay. Let me get the rest of the vehicles off and we’ll see what we can do.”

Speaking into a walkie-talkie in one hand, with the other Julie motioned for the next line of vehicles to exit the ferry.

Uneasy in the open, Claudia searched the Collins Island dock and beyond where attendants sprayed water over arriving vehicles to wash off salt residue.

No one should have her in their sights from that direction. Was she too far from the mainland for a clean shot? She glanced back across the channel. Maybe not.

As vehicles circumvented her and drove away, she moved to the front of her car, seeking the protection of the open hood.

Julie, accompanied by two male attendants, hustled toward her. Claudia flinched when one of the males slammed the hood with a loud bang.

“We’re going to push you,” Julie said. “Put the transmission in Neutral and steer off the ramp.”

When her vehicle’s wheels rolled off the ferry and onto Collins Island, Claudia offered a silent prayer and tried her ignition again. Please, please. Still just a sad click. She pounded on the dash.

Wishing she could make herself invisible—hey, if she could arrange for superpowers, why not just fly to Mr. Santaluce’s villa—Claudia climbed out of her car just as a tall, ruggedly handsome man in a blue blazer arrived.

She looked up into piercing green eyes, noticed sun-streaked light brown hair and for a moment forgot where she was.

She tried to speak, to say hello and explain, ask for help, but had to swallow to moisten her throat.

She’d had this instant, gut-churning reaction to a male once before in her life, but those eyes had been an unfathomable, brooding brown, not a lively green. She’d been foolish enough to marry that man, and he’d nearly destroyed her.

And he might still.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK EVALUATED THE stranded woman with the rusted heap of a car and arranged his expression into a mask of professional concern. This fresh-faced young woman without a speck of makeup around sky-blue eyes was a rich man’s mistress? Pretty, yes, no question, but more wholesome than seductive.

She’d pulled back her long dark hair in a casual ponytail. Hardly glamorous. She wore loose-fitting shorts and a short-sleeve blouse that revealed no cleavage from her generous breasts. No flashy jewelry; just tiny gold ear hoops.

Louise Clark was not what he’d expected.

“Ms. Clark?” he asked.

Frowning, the woman stared at him, as if confused. Didn’t she know her own name? Was she a druggie? She didn’t look like one. In fact, Ms. Clark appeared to be exactly the type of woman he was normally all over.

He extended his arm to shake her hand. “I’m Jackson Richards, Security Director. Aren’t you Louise Clark?”

Her expression cleared, and Ms. Clark clasped his hand with both of hers as if she was drowning and he was her lifeline. “Yes, yes. I’m Louise Clark.”

She offered a killer smile which transformed her face from pretty into stunning, which explained Mr. Santaluce’s interest. Jack felt an unexpected stab of envy.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Richards,” Ms. Clark continued. “I’m embarrassed by the trouble, but my demon car chose this awkward moment to quit working.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am. Mr. Santaluce requested we make certain you get settled in your new home.”

“Oh, that was kind of him,” Ms. Clark said.

Kind of him? Jack reevaluated the scenario before him. His gaze swept over the rattletrap vehicle, noting a backseat heaped with plastic bags from a local grocery. Apparently Ms. Clark wasn’t planning on expensive dinners out with her lover. Hell, maybe she was a gourmet cook and that was what had attracted the man. A looker and a cooker? If so, a far better reason for jealousy.

“Will a jump start help?” Jack asked. “I’ve called our maintenance department for an assist.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. This is the first time it hasn’t started. Usually it won’t stop running.”

“Maybe it’s time for a new car.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice. Maybe when I win the lottery.”

Jack forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am.” Damn, but Santaluce was one cheap sugar daddy. You’d think he’d want her driving a flashier vehicle onto his ritzy winter home.

The huge maintenance pickup truck approached, and Ms. Clark slid behind the wheel of her car. Jack retrieved jumper cables from the truck and hooked its battery to the clunker’s.

“Give it a try,” he yelled over the truck’s powerful engine.

The old car shook and rumbled to life. Jack let its battery run off the truck’s for a minute or two to allow a better charge, then disconnected the cables, handed them to the maintenance man and returned to speak to Ms. Clark.

“Thank you,” she said meaningfully. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem, ma’am. I recommend you get that battery checked out. It’s possible you need a new one.”

“But now that I’m here, I won’t need my car,” she said.

“I suppose not.” Jack nodded, but her words made no sense. Was the woman planning to never leave Collins Island? Considering the amount of food in her backseat—and no telling how much more in her trunk—maybe so.

Maybe Santaluce planned to keep her in the bedroom. Or maybe he’d had lured her here with promises of a shiny silver Porsche.

“Follow me,” Jack said, “I’ll lead you to your new home.”

On the short drive to the east end of the island, Jack considered Louise Clark, her rattletrap vehicle—which fortunately kept chugging along behind him—her mounds of groceries and the questionable business of one Rodolfo Santaluce.

The more Jack thought about Ms. Clark, the more his bullshit alarm sounded loud and clear. Something didn’t add up. Maybe Lola had assessed the relationship between Santaluce and Ms. Clark all wrong. Maybe the pretty young woman was indeed a paying tenant.

Jack stopped in front of Santaluce’s tall, arched, wrought-iron gate topped with the name, Villa Alma, in block letters, and Ms. Clark pulled next to him. Why would she drive that battered jalopy if she could afford the rent this spectacular villa would command? She wouldn’t. Yeah, she was moving in to the pool house, but he’d seen the so-called cabanas in these villas. A small family would have room to spare.

Clutching a slip of paper, Ms. Clark exited her car, punched a code into the alarm pad and the gate swung open. She turned and offered him another one of her brilliant smiles.

“Thanks so much for your help, Mr. Richards.”

“Let me help you carry in those groceries,” he offered.

Her smile faded, replaced by wariness. In fact, she looked afraid of him. Why was that?

“No, thanks,” she said. “I can manage.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“Absolutely. I’ve been enough trouble already.” She waved a graceful hand, the one holding the code, which had been scribbled on some sort of preprinted memo pad with a letterhead. He could make out the word Hospital in large letters, but nothing more.

“I’m certain you have more important duties,” she continued.

Jack shrugged, disappointed. Important duties? This place practically runs itself.

His main function was to assess all possible security threats. Was Ms. Clark a threat to the security of Collins Island? Maybe. Something was off about her.

He definitely needed to learn more.

She looked at him with raised eyebrows, obviously expecting—no, wanting—him to drive away.

He didn’t want to go, but waved and motored west into the sinking sun, back toward the security office.

Lola had been right on about one thing. His day had been boring as plain white toast before Ms. Clark’s arrival, but now things were getting interesting. He had a project.

Of course, he should keep a watchful eye on Collins Island’s newest resident—which shouldn’t be too hard since Ms. Clark was easy on the eyes.

And it was, after all, his job.

* * *

CLAUDIA UNLOADED HER car and hid it in a garage at the rear of Mr. Santaluce’s estate. She quickly filled the refrigerator—empty but for three lonely Coronas—with perishable fruits, vegetables and dairy items. She’d run out of fresh produce before the trial date in four weeks, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d divide her meat into single portions and stuff the freezer later—after she’d locked herself in. At least she wouldn’t starve.

She left the Glock on the counter within easy reach while she worked. She’d keep her weapon close at hand, always loaded and ready to fire. She’d taken a course and knew how to shoot. She could usually hit the target, if nowhere near the bull’s-eye.

Closing the refrigerator for the last time, she took a deep breath.

Dear Mr. Santaluce had provided detailed instructions on the alarm system, but first she needed to confirm all openings were locked or otherwise secure.

She grabbed the gun and exited the cabana through the front door into twilight. A shiver caused her to hug her arms. Claudia inhaled deeply to calm herself, noting the cool, salty ocean breeze. Because of the wall, she didn’t have a view of the tantalizingly close Atlantic Ocean.

But no one had a view of her, either.

Maybe she could go out occasionally—late at night—and take a peek at the waves. Maybe not.

Claudia walked the villa’s grounds looking for any weakness, a location where someone could breach the eight-foot concrete wall. The activity helped settle her, reminded her of patrolling the pediatric unit on the night shift when her patients, poor sick kids, were all sleeping. She missed her job. How long would it be before she could go back to work?

She discovered there was only one gate, the one she’d driven through, and that it had an electronic lock and an alarm. Carlos’s henchmen would have to ram a truck through, making a ton of noise, definitely attracting the attention of that eagle-eyed security director. She doubted he missed anything.

She shivered again, wondering at her reaction to Jackson Richards, who in no way resembled her dark-headed, dark-eyed ex. Still, she’d had the same visceral reaction to him she’d had to Carlos: the urge to rip off his clothes. Unfortunately, she’d acted on that impulse with Carlos. To the horror of her family, two weeks after that explosive first meeting she’d married the jerk.

Within three months of the vows, she’d realized her deadly mistake.

Deciding all was secure, Claudia moved back to the pool area and eyed the impressive three-story main house. She had a key, but had no intention of entering Mr. Santaluce’s winter home. Her benefactor didn’t plan a Miami visit until mid-March, and she’d be gone by then. She didn’t want her presence to put his family in danger.

She pictured the angelic face of Rosa Santaluce, a sweet child who had suffered through way too many painful nights in the pediatric ICU. Her father had been there for most of them, suffering right along with his daughter.

For the thousandth time, Claudia felt a rush of gratitude toward the man she believed had saved her life by offering this refuge. The irony was he was thanking her for saving his daughter’s life.

Claudia paused by the well-lit pool, which reminded her of promotional brochures for an expensive resort with its landscaping, fountains and gurgling cascades. But that pool, right outside her front door, was also her biggest concern, since the island contractor came once a week to test the water and add the necessary chemicals. Santaluce had given her the schedule, so she could hunker down inside and make nary a peep so no one would know of her presence. Ditto with the lawn maintenance people.

But otherwise she’d be left alone. She could sit out here to study and use the pool to exercise. She just couldn’t show her face beyond the wall.

Inside the cabana, she repeated her patrol, checking each window, door and every possible entrance into the structure. When done, she armed the security system and stared at the blinking red light. If someone breached or she pushed the nearby bright yellow panic button, who would respond? The island security director? She hoped not. She was a woman who learned from her mistakes, and history had taught her she needed to avoid Jackson Richards as much as she avoided contact with Carlos or infectious bacteria.

What was similar about two such different-looking men that caused her to become tongue-tied with desire? Had to be some trait hidden underneath their physical appearance, something she sensed intuitively and her treacherous body reacted to. Carlos was much smaller than Richards, but slick and sneaky as a fox. Richards was built more like a gladiator with his powerful shoulders and arms. While he worked with her car, she’d had the odd sensation he controlled a capacity for extreme violence.

Just like Carlos.

So she liked aggressive males? Dear God, what was wrong with her? She couldn’t be trusted around men. For some sicko reason, she was attracted to dangerous types, the ones your mother warns you to stay away from.

Her stomach cramped at the thought of her mom. It’d been three days since she’d contacted any member of her family, and she knew they were sick wondering where she’d vanished to. She’d sent a text to her dad that first night—with hands shaking so badly she couldn’t control the tiny keyboard—telling him she was okay but had to disappear until Carlos’s trial. Then she’d smashed that phone under the tires of her demon car and purchased a prepaid throwaway the next day.

A noise from the kitchen made her whirl and raise the Glock—but she relaxed her stance, realizing it was just the motor of the huge Thermidor refrigerator switching on in the eerie silence. She’d hadn’t yet learned the rhythms and sounds of her new home. She’d probably lie awake all night listening, wondering if anyone lurked outside her protective wall.

Claudia wandered into the living room and collapsed on the plush sofa, placing the gun on a table beside her.

No one could know where she was. She loved her family, but they were all a bunch of gossips—especially her two sisters—and she might as well put an ad announcing her location in the Miami Herald. For sure there’d be a flurry of traceable emails and texts, and hints of Collins Island would probably even leak to Facebook. Everyone dreamed of living on this ritzy isle. Julie, her eldest sister, would insist on a visit.

Of course that could never happen. Carlos’s very own domestic terrorist group—at least that was what the US Attorney called them—the Warriors for Self Rule, might even be watching her family in hopes they’d lead them to her. She prayed that wasn’t true, but she wouldn’t put it past Carlos. His terrorist friends had killed Moochie to warn her. She wouldn’t underestimate them again.

The next month would be the most difficult in her life, but it was her own fault for allowing lust to overcome common sense and the advice of the people who loved her. No, she had to go through this alone. She’d find a way to make contact eventually, but the less her family knew, the safer it was for everyone.

And she couldn’t get sick. She didn’t dare go to a doctor, hospital or even a clinic and use her insurance.

Carlos’s Warriors had expert hackers among the faithful.

* * *

THREE DAYS LATER, Jack still wondered about the enigmatic Louise Clark who’d disappeared behind the walls of Villa Alma and hadn’t emerged once. He knew that for a fact because he’d reviewed the surveillance camera on the front gate. Not even a solitary walk on the beach.

What was she doing in there? Writing a book?

He didn’t have access to the feed from any security cameras inside the compound. If they were even turned on.

He’d expected Santaluce to arrive on the island by now. So far that hadn’t occurred, although Santaluce’s assistant phoned to confirm Ms. Clark had moved in. When Jack had inquired about the arrival of the villa’s owner, he’d been informed that information was on a need-to-know basis, as if Santaluce was part of some covert op.

No question something funky was going on, and as the security director he needed to know what.

So where had Ms. Clark lived before arriving on Collins Island?

Jack booted up the computer. Every visitor had to provide proof of identity to board the ferry, and the guard always scanned that ID into a database. Curious about what he’d find, he clicked the file for the date of her arrival. When her driver’s license appeared on the screen, he zoomed in.

The address was in the southwest part of Miami-Dade County, a settled, middle-class area, full of homes that held their value even through the recession. So why the junker car?

He placed the address into a search engine, and discovered it didn’t exist. He confirmed the digits to be sure he hadn’t made a mistake. He ran the address through Miami-Dade County’s database and got the same results.

The address on her driver’s license was fake.

Was the license itself?

Jack studied the image. If it was a phony, it was a damn good one. Made by people who knew what they were doing. He needed the license itself to confirm its authenticity.

Well, well, well. Jack leaned back in his chair, considering. His instincts had been right on, as usual. Ms. Clark wasn’t what she seemed. Did her appearance on Collins Island have something to do with Mr. Santaluce’s “questionable” business?

Was she cooking meth behind the walls of Villa Alma? Or doing something else equally dangerous?

He entered her name into a search engine and hundreds of results materialized. But Clark was as common as Smith. He narrowed the options to Florida, waded through them, but didn’t find the Louise Clark living in Santaluce’s cabana. So that likely wasn’t her real name, which explained the woman’s confusion when he’d first addressed her.

He called Lola in the Alliance office.

“Yeah, Jack?” she answered in her throaty voice.

“I’m going to email you a driver’s license. Run the image through our facial-recognition program and see if you get a hit.”

“Something going on?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.” He hit the send button.

“I know you’re bored, Jack, but don’t go looking under rocks for trouble.”

“Noted.”

After a pause, Lola said, “I’ve got it. Louise Clark. Isn’t this the new tenant?”

“Right, but she doesn’t exist. Neither does the address.”

“So Santaluce has her under wraps. What’s she done?”

“Nothing, but my radar is lit up.”

“Ouch. Never a good sign,” Lola said, her tone now serious. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

Jack scrolled through the security feed until he got to the camera on the front of Villa Alma and froze the image. No sign of the new tenant. What was going on behind that imposing gate? He decided to pay a little visit and see what response he got from the lovely Louise.

When he arrived at Villa Alma, he exited the golf cart and rang the delivery bell, staring up into the security camera. After a few moments he heard a breathy “Yes?” on the intercom.

“Ms. Clark?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“It’s Jackson Richards, Security Director.”

“Yes, Mr. Richards?” she responded, politely impatient.

“Just a courtesy call to see if everything is all right.”

“Everything is fine, Mr. Richards. Is there some problem?”

“None of my staff has seen you since your arrival, and we wanted to make certain you were okay in there.”

After a pause she said, “Thank you for checking, Mr. Richards, but please don’t concern yourself with me. You probably won’t see me around much.”

Thinking it awkward to have a conversation with a camera, Jack said, “I wanted to let you know there’s a weekly happy hour on Friday night in the clubhouse for all residents.”

“Thank you, but I’m here for some rest.”

“Happy hours can be restful.”

“Yes. Well, if there’s nothing else, I need to go.”

Go where? Do what? Jack’s phone sounded the alarm for an emergency text. He found a message from Ike Gamble: CODE 99.

An unknown boat was attempting to land on the island’s private beach.

Jack saluted to Villa Alma’s camera and remounted his golf cart. He needed to handle this situation but wasn’t overly alarmed. A beach landing wasn’t exactly a common problem, but every so often someone—usually a local cruising around Biscayne Bay under the influence of too many beers—decided to check out Collins Island on a whim. People were curious about the good life, and since there was no bridge from the mainland, a boat was the only method to arrive. The interlopers usually zoomed away with huge rooster tails when waved off.

And if they didn’t, they’d soon regret it. The developers had positioned huge rocks a hundred feet offshore to prevent any unsanctioned vessels from approaching. The rocks were submerged but clearly marked and on all nautical charts as a hazard.

But when Jack approached the beach he saw a thirty-foot Mako had been driven hard onto the sand, leaving an ugly trench in its wake. The white hull rested on its side and huge gashes from the rocks marred the fiberglass.

What? Damn fools. Unlikely that boat would ever float again.

Ike Gamble, assigned today as a roving guard, was involved in a heated confrontation on the beach with two thirtysomething bearded men wearing backpacks. Jack alerted the Miami Beach police, then jumped from his cart and hurried to assist Ike.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Ike said forcefully. “As I’ve explained, this is a private island. You’ll have to remain with your vessel.”

“The hell with that,” the larger of the men said, and brushed past Ike. “Come on, Smitty.”

“Hold it.” Jack extended both arms, displaying the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

The man cursed and stopped moving.

“Ike, use your phone to record this,” Jack called out. “Just in case the surveillance cameras don’t have a good view.”

“Got it, boss.” Ike raised his phone.

“What’s your name, sir?” Jack asked pleasantly, lowering his arms.

“Jeff Baldwin.” Baldwin met Jack’s gaze with a hostile stare.

“Didn’t you see the hazard warnings, Mr. Baldwin?”

“Didn’t see any warnings,” he spat out in a manner that made Jack’s alarm bells loudly sound off. This man had deliberately steered his boat over those rocks and onto the island. Why? Did he hope to pull some sort of scam on the wealthy residents with an expensive lawsuit? Others had tried it, and failed. Maritime law was clear on the subject.

“That’s hard to believe, sir,” Jack said. “There are at least ten markers on the other side of the rocks. Maybe you’ve been drinking? The Miami Beach Police are on their way.”

Baldwin shot a glance to the buddy he’d called Smitty, who waited beside Ike. Smitty appeared nervous. What did these guys have planned?

“I need to find a phone,” Baldwin said. “I’ll need help to move the boat.”

“Don’t you have a cell phone?”

Baldwin raised his chin. “What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll let you borrow mine,” Jack said. “You’re not leaving this beach until the police arrive.”

“But you can’t arrest me, can you, hotshot?” the man sneered. Baldwin again glanced to Smitty, who gave a quick nod.

Jack tensed.

“You can’t keep me here,” Baldwin stated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.

“Sir, I am requesting that you remain where you are,” Jack said. “You’ve been informed this is private property and that you are trespassing. We will render whatever assistance is needed, but if you attempt to leave this area, I will have no choice but to restrain you.”

“You and who else?”

“I don’t need anyone else.”

“Right. You’re going to shoot me?”

“Not unless you shoot first.”

Baldwin narrowed his eyes, obviously calculating. After another harsh curse, he rushed into Jack with his shoulder.

When he made contact, Jack grabbed Baldwin’s wrist with his left hand, twisted hard and flipped the trespasser onto the sand. He pressed a knee into his kidney.

“Hey,” Smitty yelled, stepping forward.

In one smooth movement, Jack withdrew his Sig Sauer and leveled it in the center of Smitty’s body mass. “Stay there,” Jack instructed.

Smitty halted. Ike’s eyes widened.

“Is your Taser ready, Ike?” Jack barked.

Smitty shot his arms into the air and stepped away from Ike. “Don’t tase me, man. I’ll wait on the boat.”

Jack nodded. Smitty had obviously been tased before.

“How about you?” Jack asked, looking down at Baldwin who was still eating sand.

“Yeah, sure,” Baldwin muttered. He raised his head and spit. “Just let go before you break my arm.”

An hour later, the trespassers stood on the deck of the Miami Beach PD’s patrol boat on their way back to the mainland. Jack sighed as he watched the boat’s wake grow smaller. So much for his peaceful month on Collins Island. The wrecked Mako remained on the beach, an eyesore that he’d definitely hear about from the home owners’ association.

Baldwin and Smitty had refused to make arrangements for the boat. They’d been given a week for removal, or a salvage crew would disassemble the vessel for scrap. For some bizarre reason, they didn’t seem to care about the boat, which made Jack wonder about their motive.

What the hell were they up to? And what had been in those backpacks?

* * *

FRIDAY AFTERNOON, WISHING the pool guy would get here already, Claudia tossed her textbook aside and padded in socks to what she now thought of as security central. She studied the static image of the front gate, but no one was visible. What time would the serviceman show? She’d closed all the window coverings so he couldn’t see in while he worked. She’d been antsy all morning and wouldn’t be able to relax until the pool maintenance was completed.

Not that she’d been doing much relaxing for the last four days. Her grand intention, her goal during her solitary confinement, was to study for certification as a physician’s assistant, a job she considered the wave of the future in health care and one that paid far better than working the floors of a hospital. She had all the material she needed in old-fashioned hardbound books. No way was she venturing on the internet to leave a footprint for Carlos’s bogeymen to trace, even though an excellent free course existed online to help her cram.

But every morning, after two hours of reading and taking notes, she’d grow restless and unable to focus. A walk around the estate released tension, as did a swim in that gorgeous heated pool. But going outside was off-limits today until the pool had been checked and proper chemicals added.

She glared at the television, which also provided an escape. She suspected by the end of her confinement she’d hate TV. Either that or she’d be one of those weird addicted viewers who couldn’t miss an episode of Hoarders. But she didn’t dare turn up the sound this morning.

Where was the pool guy? Alert for the slightest noise, she soundlessly returned to the sofa and grabbed her book. Not even a week, and already she longed to venture beyond the walls of Villa Alma. She’d seen photos of a gorgeous beach. The golf course—all of the holes with a view of the Atlantic—looked prettier than the one on Pebble Beach.

Claudia forced her attention back to techniques for taking a good patient history. She found the subject interesting. She really did. She wanted to learn how to— Her head jerked up at a noise outside. The gate opening?

She crept to the monitor. Yes, the gate stood wide open. A red-haired young man, maybe an older teenager, walked into the image carrying a yellow bucket in each hand. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, but soon disappeared off the monitor.

Claudia tiptoed back to the couch and slowly, oh so carefully, set her butt down. No one—especially not young maintenance men who might be susceptible to bribes—could know she was here. She considered Jackson Richards and his team a weak link, but had to assume the security of übersafe Collins Island was trustworthy.

But maybe not. Carlos had taught her you couldn’t trust anyone. Ever.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and waited, forehead down, barely breathing. She couldn’t see the screen from here, but testing a pool’s water couldn’t take long. She closed her eyes, her stomach churning. When the kid left, she’d planned to put on sunscreen, recline on a lounge chair and stare at a clear blue sky. She already had on her bathing suit beneath her cutoffs, so maybe a quick dip, too. That would be the—

The door to the living room swung open. The pool guy sauntered inside pocketing a key, focused on the kitchen.

Heart pounding, Claudia reached for her Glock. She rose and backed toward security central, raising the weapon with both hands. How had Carlos found her so quickly?

The pretend pool guy hadn’t yet noticed her.

Never taking her gaze off the intruder, she pushed the panic button.

Nothing happened. A chill traced her spine. Had the lines been cut?

Whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world, Carlos’s hit man moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

“What the—” He jumped back as if stung. He swung his head.

That’s when he saw her. And screamed—just like a little girl.

Claudia stiffened her elbows. The gun was becoming heavy. “Hands up,” she said, amazed her voice sounded calm.

He shot his arms in the air, his face bright red. “Oh, God. Please. Please don’t shoot me.”

“Did Carlos send you?” she demanded.

“Who? No.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Who are you?”

“I work for AquaClear. I service the pool. No one is supposed to be here. I keep beer in the fridge and—oh, God. I’m going to be—”

He vomited all over the spotless kitchen floor.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN THE ALARM from Villa Alma sounded, Jack bolted from the security office and onto his golf cart. He punched the accelerator, but the slow-ass worthless piece of junk wouldn’t go over ten miles an hour. Hell of a thing in an emergency. He could jog faster than this.

He needed to find out what was going on inside Villa Alma.

As he approached Santaluce’s estate, he noted AquaClear’s service truck outside a wide-open gate.

Jack unsnapped the holster beneath his shoulder. Moving cautiously through the opening, he glanced up to the camera mounted high on the gate. Was Ms. Clark watching?

Ignoring the main house, he jogged toward the smaller cabana. He couldn’t see inside. Every window was covered.

The two on-duty guards arrived on their carts. He held up his hand to signal them to hold.

This wasn’t a police op, so he needed to follow the emergency protocol established by the home owners’ association.

At the front door, he placed his ear against the wood and listened. All quiet.

He motioned for his backup to approach. He positioned them at each end of the structure—although they were all but useless since their only weapon was a Taser.

Jack removed his Sig Sauer, pointed the barrel skyward and rapped hard on the door.

“Ms. Clark, Island Security. Please respond.”

Protocol dictated to wait five minutes and then breach. Five minutes was too long if someone was inside bleeding.

The door opened. Ms. Clark appeared. No blood visible.

Jack relaxed slightly.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“What’s the emergency?” Jack demanded.

“Intruder alert.” With a Glock awkwardly clutched in her right hand, she motioned him inside.

“Watch where you point that thing,” Jack said. By the way she held the weapon, he doubted she knew how to use it. He signaled for his backup to stand down and stepped inside the cabana.

A foul smell was his first sensory impression. Next was how the place was closed up tight as a tomb.

P.J., the kid who serviced the pools, lay on a sofa with a washcloth over his eyes. He looked sick.

“This is your intruder?” Jack asked.

“Yep.” Ms. Clark moved to the kitchen, placed the gun on a counter, pulled on plastic gloves and squatted to clean up puke on the floor. That explained the smell.

Jack glanced back to the sofa. “What happened?”

P.J. groaned and sat up. He worked the washcloth between nervous fingers. “I keep Coronas in the fridge. This is my last stop of the day, so I pop a cold one and take a dip in the pool.”

“What?” A slow burn of anger ignited in Jack’s gut. “How do you get inside?”

“Santaluce gave AquaClear a key for some plumbing job last year.” Looking miserable, P.J. sighed. “I made a copy.” He met Jack’s gaze with pleading eyes. “No one is ever here. I never hurt anything, don’t look in any drawers.”

As the scenario unfolded in his head, Jack nodded. P.J. must have walked in unannounced, and Ms. Clark pulled her gun on him. Stupid kid. “You could have been killed.”

P.J. closed his eyes. “I thought I was dead.”

And so he puked out of fear. At the stringent smell of bleach, Jack glanced toward the kitchen where Louise Clark continued to work. “You ought to make him clean up the mess.”

“I’m used to it,” she said. “And he’d just throw up again.”

“I’m sorry,” P.J. said. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Louise stood. “That’s about the hundredth time you’ve apologized.”

“Please don’t tell my boss,” P.J. begged. “I know I’m not supposed to ever—”

“You should have thought about that before you trespassed,” Jack said.

“Trespass?” The kid’s eyes widened.

“Ms. Clark could file charges.”

“Charges? Oh, God. I’ll never do it again. I swear.”

“No, you won’t, because you’ll never set foot on this island again.”

P.J. rose. “I’m fired?”

At his expression, Jack worried the kid might hurl again. “Or your employer loses the most lucrative pool contract in Miami. Yeah, I think you’re fired.”

“Please, don’t do that,” Louise said in a small voice.

Jack turned. She stood in the kitchen holding an aerosol can of Lysol. “What?”

Stripping off gloves, she moved into the living room. “How old are you, P.J.?”

“Nineteen.”

“In school, right?”

“FIU.” He swallowed. “I’m studying hospitality management.”

A smile flitted cross her lips as she met Jack’s gaze. She was probably thinking, as he was, that P.J.’s behavior hadn’t been exactly hospitable.

“I won’t press charges,” she said.

“The home owners’ association has strict rules,” Jack said. “There’s no option here.”

“But you don’t have to tell.” She looked at P.J. “You’ll never do this again, right?”

Hope blossomed on the kid’s face. “Never,” he said. “Never. I swear.”

“Can’t you cut him a break?” she asked.

Jack stared at her. Nice lady. “I have to document the incident.”

“Blame it on me. Say I made a stupid mistake, new tenant and all. I pushed the button wondering what it did. He’s just a kid, really. I’m certain he’s learned his lesson.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jack told her. He turned back to P.J. “Give me the key.”

P.J. removed a key from his shorts and handed it over.

“Have you completed your work?” Jack asked.

“Yes, sir. I always do that first.”

“Then take off. You’ll be hearing from me.”

With a grateful look at Ms. Clark, P.J. scurried out.

“Are you sure about this?” Jack asked Louise.

She nodded. “He scared me when he burst in here, but no harm done.”

“Everything else all right? I still haven’t seen you around the island.”

“Everything is fine.” She looked away. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome. By the way, I arrived exactly four minutes after the alarm sounded.”

She glanced up. “You timed it?”

“I did.”

She shrugged, and looked down again. “Seemed a lot longer.”

“Yeah, it did to me, too, actually.” Jack evaluated Louise Clark as she nibbled on her bottom lip, noting long, firm legs beneath the frayed edge of denim cutoffs. She wore a pale yellow bathing suit top, firm breasts as full as he’d imagined straining against the thin fabric.

Down, boy. She’s off-limits for a whole lot of reasons.

Ms. Clark was one fine-looking woman, but she couldn’t hold his gaze. Did she have something to hide? Maybe she didn’t want to file charges because she didn’t want any involvement with law enforcement. He’d been shocked when she opened the door holding an automatic. Why did this woman own a gun? Or maybe it was Santaluce’s weapon.

“Will I see you tonight at the clubhouse?” he asked.

She made eye contact, looking interested. “What’s going on at the clubhouse?”

“Happy hour every Friday night during season. Remember I told you about it?” He couldn’t participate in the festivities, but his job required him to observe.

“Oh,” she murmured. “No, I can’t make it.”

“Other plans?”

“Right,” she said, again looking away. “I have other plans.”

Doubting she’d even leave the villa, Jack moved toward the door. He had no excuse to linger and learn more about Louise Clark, much as he might want to.

“Please don’t report P.J.,” she said. Her words held him at the threshold.

“Are you always so forgiving?” he asked, looking down at her serious expression.

“Forgiving?” she asked, sounding amused, blue eyes widening in obvious surprise. Her gorgeous mouth curled into a smile, illuminating her face with that beauty he’d noticed on their first meeting, and he suddenly needed to know what she was thinking.

* * *

CLAUDIA STARED AT Jackson Richards. This man thinks I’m forgiving? Man, does he have it wrong. She would never forgive her ex for the things he’d done. Her testimony would ensure the murdering bastard remained behind bars the rest of his life.

“Some people would disagree with you about that,” she said.

“What people are those?” Richards asked.

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

Memories of her ex curtailed fleeting amusement. Really, there was nothing funny about her situation.

And the reason she wanted Richards to cut P.J. a break was so the kid wouldn’t hold a grudge. Carlos taught her that people who held grudges were dangerous. What if Carlos’s friends found P.J. and asked questions, offered money for information? The teenager would jump at the chance to turn on the woman who’d cost him his job.

She couldn’t take that chance. Better to make P.J. an ally. And now that she thought about it, same thing with Jackson Richards. She needed him on her side, to be her friend. She nibbled her bottom lip, the phrase friends with benefits springing into her head. What she wanted from this hunk of a gladiator was definitely not friendship.

What would it be like to peel off this guy’s clothing, see what that magnificent body looked like au naturel? She crossed her arms in front of her chest so she’d keep her hands to herself. What is wrong with me?

She needed to get this man out of her sight before she reached out to test the strength of his impressive biceps with a quick squeeze. From the looks of those shoulders, she’d bet he could lift her with one arm. And once she touched him, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Enjoy the happy hour tonight,” she said, in a voice meant to encourage him to leave, yet not sound too rude. She needed this ally. “And thanks again for coming to my rescue.”

“You’re sure you can’t come?” he asked.

He was halfway out the door. He needed to go. Please go.

“I’ve got to study,” she said.

“What are you studying?”

She sighed. Me and my big mouth. “For the physician’s assistant exam.” She gripped the doorknob, signaling she meant to shut it, shut him out, that she wanted him to leave.

“You’ll need to take a break at some point.”

“But I shouldn’t drink booze on that break. Thanks again, Mr. Richards, but I need to get back to it.”

Still he hesitated, glancing back inside the cabana. “Are you proficient with that Glock?” he asked.

The quick change in subject caught her off guard, making her blurt out the truth. “I can pull the trigger, but don’t usually hit where I want.”

His gaze refocused on her. His eyes were insanely intense. Did this man know how he affected her? Probably. Likely all women reacted to him the same way. How could any heterosexual female help herself? She took a deep breath, feeling her resolve slip away.

“Practice makes perfect,” he murmured.

Remembering his gun when he’d arrived at the door, she wanted to ask if he was an expert shot. Of course he was. He was the security chief. Could he teach her how to hit her targets? Yeah, and what else could he show her?

She felt a delicious pull low in her belly, and opened her mouth to ask him to stay and begin a few lessons, but swallowed the words. Get a grip, Claudia. Remember—you can’t trust anyone.

“See you around,” Richards said and finally, thankfully moved outside.

Claudia closed the door and leaned against it. She closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. She was practically panting.

She waited until Richards had closed the gate and driven away on his cart, pulled off her shorts and dived into the pool. The blast of water was better than a cold shower.

* * *

BACK IN THE security office, Jack replayed his encounter with Louise Clark in his head. He’d been blown away by the fact that she didn’t want P.J. fired, figuring she’d want the kid’s balls nailed to the wall. Yet he was madder about the security breach than she was. He was considering cutting the kid a break, but could never trust him again. He’d feel compelled to check the security feed and the timing each time P.J. serviced the pools.

So Louise owned a gun and, from what she said, had obviously done some target practice. Was shooting a hobby or did she need to be proficient because of some threat? And who were these mysterious people who didn’t think she was forgiving? Why was she used to cleaning up puke? She was studying to be a PA, so maybe she was a nurse.

Damned perplexing. But he loved to solve a good riddle. Besides, what else did he have to do?

Ike Gamble, one of the guards on roving duty today, motored to a stop out front on his electric cart. The other, Rafael Garcia, arrived a minute later on his. They’d completed a circuit and were taking their afternoon break. The two entered the office animatedly discussing the excitement at Villa Alma.

“Good job today, guys,” Jack told them. “I appreciate how fast you responded.”

“Man, what a rush,” Rafael said in his slight accent. He was a new hire, a Hispanic man in his thirties carrying a few extra pounds. “That’s the first time I ever responded to an alarm.”

“And hopefully the last,” Jack said.

“Everything all right inside Villa Alma?” Ike asked.

“Yeah, false alarm. The new tenant pushed the panic button by mistake.”

Ike nodded. “That happens every so often.”

“Sure broke up the day,” Rafael said. “I wish it happened more often.”

“You wouldn’t say that if someone had been inside bleeding or dead,” Jack said. Yet he’d once felt the way Rafael did. As a deputy sheriff in Marion County, he’d craved action like a junkie craves smack. But Rafael had no military or police experience. All he knew was the boredom of Collins Island. He didn’t understand how in a heartbeat a thrill could turn tragic.

The phone rang, and Jack reached to answer. “Break is over,” he told the guards.

“Okay, boss,” Rafael said, hiking up his belt, his hand moving protectively over the Taser as if he was on his way to the OK Corral.

Jack grinned. “Be careful out there.”

Ike rolled his eyes as he left the office.

“Security,” Jack barked into the phone.

“This is Lola,” she said needlessly in her distinctive voice. “I’m calling to remind you about the all-hands meeting tomorrow morning.”

“I forgot about that.”

“Conveniently, as usual. Thus the call. You know how I look out for you, Jack.”

“Can I skip it this time? Those meetings are nothing but a time suck.”

“Yet required for all available operatives. You’re expected at 9:00 a.m.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there,” Jack grumbled. He’d have to take the 8:00 a.m. ferry to make the meeting on time.

“I also wanted to let you know the facial recognition program didn’t get a hit on Louise Clark.”

“Too bad.” Jack suppressed a stab of disappointment. Damn. Was he craving action now, too? “Well, at least she’s not a known criminal.”

“She’s not in any law enforcement database we have access to,” Lola said, “so she’s never been arrested.”

“Good to know. Thanks, Lola.”

“So what are you going to do about her?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Liar.”

“I’m wounded,” he said, deliberately making his voice aggrieved.

“No. You’re curious and you won’t let it alone until you figure out what bothers you.”

“I have work to do,” he said, and disconnected.

Which wasn’t a lie. He wanted to complete the paperwork documenting the alarm this afternoon. Even as a deputy sheriff, Jack’s work habit was to get the paperwork out of the way immediately. Putting off drudgery only made a boring task loom larger and harder to initiate.

He pulled up the form on the flat-screen monitor, renamed a file for today’s incident and stared at the blanks he needed to complete. Lola had labeled him a liar, a dig that bothered him. She knew how much he valued the truth. What she didn’t know was he was about to file a false report, something he’d never done in his career.

And why was he doing it? What P.J. had done was not only against every Collins Island rule, but criminal. Although, yeah, no harm done except to Louise Clark’s mental health. Would it be better to fire the kid to teach him a hard lesson about following the rules? That lesson could alter his life. He might need the money for tuition and have to drop out of school. Jobs were still hard to come by for kids. An angry teenager could turn sullen and bitter.

Jack closed the file without entering a single word. He wanted to think about what he’d put in his report a little longer. Maybe he’d watch P.J. for a few weeks, see what happened. The report wasn’t due until the end of his stint as director.

Jack’s gaze drifted to the surveillance feed switching from camera to camera around the island. Everything remained calm. As usual, he thought, mimicking Lola’s comment.

When the stream landed on Villa Alma’s impressive front gate, he froze the image on a secondary monitor and leaned back in his chair. Was he considering cutting P.J. a break because Louise Clark had asked him to? He thought about his time inside the walls of Santaluce’s estate, searching for anything unusual, out of place. He hadn’t seen the junker car Ms. Clark had driven to her new home. Likely she’d secreted it in Santaluce’s garage. She’d indicated she didn’t plan to drive anywhere.

Surveillance cameras took a snapshot of every car loading the ferry. It’d take some digging, but why not get the car’s license plate and run her down from there? She could have switched plates, but maybe not. At least he’d have more information.

He pulled up the database from the date of her arrival, accessed the log and found the name Louise Clark on the 5:00 p.m. ferry. The camera time stamped every photograph, and the shot would have been taken around that time. In case the clock was off—a common occurrence with surveillance cameras—Jack began his search with photographs after 4:00 p.m. He scrolled through photo after photo, and finally found what Louise Clark called her devil car. Her twenty-year-old clunker was easy to spot among the Bentleys, Porsches and Teslas.

He enlarged the screen and wrote down the name of the tag, double-checking the digits. He sure didn’t need to start this little treasure hunt with bad intel.

Remembering the happy hour in the clubhouse, he glanced at the time. He was already late. The phone would ring any minute and Dr. Diane Kirkman, the home owners’ association president, would demand his presence.

Entering Ms. Clark’s tag number into the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles database would have to wait.

Jack slipped into his blazer and walked to his cart deep in thought. He wanted to skip this cocktail party, another giant waste of time. He was expected to mingle with the socialite island residents, be available to answer any questions about security protocols, listen to them outbrag each other about their latest investments.

He’d much rather continue his investigation into Ms. Clark, but the answers would have to wait.

Lola was right. He couldn’t let it alone until he unraveled the mysteries of the new tenant.

Who was she? What was she doing on Collins Island? His gut told him something was going on with Louise Clark, something he needed to know about.

* * *

AT 2:00 A.M. Claudia dressed in black jeans and a black sweatshirt with a hoodie and tucked the Glock in her waistband. She moved to Villa Alma’s front gate.

A brisk northeast wind, the leading edge of a strong cold front sweeping into south Florida, whipped palm fronds. It would start raining in an hour, maybe less. Clutching the cool wrought iron, she scanned the street in front of the estate and saw no one. She looked up at a clear night sky with thousands of stars and heaved a huge breath.

The Weather Channel claimed this front would drop the temperature close to freezing, a rare event in Miami. There might even be frost by dawn. Hopefully that meant nobody would be out.

Good. Because she couldn’t stand it any longer. She felt like a bird in a gilded cage and needed to break out of her prison for a short time. She’d be back inside before the rain started.

She entered the security code and cautiously stepped outside with her back flat against the wall. The catch relocked with an automatic click when she closed the gate. Staying close to the wall, wary of anyone else out at this ungodly hour, she jogged toward the ocean.

As she neared, she could hear waves crashing on Collins Island’s private beach. The wind had also stirred up the surf.

She slowed her pace, breathing hard. God, but it felt good to get her blood pumping. She scanned the beach nervously, but quickly determined the area was deserted except for the hull of an empty beached boat. No one sat at the many lounge chairs and tables.

That’s what she had hoped. The moon was only the thinnest silver crescent, so it didn’t provide much light.

She’d be too obvious if she relaxed in a lounger. A line of coconut palms dotted the sand, and she collapsed in front of the thickest one hoping no one would see her from the street. She wouldn’t stay long. A few minutes.

She lowered the hoodie and stared at the water. The endless ocean stretched out before her, whitecaps bouncing on the waves.

She’d been miserable and lonely ever since Jackson Richards left late this afternoon. After her plunge in the pool, she’d stood by the gate for a long time, listening to the faint sounds from the happy hour in the clubhouse. People were laughing, talking, enjoying themselves. She’d longed to join the party, but of course couldn’t.

This was bad, very bad. She’d been in exile less than a week and was already going crazy. What would she be like at the end of a month? This is what Carlos had done to her. She’d become a pitiful recluse hiding on a deserted beach in the middle of the night. She used to love people. Now she didn’t trust anyone.

Not even the US Attorney who’d convinced her to testify.

She brushed away a tear. Yeah, great, Claudia. Just what you need, a pity party.

Her hatred for Carlos Romero threatened to swamp all that remained of the old carefree, fun-loving Claudia, the woman who wanted to help the hurting people of the world. That was why she’d become a nurse. Was there anything left of that person?

Sometimes she thought her quest for justice was all she had to live for, her belief that someone had to ensure Carlos was punished for his irrational violent rampage. Yes, she’d been stupid to marry him, but he’d lied to her. He’d pretended to be something he wasn’t.

Or had she been too much in lust to see it? No, she’d watched him change. And he changed her with him, drumming his paranoid philosophy into her head night and day. Claudia swiped a tear from her face, her anger churning again. What kind of a life would she have after the trial? Would she ever return to the woman she used to be?

“Are you all right?”

CHAPTER FOUR

CLAUDIA LEAPED TO her feet and whirled. Her heart pounded. She felt for the weapon at her waist, but hesitated before yanking it out.

Before her stood an elegant, gorgeous woman of about forty smiling at her with what looked like sympathy. She held a wineglass in her long graceful fingers, one displaying a giant pear-shaped diamond. Luxuriant red hair framed her face, falling to her shoulders.

“You are weeping,” she said in softly accented words. Not Spanish. Maybe French.

“I—I—” Breathing hard, Claudia shook her head. She’d been feeling so sorry for herself that this sophisticated woman, obviously one of the wealthy residents out for a late-night walk, had snuck up on her. Her chic white slacks, which fit as if designed for her perfect body, likely cost thousands of dollars. She wore a loose, gauzy blouse, which looked pale yellow in the moonlight, tucked into the waist.

“I startled you, didn’t I? I am so sorry, cherie.”

“Yes,” Claudia finally managed to say. “I thought I was alone.”

“A woman should never come to the beach in the middle of the night to cry alone.”

Claudia swallowed, knowing she should turn and run, but said, “No?”

“Never to cry.” The woman held up her glass and took a sip of red wine. “Drink, yes. Of course that is always appropriate and far more effective in drowning one’s sorrows.”

Claudia felt a laugh threaten to bubble up. Maybe she was close to hysteria.

“My name is Marsali,” the woman said.

“I’m—Louise.”

“Would you like to join me for a glass of wine, Louise?”

“I really need to get back.”

Marsali swirled the liquid in her glass. “This particular bottle of Bordeaux cost my husband over ten thousand dollars, and it really is quite good. You must give it a try.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Claudia choked out.

“Yes. But of course it is very old. Like my husband.” Marsali raised her eyebrows. “A woman as young as you, as lovely, who is weeping alone beneath the moon deserves to taste this spectacular grape. Please join me.”

Claudia hesitated, tempted. Lordy. When would she ever get another opportunity to taste such expensive wine?

She took a step away. No. What was she doing? This was too dangerous. “I really can’t.”

“Ah, cherie. Believe me, he is not worth your tears.”

“You think I’m crying over a man?”

“Are you not?”

“Yeah.” Claudia sighed. “I guess I am.”

Marsali smiled sadly. “I know the symptoms only too well.” She motioned toward a table a few feet away where Claudia spotted a bottle and another graceful wineglass. She was certain the table had been empty when she’d arrived at the beach.

“Please join me,” Marsali said again.

Almost convinced she’d already be dead if this woman were working for Carlos, Claudia walked with her new friend toward the table. “Are you expecting someone else?” Claudia asked, nodding at the second glass.

Marsali dribbled dark liquid into the second glass, ending the pour with a practiced twist. “I always bring two stems when I come to the beach with wine. A woman never knows when she might meet someone interesting.”

Still suspicious, Claudia reached for her wine, marveling at how light the glass felt in her hands, and knew it had to be real crystal. “To the next man in your life,” Marsali said, touching her crystal against Claudia’s with a musical clink.

“I’m done with men,” Claudia said, taking a careful sip, not wanting to waste a drop of the wine. She’d do the math later and try to approximate how much each swallow cost. The liquid flowed smoothly across her tongue. Wow. Delicious, but of course she was no expert.

“Done with men? Have you perhaps become a lesbian?” Marsali wondered in her charming accent.

Claudia almost choked. “No, no. It’s not that.”

“Then you must never think of being done with men, cherie, even in the blackest hour of the darkest night. Men make life interesting.” Her eyes swept Claudia’s face approvingly. “You have many males ahead of you to tame.”

“To tame?”

Marsali shrugged. “Men are wild animals that must be subdued. Some are slinky, sexy lions, some energetic bears. Unfortunately, some—like my current husband—are more like water buffalo. Definitely a challenge to domesticate. But all types have their uses and advantages.”

Claudia stared at Marsali and wondered about her age. Maybe she was older than she appeared. No question a stunningly beautiful woman, but on closer look older than forty. And perhaps she’d undergone some top-notch plastic surgery around the eyes.

“How many husbands have you had?”

“Lloyd is my fourth legal husband.”

“Oh,” Claudia murmured, confused by her emphasis on legal.

“And you, Louise? Are you married?”

“Divorced.” Claudia grimaced at how bitter she sounded, and took another swallow of the wine, which really was extraordinary.

“Ah. Divorce is a nasty business,” Marsali said. “Could that be the reason for your tears?”

Claudia shrugged. “Not really. I was well rid of the bum, but can’t imagine going through that humiliating experience three times.”

“Agreed,” Marsali said. “Divorce is far too expensive.”

“But aren’t you—”

“I’m three times a widow,” Marsali stated with a dramatic sigh. “The tragic result of falling passionately in love with the money of older men.”

Claudia opened her mouth to offer sympathy, but closed it when the words registered.

Marsali grinned. “I wish you could see your face, cherie.”

“Sorry.” Claudia gulped more wine.

“There have been many generous men in my life. Believe me, I loved every single one, but of course I couldn’t marry them all.” Marsali shook her head, her hair swinging. “An intelligent woman must be careful before committing. It is fortuitous that we met tonight, no?”

“I’m sorry?” Claudia asked, confused again. Either that or the wine was going to her head.

“I suspect you are in need of some guidance.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

Marsali sipped her wine before speaking. “You are young yet. You see a handsome young man—a stud I think you Americans call them—and the hormones take over, no?”

Claudia laughed, thinking of Jackson Richards. Could this woman read her mind?

“And it is perfectly okay to enjoy yourself on occasion,” Marsali said. “But youth and beauty are your most precious assets. You must learn to spend them wisely.”

Spend them wisely? Claudia stared at Marsali, trying to process a philosophy alien to anything she’d ever considered. She’d never met a woman like this. Maybe she’d seen a few in movies, but thought they were mostly fictional.

“What did you gain from your marriage?” Marsali asked.

“Not a damn thing.” Claudia finished the wine and placed her glass on the table, her mood vastly improved even though they were discussing her disastrous marriage to Carlos. Was it the wine or the company? She grinned. “I wanted out so badly I gave him everything.”

“Oh, dear,” Marsali said with a disapproving frown. “Definitely a blunder. I wonder if it is too late to—”

A drop of cold rain fell on Claudia’s arm. Several more quickly followed. Claudia looked up. She’d been so engrossed in this illuminating conversation, she hadn’t noticed the wind had died down.

“Run for home, cherie,” Marsali squealed, gathering the wine and glasses. “Au revoir.”

Until we meet again. Wishing she could see the wonderful Marsali again, Claudia dashed for Villa Alma. But that couldn’t happen. She’d let her guard down and put herself in danger. Marsali had seen her face.

Too bad, though. It’d been nice having someone to talk to.

* * *

JACK WAS UP before daylight Saturday morning, stoked when he exited his apartment into a frigid morning. It had rained hard last night, and the plunge in temperature from the cold front resulted in a smattering of frost, a fricking miracle in Miami, something he hadn’t seen since leaving Ocala.

But now the sky was clear and bright blue. Wearing sweats for the first time in years, he jogged two glorious miles along the beach and completed an upper body workout in the island’s state-of-the-art gym, another perk of his stint as the security director. The downside was how much time it took to get anywhere off island because of the ferry. To be safe, he’d have to be in line at 7:45 to catch the 8:00 a.m. departure. Lola would provide bagels at the meeting, so breakfast could wait.

After a quick shower, he grabbed coffee at the Island Café and walked to the security office to run down Louise Clark’s tag number. He had maybe thirty minutes. He didn’t quite understand why he was in such a hurry. Learning about Ms. Clark wasn’t an emergency—or he hoped not, anyway. Yet his gut told him he needed to know the truth ASAP.

He brought up the Department of Motor Vehicles website and entered the tag number.

After a few prompts, the name Claudia Jean Goodwin materialized.

Well, well, well.

Was this Louise’s real name, or had she stolen the vehicle? The tag matched the vehicle description so she hadn’t switched plates. He jotted down the address, which was in the southwest section of Miami near Louise Clark’s bogus addy.

So the woman in Villa Alma wasn’t who she said she was. He’d known something was off about her. She was either a thief or used a fake ID. Although another possibility was the Goodwin woman recently sold the car to Clark and the sale hadn’t yet corrected the website. Jack rejected that explanation. Clark claimed she’d owned her rusted car a long time.

Was she on the run from the police? Did Santaluce know she wasn’t what she seemed? Would he find warrants under the name Claudia Goodwin?

Needing a photo to confirm her identity, Jack entered Claudia Goodwin into a search engine and got hundreds of hits. He scrolled, found one for a nursing registry and clicked on the link, recalling the word hospital on the paper with the alarm code for Villa Alma.

Sure enough, a photograph of a smiling Claudia Goodwin stared back at him. Louise Clark was a registered nurse, and her name was Claudia Goodwin.

He itched to continue the hunt, but he had a meeting to attend. No time to sift through the links now to learn more about the woman residing in Villa Alma. How was he supposed to do his job with so many useless events crowding his schedule? And when had running down a license tag ever given him such a jolt of excitement?

He looked forward to discussing all this with the lovely Ms. Clark. And why was that? He knew she was a fraud, but her very presence in Villa Alma tugged at him with an insistence that he didn’t understand. He constantly searched for logical excuses to show up at that impressive front gate. He resisted the urge to invent a security concern so he could talk to her again.

She wasn’t a danger to Collins Island. He’d seen no evidence of criminal activity. Definitely no meth lab. Any threat was purely to Santaluce’s bank account. Jack shook his head. Yeah, and her being a gold digger didn’t hold together, either. Not with that hunk-of-junk car.

He needed to go back into the field and dodge bullets. The mystery of Louise Clark was making him bonkers.

Jack decided to leave Ike Gamble in charge while off island, so he finalized his instructions and returned to his apartment to retrieve his SUV. Driving the huge vehicle felt weird after motoring around in the tiny golf cart. Like a return to reality after spending a week in Disney World.

After an uneventful trip across the channel, Jake noted an agitated, red-faced man arguing with a Miami-side guard. The fool had no clearance from a resident, so he was denied permission to board the next ferry. Clueless people, especially tourists, thought they could take a free joyride over to Collins Island and party on the exclusive beach. Happened all the time, although this guy seemed especially pissed.

Jack waited for the outcome of the encounter to provide backup if his guard needed assistance. But the angry man finally gave up. He drove past Jack with a phone pressed against his ear.

Out of habit, Jack jotted down the tag number.

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER, Jack sat at a polished conference table in the Protection Alliance’s office with Lola and the four other operatives working in the south Florida area. Agents grumbled about the all-hands meetings, but Lola insisted on a monthly gathering to keep everybody grounded, especially the men and women working undercover or in other dangerous circumstances.

Jack suspected that Lola wasn’t just the office manager, but also the owner. Her position and source of authority remained murky, but no one argued with the fact that she was in charge.

He’d almost completed his report on Collins Island, detailing how the security department ran smoothly.

“What? No cougars this month?” asked Greta, a blonde German operative fluent in five languages, with a black belt in karate. “Too bad, Jack.” Everyone in the room laughed.

“Don’t get too used to the good life,” said Brad, an investigator who usually worked as a celebrity bodyguard. “It’s my turn to run paradise next month.”

“There’s one thing, though,” Jack said.

“Louise Clark?” Lola inquired.

Jack met her dark stare and nodded. Her pink spikes appeared especially pointy today.

Lola worked her keyboard and put Louise’s driver’s license up on the screen as Jack chronicled what he’d learned about her, the most damaging item being her fake name and ID. As he laid out the details, he wondered what set off his alarms.

“Not unusual for a beautiful woman to carry a firearm,” Greta offered.

“But why isn’t Santaluce with her?” asked Tony, another operative. He grabbed a grape from the fruit platter in the center of the table, eyebrows raised. “And why doesn’t she ever come out? Sounds like she’d hiding.”

“Maybe she’s working on a top secret cookbook and that explains all the groceries,” Brad said.

“Or maybe Santaluce is really a rich uncle providing her with a quiet location to study for that exam,” Greta suggested. “Are you sure you’re not just impressed by her ta-tas, Jack? You’ve always been a breast man.”

Jack leveled a glance at Greta. The razzing would only get worse if he reacted.

“Any chance she could be a twin?” This suggestion came from Tony.

“The different names could be because of marriage,” Greta said.

“Watch her, Jack,” Lola said, putting an end to the discussion. “If she does anything that could interfere with the serenity of Collins Island, you know what to do.”

“Understood,” Jack said.

An hour later, the meeting completed, Jack slid behind the wheel of his vehicle. He stared at the facade of the run-down strip mall that housed the Protection Alliance’s headquarters. The signage on PA’s door read Security in small, peeling black decals. No one would ever guess the amount of high-tech bells and whistles that lurked behind a tiny reception area with one ordinary desk and file cabinet.

Just like no one knew what was behind the beautiful face of Louise Clark.

Deception. It could be and often was a dangerous game. What kind of a game was Louise Clark, also known as Claudia Goodwin, playing? Most likely a con game on an unsuspecting wealthy man. Maybe bilking sugar daddies was her primary source of income. He considered the idea that had germinated while listening to a report from a fellow operative.

He ignited his vehicle’s powerful engine. Why not visit the address that the Department of Motor Vehicles listed for Claudia Goodwin? Maybe Louise did have a twin.

The odds were that he’d find nothing. He’d already determined the DMV address did exist, an apartment complex called Brasilia. The addy could also be a ruse, but what the hell. Brasilia was only a ten-minute drive away. He was off island. Why not take the opportunity to check it out?

He parked his SUV in a visitor space and walked into a lush courtyard, alert for anything unusual. But it was early afternoon, so quiet. Goodwin’s apartment number indicated the second floor, so Jack jogged up the stairs, and knocked on her door. No one answered.

He knocked again and yelled, “Ms. Goodwin?”

No response.

Jack tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. Interesting.

He loosened the snap on the holster under his jacket, kept his hand near the weapon and pushed the door open, ready for anything.

He stared inside, evaluating the status of a thoroughly wrecked room. Was this vandalism or had someone been looking for something? Definitely not ordinary theft. The perpetrator of this violence either wanted something specific, something small since cushions had been sliced, or wanted to leave an impression on the owner of the possessions.

Was Claudia Goodwin, also known as Louise Clark, that owner?

How long ago had the apartment been ransacked? He stepped inside and used his elbow to flip a switch, noting that the electricity hadn’t yet been turned off. He moved to the refrigerator. Using a paper towel, he opened the door and checked for expiration dates. Skim milk was only a day gone.

Whoever abandoned this place had only been gone a week to ten days. Rent wouldn’t be due until next week, the first of the month. Management likely didn’t yet know about the condition of this apartment.

His gaze fell to a magazine on the floor with a smiling woman wearing nursing scrubs on the cover. He squatted and read the label. Claudia Goodwin, this address.

Jack moved into the bedroom and found slashed nursing uniforms on the floor.

In the bathroom, he found toothbrush, toothpaste and over-the-counter meds. Something had been written in lipstick on the mirror but smeared so it couldn’t be read. His gaze swept the small tiled room and zeroed in on traces of blood inside the toilet bowl.

Not a good sign. Had Louise killed someone, deserted her home and run to hide on Collins Island?

He used the paper towel to swipe the blood. He might need to get DNA from the sample.

Thoughts churning, Jack departed, using another paper towel to close the door behind him.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard a frail voice call out, “Young man.”

Jack turned toward the sound and found an elderly woman standing at the doorway of an apartment leaning on a walker. Her thin hair, weathered face and shrunken body told him she was pushing ninety.

“Yes, ma’am?” he asked.

“You went inside Claudia’s apartment, didn’t you?” she asked with a suspicious tone.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack replied. “I’m looking for her.”

“Are you a friend of hers?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped forward, hoping for some intel. “I’m Jack, and worried about Claudia. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Maude Spalding.”

“Do you know where Claudia is, Ms. Spalding?”

“No.” The old woman struggled to take a breath. “I haven’t seen her for over a week, and she always used to check on me.”

“Claudia is a nurse,” Jack stated, hoping for confirmation.

“And a damn good one.” Maude narrowed her eyes. “Had someone messed up her rooms?”

“Why do you ask?”

Maude sucked in a deep breath. “Wait. I need my oxygen.”

Jack followed Maude into her apartment and came to a shocked halt. He didn’t think anything could surprise him anymore, but the explosion of Christmas decorations that assaulted his vision made him blink. A staggering number of twinkling lights, Santa Claus figures and snowmen overflowed every surface of the room. Maude collapsed in a recliner and inserted an oxygen tube in her nostrils. After inhaling deeply several times she said, “That’s better.”

“I guess you like the holidays,” Jack said, still dazed.

“Tell me about Claudia’s place,” Maude demanded, definitely more feisty now that she could breathe. “Was her cat locked up inside? I’ve been worried about Moochie since she disappeared.”

“No cat,” Jack said. “And the door wasn’t locked.”

Maude’s eyes widened. “Not locked?”

“No. And she didn’t take her belongings.”

“I didn’t think so. Didn’t hear her move out.”

“Why did you ask if her rooms were messed up?”

“I heard someone up there.” Looking upward, Maude dropped her voice, as if worried that someone would overhear. “Sounded like they trashed the place. I warned her that night before she went upstairs. Then I never saw her again.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

Maude drew herself up. “Not my business to call down the police on a sweet thing like Claudia.”

Jack interpreted that to mean Maude knew Claudia had something to hide from the authorities. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“Just I figure whoever is after her is still watching her apartment, looking to see if she comes back so’s they can snatch her.”

“What makes you say that?”

Maude shifted her gaze toward her window, which had a good view of the stairs and the courtyard beyond. But the old lady wore glasses an inch thick. “Seen some strange folks around lately.”

“Strange folks?” Jack prompted. “Can you explain?”

“Mean talking men. I’m home all day. Got nothing else to do but watch folks come and go, and I don’t like the looks of some of these ’uns.”

“Have you seen them today?”

“No. And I didn’t see ’em the night Claudia left, but I’m thinking it was them that drove her off.”

“Thank you, Ms. Spalding. I appreciate your help.”

“You look like a right capable young man,” Maude said, meeting Jack’s gaze imploringly. “Nothing like those other fellows. Please find Ms. Claudia and help her. She always helped me.”

Jack drove back to the ferry with more questions than answers rippling through his thoughts. He needed a conversation with Claudia Goodwin.

If that was her real name.

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