As Lily pushed her son on the swing, Michael noticed there was an edginess to her movements. And that her eyes were continuously moving, searching, watching. When she stared over in the direction of the trees where he was parked, Michael held his breath a moment and wondered if he had been spotted. Then her gaze moved past him and seemed to search some spot beyond. Had that been fear in those green eyes? he wondered.

The notion that she was in trouble—and not just for robbing her husband and kidnapping her son—gnawed at him, stirring old feelings and protective instincts he thought he’d buried a long time ago. Yet even as he tried to shake these feelings, he struggled once again with the image of the calculating woman Webster had described. He wanted to believe Lily was a coldhearted female and not this seemingly delicate woman playing with her child.

“Metsy Hingle…will delight readers with her skill at storytelling in this charmer.”

—Romantic Times on The Wager

Dear Reader,

For those of you familiar with my work, you know that many of my books are set in my own hometown of New Orleans. As you’ve probably guessed from the title, Behind the Mask takes place in that magical city during the height of the Mardi Gras season. I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

One of the best things about being a writer is hearing from readers, and I’d love to hear from you. In fact, as a special thank-you, I’ve had a commemorative bookmark created just for Behind the Mask and, while supplies last, I’ll send one to each reader who writes and requests one.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,

Metsy Hingle

P.O. Box 3224

Covington, LA

U.S.A. 70433

www.metsyhingle.com

Behind the Mask
Metsy Hingle

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For the very special friends who bless my life:

Sandra and Michael Brown, Brenda and Jim Gelpi, Mary and Fred Dummett, Mary Ann and Louis Lahners, Nancy Wagner aka Hailey North, Linda Kay West aka Dixie Kane and Karen Young.

And my very best friend—my husband, Jim.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While my name as the author is listed on this book, the finished product in your hands would not be possible were it not for the help of many people. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people for their help in bringing Behind the Mask to life:

Valerie Gray, my editor, whose guidance and patience were invaluable to me in the writing of this book.

Dianne Moggy, editorial director of MIRA Books, for her belief in me and this project.

Karen Solem, my agent, for her continued guidance and support.

Ricardo Coštales, Lancôme makeup artist and genius at finding the beauty in all women.

The incredible MIRA staff for their support.

Tara Gavin and Joan Marlow Golan at Silhouette Books for their continued support and enthusiasm.

My fans, who enable me to live my dream because they allow me to entertain them with my books.

And, as always, very special thanks go to my children and family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

One

“I’ll pay you one million dollars to find my wife.”

“All right, Webster,” Michael Sullivan replied from the other end of the phone line. “You’ve got my attention.”

Adam Webster smiled in satisfaction at the excop’s change in attitude. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said as he gazed at the view of the Miami skyline afforded him from his penthouse suite of offices. He was glad, but he wasn’t at all surprised. He’d learned a long time ago that money talks—even to a man like Sullivan. A man who, according to his sources, had been among Houston’s best and brightest police detectives until five years ago when he’d resigned abruptly following his partner’s death. Now he hired himself out as a detective, bodyguard or bounty hunter—whatever the situation called for. The man was said to be as mean as a rattlesnake and twice as dangerous. He also reportedly had the instincts of a bloodhound when it came to tracking down someone who didn’t want to be found. It was Sullivan’s latter skill that he needed now. “You’ve been a difficult man to get in touch with, Mr. Sullivan,” Adam said, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. “My assistant tells me she’s left you several messages.”

“I’ve been out of town handling something for a client. The truth is, the only reason you caught me now is because I had to swing by to the office to pick up some reports.”

“I see,” Adam said tightly. “I’m not accustomed to being ignored, Mr. Sullivan.”

“No one’s ignoring you, Webster. But since I’m pressed for time, why don’t we dispense with my lack of good manners and you tell me why you’re willing to pay me a million bucks to find your wife.”

“Because she’s missing,” Adam said sharply, angered by the man’s insolence. Biting back his temper, he reminded himself that he needed Sullivan to find Elisabeth and the disk she’d stolen. With his temper making him edgy, he turned away from the sweep of windows and stalked over to his desk. Sitting down, he picked up the framed photo of Elisabeth. “I understand your expertise is in finding people. And, as I said, I’d like to hire you to find my wife.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“Six months.” And after six months it still gnawed at him like a festering sore. He detested mistakes, refused to tolerate them. Yet he had made a mistake in underestimating Elisabeth.

Never in a million years would he have believed that sweet, docile Elisabeth—the girl he’d fed, clothed and molded into a woman worthy to be his wife—would have had the guts to defy him. To steal the disk from his safe. To actually drug him and run away. Even more infuriating was that she’d not only gotten away from the idiots he’d hired to guard her, but that he’d doled out a considerable sum of money for private detectives, and some not-so-reputable business associates, to find her. And though they’d come close to grabbing her twice, she had still managed to escape. But not for much longer, Adam promised himself. If Sullivan was half as good as the reports on him indicated, Elisabeth’s rebellion was about to come to an end.

“Webster? You still there?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here,” Adam repeated, dragging his thoughts back to the present. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you’ve filed a missing persons report with the police?”

“No,” Adam advised him. “I don’t want the police involved.”

“Why not?”

“Aside from the fact that I can do without the publicity, I don’t want any charges filed against my wife.”

“Last I heard, it wasn’t a crime for a woman to leave her husband,” Sullivan informed him.

“No. But stealing cash and jewelry from my safe and kidnapping my son are crimes. If I had brought the police into it, they would have issued an arrest warrant for her. I prefer to handle things myself.”

Sullivan swore.

“My sentiments exactly,” Adam told him.

“Why didn’t you say up front that she stole the kid?” Sullivan demanded.

“I was about to,” Adam lied, surprised that a man who was reportedly a real hard-ass should care about the kid. He certainly didn’t give a damn about the brat. As far as he was concerned, his problems with Elisabeth all began with the kid. Not insisting that she terminate the pregnancy had been a major screwup on his part—one he would make sure didn’t happen again. But first…first he had to get Elisabeth back—and that damning disk. Did she even know what was on it? Or the damage it could cause him if it got into the wrong hands?

“How old’s your boy?”

Adam frowned at Sullivan’s question and quickly calculated how old the kid would be now. “Almost three.”

“Man, that’s got to be rough, him being so little and you missing all that time with him.”

“It is,” Adam said, because it was obvious that Sullivan expected it. “I want you to find my family for me, Mr. Sullivan. And I’d like you to start looking for them right away. If you’ll come by my office, I’ll provide you with any other information you need, and give you a retainer for your services. I’ll expect you within the hour.”

“I can’t make it today.”

Adam scowled. “Why not?” he demanded, unaccustomed to having his requests denied.

“Because I’m in the middle of another job.”

“And is this other client offering to pay you a million dollars for your services?” he countered.

“No.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. Tell your client to find someone else to handle whatever it is you’re doing.”

“That’s not the way I work,” Sullivan said, his voice cool and hard. “When I make a commitment, I honor it. I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call when I get back and, if you’re still interested in hiring me, we’ll talk.”

When the dial tone buzzed in his ear, Adam slammed down the receiver. “Arrogant bastard,” he muttered, clenching his fists. Sullivan would pay for that, he promised. As soon as the man found Elisabeth, he would make Sullivan regret his insolence. Shoving back from the desk, he headed to the bar and poured himself a shot of bourbon. He tossed it back, felt the sting as the drink slid down his throat like liquid fire. After pouring himself another one, he grabbed the crystal tumbler and stalked across the ultramodern office on which he’d spent a small fortune. Ignoring the polished finish on the black marble desktop, he set down his glass and picked up the silver-framed picture of Elisabeth. He stared at her—the pale delicate skin, the silky blond hair, the long slender neck. Never taking his eyes from the photo, he reached for the bourbon and tossed back another swallow.

She belonged to him, he reasoned, and felt that violent punch of lust that always came with thoughts of Elisabeth. From the moment he’d first set eyes on her he’d wanted her. Even at fifteen and still an innocent, she’d left him breathless and aching. She’d been worth ten of her mother. It was the reason he’d saved her. Were it not for him, she’d have probably hooked up with some two-bit punk and been selling herself on the streets of Miami before she’d turned sixteen.

Instead he’d rescued her from her wretched life. He’d provided for her education, showered her with gifts, and when she’d been a legal adult, he had married her. Any number of women would have killed to be in her position, just for the chance to be in his bed. He knew he looked good. He took care of himself, kept his body in shape and could easily pass for a man twenty years younger. Hadn’t he heard a woman in one of his clubs call him a stud just last week? He could have had his pick of women, but he’d chosen Elisabeth.

Elisabeth.

So sweet. So soft. So young. His breath turned to a pant as he thought of taking her that first time, of thrusting himself into her warm tender flesh. And the memory made the throbbing in his groin even more painful.

He slapped down the glass and reached for the phone. “Kit, it’s Adam,” he said when the line was answered at his Miami nightclub. “How’s that new girl working out, the young blonde with the southern drawl you introduced me to last week?”

“You must mean Annabelle,” Kit said, her voice warm and sultry. “She’s working out fine. A little shy, but the customers seem to like her. She’s a fast learner and very eager to please. She should be here in a few minutes.”

“Send her up to the penthouse when she gets there,” he said, already anticipating the feel of the pretty, young girl beneath him. “And Kit, get someone else to take her shift tonight. She’s going to be busy.”

After hanging up the phone, he reached for his glass and started toward the bedroom adjoining his office to wait for Annabelle. But his gaze fell on Elisabeth’s photo again. He lifted his glass in a mock salute. “It won’t be long now, darling,” he whispered before downing the remainder of the whiskey. He would use Sullivan to find her, and once he had her and the disk back, he’d see to it that she never dared to defy him again.

As for Sullivan, the man was in need of a lesson in respect—which he personally intended to deliver.

“According to the APB on him, his name is Bill ‘The Bull’ Dozier and he’s wanted in three states for robbery, rape and murder,” the broad-shouldered state trooper told Michael.

Michael took in the scene before him—the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance, the brightly lit front of the all-night store advertising drinks, food and gas, the dark, lonely stretch of road with cops and paramedics at a crime scene. He couldn’t help feeling a sense of déjà vu. When he saw three curiosity seekers make their way over to the storefront to look inside, he had to fight the itch to tell them to stay clear and to let the cops do their jobs. But he was no longer a cop, he reminded himself. He was a bystander and a witness.

“Man, he is one big mother,” the trooper said as two Florida state police exited the convenience store with the bald, tattooed piece of scum. Michael had interrupted him in the middle of raping the store’s female clerk.

“Yeah. But you know what they say. The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” But this one hadn’t gone down easy, Michael admitted. It had taken him more than a dozen vicious blows and two bullets to finally bring the man down. And even with two slugs in him, shackled and bleeding, the guy was still able to walk out of the store to the second ambulance that had been called to the scene. As Michael watched him being loaded into the ambulance, he thought of the terrified young woman whom he’d rescued a short time ago. Remembering her battered face and the way her clothes had been torn from her body, he clenched his bruised fingers into a fist and wished he could ram it down the monster’s throat. “How’s the girl?”

“Alive, thanks to you. She’s lucky you came along when you did. According to his rap sheet, he took a knife to the last woman when he was finished. A remote spot like this and this late at night, chances are no one would have found her for hours.”

“That’s probably what he was counting on,” Michael said. And if he hadn’t been so determined to make it back to Miami tonight, he never would have pulled off the interstate and come to the all-night store in the middle of nowhere in search of a jolt of caffeine to keep him awake. For the first time in the four days since his temper had caused him to mouth off to Webster and blow off what was a once-in-a-lifetime fee of a million bucks, Michael cut himself some slack. Had he taken Webster’s job instead of tracking down the deadbeat who’d wiped out a widow’s savings, he wouldn’t have been here to save the girl. If he were a man who believed in such things as fate, he might even think that something besides the need for coffee had made him choose this particular exit on this particular night.

But if he’d learned nothing else since seeing his partner die before his eyes five years ago, he’d learned that he, and he alone, was responsible for his choices.

“Like I said, she was lucky you decided to stop for coffee.”

But he doubted the woman was feeling particularly lucky at the moment. “What did the paramedics say? She going to be okay?”

“He did a number on her with his fists, but nothing that shouldn’t heal eventually.”

Maybe physically she would heal, Michael thought. Mentally, it would be another story. She’d probably carry the scars for the rest of her life. “She had a picture of a baby propped up by her cash register.”

“Yeah, the local police say she had a little girl about six months ago. Apparently her husband got laid off from his job, and she decided to go back to work to help out. She took the graveyard shift because it paid more money and allowed her to be home with her baby during the day. Poor kid only started working here about two weeks ago.”

“Too bad I didn’t put a bullet between his eyes and saved the state, and her, the trouble of going through a trial.”

“You won’t get an argument from anybody here on that one,” the trooper told him. “That cut by your eye looks pretty nasty. You might want to have the paramedics take a look at it until you can get to a hospital.”

Michael tested the tender spot with his fingertips and when they came away bloody, he pressed a handkerchief to the wound. “It’s just a scratch,” Michael informed him. As it was, he’d probably be tied up for hours while the cops took his statement and filled out the paperwork. The last thing he wanted to do was get bogged down with even more red tape by going to the hospital.

“Suit yourself. But I’m going to need you to come down to the station and make a statement about what went down here tonight.”

“I know the drill,” Michael told him.

“Yeah? I thought you private dicks did your best to avoid dealing with the law.”

“I was a cop for twelve years before I decided to go out on my own,” Michael informed him.

“Here in Florida?”

“Texas,” Michael told him, eager to end the conversation. Rehashing his career as a police detective wasn’t high on his list of priorities—especially at one in the morning. He also didn’t want to remember how his own stupidity had caused the bust he and Pete had worked on for months to fall apart. Stupidity that had cost his partner his life and his father his pride. Not to mention the black mark on the entire Houston Police Department.

“Good thing the perp didn’t know that or you’d have a lot more than that gash on your head.”

“Let me guess. He’s a cop-hater.”

The trooper nodded. “Word is he did a real number on the two prison guards he escaped from last month. According to the reports, one of them may lose an eye and the other one is still in a body cast.”

Michael had no trouble believing it. As a fourth-generation cop, he’d heard plenty of stories about cop-haters and had encountered his fair share of them during his years with the Houston P.D. One look at the monster-size guy with the gold teeth and the ugly scar down one side of his face would have been enough to set off alarms in most cops. But it had been the lack of emotion in the man’s dark eyes that should have told the fools at the prison just how dangerous the guy was. He’d seen that look before. And each time he had, he’d been faced with a cold-blooded killer without a conscience, without a soul.

A long black sedan pulled into the busy parking lot. A tall man in a dark suit with a cap of silver hair exited the vehicle and sought out the officer in charge.

“Wonder who that is?” the trooper remarked.

“His name’s Hennessey, he’s a federal agent,” Michael told him.

“You know him?”

“Our paths have crossed a time or two,” Michael replied. But even if he hadn’t known Hennessey, he’d have pegged him as a fed right off. The nondescript car, the somber suit, the steely look and calm demeanor. There had even been a time when he’d actually wanted to leave the Houston P.D. and join his brother Travis at the Bureau. So had Pete. Only Pete had flunked the tests. And when his friend had accused him of breaking their childhood pact to be partners, Michael had passed on the Bureau’s offer. Later that same year, after Pete had been killed, he’d abandoned any thoughts of becoming a federal agent. He’d walked away from his badge, too.

“The feds must want this guy pretty bad if they sent an agent out here this quickly.”

“It’s more a question of covering their asses before the press gets wind of what went down here,” Michael said. At the trooper’s puzzled look, he explained, “The Bureau takes a lot of heat in the media. Bringing in a killer like Dozier will play well in the headlines.”

“But the feds had nothing to do with this. You’re the one who caught him,” the trooper pointed out.

Michael shook his head. “That won’t play as well as saying that I assisted the FBI in taking him down. Look, here comes Hennessey now to try to sell me on the idea on what happened here tonight.”

And after dispatching the trooper, the federal agent did his best to convince Michael about the official story that the Bureau wanted to give the press. “Since you’ve worked with the Bureau before, we’d like to say you were working in conjunction with us to track down Dozier and that you followed him to the convenience store where you apprehended him during the assault on the woman. You okay with that, Sullivan?”

“Would it make any difference if I wasn’t?”

“No.”

“Then why bother asking for permission?”

“Don’t be such a hard-ass, Sullivan.

“You did a good thing saving that girl tonight. Taking that animal down couldn’t have been easy. You did a hell of a job.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a shame that a man with your talents is wasting his time chasing cheating husbands when he could be doing something worthwhile.”

“I like what I’m doing.”

“Bullshit. I’ve told you before, you’d make a damn good federal agent, Sullivan.”

“No thanks. I know what you guys earn, and it’s not enough.”

Hennessey made a dismissive sound. “You expect me to believe that money is all that motivates you?”

“You should, because it’s the truth.”

“That’s a load of crap. You were a cop. A man doesn’t become a cop or an agent for the money. You do it for times like tonight—because you want to be able to help people. You can’t make me believe that saving that woman tonight wasn’t a lot more gratifying than tracking down some deadbeat,” Hennessey pointed out.

“I don’t give a damn what you believe. As for gratification, I got a hell of a lot of gratification when the last jerk I tracked down was thrown in jail for fraud after he bilked an old lady out of her life savings. And I got paid a fat fee for doing it.”

“You can cut the act, Sullivan. You and I both know that if you really liked hiring yourself out as a P.I. you wouldn’t have offered your services to the Bureau pro bono when they were hunting that serial killer a few months ago. And from what I heard, it wasn’t the first time you’ve done that.”

Michael shrugged. “Just trying to be civic-minded,” he said, not wanting to admit that while the money was good and some of his cases left him with a feeling of accomplishment, many of them didn’t. He did it for the money. Money for Janie and Pete’s boys.

As for the work he occasionally did for the feds, in a roundabout way, he did it for his brother Travis. After all, Travis was a federal agent. Besides, it was also a way for him to keep his skills sharp and his contacts strong. And if that sounded a bit too pat, he could live with it. What he didn’t want to do—refused to do despite his brother’s prodding—was examine his motivations too closely. He couldn’t afford to—not with Janie and Pete’s boys depending on him.

“That’s a line of bull, and you know it,” Hennessey told him.

“Listen, believe whatever you want,” Michael said. “But if we’re through here, I’d like to wrap this up so I get on my way.”

“Hot date?”

“No, a hot client. One who’s offering me a big fat fee to find his runaway wife.” Or at least Michael hoped Webster would still be offering him that fat fee—if he hadn’t already hired someone else.

“All right. But you’ll need to come into headquarters and make a statement about what happened here tonight, and you’ll need to be available to testify at Dozier’s trial.”

“All right.”

“Make sure you give my people a number where they can reach you.”

“Will do,” Michael said, and started toward the state troopers in order to finish with them before heading to police headquarters.

“Sullivan?”

Michael stopped, turned and looked over at Hennessey. “Yeah?”

“When you get tired of playing bloodhound for the rich and overprivileged, give me a call.”

“I keep telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Hennessey. I like being my own boss—and I like making a lot of money.”

“Money isn’t what made you tackle that gorilla in that store tonight and risk getting your brains beaten out. You did it because at your core, you’re still a cop. You believe in protecting the weak and fighting for justice.”

Michael scowled at him. “I hate to rain on this parade of yours, but I did what anyone would have done if they’d walked in on that monster and seen what he was doing to that girl.”

“Most people would have called for help—not taken on a guy who was armed and outweighed them by at least a hundred pounds.”

“That’s because most people have more sense than I do.” Not at all happy with the tenor of the conversation, Michael added, “I’m no hero, Hennessey. Don’t make me out to be one. I acted on instinct. Taking down Dozier was part stupidity, part dumb luck. If I’d failed, he might have killed that girl.”

“And if you hadn’t stepped in, he would have killed her for sure.”

Michael let out an exasperated breath. “Is there a point here?”

“Yeah. The point is that when you stop running from whatever demons are chasing you, let me know.” He stuffed a card in the pocket of Michael’s chambray shirt. “You could make a difference.”

Michael removed the card from his shirt pocket, crumpled it in his fist, and walked away. Regardless of what Hennessey thought, saving that girl tonight had been dumb luck, just as he’d claimed. He’d gotten out of the hero business when he’d turned in his badge. From now on, he was in it for the bucks.

Two

“No,” Lily murmured as she tossed and turned in her sleep. “No,” she repeated, her heart beating faster and faster, her head moving from side to side in denial. “Adam, no!”

Suddenly she jerked upright in the bed. Breath heaving, she scrambled back up against the headboard and pulled her knees up to her chest. Still shaken by the nightmare, she buried her face against her knees and waited for the trembling to stop. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

She repeated the words like a litany in her head until the worst of the terror had passed. Despite the coolness of the room, sweat beaded her forehead. Fumbling for the lamp on the bedside table, she switched it on. A whimper slipped past her lips when light spilled across the room, chasing away the shadows and darkness to reveal her surroundings.

She wasn’t in the massive king-size bed with the ornate mahogany scrolls. She was in the small, plain bed with a simple pewter headboard. There was no damask duvet stretched across the foot of her bed, only a colorful comforter with a bright rose pattern. Following the familiar ritual that enabled her to shake off the paralyzing fear that always followed the nightmare, she curled her fingers into the sheets. White, bargain-priced cotton sheets, she assured herself. No colored satin, no rare eight-hundred-count Egyptian blend that was softer than a sigh against the skin, but had cost more than it would take to feed a family of four for a month.

Clutching one of those plain sheets in her fist, Lily closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She and Timmy were safe. They were in New Orleans—not Miami. They were in the rented shotgun house they’d lived in for more than two months now—not in the palatial prison that had been their home. And she was no longer Elisabeth Webster, wife of wealthy Florida nightclub owner/businessman and philanthropist Adam Webster. She was now Lily Tremont, a widow with an almost-three-year-old son who worked as a waitress at the River Bend Diner. They were safe, she reminded herself. She and Timmy were safe. Adam didn’t know where they were.

Finally, when her heartbeat and breathing were almost normal again, Lily opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. She sighed. Dawn was more than four hours away, but she knew from experience that she wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore tonight. Not when the memories remained so close to the surface.

And just as she always did whenever the nightmares came, she slipped out of bed and went to check on Timmy. Easing open the door to his bedroom, she tiptoed over to his bed and looked down at the sandy-haired little boy who was her life. Clad in his favorite Spider-Man pajamas, Timmy lay curled on his side, clutching his ever-present teddy bear in his arms. Satisfied that he was safe, Lily adjusted the covers he’d kicked off with hands that were still unsteady. Annoyed with herself for the weakness, she pressed a kiss to the top of Timmy’s head and exited the room.

Now that she knew Timmy was safe, the worst of the panic was over. But not the memories that always came flooding back whenever she had the dream. Retreating to the bathroom, she closed the door and turned on the shower. When the water was as hot as she could stand it, Lily stripped off her nightgown and stepped under the steaming spray. And in the shower where she had no fear that Timmy would hear her sobs, she allowed herself to cry as she relived the events of that terrible night six months ago…

Elisabeth sat up in bed, unsure what had awakened her. Then she heard it—the sound of rain slapping against the windowpanes. Must have been the rain, she decided as she pushed the hair out of her eyes and switched on the lamp. Glancing around the elegantly appointed bedroom, it took her a moment to orient herself.

And then she remembered. She’d had a monster headache all day, and after she’d put Timmy down for the night and complained of not feeling well, Adam had given her something to take for her head. To her surprise, he’d suggested she go to bed without him and told her not to wait up because he had a business meeting that would run late.

Relieved not to have him make love to her that night, she’d taken the pill he’d given her and gone to bed alone. A check of the silver-framed clock with diamond and onyx numerals revealed it was after three o’clock in the morning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed without her husband and been able to sleep for a six-hour stretch without Adam waking her to make love. Even when she’d been in the final stages of her pregnancy, with her belly swollen and her back aching, Adam’s desire for her had never lagged. He had refused to be denied access to her body, reminding her of the many women who would gladly service his needs, but how it was only her that he wanted.

She should be grateful, Elisabeth told herself. After all, how many women had a husband like Adam who remained passionate about his wife even after seven years of marriage and a child. But she didn’t feel grateful, Elisabeth admitted. She felt trapped.

Irritated with herself, she reached for the flimsy robe of the expensive black peignoir—one of dozens that Adam had bought her and insisted she wear for him. And as she slid her arms into the whisper-sheer fabric, she wondered why she’d even bothered to put it on since it provided little in the way of covering or warmth. After she slipped on the matching high-heel slippers, she walked over to the huge windows that looked out over the gardens.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Elisabeth stared out at the rain. A movement in the tree caught her eye, and she looked closer, smiled as she saw the little wren flap its wings and bravely fly through the raindrops to the neighboring tree. Pressing her fingers against the cool panes of glass, she wished she were that wren. Wished she had the courage to break free of this beautiful cage where Adam kept her—wished she could escape with Timmy.

Immediately ashamed of her thoughts, Elisabeth silently chastised herself. She had no reason to be so unhappy. Adam was a good husband. He adored her, lavished her with jewels and expensive clothes. He provided her with everything a woman could possibly want.

And, because of Adam, she had a beautiful little boy, she reminded herself. Her eyes misted as she thought of her son, still unable to believe that something as perfect and wonderful as Timmy had actually come from her. From her and Adam, she amended, realizing she had to stop thinking of Timmy as only being her son. He was Adam’s child, too. While Adam may have been unhappy about her pregnancy and had been angry with her for hiding it from him until she was well into her second trimester, he was becoming more accustomed to them being a family now, she assured herself. He just hadn’t been prepared to become a father. But now that Timmy had turned two and was becoming more of a person, Adam would begin to enjoy his son more. Surely he would learn to love Timmy as she did.

A father shouldn’t have to learn to love his child.

Elisabeth tried to shut off the nagging voice in her head, told herself that Adam hadn’t planned on them having a family. Learning to share her had been a big adjustment for him. But he would come around.

And what about those accidents Timmy keeps having? What would have happened last month if you hadn’t come out to the pool when you did and saw Timmy floating facedown in the water?

Elisabeth shivered at the memory of coming out to the pool to surprise her two fellows with a pitcher of lemonade only to discover Adam on his cell phone and Timmy’s unmoving body floating in the pool. Clutching her throat, she could feel the terror clawing inside her as she recalled dropping the tray and diving into the water—even though she couldn’t swim.

Would Adam have saved Timmy if you hadn’t been in danger of drowning, too?

Elisabeth put her hands over her ears, tried to block out the questions that had been plaguing her for weeks now. She had to stop doing this to herself. She had to stop suspecting her husband of such horrible things. Even more restless now than she’d been before, she knew there was little chance of her going back to sleep and decided to go check on Timmy.

As she made her way down the massive staircase, Elisabeth tried to make as little noise as possible. Adam hated that she was so protective of Timmy, she reminded herself. It was one of the reasons he had insisted Timmy’s room be downstairs and away from their suite. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she listened carefully, trying to determine whether Adam was still at work in his study or if perhaps he’d gone out. She’d learned early in their marriage not to question him about his late-night trips to the office or to the clubs he owned.

As she passed his study, she noted the light from under the door and hurried in the opposite direction toward Timmy’s room. When Elisabeth reached the door to Timmy’s room, a smile was already forming on her lips. She eased it open and saw Adam standing over Timmy’s crib with a pillow poised over the little boy’s face.

“What are you doing?” she screamed.

He swung around. “Elisabeth!”

She lunged at him. “Get away from my baby!”

“What in the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded, gripping her wrists so tightly she thought the bones would snap.

“My baby! You were going to smother my baby!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just picking up his pillow.”

“You’re lying,” she accused him as she fought to free herself from his ironlike grip. Adam was lying and she knew it. Just as she’d known he’d lied to her when he’d told her Timmy must have fallen into the pool when he’d gone to answer his phone. Just as she’d known deep in her heart that all those little accidents Timmy had had since he was an infant hadn’t been accidents at all. She just hadn’t wanted to believe Adam was capable of trying to kill his own son.

“You’re hysterical,” Adam told her.

“No, I’m not. I’m not,” she fired back and continued to struggle.

“Mommy! Mommy,” Timmy cried, awakened by their shouting. He stood up in his crib, held his arms out to her.

“Adam, please let me go. He needs me,” she pleaded.

“Shut up,” he yelled at Timmy who huddled down into the corner of his crib against the bed railings, his brown eyes wide and terrified as deep hiccuping sobs escaped his lips.

“You’re scaring him. Let me go!” She fought wildly to break free and get to her son, but her efforts proved useless. “Please, Adam, he’s crying.”

“Let him cry. You’re making a ninny out of that kid fussing over him the way you do,” he said, and began dragging her from the room. “I’ve been patient long enough, Elisabeth. Your days of coddling that kid are over. Tomorrow I’m hiring a nanny to take care of him, and you’re going to be a real wife to me again. Beginning now,” he told her.

As Adam pulled the door closed on Timmy’s heart-wrenching sobs, and forced her up the stairs to the bedroom, something broke inside her. She knew then that she had to escape.

So when he kicked the door shut behind them and she recognized the lustful glint in his eyes, she shut off her mind and her heart, telling herself she would get through this. She would bide her time and she and Timmy would escape.

“Take it off,” Adam told her.

Not wanting to enrage him any further and risk hurting Timmy, she began to unbutton the peignoir. By the time she’d removed the robe and started on the buttons of the low-cut nightgown, Adam had already shed his own clothes and now stood naked and fully aroused. He was a handsome man. He worked hard to keep his six-foot frame trim, and showed not an ounce of flab. With his dark hair and year-round tan, Adam had reminded her of movie-star George Hamilton the first time she’d seen him. On the surface, he’d been a perfect gentleman. But behind the mask he wore, she now knew there lurked a monster—a dangerous monster.

“Come here,” he commanded.

Elisabeth did as he said. And when she stood before him in the flimsy gown, his eyes darkened. “So beautiful. So perfect,” he said as he reached for the bodice of the gown. He lifted his eyes to hers and she caught the flash of triumph just before he ripped the delicate fabric in two. “And mine.”

Adam filled his big hands with her breasts, squeezed them so hard that she whimpered with pain. “Adam, please. You’re hurting me.”

But her pain only seemed to excite him. He shoved her down to her knees in front of him. Knowing what he expected, how he’d trained her to pleasure him since that first night when he’d married her on her eighteenth birthday, Elisabeth took him in her mouth.

She wanted to gag, but she thought of her baby downstairs, and knew that if she did so, it would only enrage Adam. So she blocked out the feel of his fingers digging into her scalp, the sound of the grunting noises that came from him. Suddenly he jerked her up, pushed her onto the bed.

“Adam, wait—”

But he was already shoving himself inside her. Unprepared, she gasped at the painful invasion. Heedless of her discomfort, he continued to thrust himself into her. “You were made for this,” he told her, his voice a guttural pant, his dark eyes gleaming madly. “For me,” he said as he slammed into her again. And again. And again. Finally, when she thought he might never stop, his body went rigid and he shouted out in triumph before he collapsed on top of her.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, crushed beneath Adam’s heavier weight. Not until she thought he was asleep did she begin to ease out from under him, intent on slipping away to go check on Timmy. She’d almost made it to the edge of the bed when Adam demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I was just going to see—”

“No.” He yanked her by the hair and pulled her back down to the bed. She scrambled to sit up, but he shoved her back down and straddled her. “I told you, this is what you were made for. Not to take care of some squalling brat. I’m through sharing you, Elisabeth. You and I are going back to the way things were before you got yourself knocked up. Understand?”

“Adam, please. I realize now that I’ve been neglecting you,” she hedged, trying to bide her time. “I promise to be a better wife in the future, but please, I don’t want a nanny. I’m Timmy’s mother, I—”

He shoved his hard shaft into her again. “It’s a nanny until I can find a boarding school to take him. This mother fantasy of yours is over, Elisabeth. Accept it, or I’ll get rid of him permanently.”

His words sent a chill through her because she knew he meant it. She could no longer delude herself. Adam was insane, and unless she got Timmy away, he would kill her son. Even as he mauled her body, and poured his seed into her, she began planning their escape…

They had escaped, Lily reminded herself as she sat huddled on the floor of the shower, shivering beneath the spray of water that had long since turned cold. While Adam had come close to finding them twice now, she had managed to get away. For now at least, her son was safe.

“Thank you Chantal,” Webster told the statuesque secretary who ushered Michael into his office.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Sullivan,” Webster told him from behind the massive marble desk that gleamed like a black diamond. After shaking hands, he gestured to the pair of chairs positioned in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Michael sat down in the cushy leather chair. With the same swiftness he’d employed as a cop to size up a suspect, he took in the other man’s two-hundred-dollar haircut, the manicured nails, the pricey Italian suit. Rich. Powerful. Sophisticated. A well-connected player. And according to his sources, a dangerous enemy.

“May I offer you something to drink?”

“No thanks. I’m fine,” Michael replied.

“Very well. Chantel, have a check cut for the congressman’s campaign fund and include this note with it,” he instructed the secretary as he handed her an envelope. “That’ll be all for now.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said, and then quickly exited the room.

Michael didn’t doubt for a minute that the reference to the congressman, as well as the hour he’d been left to cool his heels in the reception area, was Webster’s way of showing him that he was the one in control.

“Cigar?” Webster offered, opening the ornate box and sliding it toward Michael. “They’re Cuban.”

“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“How wise of you. These are one of my vices, I’m afraid.” He chose one for himself, sniffed it appreciatively. And before he could put the thing in his mouth, the hired muscle at the door was beside him with a light.

The guy must be one hell of a poker player, Michael thought as he observed the ritual. Despite Webster’s pleasant expression, Michael had no doubts that the man was still pissed at him for not jumping at his offer a week ago. Unfortunately, Webster had caught him fresh on the heels of an argument with Pete’s widow over the money he’d had deposited into her bank account for the kids. On his best day, he didn’t go out of his way to charm a potential client. On that particular day he’d made no attempt to sugarcoat his feelings about the million-dollar carrot that Webster had dangled in front of his nose. Of course, he’d spent the better part of the next four days kicking himself for his short temper and stupidity. Not until he’d interrupted that perp in the convenience store had he cut himself some slack. While he might hate losing a shot at that million-dollar fee, he didn’t regret that he’d been able to help that girl.

After several puffs on the cigar, Webster sat back in his chair. “I must say that I was rather surprised to hear from you, Sullivan. When we spoke on the phone, you didn’t seem particularly interested in my offer.”

“I was interested. But like I told you, I had another commitment.”

He took another puff of the cigar, blew out a ring of smoke. “So you said. I understand you proved to be quite the hero, saving that young woman’s life and apprehending an escaped felon.”

Since the incident had occurred in a small town and both he and the FBI had made sure that his name was not listed in the press, Michael couldn’t help wondering about Webster’s contacts. “You’re well informed.”

“I make it my business to know who I’m dealing with,” Webster replied.

Which meant Webster probably also knew that he’d walked away from his job as a cop after Pete had been killed. What Webster didn’t know—what few people knew—was that he had been the one responsible for Pete’s death just as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger, because he’d been the one to introduce his friend to Giselle.

“I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

Michael shrugged. “It’s your business.”

“Yes, it is. And I’m sure you can understand the need for a man in my position to be careful.”

“Of course.” He understood all right. Besides, he had done some checking, as well. He’d learned that the fifty-six-year-old self-made millionaire had made a killing with a string of high-end restaurants and nightclubs across Florida. Seven years ago he had married his ward, the former Elisabeth Jeffries, with whom he had one child, a son named Timothy. The man was touted as a generous patron of the arts and, reportedly, gave huge sums of money to charity. He also supported the current regime of politicians in office. The lavish parties he hosted were legendary for attracting Florida’s business, political and social powerhouses. And, according to Michael’s sources, not all of Webster’s millions had been attained by legal means.

“I’m glad we agree on the importance of being careful because, if I hire you, you’ll find that I don’t tolerate mistakes,” Webster said.

Not liking the veiled warning, Michael told him, “And if I take the job, you’ll find that I don’t make mistakes.”

Webster’s eyes went flat for a heartbeat. “Then we should have no problems.”

Deciding he’d had enough of the pleasantries and veiled warnings, Michael said, “You mentioned on the phone that your wife and son had been missing for about six months.”

“That’s right.”

“Then I assume the first detective you hired failed to find her.”

A look of annoyance crossed the other man’s face. “You assume correctly. They found Elisabeth, but she managed to give them the slip before I could get there. A mistake on the agency’s part, which led to their dismissal. That’s why I contacted you.”

“Speaking of contacting me,” Michael began. “I’m curious why you did. I mean I’m a one-man agency, and there are any number of bigger agencies with more manpower. So why me?”

Webster smiled, and there was something about that sly twist of the man’s lips that had the hair on the back of Michael’s neck lifting. “Most men in your business would simply be grateful that I called them.”

“I’m not most men.”

Webster laughed. “Obviously. But in answer to your question, you came highly recommended by my chief of security, Bernie Pavlovich. I understand the two of you once worked together.”

It had been ten years since Bernie had been booted off the Houston P.D. on charges of police brutality. Big, brawny and a bully, it didn’t come as a surprise to find out that Bernie was Webster’s hired muscle. What did surprise him was that Bernie would recommend him to Webster, since they hadn’t exactly been friends.

“Bernie told me you earned quite a reputation for yourself with the Houston Police Department, and that you were their ‘go to’ guy in tough situations.”

“I was lucky to have good people working with me,” Michael told him.

“Come now, Sullivan. There’s no reason to be modest. I know you were the unnamed private agent who led the authorities through the swamps in Louisiana a few months ago, enabling them to recapture that trio of escaped convicts.”

Michael didn’t bother denying it. But he couldn’t help wondering again how Webster had obtained the information, since no one outside the police departments and several federal agents involved knew of his role in the affair. It had been a black eye to both the law enforcement agencies and the FBI that the cons had not only managed to escape a high-security prison facility, but that they had been able to take a prominent businessman hostage in the process. His participation in the venture had been on a need-to-know basis only. Even his fee had been paid out of a private fund. The fact that Webster knew about his role in defusing the incident spoke volumes about the man’s connections.

Webster took another puff on his cigar, then ground out the hot tip in the ashtray. He sat forward. The genial expression disappeared from his face, replaced by something hard and ruthless. “You have an impressive record, Sullivan. Both as a police detective and as a private agent. It’s the reason I agreed to meet with you when you called—despite your attitude last week. I want my wife back, and I think you’re the man who can find her for me.”

“For one million dollars.”

“That’s right,” Webster replied.

“That’s a lot of money,” Michael pointed out. “No offense, Webster, but I find it hard to imagine any woman being worth that kind of money.”

“But then you don’t know my wife,” Webster informed him in that smooth, cultured voice that went hand in hand with the man’s thousand-dollar suit, gold cuff links and perfect white teeth. He reached for the photo of an attractive blonde that sat on the credenza and handed it to Michael. “Stunning, isn’t she?”

Michael had noticed the picture when he’d first come into the room. There was no question about what the man had seen in her, Michael concluded. Despite the demure smile and wistful look in her green eyes, everything about Elisabeth Webster screamed ‘hot sex’—from the long blond hair that tumbled past her shoulders, to the figure-hugging black dress that showcased her curves. Michael allowed his gaze to follow the slashing neckline of the dress to an emerald the size of a baby’s fist nestled between her breasts. At his body’s sharp response to the pale, creamy skin, Michael swallowed hard.

He dragged his gaze away from the photograph, warning himself not to forget how another knockout blonde with an innocent smile had impeded his judgment, wrecking four lives in the process. He shoved the framed picture toward Webster. “She’s beautiful.”

“Yes, she is,” Webster told him, his eyes going hot as he stared at the photo once more. “And believe me, she’s worth every penny I’m offering and more.”

“And your son?” Michael countered, still irritated by his own reaction to the woman and unable to resist prodding the other man from his lustful musings. Besides, except during their initial phone conversation, Webster hadn’t mentioned his son again. “I assume you want him found, too.”

“Of course,” Webster replied, a trace of annoyance in his voice. “I want you to find both Elisabeth and Timothy.”

Michael was puzzled by the lack of emotion in Webster’s eyes and voice when he spoke of his son. “Tell me what happened on the day she left.”

Webster told him about his wife’s depression after having the baby, her mood swings, the tiff they’d had the day before she’d left, and how she’d laced his morning coffee with a sleeping pill and then had run away. According to Webster, the woman had had an emotional breakdown—one which had caused his sweet, gentle wife to flee her husband and home.

Michael reasoned that chances were, Elisabeth Webster was simply a bored young woman who had grown tired of her rich older husband and had run off. But something about the whole scenario, along with Webster’s story, nagged at him like a pesky mosquito bite. While he might have turned in his badge five years ago, his instincts remained strong. And those instincts were sounding alarm bells now.

Telling himself that it was Webster’s questionable dealings that had set off his sensors, Michael tried to shake off his misgivings. “What about family or friends? Could they be hiding out with them?”

“Elisabeth has no family. Just me. As for friends, my wife has always been somewhat of a loner.”

“You said the other detective had managed to locate her.”

“Yes, about two months ago in a small town in Arkansas.”

“And since then?” Michael asked.

“Nothing. It’s almost as though she’s disappeared from the face of the earth. I’m worried about her. About both of them. It’s the reason I’ve set the reward so high. My wife has led a very sheltered life. She’s not used to dealing with things on her own.”

“You said she took a lot of cash and jewelry with her when she left. How much?” Michael asked.

“Nearly fifty thousand in cash. The jewelry was worth probably ten times that amount.”

Michael whistled through his teeth. If she managed it wisely, that kind of money could keep the missing Mrs. Webster and her son in Happy Meals and modest digs for a long time. “Has any of the jewelry surfaced?”

“No. The truth is, I doubt Elisabeth would even know how to go about selling it. As I said, she’s led a sheltered life and, because of that, she’s far more innocent in the ways of the world than most women her age.”

Michael checked himself from pointing out that while Mrs. Webster may look like a fragile flower, the woman obviously had enough grit to rob her husband’s safe and leave him. But then he knew firsthand how deceptive a beautiful woman with a sob story could be. She’d also had enough savvy to elude his detectives for six months. Either that, or she and her son hadn’t been found for another reason. He lifted his gaze to Webster’s. “You know, there’s always the possibility that no one has seen them for another reason.”

“I’m not naive, Sullivan. I know what you’re suggesting and you’re wrong. Elisabeth is alive. I know it.”

“If she is I’ll find her. And your son,” Michael added firmly.

Webster tipped back his head and laughed. “I’ll say one thing for you, Sullivan. You certainly don’t lack chutzpah.”

“As you said, there’s no need for false modesty.” And there wasn’t, Michael reasoned. Since leaving the police department, he’d earned more than five times his salary as a cop by working as a bounty hunter, a detective, a bodyguard or whatever the occasion called for. Maybe the jobs weren’t all that satisfying or noble, but the money had been good enough to pay his living expenses and provide him with extra cash to help out Janie and the two boys. And a million bucks would enable him to see to it that Janie and the boys’ futures were secure.

“I’m going to need copies of everything you have on them—including the other detective’s reports.”

Webster removed a manila file folder from a drawer in his desk and handed it to Michael. “I think you’ll find everything you need in there. Photographs, fingerprints, background information on Elisabeth and copies of the other reports.”

After quickly skimming the contents, he closed the folder and stood. “I’ll need a retainer.”

“Of course,” Webster told him, and reached inside his top desk drawer. He drew out a black leather checkbook. “I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars now and the balance when you find Elisabeth and Timothy.”

“You’ll pay me two hundred fifty thousand dollars now and the balance, plus my expenses, when I find your wife and son.”

The smile died on Webster’s lips. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m just going to hand over that kind of money as a retainer.”

“That’s the deal, Webster. Take it or leave it.” Though Michael hadn’t seen the bodyguard move, he sensed the big man come up behind him. Lightning quick, he whirled around, kicked the gun from the bruiser’s hand and sent the other man to his knees howling.

“Why, you son of a—”

“That’s enough, Otto. Leave us alone,” Webster ordered.

“You can count on payback for this, Sullivan,” Otto muttered as he left the room.

When the door closed, Michael asked, “So what’s it going to be, Webster? Do you want me to find your wife and son or not?”

“Why should I believe you won’t just skip town with my money?”

“My word,” Michael said softly. “You said you checked me out. If you did, then you know I never go back on my word.”

Again, all the gentlemanly charm and refinement disappeared. Rage distorted Webster’s urbane expression. There was a coldness, a ruthlessness in Webster’s dark eyes that made Michael feel almost sorry for Elisabeth Webster. He’d seen enough evil in his thirty-three years to recognize it when he saw it. He was looking at evil now. And, in the space of a heartbeat, Michael considered walking away from the job.

Webster scribbled out a check and slid it across the desk. “Here’s your money,” he said, keeping his fingers atop the check until Michael met his gaze. “But there’s a condition that comes with it. If you haven’t found my wife in thirty days, I pay you nothing. You return the retainer and eat your expenses.”

“The last detective had six months,” Michael pointed out.

“But as you pointed out, you’re better. It’s thirty days or nothing.”

“All right,” Michael said.

Webster released the check and sat back in his chair. “Don’t disappoint me, Sullivan. Find my wife and son for me.”

“Don’t worry, I intend to,” Michael assured him, and tucked the check into his coat pocket. “You just get ready to write another check.”

Three

“Lily, your order’s up.”

“Thanks, May,” Lily told the short-order cook who’d slapped down the BLT with extra mayo and fries for table six. Grabbing the order, Lily juggled it, along with the two salads and a sandwich plate, and began weaving her way through the crowded diner.

She dropped off the salads and made her way to table five, where she served a roast beef po’boy, then turned to table six and delivered the BLT order. “Would you like another root beer?” she asked the guy who’d been in every day that week for lunch. He’d told her two days earlier that his name was Joe and that he was working with the construction crew down the block. Lily figured him to be in his mid-twenties. With his blond hair, sun-bronzed skin and a body that sported muscles from hard, physical labor, he’d caught the eye of her co-workers.

“That would be great,” he told her in that odd drawl that sounded like a combination of Old South and Brooklyn, New York. But the smile—the smile was pure southern charm—something she’d discovered these New Orleans boys had in abundance. Since arriving in the city two months ago she had witnessed it again and again.

“Be right back,” she promised, then stopped to take another order before making her way back to the counter. After turning in her new orders, she headed for the fountain where she joined Amber and Gina, the other waitresses at the diner, to load up her drinks.

“I see Brad Pitt’s twin is back,” Amber commented as she lined up her tray with glasses and began filling them with Coke, tea and ice water. “And why am I not surprised that he sat at one of your tables again?”

“I guess mine was the only one open,” Lily suggested.

Amber rolled her eyes. “Lily girl, wake up. Anyone with eyes in their head could see the guy’s got a thing for you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lily said, taken aback by Amber’s comment. “He’s just a boy.”

“Right. And I suppose you’re old enough to be his mother.”

Gina chuckled. “She’s right, you know. That fellow’s got to be at least twenty-five. And if you’re older than that, it’s not by much.”

She wasn’t. She’d turned twenty-five on her last birthday. Yet, she felt a lifetime older. “I guess I just feel older because I’m a widow and I have a child.”

“Aw shoot, honey, I forgot,” Gina said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Lily told her, uncomfortable that her fib had generated sympathy from the other woman.

“Listen, I know how hard it is to lose a man you love. I’ve buried three husbands myself. But, trust me. It gets easier with time. You’ll see.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Lily murmured, eager to end the conversation.

Gina gave her shoulder a pat. “In the meantime, don’t go ruling out Construction Joe over there. At least the guy’s got a job, which is more than I can say for my last husband. Besides, you’re still young. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

But she didn’t feel young, Lily thought as she finished loading her drink orders. Probably because her life had been filled with so many changes in the ten years since her grandmother had died, and she’d gone to live with her mother. Those first two years in Florida had been frightening, living with the stranger who’d given birth to her, trying to fit in at a new school, in a new city. The one bright spot had been Adam. She’d been an awkward, shy girl, but he had treated her like a real person. He’d been sweet and kind to her, listened to the things she had to say. He’d made her feel special. And when her mother had accidentally overdosed on her insulin and died so suddenly, Adam had rescued her. He’d sent her to a Catholic boarding school, and when she’d graduated, he’d made her his wife. A shiver raced down her spine as she thought back on all the little things that had pointed to a sick, dangerous man. How could she have been so blind for so long? And what would have happened to Timmy if she hadn’t gotten him away from Adam when she had?

“Hey, Lily.” Amber nudged her. “Your order’s up.”

Shoving away thoughts of the past, Lily went back to work. She dropped off two more orders, four glasses of tea and brought Joe his root beer. “There you go. How about dessert? We’ve got apple pie, bread pudding and, since it’s Mardi Gras time, king cake.”

“I’ll pass on the dessert but, speaking of Mardi Gras, I was wondering if you might like to catch a parade with me this weekend.”

Oh darn, Lily thought. Amber and Gina had been right. “I’m afraid I can’t. But thanks for asking.”

“Already have plans, huh?”

“Yes,” Lily said, thinking of Timmy.

“Maybe another time when you’re not busy?”

Lily hesitated, not wanting to lead him on, but not wanting to bruise his ego, either. “Actually, another time wouldn’t work, either. I have other commitments that demand most of my time. I’m sorry.”

Joe’s hazel eyes lost some of their spark. He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, huh? I suppose it was dumb of me to think you wouldn’t already have a guy in your life.”

Regretting that she’d failed to read his interest properly, Lily tried to explain, “I do have a guy in my life. But not the kind you mean. He’s my son. And he takes up just about all of my spare time.”

“You’ve got a kid?” Joe asked, clearly surprised.

“Yes. He just turned three and he’s a bundle of energy.”

“What about his dad?”

Lily immediately wished she hadn’t opened the discussion. “I’m a widow,” she said and, because she couldn’t bring herself to look at him directly after the lie, she began clearing the remains of his lunch from the table. She’d never been very good at lying—something to do with her Catholic-school upbringing most likely—yet for the past six months she’d told more lies than she’d ever dreamed of telling in a lifetime.

“Geez, I’m sorry, Lily. I didn’t realize, I mean you’re so young.”

“It’s all right. You had no way of knowing.”

“Well, maybe you could get a sitter—”

“The truth is, I don’t date,” she told him as she picked up her tray. “But you might want to ask Amber. I think she’d really enjoy going to the parade with you, and the two of you would have a great time.”

Not waiting for a response she turned away, more eager than ever for three o’clock to come so she could end this day and head to Gertie’s to pick up Timmy.

After she’d finished scrubbing down the counters and refilling the napkin holders, Lily stripped off her apron. She retrieved her purse and jacket from the office out back and started toward the table where Amber, Gina, May and Nancy Lee, the owner of the River Bend Diner, were gathered around Ricardo. One of the diner’s regular patrons, Ricardo was known only by the singular name, and was reported to be a maven of fashion. Because he was always impeccably dressed and well groomed, Lily likened him to a young Ricardo Montalban. With his neatly styled black hair, laughing dark eyes and olive skin, he was a favorite among the ladies at the diner who didn’t seem to mind that Ricardo preferred men to women. Probably because Ricardo neither apologized nor flaunted his sexuality, she mused. It was part of who he was. Just as his talent for making a woman beautiful was part of who he was.

“Excuse me,” she said, interrupting the chatter. “Nancy Lee, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to head out.”

“But you haven’t heard what Ricardo’s got planned,” Amber exclaimed. And, with the enthusiasm of a twenty-year-old who lived for the next party, Amber began to explain. “You know that Ricardo here has this really rad store with all kinds of clothes and makeup and stuff, right?”

Lily nodded. She’d heard about the specialty shop that carried exorbitantly priced costumes, wigs and ladies’ apparel.

“Well, he says we can pick out any outfit we want for Mardi Gras Day from his store and he’ll let us have it at half-price. And get this, he’s going to help us do our hair and makeup. Isn’t that major cool?”

“That’s very kind of you,” Lily offered, even though she had no intention of taking the man up on his offer. The month of parades leading up to the big celebration was more than enough for her. She certainly had no intention of dressing up for the city’s big party day. Aside from Mardi Gras sounding a bit wild for her, she couldn’t imagine spending her hard-earned money on a costume that she’d wear once and never use again.

“Lily’s right. That’s real nice of Ricardo,” Nancy Lee said as she shifted the ever-present gum in her mouth. A well-preserved woman in her late-fifties, Nancy Lee eyed her employees. “Just make sure you girls don’t bankrupt me by plying Ricardo here with free food and drinks to show your appreciation.”

“You wound me, Señora Nancy,” Ricardo said in a voice that still held the thick accent of his native Spain. With a hand pressed dramatically to his heart, he continued, “This offer is merely to show my gratitude to you and these ladies for making this foreigner welcome.”

Nancy Lee let out a bawdy laugh. “Ricardo, you faker you. You’re no more a foreigner than I am. Why, you’ve been living here for twenty years that I know of.”

“Ah, but were it not for you and your lovely ladies, I would have returned to Madrid long ago. It is your friendship that keeps me here.”

“Along with all those rich ladies uptown who spend a fortune on the clothes and makeup you sell in that shop of yours,” Nancy Lee added.

“What can I say? I have been blessed with an eye for beauty, and it is a gift that I share with my friends. That I wish to share with you. You need only to tell Ricardo who you wish to be, and I will make it happen.”

Lily listened in amusement as Ricardo went about describing how he would transform each of them in outfits ranging from Britney Spears to dance-hall queens to European royalty. It was like being a little girl and playing dress up—only on a much grander scale than the dress-up games she’d played as a youngster.

“And what about you Señorita Lily? Whom do you wish to be?”

Lily blinked, caught off guard by the question and at becoming the center of attention. “I…I don’t know,” she said.

“You do not have a secret fantasy to be someone else for a day? Perhaps a movie star or a famous figure from the past?”

“No,” she said honestly, because since escaping from Adam six months ago, her total focus had been on erasing any trace of Elisabeth Webster.

“Then perhaps you would like to be Scheherazede, the sultan’s wife, or Princess Jasmine in the tale of Arabian Nights. Or maybe Shakespeare’s Juliet.”

Lily laughed. “No. I don’t think so.”

Ricardo made a frame of his hands and positioned it around her face, as though he saw her as a canvas and was trying to determine what shades of paint he wanted to use. “With your cheekbones, the green eyes and mouth, I could turn you into Faith Hill or perhaps a young Marilyn Monroe.”

“I don’t know about the Marilyn Monroe gig,” Amber chimed in. “But you might be right about the Faith Hill thing. Lily’s got that pale skin and delicate-looking thing going that Faith has.”

Ricardo tipped up her chin and examined her face from several angles. “The hairdresser who’s responsible for this mess should be shot. You should let it grow. But since Mardi Gras is only a few weeks away, we will lighten the color and work with some hairpieces.”

Lily took a step back, smoothed a hand over her hair. She wasn’t about to admit that she was the one responsible for chopping off the long blond hair and dying it the dark honey shade. It had been one of the many steps she’d taken in the past six months to disguise her appearance in order to distance herself from the woman she had been. “Thanks, I’ll think about it,” Lily said, but she had no intention of doing so.

“Very well. You come to Ricardo when you decide.”

“Well, I’ve already decided. I want the Britney Spears look,” Amber declared. “In fact, how about I follow you back to the shop now?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Gina added. “You want to come with us, Lily? Maybe you’ll see something you like.”

“Thanks, but I can’t,” she said. “I need to pick up my son.”

Assuming a karate stance, Michael faced the two serious-looking Crenshaw boys. “All right, guys, prepare to go down,” he told them and swiped at the air dramatically, making the appropriate hi-ya sounds before he lunged at the two giggling towheads.

Seven-year-old Petey kicked out his leg. His six-year-old brother, Micky, did the same. When Petey kicked out again and his foot came within a few inches of him, Michael pretended to go down. He lay on the carpet unmoving, with his eyes closed, and waited until the two boys came to stand over him.

“Uncle Mike?” Petey nudged him with his toe.

Michael opened his eyes and grabbed them both around the middle. “Gotcha,” he cried out and fell back, pulling the two boys on top of him.

“Say uncle or die,” Petey demanded as they climbed on top of him.

“Uncle,” Michael said, much to their delight.

“All right, boys. It’s time for bed. Let your Uncle Mike up.”

“Aw, Mom,” the boys whined in unison.

“Don’t ‘aw, Mom’ me. Tomorrow’s a school day,” Janie Crenshaw told her sons. Dressed in green cords and a sweater, she stood with her hands on her hips and attempted to appear stern. Michael grinned to himself. With her petite frame and honey-colored hair pulled into a ponytail, Janie looked like a kid herself.

“But Uncle Mike needs us to show him the rest of the new moves we learned in karate so he’ll know how to defend himself against the bad guys. Don’t ’cha, Uncle Mike?” Petey asked hopefully, with the laughing hazel eyes that reminded Michael so much of the boy’s late father.

“Yeah, I do. But I think you guys have given me enough new stuff to work on for now. You can show me the rest the next time I come over.”

“Tomorrow?” Micky asked.

“Gee, partner, I wish I could. But I’m afraid I’ve got this really big case I’m working on and I’m going out of town tomorrow.”

“For how long?” Petey asked.

Michael rubbed at the back of his neck. He loved the kids, and didn’t want to disappoint them. “It could be a couple of weeks, maybe even a month.” The truth was, he didn’t know how long it would take him to pick up Elisabeth Webster’s trail. With a six-month head start, the woman could be just about anywhere by now. But wherever she was, he intended to find her within the thirty days specified so he could collect the rest of that fee from her husband.

“I bet it’s a robbery case like the ones you and my dad used to work on,” Petey offered. “And you’re going to catch the bad guys and lock them up in jail. Then you’ll be a hero just like my dad was.”

Michael felt that hitch in his chest again as he listened to Petey describe what he believed to be the way his father had died. As Pete Crenshaw’s partner and the man indirectly responsible for his death, Michael had felt an obligation to shield the boys from the ugly truth. Unfortunately, he had been too late to shield Janie. She’d already found out about Pete and Giselle.

As long as he lived, Michael would never be able to forgive himself for destroying the Crenshaws’ lives the way he had by introducing a viper like Giselle into their midst. And while Janie had argued with him, threatening to tell the department that it had been Pete who had been guilty of the pillow talk that had led to the botched drug bust and Pete’s death, she had gone along with him in the end. She had allowed him to protect her boys with an edited version of what had happened that night five years ago when their father had been killed. While the boys had been too young to understand at the time, Michael had known that as they grew older they would want to know how their father had died. He owed it to Pete to let his sons believe their father had died a hero. So he stuck to the story he’d given to the Houston Police Department, to Pete’s sons and to his own family. Doing so had cost him a great deal in terms of career, family and friendship. But the way he’d looked at it, he’d paid a much smaller price than Pete had. He was still alive and watching Pete’s boys grow up. Whereas Pete was dead and would never know his sons.

“Only you’re not going to get shot and have to go to heaven the way Daddy did, will you, Uncle Mike?” Micky asked.

“Are you kidding? With all these fancy karate moves you and your brother have been teaching me, nobody better mess with me,” Michael joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Okay, boys, kiss Uncle Mike good-night.”

“Kissing is for girls,” Petey informed his mother. “Us men don’t kiss.”

“Yeah, us men don’t kiss,” Micky parroted.

Michael bit back a grin. “Trust me, guys, someday you’re going to change your mind about that. What do you say we shake hands?”

“I guess that would be okay,” Petey said solemnly.

Michael held out his hand. And when Petey offered his smaller hand, Michael took it and hugged the boy close. Then he did the same thing with Micky.

“Well, I’m a girl, and I want a kiss,” Janie told her sons.

Both boys looked to him. “It’s all right for us guys to kiss a girl—especially if the girl happens to be a mom.”

Satisfied with the answer, both boys kissed and hugged their mother. “You going to kiss Mom good-night, too, Uncle Mike?” Micky asked him.

Janie flushed. “I’m not Uncle Mike’s mom,” she informed her son.

“But I saw Jason’s mom kissing that guy Eric she’s supposed to marry. Jason said Eric’s going to be his new dad,” Micky argued.

“But your Uncle Mike and I aren’t married, and he isn’t your dad,” Janie explained.

“But Petey and I want him to be our dad. It’s not fair. Jason’s going to have two dads and we don’t have any. So maybe if you kissed Uncle Mike, you and him could get married and then Uncle Mike could stay with us all the time and be our dad,” Micky offered.

“Oh, Micky,” Janie said. “It doesn’t work that way, sweetie.”

Oh man, Michael thought, feeling as though he were dancing in quicksand. From the stricken look on Janie’s face, she felt the same. “Your Mom’s right, partner. That’s not how it works.”

“Then how does it work?” Petey demanded.

“When two people get married it’s because they love each other and they want to spend the rest of their lives together,” Janie explained.

“Well, Uncle Mike loves us and we love him,” Petey reasoned. “Don’tcha, Uncle Mike?”

Michael felt as though someone had just reached inside his chest and closed a fist around his heart. He stooped down so that he was eye level with the two boys. “Yeah. I do love you guys. And I love your mom, too—but not the way a man loves a woman he marries.” Perhaps if he and Janie hadn’t both loved Pete, things between them might have been different. As it was, Pete would always stand between them. Pete—and his own guilt for the hand he’d played in destroying their marriage.

“What your Uncle Mike is trying to say is that he and I love each other like a brother and sister,” Janie clarified.

“But brothers and sisters can’t get married to each other,” Petey said in that what-a-yucky-idea tone that only a seven-year-old boy could pull off.

“And that’s why your Uncle Mike and I could never get married,” Janie said. “Do you understand?”

Petey shrugged. “I guess so. You’re saying you don’t love him the way you loved my dad, because he’s like your brother or something.”

“Or something,” Janie conceded.

“But it sure would have been cool to have Uncle Mike be our dad,” Petey said with disappointment.

Michael ruffled the two blond heads. “And it would have been cool to be your dad. But since I can’t, how about Uncle Mike the Karate King?” And to lighten the moment, Michael made the ridiculous hi-ya sound again and began chopping at the air—sending both boys into fits of giggles.

“All right,” Janie said, clapping her hands. “Let’s get those teeth brushed and hit the sack. I’ll be there in a few minutes to tuck you in.”

“’Night, Uncle Mike,” Petey said. Evidently forgetting about guys not kissing, he wrapped his arms around Michael’s neck and kissed his cheek.

“’Night, partner,” Michael said, and hugged both boys in turn.

Once the boys had left the room, Janie said, “I’m sorry they put you on the spot that way. I hadn’t realized they might misconstrue things.”

“They’re just kids, Janie.”

“I know. But maybe I haven’t been fair to them. I mean, after what happened with Pete, and that mess with you in the department…well, leaving Houston and starting over here in Florida seemed like the right thing to do. Maybe it wasn’t.”

“You did what you felt was best at the time.”

She looked up at him out of those big doe eyes. “We both know I left Texas because I needed to get away from the memories of what Pete had done to me, to our family.”

“Pete loved you, Janie.”

“Is that why he betrayed me? Is that why he broke his oath as a police officer and tried to double-cross those drug dealers so he could get money to run away with Giselle?”

Michael went to her, took her in his arms. “He was confused. The thing you have to remember is that Pete realized he’d made a mistake. That’s why he called me that night. He wanted out. He wanted to fix things, make them right with you.”

As long as he lived, he’d never forget that night, that phone call from Pete telling him that he’d planned to leave Janie and the boys for Giselle. He had told Giselle that the buy with the Russian was a sting. The two of them were supposed to take the money and run, only now he was having second thoughts, but he’d left things too late. Not even Michael could fix it for him this time.

Michael could still hear himself insisting Pete tell him when he’d set up the exchange. He should have known Pete had lied, but by the time he’d figured it out, and arrived on the scene, things were already out of control. Pete had gone down trying to save Giselle. It didn’t matter that he’d managed to take out the dealers, he hadn’t saved Pete. He’d let Giselle get away—on the condition that she kept her mouth shut about Pete’s involvement—and with the promise if she ever said a word he would kill her. “He wouldn’t have gone through with it, Janie.”

She looked up at him, pressed a sisterly kiss to his lips and stepped back. “You’re a good man, Michael Patrick Sullivan. But you and I both know that you’re lying.”

“Janie—”

“Stop making excuses for him!”

“I’m not,” he argued.

“Yes, you are. Michael, you’ve made a career of covering for Pete. Even back when the three of us were in college, you were covering for him. When Pete broke team curfew and almost got kicked off the football team. And when Pete partied too hard and missed his English final, you were the one who sweet-talked the professor into letting him take the makeup. And then you locked yourself up with him all weekend to cram.”

“He was my friend. Friends look out for each other.”

“Don’t you see?” Janie said. “From the time you two were kids, you’ve been bailing Pete out of trouble. Well, Pete’s dead. He doesn’t need you to cover for him anymore.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he insisted.

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” he told her. “That night…that night he wouldn’t have gone through with it. I knew Pete, Janie. He wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

Janie sighed. “I knew Pete, too. He was funny and sweet and lovable. And he was also weak, irresponsible and a little selfish.” She held up her hand, cutting off his protest. “It’s true. I may have loved Pete, but I wasn’t blind to what he was, Michael.”

“You think I am?”

“I think you don’t want to believe that the kid you took a blood brother’s oath with at ten grew up to be less honorable than you did.”

“I’m not a saint,” he fired back, annoyed by the implication.

“No, but you have a sense of honor that Pete never had. If things had been the other way around and you’d been the one who’d been killed that night and had left a wife and two babies behind, do you think Pete would still be hanging around, trying to take care of your family for you?”

The Pete he’d known wouldn’t have hung around. Not because he didn’t care, but because he’d always found it difficult to deal with other people’s problems. Feeling the need to defend his dead friend, he turned around and said, “Pete was a good man.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t. But he’s dead, Michael. You need to quit blaming yourself for his mistakes.”

“I should have seen what was going on, that Giselle was using him,” he argued, and stalked over to the window to stare out at the dark street.

“He didn’t want you to see. Just like he didn’t want me to see. He knew what he was doing was wrong. The mistakes were Pete’s. Not yours. I never blamed you, and you need to stop blaming yourself.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he told her.

She came up behind him, touched his back. “You have to. It’s time you moved on with your life, Michael. It’s time we both did. I didn’t realize until tonight how selfish I’d been until I listened to the boys ask you to be their father.”

“They’re just kids. Besides, you couldn’t be selfish if you tried.”

“It was selfish of me to encourage you to leave your job and move here away from your family when things were so strained between you and your father.”

“My decision to leave the Houston P.D. had nothing to do with you. Neither did my problems with my father.”

“But you might have stayed in Texas and worked things out with him if it hadn’t been for me and the boys. We both know the real reason you moved to Florida was so you could look out for us—the same way you were always looking out for Pete. I shouldn’t have let you do that. It was selfish.”

“It wasn’t your choice. It was mine. I wanted to be near you and the boys. And the only selfish thing you’ve done is not offer me some more of those chocolate chip cookies you made.”

Janie hesitated a moment, then said, “All right. Go on into the kitchen and find yourself something to drink while I make sure my little monsters are in bed. Then I’ll see if I have any cookies left.”

As much at home in the Crenshaw house as he was in his own, Michael put the teakettle on for Janie and a pot of coffee on for himself. While he waited for the water to heat and his coffee to brew, he piled a half-dozen of the chocolate chip cookies onto a plate.

When Janie joined him a short time later, she smiled at the sight of the tea fixings. “It’s kind of late for coffee, isn’t it?” she asked as she selected her tea and poured the steaming water into the cup to steep.

“I could use the caffeine. I’ve got a lot of prep work to do tonight if I hope to leave in the morning.”

“More corporate espionage? Or another one of those millionaire investors who skipped town with his clients’ money?”

“A runaway wife.”

Janie arched her eyebrow as she added sugar to her tea. “I thought you’d sworn off those types of cases and were sticking with the corporate stuff.”

“I did, and I was. But the lady’s husband made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” he said in his best Brando/godfather imitation.

Janie laughed and passed him the milk for his coffee. “That was terrible. I hope the guy didn’t actually sound that bad.”

“He didn’t. But he might as well have. I didn’t like him.”

“Then why’d you take the case?” she asked.

“The money primarily. He offered me a million bucks to find her.”

Janie nearly choked on her tea. “Who is this guy?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.” And the truth was, he suspected Janie would be better off not knowing. “Let’s just say, he’s someone with deep pockets who desperately wants his much younger wife back.”

“You said money was the primary reason. What’s the other one?”

“The woman swiped the guy’s kid. A little boy who’s three. I may not have liked the man, but he has a right to see his child. And the kid has a right to know his father.” He couldn’t help thinking once again how Petey and Micky hadn’t had a chance to know their own father.

Janie reached across the table, patted his hand. “See what I mean about that honorable streak of yours?”

“It’s a job, Janie,” he said.

“It’s more than a job. You’re doing it for the little boy.”

“And the money.”

“All right, for the money, too. But something tells me you could have said no to the money, but not to helping that little boy.”

It was true, which made him feel like a sap. He didn’t even know the kid, but the photo he’d gotten from Webster had shown a brown-haired little boy with serious dark eyes. “Maybe,” he finally conceded. “But the money was a big factor, too. Speaking of which, I want you to have this for the boys.” He slid a bank book across the table to Janie. He’d opened an account in her sons’ names into which he’d deposited the bulk of the retainer.

Janie’s eyes widened as she stared at the bank book. Then she shoved the book back at him. “I can’t accept this. I can’t believe you actually thought that I would. It’s bad enough that I allowed you to pay for their karate lessons. But this…this is going too far.”

“Come on, Janie. You’ve been worried for months about being laid off from your job. That money will take some of the pressure off and even allow you to plan for the boys’ futures.”

“They’re my sons, Michael, and my responsibility. Not yours.”

“I’m their godfather. What’s wrong with me wanting to help?”

“What’s wrong is that you’re working at a job you hate. You’ve cut off ties with a father you adored, out of some misplaced sense of guilt. You have no close friendships outside of me and the boys, and I can’t even remember the last time you had a woman in your life.”

“There are tons of women in my life,” he said defensively.

“I’m talking about a serious relationship—not one that consists of a casual dinner followed by casual sex.”

Because she was hitting some sore spots, he fired back without thinking, “And what about you, Janie? You’re pretty, smart and one of the best women I know, but I don’t see you letting any guy get close to you.”

“I’ll admit I have been gun-shy for a long time because of what Pete did. But there is someone I’m sort of seeing.”

“There is?” he countered, stunned by the news. Immediately protective, he asked, “Who is he?”

“No one you know. Besides, it’s nothing serious. Not yet anyway. But at least I’m willing to take a chance again. You need to, as well.” She let out a breath. “Look, I really appreciate this,” she said, indicating the bank book. “But I can’t accept it.”

“Listen, I know it seems like a lot of money, but it’s just the retainer I got for this case. When I find the woman and her son, I’m going to collect the rest of my fee.” He saw no point in telling her that if he didn’t find Mrs. Webster and her son, he would have to return the money.

“But it’s your money. You should use it to do something for you.”

He grinned at her. “When I collect the balance, I plan to. I’m going to buy that sailboat I’ve had my eye on, take some time off and spend it sailing.” He caught her hand, placed the bank book in it. “But right now, I want you to have this. For the boys.”

“But suppose you can’t find this woman?” Janie asked.

“Oh, I’ll find her all right.” Elisabeth Webster didn’t have a prayer at remaining hidden from him. “You can count on it.”

Four

“Yeah, that’s her. That’s Beth,” the woman named Susie, working behind the drugstore counter, told Michael as she studied the photograph of Elisabeth Webster he’d shown her. “Only she wasn’t wearing any diamonds like those when she worked here.”

Excited to have finally come across someone who had actually been able to identify the Webster woman, he asked, “Can you remember how long ago that was?”

“Gee, probably two—no, two and a half months ago. I remember because she quit right after Thanksgiving weekend without giving Mr. Perkins any notice. He was pretty steamed, it being the holidays and all.”

At least he was getting closer, Michael told himself. After spending the past ten days retracing Elisabeth Webster’s path through Florida and Mississippi, he’d ended up in the small, quiet town of El Dorado, Arkansas, population twenty-five thousand. Not exactly a hot spot like Miami and West Palm Beach where she’d lived and partied with her husband for the past seven years. It certainly was an odd choice for a woman who was used to the nightclub scene. “Your boss mentioned she left because of a family emergency.” Which, in itself, was interesting, Michael decided, since he’d been able to find no family whatsoever for Elisabeth Webster other than her husband and son.

“Susie, how about a piece of that pie?” a burly-looking guy called out from the end of the counter.

“Be right there,” the girl replied, and hustled down to the other end of the old-fashioned counter to serve the fellow a thick slab of pie.

While he waited for Susie to return, Michael tried to reconcile the Elisabeth Webster described in the file to the woman who had worked at a day-care center in Mississippi before moving to the sleepy little Arkansas town where she’d worked behind the counter in a drugstore. It simply didn’t make sense.

“You want me to freshen up that coffee for you?” Susie asked, breaking into his thoughts.

“Sure.” He shoved his cup toward the waitress and allowed the woman to pour him the coffee that he neither wanted nor needed. “Did Beth happen to mention what the family emergency was?”

“She claimed her grandmother was sick.”

Michael added sugar and milk to the coffee. “You didn’t believe her?” he prompted.

The gum-smacking redhead looked around then lowered her voice conspiratorially and said, “Let’s just say, I don’t think it was a sick grandmother that made her pack up and leave here quick like she did.”

“Then why do you think she left?” Michael asked.

“I think she was hiding from someone, and she took off when she thought they were getting too close.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because she was scared.”

“She told you she was scared?” Michael asked.

“Didn’t have to. I could tell.” When he arched his eyebrow in question, Susie continued, “First off, Beth was real quiet. Most women with looks like hers do everything they can to play up their good looks and draw attention to themselves. But not Beth. She didn’t seem to like people noticing her. Of course, they did notice her and that only seemed to make her more uncomfortable.”

“Maybe she was shy,” Michael offered, wanting to get back to the point of the discussion—which was why this young woman had believed Elisabeth Webster was afraid.

“I know shy when I see it. My cousin Penny is shy. The girl gets tongue-tied and blushes six shades of red when a man gets within ten feet of her. Beth wasn’t shy. She was scared. You could see it in her eyes.”

“See what?”

“Fear. I saw that same look in the eyes of a stray kitten I once rescued when a neighbor’s dog cornered it under a porch. After I ran the dog off, I tried to coax the kitten out, but the little thing spit and hissed and clawed at me for all it was worth. The poor thing was starving, but for the longest time it wouldn’t come out to eat the food I brought. When it finally came out to eat, it watched me the whole time like it expected me to turn on it at any minute. Beth had that same look. Like she wanted to trust you, but she was afraid to let her guard down even for a second.”

Michael frowned, disliking this image of a frightened Elisabeth Webster. He didn’t want to feel sorry for the woman. The last thing he needed was to see her as some damsel in distress instead of a meal ticket. Hardening his resolve, he recalled the data he’d collected on her. She was a young woman who had married a man more than twice her age. And when she’d grown unhappy in her marriage, she’d probably asked for a divorce. Only Webster, being the macho prick he was, had most likely tightened the leash on his wife. So she’d drugged him, stole his money and took off with the kid. If anyone was frightened in the whole mess, it was probably the little boy. “What about her son? Did you ever meet him?”

“I saw him a couple of times. A cute kid. But Beth was real protective of him—didn’t let anyone get too close. Except for Miss Margie, of course.”

“Miss Margie?” Michael prompted, suddenly alert.

“Margie Schubert. She owns the boardinghouse where Beth stayed while she was here in El Dorado. Miss Margie watched the little boy for Beth when she was at work. As far as I know, she was the only person Beth trusted him with.”

“Thanks, Susie. You’ve been a big help,” Michael told her, leaving a generous tip on the counter before going in search of Margie Schubert.

Finding Margie Schubert proved to be easy. Getting the lady to talk was a different story. Unlike the people at Perkins’s Drugstore, Margie Schubert was far less forthcoming about the woman who had resided in her boardinghouse. Finally, after nearly an hour, during which time Michael had done his best to convince the woman that he meant dear Beth and her baby no harm, the woman finally relented and agreed to answer a few questions.

“Let me see that ID of yours again,” Ms. Schubert demanded, and Michael handed over his photo credentials, identifying him as a private investigator. She eyed him warily. “You know you’re not the first one to come around here asking questions about Beth.”

“So you’ve told me.” Michael knew from Webster’s reports that two detectives had located Elisabeth in this small, rural town. But the former cop in him suspected it had been two of Webster’s enforcers who had been dispatched to bring back the wayward Mrs. Webster. And given Margie Schubert’s attitude, he was fairly sure that neither of the men had endeared themselves to the older woman.

“They said they were trying to locate Beth to tell her about an inheritance, some rich uncle who’d left her a lot of money.”

Having learned long ago that it was better to stick as close to the truth as possible, he said, “As far as I know, Beth, or rather, Elisabeth, didn’t have any living relatives other than her son and her husband. And, as I told you, I’m searching for her and her son on behalf of her husband. He’s feeling very bad about the spat they had, and he wants her to come home.”

The older woman frowned, her ample jowls giving her a forbidding expression. “Still can’t believe Beth was lying about her being a widow.”

“If it’s any consolation, I suspect she told you that to spare you from becoming involved in any kind of legal action.”

“What kind of legal action?” she asked sharply.

“Well, since Elisabeth…Beth,” he amended. “Since she took her son out of state without the father’s knowledge, it’s considered kidnapping. And since you were helping her, you could be considered an accessory.”

“How can a mother be charged with kidnapping her own child?” Ms. Schubert demanded, apparently not pleased by the accusation. “I’ve never heard such a thing. The poor girl would have spent every cent she earned on day care if I hadn’t kept the little one for her.”

“And it was kind of you to help her.” Michael saw no point in scaring the woman. As far as she was concerned, she’d helped out a friend. “I’m sure her husband will be glad to hear she has a friend like you.”

“You say her husband is rich?”

“Yes, he is,” Michael assured her.

The woman shook her gray head. “The girl sure didn’t act like she was married to money. Why, when I got sick, she was in this kitchen fixing up supper for my other tenants, washing dishes and changing the linens. Never once acted like it was beneath her the way rich folks usually do.”

“She was apparently very fond of you.”

“And I was fond of her,” Ms. Schubert countered. “The last thing I’d want to do is add to the girl’s troubles by talking to you.”

“But you do want to help her, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then, by helping me find her, you would be,” Michael assured the woman. “Even if she decides she doesn’t want to go back to her husband, he would be obligated to help her financially. I’m sure it can’t be easy for her being on her own and having a child to care for, too.”

“She never complained. And she took real good care of Timmy. Why, anyone with eyes in their head could see that as far as Beth was concerned, the sun rose and set on that little boy of hers.”

“Her husband said she was a good mother,” Michael said, although Webster had indicated just the opposite. “I’m sure Mr. Webster would be happy to pay a reward to anyone who could help me find his wife and son.”

“I’m not looking for any reward,” the woman informed him. “And if Beth ran away from the man, she must have had her reasons.”

He was beginning to wonder if the lady was right, but immediately cut off that line of thought. “From what I understand, he and his wife had a nasty argument, and the next thing he knew, she and the little boy were gone. I’m sure you can understand how worried Mr. Webster is, not knowing where they are.”

“I suppose so,” Ms. Schubert told him.

“There are a lot of crazy people out there in the world. Because of Mr. Webster’s wealth, he’s afraid that if the wrong person were to find out that she’s his wife, she and her little boy could be in danger. Maybe even held for ransom.”

“Oh my,” Ms. Schubert said in alarm. “I guess being rich isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Doesn’t seem like it to me,” Michael told her. And because he suspected she was weakening, he added, “If you can think of a place or the name of someone that Beth might have mentioned, anything that might help me locate her, you’d be doing her and her little boy a favor.”

“And if Beth doesn’t want to go back to this Webster fellow, she doesn’t have to?”

“No. Not unless that’s what she wants. My job is to make sure that she and her son are safe, and to let her know that her husband would like to see her. What she does after I tell her is up to her.”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, mind you,” Ms. Schubert began, “but she did mention going to New Orleans. She said her grandmother had an old friend who’d moved there years ago.”

“Did she happen to tell you the name of this friend?”

Margie Schubert shook her head. “And I didn’t ask.”

“Thank you, Ms. Schubert. You’ve been a tremendous help.” Michael stood and shook the woman’s hand.

“If you find Beth, would you give her something for me?”

“Sure,” Michael said.

The older woman disappeared into a back room of the sprawling house. When she returned, she handed him a photograph. It was of Elisabeth Webster and her son, Timmy. Only, the woman in the snapshot didn’t look anything like the glamorous creature in the studio photo Webster had given him. This woman wasn’t wearing diamonds. Nor was her hair a curtain of long blond silk that fell to her shoulders. Her lips weren’t pulled into a sexy pout and painted a bold red. And she wasn’t wearing a strapless gown that revealed milk-pale shoulders and cleavage that would make a man’s mouth water for a glimpse of what lay beneath the sheer black lace. Instead, the woman in the snapshot was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt that only gave a hint of the curves that lay beneath. Instead of looking sexy, she looked wholesome seated in the center of a pile of leaves. Her hair was pulled up into a lopsided ponytail strewn with leaves in various shades of orange and gold and brown. Her lips were bare and the smile on them totally lacking in artifice as she clutched the laughing little boy in her lap.

“I took that the day before she left. She and Timmy were raking the yard for me, and they were having such a good time. I remember thinking how happy they looked that day,” she said, her expression softening with the memory. “I thought Beth might like to have the picture, to remember her time here with me.”

“I’ll see that she gets it,” Michael promised, and tucked the photo into his pocket.

Later that night in his hotel room Michael made a series of calls and planned a trip to Elisabeth Webster’s grandmother’s old neighborhood, then he stretched out on the bed. Pulling the snapshot out of his shirt pocket, he stared at the woman whose green eyes had haunted him from the moment he’d first seen them in the framed photograph on Adam Webster’s desk. While he’d found the sexy Elisabeth Webster appealing, it was this softer version of the woman that intrigued him. “Who are you?” he murmured to the fragile-looking woman in the photo. Was she the calculating, coldhearted gold digger who’d drugged her husband and stolen his child? Or was she this innocent-looking creature who pitched in to help a sick old woman in need?

The sound of his cell phone ringing pulled Michael from his disturbing thoughts. He tossed the photo onto the nightstand and snatched up his phone. “Sullivan.”

“I got your message. You said you had some news for me. Have you found Elisabeth?”

Michael gritted his teeth at the sound of Webster’s voice and reminded himself that the man was paying him to do a job. “Not yet. But I’m getting closer. I talked to some people in Arkansas who knew her as Beth. She left here about two and a half months ago.”

“I’m not interested in where my wife was, Mr. Sullivan. I want to know where she is now.”

“The best way for me to find her is to retrace her path so I can get an idea of where she was headed. Thanks to the bozos you sent after her, getting people to talk hasn’t been easy.”

“If finding my wife was easy, I wouldn’t be offering you such a large sum of money to find her, now, would I?” He paused. “Of course, if you don’t think you can find her—”

“I’ll find her, and the boy, too. I talked to the owner of the boardinghouse in Arkansas where they stayed and was able to get a more recent photo of her and your son.”

“I want to see it,” Webster demanded.

“I’ve already overnighted a copy to you. I’m headed for Alabama in the morning to check out a lead.”

“What kind of lead?”

“The lady who ran the boardinghouse said your wife mentioned visiting one of her grandmother’s old neighbors.”

“But Elisabeth’s grandmother has been dead for more than ten years. She’s had no contact with any of those people,” Webster told him.

“Like I said, I’m checking out a lead.” What he didn’t tell Webster was that the lead would take him to New Orleans.

“It sounds like a waste of time to me. Just be aware that the clock is ticking on our agreement, Sullivan. You said you could find my wife within thirty days. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I’ll deliver on my end of the bargain. You just make sure you have the rest of my money ready,” Michael said, then he cut the connection.

Tired, Michael lay back down on the bed. But when ten minutes had passed and he was no closer to sleeping than he’d been when he’d lain down, Michael sat up. Might as well get a head start for Mobile and then get on to New Orleans, he decided. And after grabbing his bag and jacket, he picked up the snapshot. He took another long look at it, then shoved it into his pocket and headed out the door.

“Mommy, I no feel good,” Timmy whined to Lily as she settled him into the big, comfy bed at Gertie’s house.

“I know you don’t, baby,” she soothed, and pressed her hand to his forehead. “It’s because you have chicken pox. But the shot and medicine Dr. Brinkman gave you is going to make you feel all better real soon.”

“I’m going to fix you a special treat this afternoon,” Gertie Boudreaux promised as she came into the spare room and joined the pair.

“Cookies?” Timmy asked hopefully.

“Something better than cookies,” Gertie assured him. “But you need to be a good boy and take a little rest now while your mama goes to work.”

“I not seepy,” Timmy informed her.

“I know you’re not, sweetie. But if the medicine is going to work and make you feel better, you need to rest,” Lily told him.

“You bring me ’prize?” Timmy asked her.

“All right. Mommy will bring you a surprise.” Lily kissed his forehead. Then she planted a kiss on his teddy’s forehead, as it was her custom.

“And ’prize for Teddy, too,” Timmy added.

While she knew Timmy was pushing it, there was no way she could refuse him. “All right. Two surprises. One for you and one for Teddy. But that means you need to be a really good boy, and do what Gertie tells you until Mommy comes back.”

“’Kay,” Timmy told her, and hugging his teddy close, he snuggled beneath the covers and closed his eyes.

She sat on the edge of the bed a few minutes longer until his breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. But even when he’d dozed off, Lily found herself reluctant to leave him.

As though sensing her thoughts, Gertie placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, child. What he needs now is to rest.”

With leaden feet, Lily stood and followed Gertie out of the room and into the kitchen of the small cottage. But her thoughts remained with her son. “The doctor said it’s a mild case, but he looks so sick.”

“If you ask me, you look a lot worse than he does.”

“I’m all right.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you look as though a strong gust of wind could knock you over. I bet you didn’t sleep a wink last night. And you were probably too worried about that boy of yours to bother eating anything this morning, weren’t you?”

Lily saw no point in telling her that when Timmy had awakened her saying that he didn’t feel well during the wee hours of the morning, she’d panicked upon discovering he had a fever. When she noted that what she’d thought was a rash during his bath had spread to his belly, she’d been terrified. The emergency call to the pediatrician, and his diagnosis by phone that it sounded like chicken pox, did nothing to ease her worries. She’d been unable to sleep a wink after that and had sat beside her son’s bed until morning, when she’d taken him to the doctor.

“You better sit down before you fall down, and let me fix you something to eat.”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. And I need to get to work.”

“Work isn’t going nowhere, and you’re not leaving here until you have something in your belly,” Gertie insisted.

Knowing there was little point in arguing with Gertie Boudreaux, Lily sat down at the small kitchen table where she’d sat, for the first time, two and a half months ago and poured out her troubles to her grandmother’s friend. To this day, Lily hadn’t figured out how old Gertie was because she had the same white hair and plump figure now that she’d had all those years ago when she’d lived next door to Lily and her grandmother in Alabama. And just as she had done when Lily had first shown up on her doorstep with Timmy in late November, scared and desperate after narrowly escaping Adam’s men, Gertie had set about calming her with food. Gertie served up two cups of coffee, placed a plate with steaming biscuits in the center of the table. A dish with real butter, not margarine, followed. She plopped a plate, napkin and utensils in front of Lily.

“I still can’t believe I let Timmy catch chicken pox.”

“And what makes you think you had anything to do with it one way or the other?” Gertie asked as she took the seat next to her. She picked up the dish and peeled back the cloth to reveal the hot flaky biscuits and held them out to Lily. When Lily selected only one, Gertie added a second one to her plate, then served herself.

“The doctor said Timmy probably came into contact with someone, maybe one of the children at the playground.”

“Or he might have picked it up from someone in the grocery or at that hamburger place he likes to go to,” Gertie informed her. “He’s a child, Lily. Children get chicken pox. Nothing you do or don’t do is going to stop that.”

“But did you see his eyes? How pitiful he looked?”

“Looked like he was laying it on pretty thick so you’d agree to bring him a surprise, if you ask me,” Gertie replied. “The little scamp’s got you wrapped around his little finger, Lily, and he knows it.”

“I wasn’t the only one who promised him a surprise.”

She dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “Us honorary grandmothers are allowed to spoil grandchildren.”

Lily leaned over and kissed the older woman’s wrinkled cheek. “Thank you for loving him.”

“Hard not to. That boy of yours is a charmer. Mark my words, he’s going to steal a lot of hearts.”

He’d certainly stolen hers. From the moment she’d known she was carrying him, she had loved Timmy. If only Adam had been able to get beyond his obsession with her to love his son. And just as she’d done so often during the past seven years, she questioned her own blindness to what Adam was. Lily thought of her grandmother, remembered how she’d told her the reason her mother didn’t live with them was because of the choices she’d made. Her mother had wanted to be famous, see her picture in fashion magazines, go to fancy parties, her grandmother had explained. Having a baby girl didn’t fit in with the lifestyle she’d craved. So when she’d been three months old, she’d left her with her grandmother and had never come back. It had been her mother’s choice.

And while she might not have felt she’d had a choice about marrying Adam since he had supported her following her mother’s death, she could never regret having done so. Because had she not married Adam, she wouldn’t have Timmy. No matter what had happened or would happen, she would never regret her son.

“Child, you going to butter that biscuit and eat it or just admire it?”

“Sorry,” Lily said, and smoothed butter onto the warm golden bread. Her eyes strayed toward the bedroom and she thought of her son asleep in the next room, how warm he had been.

“Lily, you need to stop worrying about him. He’s going to be fine.”

“I know. It’s just…he’s so little to have chicken pox already.”

“No littler than you were when you got them,” Gertie told her.

“I had chicken pox?”

“Sure did. Only yours were a lot worse than Timmy’s. Your poor grandmother, God rest her soul, worried something fierce you were going to have scars on that pretty face of yours. But you didn’t. Not a single one. And your skin’s still just as pretty now as it was when you were a baby.”

“I don’t remember,” Lily admitted.

“And Timmy probably isn’t going to remember getting them, either. Now eat,” she instructed.

Lily ate—more to appease Gertie than because of hunger. But fifteen minutes later, both biscuits were gone. So was the coffee. And she was feeling a great deal better—until she saw the time. Lily groaned. “Nancy Lee’s going to kill me. I’ve missed the breakfast crowd, and by the time I get there, the lunch rush will be starting. Let me help you clear these dishes and—”

“I’ll handle the dishes,” Gertie insisted, and took the plate and cup from her.

“All right. But only if you let me pick up something for your dinner.”

“You don’t need to be wasting your hard-earned money on me,” Gertie told her.

“Gertie…”

“We’ll see,” the older woman said, which was her way of saying no without using the word. “Now go check on that boy of yours like you’re itching to do and then get yourself out of here.”

Lily hurried from the kitchen to the bedroom where Timmy was sleeping. Her heart swelled with love as she looked at him. He was the one thing she’d done right in her life, Lily told herself. And to keep him safe, to protect him, she would fight a thousand Adams.

Gertie came up behind her, touched her shoulder. “He’s going to be fine,” she whispered. “You go on and stop worrying about him.”

After adjusting the blanket around him, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head and exited the room. “Okay, I’m going,” Lily told her as she glanced around the kitchen for her keys and sunglasses. She spied her keys, but no sunglasses, and decided she must have left them in the car.

Gertie handed Lily her purse. “Thanks,” she said, and kissed the older woman’s cheek, hugged her close. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“You’d do just fine, child. Now, where’s your coat? Did you leave it in the car?”

“I didn’t wear one. It’s nice outside. I think the winter’s finally over and spring’s arrived a little early.”

“Not according to the groundhog. He saw his shadow a couple of weeks ago, which means we’ve got ourselves another six weeks of winter. Bob Breck says a front’s coming through with some rain and that we’re going to have a light frost tonight. You’d better stop by your place on your way to work and pick up your coat and Timmy’s.”

“I thought New Orleans was known for its warm weather,” Lily grumbled.

“It is. But not in February. In February you’re liable to have the air conditioner on in the morning and the heater on by evening. Of course, come July, you’ll be wishing for the cool weather again.”

As Lily waved goodbye and slid behind the wheel of her car, she wondered if she and Timmy would still be around in July to wish for the cool weather. She’d already stayed in New Orleans longer than she had planned—and she’d involved Gertie far more than she should have. But she’d been so tired and scared when she’d arrived, just being with someone who knew who she was, feeling the freedom to at least use the nickname her grandmother had called her and not another alias had made her feel more sane. Gertie had been a godsend, a link to her grandmother and a time when her life had been simple. The time before she’d become a burden to her mother and then Adam Webster’s possession. As much as she hated the idea of leaving Gertie and uprooting Timmy again, she doubted that Adam had stopped looking for her.

Unless he had other things to worry about—things like the police discovering Adam had been involved in the murder of federal agent. She thought about the disk she’d found in Adam’s safe, taking it, along with some cash, the morning she’d escaped. Her hands shook each time she remembered drugging his morning coffee and then lying to the servants that he was sleeping in. To this day, she wondered how she had managed to act normal when she’d had Otto drive her and Timmy to the pediatrician’s office for an appointment she didn’t have, and how she had exited through the rear door with Timmy after asking to use the rest room.

Lily pulled her car to a stop and raced up the stairs of her house. After retrieving their jackets, she headed for the diner. As she did so, she recalled seeing the Miami newspaper two weeks after she’d escaped and recognizing the photo of a dead man named Carter she’d seen with Adam in his study. Only then did she remember having taken the disk from the safe, deciding it must be important if Adam kept it there. As long as she lived, she’d never forget finally accessing the disk and discovering it contained the names, photos and data on federal agents working on an undercover sting in the Miami area. And Carter had been one of the agents. Had the FBI connected Adam to the man’s death yet? she wondered. She’d left an anonymous message for them from a pay phone. She should make time to swing by the library this week and see if any of the newspapers had reported anything more about the agent’s death or an investigation of Adam as a suspect. If they had, then perhaps she wouldn’t have to worry about running anymore. She could begin planning a future for her and Timmy—one that went beyond simply staying alive.

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