Her breath came out in a soft rush, and with it came a debilitating flash of intuition. Even as he kissed her, she was shattered by a sense of loss. This would end. She would be alone again.

Chad raised his head just long enough to catch a flicker of something across her face.

“Darling, what’s the matter?”

She shrugged, lifting both shoulders off the chaise in a way that seemed as if she were getting set to run.

“We’re in this together,” he told her. With the backs of his knuckles he caressed her cheek.

His eyes searched her face as if there was nothing—or no one—more precious on earth. Her dread eased, and she allowed her tears to flow out of her like a receding tide.

Live in the moment. All you have is here and now.

“Meryl Sawyer writes romantic suspense that keeps you turning pages with lightning speed. Better Off Dead is a roller-coaster ride of romance, passion and edge-of-your-seat suspense. If you’re looking for a book you can’t put down, it doesn’t get any better than this.” —Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author of The Things We Do For Love

Praise for Meryl Sawyer’s other books

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

—Publishers Weekly on Tempting Fate

“Readers will appreciate the sharply drawn characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on Lady Killer

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

—Romantic Times on Closer Than She Thinks

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

—Publishers Weekly on Promise Me Anything

“A thrilling romantic intrigue that will fully satiate romance readers.”

—Midwest Book Review on Half Moon Bay

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

—Jill Marie Landis, author of Heartbreak Hotel

Better Off Dead
Meryl Sawyer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The best way to love anything is as if it might be lost.

—G. K. Chesterton

This book is dedicated to Sheila Field.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PROLOGUE

“YOU CAN RUN, sweetheart, but you can’t hide—not from me.”

Brock Hardesty muttered those words to himself after his top field agent delivered the news he’d been waiting for months to hear. They’d found Samantha Robbins.

He dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle and grinned at the high-tech device he held in the palm of his other hand. With the reverse ID he could monitor what phone number anyone in the building had dialed. The gadget electronically recorded the number and length of each call from his underground bunker beneath Obelisk Enterprise’s top secret headquarters.

At his convenience, Brock could check out any call his people made. If he discovered anything—anything—suspicious, he had a listening device installed in their office or assigned an operative to investigate. No one was beyond his reach.

Certainly not Samantha Robbins. It had taken a little longer than he’d expected, but he’d found the bitch. Disappearing was a lot more difficult than people believed. There was always a trail, a way of finding someone.

In this case, the key had been cold, hard cash. Money wasn’t his first love, but without it, he couldn’t indulge his true passion. Money often provided a trail or made a good trap, when he was after someone. He’d patiently waited until Samantha Robbins bought her condo with cash.

Brock gave himself full credit for finding Samantha. He knew that the Witness Protection Program—WITSEC—relocated witnesses in a place where they had no family, no friends, and little chance of running into someone who might recognize them. Contrary to what most people thought, WITSEC did not fabricate credit histories for their witnesses.

WITSEC created new identities, but it was up to each witness to establish credit. Getting a credit card was a no-brainer. So many offers arrived in the mail that it was a joke, but it would take several years and a clean payment record for a witness to parlay a good credit card track record into a home loan.

Samantha was different. She had enough money to buy a place.

He’d made a list of the states where Samantha had connections and eliminated them. His agents tracked homes purchased for cash in the remaining states. Without a credit history, she would have to pay cash for a place to live.

Of course, there was always the possibility that she would rent, but the psychologist he’d consulted insisted Samantha Robbins was the type who liked control. She wanted to run things, own things. The shrink had been right.

As Director of Security at Obelisk Enterprises, it was Brock’s job to make certain the group’s interests were protected—at all times. This woman was a threat. He’d said so from the day he and the Obelisk brass made a secret visit to the CFO at PowerTec. As the CFO’s assistant, she’d asked too many insightful questions.

Samantha Robbins had been suspicious about PowerTec’s dealings and should have been eliminated immediately. His superiors had insisted he allow the dumb-fucks at PowerTec to handle their employee.

What happened? Just what Brock said would happen. The snoopy bitch had notified the FBI, and the Feebies had sent an undercover agent to work at PowerTec. Brock had been forced to have the agent killed.

Even the Federal Marshals who ran the WITSEC program knew security should never be taken lightly. Not with this much at stake. Too many powerful, important people had everything to lose. They relied on Brock to make certain nothing went wrong.

Dominating one wall of his office was a world map on a liquid plasma television screen. The weather satellite displayed the cloud formations and used green Doppler striations to indicate where it was raining. Points of colored light, each the size of a thumb tack, continuously moved to reveal the positions of the satellites orbiting overhead.

Using the EPA satellite nearest to where his operatives had located the Robbins woman, Brock punched a few keys on the computer. From space the super-magnified camera could focus all the way down to a single pine needle, and that lone needle would fill the entire screen. With a few keystrokes, Brock used the satellite’s camera to inspect the area where she was working.

“Yeah, sweet cheeks. You can run, but you can’t hide.”

If Brock wanted to find someone, he would. Then that person would find out the bitter truth.

“You’re better off dead.”

CHAPTER ONE

LINDSEY WALLACE walked across the plaza that was the heart of Santa Fe’s historic district. She pretended to be casually walking her retriever, but she was checking to see if anyone was following her. Only a handful of people strolled on the streets bracketing the square. None of them seemed to notice her.

Things aren’t always what they appear to be.

A good operative wouldn’t be easy to spot. According to what she’d been told, operatives often traveled in pairs. Frequently they seemed to be ordinary couples.

From behind her shades, she scanned the people in the area. Two disappeared into buildings. Another rounded the corner, heading toward La Fonda Hotel. Satisfied no one was interested in her, Lindsey moved on.

There was a thin line between caution and paranoia, she told herself. Maybe, just maybe, she’d crossed over the line.

No, she wasn’t being neurotic.

She’d been safe for almost a year, but she would be foolish to let down her guard. One woman—an experienced FBI agent—had already been murdered.

She reached Palace Avenue, but stayed on the south side of the street with Zach beside her. She could have crossed to walk under the shady adobe portico of the Palace of the Governors, but she didn’t.

Native American women were setting up their wares in front of the building that dated back to missionary days. On well-worn Navajo rugs, they arranged row after row of silver jewelry that had been manufactured in Malaysia. There was a smattering of pottery and rugs to entice tourists. Little of it was made at the pueblos, most of it not even produced in this country. Their once proud heritage was being lost.

In Navajo she greeted an older woman, lugging her goods to the palace. “Yaa’ eh t’ eeh.”

She smiled slightly and responded in Navajo, “Yaa’eh t’eeh.”

Like the women assembled under the portico, the elderly lady wore the traditional velvet blouse with Concho-style silver buttons and a long skirt that swept across her squaw boots. Her pewter-gray hair was pulled back into the traditional figure eight bun worn by women from the reservation.

Seeing Native America’s arts being lost forever bothered Lindsey. Some of her best artists, like Ben Tallchief, came from the reservation. She supposed they were the future of pueblo art—unique, individual pieces, not tribal art passed down from generation to generation.

Most of the people on the reservation had little to do except hawk trinkets to tourists. From what she could tell, their situation bordered on hopeless, and it was a downer. Depression was her enemy, she warned herself. Not her foremost enemy, but an enemy nevertheless.

The hardest part of being in the Witness Protection Program wasn’t knowing someone would do anything to kill you, the way she’d originally thought. It was not seeing your family, your friends.

The love of your life.

It was not knowing if you ever would see any of them again. Even after the trial, it might not be safe to return home.

“Count your blessings,” she said under her breath.

Until they found work, most people in WITSEC had no money and were forced to rely on the monthly stipend doled out by the Federal Marshals who ran the program. Because she’d been a successful executive with considerable savings, her field contact had arranged to have her funds transferred to the Bank of Santa Fe.

With that money, she’d opened the Dreamcatcher Gallery, which specialized in Southwestern jewelry in contemporary settings. She’d been able to buy the small condo where she and Zach lived. She had a pet, someone to talk to, someone to care about.

Still, the past tore at something deep inside her. You never appreciate what you have until you lose it. Those words had seemed trite. Now she knew how true they were. She forced herself to live in the moment, to appreciate what she had—not what she’d lost.

“Good boy, Zach.”

The golden retriever looked up at her, his soulful eyes full of love. His honey-blond tail whipped from side to side. Canine solace, she thought, the best medicine on earth. She had a home, a gallery, a pet—and a friend. After months of isolation and loneliness, she’d made a friend. Not that she’d expended any effort.

She’d been afraid to get to know someone. What would she say about her past? You never realize how much you talk about your past until you don’t have a previous life to talk about.

With Romero, her past hadn’t mattered. He owned the Crazy Horse Gallery next door to hers in Sena Plaza. He’d blown into her life like a whirling dervish. Romero listened and jabbered nonstop, but he’d never asked questions about her past.

She’d had almost a year—and coaching from Derek—to get used to her new name and come up with a cover story. She’d used the story once on Romero and again when she’d joined the Chamber of Commerce. But because she kept to herself, rarely socializing with anyone except Romero, she hadn’t had to paint herself into a corner with lies.

“You’re late,” Romero called out from his gallery as she unlocked the heavy plank door to the Dreamcatcher Gallery.

“Hey! It’s one minute after ten. Lighten up.”

Every morning when she arrived, she experienced a small thrill at having found this unique spot in a two-story building that had been divided into shops and galleries. Dating back to the seventeenth century, Sena Plaza was a rectangular adobe structure with a lovely interior courtyard. Built in the Spanish Colonial era, it featured the original hand-hewn beams and trusses, black Andalusian iron, and plank floors burnished smooth over centuries by countless soles.

She stepped inside what—in only one of many incarnations—had been a shoe store before she’d leased it. Before that, it had been part of Romero’s larger gallery, and between them was an adjoining door. They kept it open during the day. When business was slow, they talked and helped each other with displays.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed having someone intelligent to talk to. Romero was well-read, cosmopolitan, and never failed to make her smile. In many ways, he reminded her of her long-dead father. Hollow emptiness welled up inside her, the way it often did when she recalled her parents’ deaths. Since she’d met Romero, it had lessened. She didn’t want to regress, so she tamped down the thoughts.

Lindsey unhooked Zach’s leash and put it in the second drawer of her sleek chrome and glass desk, and opened the connecting door. Zach trotted along behind her.

“Is coffee ready?” she asked, although she knew Romero made it a point to arrive an hour before he opened and brew a pot of Kona coffee. The fragrant scent hovered in the summer air that was still cool thanks to the building’s thick adobe walls.

“Sure. Pour yourself a cup.”

She walked over to the Southwestern style hutch in the alcove where Romero kept the coffee. She’d decorated her gallery in contemporary fashion, aiming for a stark contrast with the ancient building. Romero, on the other hand, had used antiques from the Spanish colonial period, when Sena Plaza had been constructed by the Conquistadors.

“It’s going to be a warm day,” he commented, and she nodded.

Romero had a full head of white hair that made his complexion seem darker than it was. He was a tall man in his late fifties and slightly stooped, the way some older men are. He proudly traced his ancestors back to one of the original Spanish land grant families. She doubted anyone knew local history as well as Romero did. Certainly, no one could talk about it so colorfully.

She poured herself a mug of coffee and added a splash of milk before taking a sip. “You make great coffee.”

“I’m a good cook, too. I’m making blue corn enchiladas tonight. Join me for dinner?”

“I’d love to. What can I bring?”

“Nothing. Just close up the gallery for me. I’ll need to leave around six. Enchiladas taste better if they set for an hour or so before you eat them.”

“No problem. I’ll lock up.” In the summer, they closed at eight to take advantage of the tourists who lingered in the historic area.

“You know, I was thinking.”

Something in the timbre of Romero’s voice brought up her guard, and she tried for a joke. “Thinking? That’s a first.”

A beat of silence.

She plunged on, her instincts telling her to change the subject. “I heard a good one. What do you call a woman who knows where her husband is at night?” She paused. “A widow.”

Romero didn’t crack a smile. “You’re very beautiful, but the way you dress…your hair.”

“I like the way I dress,” she fibbed. Drab clothes helped her blend in. “My hair. What can I say? God screwed up.”

A total lie. She had glossy black hair and violet-blue eyes. They couldn’t change her eye color as easily as they could her hair. WITSEC insisted she strip it with bleach and dye it barnyard brown. They made her cut it to chin length, and she now wore it ruler straight.

Romero studied her. She was lying and he knew it. She could almost hear him asking: Why?

He’d never gotten this personal, never asked about her past. His comment had taken her by surprise. She needed him in her life more than he would ever know, but if he breached the invisible barrier she’d put up to protect herself, she would have to back off.

The bell on the door to her shop tinkled, saving her and announcing the arrival of the first customer of the day. “Gotta go.”

She quickly walked back into her gallery. A lookie-lou, she thought. The petite brunette was dressed in matching powder-blue Bermudas and twin set. She could have been in an L. L. Bean catalog.

Lindsey’s experience told her the type of woman who would be interested in her jewelry dressed more adventurously. They experimented with clothes, hair.

The kind of woman she had once been.

Another lifetime, she thought, even though it had been only a little over a year. Now she didn’t experiment. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself.

“That bracelet is by my premier artist, Ben Tallchief,” she told the woman who was looking at a hammered silver cuff set with deep lavender sugilite stones. “Madonna, Julia Roberts, and lots of other famous women collect his work.”

She didn’t add how lucky she’d been to lure him away from the gallery where he’d been featured when it changed hands.

The woman studied the unusual piece for a moment. “Too trendy for me.”

“You might try Zazobra Gallery on Canyon Road. They have a nice selection of jewelry.” She didn’t add that it was conservative, unimaginative and overpriced.

“Thanks. Great dog,” the woman said as she headed to the door.

Lindsey sat at her desk to do some work on her computer, and Zach settled at her feet. She finished in less than ten minutes. What she was doing wasn’t much of a challenge for someone who had a CPA license.

In WITSEC you weren’t allowed to work in your own profession. That would make it too easy for enemies to find you. They insisted you take a job in a new, unrelated field.

Boy had she ever. If only her friends could see her now. And Tyler. What would he say, if he knew she owned a jewelry shop?

Don’t go there.

Dwelling on the past only meant depression. And anger. She was entitled to a normal life.

The life that rightfully belonged to Samantha Robbins.

She shouldn’t have to reinvent herself. They’d broken the law—not her. But in one of life’s baffling ironies, they were free—pending trial—and she was in hiding.

A cell without walls.

That’s what she’d been told in the safe house where they’d debriefed her and prepared her for a new life in WITSEC. They had been more right than she ever could have imagined.

Provo, Turks and Caicos Islands

SITTING IN A CABANA-style beach lounge, Chad Langston stared out at the expanse of blue water beyond Grace Bay’s twelve-mile crescent of sugar-white sand. He’d just finished reviewing the coroner’s report. Cause of death: drowning.

“Yeah, right,” Chad said out loud, half-listening to the melodic sound of the surf gently breaking on the shore.

Robert Townsend IV had been an experienced master diver who’d come to this swank resort in the Caribbean specifically to dive “the wall” on Long Cay. The steep wall plunged seven thousand feet and was rated expert. How could he successfully complete that challenging deep water dive, then the following day go on a newbie’s dive and drown?

Not only didn’t it make sense, the coroner’s report sucked. No tissue samples had been taken. No toxicology report. Nada.

Okay, okay. What in hell did he expect?

The coroner was the local mortician in the capital of Grand Turk, which wasn’t surprising. Turks and Caicos Islands were a British colony half an hour southeast of the Bahamas. Once a hideaway for notorious Caribbean pirates, the eight islands were now a haven for divers and fishermen.

Serious crime was rare. They weren’t geared up to investigate the way cities in the States were. The coroner had taken one look at the body and decided drowning was the cause of death.

Townsend had been found floating, facedown, in his scuba equipment on Iguana Key. Air was still in his tank and he was close enough to shore to have waded in.

“Go figure.”

The place to start would be with Townsend’s diving gear. The coroner should have spotted an obvious problem, but experience had taught Chad that even the most competent professionals overlooked things. The local mortician didn’t rank high on anyone’s competency list.

Townsend had been a sixty-two-year-old man with a wife thirty years younger and a considerable fortune. Fidelity Insurance had hired Chad to see if his death could be suicide. If it were, they wouldn’t have to pay the five mil life insurance policy. If Townsend had killed himself, he’d used a unique method.

“Yo, Langston.”

Who in hell knew him here? He peered out from under the lounge’s blue canvas shade and saw Archer Danson strolling across the sand in front of Ocean Club West—all white skin that hadn’t seen the sun in years and skinny legs with knock knees.

“Son of a bitch! What are you doing here?”

“Tracking you down.”

Chad moved his legs to one side, and Danson sat on the end of Chad’s lounge and pushed his shades to the top of his head. He always tried to be cool but ended up looking even nerdier—if that was possible. Danson’s slathered-on sunscreen made him smell like a French whorehouse, overwhelming the pleasant scent of frangipani drifting through the tropical air.

Who could look down at a sweet little baby in a crib and call it Archer? They must have had a nickname for him. As Archer grew up, the kids would have teased him, Chad decided.

Chad had been lucky—if you called growing up in a small house with three sisters lucky. Being tall with dark hair and having a gift for sports meant he’d been popular. And happy. He sensed Danson had never been happy. The man lived for his work.

“Danson, how in hell did you find me?”

With a shrug, Danson grinned. “Your secretary said you were out of town on business. I—”

“Gimme a break.” He knew Danson must have hacked into the airlines’ databases and seen he’d flown out of Honolulu to Turks and Caicos through Miami and the Bahamas. “What’s so important?”

“We need some testing done.”

Chad didn’t bother to ask what Danson had developed for DARPA now. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—DARPA—operated out of the Defense Department and had been credited with some of the world’s most revolutionary inventions.

Global positioning, stealth technology, drones, and the mouse all had been some of their brilliant, innovative ideas. Their motto was “no idea is too wild.” Well, hell some of their ideas were screwed-up. FutureMap, an online futures market to predict terrorist attacks, had left the Congress and the public reeling with disbelief.

“My testing days are over,” Chad told him with just a touch of regret. “In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been a civilian for over eight years now.”

Chad managed to say this and keep a straight face. Danson headed special projects for DARPA. He had access to everyone’s records. He knew exactly what Chad had been doing.

Not that his career was any secret. He was still in touch with most of the Delta Force guys who’d served with him in Desert Storm. Some were still in the military, while others, like him, had opted for a so-called normal life.

“I know you’re an underwater forensic expert.” Danson’s tone was clipped, a sure sign he was pissed. Like lots of military types, Danson was big on respect. He didn’t appreciate a former subordinate giving him a ration of grief. Of course, Chad didn’t give a rat’s ass what Danson thought.

“Underwater forensics means—”

“I know. You’re Sherlock Holmes with a scuba tank. You contract out to police departments that don’t have an underwater expert, but most of your work is for insurance companies who balk at paying certain claims. Like Townsend.”

Chad gazed at Danson, not surprised to learn the man knew exactly what he was doing down here.

“Look, we’re prepared to pay you a bundle to test for us.”

“Why not use one of your own boys?” Chad would be damned before he’d act curious, but he was. DARPA usually tested its own inventions. Why didn’t they want to test this?

“Good question.” Danson fiddled with the shades perched on top of his balding head. “We don’t want word to leak out on this one. Too sensitive. You still have your SAP/SAR.”

Why hadn’t the military terminated his top secret clearance? Special Access Program/Special Access Required—SAP/SAR—was damn tough to get. The light dawned. DARPA had kept his SAP/SAR active in case they needed him.

“You could do this, Chad, make some easy dough, and still snoop around under water all you want.”

“What is it that you want me to test?”

“I can’t tell you until you agree to test and sign the mandatory confidentiality document.”

“Then count me out until I know what it is. How else can I decide if I’ll have the time or interest?”

“Christ, Langston, you’re pressing your luck.”

“Damn straight. You need me more than I need you or you wouldn’t have flown all the way down here.”

Danson stared at a knockout blonde in a hot-pink butt floss bikini who wandered past. Chad knew Danson wouldn’t tell him a thing until the woman was too far away to hear them.

The first time Chad met Danson was when Chad joined Delta Force. They were being trained to be dropped behind enemy lines. Danson outfitted each member of the team with a portable multiband scanner that was supposed to scan for any available uplink to the Department of Defense satellite.

Damn things never worked reliably, but they didn’t find that out until they were behind enemy lines in Desert Storm and couldn’t contact the DOD satellite. Chad had taken his apart and tinkered with the mechanism and finally got it going. After the war, Danson used Chad’s modifications to make a smaller—and totally reliable—scanner.

Chad had spent his last year in the service testing military devices for DARPA. He’d loved the work, but when his father died unexpectedly, Chad returned to Honolulu.

“Okay, off the record,” Danson said with a huff of disgust. “We’ve developed a handheld infrared device that can distinguish between thermal signatures.”

Chad knew all living creatures, plants and machinery gave off heat. Sophisticated infrared sensors could detect the heat and know where something was located. But what was the object?

Chad let out a low whistle. “You mean it can tell the difference between a car and a man?”

“You bet. It’ll tell the difference between a gorilla and a person.”

Chad was more than impressed. Satellite surveillance relied on telescopic photography during the day, and it was damn good. You could hit the magnify button and look at a drop of dew on a leaf, but at night surveillance went to infrared. Every living thing had a thermal signature that showed up as red on the screen.

Objects such as cars in use gave off enough heat to be confused with people when viewed on the screen. In populated areas, all that could be seen at night was a big red blob. Essentially satellite surveillance after dark sucked.

“Sounds promising.” Chad deliberately kept his tone noncommittal. “So why isn’t the military testing it?”

“It’s top secret. I mean double classified. Most of the world thinks we can’t track them if they move at night. We’d like to keep it that way.”

Chad would bet his life there was more to it, but he was smart enough to accept what Danson told him without comment.

“You in?” Danson asked.

Chad hesitated, thinking of everything he had going on in his life. The insurance investigations, his dive boats—most of all, his family. Five years ago, his father had died and soon after, his mother. Being the only son with three sisters and a slew of nieces and nephews meant he became head of the family. He liked it, but their activities took up a lot of his time.

“I’ll test it for you, if I can do it in Honolulu.”

“Not a problem.”

“You know I’m going to look for every flaw and report it.”

“Just what we want. When you report, call me at this number.” He pulled a card out of the pocket of his swimming trunks. “Use a pay phone, not a cell phone. No IMing. No e-mails.”

Chad nodded. Now he knew the problem. Somewhere, the brass had a leak.

CHAPTER TWO

IT HAD BEEN SUCH A BUSY morning that Lindsey hadn’t taken time to phone in her usual order for a turkey sandwich from The Basket Lady who delivered lunch to businesses. It was hard to believe she was hawking jewelry to tourists instead of working in finance. She loved numbers and always had. She had an MBA in statistics. When would she be able to work in her field again?

Until last year, what she’d known about crime, she’d learned watching DeNiro and Pacino. Hul-lo! Welcome to the real world. White collar criminals were just as deadly as the Mafia.

Looking up, she saw a couple from the Midwest pass her shop. They were slurping soda from huge plastic cups. They didn’t even glance at the jewelry in the window.

She’d selected this shop not only for its historic beauty, but because it gave her a good view up the street and there was a back way out. Two, actually, if you counted the back door to Romero’s gallery.

Ever-vigilant, she’d learned to memorize people’s faces. If someone was following her, she would know it. At least that’s what she told herself. With so many tourists swarming through the city now that summer had arrived, it was impossible to truly memorize every face.

Still, she continued to try.

She squinted against the early-afternoon sunlight at the dark-haired man striding toward the gallery. He was a head taller than most men, but even if he hadn’t been, Lindsey would have been able to pick out Derek Albright, her WITSEC field contact.

The deputy marshal had square-jawed good looks and carried himself with an erect, military bearing. He’d been a Marine before joining the Federal Marshal’s group that ran the witness protection program. His training showed not only in his posture but in the way he talked and acted.

What was he doing here now?

Not that he ever announced his visits. In the beginning, he’d popped in to see her several times a week. As she became acclimated, he visited her each week. Lately she was lucky to see him once a month.

Derek had appeared at her condo one night last week. It was much too soon for him to be here again. Wasn’t it? Maybe something had happened to her sister, Tina or her niece, Ariel. Her stomach cramping with apprehension, she braced herself for bad news as Derek opened Dreamcatcher’s door, but he greeted her with a smile.

“Hey, Lindsey.”

A thought suddenly hit her. Maybe a date had been set for the trial. Perhaps an end to this nightmare was in sight. Something in her chest felt lighter—almost hopeful.

Derek’s eyes were on the open door leading into Romero’s gallery. “Close it.”

Lindsey slipped over to the connecting door and saw Romero animatedly talking to a couple about a Kevin Red Star lithograph. Without a sound she shut the door.

“I need to talk to you,” Derek said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Close the gallery. Let’s go to lunch.”

“Okay, but let me tell Romero. He’ll watch the shop and take care of Zach.”

It took her a minute to explain an old friend had dropped by and needed to talk to her. Since Romero couldn’t see Derek from where he was standing, she thought he would assume it was a woman. From his wink, she decided he believed she had a boyfriend.

What a sweetie, she sighed inwardly. He genuinely cared about her. Too bad she couldn’t tell him how much his friendship meant to her.

She left Zach in the gallery and walked outside with Derek. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you all about it.” He sounded happy. “I made lunch reservations at La Casa Sena.”

“Really? Since when does WITSEC bankroll lunches at pricey restaurants? This must be good news.”

“Good news and bad news.” Suddenly the air was fraught with tension and an undercurrent of expectation. “Which do you want first?”

She’d been so battered down with bad news that she almost opted for the good first. No. This experience had taught her to face her fears and deal with them.

“The bad.”

His eyes shifted, a subtle movement most people would have missed, but she knew he was checking out the people around them because that’s what he’d taught her. Tourists, she decided, covertly skimming the clusters of people strolling through the area.

“Headquarters intercepted an expert hacker who was attempting to access your file.”

His words beat against her temples. Fear she’d been trying too long to ignore spread through her with a mind-numbing punch.

“Don’t worry. We stopped them.”

THE FRAGRANT YEASTY SCENT of warm sapodillas filled the air in La Casa Sena. Ordinarily Lindsey would have been ready to fill one of the hollow centered buns with honey and gobble it down, but her mind wasn’t on food. Derek had insisted on putting off telling her the good news until they had ordered lunch and wine had been served.

“Okay, now for the good news.” Derek raised his glass of Pinot Noir to hers.

Lindsey clinked her goblet against his, concealing her frustration with a manufactured smile. She still held out the hope that the good news was a date had been set for the trial.

Derek grinned and took a swig of wine before, saying in a voice charged with excitement, “I’ve been promoted. I’m going back to headquarters in D.C.”

He kept talking, but all she heard was a blur of words. This was the good news? Anger mushroomed inside her. What had begun as frustration morphed into something larger, darker.

Derek was her lifeline, her contact with the people who had taken control of her destiny. They weren’t close—exactly—but there was an immeasurable, unseen bond between them. They’d talked for hours, particularly in those early days just after her arrival. He’d taught her how to start over, how to construct a new past, and how to protect herself.

Since she’d come to Santa Fe, Derek had been the only person she dared trust. Now, he was leaving and to him this was an occasion to be celebrated. For her it was…she couldn’t quite put in words how she felt, what he’d become to her.

With everyone and everything she’d known and loved taken from her—even a field contact whose job it was to guide her—was a special person. Allowing Derek Albright to gain such importance illustrated just how screwed-up her life had become.

“Hey, Lindsey, what’s the matter?”

“You jerk! This is the good news?”

He shrugged and tried for a smile.

“Am I supposed to be happy for you?”

“No, not really.” A note of apology crept into his voice. “I thought I owed you an explanation.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why.” Like a balloon inflating, anger was quickly becoming rage.

“I know you expected me to stay with you until after the trial.” He furtively glanced around him to see if anyone was listening. No one was, but he lowered his voice and leaned even closer. “With all the pressure to increase Homeland Security, the Marshal’s pool of agents has been sucked dry. They need me in D.C. It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up. Hell, under normal circumstances, it would take me another five…ten years to get to that level.”

When she’d been on the fast track at PowerTec, she had been just as ambitious. Maybe more so. She should give him a break, but she couldn’t. The head of WITSEC had assured her that her handler would be with her until the trial was over. Derek had sworn he would stay until the end.

Well, what did she expect? Close enough for government work, her father used to say. They did whatever they damn well pleased—regardless of their promises.

He waited for the server to put down their salads before saying, “My replacement will be here next week.”

“When are you leaving?”

“On the five o’clock flight this evening.”

Now all she had was Romero, and the way he’d been acting, she might have to distance herself from him. What a hoot! Tyler had once accused her of being “too social.” Now she was alone in the world with just a dog.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re the most self-sufficient witness I’ve ever protected. We just want you to be cautious. At about a year witnesses become careless. They think the danger has passed.”

“That’s why Rutherford and Ames have waited until now to find me by trying to access my file. They think WITSEC has become careless, too.”

He poked at his salad with his fork. “Masterson thinks someone was testing the waters. You know, making sure the electronic security works. Yours wasn’t the only file they tried to access. Could have been the FBI or CIA. Nothing to worry about.”

Curt Masterson directed the WITSEC program. He was an impressive bull of a man who probably knew what he was talking about. If he were wrong, she was dead.

“Your jacket is buried so deep that no one’s going to find it. Trust me, the Feds saw to it and Masterson double-checked them.”

Federal Prosecutors were usually the ones who recommended witnesses for the program. It was in their interest to protect the confidential file—the jacket—on a witness.

Reese Barnaby III—three-fer to his buddies—was among the most ambitious of the federal prosecutors. His successful prosecution of the top executives of PowerTec would make him a household word in Texas without him having to spend the millions it usually took politicians to buy name recognition.

Lindsey took a bite of her salad. It was hard to swallow; life was hard to swallow. “I hope Masterson is right. I want to live to testify.”

“I’m sure Masterson has taken precautions he hasn’t told me about. You’re a top priority. You know the 800 number you have memorized?”

“Yes.” Before she left the safe house in D.C., she had to memorize the special number. Each time she met Derek, he had asked her to repeat the number she was to call in case she couldn’t reach him in an emergency.

“Not every witness is given that number.”

“Why not?”

“Because a lot of them are lowlifes from drug gangs. It’s not safe for them to go home, but hit teams aren’t looking for them.”

She managed a nod, her anger barely under control.

“The number is for high risk, high priority witnesses. You call and a special task force will be mobilized to help you.”

“What a joke! They’re supposed to rush from D.C. in time to save me?”

“WITSEC will notify the FBI’s field office here. They’ll help you.”

Lindsey found this somewhat reassuring. She had contacted the FBI when she’d discovered the discrepancies in PowerTec’s accounting records. The FBI had immediately responded, analyzed the situation and sent in an undercover agent to gather more information. Annette Sperling had been a top-notch accountant who easily joined PowerTec without anyone suspecting who she really was.

Annette had worked at PowerTec six months, covertly analyzing their financial transactions, before someone killed her execution style. An hour after Lindsey found her body, the FBI yanked Lindsey out of Houston and put her in protective custody.

“Any word on when those creeps will be brought to trial?” she asked.

“No. These things take a while.”

“It’s been almost a year.”

“Don’t raise your voice,” he warned. “I know you’re frustrated. Remember Enron. It was over a year before indictments came down. It takes time to build the kind of case they need to get convictions. Rutherford and Ames can afford counsel who’ll provide the most amazing legal gymnastics imaginable.”

Ted Rutherford, CEO and her boss, CFO, Jackson Ames. Thinking of them made something in her gut coil inside itself. Once she’d looked up to them, especially Jack. She’d worked with him every day—and never suspected the truth.

“Has there been any progress in the investigation of Annette’s murder?” she asked, although she was certain she knew the answer. She monitored the case on SmokingGun.com. No leads. Nothing. All the signs of a professional hit.

“No, but everyone knows who’s responsible.”

“Rutherford and Ames.”

“Annette didn’t deserve to die.”

She didn’t say she might have bought it that night, as well. Tyler’s unexpected meeting with out-of-town clients had given her some free time. She’d returned to PowerTec just after the undercover agent had been murdered. If she’d arrived a few minutes earlier, the killer would have shot her, too.

“From what I hear the Feebies thought highly of Annette. They miss her.”

“Why did you come all the way here to take me to lunch and tell me you’re leaving? You could have called.”

Two beats of silence. “There are things I wanted to discuss with you—off the record.”

An ominous premonition snaked through her. What next?

“If Masterson or anyone finds out—I’m finished.”

“I won’t say a word. I swear.”

“Most of the witnesses I’ve worked with have been drug dealers or LCN. Scumbags who flipped—turned on their bosses—but they’re still criminals.”

She’d learned the FBI and U.S. Marshals called the Mafia by the abbreviated term for La Cosa Nostra—LCN.

“I thought less than ten percent of WITSEC people return to lives of crime.”

“True, but I still have to deal with a bunch of lowlifes.”

“With Worldcom and Enron and now PowerTec, it looks like white collar crime is a growth industry.”

He chuckled at her lame attempt at a joke. “Be serious.”

“I’m serious. Deadly serious.”

He waited for the server to remove their salad plates and serve their entrées. Lindsey mustered a smile for the waiter. She sampled the veal in tequila chili sauce after Derek was served his Adobo steak.

“Like I told you earlier, you’re entering the period when most witnesses let down their guard. They call people they’re not authorized to call. You wouldn’t believe how many of them return home to attend a funeral or a wedding.”

“I know I’m in danger. I was the one to find Annette Sperling’s body, remember?”

She would never forget walking into the office where the agent was working undercover. Annette had been slumped forward over her computer keyboard. A single bullet had parted the blond hair at the back of her head, leaving a neat hole and a trail of blood running down her back and pooling on the carpet.

“I remember,” he said between bites of steak. “We’re still worried.”

We? Obviously he’d been discussing her with the boys at headquarters in DC.

“Why are you worried about me?”

“You haven’t adjusted. Living here, owning a gallery isn’t enough. You should have friends—”

“I have a good friend. We’re having dinner tonight.”

“One friend isn’t enough. If all you have is one friend, you eventually confide in him. Then they tell someone, who tells someone…” His tone said he’d seen if before—too many times. “Next thing. You’re compromised.”

“Trust no one.”

“It’s not that simple. Become the new you. Build another life. You need to get out there. Date. Make a circle of friends the way you did in Houston so you’re not emotionally relying on one friend. That’ll help you become normal again.”

“Normal? After the trial, my life can return to normal.”

Derek swiped at his lips with the napkin. “Don’t count on being able to go home. We’re convinced the PowerTec jerks will arrange to kill you even if both of them are in jail.”

How could she go on like this? Always watching her back? Listening to strange sounds in the night and wondering if they’d found her. Never seeing her sister. Her niece. The man she loved?

What choice did she have?

This was her life—part two—the sad and lonely part.

Whoever said the truth will set you free—obviously hadn’t tried it. The truth had wiped out a promising career, a wonderful life.

And the truth might be the death of her.

Derek continued, “We just can’t trust Rutherford or Ames not to hire someone to kill you from their prison cells.”

She didn’t doubt it. From what she’d been able to tell, they had a fortune socked away in offshore and Swiss accounts. Carrion eaters of the corporate world, Rutherford and Ames had taken voodoo accounting to a new level. They each had a ruthless, vengeful streak.

“Don’t forget all I’ve taught you. Keep your eye on people around you, even those at a distance.”

“Believe me, I’m getting good at it.”

“You’ve got two cell phones, batteries charged?”

“Of course. They’re in my purse. Same with the gun.”

“About the gun.” There was a tick of something that bordered on worry in his voice. “Witnesses aren’t supposed to have guns.”

“But if someone is after them—”

“Too many are former criminals. Giving them a gun is against the rules.”

The light dawned. He’d broken a rule for her, and he didn’t want anyone to know. This was the real reason he’d come to see her. Derek had expected to be with her through the trial. He never thought he would have to hand her over to someone who might jeopardize his career by revealing what he’d done.

“I won’t say a word to the new guy.”

Obviously relieved, he grinned. “Might be a woman.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, before she asked, “Why did you give me a gun?”

“Right from the first, you were different. All I’d dealt with were LCN lowlifes or drug pushers. You were a class act. Intelligent. Quick to learn.” He put down his fork, his dark eyes troubled. “But I worried about you. I didn’t—still don’t—think you know what you’re up against. I wanted to give you as much protection as I possibly could.”

Lindsey was touched. Derek had been professional the entire time. She’d never suspected he’d cared one whit about her. Not only had he cared, but he’d jeopardized his career to help her.

“I’m good at self-defense. I go to the firing range once a week.” She leaned over and patted his hand. “You’ve done the best you could. The rest is up to me. Enjoy your promotion.”

She was unable to conceal the note of appreciation that had crept into her voice. Once men had fallen all over themselves to help her. Then came the murder. Suddenly the men in her life gave her orders, not caring in the least what she thought or wanted.

“Start dating. You’re too pretty, too intelligent to become a hermit.”

“I’m not all that interested in—”

“Even if you did return to Houston…” He let the words drift away.

She remembered her final day there, a sunny Saturday in April. The last time she’d been with Tyler. The weather had been nice enough to have the top down on his Porsche. They’d laughed and talked as they slogged through traffic to have lunch on the patio at Zov’s Bistro.

Even though the FBI investigation loomed over her, something she couldn’t discuss with Tyler, she’d been happy. He knew there were problems at PowerTec and that some sort of investigation was underway. She’d naively assumed the FBI would fix the trouble. This problem was nothing more than a blip on the radar screen of life.

“Why does it take a million sperm to fertilize one egg?” she’d asked Tyler.

Accustomed to her jokes, he’d shaken his head. “I give. Why?”

“They refuse to stop and ask for directions.”

His rich, husky laugh still echoed in her ears. He always laughed no matter how lame her joke. Just thinking about him made her long to go back in time. To go home.

Home. Unless you can never return home again, never see your family again, you’ll never really appreciate what the word means. You have to lose everything to comprehend its significance.

“Lindsey, I gotta tell you,” Derek said, intruding on her thoughts. “I don’t know how to say this…”

“Tell me what?” Something in his tone warned that he’d saved the worst for last. “Just say it.”

He hesitated, fiddling with the grilled zucchini he hadn’t touch. “Tyler Prescott is getting married on Saturday.”

The words went through her like a serrated blade. Tyler getting married? How could that be?

Of course, Tyler had gone on with his life. She’d vanished with hardly a word. She’d left a message for him at the office—in the middle of the night when he wouldn’t be there—to tell him that she was being sent on an emergency overseas assignment and would contact him later.

It was a lame story, but the FBI had insisted she tell him this. She’d hoped Tyler would see through the lie. He knew a little about PowerTec’s problems, but not about the FBI’s involvement. She hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss the murder with him, but she thought he would put two and two together. Obviously he hadn’t.

What did she expect him to do? Wait forever?

He’d fallen in love with someone else. How could that happen in just a year? They’d been together almost three years. They’d spoken of marriage, but he hadn’t actually proposed.

“Is he marrying anyone I know?”

Again Derek hesitated. “Skyler Holmes.”

Her stomach rose, then plummeted in a sickening lurch. He’d always called Skyler the blond bimbo. It was true. Her bra size was bigger than her IQ.

Holding back tears, she quelled her emotions. Nothing was ever gained by crying, her father used to say. She deliberately directed her thoughts to the months ahead. Like a mirage, her future shimmered in the distance. Out of focus—out of reach.

CHAPTER THREE

BROCK WALKED INTO HIS OFFICE. He’d spent the morning attending a seminar conducted by the FBI. Combating Computer Assisted Crimes. What a joke! They’d shown him a few new tricks, but most of it he knew.

Booooring.

He shivered as he shrugged into the microfiber jacket in the room, hyper cooled to protect the sensitive equipment. He pulled on tight-fitting microfiber gloves with the fingers cut out.

What Brock wore didn’t matter to him. Most days, no one saw him. He worked alone by choice. The company would fund all the staff he needed. He had fifty-three people working for him, but he kept them in the field. That way no one at Obelisk but him knew how to use the sophisticated equipment.

Some of the arrogant pricks he worked with, like CEO Kilmer Cassidy, thought they did, but should they try to use his equipment, they would destroy everything. Without an authorized laser fingerprint and the top secret password, on the fourth try his computers would assume unauthorized entry mode, self-format, and devour the hard drive.

He had a backup no one knew about—his personal laptop that he kept with him at all times. He’d downloaded all of Obelisk’s top secret data onto it and had several of his own special programs installed, as well. It was against company rules for any of the secured info to be removed from the premises. But who was to know? He was head of security.

Brock smiled and glanced around his office to see what was happening in his domain—the world. He had six state-of-the-art computers with twenty-seven inch flat-screen monitors evenly spaced around the U-shaped room, but he didn’t rely on them the way he did his personal laptop.

Wall mounted televisions—currently on mute—were tuned to CNN, MSNBC, and FOX News. A fourth television was on Al Jazeera, the Arab news channel. The other wall was dominated by a map of the world on a liquid-plasma television screen. It was raining in California, he noticed. So who cared? Let the nuts and fruits on the West Coast drown. All the satellites were still orbiting normally, he observed, but one of Russia’s wasn’t functioning.

“Par for the course.”

The end of the Cold War had been the death knell for Russian science. The state no longer funded research the way it once had. The Russian Mafia now ran the country, and they had no use for scientists.

The satellites and news channels helped Brock keep track of Obelisk’s myriad interests overseas. They required intensive monitoring. A conflict—no matter how small—anywhere on earth was a potential for Obelisk to profit.

Normally staff would have been needed, but Brock had shown the higher-ups how security could be mastered by a single—talented—person and modern technology. Naturally they’d gone along. It was in their best interests for as few men as possible to know the truth about Obelisk’s dealings.

He heard line seven ring. It was the number only his operatives in the field used. Attached to all his private lines was a special mechanism that chopped words into minute sound bites, then jumbled them so that even a state-of-the-art computer would have to spend months unscrambling the garbled noise.

He had no reason to think there was a tap on a line no one—not even the telephone company—knew existed. But various incidents at Obelisk had taught him to be extraordinarily careful. That’s why he had insisted his office be in an underground bunker beneath Obelisk—away from prying eyes.

“Numero Uno,” he answered.

“We’re in place. Everything’s set,” said Operative 111.

His agents had numbers, not names. That way only Brock knew who they were. Their names weren’t written down anywhere except in his mind. They were paid in cash, not by the payroll department.

They never knew his name. He was the number one operative. He always answered the special operative line with “Numero Uno.”

He told Number 111, “Call me when you’ve made contact.”

“Roger that.”

Brock glanced at his Brietling. “If it’s after six EST, call me on my cell.”

He recited the number. He didn’t like talking on cell phones. The message went out over the airwaves, and anyone listening could hear every word. But he had a life beyond this underground bunker. Tonight he was showing his ’52 Gull Wing Mercedes in the Bethesda Classic Car show. To stay in contact he had to use a cell phone.

Every third day a con he knew brought him a stolen cell phone. Brock gave the man his phone, and the con resold the phone again. That way none of his cell calls could be traced back to him.

“It looks like a go for tonight,” Operative 111 told him.

They hung up without another word.

“She’s as good as dead,” Brock said out loud.

Of course, before Samantha Robbins died, she would have to deal with him in person.

BY SEVEN-THIRTY DARKNESS had fallen on Santa Fe’s historic district and customers had slowed to a trickle. Since returning from lunch with Derek, Lindsey had sold several more pieces of jewelry—including her most expensive piece.

“Lookin’ good,” she said to Zach before she remembered the retriever had trotted off with Romero when he’d left earlier to make enchiladas.

She knew the tourist season was relatively short. It began in late June and went full throttle through the opera season and Indian Market, but after Labor Day, the buying slowed. She needed to make money in the summer months to tide her over during slower times. Miraculously, the way things were going, she would make a profit her first season.

Lindsey tried not to let Derek’s departure bother her. Making friends was probably good advice. She didn’t want to rely too much on Romero.

For a moment, her mind wandered to Houston. Tyler and Skyler. Their names even rhymed. It was probably meant to be, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

“Get over it,” she told herself.

Easier said than done. She’d been in love and during these long, lonely months in isolation, she’d replayed every moment she’d spent with Tyler, becoming more in love with him as each memory replayed in her mind. How could he marry—Skyler of all people—within a year after she’d last seen him?

The thought tore at something raw inside her. She’d been living with a nagging, constant anxiety, wondering if she would be killed. The whole time she’d assumed Tyler was missing her, and in time, they would be together again.

WITSEC had refused to allow her to telephone him. Masterson claimed that since they weren’t officially engaged it was too dangerous. Now, she wondered if her interview with the risk assessment psychologist had somehow indicated she might try to see Tyler again while she was in protection and that was why Masterson insisted on cutting off contact.

“What does it matter?” she muttered under her breath. “It’s over. Forget him.”

She picked up the phone and hit autodial for Ben Tallchief’s number. While it rang, she gazed at one of her cell phones concealed in the letter rack on her desk. She had another, smaller cell phone in the deep pocket of her skirt.

Derek’s flight had already left. She was on her own for the next week. Now was the time to practice everything he’d taught her. Don’t become careless just because nothing has happened for almost a year.

“Ben?” she said when he answered with a grunt that was supposed to pass for hello. “Guess what? I sold the Rising Sun necklace.”

“No way!”

“Yes. Way. I love saying I told you so.”

“I made the right decision,” he said in his deep baritone, and she could almost see him fiddling with the turquoise beaded strip of leather that cinched back his sleek, black hair into a ponytail at his nape. “Your gallery shows my work—”

“Showcases your art.”

He grunted again. “I’ll make more money with you than I did at the other gallery.”

We’ll both make more money, she silently added. “I need two, three—whatever you’ve got—large important pieces.”

“My work takes time…inspiration.”

Lindsey studied the hand-hewn beams, vigas, that supported the ceiling in the historic building. Ben Tallchief received most of his “inspiration” in the horizontal. Not only was he a talented artist known for his inventive work with hand-forged silver, but he was a world class womanizer.

Most nights he could be found at the Pink Adobe’s bar, picking up female tourists who couldn’t resist a “real” Indian who was tall and drop-dead gorgeous. He’d gone to UCLA on a football scholarship and graduated with honors. He’d returned to his hometown to teach art at the Indian School where promising young artists from the pueblos studied.

From his West Coast days, Ben Tallchief had a surfer’s attitude about life. Laid back. She could almost hear him telling her, “Chill, Lindsey. Chill.”

Maybe he was on to something, she decided. She’d spent her life on the fast track. Look where it had gotten her. A cell without walls.

“Get me what you can, Ben, as soon as possible.”

The shop bell tinkled and a couple from the Midwest sauntered in. She smiled at them, but doubted they would buy anything. The man was in his early thirties, but he’d already lost the battle of the bulge. His stomach stretched his Ohio State T-shirt so much that the seam on one side had popped and a patch of skin showed through.

He had the worst comb-over she’d ever seen. Six or seven strands of light brown hair went from ear-to-ear. His expression told her he was “in tow” and his wife was the shopper. The plump blonde was inspecting the earring case more intently than Lindsey had expected when they’d walked through the door. Maybe Lindsey was wrong, and the woman would buy something.

It was a guessing game that Lindsey indulged in each time a customer walked through the door. Were they lookie-lou’s or buyers? Could she predict what they would do? She’d kept a tally on the pad beside her telephone. She’d been right almost ninety percent of the time. Not bad, she decided, knowing probability the way she did. Actually, her predictions were phenomenally correct.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

Ben had been talking, but something was niggling at the back of her mind and she hadn’t heard him.

“Do you think I should make more sugilite pieces or turquoise?”

“Sugilite,” she replied without hesitation. The stone ranged from pale lavender to deep plum and looked spectacular when set in silver. “It’s unique. Most tourists seem to be drawn to those colors.”

“You got it. I’m just waiting for divine inspiration.”

“Hustle over to the Pink Adobe and pick up some…inspiration.”

“Why don’t you meet me there?”

It wasn’t the first time Ben had come on to her. The last thing she needed was to become involved with one of her artists.

“Sorry. I already have plans.”

“Too bad. We could discuss, you know, my work.”

“I’ve gotta go. Customers are here looking at your jewelry.”

She hung up the telephone. For practice, she reached forward and switched on her cell phone concealed in the letter rack. She pressed the autodial button that called the cell phone in her skirt pocket. That telephone was off, but anything said in the gallery would be recorded on her voice mail that was set to run for hours.

“Are you from Ohio?” she asked as she walked up to the couple.

The woman looked up from the earring case. “We live in Indianapolis. Bud went to Ohio State. He never lets you forget it.”

The man smiled, his eyes cold blue marbles in his fleshy face. “What can I say? It’s a great school.”

A sense of unease lurked in the back of her mind. “I went to UCLA—another great school.”

She was surprised at how easily the lie came from her lips. Her undergraduate studies had been at Duke, but when WITSEC created a new ID for her, they had chosen UCLA. It was so big that even if she ran into someone from her class, they wouldn’t necessarily have known each other.

The man smiled again, his soft chin sinking into the fold of flab at his neck. “We just drove in from Albuquerque. Is there a good place to eat around here?”

Something in the reptilian part of her brain clicked, and a chill coursed through her, but she refused to allow her face to reflect her feelings. “You just drove in? Was there a lot of traffic?”

He chuckled. “Not compared to L.A. Right, honey?”

“Right,” she replied without turning around.

A frission of alarm waltzed across the back of Lindsey’s neck as she realized what had been bothering her. Hadn’t she seen this couple walk past the gallery shortly before Derek arrived?

Trust your instincts.

That’s what Derek had taught her. A depth charge of fear exploded in her chest. Move! Get out of here!

“You know, Casa Sena is the best restaurant in the area. I just had lunch there today. You won’t get in without a reservation, but my neighbor next door is the owner’s cousin.” She was making this up as she went and managing to sound convincing. “I’ll get you one of Romero’s cards. Give it to the hostess and you’ll get in without a problem.”

“That would be great. Right, honey?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Lindsey walked through the connecting door into Romero’s gallery. Inside, she picked up her pace and bolted out the back door. She sprinted down the alley, rounded the corner, and dashed for a dark side street. Only a breath separated her from debilitating panic.

No one was around, and the soft summer night seemed unusually quiet. In the distance, she heard the lonely wail of a coyote, urging his pack to pounce on some small animal—probably a rabbit.

I’m the rabbit, she thought.

She stood, panting, wondering what to do next. Verify. Don’t panic until you know if you’re imagining things or not.

She slithered behind a cluster of lilac bushes and hid in the shadows of a rambling adobe home where no lights were shining from the windows. She jerked her cell phone out of the pocket in her skirt. Maybe she’d imagined all this. She punched autodial for her voice mail.

Lindsay picked up the conversation from the point when she’d asked where the couple in the gallery was from. Their voices had a hollow ring, but just as Derek had shown her, the cell had acted as an open mike. She listened—a full minute behind real time.

“What happened to her?” Lindsey heard the woman ask after a static-filled pause.

“She probably can’t find the card.”

He sounded casual enough. Maybe she’d made a silly mistake. This might not be a pair of operatives—disguised as a couple from the Midwest—sent to carry out a hit. She agonized through another long silence punctuated by a low hum of static.

The woman’s shrill voice came through the small cell phone. “Check on her.”

A few seconds of dead air.

“She’s not in there! The bitch must have gone out the back door.”

“Shit,” screamed the woman. “What tipped her?”

“You, stupid! You were too interested in the jewelry for a broad from Indy.”

“I was just browsing like women do. I don’t think I—”

“Stop sweating it. The bitch can run but where’s she going to hide?”

Lindsey flipped her cell phone shut, sank down to the ground and asked herself the same question. The metallic taste of fear nearly choked her. They were coming to kill her.

CHAPTER FOUR

“EVERY INCH HAS BEEN RESTORED to its original condition,” Brock told the admirers clustered around his Gull Wing in the Bethesda Sports Center where the car rally was being held.

The two doors were open and thrust upward like the majestic wings of a metallic bird, Brock thought. The lipstick-red paint glistened and the chrome was like a mirror. Hell, Brock decided, his car was better than it had been when it rolled off the assembly line in Stuttgart in 1952.

His baby. He had other cars, sure. A George Barris modified all steel ’32 Ford and a rare ’27 T Roadster, but the Gull Wing was his favorite. It was a crowd pleaser. People flipped over the unusual doors.

The show would close for the day in another twenty minutes. There were a few people wandering around looking at the other cars, but he was the only one with a crowd. He grinned, pleased with himself and the Mercedes.

He caught his distorted reflection on the chrome fender. His brown eyes were grotesquely wide as if someone were pulling taffy. His sandy hair didn’t show, but he knew women found him handsome.

Brock admitted he was a tad short. Before Obelisk had lured him away from the Defense Department, a general had accused Brock of having a Napoleonic complex. The prick had a tragic fatal car accident the following week.

The cell phone clipped to his belt vibrated. He yanked it off and glanced at the screen. It was his operatives in Santa Fe, Number 111, a man, and 32, a woman.

They had the bitch!

Brock punched “talk” and walked away from the car to avoid anyone overhearing him. “Yeah?”

“I—I d-don’t know what happened,” the woman stammered. “She slipped out the back door.”

“Unfuckingbelievable!”

“She’s only been gone a minute. Well, maybe two minutes.”

“The bitch can’t be far. Get her!”

Brock hit the end button. Hearing how his operatives had bungled it could wait. At least they hadn’t started searching before they notified him. Samantha Robbins—now Lindsey Wallace—was a black-bagger, a high risk WITSEC witness. The Federal Marshals knew she was very likely to be killed. She would have been given an emergency 800 number at the U.S. Marshal’s D.C. office.

Her cover blown, the bitch would call the number. It took Brock a few seconds to get on the Internet. He always insisted the con bring him a cell phone with Internet access for emergencies like this. Trouble was no two phones worked the same.

It felt like hours, but it was less than a minute before he was online and had contacted his computer at Obelisk. He gave it instructions to dial his anonymizer. This remailer was based in Switzerland and used a super-powerful software program that buried your real e-mail address.

Within seconds—thanks to technology—the remailer had contacted the phone company in D.C. When Lindsey Wallace tried to alert WITSEC that she’d been compromised, all she would get was a busy signal.

PANTING, A STABBING ACHE in her side from running, Lindsey slumped against an adobe wall blocks from where she’d listened to the hit team over the cell phone she’d left behind in her gallery. She punched the autodial for the emergency number she’d been given.

Still busy.

How could that be? Perhaps there was a storm back East or another widespread power outage. What else could explain a constant busy signal on an emergency line?

Frozen by fear, she could hardly think. Derek had drilled her relentlessly on what to do if worse came to worst. What would he say to do now?

There was an FBI field office here somewhere. Contact them. Her fingers were trembling so much she could hardly dial, but finally she managed to call information and obtain the number.

A busy signal.

Panic curdled her blood. What was going on? She was an expert on statistics and knew the odds of the emergency line and the local FBI office both being busy were astronomical.

Someone knew what she would do and had deliberately blocked her access to those numbers. She couldn’t imagine how, but she had to get away. Without her purse, she had no money, no ATM card, no credit cards. No gun.

Nothing.

She didn’t dare go to her condo where she kept an emergency stash. If they were clever enough to block the phone lines, they would know where she lived.

She could phone the police, but it would take a lot of explaining and calls to the U.S. Marshal’s office before her story could be verified. The hit team would expect her to do this. They might even be waiting near the station. One sniper shot and she would be in a black bag.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a beam of light swinging back and forth. The flashlight was far down the type of narrow unpaved street that made Santa Fe so quaint. She saw the hulking shape of the man in the shop, methodically searching the bushes. If she ran, he would see her.

Her only choice was to climb the adobe wall as quietly as possible and drop down the other side onto the adjacent street. Like most adobe walls in the historic area, this one had been crudely made by the Native Americans who had been used as slave labor by the Conquistadors. Over time it had weathered and had several holes where the adobe had deteriorated.

She jammed the toe of her sandal in an indentation part-way up the wall. Bracing on that leg, she boosted herself upward. She managed to grasp the top of the wall with the tips of her nails. Heaving one leg skyward, her foot caught the top of the wall.

The broomstick skirt made it nearly impossible to scramble to the top. After two tries, she was lying flat on top of the ancient adobe wall. The light was so close now that the man holding it would hear her if she dropped down the other side.

A pickup with a bad muffler and a radio blaring music from a station in Juarez rumbled up the street. Pachucos—bad boys—out looking for trouble. She waited until they were closer, almost upon the man with the flashlight, then she plunged off the wall.

Thump! She landed on her side and rolled. Starting at her shoulder, a sharp, punishing jolt of pain seared through her body. Shuddering in agony, she pulled her feet under her and lurched upright. The pachucos’ music was still blaring, and she forced herself to run, knowing the noise she made couldn’t be heard.

She breathed through clenched teeth. With each pump of her lungs, a stab of pain told her a rib must have broken. She couldn’t lift one arm above her waist. Her shoulder might be broken. Sweat gushing from every pore, breath coming in ragged painful spurts, she willed herself into a fast walk. Running was out of the question.

It was only a few blocks to Romero’s house. If he would give her some money and lend her his car, she could drive to Phoenix. There she could call WITSEC or the FBI field office. The hit team would expect her to head for the airport, but she wouldn’t be that stupid.

What would she tell Romero?

Camino de las Animas—the soul’s way—was an unpaved narrow street with sprawling haciendas. Romero’s house was at the far end. She spotted the wrought-iron lantern shining at his front door. Like a beacon the light sent a burst of adrenaline through her. Somehow she broke into a sprint.

She charged through the arched adobe gateway and up the steps of the hacienda built almost two hundred years earlier. Cringing with pain, a wild story for Romero forming in her brain, her world suddenly pitched from side to side, then halted with a mind-numbing jolt.

The front door was wide-open.

“Romero,” she cried out before she could stop herself.

What if the woman was inside? It had been a man with the flashlight. He couldn’t have beaten her here. More important, how did they know about Romero?

Zachary bounded out of the house. The soft lantern light revealed fresh red blood on the retriever’s paws. A suffocating wave of terror enveloped her like a vision of hell.

“Please, please,” she whispered, “don’t let them have hurt Romero.”

Common sense said to run, but she refused to desert her friend. She tiptoed into the house and was met with dead silence. A single lamp was on in the living room Romero had so meticulously decorated with furnishings from the Spanish Colonial period.

The only sound was the click-click of Zachary’s nails against the tile floor. The aroma of blue corn enchiladas filled the air. She inched forward. Each ragged breath brought white-hot pain from her ribs.

In the dining room, she called out, “Romero, are you there?”

No answer.

She rounded the corner into the kitchen. Sprawled on the floor in a puddle of blood and bloody pawprints, Romero’s dark eyes stared up at the ceiling.

“Oh, God, no!”

She staggered forward and fell to her knees, scraping them on the tile. Someone—it had to be the woman—had slit Romero’s throat. Anger like invisible lightning arced through her.

Why? Why? Why?

Why kill an innocent man? It was incomprehensible. She knew Rutherford and Ames were responsible. Corporate piranhas, they let nothing and no one get in their way.

In a heartbeat the anger drained from her. They had more money, more resources than she did. They were able to get around WITSEC. What could she possibly do?

“Come and get me,” she called out. “I’m ready to die.”

It was true. She’d been living in hell for over a year. Tyler had married another woman. She couldn’t see her sister or niece, her only family. The way things were going her purgatory seemed endless.

Now this.

A kind, wonderful man had befriended her. He’d paid for his trouble with his life. She hoped the woman hadn’t tortured him somehow before she put the blade to his throat.

Tears sparkled on her lashes, and then blurred her vision as she waited to die. Seconds passed. The house was eerily still except for the low hum of the refrigerator. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. With a broad swipe of his tongue, Zach licked her face.

This could mean only one thing. The woman was searching for her elsewhere. They may have thought she had car keys in her pocket or had gotten a ride or that she had gone to the police station.

Hang on, she thought. Those bastards had money and would kill anyone who got in their way, but she had something more important. Truth was on her side. She had to get away and live to testify.

She reached over to close Romero’s eyes. To his left, hidden by the shadow from the kitchen table was a message scrawled on the cabinet in blood.

Lindsey

Kill

me

“What?”

The woman must have dipped Romero’s finger in his own blood. The bile rose up in the back of her throat. She prayed the poor man had been dead by then.

There was a purpose to his death, she decided. They’d slit his throat to frame her for his murder. Why, when they wanted to kill her? It took a second for her to realize the killers hadn’t a clue where she was, and they wanted more manpower in finding her. What better way than to have the police after her, as well?

“I’m sorry,” she told Romero’s lifeless body. “I knew better than to make a friend. Forgive me.”

With her fingertip she gently closed Romero’s eyes. She kneeled beside him and said the Irish Blessing just as she had when each of her parents had been lowered into their graves.

May the road rise up to meet you,

May the wind always be at your back

May the sun shine upon your face

The rains fall soft upon your fields

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

CHAPTER FIVE

Provo, Turks and Caicos Islands

THE THATCHED ROOF BAR sloped downward, supported at the four corners by bamboo poles. The open-air bar had no walls and overlooked the beach a few feet away.

Chad wished he were with a babe. There were plenty of them around, wearing skimpy suits that would have given a statue an erection, but there you go. He was spending his time with a nerd and the sophisticated piece of equipment Danson wanted him to test.

Chad accessed the Department of Defense satellite, inputting his SAP/SAR code into a device that reminded him of a handheld GPS.

Scan Retina appeared on the screen.

“What in hell am I supposed to do?” he asked Danson.

“Hold it up to your eye,” Danson replied. “The satellite will receive an image of your retina and relay it to the scanner in the DOD database.”

“Won’t work. I had my iris scanned when I was testing for you guys but not my retina.”

Danson chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. “A scan of your iris photographs your retina, as well.”

Chad held up the device to his right eye. He knew only too well that biometric sensors like fingerprint scans, voice recognition, and iris scans were popular at high-security facilities.

“What was wrong with an iris scan?” he asked.

“Too many guys work with saws or welding equipment. One tiny piece of sawdust you don’t even feel gets embedded in the iris. Next thing you know that guy’s scan comes up invalid. You’ll only have to do this iris thing once to put yourself into the system to do the testing. In the field, it’s too tricky.”

“Gotcha.” Too-sensitive equipment was a nuisance, especially in the field. The device now read Access Granted.

“Zoom down on us.”

Chad punched in their lat/long coordinates. The satellite camera rotated, moving from central Africa to Turks and Caicos. He pressed the zoom button and two small splashes of infrared appeared on the blue screen. It was impossible to tell what the blotches were but the screen read Humans.

“I’ll be damned. Seems to work.” He tapped in new coordinates so the satellite’s camera focused on the dog sleeping near a beach cabana.

A second later the screen read Canine.

“This will revolutionize satellite surveillance,” Danson whispered.

“If it doesn’t have any bugs.”

“True, true. We thought the iris scan was the answer until we discovered that one tiny flaw. Test this in every situation. Let’s make sure it’s perfect before we go into production.”

The refrigerator behind the talapa bar was now on the screen. Small Machinery.

“Okay, so where’s the leak?” asked Chad.

“I might have known you’d figure it out.” Danson shrugged. “If we knew, I wouldn’t be here.”

Honolulu

Three months later.

CHAD LANGSTON pulled a chair up beside Eddie Kukana’s desk. “Any luck replacing Lori?”

“Aole.” No. Eddie shook his dark head. “Every woman thinks she would make a good wedding coordinator. I’ve interviewed dozens. None have enough experience.”

“Shelby can’t handle it?”

“No way.”

They were in Eddie’s office in the Crockett Building overlooking the Ala Wai Boat Harbor. Chad had his office just across from Eddie’s. A stately banyan tree in the center of the courtyard blocked their view of each other’s offices. They were in the habit of dropping in to chat at least once a day, when Chad was in town.

They had grown up together in Turtle Bay on the North Shore of Oahu where they’d surfed the Banzai Pipeline every chance they had. Best friends since the third grade, they were what islanders called calabash cousins. They were so close they should have been related. Each had chosen very unusual professions, but both of their careers evolved from their love of the water.

After Chad left the military, he bought a scuba diving company whose main base was in Honolulu but had locations on the other islands, as well. His managers were so good that Chad devoted much of his time to his real passion, underwater forensics.

Eddie had begun his business by taking tourists on sunset catamaran cruises. He’d saved his money and bought “party” boats that were usually rented for conventions held on the island. Several years ago, he’d branched out and began having weddings onboard his boats.

It quickly became the most lucrative part of his business. Thanks to a flashy Web site, many mainlanders contacted him. They expected him to coordinate everything. Knowing little about wedding planning, Eddie had hired Lori, but she’d recently moved to Kauai. Apparently her assistant Shelby didn’t have enough skills to take over.

Eddie glanced at his watch. “I have another gal coming for an interview in a few minutes. A haole from Chicago. She has experience.”

“Sounds good.”

Eddie arched one dark busy eyebrow the way he often did when he was upset. His almond eyes narrowed. “You know malihini. They always think they want to live in paradise. Mainlanders head home in six months.”

Chad nodded. His managers were all from the islands. He encouraged them to hire divers who had been raised in Hawaii. Too many mainlanders came to the islands and took jobs away from the locals. No sooner were the malihinis trained than they went home.

“Look at it this way,” Chad told his friend. “If this woman stays a few months, maybe Shelby will be able to take over.”

Eddie snorted and slapped his thigh. “Yeah, right.”

Shelby was Eddie’s niece. To say the girl was a flake would be a gross understatement, but the woman who’d previously held Shelby’s position had managed to embezzle a ton of money before an auditor caught her. At least Shelby was family. While she was a few beans shy of a full burrito, she could be trusted.

Trust was a real issue with Eddie, Chad realized and not for the first time. His friend trusted everyone and kept sloppy records. Anyone could take advantage of him without half trying. Aloha Yachts and Weddings would be a lot more profitable if everyone from the vendors to the deckhands didn’t exploit Eddie’s generosity.

Chad had offered to take care of Eddie’s books in his office, but Eddie’s pride wouldn’t permit him to admit he needed help. In time, Eddie’s son, Andy would come into the business. The kid seemed to have a knack for finance even though right now Andy was obsessed with computers and was responsible for the Web site.

BEFORE DEVON ARRIVED for her interview, she’d already checked out Aloha Yachts and Weddings. The offices were on the ground floor and had a back exit—just in case. The rear door led to two different streets, depending on which way you turned. She’d been offered dozens of jobs, but none of them suited her requirements.

The setup was as near perfect as she was going to find. The firm was small and low-profile, the type of place her new handler, Warren Martin, had told her to work. It was in the part of town that saw only a few tourists—not that WITSEC expected anyone to recognize her.

She’d escaped Santa Fe by taking the cash out of Romero’s wallet and the keys to his SUV. She drove the back roads north until she and Zach were in Denver. Once there, she contacted the FBI field office.

Within the hour WITSEC had her on Con Air, the private federal airline that usually shuttled prisoners. They flew her back to the WITSEC safe site and orientation center in a secret Washington suburb. She’d arrived there with Zach in an armored vehicle with blackout windows.

This time she had been prepared for what was going to happen. Movement within the center was as controlled as it is in prison. Doors automatically bolted and could only be opened by the Federal Marshals on duty. Hallways were monitored by motion detectors and video cameras.

The compound, she’d been informed the first time she was there, could hold six families without any of them seeing each other. The typical orientation lasted two weeks, including a formal risk assessment of each witness. Her cover blown meant her risk assessment this time was sky high.

They’d spent an entire day debriefing her and trying to find out how she’d been compromised. Even Curt Masterson, head of WITSEC couldn’t decide what had happened. They had wiretaps on Rutherford’s and Ames’s telephones, and they were under surveillance. As far as the FBI could tell neither of the men had contacted a hit team.

She suspected there was an internal leak within WITSEC. After all, Derek had warned her that someone had tried to access her file. Federal Marshals had their price, and no doubt, the ruthless executives would pay any amount of money to have her killed rather than to allow her to testify.

She had a dislocated shoulder and cracked ribs, but she had managed to outsmart the hit team. Masterson decided she needed some minor cosmetic surgery to change her appearance and green contacts to conceal her blue eyes before he was willing to relocate her.

Curt Masterson had listened to how the WITSEC 800 number and the Santa Fe FBI Field office both had busy signals. He decided whoever Rutherford and Ames had hired wasn’t an ordinary hit team. They could be checking various states’ DMV databanks. With sophisticated high definition computer imaging, they could compare recent drivers’ license photographs to pictures of Devon when she’d been Samantha Robbins.

Armed with a new face, another name, a new birth certificate and a Social Security card, she was flown to Honolulu. Witnesses were rarely relocated in paradise, Masterson reasoned. This would be the last place her enemies would think to look for her.

It had taken a lot to convince Masterson to allow her to keep Zach. Her new handler, Warren Martin, certainly hadn’t wanted to help her find accommodations that would accept a dog.

CHAD AND EDDIE were discussing how to set up an Exel spreadsheet. Chad couldn’t help think that part of the reason his friend had been bilked by an employee was that Eddie didn’t have a good grasp of his income and expenses. Spreadsheets were easy enough, but Eddie was resisting the change.

“Hello,” called a willowy blonde from the door to the office, her figure silhouetted by the sunlight from the courtyard. She stepped forward into the office, and they could see her better. “I’m looking for Eddie Kukana.”

Chad’s eyes roved over her slowly. Her high full breasts flared above a narrow waist and long showgirl legs. She turned her head slightly and shoulder-length blond hair rippled seductively across her shoulders. He clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t be staring at her slack-jawed.

Devon gazed at both men, but it was the taller, powerfully-built man who caught her attention. Glossy chestnut hair hung across his forehead, a little longer than was currently stylish. Blue eyes filled with sparkling humor stared at her with undisguised sexual interest.

The man had a commanding presence, a way of holding himself. She instantly knew he would not be easy to manipulate. He continued to gaze at her, taking in her entire body with assessing eyes that missed nothing.

Her throat constricted and for a moment it felt as if someone were strangling her. The feeling passed—thankfully—and she drew in a deep hitching breath.

What was wrong with her? The man hadn’t said a word, yet her pulse was thundering in her temples, and she suddenly felt light-headed. She must have the jitters over this interview. She pulled her eyes away from his.

For a second neither of the men said anything. Chad wasn’t sure who they were expecting to arrive for the interview, but it wasn’t a knockout with a mane of tawny blond hair, cat-green eyes and a killer bod. She could stop a guy’s heart from a block away.

“I’m Devon Summers. I have an interview for the wedding coordinator position.”

Chad found his voice first. “This is Edward. Everyone calls him Eddie.”

She walked toward them, not smiling, her eyes intent. “I hope the position hasn’t been filled.”

“It hasn’t,” Eddie said, his tone gruff, a sure sign he was nervous.

Chad stood up. “You have experience as a wedding planner?”

“Coordinator,” she corrected him.

Unusual green eyes, he thought. Hypnotic. Seductive.

“Ms. Summers e-mailed me her résumé.” Eddie picked up a piece of paper from the top of a desk littered with brochures for his various party boat services, faxes and letters. “Impressive. Five years at the Cress Creek Country Club in Chicago.”

“Napierville, actually. It’s one of the more upscale suburbs.” Devon wondered if her voice reflected her nervousness.

“Right. Napierville.” The other man responded, grinning boyishly, his arresting blue eyes sparkling with humor.

Uh-oh, Devon thought. This man is way too sure of his own charm. Like Tyler, she thought with a pang. He’s accustomed to women falling all over him. Well, not this woman.

Chad decided Devon was a total babe, but not in the way Chad might have expected had he merely seen her from afar. When she spoke she had the glint of intelligence in her eyes and a very direct manner.

What would she be like in bed?

He’d bet the ranch that she liked physical sex. She probably would insist on being on top. Worked for him. He imagined her tawny hair brushing his face, her nipples tight and swaying slightly as she rode him hard.

“Before that I worked three years at the Four Seasons in Philadelphia as the assistant coordinator.”

“But you have no experience with weddings on the water,” Eddie said.

Chad knew Eddie was thinking of an excuse not to hire Devon. When Eddie’s wife Malaea saw this babe, she would pitch a fit. Not that Eddie was a player. Far from it, but Malaea was extremely protective.

Chad was protective, too, but for another reason. A hottie like this could easily take advantage of Eddie financially.

Devon recited the cover story she’d concocted for this interview. “I did one wedding on Lake Michigan. The club catered the event on a member’s yacht. I coordinated everything.”

Eddie nodded thoughtfully.

“Sounds like she’s perfect for the job,” Chad said. No way would he let this woman not be hired even though he’d already decided he would have to keep his eye on her so she didn’t use Eddie.

Okay, so keeping his eye on her wouldn’t be any problem. Keeping his eyes off her would be another matter. She chose that second to turn those cat-green eyes on him.

Their gazes locked and for a long suspended moment they gazed at each other. Seconds ticked by. Devon refused to look away and let him know how much he unnerved her.

Chad experienced an erotic charge, but quickly realized it was one-sided. The intensity of her gaze and the tight set of her full lips, confirmed her mind was not on sex. Her look was almost a challenge, almost as if she were daring him…to what? In that tiny suspended moment, he felt the full impact of her undeniable sex appeal.

Eddie broke the tension. “When can you start?”

Devon weighed her options. Her instincts told her this was a dangerous situation. She was unaccountably attracted to the taller man even though he reminded her of Tyler.

“Before I take the job, I need to know if I can bring my golden retriever with me. He’s well-trained and won’t be a problem.”

“Goldens are great dogs,” Chad said.

Eddie hesitated a moment before saying, “Bring him.”

“So when can you begin?” Chad asked. Not soon enough.

“Next week.”

“Tomorrow,” Chad said. “A big wedding is coming up this weekend.”

“All right,” she agreed, but Chad heard a note of reluctance in her voice. “What time do you open?”

“Nine,” Eddie replied. “Since we work weekends, you have Monday and Tuesday off.”

Chad watched the knockout blonde as she filled out the employment forms Eddie had given her. He was standing close enough to get a whiff of some faint lemony scent. Perfume or perhaps shampoo.

What was her story? No wedding ring, but she was a heartbreaker. Chad could spot one a mile off.

Why had she come to Hawaii? In his experience people who relocated to Hawaii were looking for something or wanted to get away from something. They usually went home within the year.

Watching Devon Summers, Chad wondered why she hadn’t applied to one of the big resort hotels or one of the larger wedding coordinators. With her credentials and looks, Devon could land a job anywhere. Why was she applying for a job with a small firm that wouldn’t pay as well as one of the upscale companies?

A thought niggled at the back of his mind. Something about this woman seemed…off. What? Okay, okay, maybe it was visceral warning signals or simply his protective instincts where Eddie was concerned.

“How long have you been in Honolulu?” Chad asked.

“Less than a month.” Devon didn’t dare look up from the form she was filling out, fearing this man would see she was lying.

“Why did you move here?” Eddie asked.

“I’ve always wanted to live here.” She handed Eddie the forms. “Tomorrow, I’ll come a little before nine.”

“Maikai.”

“That means good,” Chad told her.

She gazed at him for a moment, her eyes as unreadable as stone. Man, oh, man. She was one sexy lady and didn’t even seem to realize it.

“What do you do here?” she asked.

“I’m Chad Langston. I don’t work for Eddie.” He offered his hand.

Devon’s instincts told her physical contact with this man was out of the question. She mustered a businesslike smile, but didn’t shake his hand.

“My office is across the courtyard. I—”

“See you tomorrow,” she abruptly told Eddie and headed for the door.

Chad was right behind her. “Later,” he said to Eddie.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked Devon.

“No.” She wanted to get away from his disturbing presence. That’s what she needed.

“I’ll drop by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

Devon didn’t dare reply. She walked through the courtyard to the entrance of the building. A shiver of anticipation coursed through her. Why? It must be a reaction to Tyler’s betrayal, she decided. Her subconscious wanted to know if men still found her attractive.

An ice queen, Chad thought. Just his luck. At one point anything in panties had captured his attention.

Must be getting old.

The first woman who’d interested him in a long time was frigid. Give Devon a break. Maybe she’d moved here to put a bad relationship behind her. She could be temporarily off men—or have a boyfriend.

Thanks to three sisters, Chad had a good understanding of how a woman’s mind worked. He got along with women and enjoyed them. He was even willing to go shopping, although that was a stretch.

He watched Devon disappear. He wanted to kiss her until she was breathless and begging for more. Hell, what he really wanted was to whisk her away to his place and peel that sundress off her.

Heat pooled in his groin. Chad silently cursed himself for thinking with his dick. Like a siren, Devon called to him, urging him to come closer…and be destroyed.

DEVON RUSHED OUT of the building, anxious to escape Chad Langston, but she paused to check the street. There were a few people, but none of them looked familiar. She hadn’t been followed.

She should have turned down the job because she found Chad attractive, but she quite literally couldn’t afford to. She’d been offered lots of jobs, but none of them met her requirements should she need to escape.

Chad Langston. Quite a hunk. Tall, sun-streaked chestnut-brown hair, blue eyes and a body to die for. No man had the right to possess so much masculine virility. He seemed to know it, she decided, remembering the aggressive boldness in his gaze.

She would just have to give him the deep freeze until he got the message. No matter how sexy the ripped bod or how adorable his smile, Devon did not need a man in her life. But she had to admit his long sensual look, as close to a caress as you could get without touching, had triggered a bittersweet sensation.

She hadn’t experienced anything like it for well over a year, when she’d been forced to leave Tyler behind in Houston. She’d immediately recognized the telltale gleam in Chad’s eyes for what it was—lust.

What had stunned her was her own reaction. She had been too long without a man, but she couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone. The last man to help her had paid with his life.

Over and over at odd, unexpected times, she kept seeing herself closing Romero’s eyes. Until we meet again, may God keep you in the palm of His hand.

The weight of the loss, realizing she would never see Romero again swept through her. Where would she be if not for him? Even more lost and lonely than she’d been.

Guilt had a stranglehold on her emotions. The hit team had killed something vital inside her when they’d murdered Romero. Problem was, she hadn’t died yet.

Death was terrifyingly final. Knowing she’d caused his murder brought the blur of unfallen tears to her eyes. No more star-filled nights for Romero, no more artists to discover, no more walks through the historic plaza. No more anything.

She forced herself to hit the speed dial on her cell phone and called Warren. “I got the job. I don’t think they checked my references.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re backstopped.”

From her first relocation, she knew phony credentials and references were fixed so that if they were checked, they would appear to be legitimate.

“Problem is I need to become an expert at planning a wedding by tomorrow morning.”

“Try the Internet.”

“I plan to.” She hesitated a moment before asking, “Has Masterson given the okay to call my sister yet?”

“No. I’ll let you know when he does.”

“Any word on selling my condo or the gallery?”

“Like I’ve told you before, Lindsey Wallace is wanted for murder. WITSEC can’t just quietly sell your assets without attracting attention.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

Warren was not a warm fuzzy guy. When Derek had been her handler, he had been much more helpful. She supposed Warren thought she knew the ropes since she’d already been relocated once.

This time she had to take the WITSEC stipend until her assets in Santa Fe could be sold and the money transferred. Meanwhile, like most other WITSEC witnesses, she had to live on the cash her handler doled out and establish credit on her own. Until she had an income stream, she had to live in an apartment the size of a broom closet.

The need for cash and the office’s setup with a back door and two escape routes made Devon take the job at Aloha. Otherwise, she told herself, she would have steered clear of pushy Chad Langston. For a moment she wondered if she should have told her handler about him. No way, she decided. Warren would have made her look for another job. Except for Chad, this office was perfect.

She climbed into the temperamental Toyota that Warren had helped her buy. The rattletrap car was rusted, a common occurrence in Hawaii, and probably wouldn’t last another year, but for now it was all she could afford.

Chad Langston drifted into her mind. His office was just across the courtyard. I’ll drop by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.

Oh, no, you won’t.

BROCK HARDESTY STARED at the special map on the wall that he had created for Samantha Robbins/Lindsey Wallace. He’d marked every state where she had attended school or had relatives or friends. He’d tagged the spots where she had vacationed. WITSEC wouldn’t relocate her in any of those places.

“She’s probably in the Pacific Northwest or California,” he muttered. She hadn’t traveled to those places and had no friends there. But exactly where was she?

The bitch was smart. He would grant her that. Not only had she evaded his hit team, but Lindsey had been clever enough to change the license plates on Romero Zamora’s car. When the APB went out, the police were looking for the blue Suburban, but they never spotted it because it had different plates.

He later learned, through a source at FBI headquarters, that she’d driven north to Denver. WITSEC had immediately evacuated her.

He’d caught hell from Kilmer Cassidy because his agents had muffed it. He reminded the scumbag CEO that he had advised him to have the bitch terminated the first time they had visited PowerTec.

He had been running checks on new licenses issued by DMVs in the Western states. Hacking into the DMV was a no-brainer. It took a badge number to get into the local police computer. No problem since badge numbers were stored with employment files.

Once Brock was into the local police computer, it was easy to springboard into the State Police computer. From there, it was a few keystrokes and you were in the DMV database. So far, nothing. He’d run hundreds of pictures of new applicants against an imaging software program with Samantha Robbins/Lindsey Wallace’s photograph on it, but none of them matched the picture of the woman he was after.

His operatives—the dumb shits who’d let Lindsey Wallace get away—had a contact at the Bank of Santa Fe. The minute her condo or gallery sold and the funds were being transferred, he would know about it.

It might take years. Romero Zamora had been a popular man with a lot of influential friends. His murder was getting more attention than Brock would have thought. With the media hovering, WITSEC wouldn’t dare sell her assets.

In the meantime, he would wait. And when no one at Obelisk was paying attention to Number 111 and 32, Brock would arrange for an accident. He hadn’t come this far to suffer fools. He was already grooming another top-notch hit man.

Man. Like Number 32, women were too emotional. Slitting Zamora’s throat was an unbelievable fuckup. Something only a woman would do.

One of his telephones rang. The caller ID said it was one of the secret sources he’d developed for Obelisk.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got some interesting info on a new device the DoD is testing.”

“The Defense Department is always testing something.”

The source chuckled. “How many times do they test it outside the department?”

“Never.”

“Never say never. Remember the Predator.”

“Right,” Brock reluctantly agreed. The Predator drone had been developed in astonishing secrecy.

“Archer Danson himself gave this prototype to some ex-military officer to test.”

“No shit! What is it?”

“I’m trying to find out.”

“Get back to me the minute you do.”

Obelisk had an unending need for military equipment. Something phenomenal would remind them how brilliant he was.

CHAPTER SIX

SITTING ON A BEACH CHAIR with his long legs stretched out, Chad chomped on a slice of pork slathered with a barbecue sauce that was supposed to be a family secret. It was store-bought sauce doctored with Worcestershire, Tabasco, and a bit of honey. The taste depended on who made the sauce. Keke made this batch. It was loaded with Tabasco.

It was almost sunset and he was with his sisters and their families under a cluster of date palms. His three sisters had seven kids among them, and they had brought along assorted rugrats who were friends or relatives. On most family birthdays and other occasions, Chad’s brothers-in-law came early in the morning to Waimanalo Beach on the west side of the island, not far from Honolulu. They’d dug an imu pit in the sand, lined it with dried banana leaves, and slow-roasted a kalua pig.

The waves were calmer here than in other parts of the island, and the fine sand made awesome sandcastles. Chad preferred the surf on the North shore where he’d grown up, or nearby Sandy Beach around Makapuu Point where the body surfers hung out. But for young children, this beach was perfect.

The luau was a Hawaiian family tradition. It had been botched by hotels that served gross food while hula girls and fire eaters performed. Family luaus usually didn’t have hula dancing. For entertainment someone might pick up a ukulele and start playing after having a few too many Primo beers. Keke’s husband Paul was sure to bring out his slack key guitar as soon as he’d had dessert.

For Hawaiians a luau was a chance to get together with their extended family and “talk story” while they feasted and celebrated a birthday or special occasion. Talking story was their way of passing on island lore and traditions to the young.

It was also a way of handing down family tales. Talking story meant telling the same tales over and over, but Hawaiians didn’t mind. It was customary to listen intently as if hearing the story for the first time.

His sister Keke came over and sat down beside him. “You’re awfully quiet. What’s up?”

Keke and Chad were closer than he was to his other two sisters because they had been born fourteen months apart. With his father away constantly managing the Turtle Bay Resort, their mother had been so overwhelmed that it had been another three years before the twins, Nola and Hana had arrived.

“Come on.” Keke poked him in the ribs. “Tell me.”

“I met a woman.”

“About time!” The blue eyes he saw every morning when he shaved sparkled with mischief, and Keke laughed. “Tell me about her.”

He didn’t know what to tell Keke. As much as he was attracted to Devon, something about her made him wary. It wasn’t anything tangible. It was a gut feeling, a holdover from his Special Ops days with Delta Force, when he’d learned to rely on his instincts.

“Her name is Devon Summers. She’s going to be the new wedding coordinator for Eddie.”

Around her finger, Keke twisted a strand of dark hair wet from swimming with her kids. “Remind her that I’m on the list if she needs extra help.”

Keke sometimes worked Eddie’s parties to make extra money. She was exceptional at tending bar for a large number of guests and could do the work of two bartenders.

“I’m sure Eddie will tell her.”

“You can’t have known her very long. Malaea told me yesterday morning that Eddie was still interviewing.”

Keke was very close to Eddie’s wife. Once Chad would never have believed it could happen. Eddie and Keke had dated steadily throughout high school. After Eddie left the North Shore for Honolulu, he’d met Malaea.

Chad had been overseas with the Delta Force fighting Desert Storm. Nola and Hana had sent him a barrage of e-mails to tell him how upset Keke was. The first chance he’d gotten, Chad had called Eddie and found out his calabash cousin was in love but not with his sister.

A little more than a year passed and Keke met Paul Nakamura. They married and had children. With young children so close in age and being thrown together at family gatherings, the women had the opportunity to get to know each other and become friends.

“Eddie must have just hired her.”

“This afternoon.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Chad watched his sisters’ brood splashing in the surf glazed golden by the setting sun and thought how perceptive Keke was. “I think the woman took an instant dislike to me.”

“No way.”

“Yes. Way. I was trying to talk to her and she walked off.”

“You didn’t come on too strong, did you?”

Chad shrugged one shoulder. “She walked in and—wham—a guy would have to be dead not to stare at her.”

“I might have guessed. Big tits.”

“No, not centerfold material. She’s hot, though. Slim, long legs, blond hair.”

Keke tsked. “Looks aren’t everything. Beautiful women are often conceited and looking for a rich husband. Better watch out. Playing hard-to-get is the oldest trick in the book.”

“Mommie! Mommie!” screeched Keke’s youngest. “Watch!”

“I’m watching.”

The three-year-old leaped over an incoming wave that was six inches high at most.

Keke clapped, and yelled, “Very good.”

“Way to go,” Chad shouted.

He waited until he had Keke’s attention again. “I don’t think Devon is playing a game. I usually have a sixth sense about women from living all those years with you three.”

Keke giggled. “Well, you should. Remember the time you had Eddie and the guys to the house for a sleepover? We put all our panties and bras in your room so the guys would think you were gay or a pervert.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t strangle you.”

“Mom stopped you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here today.”

They both were silent for a moment. Chad was positive his sister was thinking the same thing he was. Their parents should be here today, celebrating their granddaughter’s birthday, but they both had died, his father in an auto accident and his mother two years later of ovarian cancer.

“About this Devon person. Think of hyenas.”

Chad groaned. Keke adored animals. Every time she could, she made a point with an example from the animal kingdom.

“Despite what people think about the law of the jungle, male hyenas who are too aggressive and try to dominate the females, don’t father as many pups as those who make friends before mating.”

“I guess I do come on too strong sometimes, but it always seems to work.”

“And we sisters—the fab three—have always warned you that some women don’t like it, especially if she’s had a bad experience with a man.”

The stupidity of allowing a brief encounter with a stranger to bug him like this made him groan inwardly. Aw, hell, he didn’t know what to think. Since his first sexual experience at fourteen, he’d called the shots in his relationships with women.

Sure, a few had blown him off. It hadn’t bothered him, but Devon had managed to get to him, Chad realized, perplexing emotions coursing through him.

Why her?

SHELBY SOMETHING—an unpronounceable Hawaiian last name that Devon couldn’t say let alone remember—gushed wedding trivia nonstop from the office to the posh residential area near Diamondhead.

“Why do brides wear something blue?” Shelby had asked, then immediately answered her own question. “It symbolizes faithfulness.”

“Who, like, thought of wedding cakes? They began in England in the Middle Ages. People would bring small cakes to weddings. They would, like, pile them up high. Soon people frosted them, like together. Get it? The tiered wedding cake.”

Devon had smiled indulgently. Surely, if Shelby could remember so much trivia, the girl could be a bigger help with the details of wedding planning. No such luck. Shelby was content to be an airhead.

Devon had come in early, prepared to give Chad Langston the brush-off. She’d worked all morning and had made a lot of headway with the three upcoming weddings, thanks to her crash course on the Internet. Chad hadn’t dropped by the office, even though Eddie was in and scheduling party boat cruises in a voice so loud that it was difficult to concentrate.

“Mostly we, like, do fab weddings on Eddie’s yachts,” Shelby explained for the second time, “but occasionally we get a request for a private home. You know, an awesome place with an ocean view like the mansion we’re using Sunday evening.”

Devon nodded, resisting the urge to say anything. Shelby had an overly friendly attitude, like a puppy who wanted its master’s attention. She didn’t want to encourage the girl to become too friendly.

She feigned interest in what was known as the Gold Coast. It ran along the shore east of Diamond Head along Kahala Beach. Most of the elegant homes were behind custom-made gates. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of lushly planted grounds.

Devon hadn’t expected to fall in love with Hawaii, but from the moment she’d stepped off the plane, she was greeted by a sky so blue, so clear it made her heart soar and momentarily forget her problems. Diamond Head stood nobly in the distance, burnished purple by the angle of the sun. The heady scent of plumeria mingled with the loamy smell of the tropics and the bracing scent of the sea.

I’m going to love it here, she’d thought.

Shelby drove her Honda through a set of open stainless gates flanked by towering, stately royal palms. In the center of the enormous circular courtyard was a huge bronze dolphin spouting water into a reflecting pool. The modern home had a curved wall of glass to view Diamondhead and the ocean.

Devon tuned out Shelby as they left the car and rang the doorbell next to towering stainless-steel doors etched with a wave pattern. She noticed how the contemporary lines of the home had been softened by banks of ferns and brilliant pink bougainvillea.

A barefoot, shirtless guy in his early twenties answered the door. His spiked hair was bleached a blinding white by the sun. His skin was as bronze as the dolphin in the courtyard.

“Hi, Rory. Aren’t you, like, surfing today?” gushed Shelby.

From the looks of the home, Devon had expected a house-boy in some sort of outfit. But the rich were different. Apparently this was the owner’s son.

“I surfed already. I was up at the Pipeline before dawn.”

“Getting ready for the contest?” she asked in a breathy voice.

“Right.”

Shelby turned to Devon. “Rory’s surfing in the Rip Curl Cup. The winner, like, gets two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Wow!” Devon hadn’t realized there was so much money in surfing.

Rory pointed in the direction of an infinity pool visible off to the side. “He’s out there.”

Rory disappeared around a corner, and Devon followed Shelby through the dramatic black marble foyer where a dust mote would have had the good sense not to land on the pristine floor. They walked through a living room the size of a hotel lobby. What must be glass doors disappeared into the walls so the room naturally flowed outside.

“Ahoy, there,” Shelby called to the man on a plush chaise lounge with its back to them.

Ahoy? Sheesh, but this girl acted embarrassingly young. Devon wondered how she’d landed the job as the coordinator’s assistant. Obviously she wasn’t capable of taking over the coordinator position or Eddie would have promoted her.

“Ahoy? Shelby, you need to learn to be more professional,” called the man.

Oh, my God! Chad Langston. What was he doing here? Sunning himself obviously and toying with a handheld video game or perhaps a GPS.

Could this be his home? The Crockett Building was a modest office complex. It didn’t seem to be the type of place where a person who owned this mansion would have an office.

“I’m more professional, like, every day. Right now, I’m showing the new wedding coordinator around. Have you met Dev—”

“We met yesterday.” Chad deliberately glanced at her for only a split second, then turned his attention to Shelby.

He told Shelby, “Get Devon up to speed so the wedding on Saturday goes smoothly. I’m here if you need me.”

He settled back in his chair, pretending to be more interested in the gadget than her. No way was he going to hit on Devon. Let her come to him, he’d decided after his talk with Keke.

Devon told herself she wanted Chad to leave her alone, but a twinge of disappointment rippled through her. She tamped down the feeling, upset with the sensations he aroused in her.

Shelby led her across a broad sweep of diachondra that gradually dropped down to the water where a group of chaise lounges had been placed along the shore. Like holiday bunting, garlands of seaweed decorated the beach, a gift of the retreating tide. At the far end of the grounds was a lagoon where a black swan was swimming, barely rippling the water.

Now they were far enough away from Chad for Devon to question Shelby. “Is this Chad’s place?”

Shelby nodded and her dark hair fluttered across her shoulders. “Totally awesome, isn’t it?”

“Totally. What does Chad do?” She perched her sunglasses on top of her head.

“He owns lots of scuba diving shops and dive boats on, like, all the islands.” Shelby stepped closer and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve heard Eddie say Chad’s real money comes from underwater spying.”

“Spying? On whom?” Devon pretended to be consulting her notes in case Chad was watching.

“Like dead people. He goes underwater and looks for evidence. The family hired him in the Laci Peterson case.”

“Not spying. That’s underwater forensics.”

“Whatever.”

Fascinating, she thought. He would be an interesting man to get to know, but she didn’t dare.

From the chaise, Chad watched Devon, his eyes scanning each feature of her face. None was particularly remarkable but together, they were a stunning combination. She was pretty in an exotic cat-eyed way. Okay, he’d dated more beautiful women, but there was something about Devon, something elusive that called to him. He wanted her, plain and simple.

Be a hyena. Keke’s advice reverberated in his head. Be a friend first. See where that goes. Could be, if he came to know Devon, he wouldn’t like her.

Fat chance.

Her blond hair rippled across her shoulders as she studied a piece of paper. A full, pouty lower lip glistened with a hint of gloss. He’d noticed her mouth yesterday. Since then all he could think about was kissing her.

Devon consulted the printout in earnest, saying to Shelby, “Lori’s computer notes indicate about two hundred people are expected for the wedding. Where are we going to hold the service?”

“Here on the grass.”

Devon scanned the grass and silently cursed herself for taking this job. Her Internet searches had turned up valuable information, but estimating how many chairs would fit on this lawn wasn’t among them. It didn’t appear to be room for two hundred chairs plus an aisle and a place for the minister to perform the service.

“Are you sure? Were you with Lori when she spoke with the couple?”

“Well, no, but it’s an awesome spot. We’ve, like, had two other weddings on the lawn.”

Devon considered asking Chad, but being near him was too risky. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed Eddie. “I’m out at Chad Langston’s place. Do you know if the wedding is supposed to take place on the lawn? It doesn’t look big enough.”

“I have no idea. Isn’t it in Lori’s notes?”

“No.”

“All I remember her mentioning was the ten thousand red rose petals.”

“Rose petals?” She scanned the printout. Oh, my God! With two other weddings coming up, she hadn’t noticed. No flowers had been ordered at all.

“The petals will cover the lagoon. We grow roses in Hawaii, sure, but most are flown in.”

Eddie didn’t sound terribly concerned, an attitude typical of many Hawaiians Devon had met. It took a disaster to fluster them.

“Eddie, if any flowers were ordered, even the bridal bouquet, Lori didn’t make a note of it.”

“I’ll try to reach Lori in Kaui. If Chad’s around, ask him where the service is being held.”

“I will.” She said goodbye and snapped her cell phone shut. “Do you know if any flowers have been ordered for this wedding?” she asked Shelby. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to Chad.

Shelby shook her head.

Devon read the printout more closely. A caterer had been hired, thank heavens. Something weird had been written on the music line.

“Is there a band called Bite Me?”

“They are, like, the best band in the islands.”

Who would have thought? “I guess we’ll have to see if Chad knows where the service will be held. Then we need to get back to the office and jump on the flower order.”

Devon put on her sunglasses and marched across the grass toward Chad. His long, tanned legs were dusted with sun bleached hair. Obviously he spent a lot of time outdoors. It gave him the appearance of a surfer.

She’d always gone for smart men, not jocks. But Chad seemed to be an exception. Every time she was around him, the pull was stronger.

Chad kept tinkering with the gadget and didn’t look up although he heard Shelby chattering as they approached. Devon was wearing a pale yellow sundress that hugged the lines of her slim body and emphasized the swell of her breasts. He imagined her stepping out of it and into his arms.

Get a grip!

Devon noticed Chad’s still wet Hawaiian print swimming trunks. They hung low on his slim hips and molded his powerful thighs. From behind her sunglasses, Devon observed his torso and noted the hard planes of his chest and the defined contours of his arms. He was buff but not overly pumped the way some guys were. A skein of hair trailed down his chest and disappeared under the waistband of his trunks.

Her eyes dropped to his powerful thighs. At their apex, she couldn’t help observing the masculine bulge barely concealed by the fabric. Nice package, she thought before she could stop herself.

No telling what he might try in bed, she decided. He had the looks and the money and the personality to attract any woman he wanted. No doubt, he’d had plenty of experience.

Plus he had charm in spades—just like Tyler.

“Excuse me, Chad. We’re wondering if you know where the service is being held? On the lawn?”

Chad pushed his shades to the top of his head and looked up. His blue eyes flickered with amusement as if he got a kick out of life. Their gazes met and a sharp, unexpected jolt of excitement hit her.

“There isn’t enough room out here. They’re using the living room.”

“Great. Thanks.” She started to walk away, but stopped and asked, “What are you doing with the furniture?”

“Lori hired a moving company to pick up the stuff and store it. That’s why I’m hanging around. They’re supposed to be picking up the furniture this morning.”

She groaned. “Bite me.”

“Where?” Chad asked.

“She’s talking about the band,” Shelby said.

“No. I said it to avoid a four-letter word. I have this bad feeling that Lori didn’t order a lot of things, including furniture removal.”

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