“Wow! Kara Lennox’s BLOND JUSTICE series has it all—smart, determined heroines, ya-gotta-love-’em macho heroes, taut suspense and romance that will steam your glasses while it melts your heart. Each book is a winner; together they’re pure magic.”

—USA TODAY bestselling author

Merline Lovelace

Dear Reader,

There’s almost nothing more stressful than a wedding. Sonya Patterson has the added stress of a mom in the hospital, a con-man groom after her millions, a reporter hunting for scandal, and the man she’s loved and hated her whole life suddenly becoming more than her dutiful bodyguard.

I had a lot of fun wrapping up the BLOND JUSTICE series. If you’ve enjoyed watching The Blondes get the best of slippery con man Marvin Carter, you’ll be delighted with their brand of ultimate justice. But I hope you’ll also take pleasure in watching Sonya and John-Michael work through barriers of wealth, social class and a painful history to reach the happy ending they deserve.

Please let me know what you think! I love hearing from readers. Visit me at www.karalennox.com or write me at karalennox@yahoo.com.

All my best,

Out of Town Bride

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For the Thursday Lunch-’n-Starbucks crowd—Victoria Chancellor, Judy Christenberry, Kay Dykes, Tammy Hilz and Rebecca Russell. Y’all keep me sane.

Books by Kara Lennox

MILLS & BOON AMERICAN ROMANCE

934—VIXEN IN DISGUISE*

942—PLAIN JANE’S PLAN*

951—SASSY CINDERELLA*

974—FORTUNE’S TWINS

990—THE MILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

1052—THE FORGOTTEN COWBOY

1068—HOMETOWN HONEY†

1081—DOWNTOWN DEBUTANTE†

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Airplane seats were way too small and too crowded together. Sonya Patterson had never thought much about it before, since she’d always flown first class in the past. But this was a last-minute ticket on a no-first-class kind of plane.

She’d also never flown on a commercial airline with her bodyguard, which might explain her current claustrophobia. John-Michael McPhee was a broad-shouldered, well-muscled man, and Sonya was squashed between him and a hyperactive seven-year-old whose mother was fast asleep in the row behind them.

She could smell the leather of McPhee’s bomber jacket. He’d had that jacket for years, and every time Sonya saw him in it, her stupid heart gave a little leap. She hated herself for letting him affect her that way. Didn’t most women get over their teenage crushes by the time they were pushing thirty?

“I didn’t know you were a nervous flyer,” McPhee said, brushing his index finger over her left hand. Sonya realized she was clutching her armrests as if the plane were about to crash.

What would he think, she wondered, if she blurted out that it wasn’t the flying that made her nervous, it was being so close to him? Her mother would not approve of Sonya’s messy feelings where McPhee was concerned.

Her mother. Sonya’s heart ached at the thought of her vibrant mother lying in a hospital bed hooked up to machines. Muffy Lockridge Patterson was one of those women who never stopped running all day, every day, at full throttle with a to-do list a mile long. Over the years Sonya had often encouraged her mother to slow down, relax and cut back on the rich foods. But Muffy seldom took advice from anyone.

Sonya consciously loosened her grip on the armrests when McPhee nudged her again.

“She’ll be okay,” he said softly. “She was in stable condition when I left, and Tootsie was with her.”

“Tootsie? Is that supposed to comfort me?” Tootsie Milford, Muffy’s best friend since boarding school, was a consummate snob who never did a kindness for anyone unless she thought she could get something out of it—usually attention.

Sonya said little else to McPhee during the short flight, and he returned the favor. It was only after the limo picked them up at Hobby Airport that they spoke openly, safe from curious eavesdroppers.

“Do you want to go home first?” McPhee asked.

“No, of course not. Tim,” she said, addressing the chauffeur, “let’s go straight to the hospital, please.”

Tim hit the gas as Sonya fastened her seat belt. McPhee, as usual, didn’t bother. Sonya tried her best to ignore him. She rooted through her suede bag for her compact and busied herself powdering her nose and refreshing her lipstick. Other people might consider her vain, worrying about her appearance during a crisis. But grooming rituals had always given her comfort. That was something she and her mother shared. The world might be crashing down around her ears, but that didn’t mean she had to take it with a shiny nose and flyaway hair.

“Are you going to tell me what you were doing in New Orleans with your ‘sorority sister’?” McPhee asked, apparently unwilling to be ignored.

So, he hadn’t bought her cover story. But she’d had to come up with something quickly when McPhee had tracked her down hundreds of miles away from where she was supposed to be. She’d already been caught in a bald-faced lie—for weeks she’d been telling her mother she was at a spa in Dallas, working out her prewedding jitters.

“I was shopping in New Orleans for my trousseau,” she tried again. “Brenna’s a fashion consultant.”

McPhee laughed out loud at that one. “Lord help us if you start dressing like her.”

All right, so Brenna was a little avant-garde with her spiky hair, miniskirts and platform shoes.

“Anyway,” McPhee continued, “why would a fashion consultant be wanted by the FBI? Come on, Sonya, who is she? And don’t tell me she’s an old friend. I know all your old friends.”

“You think you know everything about me, don’t you? Well, you don’t. I met Brenna at the spa.”

“I checked with Elizabeth Arden. You haven’t been there in over three years.”

“I went to a different spa this time.” The lies were stacking up—and none of them were flying with McPhee.

He didn’t respond, merely stared her down with those incongruously dark-brown eyes. His eyes had always fascinated her, so dark when his hair was blond, and so blasted knowing, as if he could see straight to her most intimate thoughts.

She resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze. She was an adult, she reminded herself. “I have private reasons for my trip to New Orleans, and they don’t concern you.”

“Very well, Miss Patterson,” he said in his Jeeves-the-butler voice. “Forgive me for overstepping my bounds.”

She hated it when he accused her of acting like mistress of the manor. She wasn’t the class-conscious one around here, after all. In fact, she’d once tried to erase the social and financial barriers that separated them. McPhee was the one who had erected most of those barriers, making them more unbreachable than a twenty-foot concrete wall.

“What are you going to do about the wedding?” McPhee asked, abruptly changing tacks. “It’s only two months away.”

Sonya felt a hot flush at the mention of the wedding. Oh, Lord, she should have called it off a long time ago. “We’ll consider the wedding on hold until we have an idea when my mother will recover.”

“I think that’s wise.”

“You sound almost pleased. I thought you were looking forward to being unemployed.” Muffy had agreed that, much as it pained her, McPhee’s services would no longer be needed after Sonya was married.

“I don’t plan to be unemployed,” McPhee said curtly. “You might want to talk to June. She’ll have to find a way to announce the wedding postponement without raising any alarms.” June was her mother’s secretary, who always dealt with anything having to do with the media.

“Has the press been nosing around?” Sonya asked.

“June issued a statement that Mrs. Patterson was going in for routine tests. But there’s been one persistent magazine reporter who isn’t buying it.”

“Let me guess. Leslie Frazier?”

“That’s the one.”

Ugh. Leslie Frazier had a nose for scandal, and she worked for Houston Living, a gossipy society magazine. If she got wind of Sonya’s disappearing act, she’d have a field day. And when she found out the truth—that the marriage would never take place at all, followed by the truth about her purported fiancé, Marvin Carter III—she would turn Sonya into a laughingstock.

Sonya knew she couldn’t stop the real story from coming out eventually. It was only a matter of time. But she wished she could have some control over how and when the news broke.

The truth was, Marvin Carter III was a con man with multiple “fiancées.” Weeks earlier, Marvin had disappeared from Sonya’s life, along with her jewelry, her furs and all her money.

Yet she hadn’t found the courage to tell her mother she’d been jilted and fleeced, and wedding plans continued like a runaway train.

Chapter One

Two weeks later John-Michael McPhee watched Sonya silently for a few moments. She sat at her mother’s bedside, holding Muffy’s limp hand, head bowed. Her artfully highlighted blond hair, which she usually kept pinned up in some elaborate arrangement, had long ago fallen from its confines and now hung in shimmering waves to her shoulders, reminding him of when she was a teenager.

At first, it had seemed that Muffy would recover quickly from her heart attack. She’d been doing so well, in fact, that Sonya had felt it was okay to leave town for a couple of days to help her mysterious new friend, Brenna, out of a jam up in Dallas. But as soon as Sonya had returned, Muffy had undergone bypass surgery, and her recovery hadn’t gone well. She’d contracted a persistent infection that had kept her in Intensive Care.

John-Michael hadn’t seen Sonya so devastated since her father’s death when she was ten. Back then, the transformation of that bright, sunny chatterbox to the thin, solemn, pale little wraith floating about the estate had nearly broken his teenage heart, and he’d tried everything in his power to make her happy again.

Now, however, there wasn’t much he could do; she wasn’t a child to be distracted—especially not by him. He was one of her least favorite people these days.

He cleared his throat. Sonya looked over at him, for once open and vulnerable. She hadn’t expressed that much feeling in years—not around him, anyway.

“You really should go home and get some sleep,” John-Michael said. Sonya had been sitting by Muffy’s bedside for almost twenty-four hours.

“But she woke up and spoke to me a few minutes ago. She said she was…sorry for getting sick so close to my wedding.” Sonya’s eyes filled with tears. “That was the first thing she wanted to say to me.”

John-Michael felt the urge to put his arms around Sonya and comfort her. He knew she felt guilty for being gone when her mother was suddenly struck ill, and for not returning his urgent calls. And there was no one else she could turn to for comfort. Muffy and Sonya had no other family. They had no siblings in either generation.

But Sonya would not welcome comfort from him.

Her fiancé should be with her now, John-Michael thought with a surge of anger. But Marvin, the insensitive lout, was halfway around the globe and apparently couldn’t be bothered.

“Your mother wouldn’t want you to wear yourself to a frazzle,” John-Michael said.

“I’m staying,” she said stubbornly. “If you’re tired, go on home. I’ll be fine.”

John-Michael gritted his teeth. For ten years he’d hovered over Sonya, knowing her whereabouts at all times. He’d followed her at a discreet distance whenever she dated; he’d slept in his car outside strange houses when she’d elected to spend the night away from home. He’d sat in doctors’ waiting rooms and outside college classrooms, watching as she lived her life, wondering if he would ever get to live his.

Sonya hadn’t needed a bodyguard. She’d never been threatened or stalked, and she was in no more danger than any other wealthy young woman. But Muffy couldn’t bear to take chances with her only daughter, not after her husband had been kidnapped and killed, targeted due to his wealth. The murderers were safely in prison, but Muffy worried it could happen again.

It wasn’t likely John-Michael would abandon Sonya now, when Muffy was lying in Intensive Care.

Instead, he resumed his vigil on a padded bench in the ICU waiting area, a bench he’d been warming on and off since the day he brought Sonya here from New Orleans.

Thirty minutes later, Sonya emerged from the ICU. “The nurses kicked me out. I guess I’ve been trying their patience, abusing their visitors’ rules.”

“They probably just want you to get some sleep.”

She eyed the lumpy bench he was parked on. “I could sleep there.”

“Sonya…”

“Oh, all right. I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to catch a couple of hours’ sleep at home. The nurses have my cell number. They promised to call if there’s any change.” She gave him a rare, sympathetic look. “You look bushed. You don’t really have to stay here with me all the time.”

“Marvin’s the one who should be with you.”

She glanced away, a sure sign she was about to tell a lie. “I told you, he’s somewhere in China right now. I can’t get hold of him.”

“Can’t you call his company?” John-Michael said as they walked toward the elevator. “Surely they know how to reach him. And there are satellite phones, you know.”

“He’s working on an important deal, and I don’t want to worry him unnecessarily. He calls me every few days. I’ll let him know the situation next time he calls.”

John-Michael sure wished he knew what was going on with her. He’d never known Sonya to be so secretive—or to tell so many lies. He and Sonya had had their differences, sure, but she’d always been able to trust him. He’d never told Muffy about those frat parties she used to attend that were little more than drunken orgies. Or about the time he’d had to rush Sonya’s best friend, Cissy Trask, to the hospital when she’d had a miscarriage. No one but he and Sonya had known she was pregnant, and no one ever would.

Why now had Sonya decided he couldn’t be trusted?

Once they reached the Patterson estate, Sonya disappeared without a word up the curved staircase, her delicate heels noiseless on the Chinese silk carpeting.

John-Michael retreated to his own quarters, a small apartment above the five-car garage. But he was too keyed up to sleep. Instead, he pulled on a pair of gym shorts.

The Patterson estate had its own mini health club, with state-of-the-art exercise equipment, an indoor lap pool, wet and dry saunas and whirlpool.

Foregoing the fancier equipment, John-Michael went a few rounds with a punching bag.

As he moved through a series of jabs and kicks, he thought about the easy friendship he and Sonya had enjoyed when they were kids. Though he was only the gardener’s son and Sonya was five years his junior, she’d been his sidekick, his little pest, always trailing after him, wanting to hang out with him and his friends. And sometimes he’d let her slum with him. He’d shown her how to work on his motorcycle and, at Muffy’s insistence, how to handle the gun Sonya now kept in her nightstand.

When Muffy decided Sonya needed a bodyguard. John-Michael was the logical choice. He’d just graduated from the police academy, planning a career in law enforcement. Muffy offered him a higher salary than any of the local police departments paid, and she’d promised to send him to an elite bodyguard-training school. He’d cheerfully accepted, never realizing he was putting a noose around his own neck.

Muffy had a secondary motive for hiring John-Michael. She’d needed him close at hand to handle any “difficulties” that came up with Jock, her gardener—who happened to be John-Michael’s father.

The job had gone okay until one night when Sonya attended her first sorority party. John-Michael had gone with her, lurking in the shadows like always, watching as she tried to assert her independence by getting drunk on margaritas. He’d pulled her away from the party before things had gone too far.

She’d been spitting angry with him at first, spouting off about how she was an adult, it was a free world, she would have her mother fire him. Then, when they’d reached the car, she’d surprised the hell out of him by throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lush body up against his. “I really am a bad girl, aren’t I?” Before he could answer, before he’d been able to think, she’d clamped her sweet little mouth over his.

His body had sprung to life, and for the first time he’d realized that his charge was no longer a child. She had a woman’s body, a woman’s moves….

After thirty seconds of hot kisses and body rubbing, he’d pulled himself together and gently pushed her away.

“What?” she’d objected, loudly enough to wake the whole neighborhood. “Don’t tell me you don’t want me. You do. I could feel it.”

Dear God. At that moment he’d seen the utter folly of what he’d done, what he’d been about to do. Having sex with his charge, the girl he was supposed to be protecting, would be the grossest sort of irresponsibility he could imagine, not to mention a very short path to losing his job.

The only way to deal with this situation, he’d decided, was to end it in a way that was harsh and final, so it would never happen again. So he would never be tempted again.

He gave his punching bag a series of savage jabs as he remembered how difficult it had been to be cruel to her.

He’d forced himself to laugh at her. “You don’t actually imagine I would be interested in a spoiled little brat like you,” he’d said, deliberately filling his voice with derision.

The insult had cut, as it was meant to do. Her eyes filled with tears. “You kissed me back,” she accused.

“I’m a man,” he said harshly. “I have hormones. But I also have a brain, thank God, and I’m not stupid enough to get it on with Muffy Patterson’s daughter.”

“She would never know,” Sonya said in a last-ditch effort to salvage the situation. And it almost worked. Seeing her standing there, more sober now than drunk, her blond hair mussed, her lips full from kissing, he’d almost grabbed her and kissed her again. And he wouldn’t have stopped with kissing.

Savagely he turned his back on her and opened the passenger door of her BMW—her high school graduation present from Muffy. “Get in the car. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, sounding devastated at the thought.

“That’s none of your business.” He hoped she would think that meant yes.

“I’ve never seen you with a girl.”

“No girlfriend of mine is going to watch while a child orders me around.”

He hadn’t had a girlfriend. When would he have had time to find one? He’d spent every hour either watching over Sonya or dealing with the disasters his father created. But his ploy had worked. Sonya didn’t say another word. And she never again tested her feminine wiles on him.

Back in the present, he took one final swing at the bag. He was out of breath and dripping with sweat, more so than the easy workout should have caused. Time hadn’t lessened the intensity of his memories one bit.

Unfortunately, his formerly easygoing friendship with Sonya had been a casualty of that ill-begotten evening. She’d never forgotten, or forgiven, his rejection. For almost ten years, he’d had to endure her coldness and hide the desire he felt for her, a desire that had only grown fiercer as she’d matured into an intriguing woman.

He’d tried to resign, and Sonya had tried to fire him—numerous times. But gradually, John-Michael had come to understand the complex dynamics of his job. If he wasn’t employed in a position that kept him constantly on hand to handle Jock, then Jock would have to go.

And to send Jock away from the Patterson estate, the only home he’d ever known, would kill him.

SONYA HADN’T REALIZED how tired she was. When next she woke, it was dark outside. She checked her clock and was horrified to discover it was after two in the morning.

Her first thought was that they’d been protecting her from bad news—“they” being John-Michael; Tim, the chauffeur; June, the secretary; and possibly Matilda, the housekeeper. Muffy’s staff had always sheltered Sonya from all unpleasantries.

She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and switched on a lamp. Her cell phone was right there next to her, with no messages. Grateful that she’d had the foresight to put the ICU’s phone number into her cell’s memory, she dialed.

“Your mother is actually doing much better,” the night nurse told her. “The new antibiotic therapy is working. She’s been drifting in and out of sleep, but she did wake up long enough to drink some water. She asked about you.”

Sonya was already on her feet. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“No, you don’t have to do that,” the nurse said firmly. “I asked your mother if she wanted me to call you, and she said no, absolutely not, that you needed your sleep.”

That sounded like Muffy, Sonya thought with a frown. The benevolent dictator, issuing orders from her sick bed.

“She’s fine, really,” the nurse insisted. “In fact, they’ll probably move her out of ICU tomorrow.”

That news brought a flood of relief. Sonya hesitated, then decided it probably would serve no good to rush to the hospital in the middle of the night if Muffy was sleeping and in no immediate danger. “If she wakes again, tell her I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” she said. “Unless she needs me sooner.”

After the call, Sonya felt better, but there was no way she was going back to sleep. She was, in fact, hungry. She’d hardly eaten a bite since Muff’s surgery several days ago. She threw on a robe and wandered downstairs to the enormous, restaurant-grade kitchen, certain there would be several tasty dishes in the fridge. That was something she could always count on.

As she entered the huge white-tile-and-chrome room, she flipped on a light so bright it hurt her eyes. The stainless steel appliances gleamed with a recent polish, and the room smelled faintly of fresh-baked bread. As top dog among Houston society mavens, Muffy often gave elaborate dinner parties, for which she had Eric, a Cordon-Bleu-trained chef, prepare gourmet delights that were sure to be written up on the society page and in the food section. And for every day, they had Eric’s mother, Matilda, a traditional Southern cook down to her bones.

The glass-fronted refrigerator was crammed with dozens of ceramic storage dishes, neatly stacked and labeled with the contents and the throwaway date. Sonya perused the labels, wrinkling her nose. She was not in the mood for Eric’s dill-crusted sea bass with Parmesan cream sauce, or marmalade-glazed pork medallions and shiitake mushrooms. Then she spotted something that appealed to her—Matilda’s macaroni and cheese. Pure comfort food and a guilty indulgence she and her mother sometimes ate when they were dining alone.

She pulled it out and stuck it in the microwave.

Slowly she realized she was no longer alone in the room. John-Michael stood in the doorway, looking adorably rumpled in gym shorts and an old T-shirt bearing the logo of Close Protection, Inc., where he’d gotten his bodyguard training.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He had this uncanny ability to know whenever she stirred at night. He always noticed when lights went on or if anyone made the slightest noise. She wondered if he ever slept or if he sat up all night, ever vigilant.

“I got hungry,” she answered. “I don’t think that’s any reason to call out the National Guard.” She immediately felt guilty for sniping at him, though. “Sorry. It’s been a rough few days. You want some macaroni and cheese?”

“Sure.” He went to the fridge and poured himself some milk. Without asking, he pulled out a bottle of her favorite cherry-flavored mineral water, uncapped it and set it out for her.

He knew her so well, probably better than her own mother did. And it irked her. She’d actually been looking forward to escaping his knowing eyes once she was married. Now that wasn’t going to happen. She saw herself in twenty years, thirty years, fifty, still single, still living in Muffy’s house, McPhee still watching over her with his eagle eyes. Still waiting for those few moments when he could escape her and go to whatever girlfriend he would undoubtedly have. He’d probably still be shadowing her every move when they were both in the nursing home. Gawd, what a depressing thought.

“I called the hospital,” she said. “Mother’s doing better. She drank some water and told the nurses not to call me.”

“Already back to her bossy self, huh?” But McPhee’s smile was of pure relief. She didn’t blame him. Muffy was a kind employer, if a tad inflexible. She paid her staff far more than the going rate to inspire their loyalty, and it worked.

But McPhee was genuinely fond of Muffy, too. As hard as Sonya was on McPhee, she knew he wasn’t completely self-serving.

When the microwave dinged, Sonya took out the dish and scooped generous portions onto white, bone-china plates with gold rims, the only kind Muffy would have in her house. She had a thing against plastic and thought stoneware was almost as bad. Sonya and McPhee sat at the kitchen table and ate with monogrammed sterling forks.

“Mmm, I love this stuff,” McPhee said.

“We better enjoy it while we can. I imagine we’ll see some changes around here when Muffy gets home. Matilda and Eric will have to prepare heart-healthy meals.”

“Matilda will screech like a banshee over that,” McPhee said.

“She’ll have to get used to it. I’ve been telling Mother for years that her diet is impossibly unhealthy. She’ll have to listen to me now.”

“Muffy never listens to anyone.”

Sonya sighed. “I know. She has her ideas about the way things should be, and nothing’s going to change them.” Certainly not Sonya, whose opinions Muffy had always considered superfluous. Muffy knew what was best, and that was that.

“Maybe if we join forces?” McPhee suggested. “Two against one.”

Sonya laughed harshly. “That would be a first. We haven’t agreed on anything since…well, since we were children.”

Since that night at the sorority party, she’d almost said. Sonya’s skin prickled at the memory, still vivid after all these years.

“I think if we present a united front,” McPhee said, “Muffy will have to pay attention.”

“Since when do you call her Muffy, anyway?”

He shrugged. “I don’t, not to her face. Just to you.”

“To irritate me.”

He didn’t deny it, just flashed that inscrutable half smile of his that drove her crazy. “Don’t worry, you’ll be rid of me soon. You haven’t officially postponed the wedding, have you?”

“No.” Another wave of guilt washed over her. But she could hardly announce she was going to call off the wedding when Muffy was still so ill. “Mother said to wait and see how she did after the surgery. Are you counting the days?”

“Only forty-nine days to go.”

She tried to hide her surprise. She’d only been kidding about counting the days. Was he that unhappy? He often aggravated her, but she wasn’t miserable with their arrangement. “Just what are you planning to do with your newfound freedom? I assume Muffy has another job for you.”

McPhee shook his head. “I’ve already applied and been accepted at the Harris County Sheriff’s Department.”

This was news to Sonya, and it shook her to the core. She had a hard time visualizing this house, this estate, without John-Michael as a constant fixture. “What about your dad?”

“Dad’s on the wagon.”

“Yes, but for how long?”

McPhee pushed his plate away without finishing, alerting Sonya to the fact that she’d ticked him off. He always cleaned his plate. “I’ve spent ten years as a virtual prisoner,” he said, “to my father, to Muffy and to you. That’s long enough. If my father does something crazy and gets himself fired, I’ll deal with it. But I’m not going to let the fear of that stop me from living. Not anymore.”

Sonya hadn’t heard much past the word “prisoner.” “If conditions are so wretched here, why didn’t you quit?” she challenged him.

“You don’t think I’ve tried? But your mother made it pretty clear. If I left, Jock had to go, too. I couldn’t do that to him. He has nowhere else to go.”

“How are things different now?”

“Your mother is being a bit more flexible, now that your future is secured and my dad’s behaving himself. I think he finally understands the consequences if he messes up again. Maybe he won’t this time.”

Sonya wanted to believe that Jock McPhee’s drinking days were over, but she found it difficult. She recalled all too well the sort of mayhem that ensued when Jock went on a bender. Once he’d driven the riding lawnmower right through the living room window and into the middle of one of Muffy’s tea parties. Another time he’d gotten a chainsaw and lopped off half of an ancient oak tree because he was tired of fishing its leaves out of the pool; he’d nearly chopped off one of his arms, as well.

Muffy should have fired Jock long ago, but she had such a soft heart she couldn’t do it. Besides, when Jock was sober, he was the best gardener in all of Houston and a very nice person. Sonya, as well, had always had a soft spot for Jock. He’d been especially kind to her when she was grieving over her father’s death.

So had McPhee. The teenage boy who’d had no use for a ten-year-old girl had suddenly stopped tormenting her. He’d started showing her small kindnesses, offering to drive her to visit friends if Tim was busy, playing volleyball with her in the pool.

That was when she’d first fallen in love with him.

Oh, hell, she didn’t want to think about that now. “Well, I wish you luck in your new career. And I’m sorry we’ve made your life so unpleasant.”

“No, you’re not,” he said with a little grin. “You did it on purpose. You’ve resented me watching your every move as much as I’ve resented having to play nursemaid to a spoiled debutante.”

Sonya laid down her fork. “Boy, you’re really taking the gloves off.”

“I feel a certain recklessness, knowing I’ll soon be free.”

“Now is not the time for me to find out you hate me,” she said. “I have enough to deal with.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You just think I’m spoiled.”

“Anyone who doesn’t have to work for a living is spoiled. It’s not your fault you were born with so much money.”

Sonya wanted to continue the argument. Unfortunately, she knew he was right. She’d never wanted for anything in her life, something she’d taken for granted. Did that make her spoiled?

Without a good comeback, she returned her attention to her macaroni and cheese, hoping he would go away.

He did. He rinsed his plate, put it in the dishwasher and left the kitchen without another word.

Sonya felt guilty, though she didn’t know why. McPhee was such a thorn in her side, always lurking, nosy about everything she did, every person she saw. But she’d known for a long time that being her bodyguard wasn’t his dream job. It was boring. He’d never once had to protect her from anything more threatening than a pushy salesman. Yet he’d tried to make the best of it.

What a relief it would be for both of them, she supposed, if he went away. Once her mother found out Sonya wasn’t getting married, she would try to keep McPhee on the payroll. But she had a feeling his mind was made up. This time, he was really going, really moving out of her life.

A noise at the kitchen door startled Sonya. The Patterson estate had security up the wazoo. At night the gates were locked up tight, and electronic sensors around the perimeter fence would detect any intruder. But Sonya had inherited some of her mother’s paranoia, she supposed. Whenever she heard a strange noise at night, or even if a stranger looked at her funny, she mentally reviewed escape routes and the location of the nearest weapons for self-defense.

The sound at the door came again, and then the door opened. Sonya tensed, then relaxed when she recognized the nocturnal visitor. It was just Jock McPhee, John-Michael’s father, who was harmless as a baby bird so long as he hadn’t been drinking. And even drunk, he wasn’t mean, just a bit reckless.

“Hello, Jock,” Sonya said, alert for any sign that the gardener had been drinking. Jock was probably no more than five-ten, small and wiry. There was some resemblance to John-Michael in the lean face and the shape of his jaw, but that was where the resemblance ended. His coarse hair, once a dark brown, was salt-and-pepper, and it stood out from his head in unruly tufts, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. His cheeks bore a dayold, silvery beard, and his front teeth were slightly crooked, though still a bright white.

His most startling feature was his eyes, a vibrant sea blue. They hadn’t faded with age. And in this instance, they were clear and alert. No sign that he’d fallen off the wagon. His work pants were old and faded, but clean, held up by his trademark rainbow suspenders.

“Hello, Miss Sonya,” he said with a tentative smile. He spoke with the faint trace of an Irish cadence, a legacy from his home country. “I couldn’t sleep, and I saw the light. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Would you like some macaroni and cheese?”

He shook his head. “I’m not very hungry these days. I just can’t seem to settle down since they carted Miss Muffy to the hospital. Nothing bad’s happened, has it?”

Sonya’s heart went out to the man. He’d lived on the Patterson estate since he was a baby, when his mother came here to work as a cook. He and Muffy had grown up together. They often fought like a couple of bulldogs over what should be planted and where. Muffy had some old, decrepit camellia bushes that she absolutely refused to let Jock replace or even prune, though they were overgrown and past their prime, and they argued about those silly bushes on a monthly basis. But Sonya knew there was a deep, mutual fondness between the two. No one had given Jock much thought the past couple of days, but he was probably devastated over her mother’s health crisis.

“My mother is doing better,” Sonya said. “I just heard from the hospital. They might even move her out of Intensive Care tomorrow.”

“Oh, praise the heavens,” Jock said, sinking into a kitchen chair. “I’ve been just sick with worry. Is there anything I can do? Oh, of course there isn’t, but that’s what everybody asks at a time like this.”

“I’m sure my mother would appreciate your kind thoughts and prayers,” Sonya said gently.

“Do you think—would it be all right if I visited her at the hospital? I wouldn’t stay long. I could bring her a few blooms from the greenhouse.”

“She would love to see you, I’m sure. I’ll let you know as soon as she’s allowed visitors.”

“Thank you, Miss Sonya. I imagine this has put a kink in your wedding plans.”

“We may have to delay the ceremony,” she confirmed. Every time she said it, she felt relieved. When would it be appropriate for her to call the church and give up the date she’d selected, January eighth? Once the wedding was no longer scheduled, it would be easy just to never reschedule. Then it would be easier still to convince her mother she’d changed her mind about tying the knot with Marvin. Maybe she would never have to tell Muffy what a fool she’d been, allowing Marvin to fleece her. The whole subject of Marvin could just quietly disappear.

“I was looking forward to making your wedding bouquet myself,” Jock said quietly. “I know you’ve hired a big fancy florist to do all the arrangements, but I was hoping…well, I have some of the most beautiful roses you’ve ever seen in the greenhouse.”

“Why, Jock, I’d be honored to have you do that for me.” She knew he was up to the task. He often put together fantastic arrangements for the house. “Don’t pick out the blooms just yet,” she added hastily. “But whenever I do get married, I definitely want you to do my bouquet.”

He seemed pleased to hear her say that, and he offered her a warm smile. “Thank you, Miss Sonya. You and your mother have always been so good to me, even in bad times.”

“Your son tells me the bad times are over,” she said.

“I’m working real hard,” Jock confirmed. “I’m in AA. In fact, I thought I’d head out to a meeting right now.”

“Do they have meetings at this time of the night?”

“Just about any time you need one, you can find it. And I need one. This thing with your mother—well, if a man can’t drink when someone he cares for is at death’s door, when can he drink?”

Sonya wasn’t used to Jock speaking so freely about his drinking problem, but she supposed it was a good sign that maybe he really had made lasting changes in his life.

“Don’t let me keep you,” she said. “And I’m proud of you. I know it can’t be easy, changing the habits of a lifetime.”

“There are some habits you can change,” he said. “And some you can’t.” With that cryptic comment, he tipped an imaginary hat and departed.

Chapter Two

John-Michael quickly noted that Sonya wasn’t speaking to him as they rode in the limousine toward the hospital the following morning.

“I might have been out of line,” he ventured, “calling you spoiled.”

“Stuff it.”

Okay. She was under stress and he wasn’t helping her any. She’d been acting hinky since she’d returned from her mysterious road trip.

“Were you having an affair?” John-Michael asked. “Is that what New Orleans was about?”

“Yes. With Brenna,” she added, deadpan. “Thank goodness my secret is finally out in the open.”

Tim, who wasn’t supposed to be listening, snorted from the front seat.

“I just can’t imagine what would have drawn you to some of the places you visited over the past few weeks,” John-Michael continued. “Dallas makes sense. But Cottonwood, Texas? And then, some sleazy motel in Smoky Bayou, Louisiana?”

Cottonwood was where Cindy Rheems, another of Marvin’s victims, lived. Smoky Bayou was one of the many stops they’d made as they’d tracked Marvin across two states, always a step behind him. “Will you please just let it drop?”

“I’m responsible for your safety, which means I need to know what’s going on in your life.”

“I hereby absolve you of your responsibility.”

They’d been through this conversation, or ones very similar, countless times since he’d taken the job as her bodyguard.

When they reached the hospital, rather than following standard procedure for entering a public building, Sonya charged out of the limousine toward the front canopy of Harris County Medical Center without waiting for John-Michael to check things out and then escort her. Usually there was no need for extreme security. Unfortunately, today wasn’t usual.

A reporter with a tape recorder appeared out of nowhere heading Sonya off before she could get to the door.

“Miss Patterson, Leslie Frazier from Houston Living magazine. Is your mother all right?”

“Yes, my mother is fine,” Sonya said smoothly, a polite smile pasted on.

“A source close to the situation says your mother is in Intensive Care, that she’s had a heart attack.”

John-Michael was about to jump in and rescue his charge, but she handled the situation just fine.

“She’s undergoing tests,” Sonya said firmly. “I have no further comments.”

The reporter, seeing John-Michael, looked at him hopefully, but he wouldn’t make eye contact, and the firm set of his mouth apparently dissuaded the perky redhead from asking any further questions.

“You shouldn’t go charging ahead of me like that,” John-Michael said when they were out of the reporter’s earshot.

“You’ve been reading your own press,” Sonya said, sounding annoyed. “She was a five-foot-two bubble-head who probably doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. I wasn’t in any danger.”

“She could have been someone more dangerous.”

“McPhee, in all the years you’ve been guarding me, has anyone ever threatened me?”

“No,” he admitted.

“The danger is all in my mother’s head. And you’ve bought into it. Get over yourself.” She switched off her cell phone as they entered the building, reminding him to do the same.

They discovered that Muffy was no longer in the Intensive Care Unit. She’d been moved to a regular room. When they finally located her, she was sitting up in bed, her eyes open, the TV on, though John-Michael didn’t think she was actually watching the show. She wasn’t exactly a Jerry Springer fan. Though she was still hooked up to an IV and oxygen, she looked about 500 percent less scary than yesterday.

“Mother?”

Muffy looked over and managed a faint smile. “Sonya. And John-Michael, how nice.”

He walked up to the bed and squeezed her hand. “Mrs. Patterson. You must be feeling better. You look great.”

“Liar. I must…look like…day-old…paté de foie gras.” Her speech was labored, and it pained John-Michael to see her laid so low. But at least she was awake, and seemingly alert.

“Mother, don’t try to talk,” Sonya said.

“I want…to talk. I have to thank…John-Michael. I should have said something…long ago.”

“Thank him for what?”

“For making me go…to the hospital. I thought it was…indigestion. And for finding my girl…and bringing her home.”

Sonya flicked a curious glance toward John-Michael. “You did that? Brought her to the E.R.? How come no one told me?”

“It was a group effort,” John-Michael said modestly.

“Well, thank you,” Sonya said. “You probably saved her life.”

He shrugged. He didn’t consider himself a hero. He’d done what anyone would do. Anyway, having Sonya’s gratitude felt alien. He was much more comfortable when she was mad at him.

Sonya returned her attention to her mother, brushing her hand lightly against Muffy’s cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got sick.” She’d already apologized several times, but she felt compelled to repeat herself.

“I know, pumpkin. Is Marvin here?”

“He’s still in China. I can’t get hold of him.” She said this quickly, as if she’d rehearsed the answer over and over. And her eyes flickered up and to the right. John-Michael had studied neuro-linguistic programming as part of his criminology curriculum. Sonya was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth about Marvin’s whereabouts. John-Michael wished he could get to the bottom of this mystery, but he didn’t want to press Sonya when she was still so worried about her mother.

“How are the wedding plans coming?” Muffy said to Sonya.

“I’ve put the wedding on hold,” Sonya said firmly. “We’re not going to focus on anything for a while except getting you well.”

“You can’t postpone it,” Muffy said, her voice suddenly stronger. “We’ll lose our date at the country club!”

“Mother, don’t worry about it. I promise it will be fine. We’ll work it out. I want you to focus on getting better.”

“It’s not for two months,” Muffy persisted. “I’ll be fine by then.”

“We’ll see,” Sonya said.

It amused John-Michael to see Sonya playing the patient parent figure, Muffy the petulant child. He and his father had experienced that reversal many years ago, but he’d never expected to see it between these two. In his mind, Sonya was the eternal child, the spoiled princess, and Muffy the overindulgent but firm mama.

Sonya had seemed different, though, since her trip. More mature, more serious, more assertive. Unfortunately for his mental well-being, more attractive, too. He would have to adjust his thinking.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, moving toward the door.

“Oh, John-Mikey,” Muffy said, using his childhood nickname. Muffy was the only person who could get away with that. Not even Jock tried it. “Could you bring me something to eat? Maybe a nice blueberry muffin?” She batted her eyelashes. “The breakfast they served me was pitiful.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sonya said. “She’s not getting one bite of anything the doctor didn’t prescribe. But I understand if you’d like to get something for yourself,” she added. “I did get you up rather early this morning and didn’t even offer you breakfast.”

“I think I will get something,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” John-Michael slipped out the door, needing some space and distance from Sonya. He wasn’t sure he liked her being polite to him, nice, even. Such behavior upset the world order. It was much better that he treat her like a contemptible snail.

She’d started to be a little bit nice last night, too, sharing her macaroni and cheese. And he’d felt that familiar pull. She’d looked so approachable, all rumpled in her night clothes, her silky robe and nightgown showing far too much of her body’s contours to be considered modest.

That was why he’d deliberately picked a fight with her, calling her spoiled. Nothing was as certain to get her dander up. And he needed her mad at him. When she was nice, she was too damn tempting. And this added dimension she’d recently acquired, this mysterious allure he’d never noticed before, only added to the overall package.

SONYA HAD THOUGHT that, once she and her mother were alone, she might broach the subject of calling off the wedding altogether. Though she wasn’t ready to admit she’d been seduced, conned, dumped and picked clean, she couldn’t allow the wedding plans to continue. Her mother had already spent a fortune on the preparations, much of it nonrefundable.

But Muffy’s first words, once they were alone, changed her plans. She grasped Sonya’s hand with more strength than a woman so recently at death’s door should have been able to muster. “Sonya, promise me something.”

“I’ll try. But I won’t smuggle you any of Thomas’s cheesecake.” Thomas was Muffy’s favorite dessert chef, from the Cheesecake Emporium.

“No, be serious. You can’t postpone the wedding.”

“Mother—”

“Listen to me. Planning that wedding was…the most fun I’ve ever had in my life, more fun than planning…my own, even.”

“I know,” Sonya said. “But the stress—”

“Oh, stress, schmess. I was enjoying myself, and having fun never caused a heart attack.”

Sonya knew differently. Even good stress could affect the body in negative ways.

“Years of ignoring my doctor’s advice—and yours—are what made me sick,” Muffy continued. “But as I was lying on that gurney in the emergency room, and I heard them yell ‘Code Blue!’, only one thing kept me alive. I kept telling myself, ‘you have to get through this for Sonya’s wedding. You can’t miss Sonya’s wedding.’”

“Oh, Mother…”

“We can’t delay it. What if I have another heart attack and I don’t make it?”

“That’s not going to happen. Your doctor told me—”

“Doctors don’t know everything. We can’t predict the future. Promise me…” She paused to catch her breath. “Promise me you’ll carry on with the preparations, that we’ll do it on January 8, just as planned.”

Her heart dropped like a rock thrown down a well. The last thing she needed was to continue the pretense that she was going to marry that skunk. “Of course, Mother.” What else could she say? She’d straighten everything out when her mother’s health was better, when she was in no danger of relapsing. Meanwhile, she would have to pretend she was still a blushing bride-to-be.

THREE DAYS LATER Muffy’s health had dramatically improved. She was walking, talking in a normal voice, eating normally—if hospital food could be called normal for Muffy, which it couldn’t—and begging to be let out of the hospital. She chose to sit in her chair rather than in bed, looking resplendent in the quilted silk bed jacket her friend Tootsie had given her. She’d brought her manicurist in for a fresh set of tips and her hairstylist to reshape the flattened poof of her red-gold hair. She was even wearing makeup.

Per Muffy’s request, Sonya had brought her Day-timer and her Rolodex, and was now making a long list of tasks that had to be attended to ASAP for the wedding. Her cardiologist happened to visit during this heated planning session, and Sonya was positive he was going to put the kybosh on it. She was, in fact, hoping Dr. Cason would tell Muffy that she was not to even think about something as stressful as her daughter’s wedding for at least six months.

Unfortunately, the exact opposite happened. Dr. Cason took one look at Muffy, noting the sparkle in her eye and the roses in her cheeks and the smiles and laughter, and he declared planning a wedding to be the secret, curative tonic everyone was looking for.

“But, Dr. Cason,” Sonya ventured, “don’t you think this wedding is too stressful for her right now? I’ve told her we could postpone it.”

“No,” Muffy said, “absolutely not. That would mean starting all over, rebooking the orchestra and the country club, and who knows if our first choices will be available? It would be horrible, much more stressful than merely putting the finishing touches on what we’ve already planned.”

Dr. Cason grinned. “I think your mother’s right, Sonya. Look at her. She’s smiling and laughing, and studies have shown a happy attitude to be one of the key factors in recovering from cardiac illness.”

“And I won’t overdo, I promise,” Muffy wheedled. “Sonya can do all the running around and dealing with people. I’ll just recline on my chaise lounge, eating my steamed broccoli and drinking skimmed milk—” she shuddered slightly “—and directing her efforts.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Cason said, no help at all.

Of course, McPhee was listening to the whole exchange. She looked to him for help, but he remained silent. It was only after they were once again in the back seat of the limo that he voiced his opinion.

“You seem awfully anxious to postpone the wedding.”

“Nonsense. I can’t wait to marry Marvin. But of course I want to do what’s best for Mother.”

“Have you talked to Marvin yet?”

“Yes. Yes, he called last night. He was horrified to hear about Mother and he’s going to come home as soon as he can.”

Then McPhee did something odd. He closed the glass partition between them and Tim. Normally everybody talked freely in front of Tim, who was the soul of discretion. He’d been driving for the Pattersons since before Sonya was born.

“I’m sure Marvin’s parents would be happy to know you’ve talked to him,” McPhee said once they were hermetically sealed into the back seat. “Because they haven’t seen or heard from him in three months.” He dropped this bombshell casually, as if it were just normal conversation.

“Wh-what?” Sonya’s heart hammered inside her chest so hard she thought it was trying to escape.

“I took a closer look at the report the security agency provided on Marvin Carter III. He really is the oldest son in a very wealthy Boston family. Has quite a pedigree.”

“Well, of course he is!” Sonya said somewhat desperately. She could tell by the sound of McPhee’s voice that he had something up his sleeve. And he was about to drop it on her.

“He’s also a habitual thief. The family has done a good job of hiding it from the public. Arrest records purged, charges dropped, people paid off. But about three months ago he disappeared. Family has no idea where he is, and frankly they’re hoping he won’t turn up. I did a bit more digging and discovered he’s wanted by the FBI in connection with some art and jewelry thefts.”

“Where did you hear such nonsense?” But her trembling voice gave her away. He knew. He knew everything.

“How much did he take from you, Sonya?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I notice you don’t wear much jewelry anymore, other than your engagement ring.”

She nervously twisted the two-carat, pear-shaped solitaire that sat on her left ring finger. She’d had it checked. It was a very convincing cubic zirconia. She looked out the tinted window. Then she rummaged in her purse until she found a lipstick and reapplied the color and powdered her nose.

“This isn’t going to go away,” McPhee said. “The longer you stay in denial, the worse it will be when the truth comes out. And it will, believe me. Sooner or later the press will get wind of it.”

Sonya put her face in her hands. Why did McPhee, of all people, have to find out? Wouldn’t he have just a grand time, rubbing her nose in her stupidity, rubbing salt in her wounds? He’d told her from the beginning he thought something wasn’t right about Marvin.

“Your new friends, Brenna and Cindy. They were Marvin’s victims, too?”

Sonya nodded, her face still hidden. She couldn’t bear to look at McPhee, to see that knowing smirk that was surely on his face.

McPhee lowered the glass and said something to Tim, though she couldn’t hear what. The blood was pounding too loudly in her ears. A few minutes later the limo parked.

“Be right back,” McPhee said.

Sonya looked up then. They were in a strip shopping center. She had no idea what McPhee was up to and she didn’t care. She just wanted to take advantage of his absence and pull herself together. McPhee was right, she couldn’t play the denial game anymore. Now she had to draw on all her strength and make some decisions. If she crumbled, others would make decisions for her, as they’d done most of her life, and she wasn’t going to let that happen. Now now. Not when the stakes were so high.

With the decision made to own up to the true situation, Sonya felt better, stronger. She reminded herself that her friends Brenna and Cindy had benefited after taking a strong stand against Marvin. Cindy had recovered her restaurant and at least some of her money, and Brenna had tracked down the Picasso painting Marvin had stolen from her parents, as well as some of her jewelry. It was time for Sonya to pull her head out of the sand and resume the fight.

When McPhee returned to the limo a few minutes later, Sonya was sitting upright, posture erect, hands folded demurely in her lap, her face a mask of haughty detachment. She’d learned that face from Muffy. It was the one she wore in the fact of any disaster. “Never let anyone see you crying,” Muffy had told a ten-year-old Sonya after her father’s funeral, when she’d inquired why her mother had remained dry-eyed and stern-faced during the service. “If you must cry at all, tears are for when you’re alone.”

Then she realized McPhee was holding out a grande toffee-nut latte from Starbucks—one of her many weaknesses. “I had them make it with whole milk instead of skim, and extra whipped cream,” he said. “You don’t look like you need to lose any more weight.”

The small kindness almost undid her. She wasn’t used to McPhee being kind or sympathetic, not in recent history. Courteous, yes. Always mindful of her needs, always quick to do her bidding. As she took the coffee drink, she glanced over at him. No sign of a smirk. He looked genuinely worried.

“I told Tim to just drive around for a while,” he said. “I want to hear the whole story. I need to know what happened if I’m going to help you keep this thing contained. Now, let’s start from the beginning. How much did he take from you?”

Resigned, she told him what he wanted to know. “Not as much as he took from some of his other victims. I didn’t have a lot of easily accessible cash, just what was in my checking account—about thirty-five thousand dollars. He couldn’t get at my trust fund, which I’m sure was what he was hoping for. But he did take all my jewelry, which was worth a considerable sum.” She’d collected quite a few baubles over the years. Her mother was fond of giving her jewelry for just about any occasion—the larger and more unusual, the better.

Sonya took another sip of the rich, sweet coffee drink. The warmth was welcome, since she was shivering.

“He took three fur coats,” she continued. “A sable, a mink and a fox.” Not that she ever wore them. They were gifts, too, and very impractical, given that it seldom got cold enough for fur in Houston. Besides, fur coats were very un-PC.

“So Marvin was engaged to Brenna and Cindy and you at the same time?”

“Yes. Cindy had a lot of cash from her first husband’s life insurance. Her parents had left her money and property, too, as well as a restaurant, so I’m sure she was quite attractive to Marvin. Brenna is the heiress to a chi-chi department store in Dallas.”

“How did you locate them?”

“I found Brenna’s phone number in the call history of Marvin’s cell phone.”

McPhee arched one eyebrow. “And why were you looking there?”

“I’d started to suspect he had a girlfriend,” she admitted. “All those long absences when he was supposedly traveling on business. Whispered phone calls at odd times. So I snooped. But I didn’t try to contact her until after Marvin left with all my stuff. When I was supposed to be at the spa, I went to see Brenna instead. She had a lead on a third victim, who turned out to be Cindy. She lives in Cottonwood—that’s why we went there. By the time we found her, she’d already lost everything.

“Holy cow. Were there more victims?”

“He was working on a bank teller in Louisiana. Her father owned the bank. He was planning some sort of scam to get access to the bank’s computer system. But we caught up with him before he could actually steal anything from her. Flushed him out. We recovered some of Cindy’s money, but Marvin got away.” She laughed. “He had to run naked down Main Street to get away from us.”

She chanced another look at McPhee and realized she’d surprised him. He was staring at her, slack-jawed. “Let me get this straight,” he said when he’d recovered from the shock. “You went with Brenna and Cindy—those two pretty blondes I met a couple of weeks ago when you went to Dallas—on a manhunt? That’s what you were doing all that time you were out of town? That’s why you were in New Orleans?”

“Yes. Then there was New York.”

“You went to New York?” McPhee asked in a voice that sounded fearful of her answer.

“No, silly. But Brenna did. She and Agent Packer had him cornered at that jewelry show.”

“The one you were helping her get ready for?”

Sonya nodded. “Marvin escaped by jumping down an elevator shaft.” The story had been reported on CNN, and even the Houston Chronicle had run a piece on it. Thankfully, Marvin’s real name hadn’t been mentioned in either story.

“It’s all starting to fit together now,” McPhee said thoughtfully. “But it’s weird. I never thought of you as one of Charlie’s Angels.”

“As I’ve pointed out before,” she said with exaggerated patience, “you don’t know everything about me. What’s more, I intend to continue the hunt for Marvin. He’s getting bolder and greedier. Pretty soon he’s bound to do something really stupid and get himself caught. Or get somebody hurt.”

“It’s too dangerous. You can’t—”

“I can, and I will. Mother’s illness derailed my participation, but once we get her squared away, I’m back in it. Law enforcement isn’t making much of an effort. Marvin didn’t murder anyone or rob a bank, so he’s a low priority.”

“What about Packer?”

“He was the only FBI agent to take the case seriously, but then he got fired, and when he recovered the stolen Picasso they tried to give him his job back, but he refused, and now he’s a private investigator.”

McPhee squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if he had a headache. “Stolen Picasso?”

Sonya was pleased to have surprised McPhee. As she recalled how strong she and the other women—“The Blondes,” as the people of Cottonwood had dubbed them—had been together, she felt a surge of power wash through her. The feelings of helplessness and inadequacy that she’d almost succumbed to a few minutes earlier receded. She wasn’t just a spoiled debutante, no matter what McPhee thought. She was smart and capable, and she could accomplish great things when she put her mind to it.

“We think Marvin might have gone to—”

McPhee held up a hand to halt her explanations. “Please, I can’t take any more of this. You’ve thrown my whole universe off balance.”

“Good,” she said with a smile. “You need that, sometimes.”

JOHN-MICHAEL LEANED BACK against the limo’s buttery leather seat, stunned to the core. He’d known Sonya was harboring a secret. He’d tried to put it together a couple of weeks ago, when she’d taken a quick weekend trip to Dallas to help Brenna prepare for a jewelry show. He’d discovered then that she had another new friend, Cindy, from Cottonwood, Texas, and the three of them had behaved the way closely bonded, longtime friends act. He knew there was a story there, but he’d been at a loss. He hadn’t gotten many facts out of Heath Packer, either. The FBI agent had been friendly to John-Michael, and his personal interest in Brenna had been apparent, but he’d volunteered little information as to the nature of the friendship among the three women. By the time John-Michael and Sonya had returned to Houston, he’d been no wiser.

His theory had been that Sonya had a lover. That would have been shocking enough. But to find out she’d been living a clandestine life hunting down a criminal blew him away. He could hardly wrap his mind around it.

Sonya, pensive now after her long, convoluted explanation, took another sip of her latte, leaving a slight whipped-cream mustache. She licked it off.

Not now, John-Michael thought disgustedly. Now was not the time for his sporadic lust for Sonya Patterson to rear its ugly head. He’d been dealing with it for years, and usually all it took was a sharp reminder of exactly who Sonya was—a spoiled, useless little rich girl with nothing more important on her mind than her next manicure appointment—to cool his desire. Physically she might be a pure turn-on, but he’d long ago learned to look beyond a woman’s body to the substance of her. Pretty girls were a dime a dozen, and he had no trouble attracting them. But finding one who was pretty and intelligent and interesting—that’s what it took to capture John-Michael’s libido for more than thirty seconds.

Sonya had become suddenly interesting, damn it. Perhaps she had a lot more behind that cool demeanor than she let on. She did have a degree in chemical engineering from Rice University, and graduating from that school was no cakewalk. But frankly, he’d assumed Sonya’s family wealth had bought the degree. Her mother had donated buckets of money to her father’s alma mater. And he’d never seen Sonya study much while she was in college.

This was a helluva time for him to start thinking of her as more than arm candy. He had a future planned, a life apart from the Pattersons. He’d actually been looking forward to moving on. Now, suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

He forced himself to think about freezing cold waterfalls and cornmeal mush until his jeans were no longer quite so tight. Then he returned to the matter at hand.

“When are you going to tell Muffy?”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “I’m not. Are you kidding? The news would kill her! Dr. Cason said we had to keep her smiling and laughing.”

“You’ll have to tell her at some point. I mean, let’s face it, the groom isn’t going to show up for this wedding.”

Sonya started to chew on one of her nails, then quickly stopped herself. She used to bite her nails as a child, he remembered. It was only when she’d discovered acrylic-sculptured nails that she’d been able to stop.

“I’ll tell her when she’s stronger,” Sonya said. “But not now, not yet. She’s not even out of the hospital. And you can’t tell her, either,” she said, suddenly fierce. “You can’t tell anyone. No one is to know that this wedding isn’t going to take place.”

“Don’t you think people are going to get a little suspicious when they never see the groom-to-be? Isn’t his absence going to be noted?”

“I’ve already told people he travels on business a lot. And he supposedly lives in Boston. Anyway, most men are weddingphobic. They won’t come near the preparations. No one will think it’s odd in the least, believe me.”

“But…you can’t just let your mother keep throwing money at a wedding that won’t ever happen,” John-Michael objected. “Doesn’t it strike you as a bit cruel to lie to her, to keep up the pretense? The farther along you get with this thing, the harder it’s going to be when you have to call it off.”

Damned right it would be hard. And he wasn’t helping. But Muffy could stand to throw away a few bucks a lot more easily than her heart could stand an emotional shock. And somehow Sonya would figure out a way to pay her back. “As soon as her doctor says she’s well enough to handle gruesomely unpleasant news, I’ll tell her. But not before. McPhee, promise me. Not a word.”

“All right, I promise.” What choice did he have? He wasn’t going to be responsible for causing Muffy a second heart attack. But his instincts warned him that the longer they maintained the lie, the messier it was going to get, for all parties concerned.

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