Kitabı oku: «Play Dead»

Praise for the work of Meryl Sawyer

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

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

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

Outstanding!”

—RT Book Reviews on Kiss of Death

(4 ½ stars, Top Pick)

“Sawyer spins a tale to captivate and entertain …

Wonderfully crafty and extremely entertaining.”

—Romance Reader’s Connection on Half Past Dead

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

—RT Book Reviews on Better Off Dead

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

—Publishers Weekly on Tempting Fate

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

—RT Book Reviews on Closer Than She Thinks

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

—Publishers Weekly on Promise Me Anything

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

—New York Times bestselling author Jill Marie Landis

About the Author

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

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

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

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

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

Play Dead

Meryl Sawyer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PROLOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most of the time.

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

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

Get on with it already.

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

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

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

“Hayley, your next stop is hell.”

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

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

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

“Aw, shit!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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

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

“What’s up?” Trent asked.

“The police are waiting for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” Courtney cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Fordham?” asked the officer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, Courtney—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

“Kill Hayley.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I come in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dead. Dead for many years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s special, all right.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right, Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty. Healthy. Sexy. The typical California girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bless you,” Meg added. “Bless you.”

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