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He quickly crawled over the railing and started down the trellis.
Then he heard someone clear their throat and looked up.
Chloe Marin was standing at the railing, staring at him with sharp suspicion.
“I’d heard you were looking for the bathroom, Mr. Smith. You really don’t have to climb down from the balcony and make use of the beach as a ‘loo,’ as you call it—I’m assuming that’s the story you’re going to give me?” she asked sweetly.
Rene Gonzalez was slipping away.
“Nothing like the great outdoors,” he said, then swiftly climbed down a few feet, praying the trellis would hold, jumped to the ground and took off in pursuit of Rene Gonzalez.
TWO
Damn the man.
She wasn’t dressed to go swinging from balconies and leaping to the ground.
But the man who called himself Jack Smith had been beyond suspicious even before he’d climbed down from the balcony and followed Rene toward the beach—a feat that put her in a position where she longed to call in the police. But at the moment, what would be the point? He had an invitation to be here, though he’d certainly been a rude guest, looking into bedrooms, not to mention leaping off a balcony. Still, Victoria had told her that two years ago Bjorn Bradikoff, famed for his jeweled sandals, had streaked down the beach in nothing but a pair of his trademark sandals, proving their elegance, whether matched with cocktail finery, casual attire or nothing at all.
Compared to that, exiting via balcony wouldn’t even begin to get a man arrested.
Swearing, she tossed off her borrowed designer heels and swung a leg over the balcony railing, carefully maneuvering herself to the trellis. She crawled down the latticework, amazed that none of the slender slats had broken. Just as she thanked her lucky stars, she grasped at a piece of wood that split in her hands, and tumbled down the last six feet, landing hard in a patch of mixed dirt and sand, but avoiding the sharp-toothed needles of the bougainvillea that grew in a riot of color around the house.
Swearing more vociferously, she got to her feet, dusted herself off and followed in the direction the other two had taken.
As she tore around the trees, she felt a twinge of guilt; her uncle would be furious with her for going in unprepared pursuit of a man who might be dangerous, might even be armed.
But she didn’t think so. At least, she was pretty sure he wasn’t armed, though he might well be dangerous. Certainly in her observations of the agency, he was the first truly suspicious character she had seen. Then again, it could be hard to tell sometimes. Eccentricities could hide all kinds of stains on the human soul, and it was often difficult to tell the truth from illusion.
The man had an educated, British accent. Or was it feigned? Probably not. It was slight, as if he’d been away from his homeland for many years.
The back gates were open. There was one guard on duty, but he was flirting with someone Chloe didn’t know, a slim young woman with long blazing red hair. She was wearing a strapless tube gown and doing it very well. If Chloe was right in her assumption that the other woman wasn’t on the guest list, then apparently the guard wasn’t above allowing uninvited guests into the party, at least if they met his own personal requirements.
She herself was now covered in dirt, sand and bits of bracken, and her hair was undoubtedly in a wild tangle. She should ask the guard if he’d seen anyone exit, but she doubted he had seen anyone but the flirty redhead.
She tore out to the beach. Neither the guard nor the redhead spared her a glance. So much for security.
She ran south down the beach, following a trail of footsteps in the sand that led from the mansion. She wasn’t afraid; she could see late-night wanderers as she ran. Remodeled deco hotels, which had once been cheap housing for down-on-their-luck locals, now gleamed proudly in the night, lit in bright colors that drew the eye. The gentle sound of the surf made a pleasant background, and the breeze was almost dainty, carrying in a cooling note from the water.
How far could they have made it so quickly?
Chloe stopped running. They could have gone anywhere. Their footprints had gotten mingled with all those left over from the day.
She caught her breath as she looked around. They could have gone in a half-dozen different directions. Not only were their footprints impossible to distinguish anymore, she had passed at least five hotels, restaurants and clubs as she ran, and the pair could have ducked into any one of them. Not to mention that a block ahead, the hotels and restaurants shifted, and were all on the other side of the street, providing another range of possible hiding places.
What if this man had something to do with Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance? Was Rene in danger now, too?
She closed her eyes, fighting a wave of panic.
Every once in a while, hitting so briefly that no one else even noticed, it came. That sensation of absolute terror. A memory of the colors of death that had bathed the world in red and black that night ten years ago.
This had nothing to do with the past, she told herself. Nothing at all.
She fought the panic, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Fighting back had become her way of coping on a day-to-day basis with what had happened a decade before. Her uncle had told her that she could curl up and hide for the rest of her life, or she could learn to live again.
She had chosen to live. And she had taken classes in every form of defensive—and even offensive—fighting that she could. She had also become a crack shot.
She could even string a crossbow.
But all the training in the world couldn’t help if you couldn’t find the person you were trying to protect.
It was time to go back. To admit defeat. To live to fight another day.
Except that this was what she was fighting for. To discover the truth about the Bryson Agency and the disappearance of a young woman who’d had everything to live for.
She turned around to head back and was stunned to find herself staring at Jack Smith.
“Where’s Rene?” she asked, immediately going on the offensive.
“You tell me. And thanks for confirming that that was Rene. At least we know she’s alive at the moment, and presumably well.”
Chloe frowned, watching him. “What is your concern with Rene?”
He shrugged.
He was an interesting man, she decided. Tall and lean, but with broad shoulders and hard-muscled arms, and an abdomen that was probably like steel. And his eyes. They seemed to cut right through her. His face had too much of a hard, rugged edge to be termed handsome, but somehow the conglomeration of all his features made him more attractive than any of the perfect models back at the party. He was undeniably compelling. She was extremely suspicious of him, and yet … being close to him seemed to make the night warmer. She had the sense that touching him now would be like trying to hold on to an electric shock. He’d been courteous when they’d been introduced before … but there was something in his eyes. Something hard. And it made him all the more suspicious—and, somehow, physically appealing.
“She’ll make a great swimsuit model,” he said.
“So great that you were wandering around upstairs—hunting her down?” Chloe demanded.
“You have to break a few rules to get ahead in this world,” he told her. “So, your turn. Why were you chasing me?”
“Because you were chasing Rene.”
“Why wasn’t Rene at the party when she was at the house?” he demanded. “You girls are tight—I assume. Or are you?”
She was a fake, of course.
But the others were the real thing.
“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “Maybe she was afraid that some strange new designer would be looking for her. Some guy who’d gone a little off the deep end, enough to chase her down a trellis and all along the beach.”
He grinned at that. She was surprised to see how that grin made him … even more appealing and … flat-out sexy.
Dangerously so? she wondered. After all, some of the most heinous killers in history had exuded a deadly charm.
“All’s fair in the fashion industry, or so I understand,” he said.
As they stood there, frozen in an odd face-off, someone suddenly emerged from the low foliage that separated the sand from the street.
It was Rene, and she jetted off like a rabbit in alarm.
Jack immediately lost interest in their conversation and turned to go after Rene.
Chloe’s own response was impulsive—and protective. She flew across the sand after him and leaped onto his back. To her amazement, he managed to remain upright and sling her around so that she fell to the sand. He started to run again, and she caught his ankle. Still, he didn’t fall, not until she twisted around in a mixed—martial arts movement that brought him down at last.
She didn’t need to win; she just needed to buy enough time for Rene to disappear somewhere. She didn’t know what was going on, but designers did not chase down models, whether all was fair in fashion or not.
Chloe jumped back to her feet—it was her turn to run.
But apparently he knew he’d lost Rene and had decided to maintain whatever connection he had with her instead. This time he caught her ankle, and she plunged back to the sand. Before she knew it, he was straddling her, pinning her wrists. He wasn’t really trying to hurt her, though. His hold was easy, and he was keeping his full weight off her.
“All right, time for an honest conversation,” he said. He spoke like a man accustomed to being in command, and she resented it. But she was also acutely aware of the way his thighs cradled her body as he held her down. Warmth spread through her, and she was appalled by the way she found herself wondering what he would be like if he cared about a woman… .
She gritted her teeth. They were engaged in a physical battle, she could be in danger, and he could be a monster. What the hell was wrong with her?
The man couldn’t be a monster. Every instinct she had was sure of it.
She told herself not to be an idiot. An untold number of dead women had no doubt told themselves the same thing.
No. There would be no conversation, and no letting him maintain that edge of authority. Her wrists might be pinned, but her legs were free, and she could tell that he wasn’t prepared for her to fight back. She twisted and slammed her knees up at the same time. To her delight, she did take him by surprise, throwing him off to the side.
But he was quick to rebound. He caught her before she could rise. She tried a feint to the left, but he was ready, so she became a flurry of motion. He swore, trying to contain her flying arms and legs, but she got in one good whack to his chin; she heard the thunk and his grunt of pain.
But he didn’t give up. She might be a vicious terrier, but it seemed she had come across a rottweiler.
And he was still trying to restrain her, not knock her out. She had definitely hurt him, but he was just fighting for control—and he was winning.
“Hey, hey, hey! What the hell is going on?”
Chloe knew the voice, and she sighed with relief.
Lieutenant Anthony Stuckey, metro police. Stuckey never had to leave a desk these days unless he wanted to, but he was an old-time cop, and—he wanted to. He was friends with her uncle Leo, and friends with her. He had encouraged her to pursue her interest in art after her sketches had helped solve her own case, and he had encouraged her to use her artistic talent to help the police, though he also spent plenty of time warning her that she wasn’t a cop herself.
“Tony! Help!” she cried.
“Officer,” Jack Smith said.
He rose, as calmly as if they’d just been lying there soaking up the moonlight, not fighting like a couple of rival gang members.
When she started to scramble to her feet, he offered her a hand, but she slapped it away.
“This man was trying to attack one of the models at the Bryson party,” she informed Stuckey.
“This young woman is mistaken. I didn’t attack anyone. As I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Stuckey.”
Chloe’s jaw dropped, and she snapped it shut quickly. This man knew Stuckey!
She stared at the lieutenant. He was built as powerfully as a bull and didn’t have much of a neck. He kept his snow-white hair cropped close to his skull, and his eyes were a clear sky blue that were incapable of mirroring anything but the truth.
And in his eyes she saw that it was true. He and this man knew one another.
Stuckey looked at her. “I gather there’s been a misunderstanding of some sort,” he said.
She kept her jaw clamped tight, beginning to feel belligerent. Stuckey had found Jack all but beating her to a pulp, and now he was excusing the man?
“What are you doing out here?” he asked her.
“I was at the party,” Chloe said. “As you know.”
Stuckey’s bushy brows drew together. “Yes, why did you leave the party?”
“Because this man was chasing Rene.”
“Chloe, we’ve talked about situations like this,” Stuckey said.
Yes, they had talked about it. Often. He was one of her best friends—or so she had thought until just now. She had even promised that she would never let her “sniffing around” lead her into danger—such as leaving a crowded area to take risks alone—but … She dropped that uncomfortable topic for one that could feed her anger.
Since when was Stuckey buddy-buddy with the local fashionistas?
Which simply proved the truth of what she’d already been sure of. Jack Smith was no designer. So who—and what—the hell was he?
“Let’s take this inside somewhere,” Stuckey said—and it was not a suggestion.
Chloe realized that a small crowd had begun to gather around them. Stuckey took her by the arm and started toward the street and his car. It was a good thing he was a cop, she mused. Parking on South Beach at night was a near impossibility.
She was aware that Jack Smith was following them, and she wasn’t pleased. If she’d truly been a terrier, the hackles on her back would have risen.
“Where are we going?” she asked Stuckey.
“Somewhere private,” he said. “We can duck into Jimmy Ray’s—it’s too late for the teenagers to be hanging out, too early for the club crowd to be looking for a snack on the way home. We can find a booth.”
“I don’t have shoes,” she said.
“You can wear my flip-flops.”
They stopped at his car. Here on the sidewalk, the night was alive. Bands from a dozen clubs vied for dominance. People were everywhere, some in a hurry, some just soaking in the neon lights and the music.
Cars moved past at a snail’s pace.
Stuckey opened the passenger door and grabbed a large pair of flip-flops. She slipped them on. It looked as if she was wearing shoes intended for Frankenstein’s monster.
“They’ll do,” Stuckey told her curtly.
So far, Jack Smith—a name she was growing more and more certain wasn’t the one he’d been born with—hadn’t uttered a word. He gazed at Chloe as she took her first step, trying to keep the shoes on. His eyes were silver, and they had an edge. Everything about the man had an edge, from the angles of his face to the tone of his voice, and that edge seemed to demand respect. There was something about him. She didn’t like him. She was attracted to him, but she didn’t like him. And that was that.
No matter what Stuckey might have to say, she didn’t trust the man.
