She gazed at the twins, asleep in their youth beds. Her children were her world. She blew out a breath and sank into the rocker between them. It creaked as she rocked, and she usually found comfort in it, but tonight she cursed at herself for being naïve. She muttered some obscenities at Yuri for his deceptions and the monumental mess he’d created. All she’d ever wanted was a family while he’d chased off some daft scheme of his own. But he’d cared enough to agree on pregnancy.
Their first attempt led to a miscarriage and then another before she became serious with fertility tests. Their doctor suggested In Vitro because Yuri traveled frequently. His sperm tested strong and was frozen. As macho as he appeared, his death had been a shock.
After a year of grieving, she still longed to be a mother and returned to the fertility clinic for more testing. Miraculously, a cycle took, and she stayed pregnant with the help of drugs. She remembered the thrill of the kicks and flutters of pregnancy. Childbirth and the babies’ rapid development were more engrossing than she’d ever imagined. Even as infants she’d come to know their unique personalities. Her breast milk was never enough for Annie.
Jolted by a sudden image of Svetlana, she stopped rocking. A brute had shoved this woman to her knees, kicking her repeatedly. He’d dragged her, arms thrashing, by her hair. Heatherlee felt her throat close and was fully aware that her rational mind told her to tell the cops to go to room three of the Starlight Motel. But, out of prison, Svetlana’s neck had been caught in the crook of a tough man’s elbow. Had she tried to cry out, only to choke, when she’d been swung around? Hugging herself, she looked downward.
The case of Marc’s ballpoint pen lay on the carpet. She thought of his efforts to entertain Galen. She picked it up, dropped it into her pocket, and walked to the ocean side window. She lifted the sash and heard only the surf. Teens sometimes hung out on rock pilings under her building, but they had gone home. A ground fog nestled along the jagged shoreline.
She heard footsteps above. Spooked, she thought of the Beretta on the top shelf of the hall closet. Thanks to Yuri, she owned one, but it wasn’t loaded. Anyway, no one was after her now. Like his mother who’d created an aura of absolute trust, Marc was on the roof. Over the years, she’d observed Dudley Do-right. Tonight was the first time he’d talked with her. She’d admired him with love, but that was long ago. Tonight he was a man. He held his ground but never had to survive. Was the side of the law his only side? What she wanted to ask him might be considered dirty work. She pictured his smile. Just as she’d remembered, it still pulled at one corner of his mouth.
* * * *
Marc walked the rooftop. Patches of damp fog brushed past his face as ghostlike as spider webs. It wasn’t yet morning. Gas lamps on the street offered enough illumination for him to find the spot where Heatherlee had hidden with the twins. Marc knelt beside straw mats on the wooden plank floor and guessed she’d had the suede comforter on top of them. He moved about the floor and found a picture book of puppies. The flooring, the boardwalk planks, smooth stones, and grasses repeated the shoreline. Nice. When he stood, he nearly bumped his head on a telescope. It tipped toward the street.
He heard shuffling coming from the stairway. “Mrs. Baronova?”
“Hello.” Her voice came, and then the rooftop lit with a soft glow with new age music carried by the breeze. She’d flipped a switch for both lights and sound. Her hair billowed in the breeze. He couldn’t help but stare. She had an interesting face. Wide-set eyes and a noble nose were put together in a perfect, heart shaped face.
He’d get her talking. “The music blends with the surf below.”
“I wanted the sound to be a soft undercurrent. My clients love breathing the salty ocean air.” She was close enough now for him to see a pulse quiver at the base of her throat. “I thought of something. I think it’s worth mentioning.” She sounded sure of herself.
“What’s that?”
“Come. We’ll talk in the pagoda.” She walked ahead, and he followed. She was about four inches shorter than him, which made her around five feet six inches tall.
He heard the bubbling of a water feature. The light-sound switch must have started that, too.
“Sit.” She eased down on a bench and brushed her long fingers along a low wall that encircled the fountain.
“I’m fine here.” He was afraid that if he sat by her, a certain part of his anatomy would grow hard. “Looks like you used the waterfront metaphor with shells in the cement.”
“I selected every one of these crustaceans.”
“You’re artistic, Mrs. Baronova.” Pretty is as pretty does. Her talents intrigued him. He hadn’t wanted to get to know a woman in a long time. Then it struck him that she’d turned the tables on him.
She was disarming him. “The son of Anna Duarte can call me Heatherlee.”
“Heatherlee. It rolls off the tongue like Beverly and calls to Irish roots.”
“I know little of my roots except for one thing. My father’s relatives were as Irish as potatoes in a loamy meadow.” She was getting to him and probably knew it.
He forced himself to turn away. In doing so, he walked around the pagoda and discovered a space, a yard wide behind the water fountain. Angling in, he felt along a teak wall with his hands until he found a button. “This place of yours is a maze.”
“Go ahead, Marc. Push the elevator button.”
He did. Cables rumbled. A spotlight came on before a brass elevator door shuttered open. He knew the first stop would be her bedroom closet. “This would have been noisy during the break-in.”
“Do you think?” Her voice purred with slight sarcasm. A bit of a tease, she could earn a fortune working for 1-888-hard-ons.
Enough of that. He harnessed his mind. “Your 9-1-1 calls were forwarded to me. Tell me about the three people you saw through your telescope.”
She clutched a paper napkin in her hand, folded into tiny squares. “Two men, one shorter and fatter than the other. The tall man dragged a blonde woman by her hair.”
Marc pulled out a small tablet from his shirt pocket and jotted. “Seen these people before?”
“The woman, yes. She visited me this afternoon.”
He swore and felt anger seethe through his veins. “Why hadn’t you mentioned that?”
“I’m mentioning it now.” She held a napkin and clutched it tight.
“Describe the woman.” He decided to trust his paranoid instincts but disappointment lurked at the edges of his mind. He’d be direct from here on out.
Heatherlee shifted her weight. Was she deciding how much she would tell him? “The woman, maybe in her late forties, came in about noon. Introduced herself as Svetlana.”
He crossed his arms. “What else?”
“She had a heavy Russian accent. Said she worked with my late husband. I’d hoped to hear an anecdote.”
“I’d guess that didn’t happen. What did he do for a living?”
“Yuri was in jewelry sales, a sales representative on the road.”
“I want details about her visit.”
“I have a loggia on the first level for customers. I invited her for iced tea. She wanted vodka, but I don’t keep it.” She bit her lip.
“How long did she stay?”
“About an hour. Then I had to teach a class.”
“This friend of your husband’s wouldn’t wait?”
“She might have. I needed to pick up the twins at preschool. They’re only three and attend for a few hours. I’m never late. They’d be upset if I were.” She was out of breath from her rambling.
“They were the reason you gave her the brush-off.”
“I didn’t want her to know about the twins.”
“Why did she come?”
“She wanted Yuri’s safe deposit box key. I don’t know anything about it.” She answered with dazed exasperation. “It’s freezing out here, Marc Duarte.”
“It’s coldest at four in the morning.”
“We’ll take the elevator.” She stepped into the elegant vessel. “It’ll end up in my closet.”
“I know.” He followed into the elevator and looked at the panel. “There are only two buttons, ‘ground’ and ‘roof.’ You use the elevator for clients.”
“Usually.” She drew in a breath and pushed another button hidden within grillwork. Pulleys rumbled. The lift descended, and the elevator door opened in her closet. They made their way through her closet and bedroom.
As they walked through the cavernous living room, he said, “Your concealed stairway and elevator make your house a mafia classic.”
“Don’t most people have secret exits in one form or another?” She sounded childlike with an unsure catch in her voice. It was too much of a contrast with her business awareness to feel believable.
“I’d say no.” With Pilar, he’d learned to detest his trusting core.
She looked at him with blameless eyes. Flecks of blue and gold were as green as life itself. He refused to melt into them. A heart can be ripped to shreds with deceptions.
She shook herself and turned toward the fireplace. “It’s gas. I’ll turn it on.”
He followed her and watched flames jump to life. She sat in a winged back chair, and he joined her in the one opposite. Between them, a low mahogany table smelled of lemon polish. “Let’s talk about the safe deposit box.”
“Until today, I hadn’t heard anything about it. Yuri was private about his work. I didn’t even know he had a partner.” She shook her head. “I was eighteen when I married him. I was a wife on an allowance.” She looked so beaten.
“We’ll stick with what you know.” He put his notepad to use but had to write with the tiny metal innards of his pen. “Describe Svetlana.”
“Blonde, and she had a Slavic look.”
He took notes for the benefit of the department. “What made you believe she was his partner?”
“It’s simple, really. If his partner were a man, Yuri would have talked about him. He never mentioned her. I’d have flown into a jealous rage.” Her bearing stiffened.
“You’d give him all kinds of grief.”
“I was young and possessive.” Her eyes were pools of disquiet. “I have to tell you a little thing about Svetlana.”
“What’s that?”
“She was released from jail.” Her voice was thin and small.
“Released from jail is big, Heatherlee.”
“Okay, it’s big. I phoned my lawyer, Tara Delacruz. She’ll look into the charge that put Svetlana Kessk there.”
He jotted down Svetlana’s last name. He knew her lawyer, the state senator’s wife. “Where did your husband travel?”
“Big cities like New York and places around the Black Sea.” Her words came out in one long breath.
“Jewelry salesmen seldom travel abroad.”
“You must think I’m slow on the uptake.”
“Quite the contrary. You’re damn resourceful, getting your twins to the roof.” He pocketed his feeble writing utensil and notepad.
Her eyes filled. “Annie and Galen are the bright spots of my life.”
About that, he believed her. “Trust me on one thing. If these guys are after you, you’re life expectancy and maybe theirs has been lowered.”
“I know.” She gripped the arms of the chair. “Marc, Svetlana is in danger.”
“Probably. If you think of anything else, call me.” He wrote his cell number on his tablet, ripped off the paper, and slapped it on the coffee table.
They stood up at the same time. If it weren’t for the table between them, they would have collided.
* * * *
She remained motionless for a moment as she faced Marc’s chest. It strained against the fabric of his shirt. “Your sheriff badge is askew.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m going home. Which exit should I take? I guess I’ll take the stairs.”
Was he feeling defiant? As he turned to go, she studied the tiny twitch of his mouth. Maybe it wanted to be a smile. She said, “Hold on a sec.” She unpinned the badge. As she adjusted it, his rippling muscles underneath quickened her pulse. “Now it’s parallel with the bottom of your pocket.”
“Good, I’m set.” He answered with a different voice than Yuri’s. His was deeper, more resonant. He didn’t have a trace of bad-boy in his posture even though at the moment, he was irritated.
“I have a long sofa downstairs.” She picked up the comforter, ready to offer it to him but let it drop.
“You want me to sleep on it?” He directed his gaze with a solemn stare.
“I do.” She had things to sleep on, too. “Until tonight we hadn’t met, but I know what you aren’t.” Still frightened, her body craved sleep. “You’re not a runaway train.”
“Try not to be.”
“I remember when the varsity track team went to state. You won a trophy but never bragged.” He’d filled out in an amazing way since then. “I remember when you and Pilar Aroix married.”
“We divorced.”
“Your mother told me. She hopes you get back together. You were a track star at Landings High.”
“I’m amazed I don’t remember you.”
“I hung out with wallflowers and watched how other people lived their lives. That’s how I learned to live mine.” She’d masqueraded.
“I pegged you for old money.” He studied her face.
She let out a laugh. “Far from it!” Since Svetlana’s visit, déjà vu gripped her. Except for being younger and taller, he must know he’s Yuri’s dead ringer.
He let out a labored sigh as if he’d had enough of her.
“You don’t have to stay.” She headed for the stairs. On the way, she turned down the thermostat on the wall to help dissipate the stifling heat that built up in the huge room.
“It’s almost morning. I’ll stay.” He gathered up the comforter.
“Good. Let me get you a pillow and fresh pillowcase from the linen closet.” She doubled back and opened the closet. He stood behind her, and she felt his breath on her neck before a pillow dropped on her head. “This closet is jam packed because toys take up the lower shelves.” She picked up the pillow from the floor and put a clean pillowcase on it. When she turned and handed him the pillow, he stood still.
He had a way of taking up space and making it his own. His dark brown hair was even but not short. It accentuated his handsome features. His brown eyes were fixed on hers, and she felt their strength deep in her bones.
With an afterthought, she said, “Marc, would you mind moving your sheriff cruiser? That’s in case someone drives by.”
“Consider it done.” He started down the stairway to the spa level.
She called after him, “My building doesn’t have a garage. I park my car in the lot next to the cannery, thirty feet south of my door.”
* * * *
Marc tossed the comforter and pillow on the sofa, and then hustled out the front door. The antique brass bell rang. He guessed she listened for it.
Outside, the coastal bluffs to the east glowed with the golden sunlight. He drove into the lot and parked beside a powder blue Coup de Ville, a lengthy model designed for safety and security. She hadn’t traded in the Caddy just because it was sun-faded. Did it hold memories?
Back at the front door, he operated the knob with a hand through the drilled hole. The bell jangled. Next he found a bathroom and used it. Minutes later, he was settled on the sofa with the suede comforter. It smelled of whatever fragrance she wore. Honey mixed with rosemary? He didn’t have a clue. With a sigh, he hoped to grab an hour or two of sleep. Mindlessly, with his head on the pillow, Marc stared at the smashed display case. Behind it, he squinted to read community flyers on a bulletin board. Again, he gazed at the display case. Price tags sat on the top red velvet shelf, but no jewelry swathed around them. He snuggled down a bit gazing at the strange array of shelves within the glass display case. The distance from the glass countertop to the high end of the angled velvet surface was about four inches. The low end of the surface was six-inches thick, also encased with velvet.
The next two glass shelves were an inch thick. His eyes jumped back up. The red velvet-covered shelf didn’t need to be that thick. Throwing off the comforter, Marc rushed over. He pulled out a chair and sat. The shelves were custom made with an interesting variation.
To hide something, put it in plain sight with a twist. The stairwell and elevator had clever points of entry.
He took a sharp breath and ran his hands along the back of the shelf. He felt a slight ridge with the sides of his thumbs. He pushed, and there was a creak. He applied pressure and slid open a horizontal wooden panel. He felt a surge of excitement as he reached into the space, not sure what he would find. He felt leather and pulled out a heavy binder. It had been hidden, so what secrets did the belly of the beast contain? Carefully, he opened it and saw a divider. He leafed through onion pages of the first section, a journal of cash disbursements dated six years before. The second was a cash receipts journal. It listed jewelry items sold, dates, amounts received, and from whom. Buyers had foreign names and addresses in Black Sea ports of Sevastopol, Istanbul, Sochi, and Batumi.
He knew old money laundering and buyer contacts would not stay put. The contact information he’d found was now historical. Beside the rigid divider, he came across a see-through plastic folder. Well, I’ll be. Two numbered keys with a signature card. Svetlana M. Kessk and Yuri Ivan Baronov, had access to a safe deposit box at the local branch of the Orange County State Bank.
Hit with a cascade of feelings, his strongest was a desire to protect Heatherlee. Aside from that, he was obligated to turn over information to the FBI. In the morning he’d show her the binder. He doubted that she knew of the hidden compartment. Lack of knowledge could put her in danger. He slipped the binder into its slot and slid the cover closed. He admired the even grooves. Who was the carpenter? He walked over to the door and took photos of the sawed hole before stowing equipment in his attaché.
Under her comforter, he found himself reassessing her innocence, and it was weighing up.
* * * *
He was awakened by the aroma of coffee.
“Good Morning.” She smiled down at him and set down a tray with a steaming mug, sugar, cream, a spoon and paper towel.
He bolted upright.
Heatherlee bent down and turned the handle of the mug his way. “My twins are done with breakfast and glued to Shrek the Third.”
“Will Shrek ever give up on his swamp?” He didn’t think so. He felt the same way about the family ranch. “Thanks for the coffee.” It was tricky pouring milk with his eyes on her. As he took a sip, an auburn tendril fell over her forehead.
She picked lint from her fitted black jacket and flattened pleats of her skirt between her fingers. “No time for pressing.” She repositioned the clasp that held her wealth of curls and then checked her hose for runs. With colt-like proportions, she wore dark hose and black heels.
“You’re dressed for success. You’ll turn heads when you drop off that police report.”
“I’m going to a funeral.” She adjusted a gray pearl necklace.
“Whose?” His eyes burned dry from lack of sleep.
“My foster mother, Terese D’Etcheverry.” Her face showed weariness despite make-up. She pressed a hand on her forehead and glanced at her watch.
“Terese was a close friend of my mother.” He was glad for the reminder. “I’d planned to go.” How could you have been in foster care? He hoped to hide his shock, but she seemed more proud than embarrassed. His mother had mentioned a woman who’d sat at Terese’s bedside. The fact that his mother didn’t mention her name let him know she wasn’t Basque.
Heatherlee put a hand over her downcast eyes, and he handed her the paper towel from the tray. She took it without looking up. Perhaps she was tired and didn’t realize that her gaze centered on his crotch.
He found it arousing. He wanted her. It was the way she looked at him. Maybe she felt the same way and didn’t know it.
The magic passed when her eyes left his thighs. They couldn’t go where his mind was headed anyway. He’d never date someone under these circumstances. “Heatherlee, I found something. You need to see it.” He stood.
“Oh?” The foster child looked as prim and proper as ever.
He touched her delicate shoulder and guided her behind the counter. “I found the safe deposit box information in a financial binder.”
“You found the key?” She leaned in and watched him slide open the compartment.
“Keys as in two. They’re in here.” He pulled the plastic folder from the binder and handed it to her.
“How awful for Svetlana. She was telling the truth. The box was signed out to the two of them just like she said.” For a few minutes she paged through the binder. “Looks to me like diamonds and rubies were sold in Istanbul, onyx in Kheryko, and semi-precious stones in Batumi and Sochi. All these cities are on the Black Sea.”
“Contacts have codenames. I didn’t locate the cross-reference here. Heatherlee, gems were laundered. I’ll need to turn this binder over to the FBI.”
“This information is years old.” Her voice leaped an octave. Clearly uncomfortable, she pushed it toward him. “Isn’t this past history?”
“Jewelry theft rings move around but operate for decades. This is an overview of how they do business.”
“Fine, take them, but Svetlana needs the key. Her life depends on it.” She followed her appeal with thick silence. She swallowed a sob.
He hoped she wouldn’t come undone because he was afraid he’d hug her. “You’re dealing with a lot right now.” He was close enough to see a fan of long auburn lashes shield her eyes. “As heir, you have rights to half the contents.”
She opened her eyes with a flash. They glowed like hot, green coals behind a fizz of red-gold. “I know what I don’t want.”
“I struck a nerve, but you can’t protect yourself without the truth.”
“Not if I don’t understand it. Knowing a little will work against me. I don’t play dangerous games.” She lifted her chin. “You must carry a gun.”
“I wasn’t planning to shoot anyone yet.”
“Here’s some truth. Svetlana wrote her phone number on this napkin.” From her pocket she pulled out the wad. Her hand shook as she opened it.
He took it. “Last night I watched you twist and turn that thing.”
“You are observant.” Her sarcasm carried desperation. “Marc, she needs the key. Room three, Starlight Motel. Take it to her.”
He didn’t take orders well. “You’re telling me to give an ex-con access to stolen gems and money. I won’t do that.”
The way she threw the napkin wad on the counter let him know she didn’t give a damn what he thought. The air between them hummed as if lightning was about to strike.
She shook her head and a few curls broke from confinement. There was that sob again. When her hot-tempered expression softened, she’d broken from their hostile spell. “Marc, I was being presumptuous. Let me begin again.”
“I’m listening.”
She cleared her throat. “For the sake of discussion, let’s assume as you said, the safe deposit box contains her half of stolen property. I think Yuri spent his before he died.”
“Why is that?”
“He paid off the mortgage of this rowhouse in a lump sum.”
“How much?”
“One and a quarter million. His bank account contained a half million. I used it to start my business.”
He was surprised at how her words came out so easily, even more surprised that he believed them. He was on her hook and halfway in the boat.
She lifted a hand and smoothed back her hair. “Okay, go ahead. Give the FBI the binders. But I don’t want Svetlana’s blood on my hands. She needs the key.” She paused for a moment. “What do you need from me for our little negotiation to go through?”
“Tell your lawyer to contact the FBI about finding the binders. It will get them in motion to work with the Jewelers’ Security Alliance. It will get you off the hook. Second, I want Svetlana monitored.”
“I plan to phone a private detective.”
“Who?”
“Leviticus Blake. He’s married to a friend of mine.” She walked toward the stairs. “I need to get up there with the twins. What about Svetlana?”
“I’ll bring her the key.”
* * * *
The neon sign for the Starlight advertised a colored TV, fireplace, and hot tub in every room. He drove around the tacky 1950s motel’s parking lot and searched for a dark Mercedes. He failed to find it and swung into a spot near a restaurant. He left one of the keys in a zippered pocket of his attaché. Stepping out, he shed sheriff garb but brought a folder containing bank information, a key and signature cards. The November morning was a bit crisp for a white t-shirt. He walked to room three and knocked. It opened as far as the security chain allowed. “Svetlana Kessk?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m a messenger from Yuri Baronov’s widow.”
Svetlana shut the door, removed the chain, and opened it wide. Her face with bright with wonder. “You look like Yuri. Are you cousin? Come in!” Her hair was dripping wet. “I dye it.” She pointed to an empty box and plastic container in the wastebasket. A bottle of 80-proof Stolichnaya sat on the walnut laminated desk.
Reminding himself to be cautious, Marc hesitated. As he stepped into the room, he peered behind doors. As the advertisement promised, a fireplace and a hot tub took up one corner. The bathroom door was open. He ambled in and checked behind the shower. “You’re alone.”
“Yah, all alone.” Her voice had a singsong quality as she towel dried her hair.
“I have a certain key.” He thought he’d try the carrot-on-the-stick routine. “First, tell me about the men you were with last night.”
“Tit for tat? All the time I play that game. I’m married to one of those men. Not real marriage, I pay him to be citizen, many years ago.”
“You’re a citizen. Who’s the other guy?”
“He is big boss, mean. Mitvolsky, he found me.” Her eyes widened with dread.
“When did Mitvolsky find you?”
“After I was released.”
“Released from jail?”
“Go to jail in this country. Pocola Women’s Correctional Facility.” Svetlana grimaced.
“Grim, gray and overcrowded?”
“Not as bad as over there, but we fight something awful. I crack them in the head. Then, scream and run. Got out on good behavior.”
“How did you become a model inmate?”
“I play accordion for guards. Had one when I came in. They bring it to me. Sing, too, and do other things, whatever they want.”
“Spare me the details.”
With the lively traits of a con, she gestured to an accordion at the foot of the bed. “I not feel good today. I lay down. Check out time much later.”
“The vodka did you in.” He handed her the folder.
Taking it, she sat on the bed. “These are papers. Don’t want papers, want key.” She swallowed, disappointed, as if she had eaten a raw oyster for the first time.
“The key’s inside. When you go to the bank, you’ll need everything in that plastic folder. Your name is on the card.”
“Now I remember.” She pulled out the key and held it to the light so that it glimmered. She threw her head back and laughed like a loon. “Yuri good. He keep promise.”
“You speak Russian. How about Yuri?” he asked.
“Not much.” She held the folder close to her chest but looked confused. “What I do now?”
“The bank is four blocks south from here.” He pulled open the curtain and nodded toward the Pacific Coast Highway. “You don’t need to cross the highway. You’ll see a public beach on the ocean side. You’ll walk past a village square. It’s just beyond that.”
“I bring folder and some identification.”
“That’s right, and you’ll give the key to a bank officer. Bank personnel will get the box. You’ll open it in private, take what you want and then give it back.”
“I dry hair. Want to look nice.” With scissors in her hand, she snipped them in the air. “I like fringy.”
“Do you have a place to go after you check out?”
“Place for rent up hill. Those stucco buildings, nice. Have job. Teach piano at music school. Turn out terrific. I live American dream now.”
He asked, “Which building has the apartment for rent?”
“The Capri. So beautiful. Has sparkles in the ceilings.” With delight she clasped her hands together.
Under her tough exterior he saw pure enthusiasm. She couldn’t wait to start a real job and could afford the rent in the dumpy area of town. The locals called it Stucco City Park.
* * * *
Back in the cruiser, he phoned the private investigator, Leviticus Blake. Heatherlee knew him, but so did he. The man’s recognizable baritone answered.
Having his father’s friend on the phone gave him relief. “Mr. Blake. Marc Duarte, Junior. I’m in need of your services.”
“I’m free for the next hour, Marcellus Junior. Don’t mean free, I mean available.” His chuckle was good-natured. “My office is in my house, 389 Cliff.”
“I’ll be right over.” He planned to pay the going-rate.
He passed the conclave of stucco buildings. Gaudy decorations decorated the stucco exteriors. He glimpsed at a tiki, a cutout planet, and a starburst. In the 1950s perhaps the names sounded elegant. The Capri was written in turquoise.
His thoughts turned to Heatherlee. Some of what she said turned out to be true, but how much were lies? He’d seen her at her wit’s end when she feared he wouldn’t cooperate. She’d convinced him to deliver the key to Svetlana.
It was going to be quite a day.