Chapter 2

“Can you believe it?” Shane muttered to Auggie. “Taylor’s crazy about me—already.”

Had me fooled, Auggie’s dark eyes seemed to say.

“What is there about me? Women either hate me on sight or want to jump my bones.”

He shrugged. “Go figure.”

Auggie put his sleek head on Shane’s bare knee. Shane patted him, thinking about Taylor Maxwell. A knockout. Sexy as hell.

But she didn’t like him one damn bit.

“I’m counting on you, boy,” he told Auggie. “You’ll have to be the one to break the ice.”

Shane caught the strange look the men at the next table were giving him. Aw, hell. Hadn’t they seen a man carry on a conversation with his dog before?

The real kicker was, now that he was back among the living, he still didn’t have anyone to talk to except his dog. There must be some cosmic purpose to all this, he decided.

Either that or he was his own crown of thorns.

He tossed back the rest of his café con leche—not bad—but nothing like the brew in Colombia. He watched Taylor and her friend disappear around the corner, wondering what move to make next. He refused to allow her to write him off like he was a major scumbag.

He hadn’t thought about her all this time for nothing. He was damn well going to get to know her. To find out if the image in his head was real.

The cell phone in the pocket of his khaki shorts rang. It had to be Vince. No one else had this number.

“What’s up?” Shane asked when he’d flipped open the phone, walking out of Brew Ha-Ha. He didn’t trust cell phones. Everyone else talked on them in the cafés lining the sidewalks of South Beach, but anyone with the right equipment could eavesdrop on your conversation.

“I’m taking you off the Starline case,” his boss told him.

“Why? I’m almost finished. I should wrap it tonight.”

“Something’s come up. I need you with me.”

Shane listened, then let out a low whistle. “Son of a bitch!”

Taylor allowed Lisa to drag her into Ruby’s Diner for feta cheese and spinach omelets. Lisa claimed she was starving, but Taylor suspected her friend had noticed how much weight Taylor had lost.

Lisa ordered an omelet for each of them and fresh squeezed orange juice without consulting the menu. Taylor couldn’t help remembering all the times she and Paul had joined Lisa and Trent for breakfast here on Saturday morning.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Lisa said, her dark eyes filled with concern. “I just think you need to face reality. The American Embassy in Colombia can’t find a trace of Paul.

“You went down there. Nothing. Even the private detective you hired came up empty. At some point, you’ve got to get on with your life.”

Taylor gazed across the diner decorated in retro sixties style complete with red vinyl booths and chrome-banded stools at the counter. Instead of salsa music, the jukebox played “Jailhouse Rock.” She toyed with her spoon for a moment, then looked at her friend.

“I know you’re right, Lisa, but it’s so hard. How can a photographer disappear without a trace?”

“Colombia’s famous for drugs and terrorists and God knows what. Anything is possible. Why did he have to go to such a dangerous country? Why not Brazil or Venezuela?”

She’d been over this so many times, Taylor could barely muster yet another response. “You know Paul. He never worried about danger. He wanted to photograph the indigenous tribes along the border with Brazil. He planned to sell the video to the Discovery Channel.”

Taylor blamed herself for encouraging Paul to go. He was a commercial photographer, but his career had been going nowhere while hers skyrocketed. She hadn’t wanted him to become resentful.

Paul had been moody those last few weeks before he left. She often asked herself if she’d been spending too much time with her family. Had he resented it?

Paul was an only child who wasn’t accustomed to family gatherings, and he rarely came with her to the Coral Gables home where she’d grown up. Taylor could almost feel the lump of lead forming in her chest the way it had the night she’d introduced Paul to her family. Without a flicker of her usual charm, Vanessa Maxwell had questioned Paul relentlessly about his parents.

What did it matter?

His parents were dead, and they hadn’t lived in the city. They couldn’t have been expected to be part of Miami’s society.

Taylor had cut off her mother’s questions, but not before the damage had been done. Paul was a sensitive man, a person who took offense more easily than most men she knew.

The waiter delivered their glasses of juice, Lisa let him set them down before saying, “I think drug traffickers believed Paul was up to something and killed him. I thought so when he disappeared, and no one’s discovered anything to change my mind.”

“You could be right.” After a moment of silence, Taylor added, “I have to face the fact that I may never know what happened to Paul.”

Lisa put her hand on Taylor’s. “Can you get on with your life? I’m moving on with mine. That’s what I learned while I was in India.”

“Did you? Really?”

For the second time that day, Taylor experienced a surge of happiness. She’d been worried that Lisa had returned as in love as ever with Trent.

“Yes. I’m at peace with myself. What’s meant to be—will be. The teachers at the Bidar Latur taught me to accept what is ‘written’—your fate. If something is not meant to be, you have to let it go or it will bleed the energy from your spirit.”

Taylor nodded, not sure how to respond.

She hesitated a moment. “That’s what’s happening to you. I can see it.”

Taylor didn’t believe in a lot of pooky-pooky stuff, but she knew that on one level Lisa was right. Her body seemed to be drained of any inner spirit. She hadn’t been like this before Paul disappeared.

While she was searching for him, Trent had left Lisa, and her mother had become ill. Taylor had been forced to cope with a series of blows. She’d done very well, being all things to her family while taking care of the business.

Everyone commented on her strength and praised her. But she knew something was missing.

“You’re right. I have to go on with my life … and assume Paul is dead.”

Lisa nodded. “That’s why I flirted with Shane for you. He—”

“Don’t do me any favors. Accepting Paul might be dead is one thing. Flirting with another man is a quantum leap.”

“I understand, but Shane is interested in you. He talked to me, but he never stopped looking at you.”

Taylor questioned Lisa’s analysis of the situation. There was something alarmingly intense about Shane Donovan. Something profoundly disturbing.

It wasn’t just that he was a big, tall man with an athletic build. His size and strength didn’t intimidate her. She held her own in a cutthroat business against men who thought nothing of taking advantage of a woman’s weakness.

No, this was different.

She didn’t know what about Shane Donovan bothered her. No denying he was an attractive man, but danger lurked in his eyes. Since she didn’t intend to have anything to do with him, she’d never find out what was wrong with him.

The waiter arrived with their omelets and placed the large dishes garnished with fresh fruit and home-baked banana nut bread in front of them. For several moments neither of them said anything as they ate.

Taylor remembered other Saturday mornings, when the four of them had sat in the booth across the room—their table—and had breakfast together.

Who would have thought that one day it would be just Taylor and Lisa?

“How’s your mother?” Lisa asked.

“Her health’s the same. The cancer hasn’t spread.”

A year after her father had died, Taylor’s mother had been diagnosed with myeloma. Although her blood test results were still good, Vanessa Maxwell acted as if each day might be her last. With Trent spending most of his time with his new love, Taylor was left to console her mother.

“I’m glad your mother isn’t worse,” Lisa said. “I’ll drop by and see her.”

Taylor waited for her friend to say something more, but she kept eating. Taylor couldn’t force down another bite. She pushed her plate aside, thinking of how she was going to deal with her mother.

Last night, she’d called and insisted Taylor had to come over for dinner, saying something important had come up.

“You didn’t hear anything about my mother when you were traveling?”

Lisa stopped, her fork in midair. “I was at Bidar Latur outside New Delhi. No phones. No television or radio. No newspapers. What did I miss?”

Taylor waited a moment, not sure how to say this, although it was pretty straightforward. She hadn’t discussed the details with anyone but Trent and her mother.

“It seems Trent and I have an older sister.”

Lisa almost dropped her fork. “Are you telling me your mother had a child—”

“And gave it up for adoption. Or so she thought.”

“What?” Lisa shoved her plate aside. “I don’t get it.”

Neither did Taylor. She let her eyes drift to their corner booth where a couple was being seated. They seemed so young and so very much in love.

“Explain what happened.”

“I guess Mother always had wondered what had happened to the baby she’d given up for adoption.”

What mother wouldn’t? Taylor assured herself. Still, there was a tiny part of her that was hurt by the way her mother had become obsessed by this other daughter.

“As soon as my father died—over a year before my mother knew she had cancer—she hired a private detective to look for the child.”

“Woman,” Lisa corrected. “She must be what? Thirty-one? Thirty-two?”

“She’s thirty-three.”

Lisa’s dark eyes narrowed. “Uh-oh! Vanessa must have been barely eighteen when she had the baby.”

“Actually, she was still seventeen. Just shy of her next birthday.”

“That’s awfully young. Who was the father?”

Taylor hesitated. “Mother says it was one of the other boys in the foster home.”

Lisa caught the missed beat. “You don’t believe her.”

A hundred times Taylor had asked herself why she doubted her mother’s explanation, but she’d never come up with an answer. “Maybe she’s telling the truth, but I think she’s holding back something.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a gut instinct.” like her reaction to Shane Donovan, she silently added.

“Trust your intuition. That’s what they taught me at Bidar Latur.”

Taylor could almost hear Lisa thinking, “What does Trent say?” Unfortunately, her astute brother was so absorbed by his new life that he took their mother at her word.

“Obviously, they haven’t located your mother’s child.”

“No. Trust me, Mother has thrown megabucks at it, but the private investigators can’t find any evidence that the baby was ever put up for adoption.”

Doyle Maxwell shot his cuffs, pulling the sleeves of the white shirt down so the lapis cufflinks showed beneath the navy sport coat. He checked in the mirror to be sure his gray linen slacks still had a stiletto crease.

Perfect.

He wandered across the mammoth bedroom into his wife’s dressing area. Brianna was preening in the makeup mirror. She was wearing a black lace bra and matching thong—and black satin high heels.

It was her come-fuck-me outfit, but he wasn’t interested. Something was happening with Vanessa and it made him uneasy.

“Hurry up. We’re going to be late.”

Brianna turned and her shoulder-length blond hair cascaded downward, brushing the valley between her lush breasts like a kiss. “So? Vanessa will hold court for two hours before anyone sits down to eat. Trust me. Do we have to be there the entire time?”

“Yes. Something’s going on.”

Brianna cocked one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Is it about her missing baby or does Raoul Cathcart have another brilliant idea?”

“I don’t know. Vanessa sounded … happy when she invited us for dinner.”

“Invited—ha! Demanded is more like it.”

“True, so true,” he admitted.

One of the unexpected bonuses of having a trophy wife was finding one who was sexy and smart. Even though Brianna was the same age as his niece, Taylor, his wife was savvy beyond her years. He could tell her anything and count on her to come up with insightful comments.

Brianna had Vanessa’s number the first time the two women had met. She’d insisted Vanessa wore the pants even though Doyle’s macho twin brother, Duncan, had been alive then, and most people believed he ran the family.

She’d seen right through Raoul Cathcart the instant the guy had shaken her hand. She had immediately whispered, “Raoul Cathcart will be trouble. Trust me.”

Brianna had been a lap dancer in a club off Calle Ocho in Little Havana when he’d met her. Brianna’s mother had immigrated from Cuba, then married an American just the way Raoul Cathcart’s mother had.

They were YUCAs—young, urban, Cuban-Americans—and they understood each other in a way Doyle couldn’t quite explain. But he had no doubt Brianna was right.

Raoul was trouble.

“I’m going to drive over in the Maserati,” he told his wife. “You come when you’re ready.”

He turned to leave, but Brianna jumped up and blocked his way, saying, “You’re leaving without a kiss good-bye?”

He shrugged. Brianna didn’t want a kiss, and they both knew it. She had sex in mind—as usual.

When he’d dumped his wife for a blond bombshell, he’d counted on many things. Demands for jewelry. An insatiable appetite for designer clothes. A thirst for travel.

He gave Brianna those things, but she didn’t lust for them the way he’d expected.

When he’d traded up, leaving a dowdy childless wife who asked for nothing, he hadn’t counted on getting a sexpot with brains who wanted to fuck all the time. He was way, way too old for this, but he kept it a secret.

It wasn’t the only thing he hid from Brianna.

“Good-bye.” He kissed her on the cheek, teasing her, pretending that’s all that would happen.

“Bye-bye,” she replied with a little wave.

He marched out of the bedroom, taken aback. Brianna always insisted on screwing before they went out for the evening. “To take the edge off,” she claimed. When they returned home, she’d expect him to spend hours making love to her again.

She wasn’t having an affair, was she?

It was possible, he conceded. He couldn’t get it up more than twice a day unless he popped Viagra, but Brianna was insatiable. She could be juggling several men and still want to fuck.

He mulled over the situation, silently cursing. Right now he didn’t need another problem. The situation at To The Maxx was volatile with Raoul Cartcart butting in all the time.

Worse, he was in serious financial trouble. The divorce, the meltdown in the stock market, and an expensive young wife had drained his finances. He desperately needed To The Maxx to be sold.

An infusion of cash would solve his financial woes. His sex problems were another story.

He walked into the garage, then flicked on the light switch. Brianna was sprawled buck-naked on the hood of his red Maserati like some centerfold. She must have raced down the back stairs to beat him to the garage.

She used her index finger to motion for him to come closer. “Don’t ever think you can just walk out on me like that. You know what I need.”

“I don’t want to wrinkle my pants.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She rose to her feet and stood so her pussy was inches from his lips.

He was going to have to service her. There was no getting out of it, he thought. She waxed her crotch so there was never a suggestion of dark pubic hair, which would have been a startling contrast to her golden mane.

Her skin was creamy smooth and softer than a baby’s ass. She slid her hand down her flat tummy and touched herself with an index finger crowned by a ruby-red nail.

“Your turn,” she whispered, in a tone that told him she was already aroused.

Dusk was gathering when Taylor drove toward Alhambra Street, one of the many streets in Coral Gables with Spanish names. A canopy of noble banyan trees deepened the shadows. The neighborhood had the reputation of being one of the most exclusive areas in the city, but to Taylor it was home, a reminder of a time when her life had been simple, happy.

She parked and entered the sprawling Spanish-style mansion with a high wall capped in coral rock, where she had been raised. The home opened onto a swimming pool with a coral rock waterfall. As usual at this time of day, her mother would be near the bubbling fountain, sipping a mint julep. Even though she was older and ill, Vanessa Maxwell was still a striking blonde who turned men’s heads.

“Taylor, lookin’ way cool,” Raoul Cathcart greeted her when she walked into the pool area. “Miami Spice, right?” he said, referring to the popular boutique where she’d purchased the red halter dress.

“Yes. It’s a great shop.” She managed a smile at the man who’d captured her brother’s heart.

She loved Trent in a way only siblings born fourteen months apart can love each other, but she hadn’t known Trent. Not at all. When he’d announced he was gay and was divorcing Lisa, no one had been more surprised than Taylor.

Raoul, like most men of Cuban descent, dressed with a flair even when he was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Add that to his sexual orientation, where clothing was almost an art, and Taylor wasn’t in the least surprised he could spot a Miami Spice outfit.

He was dressed in a white-on-white suit that made his skin seem more bronze, a soft blue shirt, and a creamy yellow tie. His honey blond hair stood up in spikes that might have made some men look foolish.

Not Raoul. He rode the crest of every trend as if he’d invented it.

His most unusual feature was his eyes. He’d inherited his father’s pale blue eyes, which seemed even paler in his tanned face. He was a striking man, a fact that had not escaped his own attention.

“Where’s Trent?” she asked.

“With Her Majesty.”

Taylor resisted the urge to slap his handsome face, a square jawline and chiseled cheekbones women adored—for all the good it did them. A grudging little voice inside her acknowledged the truth behind the phrase “Her Majesty.”

Taylor’s mother had an imperial attitude. Granted, she was loving, supportive—never once criticizing Trent—but Vanessa Maxwell had an air of entitlement that usually came from wealth.

In her case, it did not. Taylor’s mother had been born May Ella Jones. She’d changed her name the second she’d been released from foster care on her eighteenth birthday. She’d moved to Miami and reinvented herself.

She’d married a man who had family money, and who then went on to make even more with his own business. Vanessa Maxwell ran with a society crowd, a fact Paul Ashton had noted immediately.

He was a struggling photographer without much money. Taylor hadn’t cared. She was thankful she’d inherited her father’s attitude about people. Money isn’t everything.

Taylor’s father had suffered a heart attack and died shortly before Paul vanished in South America. If her father had lived, she would have amended his saying about money.

There are things in life money can buy, then there are those things in life no amount of money can buy.

When you lost someone you loved, no amount of money was ever going to bring them back.

“I see Trent now,” she said, spotting her brother talking to a tall, powerfully built man whose back was to her. Until the guy had moved, he’d blocked her view of Trent.

Off to the side stood another man she didn’t recognize either. She wanted to ask what was going on, but she refused to give Raoul the satisfaction of realizing he knew more than she did.

“Hey, Taylor. That’s a dynamite dress,” her uncle said, coming up beside her and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Thanks.”

She hugged Doyle Maxwell and secretly pretended he was her father. It wasn’t difficult. Duncan and Doyle Maxwell had been identical twins and looked so much alike that many people hadn’t been able to tell them apart.

Pewter hair wisped with silver at the temples offset the same blue eyes Taylor saw in the mirror each morning. She adored her uncle, and in many ways, he’d been more supportive of her than her own father who had lived for the company.

Uncle Doyle shared her love of games and had encouraged her to make up her own games since she was a child. She’d told him about her plans to start her own game company, something she’d never told her father. It would have disappointed him to know she really wasn’t crazy about the cosmetics business.

“I wore a dress,” she told him. “You know how Mother is. One always dresses for dinner.”

Doyle chuckled. “Yep. That’s why I put on a jacket.”

“I got out one of my white suits because I adore white suits,” Raoul chimed in.

“Looks good on you,” her uncle said.

Uncle Doyle was being polite, but she didn’t have to ask what he really thought of Raoul Cathcart. Her uncle didn’t like the man. When Taylor’s father had died, Doyle had stepped in to help run To The Maxx.

Things had gone smoothly until Raoul came into Trent’s life. Even though Raoul didn’t work for the company, he wanted to start a similar business. He had an opinion about everything at To The Maxx and voiced it through Trent.

Raoul moved away to join the cluster of men talking to her mother, and Taylor asked, “What’s going on?”

“Who knows?”

Her uncle shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that reminded Taylor so much of her father. His hair had receded just a bit, and the high, noble foreheads coupled with blue eyes were male family traits. One day Trent would look like this.

Vanessa Maxwell turned and saw them. She smiled and headed their way as she tapped on her glass to signal Pablo, the houseboy, for another mint julep. Taylor couldn’t help returning her mother’s smile.

When was the last time she’d seen her mother look so happy?

“Darling.” Her mother kissed the air beside Taylor’s cheek, then said hello to Doyle.

“That’s some dress.” She twirled her finger, motioning for Taylor to turn around.

Taylor did a slow pirouette so her mother could inspect the glowing red halter dress. It was backless and skimmed her thighs and clung to every curve, a typical SoBe club outfit.

Ordinarily, her mother wouldn’t approve, but it had been almost two years since she’d bought a new dress. When Paul vanished from her life, there didn’t seem to be any point in trying to look good.

Work and finding Paul had been all that mattered. Then her mother became ill, and buying clothes mattered even less.

Tonight she was wearing a new dress and makeup. “Getting a grip” is what Lisa called it.

“Lisa insisted I buy it,” Taylor told her mother. “The shoes, too.”

She wiggled one foot to show off the red sandals with stiletto heels of clear Lucite. In the center of each heel was a red butterfly with flecks of iridescent green on its wings.

“Lisa’s finally come home?” Her mother’s eyes were troubled. “How is she?”

“Really happy.” Taylor didn’t mention the Kama Sutra business, knowing it would worry her mother.

“I’m glad. I miss her.”

“Ditto,” Uncle Doyle added, his eyes narrowing as he watched Raoul.

There was no point dwelling on the past, Taylor decided. “Who are those men?”

“Come with me.” Her mother tugged on her arm. “I’ll introduce you.”

Taylor linked her arm with her uncle’s and followed her mother toward the group of men. Over the shoulder of the tall man, Trent caught Taylor’s eye. No one else would have noticed the subtle change in his expression, but Taylor did.

A frisson of alarm skittered down her bare back.

Trouble.

Uh-oh. Now what?

“This is my daughter, Taylor Maxwell,” her mother announced. “And my brother-in-law, Doyle Maxwell.”

The men turned and Taylor found herself staring at one of them. For a split second she didn’t recognize the tall man who was smiling at her. His wide shoulders did wonders for the light-weight navy blazer. His crisp white shirt was open at the throat, revealing a strong neck and a silver chain.

Shane Donovan.

Well, well. Take a jock out of T-shirts and shorts and look what happened. Who would have guessed?

“Vince Walker and Shane Donovan are with TriTech Security,” her mother told them.

Shane’s smile had a disturbing nuance to it. She looked away, thinking she’d been right. He wasn’t the computer type. He was a security guard.

“They’ve located Renata.” Raw emotion charged each word her mother uttered.

“Renata?” Taylor heard herself ask, her mind making another mental adjustment. Shane was a private investigator.

Then her mother’s words registered with unexpected force.

Renata.

The missing baby.

Her sister.