by Meryl Sawyer
Where in hell was Ashley?
He’d been ready to forgive her, but now he was pissed big-time. He’d come home to an empty house and a refrigerator with nothing but low-fat yogurt and cottage cheese in it. He’d gone for a swim to keep his body toned, expecting Ashley any minute. He’d been home for three freaking hours when he tried her cell. It immediately kicked into voice mail.
Ashley was in for it now. Suggest a trial separation, he told himself. That would upset her no end. Wouldn’t it?
Ryan admitted to himself that he was no longer as sure of things as he once had been. His world had been on track. True, he’d had to make a midcourse correction and switch from general surgery to cosmetic surgery, but even then, things had gone his way.
The trouble had started with Whitney.
“Jesus H. Christ!” He cursed out loud and jumped to his feet. Would Ashley have gone to see his ex-wife? It was possible. After all, Ashley had given Whitney the dress that started this crappy argument.
He slung the towel over his bare shoulder and stomped inside. Ashley didn’t have an office. What the fuck would she need one for? She used the nook area in the kitchen to keep a few things, like her checkbook and calendar.
He threw on the lights and searched the nook. Not much. Travel brochures for Hawaii. Nordstrom catalogs. An accordion folder with returned checks filed by date.
He rummaged through the stuff, searching for her telephone book. She kept phone numbers in a small leather booklet. It must be in her purse, Ryan decided. He didn’t want to lower himself by calling the friend who’d helped her snatch Lexi, but if Ashley didn’t show in another hour, he would.
The only friend Ashley had ever mentioned was her personal trainer. They’d been close when Ryan first met Ashle. He’d never met the woman because she lived across town and 0worked most of the time at a gym. Come to think of it, he didn’t even know the woman’s name.
What gym? He could call there and see if Ashley was around. Shit! She hadn’t told him the name of the gym. Well, maybe she had and he’d forgotten it. He remembered Ashley saying she paid her friend in cash. The woman couldn’t afford to pay taxes. Unfuckingbelievable! Who could? He’d been forced to instruct his accountant to file late this year.
He searched through her returned checks, for lack of anything better to do. Manicures. Pedicures. Boutiques. Nothing extravagant, but still—it was money they hadn’t had. Ashley hadn’t known this, he reminded himself.
Dr. Jox. The check stopped him. The memo line indicated Ashley had purchased vitamins. That must be the name of the gym where Ashley’s personal trainer worked. He got the number from Information and called. He would have put it off, but most gyms closed at ten. He needed the number tonight.
“I’m a friend of Ashley Fordham’s,” he told the young-sounding guy who answered the telephone. “She recommended a trainer there. I was wondering if I could get her number.”
Ryan didn’t want word to go around the gym that he was looking for Ashley. He wasn’t sure why he gave a shit. Personal pride, he guessed. Not just every guy married a beauty queen. No sense in seeming jealous when he wasn’t.
“Her number?” the kid parroted back.
“Yes. Ashley really likes this trainer’s workouts.” Ryan heard a muffled sound as if the kid had put his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Just a minute,” the kid told him. “I’ll let you talk to my manager.”
Ryan waited, getting more irritated by the second. What was the big deal? He would have driven over there but Dr. Jox was halfway across town.
“This is Al Schneider. What can I do for ya?”
Ryan repeated his spiel. Silence. “The trainer is still working there, isn’t she?”
“You’re Mr. Fordham, right?”
Ryan started to deny it, then realized the guy must have his name on the caller ID screen. “Yes. Ashley recom—”
“That trainer isn’t accepting new clients.”
The manager hung up before Ryan could ask another question. What the fuck? He almost hit Redial, then stopped himself. Something was going on.
Why wouldn’t a trainer who needed money badly enough to risk trouble with the IRS not want new clients? He thought about it for a moment. He paid all their bills. He remembered commenting to Ashley about the number of calls made from their home phone. Not that it cost much; they had a wide-range dialing plan. But he knew he didn’t make many calls.
Back in his office, Ryan pawed through the growing cluster of bills on his desk until he found last month’s telephone bill. This would be the third month in a row that he’d neglected to pay it. He checked the local calls. Several were to the office he still had until the new group was up and running. Others he vaguely recognized. His service. Walter Nance.
One number came up several times. He thought he recognized it from previous bills but couldn’t be sure. He’d trashed them or he would be able to check.
Ryan plopped down into his chair and booted up his computer. It was cool inside and he rearranged the damp towel over his shoulders to keep warm. It took several minutes to locate an Internet reverse directory for San Diego and look up the number. It was registered to a Preston Block with an address across town.
Block could be the trainer’s father or a roommate. He studied the screen and memorized the address. He needed to speak to Ashley in person.
It took a little more than half an hour to drive to the address listed for Preston Block. It was a bunker-style two-story apartment building that wrapped around a pool with cloudy water. The place had been new in the seventies. From what Ryan could tell in the dark, that was the last time it had been painted. Exactly where he would expect a trainer subsisting hand to mouth to live.
He found the directory with Block/Swanson listed for apartment 2B. He stood there a moment to formulate the speech he’d mentally rehearsed on the way over. He didn’t want to admit how much he missed Ashley. He planned to say her father had called.
Was that even possible? Now he wished he’d asked more questions. He knew Ashley had suffered through her mother’s tragic death alone. Her father lived in some crummy town in the central part of the state, but he hadn’t come to the funeral. Had she told her father about their marriage? He didn’t remember Ashley mentioning it.
Unable to think of a better excuse, he climbed the stairs. A potted palm missing most of its fronds stood outside 2B’s door. He mustered an assertive knock.
A television was playing inside, but a moment later the door swung open. A surfer built like a brick shithouse stared out at him.
“I’m looking for Ashley Fordham’s trainer.”
“Preston’s out. He works nights now.”
He? He? Ashley’s personal trainer was a woman. Wasn’t that what she had told him? Ryan blinked and tried to recall exactly what Ashley had said. The first time she’d mentioned the trainer had been when they were in bed and he’d been admiring how perfect every inch of her body was.
I work with a trainer five days a week.
The guy’s smile evaporated. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Fordham. Ashley’s husband.” He couldn’t keep from adding, “I’m looking for her.”
“She’s not here.”
Ryan turned and trudged away without another word. Of all the scenarios he’d envisioned, he’d never imagined Ashley—his Ashley—being involved with another man. The knowledge made him dizzy, weak.
He ambled along, his mind unable to process any thought except: Ashley had betrayed him. He’d loved her so much—too much.
He’d given her everything she wanted, hadn’t he?
No, he silently corrected himself. There were things Ashley had wanted, like the house in the Coronado Keys. He’d been too strapped for money to purchase it. Ashley had spent her life on the road. She deserved a home of her own. If Whitney hadn’t been such a bitch, this never would have happened.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“IT’S BEAUTIFUL,” Whitney said. “Even more spectacula
r than I expected.”
“Why not? The homes around here start at a cool mil.”
They were sitting in the Frio-Frio—cool, cool—bar at Corona del Mar. They’d checked into their hotel in Cancún, changed clothes and had driven out here in their rented Mazda.
It was so humid, the short skirt on Whitney’s sundress was plastered to her legs by the time she walked from the air-conditioned hotel to the car. Mexico’s beaches were popular tourist destinations in the winter, but by this time of year, the temperature skyrocketed and visitors tapered off. Their hotel was only half-full, as was the bar at this expensive development.
“This seems too…too sophisticated for Miranda,” she told Adam.
“That doesn’t mean she isn’t working here. Tips must be great. Better than in Cancún. If she visited here last December, she could have lined up a job.”
“Possibly. Should I ask our waitress?”
A woman wearing a wraparound skirt in the coral and azure tropical pattern of the resort was heading their way with double margaritas. Whitney had brought photographs of Miranda that she’d doctored on the computer at Speedy Press yesterday morning. It was the shot taken of Miranda on the beach last December. One picture showed her as a blonde while Whitney had altered the other to make her cousin have black hair.
“Give it a try. Use the blond photo first.”
The waitress put down their drinks with a smile, and Whitney said, “I think my sister visited here.” She showed the woman the photograph. “Does she look familiar?”
“Fam-lar?”
Whitney realized the waitress spoke some English but not enough to understand the question. “Do…you…know…her?” she said with deliberate slowness.
The waitress squinted at the photograph, then shook her head. Whitney was ready and whipped out the second photograph. “See…her?”
The woman’s dark eyes studied the second photograph. “No se.”
The waitress left the table, and Adam said, “Miranda might not come in here. We can’t expect to find her at the first place we try.”
“True.” She hated to think this was a wild-goose chase, but it was a definite possibility. After the terrifying incident last night, it had seemed imperative that they find Miranda as soon as possible.
Whitney was still a little disturbed from the shock of the incident, and numbness had replaced the lingering questions. She couldn’t decide if someone had mistaken her for Miranda—which meant they’d followed her from home—or if it had merely been a dangerous prank. She refused to dwell on it. If she did, a wave of fear broke over her.
They sipped the slushy margaritas and gazed out at the sea. The sun had slipped into the ocean, leaving shimmering streamers of crimson and gold on the water. It was a very romantic setting, she decided.
If the stress of the situation hadn’t been so intense, she could have appreciated it. She really needed things to calm down so she could evaluate her true feelings for Adam. There was no denying he was a great guy. Last night and after the fire, he’d been the one to comfort her.
Despite cautioning herself to take this slow so she’d have the time and space to truly get over Ryan and his betrayal, events hadn’t permitted Whitney that luxury. She’d been pressed into an intimate relationship. There was the obvious attraction factor, but if what seemed to be developing between herself and Adam was merely chemistry, she might have dealt with it more easily. What she was feeling went deeper, meant more.
Over Adam’s shoulder she noticed their waitress was talking to the bartender. They kept looking in Whitney’s direction. The young bartender came out from behind the bamboo bar and headed toward their table.
Whitney kept her voice low. “Looks like our waitress told the bartender we’re searching for someone.”
“Buenas noches,” said the dark-haired man as he came up to their table.
They told him good-evening in Spanish, then complimented him on the excellent margaritas.
“Cuervo Gold,” he replied, and Whitney decided he meant the expensive tequila gave the margaritas their smooth yet distinctive flavor.
“Looking for someone?” the man asked.
“Mi hermana,” Whitney told him. My sister. It was a fib but it sounded better if Miranda was her sister.
The bartender pulled out a chair and sat down. Whitney tried to catch Adam’s eye, but he was studying the younger man.
“You don’t have to practice your tourist Spanish on me,” he told them. “I’m Cuban. From Miami. My English is perfect. I just work here during the season. It’s back to the States next week.”
Whitney smiled and wondered how much to tell this guy. After the incident with the car and the fire, she wasn’t in a very trusting mood these days. On the fly, she came up with a story.
“My mother is very ill.” She leaned closer to the bartender as if divulging a secret. “Cancer. She and my sister haven’t…”
Adam got the drift. “They haven’t spoken in almost three years. We think she’s down here but we don’t know where.”
“We’d like to find her and bring her home before it’s too late.” Whitney managed to add a touch of tears to her voice. She handed him the photo of the blond Miranda.
The bartender shrugged. “She looks like a lot of blondes whose parents have places here.” He gazed at Whitney for a moment. “I can see you’re sisters.”
Whitney tried for a smile and pulled out the second photograph with dark hair. “She may have dyed her hair.”
His eyes shifted from the photograph to Whitney. “I don’t recognize her, but not everyone comes into the bar.” He stood up. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”
They thanked him and the bartender hustled back to his station to serve a couple who’d just arrived. Whitney took another sip of her drink.
“What’s our next move?”
“Tonight, I think we should check the shops nearby on the off chance someone will recognize her. Then let’s get dinner and hit the sack early. Tomorrow we should come out here and speak to the sales office. They’ll have records of people who visited the resort to consider a purchase, and they may recognize Miranda.”
They chatted about Lyleen Foster, the pet concierge Whitney had asked to take care of her clients while she came here. Daniel had highly recommended the woman, but Whitney didn’t like giving her charges to someone she’d just met. She supposed they would be fine for a few days, but Lexi had taken off once already.
“I hope Lexi doesn’t try to run away again,” she told Adam.
“I’m sure she won’t.”
“I wish I felt as positive as you sound.”
“Look, I should—”
The bartender walked up and interrupted Adam. “You know, I’ve been thinking. This might be nothing, but…”
“But what?” Adam asked.
“Let me see the picture again. The one of the chick with black hair.”
Whitney produced the photograph and told herself not to get her hopes up.
The bartender squinted at the picture, then said, “She looks a little like Courtney Hampton but it’s hard to tell. Courtney’s hair is red and really short.”
Yes! Whitney silently screamed. Miranda’s hair was a sandy blond. It would be easier to conceal her roots if she kept it in one of the short, sassy cuts that were so popular.
“Courtney lives at the far end of the road. She and her husband came here last Christmas to look over the place. They purchased a villa not too long ago.”
Disappointment knotted inside her. It couldn’t be Miranda. She wouldn’t be with a husband.
“Her husband died. A sudden heart attack.” The bartender shook his head. “Not surprising. The dude was a lot older than Courtney.”
WHITNEY STOOD BESIDE ADAM at the door of the villa owned by the widow Courtney Hampton. It was located at the end of a cul-de-sac on a secluded cove. Apparently, the other owners had left for the season. The only lights in the area were on at this house.
Adam rang the bell
and whispered in her ear, “Remember what I told you. Say as little as possible at first. Suspects often reveal much more if you just let them talk.”
It was a full minute before they heard anything. Muffled footsteps came through the arched wood door.
“Who is it?”
Whitney instantly recognized Miranda’s voice. She nodded enthusiastically at Adam, and he smiled.
“Miranda, it’s me, Whitney.”
Dead silence. For a moment, Whitney thought her cousin wasn’t going to open the door. Then it swung open. The woman before them had copper hair in a spiked pixie cut, but there was no mistaking Miranda Marshall.
“Whitney, I—I a-a-ah…”
Whitney barged in, followed by Adam. Miranda’s expression darkened with an unreadable emotion. A thousand questions pummeled Whitney’s brain but she waited to see what her cousin would say.
“W-what are you doing here?” Miranda asked.
Instead of responding, Whitney looked around. The interior was furnished in Key West mode with comfy-looking woven wicker chairs and a chaise lounge-style sofa in the living area just beyond the entry. There were no paintings or anything on the walls or accessories on the end tables. The only homey touch was a hint of cinnamon in the air that must have come from the candles flickering on the coffee table.
Whitney turned back to Miranda and glared at her. And waited.
“Why are you here?” Miranda repeated. “It isn’t even two weeks yet.”
Whitney realized Miranda was referring to her two-week “honeymoon.” Evidently, her cousin didn’t think anyone would miss her for at least two weeks. “Some honeymoon.”
Miranda reacted to the unbridled sarcasm in Whitney’s voice by wincing just slightly. “I know you must be upset, but I can explain.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“Maybe we’d better sit down,” suggested Adam.
“Who are you?” asked Miranda.
“Adam Hunter.”
The air emptied from Miranda’s lungs in a rush. “Calvin’s nephew. Of course.”
She led them into a great room that faced the cove. The sun had set but there was still enough light to appreciate the fabulous view. Knowing Miranda was out here by herself, though, made it seem lonely and isolated. Whitney told herself not to feel sorry for her cousin until she knew more. Thanks to Miranda, she’d lost every possession she had—and was lucky to be alive.
