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  He knew exactly what his boss meant. His mouth relaxed into a smile as he thought about his three-year-old daughter, Michaela. What would he do if something happened to her? Despite the heat, he shivered and suppressed an anguished groan. He would die.

  As he patted the note in his pocket, his brain fed him a vision of another note. The note his ex-wife Cindy had left him.

  You and the baby are sucking the life out of me. I can’t take it anymore. Get a divorce. You can have Michaela. She thinks you’re her father anyway.

  Those words had pierced his heart with the efficiency of a stiletto. More than two years later, the piercing pain had dulled to an ache, but it hadn’t lessened. He rubbed his chest as he climbed into his Mustang convertible and started it, gunning the engine loudly.

  How could another man’s child wrap his heart around her tiny fingers? How could he feel so consumed with love for her if she wasn’t biologically his? He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant.

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Michaela had his eyes, his dogged determination.

  His ex-wife’s note was just one final cruelty. She’d hurt him in every other way she could. From her point of view, destroying his relationship with his daughter would be the perfect final blow.

  He pushed thoughts of his ex-wife and her many betrayals out of his mind as he pulled up to the gate and instructed the guard not to let anyone in unless they had prior clearance from him. Not the police. Not a delivery truck. Not anyone.

  He drove the several miles to the hospital, and headed straight up to Johnson’s room. A quick discussion with the nurse in charge told him Johnson was doing fine now that he’d finally regained consciousness.

  The guard he’d placed at Johnson’s door rose from his chair.

  “Mr. Majors.”

  Sean nodded. “Morning, Kenner. If you want to grab some coffee, go ahead. Be back in ten minutes.”

  It was after eight, but the room was still dark. Some morning show was on TV, but Johnson’s eyes were closed and one hand worried the oxygen tube inserted in his nose.

  Sean stared at the man he’d hired less than a year ago. How in the hell had he been so wrong about him? Fury at himself and at Johnson propelled him across to the windows where he yanked up the blinds.

  “Hey!” Johnson shielded his eyes from the bright Miami sun. He coughed and groaned, then squinted. “Mr. Majors.” He sank back into the bedclothes, his face suddenly pale.

  “Good to see you awake.”

  Johnson’s eyes fluttered. “Somebody tried to kill me.”

  “I know. What I want to know is why.”

  A slight shrug told him his employee didn’t want to talk. He stepped over to the bed and grabbed Johnson’s wrist where the IV tube was inserted.

  Johnson squirmed. “Ow. Mr. Majors, you gotta get me out of here.”

  “I’ve put a twenty-four-hour guard on your room.”

  “You don’t understand. They’ll get to me again. I know it.”

  “Who got to you?” He squeezed.

  Johnson was sweating, grimacing at the pain from the IV catheter pressing into his flesh. Sean didn’t care.

  “I swear, I don’t know. He stabbed me in the chest with a needle while I was asleep. Whatever he shot me with nearly killed me.”

  “So you didn’t see anything.”

  Johnson quit straining against Sean’s grip on his wrist. “You don’t believe me. I swear,” he coughed again. “The first and last thing I felt was that needle going in.” He rubbed his chest with his free hand.

  Johnson had been attacked. There was no doubt about that. With a dose of potassium. Whoever had done it knew that injecting potassium straight into the heart would kill a person immediately. But the attempt had failed.

  “Why’d you do it, Johnson?”

  The young man swallowed. His pale face and the tubes attached to him bore witness to his brush with death. But he was alive, and Sean needed answers.

  He waited.

  Johnson’s eyes fluttered closed and he took a long breath, coughing dryly. “After I started driving Sonya, I got a phone call. They gave me a number. All I was supposed to do was let them know where I drove her. I had no idea they were going to kidnap her—”

  “Like hell!” Sean jerked his hand away, afraid his anger might cause him to injure the young man’s wrist.

  “Look, man. I’m serious. I thought it was the media.”

  “The media? That’s a lie. I’ve seen the phone records. You called a number in Ladera.”

  Johnson licked dry lips as his eyes widened. “That was just the one time. Nothing was said.”

  Sean leaned over the hospital bed. “Don’t lie to me again, Johnson. I’ll take the guard off, and leave you here on your own. Now what the hell made you do it?”

  Johnson’s pale face drained completely of color. His eyes darted toward the door. “I got in deep on some gambling debts. When I told the collectors I was driving Sonya, suddenly I got these phone calls. I swear, Mr. Majors—”

  A nurse knocked on the half-open door, then stepped into the room. “Mr. Johnson, the lab is here to take you down for your CT scan.”

  Sean blew out a frustrated breath. Johnson was lying. But Sean didn’t have time to question him further. He needed to get over to Weddings Your Way and talk to Rachel Brennan about the second ransom note.

  He stepped back from the bed as two hefty young men wheeled in a gurney. Behind them Sean saw his guard.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he tossed at Johnson as he rounded the gurney and headed out the door.

  “Stick with him. Don’t let him out of your sight,” he muttered as he passed the guard.

  The day was growing hot and bright as he headed toward Biscayne Bay, toward the sumptuous offices of Weddings Your Way.

  A half hour later, Sean stepped up to the carved mahogany and beveled glass front entrance to Weddings Your Way. He glanced at the discreetly placed security camera, only one of several positioned strategically around Weddings Your Way. His brain flashed back to the scene that had greeted him the day Sonya was kidnapped. The parking area had been in chaos. There were police detectives, crime-scene personnel and paramedics crawling all over the place. All he’d been able to think about was his boss’s missing daughter and his injured security guard.

  He had watched the tapes. Frustration swelled in his chest as he thought about how little evidence the police lab had been able to glean from the footage.

  The tape showed Botero’s white limousine pulling up behind a late model sedan in front of Weddings Your Way. Johnson, dressed in chauffeur livery and obviously not happy about it, opened the rear door for Sonya, who, with her usual exuberant energy, bounced out smiling.

  Then, a black limo had pulled up behind Botero’s and two men dressed in dark suits leaped out and grabbed Sonya. Johnson reacted immediately, but one of the men coldcocked him.

  A well-built young man ran into the frame, straight toward the limo, but the black car had veered and jumped the curb, heading straight for Johnson.

  Johnson rolled to one side, out of the frame of the camera as the limo barreled forward and hit a young woman. Sean now knew that the young woman was Caroline Graham and the man who’d rushed the limo was her brother, Alex.

  At no time did either of the kidnappers show his face to the camera. It was as if they knew exactly where the blind spots were.

  He eyed the state-of-the-art piece of equipment. It was the same brand he’d just purchased for Carlos’s estate. Cocking an eyebrow at the lens, he reached for the door handle. Weddings Your Way must be more successful than he realized.

  He knew from his own wedding that they were expensive. But that kind of twenty-four-hour security cost more than his apartment rent for a year. Rachel Brennan had upgraded since the kidnapping. Too late for Sonya and Johnson, but smart.

  Walking into the elegant reception area of Weddings Your Way was like walking onto the set of a famous Thirties-era movie. A young woman seate
d behind a delicately carved table greeted him.

  “Good morning, sir. Welcome to Weddings Your Way. How may we assist you?”

  “Rachel Brennan, please.”

  The pretty young woman quickly surveyed him, taking in his custom-fitted summer suit and the state of his fingernails and hair.

  “Sean Majors, Carlos Botero’s chief of security.” He handed her his card.

  “Oh, of course Mr. Majors.” Her cheeks turned faintly pink. “Ms. Brennan is not available. Could I direct you to—” she glanced quickly at a desk calendar “—Ms. Brooks?”

  Sean took in the large main salon of Weddings Your Way. Brooks. Which one was she?

  To the right of the marble staircase, beyond the display of wedding gowns and veils, in a cozy alcove, a tall blonde dressed in black and white with black stockings encasing her long, shapely legs smiled at a petite redhead in bright pink sitting across from her.

  As he watched, the two women stood.

  Oh, yeah. The blonde with the legs was Sophie Brooks. How could he forget those legs? The sleek, sheer black stockings were an endangered species in Miami any time of year. They were extinct during the summer.

  As the bride-to-be turned toward the door and the blonde sat and recrossed her legs, Sean admired the long expanse of thigh that was revealed below the short, tight skirt.

  “Mr. Majors, I’ll let Ms. Brooks know—”

  He waved his hand. “I see her.”

  As he passed the redhead, she smiled pertly at him. He nodded without taking his eyes off Sophie Brooks.

  Her straight blond hair hid her face as she wrote something in a leather notebook, then typed a few sentences into a small laptop that sat open on her desk.

  Her phone buzzed as he approached. She answered it, listened for an instant, then slid her gaze up his body, giving her head a little toss as she met his eyes. “No, that’s fine. I’ll take him.”

  Sean smiled.

  She frowned, set the phone down and stood.

  He heard the swish of ultrasheer nylon and to his surprise, his body reacted.

  Damn. What the hell was wrong with him? He was working, and nothing interfered with his job. Certainly not a beautiful woman. Miami was filled with beautiful women. Besides, he had absolutely no interest in women right now, beautiful or otherwise. He had his job and his daughter. He didn’t need anything else.

  But, oh, those silk-clad forever legs.

  With a great deal of effort, he managed to keep his eyes on her face.

  She smoothed her hands down her skirt and swallowed, her eyelids flickering. Did she sense the battle that was raging inside him?

  Knock it off, Majors. His jaw tightened. He was here for one purpose. He had to let Rachel Brennan know about the second ransom note.

  “Ms. Brooks?”

  “I’m Sophie Brooks,” she said, holding out her hand.

  He took it briefly. Her fingers were cool, which didn’t surprise him. He’d have been surprised if they’d been warm. She was the epitome of cool. Her demeanor was smooth, sophisticated, unflappable, except for that tiny movement of her throat when he’d met her gaze.

  “Please sit,” she said.

  He gestured. “After you.” Cursing at himself for his weakness, he stole one last glimpse of her crossing those legs.

  She moved an album of wedding invitations from the small table in front of her.

  “I need to speak to Rachel Brennan,” he said, eyeing the pink slipper chair, then sitting carefully on the edge of it and propping his elbows on his knees.

  “Ms. Brennan isn’t here. Can I do something for you, Mr. Majors?”

  “That depends. Are you familiar with the Botero kidnapping?”

  Sophie Brooks’s gaze snapped to his, the clear blue of her eyes suddenly turning opaque. He could have sworn something inside her shut down.

  She fiddled with the pen she held, then pulled a notepad toward her and began drawing swirling circles and loops on it.

  “Yes, of course. An awful thing to have happen right outside our doors,” she commented, her eyes on the paper.

  Doodling. Sean exhaled shortly. “Right. Not to mention how bad it must be for Sonya and her father and the people who were injured,” he said dryly.

  For a second there, she’d reminded him of his ex-wife, self-absorbed and heartless. But he supposed he was giving the woman too much credit, expecting her to be concerned about someone she may have never even met. She was an employee of a fancy wedding planning salon. It was natural that her biggest concern would be for the reputation of the salon.

  But she’d heard the censure in his voice, because her pen stilled and she compressed her lips. “Certainly. I heard your security guard regained consciousness. How is he?”

  And he heard the faint hint of disapproval in hers, as if the kidnapping were Johnson’s fault and, by association, his. “They’re running tests. I’ll see him this afternoon.”

  Her lashes lowered for an instant. “Yes, I understand you’ve gotten his physician to order no visitors until after you’ve talked with him.”

  More disapproval.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Majors?”

  Sean assessed her. She appeared to be in complete control—poised, her legs crossed, her back straight. Maybe too straight. She seemed ill at ease. “You design the invitations for Weddings Your Way, right?”

  Her throat moved and she blinked.

  She was thrown off by his sudden change of subject. Sean made it his business to assess the people he came in contact with. It came in handy. Those tiny reactions told him Sophie Brooks wasn’t a hundred percent unflappable.

  “Yes,” she said evenly. “I help the bride choose the perfect invitation to introduce the most important event in a young woman’s life.” She paused. “Is that relevant?”

  “We’ve actually met before. You designed the invitations for my wedding.”

  Sophie did her best not to react. So that’s why he looked so familiar. She knew she’d seen him before. She’d caught a glimpse of him on the day of Sonya’s kidnapping, felt the sense of déjà vu, and thought perhaps his even, rugged features reminded her of a movie star. In the chaos of the tragedy, she’d forgotten about him.

  But now she remembered vividly—his athletic, loose-limbed grace, his broad shoulders and lean hips subtly set off by his tailored suit, his nearly perfect features. His wedding to a blond debutante four years ago had been her first assignment for Weddings Your Way.

  “Of course.” She held his gaze. No way was she going to admit she remembered him after that long. In truth, his odd teal-colored eyes had fascinated her, as had his harsh, handsome face and his confident sexuality. She also recalled how much in love he’d been. She smiled. “How is your wife?”

  His eyes changed then, from soft teal blue to the dark shadows of a storm cloud. “I have no idea,” he said flatly.

  Before she could stop herself, she glanced down at his left hand. No ring. Not even a tan line. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It wasn’t because of the invitations.” His lips smiled wryly. His eyes didn’t.

  Sophie sent him a small sad smile. “Nevertheless—”

  “When will Ms. Brennan be back?”

  Back to business. Sophie watched as he deliberately refocused on his reason for being here. He tensed and subtly arched his shoulders, then glanced at his watch, a shadow of worry flickering across his face.

  Something had happened. Her intuition, honed by her years with the CIA, kicked in. She tensed.

  “It could be quite a while. I assure you, I am authorized to act on her behalf in any matter.”

  He nodded, and his hand moved toward his jacket pocket. In a calculatedly casual move, he checked it and rested it on his thigh, instead.

  But Sophie noticed. She spotted the corner of a plastic bag skirting the top edge of the gray silk pocket. They’d received a note. She leaned forward. “Mr. Botero has heard from the kidnappers again, hasn’t he?”

 
Sean Majors glanced down at the unbuttoned top of her blouse. His gaze brushed the shadowed area between her breasts like a caress. They tightened in response, and awareness drifted across her skin like the faint touch of fingertips.

  His gaze slid up to hers. After a couple of seconds, he looked beyond her. He could have been just looking out the window behind her at the luxurious pool area, but Sophie knew he wasn’t. He was making a decision—a decision whether to trust her.

  He blinked and leveled his gaze on her again. “Yes.”

  Sophie’s heart slammed against her chest.

  A break at last. She smoothed her skirt and reminded herself that to him she was just a graphics designer at an upscale wedding-planning business. Still, she was in charge while Rachel was gone. She had an obligation to get all the information she could.

  “And you’re here because Mr. Botero doesn’t want the police involved.”

  “That’s right. Mr. Botero has cooperated up to a point. But he refuses to allow them inside his estate. He doesn’t want them to know he’s heard from the kidnappers. I don’t like operating without their knowledge.”

  “We’re willing to cooperate in any way,” Sophie said quickly. She couldn’t tell him that Rachel, as head of the Confidential Agency, was already working closely with the police commissioner to keep law enforcement and media attention off the Botero kidnapping.

  “As I’m sure you know, we’ve been waiting to hear about the date and time for the drop,” she said.

  “And your security team is ready?”

  “Of course.” He assessed her narrowly. She knew what he was thinking. He was Botero’s chief of security. He knew all about coordinating surveillance and protection. He also knew all about cooperation with authorities. Luckily so far, he’d barely dealt with the Confidential team directly, and then it had been mostly through Rachel. Sophie knew Rachel had revealed nothing about the true purpose of Weddings Your Way.

  He dropped his gaze to her fingers. Aware that she was still doodling, as she did when she was nervous or concentrating, she smoothly covered the paper with her forearm without looking at it.