Читать книгу Her Sister's Keeper - Julia Penney - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN MELANIE HARRIS had envisioned celebrating her six-month wedding anniversary, she never imagined she would spend it sitting in an impersonal office, waiting for an appointment with the renowned Dr. Kent Mattson. Then again, she hadn’t anticipated how quickly things could have turned bad. She glanced at the unmoving hands of the wall clock, then tried to read the magazine in her lap, but the words on the page were a meaningless blur.

She sighed, bit her lip and, for the hundredth time, wondered what was keeping her in the chair. All she had to do was get up, walk out into the bright California sunshine and put the whole sorry chapter behind her.

There was the door.

She stared at it for a moment, then set the magazine down and stood with sudden resolve. She’d just taken her first step toward freedom when the receptionist entered the waiting room.

“Dr. Mattson will see you now, Ms. Harris,” she said with a pleasant smile. The receptionist was a middle-aged woman with a calm, patient expression, obviously accustomed to dealing with the steady stream of emotional wreckage that flowed through Dr. Mattson’s office. “I apologize for the wait.”

Melanie, a mere two feet away from the door, froze with indecision. She could hear her heart beating in the stillness of the room. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp. She didn’t belong here, but, after all, she’d promised Stephanie that she’d endure at least one visit. She owed her best friend that much. It was Stephanie’s enviable strength that had propped Melanie up for the past six months. Six months of wishing she were dead rather than face another sunrise.

“Promise me you’ll see Dr. Mattson. He’s the best there is and he can help you,” Stephanie had pleaded. “You have to put this behind you. None of what happened was your fault.”

Wasn’t it, though? Wasn’t she standing here in this office, hand reaching for the doorknob, because she’d blindly and willingly believed everything Mitch had told her, in spite of the warnings from those who’d known him so much better than she had?

“Ms. Harris?” the receptionist said, a concerned frown furrowing her brow. “Are you all right?”

Melanie felt herself beginning to crumble. In spite of her resolve not to show any weakness, her eyes stung and her voice trembled when she spoke. “If I were all right, would I be here?”

The receptionist never missed a beat. “Ms. Harris, there isn’t one among us who doesn’t need someone like Dr. Mattson at some point in our lives,” she soothed, stepping forward to touch Melanie’s arm. “Please, come with me.” She guided Melanie across the waiting room to another door and gave her a reassuring nod before opening it. Melanie drew a deep breath, shored up the last of her resolve, and entered Dr. Mattson’s inner sanctum.

Expecting an older, overweight man with gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a placid, patronizing expression, Melanie was surprised by the sight of an athletically built man dressed in blue jeans and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled back to reveal powerful forearms. A man whose dark, tousled hair showed not a hint of gray, whose keen blue eyes were offset by the weathered tan of his face and whose strong masculine jaw looked as if it hadn’t felt a razor since erasing the five o’clock shadow of the night before. In fact, he looked much more like a cowboy who had just come in from a hard morning’s work in the saddle than a clinical psychologist. She wondered for a moment if she were in the right place, but before she could retreat, the receptionist closed the door behind her with a firm click.

She was trapped.

KENT MATTSON KNEW he was running behind, but he was distracted. He couldn’t stop thinking about the murder scene he’d been called to that morning. But, unfortunately, his work with the LAPD paid peanuts compared to his private practice. Two days a week he listened to clients who were victims of Hollywood; it was a shallow world by most counts, juicy by others, yet immensely profitable to those in a position to help them. Without that extra income he’d have lost Chimeya long ago.

Too, he derived an ironic satisfaction from an increasingly healthy bank account bolstered by these movie industry casualties. It was these very same stars and starlets moving into the valley who had sent property taxes soaring and jeopardized the long-term survival of the historic ranch that had been in his family for three generations.

He glanced down at the latest file his receptionist had placed on his desk. Melanie Harris. The name was vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place it. He scanned through the file but his mind kept returning to the morning’s murder.

A soft rustle of movement interrupted his thoughts and he glanced up to see a woman standing in the doorway. She seemed uneasy, which wasn’t unusual for a client’s first visit. He rose to greet her.

“Ms. Harris. Please, come in. I’m Kent Mattson,” he said, crossing the room.

Melanie Harris was a tall, attractive young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her clothing was predictably fashionable, her hair a deep, lustrous shade of mahogany and swept back. She wore no makeup, which was highly unusual in this part of town, but the best makeup artist couldn’t have hidden the dark smudges beneath those tragic green eyes, nor mask the fact that she was at least ten pounds underweight.

Kent gestured to the chair across from his desk. “I was just reviewing your file,” he said, waiting for her to sit, but she remained standing just inside the door. “I see you were referred by your regular physician, Patricia Phillips. Won’t you have a seat?”

She hesitated, and he sensed that she was very near to bolting. Her eyes held his for a moment, like a startled doe caught in the headlights of a car, and he was struck by her expression. He turned away and moved toward the side table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have several bad habits,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “One of which is drinking too much coffee. Could I fix you a cup, or would you prefer tea? I have black, green or herbal.” He noted that some of the initial anxiety had left her eyes, but the wariness remained, and he doubted very much that the sadness would ever leave.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said in a quiet voice.

Good. At least she could talk. Be a tough job for him if she couldn’t. He carried his mug to the window and stared out at a skyline smudged with brown haze. “I see from your file that Dr. Phillips was concerned about your weight loss and chronic insomnia.” He took a sip of coffee, wondering why her physician hadn’t just prescribed Prozac or Valium. The movie industry was hooked on those pills. Still no response from Ms. Harris, who remained standing just inside the door, poised to flee. “So,” he said, turning to face her, “we know why Dr. Phillips thinks you should be here. I guess what I need to know is why you think you should be here.”

He felt another jolt as his eyes locked with hers. If she wasn’t a big-name movie star yet, she would be. Those eyes alone would guarantee that, even if she couldn’t act worth a damn.

“I’m here because I’ve been told I need your help,” she replied.

He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “That’s something you’re not going to get from me until you’re ready for it. When you’re here because you want to be here, you’ll be ready. Until then, you’re just wasting your time and mine.”

Her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, but he noticed a quick flash of pain in her eyes. “In that case, Dr. Mattson, I’ll be going,” she said, and turned toward the door.

Kent might have let her walk out except for that flicker of anguish. She was in trouble, real or imagined, and needed help. That was, after all, why he was there, despite his current preoccupation, which he did his best to shake off. “Once you start running from your past, Ms. Harris, it becomes very hard to stop,” he said. “How much longer do you want to live like this?”

His words made her pause, her hand closed around the doorknob. He saw the determined set of her shoulders as she stood motionless, and then she leaned forward until her forehead touched the door, her body rigid. After several long moments she straightened, turned and looked at him.

“I’m tired of running.”

“Good,” Kent said, relieved that he hadn’t driven her away. “You’ve just taken the first step. If you choose to stay, we can begin.”

FOR MELANIE, remaining in Dr. Mattson’s office meant returning to a place in time that she never wanted to revisit again, yet she knew instinctively that to silence the demons, she had to confront them. She also realized that alone, she was incapable of fighting that battle. As much as she wanted to walk out, she knew it would be a mistake. For six months she’d suffered.

Ever since her wedding day.

She remembered every detail as if it were yesterday. The original DiSanto gown, a slim, strapless shiver of satin and pearls. Stephanie helping her with the tiny buttons up the back. The sweet-spicy scent of the old-fashioned pink roses that made up her bridal bouquet. The deep, rhythmic rumble of the Pacific Ocean and the golden afternoon sunshine spilling through the tall Palladian windows while Ariel wove pearls into her hair….

It was perfect, until the tap came on the door and Janet, the wedding director, peered into the room. “It’s almost time. Two minutes until they start the wedding march. Victor’s waiting to walk you to the rose arbor. You look just beautiful, Melanie.”

Would she ever forget that moment? Stephanie had finished fastening the last button and had gone to gather up the bridesmaids, leaving her alone with Ariel, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the endless preparations. Ariel, her hands full of pearl hairpins, her face as pale as Melanie’s gown, her fingers trembling so badly that Melanie, noticing all of this for the first time, reached her own hand to close on her sister’s.

“Ari, for heaven’s sake, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Ariel pulled away from her, shaking her head, denying that anything was amiss, but something very definitely was. Melanie rose to her feet, concerned. “Are you ill? Please, Ari, tell me. What is it?”

Her sister’s blue eyes had filled with tears. “It’s nothing,” she said with such dramatic pathos that Melanie knew her sister thought her world was coming to an end.

“Ari, this isn’t the time for theatrics.” Melanie put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

The tears spilled over. “Oh, Mel, I’m pregnant,” Ariel blurted out around a choked sob. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t want to tell you!”

This was hardly the moment for Ariel to be breaking this news. In five minutes Melanie was supposed to be walking down the petal-strewn path to her wedding ceremony.

“I’m happy for you, Ari,” Melanie managed, hugging her sister. “Now stop crying. This isn’t the end of the world. You’re not the first unmarried woman on the planet to get pregnant.” Ariel began to weep in earnest and Melanie’s patience grew thin. The minutes were ticking down, and Mitch was waiting. “Ari, who’s the father? Does he know about this?”

Ariel buried her face in her hands and cried out in despair. “Oh, God, Mel, it’s so awful. I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I would have guessed sooner or later. It’s pretty hard to hide a pregnancy after a while, kiddo. Look, we’ll talk more about it at the reception, okay? It’s going to be all right, Ari,” Melanie said, stroking her sister’s hair back from her flushed face with genuine affection, because as much as Ariel could drive her crazy, Melanie wanted the best for her. “I’ll help you through this. Trust me. You’ll be a great mom.”

Ariel was not reassured. “I wasn’t going say anything, except for being pregnant. You’re my sister and I love you. I would never hurt you, Mel. Never.”

Melanie felt a twinge of unease. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re not making any sense at all.”

Another tap at the door, and Janet looked in. “We’re waiting on you, Melanie.” She frowned. “Is everything all right?”

“Just give us a few more minutes,” Melanie said, and when the door closed she gripped Ariel’s shoulders and leveled her gaze. “Talk to me, Ari.”

Ariel shook her head again. “I’m three months pregnant. I was going to get an abortion. I went to the clinic and I…” Fresh tears brimmed over and Melanie released her to grab a nearby box of tissues. “I just couldn’t go through with it,” Ariel said, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes.

“That’s all right. Does the father know?” Melanie repeated.

Ariel gulped and nodded. “He said I was trying to trap him, that the baby wasn’t his, and then he dumped me.”

“Sounds to me like you didn’t lose much when you lost him,” Melanie said, hugging her sister again. “Paternity tests would prove he’s the father if you really want to go that route, but you certainly don’t need financial help raising a child, and you’re a whole lot better off without that kind of man in your life. Blow your nose and try to forget the jerk for a while. We have a wedding to attend, and you’re my maid of honor.”

“God forgive me, Melanie, I don’t deserve any honor at all, least of all that one.” Ariel fell to her knees, taking two handfuls of Melanie’s gown and pressing them to her tear-streaked face for a moment before looking up at her sister. Her words tumbled out in a rush. “I can’t forget the baby’s father because… because it’s Mitch. I wanted to tell you, but you seemed so happy, happier than I’ve ever seen you.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, I wasn’t going to say anything, but then…last night at the rehearsal dinner, I overheard him talking to one of his friends. He was saying…he was saying that he thought you were worth marrying because you’d be the one who could break him out of being a stunt man, and get him the acting roles he wanted. You were so close to Victor, he was sure you could make it happen. Before I got pregnant he was always after me to talk to Victor about getting him an acting role, but I never did because Mitch couldn’t act. He was awful. Oh, Mel, don’t you see? He used both of us the same way. You can’t marry him. He’s a no-good bastard!”

As her sister spoke, a chill swept through Melanie. Three months ago she and Mitch had fallen in love. Three months ago Mitch had been sleeping with Ariel… until he found out she was pregnant. “No,” she whispered.

“Oh, Mel. I’m so sorry.” Ariel rose to her feet and reached for her, but Melanie jerked away.

“No,” she repeated. “That can’t be true. Mitch loves me….”

Ariel shook her head, tears still streaming. “Mitch doesn’t love anyone but himself. I know you’ve heard the rumors. Believe them, Mel. He’s a womanizer, a user. He’s handsome and he’s daring, but he’s no good. Don’t marry him. Don’t let him hurt you the way he hurt me!”

Melanie turned away from her sister and found herself staring at her reflection, at her beautiful Ines DiSanto wedding dress.

She reached her hands to smooth the satin gown and lifted her chin, defiantly eyeing the woman in the mirror. She would not cry. She would never, ever cry. Let them stare and let them talk. Melanie Harris would hold on to her pride, if nothing else. “Let’s go,” she said to Ariel.

“Mel, please, let me tell Janet the wedding’s off,” Ariel begged, holding back. “She can talk to the wedding party, she can tell Mitch…”

“This wedding’s not off, baby sister,” Melanie said, reaching for Ariel’s hand. “We can’t disappoint all those guests, can we? Come on.”

With a cry of protest, Ariel was tugged along as Melanie exited the bedroom. Holding her gown up in one hand, she strode determinedly past an open¬ mouthed Janet, wide-eyed bridesmaids and a shocked Stephanie and Victor, and down the wide granite steps of Blackstone toward the rose arbor in the formal garden overlooking the Pacific.

The guests were standing as the quartet played the wedding march, waiting for her entrance. Their faces mirrored the pleasant anticipation of such moments— expressions that faltered when Melanie came into view, dragging a wildly sobbing Ariel behind her. The quartet stopped playing and lowered their instruments, as startled as the wedding guests, but Melanie only had eyes for the man waiting for her at the arbor.

Mitch Carson.

He watched their approach with amazing calm for a man who had to have sensed impending disaster. Ariel was wrong about him. He was a damn good actor.

“Here’s the woman you should be marrying, Mitch,” Melanie said with icy calm, thrusting her weeping sister forward. “For the life of me, I can’t quite imagine you as a doting father, but I understand you have six more months to prepare. I wish the two of you a very interesting relationship.”

She barely remembered leaving Victor’s estate and climbing into her car wearing the gown that had cost her nearly half a year’s salary as a location scout. She drove along the coastal highway, clutched in the depths of a nightmare she couldn’t escape. A nightmare that hadn’t passed in six long months. Six months of her sister’s hysterical phone messages imploring her forgiveness. Six months of Stephanie begging her to reconcile with Ariel. Begging her to get professional help. Six months of deteriorating job performance, sleepless nights and deepening depression.

And then the latest message from her sister on her answering machine, just one week ago. Ariel’s voice had been shrill, barely intelligible. Mitch was dead, killed on location during the filming of the latest Kellerman thriller. A routine stunt had somehow gone wrong and there was an explosion, a terrible fire. The police would be investigating, the whole thing was so suspicious.

Ariel was devastated, because she and Mitch had been trying to work things out. Apparently she had discovered something below the man’s shallow layer of womanizing self-indulgence. Something that had made Ariel believe he was ready to settle down with her and the baby.

The shock of Mitch’s death had no doubt triggered the birth. Melanie learned of the frantic rush to the hospital from Stephanie, who had driven Ariel and stayed with her for the birth. Stephanie, who only two days ago had begged her to attend the special dinner Vic and Tanyia were hosting to celebrate Ariel’s newborn baby girl.

“Please come, Mel,” Stephanie had pleaded. “It would mean so much to Ariel. She needs you right now. And the baby…your niece…is so beautiful. You have to see her.” Melanie hadn’t gone to the dinner, of course. No way in hell could she bring herself to do that…yet.

Suddenly, Melanie dropped her head into her hands. She was so terribly tired. This wasn’t like a movie set, where the director could call out, “Cut! Let’s try that again.” This was real life, and there were no second takes. Her life was a mess. She would never be able to forgive Ariel for her betrayal. She no longer liked her job, because as long as she worked for Victor, she was constantly reminded of her wedding day. She didn’t want to be in this place, this office. She disliked Dr. Mattson for making her relive this nightmare, disliked the muted beige tones of his office, designed, no doubt, to comfort, and she even resented Stephanie for getting her into this situation in the first place.

Melanie drew a shuddering breath, straightened in her chair and gazed about her with dismay. She glanced at her watch. Exactly ten minutes had passed since she’d taken a seat in Dr. Mattson’s office, and she hadn’t uttered a single word. He was sitting there patiently, waiting for her to spill her guts and cure herself, but she just couldn’t bring herself to tell the story to a stranger. No way she could ever confess to a three-month whirlwind romance with a renowned womanizer that her friends had all quietly warned her against. No way could she ever talk about her sister’s treachery, the same sister she’d worked so hard to protect and support after their parents had died.

She’d fulfilled her promise to Stephanie by coming here today, but she was done with it. She would pull herself together and keep her secrets buried in the past. If the past haunted her for the rest of her life, running from it was a price she deserved to pay. Fools deserved to suffer.

Dr. Mattson said nothing when Melanie rose and started for the door. She paused for a moment, as out of breath as if she’d just run a mile in soft beach sand.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized before leaving his office, fighting for control. “I guess I’m not ready for this, after all.”

Kent knew he should say something to stop his client from going out that door. Instead, he sat rooted in his chair, unable to move or speak as she swept out of his office, closing the door firmly behind her. He’d been glad that Melanie Harris had remained silent, allowing him to think about this morning’s murder…but by doing so he had failed his client miserably.

Kent leaned forward on his elbows and ran a hand through his hair with a weary sigh. This conflict of jobs was impossible. He’d just let a client leave without receiving any help from him whatsoever. He had to decide between his job with the police department and his growing affinity for a healthy bank account. A knock roused him, and his receptionist stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but Ms. Harris insists on paying before she leaves.”

“Tell her that’s not our policy. Get the insurance information from her and…”

Melanie herself appeared, edging around the receptionist. She had her checkbook in hand and a determined look in her eye. “I prefer to pay as I go, Dr. Mattson. What do I owe you for that session?”

“I’m afraid your money’s no good here, Ms. Harris. If you couldn’t share this office for thirty minutes with me, then I obviously don’t deserve payment. Should you at any time change your mind, give me a call.” Kent pulled a business card out of the brass holder on his desk, rose to his feet and extended it toward her.

“You should probably know that I’ve never believed in…therapists. Half the people I work with see one regularly,” she said with a flash of rebellion, but she took the card.

“And you think they’re being weak for seeing a…shrink?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, as well as extremely self- centered,” she replied with a faint flush of embarrassment. “If I stayed for the allotted time, would you accept my payment?”

“Not for your first visit. The rules are the rules. However, you’re more than welcome to stay. I’ll even fix you a cup of coffee or tea, and you don’t have to say a word. At least that way, if you do come back, you’ll be officially into your second visit and I can charge you an arm and a leg.”

“I won’t come a second time, Dr. Mattson. I can guarantee you that.”

Kent walked over to the side table. “Coffee, or tea?”

She hesitated, and he knew he’d won when her chin dropped fractionally. “I’ll take green tea, please,” she said, and resumed her seat. While Kent fixed her tea and replenished his coffee, she sat gazing at the office walls. “Thank you,” she murmured as he handed her the mug. She rose from her seat and walked to the bookshelf, perusing the leather-bound volumes. She studied the framed photographs on the wall. His diplomas from grad school and the criminal justice academy. She stepped closer to read the assorted plaques, lifting her cup to sip her tea. Her eyebrows raised and she glanced at him.

“You won a national police pistol-shooting contest?”

“Three years in a row,” he said. “The fourth year my boss sent me to a symposium on forensic psychology in New York City, so I couldn’t enter.”

“And did he win, with you out of the picture?”

Kent grinned and nodded. “She won. My boss at the police department happens to be a woman, and a damned fine shot.”

“Then, you’re a police officer?”

“Only part-time, for now,” Kent said. “I divide my time between my office here and the LAPD.”

“ Interesting,” Melanie said. “This is quite a trophy wall you have here, Doctor. I wouldn’t expect such hobbies from a…psychologist. But then again, this is Beverly Hills.”

“You betcha. We shrinks gotta get our thrills in while we can.” Kent took a swallow of coffee, kicked back in his chair and glanced at his watch. Five more minutes until she bolted. Five more minutes to make her realize she needed him so he could pad his bank account a little more.

“Your parents?”

She’d returned to the photographs. “Yes. That picture was taken ten years ago. They’ve both passed away since.”

“I’m sorry. I know how hard it is to lose your parents. I lost both of mine when I was eighteen. Car accident.” She glanced back at the photograph. “That looks like an old Mexican ranch in the background.”

“Chimeya. One of the oldest in California. Authentic, right down to the two-foot-thick adobe walls. I was raised there.”

“That must have been nice,” she said, studying the photograph closely. “Horses, dogs, cattle and lots of wide open space. A good place for children to grow up… I suppose it’s been sold off and developed, like everything else worth preserving in this day and age.”

Kent was surprised by the bitterness in her voice. “Actually, the ranch is still very much in the Mattson family. I live there.”

Her eyebrows raised again. “Then the ranch must not be around here, that’s for sure. There’s no smog in that picture.”

“Nope. Chimeya’s far enough away to escape the smog, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas.”

“And you commute?”

“The ranch has a decent landing strip.”

She gave him an appraising stare, then turned her attention back to the pictures. “Your horse?”

“His name’s Seven. He likes Budweiser beer, doggin’ steers and long rides into the hills.”

“Ah, so you’re a cowboy at heart.” The faintest of smiles warmed her pale features as she spoke.

“I guess you could say that. I started out giving psychotherapy to the horses, but it didn’t pay, and on several occasions my efforts got me kicked. So I went to school to learn how to psych out human beings.”

She laughed, a beautiful sound. He caught a faint whiff of her subtle perfume and wondered if something had happened to the air-conditioning in his suddenly very warm office. Just as he was pushing out of his chair to check the thermostat, Melanie set her teacup down and faced him.

“Thank you, Dr. Mattson. I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier. It wasn’t easy for me to come here.”

“You survived the experience with flying colors,” Kent said.

The faint smile warmed her face once again. “I fulfilled a promise to a friend and a recommendation from my doctor,” she amended. “My allotted time is up. Thank you again. Please, let me pay you.”

Kent shook his head. “Against policy. If you want to come back, by all means, do so, but you don’t pay a cent until your second visit.”

“Then I’m afraid this is goodbye,” Melanie said, extending her hand.

Kent took it in his own, surprised at the firmness of her grip. The tremble he’d detected earlier was completely gone. “Goodbye, Ms. Harris,” he said. “You have my card if you should have a change of heart.”

She pulled her hand out of his and left him standing there, still marveling at the idea of a woman sitting in silence for ten whole minutes. He wouldn’t have thought such self-restraint was possible. Too bad to have lost that potential gold mine, but there’d be others. Not nearly as pretty, though. Not by half. The woman’s legs would stop the most jaded drivers on Santa Monica Boulevard. Kent’s phone rang as he was tucking his very brief notes into the Melanie Harris folder.

“Murphy here. We have a situation.”

“Damn, Murph, gimme a break. This is my day of raking in the big bucks so I can afford to keep working for you,” Kent said, pushing the file aside and rocking forward in his chair. “What’s up?”

“We’re at the Beverly Hills Regency. A young woman was found dead in her room an hour ago by maid service.” There was a brief, ominous pause. “There are no signs of foul play, but I’d like you to have a look at the scene if you can. T. Ray’s still with the body. This looks very similar to that young woman who was found earlier this morning.”

“Say no more. I’m on my way.”

“Kent?” There was a hiss of static as Captain Carolyn Murphy paced with her cell phone the way Kent had seen her do on many occasions. He could picture the rigid set of her shoulders and that dark gaze gathering like a storm. “The thing is, according to the desk clerk, this victim checked into the hotel last night with a newborn infant. There are baby things scattered around the room, but the baby’s missing.”

His heart rate accelerated and his adrenaline level soared. “Don’t let them disturb anything at the scene, Murph. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Kent hung up the phone, buzzed his receptionist and informed her he was leaving early.

“You have three more appointments, Dr. Matt¬ son,” she reminded him with disapproval. “Mrs. Forsythe, Sienna Bernstein and…Wanda Wendell.” The latter name was spoken with understandable trepidation. Wanda Wendell’s sole reason for living was to make other people’s lives miserable.

“Call them and reschedule. I have a police emergency.”

Kent reached for his jacket and grabbed his car keys and briefcase on the way out the door. His mind was racing even as he descended the stairs two at a time, the five flights faster by far on foot than by elevator. He burst out the ground floor stairwell and took the basement shortcut to the parking garage, running to his reserved parking area. He was out of breath by the time he reached the place where his new Audi should have been, and stared at the dark, vacant slot in disbelief. What the hell? Grand theft auto wasn’t supposed to happen in this garage, which was precisely why he’d paid an outlandish fee for a reserved space in a place that had an armed security guard controlling access. Kent began a fresh sprint toward the gate, heart hammering.

The security guard was young and ignorant, professing no knowledge of Kent’s Audi leaving the garage without him. Kent didn’t have time to argue. “Call me a cab, and make it quick,” he snapped. He heard a car approaching the gate from behind and stepped out of the way, glancing at the driver as the window lowered and a slender, graceful hand extended with the ticket. Melanie Harris. Her timing was a minor miracle, considering the infamously slow office elevator. Kent threw his arms up to stop her. “Ms. Harris! Could you give me a ride to the Beverly Hills Regency? My car’s been stolen and there’s a police emergency.”

Those turbulent green eyes met his, and she didn’t hesitate. “Get in,” she said, and as Kent climbed into the passenger seat of her silver Mercedes sports coupe, breathing the mingled scents of leather upholstery and perfume, hearing the muted strains of Handel’s Water Music from the stereo, she waved off his thank-you. “Think nothing of it,” she said, pulling out into the midday traffic and accelerating smoothly ahead. “Consider my thirty-minute debt to you repaid.”