The Killing Edge

“That’s Myra,” Victoria said, pointing out a woman to the left of the bar. She was speaking with two women who appeared to be in their early forties, attractive in simple black dresses, short black hair and medium black heels. “She’s talking to the women from Rostini. You’ve heard of the label?”

Not before today, when he had crammed on the fashion industry. “Rostini,” he said, nodding. He felt Chloe watching him, and sensed that she was suspicious.

Of what?

“They make a lovely couple. When you think that they met at college and have lasted longer than a lot of marriages … They’re the name in cocktail dresses, if you ask me,” he added.

Myra looked up from her conversation just then and saw the three of them drawing near. He’d met the woman once before, to set up his invitation for the evening, but he kept his gaze bland, as if he’d never seen her before.

She smiled, and waved them over, her own expression a match for his. He might only have met her once, but he found her fascinating. Myra Allen had once been a supermodel herself, until shooting a commercial on the beach had left her with a scarred cheek. She had accepted an administrative job with Bryson Agency while she convalesced, and she had also accepted a nice settlement from the client’s insurance company. Rather than accept plastic surgery or rely on makeup and go back to work in modeling, she had risen swiftly in the company and now managed one of their most lucrative locations, the Miami Beach mansion.

She was still a beautiful woman. Tall, slim and capable of turning on a warm smile.

“Mr. Smith,” she said. “You’ve made it. I’m delighted.”

She extended a hand, and he stepped forward to take it, wondering, from the way she presented it, if he was supposed to kiss her fingers. No, a Frenchman certainly would, but he was an expat Brit living and working in the U.S.

He shook her hand.

She smoothed back a lock of sable brown hair cut at a sophisticated angle. “Mr. Smith, Josie Rowan and Isabel Santini. I’m sure you know they—”

“Are Rostini, of course,” he said, smiling at the women.

After that, Myra took over, leading him back into the living room, introducing him to various people in the business.

Jesse and Ralph Donovan, a young couple who designed evening wear together. Bob—or Bobby—Oscar, flamboyant and arrogant, but hardly someone who seemed liable to seduce a young woman into disappearing. Cindy Klein, dramatic and conceited, but a powerful player with one of the biggest labels in the world.

Harry Lee was there, too—a big shot with the Bryson group. He was a man of about sixty, slim, articulate and impeccably dressed. Another man, nondescript—small, slim and wearing large black-rimmed glasses—seemed to be his assistant, completely at his beck and call. Not unexpectedly, a veritable flock of women also surrounded him.

Harry Lee seemed to take Luke at face value and was glad to welcome him to the party. “Nothing like Miami Beach. Each of our offices does a swimsuit calendar, but this one is, arguably, the most important. Miami is known for—frankly—hot bodies. Beach bodies. Of course, too many women walk around in suits too small to hold a teacup Yorkie.” He paused to shudder. “But the beautiful bodies are here, as well, and naturally we take full advantage of that. Myra tells me you’ll be shooting your first catalogue in tandem with our calendar shoot. So, welcome. As you’re about to see firsthand, Bryson will always be known for the most spectacular and most talented models. Nothing will ever change that fact.”

Luke politely agreed with him, then moved on.

To the young women.

To the “most spectacular and most talented models.”

He couldn’t help recognizing Lacy Taylor, the wholesome beauty who had graced the covers of at least a dozen major magazines. She was pleasant but vague, and he was sorry to realize that she was high, as well as more than a little drunk, which was when he noticed the small, mousy brunette following her everywhere, making certain she didn’t crash into a table or drown in the pool. Lena Marconi, energetic and sweet, reappeared and granted him a few minutes when she wasn’t chasing down Vincente. Lena seemed to have the energy to cover all the bases—and in her mind he might just be the next hot thing, which made him a base worth covering. Then there was Jeanne LaRue—a professional name, he was certain—who was tall, slim, angular and, he assumed, ultrachic, but she was also hard-edged, the opposite of the naturally stunning Lacy, who didn’t have to work to draw as much attention as she could possibly desire. Lacy was like a golden-retriever puppy; Jeanne was like a pit bull. There were plenty of other models in attendance, but he saw no sign of Rene Gonzalez.

He managed not to embarrass himself in conversation, because everyone else seemed happy to do most of the talking. As long as he nodded appreciatively now and then, and agreed with whatever other people said, they seemed to like him.

He still managed to find out a few things, though; he just had to be careful with his questioning. He asked Myra first about Rene, learning that oh, yes, certainly, she would be along at some point.

Jeanne LaRue was uninterested in the subject when he sat down beside her at the bar. She knew Rene, but in her opinion the girl was gawky, and she had no experience, so if he was planning on doing a beach shoot, he wouldn’t be getting much for his money by hiring Rene. “Victoria knows her stuff. She would be good. And Lacy, of course. As long as you can keep her sober, though she has done some exquisite doped-out shots for that new perfume, Dream. And naturally you’ll want me. I’m the best. Especially in a bathing suit.”

He frowned. “What about that other girl? Colleen Rodriguez? For a couple of weeks, her disappearance was all over the news, and then people seemed to forget all about her.”

Jeanne wrinkled her nose. “Because the little twit obviously fell in love and decided to hightail it.”

“Odd. If you fall in love, don’t you announce it to the world?”

Jeanne was clearly getting bored with so much conversation about another woman. “Maybe it’s some kind of a publicity stunt. You know, some kind of scam. I hope they put her in jail when they find her—she nearly ruined everything.”

“Oh? Aren’t you worried about her? Was—isn’t she a friend?”

“Sure—we’re all friends. But she behaved like a selfish brat. We were all on the island, shooting an ad, and everyone was happy—then she just up and disappeared. With her purse and passport, I’d like to point out.”

“But she didn’t take all her things?”

Jeanne waved a hand in the air. “I don’t know what she did and didn’t take. I didn’t room with her. I don’t room with anyone. It’s in my contract. You could talk to Lacy. They roomed together. That Colleen, she was clever. Lacy is the golden girl, and Colleen knew that and hung around her, looked out for her. If anyone knows anything, it’s Lacy. Of course, Lacy is tweaked half the time, so if Colleen walked by her on the way out and told her where she was going, Lacy might not have noticed.”

He made a mental note to talk to Lacy about Colleen Rodriguez, preferably when she was sober. But tonight he needed to find Rene.

Jeanne was going on about her competition again, though. “I don’t know about Chloe Marin. She’s best for something a bit sporty. She does have those unusual eyes, though. And great breasts—which, from what I understand, are all hers. Personally, I think a little silicone helps the puppies stay right up where they’re supposed to be. And I’ve yet to meet a man who objects, and most seem to prefer it. What do you have to say to that, Mr. Smith? I’m right, aren’t I?”

She was fishing for a compliment, he realized, leaning closer and actually coming on to him.

He lowered his head, trying not to smile and betray his amusement. She no doubt expected him to take her up on her not-so-subtle offer. There was a time in his life when he would have, those days of his youth when he was eager and raw, thrilled by the prospect of shagging just about anything that moved. But those days were long in the past. It wasn’t that his life had come to fruition with a deep relationship. In fact, his deepest relationship had ended bitterly. He didn’t know what he wanted yet, but he knew it wasn’t what Jeanne LaRue was offering.

No sharp edges, no daggers, no bartering. Not in the bedroom.

As he considered his response carefully, he was jolted—literally—by the arrival of someone at his side.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to push you out of your seat.”

He turned, saved from having to make a reply by the arrival of the all-natural assets in question.

Chloe Marin had come up on the other side of him, and he couldn’t have been more surprised by the effect she had on him, her eyes wide and intent, the soft and ethereal scent of her perfume sweeping over him. She was different from the others. He had an impression of the world’s most sinuous and elegant cat. It wasn’t overt, and yet she had an amazingly sensual allure.

She continued to stare at him with those cool jaguar eyes, and he realized he was being studied.

She accepted two beers from the bartender and slid one in front of him, then leaned close to ask softly, “Do you need rescuing?”

“Well …”

“It’s not a complex question. You may not want to be rescued. If that’s the case, I’ll slip away and let you enjoy Jeanne’s … company. If not …”

“I’ll slip away with you, if I may,” he returned, his own voice low.

She didn’t smile flirtatiously. She hadn’t been flirting, had simply noticed his plight and given him a chance to escape if he wanted to.

She spoke more loudly. “Mr. Smith, Victoria’s cousin Brad has arrived. I mentioned him to you earlier.”

He turned to Jeanne. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss LaRue. Miss Marin has pointed out someone I need to meet.”

“It’s Brad,” Chloe explained. “He’s going to need to rent transportation for his catalogue shoot.”

“He should just hop on a company boat,” Jeanne said.

“He’ll want his own transportation. Anyway, the more boats, the more fun,” Chloe said.

Jeanne frowned, as if wondering what experience Chloe was drawing on to support that statement, but Chloe didn’t wait for the other woman to continue the conversation, just slipped an arm through his and steered him away. “Brad owns a fleet of rental boats. And if you’re going to be going back and forth to the island while we shoot, you’ll be glad to have your own transportation.”

She was friendly, helpful, and yet she was also aloof. There was a contradiction somewhere in Chloe Marin that aroused his suspicions.

“Is Rene Gonzalez going to be part of the calendar shoot?” he asked.

She glanced over at him sharply. “Rene? I’m not sure.”

“I would have expected her to be here tonight.”

“Really? And what do you know about Rene Gonzalez?”

“I’ve heard that she’s very exotic looking, perfect for what I want for my catalogue,” he said.

“She is lovely,” Chloe said, and offered nothing more.

At the far end of the pool, they found Victoria standing with two men, both of them late twenties or early thirties, dressed in the appropriate Miami-chic attire, handsome jacket, open-neck shirt, no tie, creased slacks, everything with a designer label. One was a sandy-haired man with a short, spiked-and-gelled cut, and the other was darker, his hair a thick fall that slashed across his forehead. They might have been a pair of rockers on their way up.

“Mr. Smith, you’ve met Victoria, and I’d like you to meet Jared Walker and Brad Angsley. Brad is Victoria’s cousin,” she added, nodding toward the dark-haired man.

“Nice to meet you,” Luke said. “Call me Jack, please,” he added.

“Jack’s one of the up-and-coming designers here tonight,” Chloe explained. “He wants to do a catalogue shoot for his new line while we’re shooting the swimsuit calendar down in the Keys. And I’ve told him that it’s simply no fun being out on an island if you don’t have a boat. A nice little cabin cruiser. And who but you to hook him up?” she asked Brad.

“It’s what I do,” Brad told him, smiling with boyish charm.

Luke was startled when Victoria shivered. “That island—we shouldn’t be going back out to that island.”

Jared slipped an arm around her shoulders. There was sincere affection in both his eyes and his tone as he said, “Victoria, there’s nothing evil about the island.”

“It’s where Colleen disappeared,” Chloe said flatly. She was addressing Jared, but she nodded toward Luke. “Mr. Smith—Jack—is a new client for the agency. We should be hyping the shoot, not scaring him off.”

Brad smiled at Luke. “She’s right. And you’ll love the place. It’s the agency’s own little piece of pristine heaven. Not to mention that it’s three miles from Islamorada, which you must have heard of. It’s the sportfishing capital of the Keys, for sure, maybe the world.”

“Still, it’s true. It is where Colleen suddenly went missing,” Chloe said. Push-pull. She had said they shouldn’t frighten him, yet here she was focusing on the other woman’s disappearance. Clearly she didn’t want to let the conversation drop, and she kept glancing at him, which definitely struck him as strange.

“I did hear about that,” Luke said. “Are they sure nothing happened to her? I mean, why would she just disappear?”

Jared shook his head. “Who knows? Models tend to be emotional and just plain crazy.”

“Hey!” Victoria elbowed him.

“Most models. Some models,” Jared said. “Not you, Vickie. You’re totally sane.”

“But, honestly,” Brad said, lowering his voice, though with the conversations going on around them and the pulsing music playing in the background, it was unlikely anyone could hear them. “Tell me that Jeanne LaRue isn’t a bit on the wacko side.”

“She’s … blunt, that’s all,” Victoria said.

Jared snorted. “She’d walk over her own mother in spike heels if it would get her where she wants to go.”

“But she’s honest about it,” Chloe said. “I like that. What’s that saying? Something about the enemy I can see being less dangerous than the friend I trust?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Brad agreed. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and produced a card for Luke. “While I’m thinking about it. We’ll get you set up for the shoot. Lots of people fly in, but you’re not even talking fifty miles, and a boat gives you a lot more control over your schedule. You know anything about boats?”

“Actually, I do,” Luke assured him.

Brad nodded. “Then it will be up to you whether you want a captain to come along or not. Depends what you’ll find more relaxing.”

“Are you associated with the agency?” Luke asked him.

Brad laughed. “No, not really. But I’m Vick’s cousin, kind of like her big brother, so I watch out for her.”

“And Chloe,” Victoria said.

Brad blinked. “And Chloe. Of course.”

“We’ve all known each other a long time,” Jared said.

“So you’re all from the area?” Luke asked.

“Born and bred,” Jared assured him, and grinned. “I have no association with the agency at all, though. I just tag along because we’re all friends, and the girls set me up now and then. I wouldn’t mind doing some modeling, though.” He lowered his voice. “This is actually a big night for me. First time I’ve actually met Myra Allen.”

“Myra likes working from the mansion or, if she even goes along to a shoot, her hotel room. She’s not into the great outdoors,” Brad said.

“She’s a legend, though, and it’s really cool to finally meet her,” Jared said.

“Sounds like somebody’s got a crush,” Victoria teased.

“My only crush is on you. Myra Allen is on a pedestal, to be—worshipped from afar,” Jared assured her.

He was speaking casually, but Luke had seen the way he looked at Victoria, how his eyes softened when he spoke to her, even jokingly. He was in love. Maybe he’d been pining away for years. Victoria might set him up on dates with some of the other models, and he might go, but it meant nothing. He was in love with her.

“Besides,” Jared said, his eyes steely as he spoke, “I don’t buy it that Colleen Rodriguez just up and left. I think something happened to her, so if you girls are going out there, then I’m going, too.”

From the corner of his eye, Luke saw through to the living room and got a fleeting glimpse of someone slipping through on their way to the stairs.

“What do you think—Jack?” Victoria asked.

“Pardon?” he said, distracted. He needed to get away, get upstairs and see what was going on.

He turned to make his excuses and noticed that Chloe wasn’t standing there any longer.

Luke excused himself quickly, saying he was on a search for the loo—a term that made them all smile—and quickly headed inside. He moved carefully through the crowd and up the stairs.

The place was huge—he wasn’t sure how many rooms were up here, but he had a sudden and inexplicable feeling that Rene Gonzalez was in one of them.

He opened the door to a large master suite. No one, though it looked as if someone was living there. He saw pictures on the dresser, and chanced a quick look. The images were of Myra—when she had been young and incredibly perfect.

He left that room and tried the next. There was a bag at the foot of the bed, and the luggage tag said Jeanne LaRue. So she was making the mansion home, too, at least for now.

A third room turned out to be Lacy’s. Teddy bears adorned the bed.

He moved more quickly. The next room was occupied, as well, but it seemed that whoever was staying there was keeping the space impersonal.

As he glanced around, though, he saw movement. The sheer drapes over the doors that led out to the balcony were shifting. He hurried over and discovered a sturdy wooden trellis that could easily be reached by climbing over the balustrade.

And someone—a woman—was running across the side lawn, on the other side of the trees that lined the pool. She was headed toward the back of the property. Luke had studied the plans and knew the wall went all the way around, unbroken except for a second gate that could be opened for easy beach access.

The gate shouldn’t be open tonight, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t open it. And he didn’t see any guards there.

He was certain now that the racing figure was Rene Gonzalez, alerted by the fact that her thick dark hair trailed behind her in the wind as she ran.

Would she make it to the beach? Or would she find herself trapped? And was she running from him? Had she heard he was looking for her, or was she fleeing whoever had engineered the disappearance of Colleen Rod ri guez?

He quickly crawled over the railing and started down the trellis.

Then he heard someone clear their throat and looked up.

Chloe Marin was standing at the railing, staring at him with sharp suspicion.

“I’d heard you were looking for the bathroom, Mr. Smith. You really don’t have to climb down from the balcony and make use of the beach as a ‘loo,’ as you call it—I’m assuming that’s the story you’re going to give me?” she asked sweetly.

Rene Gonzalez was slipping away.

“Nothing like the great outdoors,” he said, then swiftly climbed down a few feet, praying the trellis would hold, jumped to the ground and took off in pursuit of Rene Gonzalez.

TWO

Damn the man.

She wasn’t dressed to go swinging from balconies and leaping to the ground.

But the man who called himself Jack Smith had been beyond suspicious even before he’d climbed down from the balcony and followed Rene toward the beach—a feat that put her in a position where she longed to call in the police. But at the moment, what would be the point? He had an invitation to be here, though he’d certainly been a rude guest, looking into bedrooms, not to mention leaping off a balcony. Still, Victoria had told her that two years ago Bjorn Bradikoff, famed for his jeweled sandals, had streaked down the beach in nothing but a pair of his trademark sandals, proving their elegance, whether matched with cocktail finery, casual attire or nothing at all.

Compared to that, exiting via balcony wouldn’t even begin to get a man arrested.

Swearing, she tossed off her borrowed designer heels and swung a leg over the balcony railing, carefully maneuvering herself to the trellis. She crawled down the latticework, amazed that none of the slender slats had broken. Just as she thanked her lucky stars, she grasped at a piece of wood that split in her hands, and tumbled down the last six feet, landing hard in a patch of mixed dirt and sand, but avoiding the sharp-toothed needles of the bougainvillea that grew in a riot of color around the house.

Swearing more vociferously, she got to her feet, dusted herself off and followed in the direction the other two had taken.

As she tore around the trees, she felt a twinge of guilt; her uncle would be furious with her for going in unprepared pursuit of a man who might be dangerous, might even be armed.

But she didn’t think so. At least, she was pretty sure he wasn’t armed, though he might well be dangerous. Certainly in her observations of the agency, he was the first truly suspicious character she had seen. Then again, it could be hard to tell sometimes. Eccentricities could hide all kinds of stains on the human soul, and it was often difficult to tell the truth from illusion.

The man had an educated, British accent. Or was it feigned? Probably not. It was slight, as if he’d been away from his homeland for many years.

The back gates were open. There was one guard on duty, but he was flirting with someone Chloe didn’t know, a slim young woman with long blazing red hair. She was wearing a strapless tube gown and doing it very well. If Chloe was right in her assumption that the other woman wasn’t on the guest list, then apparently the guard wasn’t above allowing uninvited guests into the party, at least if they met his own personal requirements.

She herself was now covered in dirt, sand and bits of bracken, and her hair was undoubtedly in a wild tangle. She should ask the guard if he’d seen anyone exit, but she doubted he had seen anyone but the flirty redhead.

She tore out to the beach. Neither the guard nor the redhead spared her a glance. So much for security.

She ran south down the beach, following a trail of footsteps in the sand that led from the mansion. She wasn’t afraid; she could see late-night wanderers as she ran. Remodeled deco hotels, which had once been cheap housing for down-on-their-luck locals, now gleamed proudly in the night, lit in bright colors that drew the eye. The gentle sound of the surf made a pleasant background, and the breeze was almost dainty, carrying in a cooling note from the water.

How far could they have made it so quickly?

Chloe stopped running. They could have gone anywhere. Their footprints had gotten mingled with all those left over from the day.

She caught her breath as she looked around. They could have gone in a half-dozen different directions. Not only were their footprints impossible to distinguish anymore, she had passed at least five hotels, restaurants and clubs as she ran, and the pair could have ducked into any one of them. Not to mention that a block ahead, the hotels and restaurants shifted, and were all on the other side of the street, providing another range of possible hiding places.

What if this man had something to do with Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance? Was Rene in danger now, too?

She closed her eyes, fighting a wave of panic.

Every once in a while, hitting so briefly that no one else even noticed, it came. That sensation of absolute terror. A memory of the colors of death that had bathed the world in red and black that night ten years ago.

This had nothing to do with the past, she told herself. Nothing at all.

She fought the panic, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Fighting back had become her way of coping on a day-to-day basis with what had happened a decade before. Her uncle had told her that she could curl up and hide for the rest of her life, or she could learn to live again.