Her Secret Alibi. Debra Webb

home, Mr. Ruhl, I’ll only be a minute.”

      “Nice place,” he remarked nonchalantly.

      Jolie didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. Simon Ruhl’s tone might sound casual, but there was absolutely nothing casual about him. She knew that now. He was no doubt already thoroughly appraising the way she lived for inclusion in his report to the board of directors. Her decorating was very contemporary and Spartan, but her purchases were fine quality. Would he take one look at her choice in furnishings and decide she lived above her means? Did they suspect her already?

      Did they know about the money?

      By the time Jolie reached her bedroom, she was practically running. Drawing a deep breath, she took a moment to collect herself. Five minutes. That’s all it would take for her to check the closet and the drawers. Simon wouldn’t know what she was up to. He would be too busy analyzing her lifestyle, weighing it against her annual salary. She rushed to the walk-in closet and riffled through the contents. She checked her entire hanging wardrobe twice.

      Nothing.

      She moved back to the center of the room and took stock. It had to be here somewhere. If she had given it to Erica, her friend would have worn it at least once. Her father would certainly have done the same. Jolie had never seen any such shirt. That meant it had to be hidden somewhere.

      She checked her watch and swore. Six minutes had passed. She had to hurry. Her hysteria rising with each passing second, she jerked first one, then another drawer open. She inspected the contents as quickly as possible, tossing to the floor whatever got in her way. Lingerie, hose, sweaters, socks. No T-shirt sporting a Cayman Islands logo.

      Damn it, she had to find it. Jolie tunneled her fingers through her hair and surveyed the mess she had made. Her eyes latched on to the night table near the bed and its two unopened drawers. She rushed to the bed and dropped to her knees. The top drawer held magazines, tissues and aspirin. Frustrated now, she jerked the bottom drawer a bit harder than necessary. It pulled all the way out and overturned, its contents spilling across the beige carpet.

      This was useless, she ruminated as she stuffed two scarves and a Georgia Bulldogs cap back into the drawer. She paused when she reached for the last item on the floor—a neatly folded white T-shirt. Everything inside her stilled, and she didn’t even breathe. Almost in slow motion she reached out and picked up the cotton garment. She shook out the folds, and something fluttered to the floor, but Jolie couldn’t take her eyes off the screen-printed blue sky and matching blue waters, the sandy beach and brilliant disc of golden sun.

      She shook her head in defeat. This couldn’t be. There had to be some mistake. The T-shirt fell to the floor as her now limp hands dropped into her lap. What was she going to do? Something white on the carpet drew her splintered attention. It was an elegantly embossed business card. Frowning, she picked it up and read the printed words. “J. L. Millard, First Royal Cayman Bank.” A telephone number was listed beneath the name.

      Panic snaked around Jolie’s neck and tightened. She had stolen her clients’ money. She had taken a trip, purchased touristy stuff…spent the night with a stranger. And she had no memory of any of it.

      “There’s a call for you from the bank.”

      Jolie jerked around. Simon loomed in her bedroom doorway. There was no way he could miss the fact that she had trashed the room in an obvious search for something.

      She placed the business card on her night table and scrambled to her feet. “A call?” she echoed with rising hysteria. “I didn’t hear the phone.” Jolie ran her damp palms over her jacket, pretending to straighten it, then glanced at the cordless extension on the table by the bed. Had she turned off the ringer and forgotten?

      Simon simply stared at her in that intent, unnerving way of his. “It’s Renae,” he said carefully.

      “I’ll get it in the living room,” she suggested as calmly as her churning emotions would allow. Summoning her courage, Jolie took a step in his direction. She had to get out of here, away from him.

      “Did you find your report?”

      Jolie clenched and unclenched her fists. Her fingers were numb. She felt lightheaded. “No,” she said tightly as she forced one foot in front of the other until she had crossed the room. She paused at the door, waiting for him to step aside.

      One second turned to five before he moved, and her heart pounded at least three times for each one. She started forward again, but his arm went up across the doorway, blocking her path once more. Jolie fought the fear that was building steadily inside her, tugging at her flimsy controls.

      “Jolie, if there’s something wrong, you can tell me,” he said softly.

      “I need to get that call,” she announced, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. She trembled in spite of herself. “They probably need me back at the bank.”

      He was closer now, leaning into her. She felt his warm breath on her hair. “I’m very good at solving problems, Jolie.”

      She closed her eyes and sucked in a sharp breath as the remaining threads holding her together stretched even thinner. Images, voices, emotions all ran together inside her head. Her legs felt too weak to hold her up. She wanted to run, to hide, but didn’t have the strength. Jolie could only stand there and pray she would wake up from this nightmare soon. Then, summoning every ounce of resolve she could, she forced her eyes open and manufactured the firmest glare she could aim in his direction. “Would you just let me through, please?”

      “All right.” He relented what seemed a lifetime later. “If you’re certain there’s nothing you want to talk about.”