the receiver, she heard a series of rapid beeps, indicating waiting voice mail. She made a mental note to have someone make arrangements with the phone company to dump the messages when she got back to her office.
Finding nothing to inspire any immediate concern, she worked her way back to the master bedroom. Pushing through the double doors, she found herself embraced by a sea of turquoise, accented by splashes of deep coral. Sonya’s two favorite colors.
The room was dominated by a huge bed draped in silk. Matching tables bracketed the headboard, both sporting framed photographs of Sonya and Juan.
Julia rubbed her forehead, feeling her insides knot. Please let her be okay. Please.
Nothing in the massive closet had been disturbed. Likewise, the dressers were neat and organized. A small bookcase in the space that separated the bedroom from the spa-caliber bath gave her pause.
Julia found a tattered copy of The Secret Garden. Tipping it free from the shelf, she opened the book and grinned. “Thank you, Sonya. Remind me never to mock your predictability again.” As always, the pages were hollowed out, creating a small, snug home for Sonya’s diary.
Prying the smaller book free, Julia watched as a small scrap of paper fluttered soundlessly to the floor. The handwriting was familiar, as were some of the numbers on the paper. She just couldn’t place them.
A combination, maybe? There was bound to be a safe in the condo, behind one of the avant-garde paintings, or perhaps hidden in the floor.
Julia began checking the obvious places. Her hip bumped the nightstand when she searched behind the silk drape, knocking the telephone over. The cordless handset skittered across the floor.
Grabbing up the phone, Julia was suddenly inspired as she remembered where she’d seen the numbers before. Craig Johnson, Sonya’s chauffeur, had been hurt during the commission of the kidnapping. In his wallet, they’d found a business card with nine numbers on the back. To date, the MC team had been unable to make neither heads nor tails of them.
Retrieving the slip of paper, she read the numbers again. The last nine were identical to the ones they’d found on the chauffeur. A theory crystallized in her brain. She’d been thinking the numbers were related to a bank account, but what if Craig had jotted down a phone number? Or at least part of one? “Add an international code,” she said aloud. “Country, city… maybe?”
Testing her hypothesis, she pressed buttons, listening to a staticky series of clicks before a man answered. His voice was gravelly as he greeted her in Spanish.
Mentally, she translated the conversation. “Yes, sir. I’m calling from the United States. To whom am I speaking?”
“Ramon,” he said. The single word came out stern and guarded.
The name didn’t ring any bells. Julia asked, “How is the weather in Ladera today, Ramon?”
“Weather? Fine. Why? Who is this? What do you want?”
She had to think fast. “This is Julia and I’m with the Laderan-American Friendship League.” She rolled her eyes at her own lame explanation. “I got your number from the Boteros. They suggested—”
“I don’t know any Sonya Botero.”
“Really?” Then how did you know which Botero I was referencing, moron? “Because they said you might have some ideas about charities in your village that could benefit from our fund-raising efforts. We’ve collected close to ten thousand dollars and I—”
“I am a simple farmer. I have no charities.” The line went dead.
She considered calling back, but figured that would be a futile effort. No, she’d wait until she got back to the office and have Ethan Whitehawk, another Miami Confidential agent, check into it. He was already scheduled to go to Ladera, so it would be no problem for him to scope out whoever this Ramon was.
She hesitated before replacing the phone on its cradle. There was something weird about the phone call. Weirder than just Ramon-the-farmer supposedly pulling Sonya’s first name out of thin air. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Ramon was a tabloid reader and he’d heard of Sonya because she was a rich American about to marry a Laderan politician. But that didn’t explain the odd clicks on the line.
Julia made another mental note. Check the line for a trap. Maybe someone had put a tap or a listening device on it.
Glancing at her watch, she knew she had to leave or she’d be late for the three o’clock fitting. Raking her fingers through her hair, she silently cursed the annoyance of having to juggle two personas. She’d gone through everything in the condo with a fine-tooth comb, but she’d like to stay longer and do it again. And again. Until she found some small crumb of a lead. Unfortunately, she had to get back to the bridal boutique now.
The sky had turned threatening by the time she drove away from the condo, this time with the rag top up. In the distance, jagged spikes of lightning flashed down into the churning ocean. Soon the storm would blow ashore. She floored the gas pedal, hoping to make it back to Weddings Your Way before the downpour.
She was a few blocks south, on A1A, when the first large drops began to splat on the windshield. The wind picked up as she pulled into the driveway. The fresh scent of rain-washed air was lost on Julia as soon as she saw the big SUV blocking her way into the garage. What inconsiderate jerk did that?
Using her bag as an umbrella, she dashed from the Jeep just as the raindrops turned into a solid wall of water. Taking the front steps two at a time, she reached the covered porch ten seconds too late. Her purse was a lump of soggy leather. The dye from her sandals was already turning her feet an interesting shade of fuchsia. With the exception of a small part of her scalp at the crown of her head, she was drenched.
Droplets of water blurred her vision as she shoved hair off her forehead, then flapped the hem of her gauzy skirt like a dog shaking water from its fur.
A loud clap of thunder vibrated through her whole body. Reaching for the knob, Julia glanced down to assess the damage. The layered pink-and-white tank tops she’d selected that morning were soaked and clinging. Her skirt was practically transparent. It was bad. But not nearly as bad as looking up and seeing those chocolate-colored eyes narrowed in her direction.
Julia’s feet felt as if they’d been staple-gunned in place. That was nothing compared to her clenched stomach. The sudden stab of pain was just as real and palpable as if she’d been sucker punched.
He smiled then. A tight, distant expression. “Well, Julia. We meet again.”
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
“I’m here for a fitting.”
She winced. “You’re the brother?” Then her mind replayed a fast-forward version of their conversations from six years earlier. “Wait. You can’t be the brother. You told me you were an only child.”
“And you told me you’d marry me.”
Chapter Two
Even drenched, Julia Garcia had the ability to still the breath in Luke’s chest. Why did I mention the wedding?
She was even more stunning than he remembered. Damp, dark curls framed the perfect oval of her face. As always, he was transfixed by her eyes—big, expressive and a pale, sultry shade of gray that were as hypnotic as a swirl of smoke.
She must hate him. Big time. Given what had happened on their aborted wedding day six years ago, it was no wonder she’d never returned his calls and was now staring at him as though he were something the cat had coughed up. He was the one who’d gotten her involved—granted, unintentionally—with a major drug dealer.
Summoning all of his courage, Luke willed his taut muscles to relax. No sense in making this any harder than it already was. He glanced around, realizing that all eyes were trained in their direction. Great. He’d been in her presence less than a minute and already he’d managed to screw it up.
Again.