CHAPTER 1
She was being followed again. Libby had suspected it only minutes after locking the door of the pawnshop and climbing into her car. Now that she thought about it, she realized it was the same car that had been everywhere she had been for the past three days. As she watched in the rearview mirror, the tan Buick kept a steady, even distance from her.
Had this been the first time, she might have panicked, wondering why she was being tailed and by whom. But it was not the first time. In fact, she’d lost count of the number of times her footsteps had been echoed, her movements shadowed, her life observed. Now, after almost three months of being under constant surveillance, she was tired of the game.
“Enough is enough,” she muttered, stepping down on the gas pedal, effortlessly maneuvering her sports car in and out of traffic. She had become quite proficient at losing inept private investigators, and if this one was as inefficient as the last two had been, she should have no problems giving him the slip in the evening rush-hour traffic.
Logically, she knew Bill would have provided the investigator with the necessary information—name, address, employment and regular habits. She also knew that eventually her pursuer would catch up to her, but it gave her a perverse satisfaction to speed along, zigzagging across lanes and between other cars, imagining the panic on her pursuer’s face as she left him farther and farther behind.
“Eat my dust,” she murmured with a grin, watching in her mirror as the Buick disappeared in the heavy flow of traffic behind her.
After several more minutes of evasive driving, certain that she had lost him, she slowed down and took a deep, steadying breath. Her playful mood of moments before had changed into a burning, seething resentment.
“Damn him,” she expelled, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. It was not the man in the Buick she cursed. He was merely a paid employee. Her curse instead was directed at the man who had been her husband for three long years, the man who had been her ex-husband for the past eight months. Why couldn’t Bill just face the fact that their marriage was over, dead?
Libby rolled down the window, enjoying the gusty early spring wind that whipped her pale hair around her head. Her thoughts lingered on her ex-husband. Poor Bill—even in her anger, she could almost feel sympathetic for the macho, overprotective, smothering construction worker she’d married, then divorced as a means of self-preservation.
She’d tried to make the marriage work. For three long years she had put her wants and needs aside to accommodate Bill’s. She’d stayed home and waited patiently for his return when he went out on his weekly drinking binges with his construction buddies. She’d even managed to convince herself that he didn’t occasionally come home reeking of another woman’s cheap perfume.
The end of the marriage had come abruptly. She’d awakened one morning wanting to scream from the strain of trying to be something she was not.
Instead of screaming, she filed for a divorce. She’d tried to be kind, tried to convince Bill that he’d be much happier with a different woman. But it was as if the divorce suddenly spurred a case of undying love in Bill. Unfortunately, his efforts to revive the marriage had been a case of too little too late.
Bill was certain the divorce was caused by another man. He’d hired the investigators to prove the fact and to somehow remain linked to her life.
But there was no other man. In the past eight months, the most exciting thing the investigators could have reported was that Libby’s cat, Twilight, had developed a hair ball and had to be rushed to the vet’s office.
A small smile curved her lips as she thought of the private eye she’d just left behind. At least he had been a little better than the rest. Ithadbeen three days before that she’d initially noticed him behind her. Three days, she mused. She’d caught on to the previous investigators immediately. A giggle escaped her as she remembered a month ago, when an overzealous investigator had accidently bumped into the rear of her car in his zest to stay on her tail. The giggle blossomed into a snort of laughter as she thought of the hot blush that had reddened the man’s chubby, florid face as she told him to give her regards to Bill.
The smile that lit her face now died abruptly as she turned down the street where her apartment building was. Her gaze landed on the tan Buick already parked in her usual parking space.
How on earth had he managed that? She had driven the most direct route home and was certain he hadn’t passed her. A small hint of respect at his finesse grudgingly arose inside her. The man was good. The man was definitely good.
As she slowly drove past the car, she turned and scrutinized the occupant, giving him her total, undivided attention.
Shock pierced through her as she stared at him. He wasn’t a dumpy, florid-faced, thick-necked investigator. Oh, no. His features were sharply defined in the golden light of dusk. Dark curls, just this side of unruly, topped his head. A wide forehead gave way to dark, intense eyes and a straight, arrogant nose. A full, dark mustache hid his upper lip and as their gazes met, he gestured as if tipping an imaginary hat to her, showing her a flash of the glittering whiteness of perfect teeth as he smiled in obvious amusement.
His smile effectively broke the trancelike spell she had momentarily fallen into, and she gunned the motor and roared by him, shooting into a parking space halfway down the block. Once there, she remained in the car, mentally steadying herself from the shock of his unexpected attractiveness.
He possessed a handsomeness that hinted at danger. Physically speaking, he was the type who could either play the hero, saving the heroine from the clutches of death, or the villain—dangerously handsome, luring the hapless, innocent heroine into trouble.
She shook her head, effectively dispelling the fanciful thoughts. She was allowing her imagination to run wild. Still, she knew instinctively she’d rather have this man on her side than have to face him as an adversary.
She shut off the engine and fumbled with the key ring until she held her apartment key firmly in hand. She got out of her car and walked hurriedly toward the brick building, her slender shoulders militarily straight. She was self-conscious that a dark, glittering gaze followed her every movement.
At the front door of the building she paused impulsively. With an impish grin, she turned and waved two fingers at the handsome investigator, then turned and entered the apartment building.
Once inside her fourth-floor apartment, she flipped on all the lights against the darkening night and kicked off her high-heeled shoes. Flopping down on the couch, she smiled as the gray tomcat greeted her by jumping up and sitting on her chest. “Hi, Twilight,” she murmured, scratching the cat affectionately behind his furry ears. “Did you miss me today?”
The cat meowed plaintively, then jumped down on the floor and looked at her expectantly.
“Okay, okay.” Rising off the sofa, she went into the small kitchen, the cat a shadow at her heels. She grabbed a can of cat food that, according to Twilight, tasted better than it smelled. With efficiency born of habit, she opened the can and dumped the contents into the dish on the floor. “There you go,” she muttered maternally, once again petting the tomcat’s soft fur as he lapped greedily at the fishy-smelling food.
She went back into the living room, drawn to the window that provided a perfect view to the street below. She pulled the curtain aside a fraction of an inch, just enough to peer out and see that the Buick was still parked below. She jerked the curtain closed as the phone rang shrilly. Flopping down on the sofa once again, she picked up the receiver.
“How’s my favorite girl?” a deep voice asked without preamble.
“Vinnie!” Libby smiled at the sound of her father’s familiar voice. “How is life in sunny Florida?”
