Both Babs and Mary Lou had told her very firmly that Rachael did not take drugs. She was only working at the club because the pay was better, room rent was cheap and she could save more money. She was determined to become an actress. Drinking, partying and getting involved with drugs would keep her from achieving her dream.

"Maybe the rumors aren't true," Amy said aloud to Johnnie as he turned onto Sunset, heading for the club. "Babs and Mary Lou said Rachael wasn't into drinking and partying. She wanted to be an actress more than anything. She wouldn't throw her dream away on a guy who was mixed up in something like that."

Johnnie flicked her a sideways glance. "Manny's a good-looking guy. He's only a few years older than your sister and he's charming. His father's the gangster, not Manny. It's Carlos who's the problem."

"You're thinking maybe Carlos didn't want his son getting involved with a stripper."

"Yeah, something like that. At least not seriously involved."

"We need to talk to Manny."

"I plan to."

"I'm going with you."

He turned the car into the parking lot next to the club and pulled up near the back door. "Not a chance."

Her chin went up. "You said the father was the criminal, not the son. As long as I'm with you-"

"No." He turned off the engine, cracked the door open, rounded the car and helped her climb out.

"I want to go," she said.

"You're Angel Fontaine, remember? You don't have any reason to be talking to Manny Ortega."

He was right, d.a.m.n it. She couldn't have it both ways. If she wanted to continue working undercover at the club, she had to be Angel. And a private investigator wouldn't take an exotic dancer with him to talk to a drug lord's son.

"All right, you win." For now, she added, her mind spinning ahead to what she might accomplish while he was talking to Ortega. "Tonight we're doing a private function, a bachelor party for one of the guys who works at Brand Realty. Peter Brand is the owner. He's the man you mentioned, the one in the police report."

He nodded. "I've seen his name on for-sale signs on property all over town. He's got a dozen branch offices, makes a boatload of money. The cops say his alibi checks out. He hadn't seen your sister for a couple of weeks before she disappeared and he was working the night she didn't come home."

"Still, if he's here tonight, I'm going to talk to him, see if he might know something useful."

Johnnie's jaw hardened. "We've already been over this. I don't want you playing detective."

Amy jerked to a halt next to the door. "That's why I'm here, Johnnie, working at the club. I appreciate what you're doing-I can't begin to tell you how much. But I intend to do my part. I'm going to do everything I can to find out what happened to my sister."

"d.a.m.n it, Amy."

"It's Angel, and I have to go in."

Johnnie took a breath and released it slowly, clearly resigned that she was going to do exactly as she pleased.

"You've got my number in your phone. Call me if you run into a problem." His dark gaze narrowed on her face. "And don't even think about leaving with that guy."

Amy flashed him a smile. "I won't leave with him, I promise. I won't leave with anyone but you."

A hot gleam appeared in his eyes. Apparently mollified, he nodded. "Fine." Turning, he strode back to his car.

Amy watched him drive away and felt a sudden pang. Not only was she wildly attracted to him, but she liked him.

Well, except when he was acting like a domineering, overprotective male.

Liking him should have been good, but wasn't. A man like John Riggs wasn't someone she could afford to get involved with. He was the kind of guy you had fantasy, one-night s.e.x with and never saw again. He wasn't the kind of man a schoolteacher from Michigan took home to meet her mother.

He was the wild, dangerous, reckless kind of guy who ended up breaking your heart.

Detective Rick Vega returned to his desk in the homicide bureau at the Hollywood Community Police Station. Turning on his computer, he sat back to wait while the machine booted up.

All the way back from Johnnie's place, Rick had thought about Rachael Brewer and her sister, Amy, the schoolteacher who had come to California from Michigan to find her.

Clearly, Johnnie was taken with the little blonde. Rick and Johnnie had been friends since the day Rick had become Kate Riggs's partner. He had dropped in at Johnnie's for a morning visit any number of times and never found a woman in his house. That Amy was still there the morning after said a lot.

Johnnie was helping her, which was great, since he was exceptionally good at his job and the police so far had come up with squat. That Amy was working as a dancer in a strip club to dig up information was over-the-top insane. The lady wasn't a cop. She had no experience dealing with the kind of guys who frequented a place like the Kitty Cat Club.

Still, he couldn't help admiring her moxie and her determination. It was obvious she loved her sister. It made him wonder what there was about Rachael Brewer that deserved that kind of loyalty.

As soon as the computer was ready, he clicked on Google and typed in Rachael's name. Half a dozen Rachael Brewers popped up. He checked each listing but none of them was the woman he was looking for. No Facebook...no Twitter...no LinkedIn. Nothing on any of the usual social networks.

No web page.

This last seemed a little odd to him. Rachael wanted to be an actress. Most would-be actresses had an internet presence of some sort. He knew working as a dancer didn't pay all that much, but she must have had friends who could have helped her.

He typed in Silky Summers, did the same check on the people who popped up, and still came up with nothing.

He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and studied the screen. Maybe instead of using her real name or her stripper name, she was using something else. On a hunch, he typed in Rachael Summers, a combination of the two, and the usual list of names popped up. She wasn't on any of the social networks, but he struck gold with the website www.rachaelsummers.com.

He recognized her instantly from the photo he had seen in her missing persons file. On the website, she had an entire photo portfolio. It was nicely done, the pictures all professional and tasteful. He jotted down the name of the photographer who had done the work, and there was a biography, as well.

Born in Grand Rapids. Daughter of an auto mechanic dad and a homemaker mom. Graduated high school and city college with a 4.0 grade average, but didn't continue her education and instead moved to Hollywood to pursue an acting career.

The site listed parts in Grand Rapids little theater productions of South Pacific, Camelot and Our Town, and a couple of TV commercials as credits.

He jotted down a contact number that probably belonged to her missing cell phone, pulled out the copy he had made of her file and saw that he was right, and that the second number listed belonged to her friend Mary Lou Kammer.

He flipped back to the photos, tried to make the woman he had found on the web match the stripper Silky Summers he had once seen onstage. On occasion he used the Kitty Cat Club for a meet with an informant. The owner, Tate Watters, was solidly pro-police, and the place was dark and noisy.

At the time, Rachael hadn't made much of an impression. In fact, he hadn't remembered seeing her until he had pulled her file for Johnnie.

He dug around the web a little more, then went to www.KittyCatClub.com just to see what might show up. A number of videos were posted. He recognized the dark-haired dancer, Silky Summers, among a row of video clips, and clicked on the image.

The video lasted only a minute. Rachael had a beautiful body as well as a gorgeous face, but the thing that struck him was the detachment in her eyes, the distant quality that said she was only doing a job. She had no interest, no personal stake in her performance.

Rachael was dancing, but her soul was somewhere else.

Rick reached for the mouse, ready to end the session, paused for an instant, then flipped back to her web page for one last glance. A line at the bottom of the site caught his attention.

Rachael has been a longtime supporter of the Dennison Children's Shelter. Donations can be made through the following link: www.dennisonchildrensshelter.com.

He clicked on the link, saw that it was a sanctuary for homeless children and jotted down the address.

Rick leaned back in his chair. He was beginning to think there was a lot more to Rachael Brewer than he had believed.

Amy finished her second set for the evening and changed into her c.o.c.ktail waitress outfit. So far the Realtors who had rented the club for the night had been fairly well behaved, but it wasn't that late yet. The Kitty Cat wasn't the kind of place most of the agents frequented and they were dribbling out of the club a little at a time and heading home.

The bridegroom was younger and he and his friends were beginning to get pretty rowdy. Fortunately, there was a limo waiting for anyone who drank too much and needed a ride back to his house.

When Peter Brand excused himself from the group and started for the door, Amy set her drink tray down on an empty table and hurried to intercept him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Brand. I don't mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you might have a minute to talk before you leave."

He eyed her with speculation. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair, and though he'd had a couple of gla.s.ses of beer, he wasn't drunk. He was in his forties, attractive in a pair of stylish, silver-rimmed gla.s.ses.

"My name is Angel," she said. "I'm a friend of Silky Summers."

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name."

"I'm sorry. I meant to say Rachael Brewer. We were friends. I heard she went out with you a few times. I was wondering if you knew anything about her disappearance."

He frowned. "The police asked me about Rachael. I told them I hadn't seen her in a couple of weeks."

"I know. I was just hoping that maybe you could think of something. I'm really worried about her."

Brand's blue eyes softened. "Rachael is a really nice girl, but we never dated. I told the police that. We knew each other through the Dennison Children's Shelter. Rachael volunteered there and helped us raise money for the home."

Amy was stunned. And yet it was exactly like her.

"My sis...Rachael worked there?"

He nodded. "Volunteered. Whenever she had the time. She was busy a lot, holding down a job and taking casting calls. I never knew she worked at the club until the police came to see me. As pretty as she was, I was surprised she'd never caught a break."

"Where...where is the shelter?"

Brand gave her the address, which she jotted on a c.o.c.ktail napkin.

"Rachael loved the children in the shelter and they loved her," Peter said. "I'm sure they miss her."

"We all do. I really appreciate your help, Mr. Brand."

"It's just Peter. And I hope they find her."

Amy watched him walk away, thinking that her sister continued to surprise her. First Jimmy, now the shelter for homeless children. The good news was, in talking to the real estate agent, she had come up with another place to look for information. She couldn't wait to tell Johnnie. She tried not to wonder what he was doing tonight-which made her think of last night, and color washed into her cheeks.

It was supposed to be a single night of wild, fantasy s.e.x, but here she was, wishing she was with him, wishing he would take her to bed again.

With a sigh, she turned back to the tables surrounded by rowdy men and went to get another round of drinks.

Johnnie shoved through the etched gla.s.s doors of the Vieux Carre, a ritzy supper club in downtown L.A. Manny Ortega was the owner of the place, along with a chain of El Pueblo Mexican restaurants that ran along the coast from L.A. to San Diego.

A tuxedo clad maitre d' stopped him as he walked through the door. Obviously, the leather jacket he wore over his T-shirt didn't meet the dress code for a sw.a.n.ky place like the Vieux Carre.

"May I help you, sir?" Tall and thin, cla.s.sy but not effeminate. Manny would have chosen him specifically to work the front of the club.

"I'm looking for Manny Ortega. Word is he's usually here in the evenings."

"Mr. Ortega takes pride in seeing the restaurant is properly run. Unfortunately, he isn't here tonight. In fact, he will be out of town for the rest of the week."

Johnnie glanced around the restaurant, a single large room with an open two-story ceiling surrounded by a dining balcony. It was art deco, with candlelit, linen-draped tables, and an expensive menu that served a combination of French and Cajun food. The internet gave it a five-star rating. Manny had the money to make sure he could offer his customers the best of everything.

The question was where had he gotten it?

"You know where I might be able to find him?" Johnnie held up a hundred dollar bill pinched between his fingers.

The maitre d' eyed the money, but didn't take the bait and simply shook his head. "I'm sorry. I really don't know."

Johnnie stuffed the money into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out one of his nondescript business cards. "Give him this. Tell him I'd like to talk to him."

"Certainly, Mr...." The maitre d' looked down at the card. "Riggs." The man stuck the card into the pocket of his tuxedo and turned his attention to the well-dressed couple who had come in behind Johnnie.

Johnnie headed out into the night. As he handed his parking ticket to the valet and waited for the kid to bring up his car, he ignored an itch to head for the Kitty Cat Club. The urge to watch Angel Fontaine erotically dancing onstage was nearly irresistible.

He reminded himself Brand Realty had rented the place for the night and he wouldn't be welcome. His jaw tightened as he tipped the kid a five and slid behind the wheel. Since when had he ever given a fat rat's a.s.s whether he was welcome or not?

Shoving the car into gear, he stepped on the gas, leaving the restaurant rapidly disappearing in his mirror. The urge to see Amy hit him again as he roared up the on-ramp onto the 110 heading north. When he merged onto the Hollywood Freeway and took the exit into Hollywood, it was all he could do not to keep driving until he reached the parking lot of the Kitty Cat Club. Instead, he turned up Laurel Canyon and forced himself to go home.

Little Amy Brewer was getting under his skin and he didn't like it. Not one bit. He was helping her and that was fine, but he needed to put a little distance between them, keep things businesslike.

Still, as he climbed into bed alone, he thought of Amy and her sweet little body and how good it had been to have her there beside him. It was hours before he fell asleep.

Fifteen.

Johnnie didn't show up at the club last night and he hadn't called this morning. Maybe their night together had meant a lot more to her than it did to him. Maybe it had only been the fantasy, one-night s.e.x Amy had imagined.

The thought made her stomach churn.

"So where's lover boy?" Babs asked as Amy was getting dressed to leave the apartment. "I figured he'd show up last night for an encore."

Amy tried for a nonchalant shrug. "I kind of thought so, too."

One of Babs's dark eyebrows went up. "I thought you said the s.e.x was fantastic. Amazing, even."

Amy looked up at her, hoping her disappointment didn't show. "It was. At least for me."