"I chose Martinique because it's where Jonathan and I spent our honeymoon, that's all." She was beginning to wish she'd never listened to the voice inside her head that had thought a trip to Martinique was just the ticket.

But West was on his own track. "When I figure out what the connection is, I'll let you know."

"It's a coincidence. And don't tell me there are no coincidences."

"There are no coincidences."

"What'd I just say?" she demanded and he gave a short bark of laughter, grinning like the devil.

Uh-oh, she thought, looking away. She couldn't afford to like him too much. West Laughlin was far too attractive in a way that seemed to worm itself inside her. He was so different from Jonathan, who'd been handsome and clever, but cold and calculating beneath his pretty exterior. She reminded herself that she didn't know West Laughlin well enough to make any kind of informed decision on what kind of man he was. They were stuck together for the moment, both interested in Tucker's welfare, but that was as far as it went.

They'd lapsed into silence and though Callie was starting to feel tense, West seemed as unaffected by her as she was affected by him. Great. These digging little thoughts about him had to be repressed. She had to quit noticing the strength in his hands, the hard muscles of his arms, the faint stubble on his jaw . . . Good enough to gobble up, one of the teachers at the elementary school where she'd worked before her marriage would say whenever she saw a particularly handsome father of one of her students. Not exactly a PC kind of remark, but then Debra hadn't been a PC kind of gal. She'd been named as one of the causes of the Peterkin divorce and had been slowly eased out of her position at the school. Didn't stop her from marrying Adam Peterkin once he was free, though they divorced a year later. Callie should have learned her lesson from Debra, but she'd gone ahead and married Jonathan anyway, expecting to live happily ever after.

She would not make the same mistake with West Laughlin. If Debra had seen him she would have wanted to start gobbling. Hopefully, she, Callie, was a heckuva lot smarter now. Not that West had shown any interest in her apart from her connection to Tucker, which was good news for the immediate future. She just didn't trust her own susceptibility.

Andre stared at Naomi impatiently, his jaw tightening by degrees, which tickled Daniella to no end. Naomi, Andre's right-hand woman, who never, never, never argued with him and always did exactly what she was told, had dared to ask why they were putting on their robes so early in the day.

"Jerrilyn won't be able to make it," Naomi had pointed out, which had only increased Andre's ire.

"Your sister, Teresa, set the timetable," he snapped. "We have flights to catch later."

Clarice breathlessly jumped in, "Maybe we should just go ahead without Jerrilyn."

Andre closed his eyes as if willing up a patience he didn't possess. He was already in his robe and his hair was pulled back at his nape with a leather thong. The ankh around his neck glittered briefly in a thin line of sunlight that sliced through the gap in the curtains. "We will wait for one hour. Get her here," he told Naomi, who immediately turned to her cell phone and placed another call as she walked out of the prayer room.

Daniella had already donned her robe, as had Clarice, but Naomi, the stupid cow, was still in her jeans and a light sweater. She, of all of them, should know better, but then maybe she'd thought she might need to go out and drag Jerrilyn back by her hair.

It would be interesting to see what happened first: Jerrilyn's return, or Andre's urgency to go after Teresa. Would he be able to go ahead without one of his precious remaining handmaidens? Daniella certainly hoped so. Without Teresa and Jerrilyn, there would just be the three of them.

"This is it," Callie said, indicating a somewhat tired-looking apartment building. West examined the stucco exterior while Callie led the way inside.

Aimee and Tucker's apartment proved to be on the ground level. West followed Callie down a hallway that currently smelled of cooked corn and burnt chicken. The carpet was worn but clean. When she got to the third door on the west side of the building, she raised her hand to knock on cream-colored panels that had begun to yellow. The place seemed cared for in the main, but it had been a while since anyone had put any real money or elbow grease into it. Callie's rental was several rungs up the ladder.

Before she could knock he heard a woman's voice raised in anger or frustration, coming from inside. Immediately he held up a hand to stop Callie, who froze in place, then leaned into the door, placing his ear against the panels.

In a mixture of French and English, a woman, most probably this Aimee, was berating someone up one side and down the other. When he heard a young boy's response he figured it was Tucker.

Furious, he took over, slamming his fist in a loud slam, slam, slam against the door. Immediately the woman's voice cut off. A few minutes later, footsteps crossed toward them and she called out, "Who is there?"

West looked at Callie who said, "It's Callie Cantrell. I told you I'd be back at three."

She opened the door without hesitation. "You have the bracelet?" she asked, then snapped her gaze to meet West's. Her dark hair was wet as if she'd just taken a shower and she wore a pair of gray capris and a black, sleeveless T-shirt that showed off her well-muscled biceps. She looked like a woman who took her time at the gym seriously. She was about the same height as Callie, around five foot seven, but there the resemblance ended. Aimee was dark and swarthy while Callie was fair, with blue eyes and burnished hair. And Aimee was staring at him in surprise and defiance.

Behind her, Tucker came racing up, ducking under her arm to squeeze up to Callie. "You come for me?"

"I . . ." Callie cut herself off.

"I'm West Laughlin," he said, sticking out his hand. Aimee gazed down at it and reluctantly shook with him. If she recognized the name, she was great at concealing it.

"Aimee Thomas." She snapped her hand back as quick as she could.

"I go fishing with Michel," Tucker declared, dancing into the hallway with delight.

"Tomorrow," Aimee said quickly. Then to West and Callie, "Jean-Paul takes them feeshing on his bateau."

He sensed Callie sending him a sideways look at Aimee's suddenly strong French accent. "You want the bracelet," he said.

She yelled at Tucker in French, then said, presumably for their benefit, "Get back here."

The boy grabbed Callie's hand and said, "Come in, come in."

She followed after him and West brought up the rear, though it was clear Aimee didn't want him to be anywhere near the forthcoming transaction.

"The bracelet belongs to my grandmother," West said as an opening salvo.

"It ees mine. A gift," she answered.

"Come see my room," Tucker declared, and Callie looked helplessly to Aimee while West said expansively, "Go ahead. Ms. Thomas and I have some things to talk about."

Aimee's dark eyes flashed at him, but she just shrugged. Playing it both sides against the middle. She didn't want Callie anywhere near Tucker's room, but she didn't want to completely p.i.s.s off both Callie and West until she got her hands on the bracelet.

"I've got a few questions for you," West said, when he was alone with Aimee.

"I do not have to talk to you."

"You speak English as well as I do. Let's get past that at least. You know who I am and what I want."

"I do not," she stated tartly.

"Okay, fine. We'll play it your way. Stephen Laughlin was my brother. He's dead now, and his widow, Teresa Laughlin, is suspected in his death. Tucker is Teresa's son, and I'm looking for Teresa."

She was staring at the floor, clearly trying to come up with something to say. "You are talking, but it makes no sense."

"Tucker isn't your son. He's Teresa's," West said again.

"Non. Reediculous. He is mine."

"Teresa brought you the boy and told you to take care of him. Where is she?"

"You are crazee!"

"He's a Laughlin. DNA will prove it. I don't want to fight with you, but if his mother's abandoned him, I'm going for custody."

"You are trying to steal my son!" She drew herself up in outrage.

"Where is she? How long's she been gone?" West demanded.

"Get out, and take that nosy beetch with you!"

"I've already been to the police," West lied. "They're looking into it and it's only a matter of time before they're asking the questions, not me."

Aimee appeared ready to claw his eyes out but she restrained herself. He watched her, was aware when the moment occurred that she decided to capitulate some. "She did not abandon him," she finally said.

"Where is she?" West pressed.

"The States. Somewhere." She met his gaze with hot, dark eyes. "The bracelet belongs to me."

"Teresa gave it to you. For taking care of Tucker," he said. When she didn't answer, he took that as an affirmative. "I don't believe it's a gift."

She sucked in an angry breath between her teeth. "I don't care what you believe. It's the truth."

"She's gonna want it back, so you'd better hope it's collateral for some other kind of payment."

"You have no right to question me."

At least the heavy French accent was gone. Progress, if infinitesimal. West had been through his share of interrogations and knew how much persuading went into them. The threat of the police had reached her whether she wanted to admit it or not, otherwise she'd have thrown him out by now.

"I don't really give a d.a.m.n about the bracelet," he said. "You can have it, for all I care. All I want is the boy."

"He's not for sale."

"I'm not talking about buying him. He's a Laughlin. I'm talking about keeping your a.s.s out of jail, Ms. Thomas, if it comes out that there's something criminal going on here."

"There is nothing criminal! She asked me to take care of him, and I have."

"And she's paying you for your services."

"Au pairs get paid for taking care of children," she snapped.

"So, you're an au pair. That's your job?"

"Oui!" She calmed herself down, sizing him up. "And I work at a clinic part-time for extra money to support Tucker."

"Tell me where Teresa is, and I'll give you the bracelet."

"I told you. I don't know where she is."

"I heard you. I just don't believe you. What is your deal with her? For how long?"

"I have guardianship rights."

"Yeah? I'd like to see that doc.u.mentation."

He half-expected her to jump up and bring him the papers. She was so definite that she was in the right that he felt she must have something that said as much. But she didn't charge to get the proof.

"You want the authorities to come down on you?" he asked. When she remained stubbornly silent, he asked, "How does she contact you? Still by e-mail?"

She couldn't quite hide her shock at his knowledge though she tried to pa.s.s it off as if she were just thinking things over. "We call."

"You have a cell number." Now they were getting somewhere.

"No. She calls me from different numbers. I don't call her."

"She's on the run," he said. "When was the last time you heard from her?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know everything that's going on here," West said in a softer voice. He didn't want Callie and Tucker to overhear any more than they already might have. "But that boy is a Laughlin, and Teresa's wanted back in California to explain some things about her husband's death. You know anything about that?"

She shook her head again. It was as if she'd decided it was safer not to talk at all.

"Whatever she's doing, whatever she's done, you're going to find yourself right in the center of it. I don't know what you do for a living other than take care of Tucker, but if it's anything other than on the up-and-up, it will be exposed."

Callie came out of Tucker's room at that moment with the boy racing around her to stop in front of Aimee, who was so involved in her own internal struggle that she scarcely noticed.

"I go to Michel's now?" he asked.

"Tomorrow . . . demain," she said distractedly.

"But we go matin," he cried.

"That's tomorrow," she said, then walked to the door, a plain invitation to leave. Tucker was still pleading with her as they were ushered into the hallway and missed the way she hissed under her breath, "Don't come back."

They were deep into chanting, all looking pious and worshipful, when Jerrilyn deigned to join them, much to Daniella's disappointment. She'd really believed something might change, but of course not.

Jerrilyn had walked in wearing skinny jeans and a black, stretchy Lycra tube top paired with a matching black sweater. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s stood out like torpedos, more plastic than mammary gland, but the look of boredom in her eyes couldn't be disguised. Maybe there was hope yet, Daniella thought as Andre stopped chanting abruptly and they all subsided as well. Daniella pretended not to be watching so avidly, putting an expression of mild interest on her face. She hated Jerrilyn the most, she decided. She was so . . . cla.s.sless.

In a voice that could cut ice, Andre ordered, "Go to your room."

Jerrilyn turned on her heel, but though it was beneath her breath, they all clearly heard, "f.u.c.kin' A."

"Come back here!" Andre roared.

She turned around slowly, her gaze flicking in disdain toward Clarice, Naomi, and Daniella before she walked up to Andre and met his stormy eyes with clear rebellion. "What do you want, Messiah?" she asked silkily.

To Daniella's growing horror she then watched Jerrilyn do a s.e.xy striptease, sliding out of the sweater and thrusting those abominable b.r.e.a.s.t.s forward, then crossing her arms over her chest and pulling the tube top from her pants, wriggling herself free so her b.r.e.a.s.t.s sprung out like jack-in-the-boxes.

Whatever punishment Andre had been thinking of exacting-Daniella had prayed she'd be thrown in the isolation cell until she was reduced to tears-his s.e.xual desire ran rampant and he grabbed her and shook her even while she laughed at him. Rolling her eyes toward them as if to say, "See?" she started fake moaning as he stripped off her jeans and threw her onto the mat.

Daniella shut her eyes and closed her ears to the animal sounds issuing from their throats but her traitorous imagination saw them writhing around at her feet as Naomi and Clarice took up the chanting once more.

She rolled her fingernails into the palms of her hands and pressed as hard as she could. She was never going to have Andre to herself. He was always going to want the pretty ones. He had no control over Jerrilyn or Teresa, and they could play him s.e.xually with no effort at all. Naomi and Clarice were both pretty too. She was the only one who wasn't. She was the workhorse. And even the times Andre made love to her, she'd always sensed he'd been somewhere else.

Naomi nudged her hard in the ribs because she wasn't chanting. Reluctantly, she joined in.

I'll tell Robert Lumpkin, she thought. I'll tell him about Teresa and Andre and the rest of them.

Forcing herself to open her eyes, she didn't look at the p.o.r.nography in front of her. Instead, she gazed down at the little half-moons filled with blood on her palms left after her fingers unfurled.