Nope. They would be on her trail too fast. And she already had enough searchers to worry about.

She had to get Tucker out of here. Had to move fast. But he was on that other G.o.dd.a.m.ned boat.

Unsettled, she packed up her belongings and checked out of her hotel, leaving her bags with the bellman. She re-booked them on the latest flight out to Miami that she could get and maybe there was still a chance they could make it.

Restless, she took a cab to the pier and sat around several different outdoor cafes, waiting. Hours pa.s.sed and as they did, her nerves tightened. She had visions of Andre on his way to her. Maybe on a flight from Miami at this very minute. Or maybe he was already here, going back to their old haunts, searching the crowd for her.

Suddenly afraid, she headed into a tourist shop and purchased a scarf to wrap loosely around her head, disguising the color of her hair. It wasn't enough, but it was something.

Where the h.e.l.l was that d.a.m.n fishing boat? How long did it take?

Her anger at Aimee intensified as she waited. How could she let the bracelet fall into Tucker's hands? What was wrong with her? She was too lax, too trusting. G.o.ddammit! The woman was half-French and gave new meaning to the term laissez-faire. She and Teresa had been friends, or maybe frenemies, back in the day, but that was long ago. Aimee had hustled a bit herself, but hadn't lived for the thrill like Teresa had. She'd lacked the imagination and the talent.

Still, she'd been there for Teresa when she'd shown up with a toddler in tow, and she'd agreed to keep the bracelet as a form of good faith. Teresa had made it very clear she always wanted the bracelet back. How could she let Tucker get his hands on it? Of course, Aimee didn't know its true value; Teresa had made sure of that. She'd had it appraised at one time, and the figure she'd been given had enough zeroes to take care of Tucker and her needs for years to come. But she couldn't have the bracelet with her when she was with Andre; he would have taken it from her. Even while she was compiling her secret nest egg, the bracelet had always been the cornerstone of her financial plan. And it was hers. Stephen had given it to her.

G.o.d . . . d.a.m.n . . . it!

She had to find this lookalike and get the bracelet back. And who was this West Laughlin? They couldn't take her son away. What gave them the right to even think they could?

And f.u.c.king Aimee. Was it too much to ask for her to just take care of her son for a little while? She acted like Teresa should just fork over the small fortune they'd agreed upon even when she was the one who'd screwed up with the bracelet!

Pressing her palms to her face, Teresa tried to contain her anger and fear. Aimee was only a small part of the problem. Andre and the handmaidens . . . they were the bigger issue. She could feel them behind her like the hounds of h.e.l.l.

d.a.m.n them all, she thought viciously, dragging her black sweater closer to her neck to combat the kicky, little breeze that had sprung up. She'd dressed in black slacks, blouse, and sweater. Only her scarf was colorful, a touristy purchase that was a map of the island in sea greens and blues.

A man on the dock was standing by a dark post, watching her. Aware that there was always an underworld in every tourist haven around the globe, no matter how lovely the place was, she paid for the latest cup of coffee she'd been dawdling over and walked away. She'd been a part of that underworld more often than not herself, and she had great respect for it.

If only life had been easier for her, she wouldn't have to go to these lengths.

But there's a thrill there, isn't there?

Yes . . . most of the time . . . Even last night with Mark had sent her nerves thrumming, gotten her juices flowing. But then a dark cloud enveloped her as she thought back to the accident on Mulholland and the little boy who shouldn't have been there.

She wished this Jean-Paul and the Sorciere de Mer would show up. Sea Witch, huh? Hunching her shoulders, she kept moving forward, reminding herself to be patient. She wouldn't be able to just s.n.a.t.c.h up Tucker, if she found him, but she would at least know when he got home.

And she would get to see him again. The thought brought a hotness to her throat even as it worried her. She loved him. She truly did. He was the only thing that mattered. Except . . . how was she going to go about grifting saddled with a son?

"Mademoiselle." The male voice came out of the darkness, startling her. She scurried away from it. What the h.e.l.l was she doing? It felt like it had grown dark in an instant. She needed a lighted bar and a group of people, not this aloneness, yet she didn't want to get too far from the pier. Where the h.e.l.l was the boat?

Hearing footsteps behind her, she picked up the pace. She could see the lighted sign and string of lights ahead. Another cafe, with a man plucking on a guitar. Too far from the boat dock, though.

Had Aimee lied to her?

Suddenly certain she'd been had, she pulled out her cell phone and plugged in Aimee's number. You better d.a.m.n well answer, she thought, listening to it ring on her end. When it went to voice mail, she clicked off and dialed again, only to have the same thing happen. This time she left a message: "I don't give a d.a.m.n about those people, I'm coming your way, and if-"

Abruptly she ran into a wall of flesh that had moved from the shadows.

"Whoa. Pardon-moi. I didn't see you." Looking up, a half-gasp formed on her lips. She stumbled backward, and in the uncertain light along the docks, gazed at the person in surprise. "What are you-"

The hit came from behind. Teresa crumpled to the ground and dimly heard rapid French shooting back and forth between two people. Vaguely, she understood they were thinking of getting rid of her. No! She tried to struggle, but apart from a moan, she couldn't move.

And then she was helped to her feet and half-carried away. A rag of some kind was placed over her mouth and nose, and there was a terrible, chemical smell, and then nothingness.

Chapter Fifteen.

Daniella stood in the empty prayer room and felt humiliation and building rage. She was alone. Left behind once again. Given all sorts of plat.i.tudes while the birds with the beautiful plumage flew away and the wren stayed behind.

It had been over a day since Jerrilyn had finally wound down and stopped screeching like a cat in heat while she and Andre had s.e.x in front of them, all the while looking at the rest of the handmaidens through slitted eyes, a smile curving her lips in satisfaction. Daniella had forced herself not to react, and when the torture was finally over, all the handmaidens had headed to their rooms to get ready for their next great adventure. Daniella had yanked her robe from over her head and quickly hung it in her closet. Then she'd thrown on a pair of jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and a zip-up cardigan that she could take off for airport security. Dressed, she'd quickly and efficiently finished packing a medium-size suitcase. She'd tossed in shorts, capris, T-shirts, several sundresses, underclothes, a pair of sneakers, her sandals, and the black flats she could team with anything. Her makeup bag had gone in next along with other toiletries, a brush, and a comb.

The first one ready, she had sat down at the table and waited impatiently. The rest of them had trickled out, though Jerrilyn had taken a leisurely shower and yawned, dressed in her own satin, blue robe.

"You'd better hurry," Daniella had told her, and she'd rolled her eyes and sauntered back to her room.

Andre had come out, looking incredibly handsome in a loose white cotton shirt, chinos, and deck shoes, his hair still wet from his own shower and pulled back into its habitual leather thong. He had a three-days' growth of beard that made him look rakish and Daniella had felt something inside her turn to liquid.

He's the prize you're fighting for, she had reminded herself. You can't do anything to hurt him.

He had smiled at her and sat down next to her, which had set her heart aflutter. His ankh lay on top of his shirt, and he'd picked up the cross and tucked it inside his collar. She had been able to see a vee of dark skin and she'd leaned forward without thinking and kissed his warm flesh.

And then he had said with regret, "I'm going to need someone to stay behind and watch over things."

"Not me," Daniella had blurted.

"I think so." He had taken both her hands in his. It was so rare to have his undivided attention, to have him be so nice to her, that she had been disarmed in spite of herself. "We'll take care of the defector in our midst. Maybe you can think of a way to rid us of Robert Lumpkin."

"Teresa was supposed to do it," she moaned, searching for some kind of reb.u.t.tal.

"Yes, she was. And we all know how that turned out. I'm counting on you, Daniella."

Now, she wished she'd fought harder to be part of the posse leaving for Miami. It was so unfair! But Andre had asked her directly and what could she do?

She would have liked to be there when Teresa got her comeuppance. She suspected Teresa might have to die. What other punishment would fit her crime? Surely, they wouldn't bring her back?

No. Teresa was done for. Had to be.

And here she was, twiddling her thumbs and waiting. Recalling her earlier plan to tell on them all to Robert Lumpkin, she shook her head. She could do that in a heartbeat to the other handmaidens, but she couldn't risk losing Andre.

Maybe you can think of a way to rid us of Robert Lumpkin. . . .

Well, she didn't possess the same a.r.s.enal as Teresa had in looks and s.e.xual allure, but she had a brain and a wild imagination.

Smiling coldly to herself, she went back into her bedroom to get ready. She knew Lumpkin's cell number, and he knew hers as well, but if she called him from a pay phone and played a game of hide-and-seek, it might work.

Halfway across the bay to Pointe du Bout and West's hotel, Callie began to feel she should have rethought going out with him tonight. West was too d.a.m.ned good-looking by half, and his undeniable attraction coupled with the heat and exotic beauty of Martinique had awakened the adventurous part of herself, that same part that had been sure marriage to Jonathan would be a good idea. If she knew what was good for her, she'd keep that part far away from West Laughlin. Since he'd burst into her life the day before and they'd embarked on this uneasy partnership, he'd circled her thoughts in ways unhealthy to her well-being. Their relationship needed to begin and end with Tucker.

She glanced over at him. He'd taken a taxi to her place and when she'd protested that she could have met him at the Bakoua, he'd said he was in the neighborhood anyway. He was in tan pants and a dark blue shirt that she'd noticed made his eyes even bluer, and she'd made a point of not looking at him directly as they decided to catch the ferry rather than take a taxi. Now he was standing beside her at the ferry's rail, lost in his own thoughts, the wind tossing his hair. The heavy hum from the ferry's engines and the loud and constant splashes of water as they cleaved their way forward made Callie raise her voice to be heard.

"What were you doing 'in the neighborhood'?" she asked.

"I get better phone reception in Fort-de-France, for some reason. I was talking to my ex-partner."

"About what's going on here?" She spread her palms to include the area at large.

"About Teresa. She met my brother in Los Angeles, so I asked him to find out where she was living before she was married. Her maiden name's DuPres."

"What happens if you find her?" she asked.

Strands of hair whipped in front of her face and she tried to brush them aside. She froze when West reached forward with one finger and slid soft filaments away from her lips. "I want to look her in the eye and ask her about Tucker, and Stephen, and Edmund Mikkels."

"Mikkels is the man who accidentally shot your brother."

"Victoria would tell you it wasn't an accident, but that's probably a fantasy on her part. She thinks Teresa and Edmund were involved, and that might be closer to the truth."

"It's pretty hardcore to set up your husband's murder."

"Teresa may have just left with Tucker to get her life together. On the other hand, she could be purposely keeping him away from the Laughlins. I just want to know."

"She is his mother, for better or worse," Callie pointed out. "If I thought someone was trying to take Sean from me, I'd commit murder before I let it happen."

"If I pushed Aimee harder . . . put the bracelet in her hand, say, told her she could keep it if she gave Teresa up . . . maybe then she'd tell us."

Callie's gaze was trained on the waters of the bay and the horizon. "I didn't get the impression it's up to you to decide what happens to the bracelet."

"You got that right. Victoria would have a cow if she thought I was giving it up."

"But you'd do it anyway."

"Sure. Whatever it takes. I'm only helping Victoria because we have the same basic goals: to find Teresa and make certain Tucker's safe. I'm out of her plans to win custody."

"She's his great-grandmother and wants custody?"

"He's a Laughlin."

"But how does that work, I mean, if she succeeds? Tucker's an energetic boy and she's how old?"

"Eighty-three."

"And there's no one in between who might be . . . more suited?"

"There's Talia, Stephen's mother."

He said it so carefully, she sensed he was trying hard not to give his feelings away, yet his very effort was more telling than words. "You don't like her."

"I don't know her. I don't know any of them, and that's just the way I like it."

"You like being the black sheep."

"Maybe a little," he said after a moment.

"Tell me more about your family history," she said. "Who are the Laughlins and all that."

"Didn't find enough on the Internet?" he asked, a small smile teasing his lips.

"You were the one who pointed out the site I was on wasn't giving me the whole story."

He nodded. "My grandfather started Laughlin Ranch. Bought up the land in the thirties from farmers who were defaulting on their loans during the Depression. He was ruthless and smart. A real pain in the a.s.s."

"That a trait that runs in the family?"

A quick smile. "I'd have to say yes. Laughlin Ranch is a cattle ranch, one of the biggest in California, right there in size and proximity to the Harris Ranch. You know that one?"

The Harris Ranch in the San Joaquin Valley between Los Angeles and San Francisco was one of the largest in the nation. They shipped beef all over the world. If the Laughlins' was even half the size of the Harris Ranch, it would be enormous.

"I know it," she said. How could she not? Drive that stretch of I-5 and the section with the cow manure stench went on for miles. You couldn't have a hundred thousand head of cattle without it.

"My grandfather expanded and competed with Harris Ranch, even to the point of building an inn with a restaurant and gift shop, just like them. The main Laughlin house is a two-story ranch. Big, with miles of fences. I spent some time there as a kid. My father would take me upon occasion, and Stephen and I would run all over the place. My grandparents didn't like it, but they just stayed out of the way whenever I was there. I didn't catch on to this for years, but by the time I figured it out, I wasn't going there anymore anyway. My mother put her foot down. I think she got over Craig, my father, pretty d.a.m.n quick when he bent to my grandparents' wishes. Saw him for what he was instead of what she wanted him to be. She only allowed him to take me to the ranch, mainly because she's always liked horses and wanted me to have that experience."

"But you got the Laughlin name."

"Some kind of bargain that my father insisted upon, apparently. But Mom didn't like them much. Any of them. After she was let go, she was hired by a veterinary clinic, working with large animals, and she married one of the vets and changed her name, so we never had the same one anyway."

"Does your grandmother run the ranch now?"

"In essence, though not on a day-to-day basis. She wanted Stephen to run it, but he wasn't in love with the idea. He was more interested in investments and numbers, that kind of thing. He saw the ranch's value, of course, but he was never hands-on like my grandfather and father. He came to me a couple of years ago and asked if I'd be interested in taking over."

"Really? That was for him to say?"

"h.e.l.l, no, but he thought he could convince Victoria. I told him he was crazy and I didn't have any interest anyway."

"Who runs it on a day-to-day basis?"

"Main foreman's name is Stutz. He's been around for years."

Callie nodded. She'd seen the name on the website. Even though West was repeating some of what she'd just learned about his family, it was interesting to hear his take on it. "Your father died in a car accident?"

"Yeah. He and Stephen's mother, Talia, were driving home from dinner after drinking too much. They were in a fight, apparently, that started at the restaurant. He was weaving and eventually drove off the road. She survived. He didn't."

"Oh." Callie thought back to her own accident once again, feeling sweat collect along her spine and her hands go cold. With an effort she pushed the memory aside, compartmentalizing it, storing it under lock and key on a shelf in her mind.

"My father shouldn't have been behind the wheel. It was totally his fault. I went to the memorial service, but it was clear I wasn't wanted. My mother warned me, but I went anyway. After that I learned my lesson and stayed away from Stephen and his family."