"We chose it together."

But had they? Callie remembered the brochures Jonathan had brought from the travel agency, and the way they'd bent their heads over the Internet together, planning for their future. Callie had been too happy to pay much attention to honeymoon plans. There was a wedding to plan, and even though they'd kept it small-both of them had definitely wanted that-it had required the requisite organization, list making, phone calling and e-mailing. She hadn't questioned Jonathan's choice of Martinique, but now she wondered.

The reason she'd come back here was more because Sean had been conceived on their honeymoon, not because the trip itself had been such a fabulous time. She recalled distinctly how Jonathan would wander away from her and she would find him in the hotel bar, pa.s.sing the time with the bartender and waitstaff. Yes, he made love to her and they had dinners together, but she'd sun-bathed alone a lot of the time, and she'd felt the first twinges of worry that she didn't know her new husband at all.

Jonathan Cantrell had swept her off her feet, and she'd been flattered and overwhelmed by his good looks and wealth. She'd wanted so much to believe that he truly wanted her that she'd shut down her radar and fallen in love with him hard and fast. Or at least that's what she'd told herself after Bryan left her.

Looking for love in all the wrong places.

Sean was the only reason she hadn't left Jonathan in the years after the marriage. Jonathan didn't love her, maybe hadn't ever, and she kinda thought she'd made herself believe she was in love with him. In truth, neither of them had known each other very well.

"Jonathan and I honeymooned here." She swept an arm to encompa.s.s the grounds.

"At the Bakoua Beach?"

"Yep."

She wondered what time it was. Early afternoon, maybe two? It was time she got away from him. "Your turn," she said. "You were let go for breaking up with your captain's daughter."

"Not the official reason," he reminded.

"What was the official reason?"

"Captain Paulsen said I was too aggressive during an investigation."

Her eyes moved to the small smear of dried blood on her leg. "Imagine that."

"It wouldn't have mattered what it was, it was just to punish me. But then Victoria laid down a convincing case and I didn't give a d.a.m.n about anything but finding Teresa and Tucker."

"You said something new came to light."

"Yeah, well . . ." He clearly didn't want to talk about it. Instead, he said, "Teresa barely stuck around long enough to make Stephen's funeral before she took Tucker away. Victoria always blamed her, but it was all conjecture. Everyone thought my grandmother was old and just making it all up, though she's always been sharp as a tack. It took a lot for her to finally ask me to help her, since we've never been on close terms. That's how much she wants Tucker."

"She thinks Teresa's to blame?"

"She thinks Teresa had a hand in the accident that killed Stephen."

"And you do too?" No wonder he'd been so harsh in the beginning.

"She's got some things to answer for. She didn't waste a lot of tears over Stephen, and she took off with his son almost from the moment he was gone. She's been missing ever since, probably by design."

"You must have something more . . . ?"

"Suspicions. I just want to find her. Even if she's not to blame, she's completely self-serving, and I want to make sure Stephen's son is okay. That's what Victoria says she wants too, though I think she'd like Teresa to be declared an unfit mother."

"What happened to Stephen?"

"A hunting accident. He was out with a friend. Something happened and Stephen got in the way when the friend's rifle discharged. Shot him in the chest. Devastated the friend."

"But . . ."

"I know. How is Teresa responsible. Victoria says she was having an affair with the friend. His name's Edmund Mikkels."

"And she got him to kill your brother?"

"Half brother. Not necessarily, but I believe she had an affair with Edmund. That's just how she operates."

"No wonder you wanted to kill me," Callie murmured. "Well, I'm not her. I don't have anything to do with any of this."

His gaze, which had been centered on her face, slowly moved to the bracelet at her wrist. "Where can I find this Aimee?" he asked.

Callie struggled with herself. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to trust in him implicitly, but she wasn't exactly batting a thousand when it came to her judgment of men. "All right, I lied. I picked the bracelet up at a p.a.w.nshop."

The words were out before she even thought them through. Careful, she warned herself, wishing she could take them back.

"What p.a.w.nshop?"

"I-hmmm. It was in Barbados. I flew there first, for a couple of days, and the bracelet was on display in the window."

"Barbados?"

"Yes."

Lies, lies, and more lies. After giving him a straightforward and credible story about her past now she was lying. And she was such a terrible liar! But she wasn't about to bring up Tucker yet. She believed him, to a point. Believed that, like herself, he'd doled her partial truths, and until she knew the whole story, she wasn't going to say anything that she didn't need to.

"Stephen gave Teresa that bracelet or she took it," he insisted in a low voice.

"Maybe she p.a.w.ned it," Callie said.

"I don't think so."

Callie felt as if a cold hand had traced a line down her back. She'd made a whopping mistake. He knew she was lying.

"Who's the friend who gave it to you?" he asked.

"I just said-"

"I'll believe the first story."

"Well, I can't help that."

They were at an impa.s.se. "All right. I'll take you back and we can figure the rest out."

"What do you mean?"

He made an impatient sound. "What do you think I mean? I mean, you're my connection to Tucker and Teresa. You need to get back and take care of yourself, and I need to repay you for all the trouble I've caused."

"I'm fine. Truly."

"You took a hit and you're sc.r.a.ped up-"

"A misunderstanding."

"You said I attacked you," he reminded her.

"Well, I didn't mean that, I was just trying to . . . goad you. But you're absolutely right. I did this to myself."

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?" he asked. "You're being awfully agreeable." He was looking at her with the same narrow-eyed suspicion he had earlier.

And suddenly she was done. Reaction, or the realization that anything she said to this man was dangerous until she had more information-both, probably-caused her to just shut down. Whatever interest she'd had in talking to him, and there had been some, she could admit that, she now felt none. She needed to leave. Get away from him. Pull herself together and keep Tucker safe.

"I'll just use the bathroom to clean up." She got to her feet and dusted herself off.

He rose to his feet to help her up the stairs but she waved him away as she picked up her carryall. In truth, her head had been filled with a dull ache for a while now.

"I'll be a while," she said.

"All right. I'll wait at the bar."

"No, I'll come back." She moved lithely away from him, pretending she wasn't starting to feel the ma.s.s of bruises that were settling in from her earlier fall.

She wished she had a way to call Tucker on the phone, or at least Aimee, but she didn't know their number, whether they had a phone, or a cell, or anything. She knew next to nothing about them other than Tucker was a sweet little boy she would lay down her life to protect, if necessary.

West stared after the woman who looked so much like Teresa. She'd lied to him, was still lying to him. The needle on his bulls.h.i.t meter was flickering in the red, and he trusted his instincts completely. He'd been a cop for too many years to be bamboozled by an amateurish liar.

And Callie Cantrell, if that was truly who she was, was most definitely lying. About the bracelet for certain. There was no G.o.dd.a.m.ned p.a.w.nshop in Barbados or anywhere else that had this piece, unless Teresa had p.a.w.ned it herself, and that chance was slim to none. The bracelet was part of the Laughlin family collection that was catalogued, insured, and kept in a safe-deposit box. He might not be a true member of the family, at least in his grandmother's eyes, but he sure as h.e.l.l had been tutored in what they possessed, by his mother, his father, and Victoria, too.

It was probably closer to the truth that she'd gotten the bracelet from her friend, Aimee, if she was truly Callie Cantrell.

Well, fine. He'd figure it out one way or another. And he'd lied to her, as well. His cell phone worked internationally. He wouldn't have come all this way without making certain he could communicate at will. He just hadn't wanted to stop and call anyone on her behalf until he was completely certain she wasn't Teresa.

And she wasn't Teresa. That didn't track. But how could this doppelgnger with the Laughlin bracelet not be involved ? That really didn't track. So, how did she fit into this puzzle? His gut told him she was involved in Stephen Tucker's abduction somehow.

Reaching into his pocket, he fingered his phone. He could call the number of the attorney she'd given him. Or he could call Dorcas at the department and get the details about the fatal accident on Mulholland that had killed a father and son. See if their name was Cantrell. See if a woman named Callie Cantrell had survived.

Pulling out his phone, he glanced at the time. Two thirty, and the day felt like it was getting hotter. Thank G.o.d for the breeze off the bay.

How much time did she have? Ten minutes? Five? Callie sluiced water on her face, thought about cleaning herself up more, then glanced at her image in the mirror. Lines of strain had formed around her mouth. Her eyes were wide and slightly anxious. Well, no s.h.i.t. She'd done okay with him, but now that she was free she wanted to run screaming out of here.

Quickly, she tucked the carryall over her shoulder and left the ladies' room, turning toward the front of the hotel and the outdoor portico where taxis and rental vehicles vied to drop off or pick up hotel patrons. The doorman saw her and interpreted that she wanted a taxi without her even saying so, opening the door of one that had just pulled in with a flourish.

"Fort-de-France," she told the driver, searching in her purse for a tip. She thanked the doorman, shoving several bills into his hand before sliding into the backseat. "Please, hurry. S'il vous plat."

The cabbie nodded and they were on their way. As they sped off, her eye fell to Fort-de-France Bay and the ferry churning its way toward Pointe du Bout.

"Wait . . ." she said.

Chapter Five.

Just after noon in Los Angeles the clouds opened up and poured rain down in torrents. It never rained in LA except when it did and then it blasted down in sheets. Andre walked out into the October downpour utterly naked and turned his face to the heavens. It was cold, hard, and nothing like Papeete weather, or anywhere else on Tahiti, but it was sharper and more cleansing.

He was, after all, The Messiah. Meant for greatness, and if those conniving b.i.t.c.hes, the handmaidens, could ever put together an original thought among them they would see him for what he was. Oh, he sensed their playacting. They thought themselves so cagey and clever, but they were empty-headed vessels just made for filling up, then winding up, then setting on their way to do his bidding.

Rain ran over his upturned face and down his chest and the dark, thick strands of his shoulder-length hair. He could smell the sea from where he stood, a briny, frigid scent unlike the musty, luscious heat that came off the South Pacific. He'd been in the States for almost ten years and he was closer to fulfilling his mission than he'd ever been, but there were still hurdles to be leaped, misfortunes to be avenged, people to kill.

There was also a long list of those who'd dismissed him, and he would not be dismissed. They didn't know him as The Messiah, but they would soon. And then he could dispense with the handmaidens. Clarice, that mealy-mouthed piece of meat, had once had the nerve to question his t.i.tle.

"There's only one true messiah," she'd said, her expression troubled, her body tight with fear and rebellion. "And that's G.o.d."

He'd punished her for that. It had to be done. And though she'd cried and curled up in a ball from the rough s.e.x and solitary confinement, she'd never questioned him again. Neither had any of the others, who'd kept their eyes downcast and swore how much they loved him. Lies! But he'd pretended to believe them all. When he'd released Clarice from her confinement and then used some of the money to shower her with clothes, jewelry, and gifts, she'd glowed under all the deliberate one-on-one he'd shown her. The other handmaidens had been bright green with jealousy. And everything had gone back to the way it should be.

At least that's what they would have him believe, though he sensed, very clearly, that there was a change afoot. Clarice had openly defied him, although Teresa had been pulling back for a long time.

He shook his head, water spraying in all directions. There were houses on all sides of their rental, but they were bungalows whose windows could not see over the tall fence. No one could see him standing naked in the rain. It was too bad they needed privacy because the thought of prying eyes brought his p.e.n.i.s erect. He smiled as he thought of how much he would like to have them watch.

But he couldn't bring attention to their way of life. He needed obscurity as he moved forward in his plan. The handmaidens didn't know it, but the endgame was nigh. The pyramid was being dismantled; the lower levels had been taken out first, peripheral players who'd nevertheless been in his way as he ascended to the top level.

And once he was there-once he was standing on the pinnacle-then he truly would be The Messiah and he would have no more need for the handmaidens. He would also be wealthy, respected, and in his rightful place. They thought they could take it from him, but they were wrong.

"Andre?"

Daniella's voice sc.r.a.ped along his nerves. He fought back a surge of anger as the sliding door slid open and she stepped cautiously outside, hovering under the eave to keep from being drenched by rain. She was the smallest and plainest of the handmaidens. He would never have accepted her if he hadn't needed someone with her attributes. Someone nonthreatening, non-memorable, almost nonexistent. Someone incredibly malleable who would scarcely cause a ripple of interest once she was gone for good.

"Irene called about the rent," she said, clicking her teeth in that annoying way she had when she was nervous. "I think maybe Robert put her up to it."

"You think?" he questioned.

Fl.u.s.tered, she said, "No . . . I mean . . . you said her son was a growing problem."

"I did say that," he agreed, and she bobbed her head eagerly, afraid. His good mood vanished as he considered the addled old woman who was their landlord and whose son was trying to take over her finances. He wished Irene Lumpkin would just die and be done with it . . . except that he liked the house, and if she died, Robert would take over and sell the place as fast as he could. And they didn't have enough money to buy it . . . not yet, anyway . . . though soon . . . soon . . . d.a.m.n southern California real estate prices. It was robbery, plain and simple.

"She said she wanted the rent by four o'clock today," Daniella added diffidently. "Can . . . can I get it to her?"

Daniella was the face of their home. Irene thought she lived in the house with her sisters. No one knew about Andre. Daniella kept the fact that a man lived in the house secret, which was one of the reasons Robert Lumpkin felt he could maneuver things his way.

Andre hadn't planned another killing for the immediate future. He didn't want anything to disrupt the momentum of his plan. But then again, he couldn't have a piece of excrement like Robert Lumpkin mucking things up.

There was cash in the safe. More than enough for the rent, but the supply was dwindling. Shooing Daniella back inside, Andre then stalked to his bedroom where Teresa was still lying in his bed. What was wrong with that woman? One moment she was sneaking in and doing his bidding with energy to burn, the next she was a lump of meat.

"Get up," he snarled. She roused herself with an effort and staggered out of the room.