He then went to the safe and twirled the combination after a quick look over his shoulder to see if any of the handmaidens were there. He loved them dearly, in his way, but they couldn't know how to get to the money. He couldn't trust them. They were children, really.

Pulling out one of the stacks of cash, he gloomily considered the safe-deposit box at the bank where most of the rest of the cash was hidden. He had a bank account under his real name; one of the only good things his father had done was get him a Social Security Number. He'd opened the account years earlier on one of the few trips he'd taken to the States about ten years before his final return.

Selecting several thick rolls, he tucked most of the money in the zippered pockets of one of his jackets, then gave Daniella enough for the rent and told her to drop it at the Lumpkin house. "Take the Chevy," he said, the least auspicious of the three cars they were currently using. Its plates were good for another three months. "Don't give the money to Robert. Only Irene."

"But Robert always answers the door," she whined.

Andre ground his teeth together and nodded once, allowing her to give the cash to Irene's son, and Daniella scooted for the door.

He watched her leave and his thoughts turned to the rest of the handmaidens, wondering which one would be best to strike up an acquaintance with the fat and greedy Robert Lumpkin. He'd only seen Daniella up close and personal, so it could be any one of them: Clarice, Teresa, Jerrilyn, or Naomi. Tall, statuesque, and stern Naomi might be too much for him, and Teresa was off her game. Clarice, maybe, although she had that streak of religion that made him want to strangle her. Jerrilyn. She was on another job, but she could probably fit Robert Lumpkin in too. But she wasn't perfect either. Too unpredictable and self-indulgent. Still, she'd been the one with the best results, if you discounted Teresa.

Fleetingly he thought of women he'd had before Teresa. To a one they'd been possessive, would never have understood about the handmaidens. They thought it was cheating, when he was with another woman, and he'd parted with each of them quickly. Like so many things, they were from another time, another place, another life. Before Teresa and Martinique, before California, before his plan had crystallized. The dark days before he'd truly understood his calling.

Andre's thoughts touched briefly on his father and he scowled, feeling a renewed spurt of fury lick through him. The man had dragged his wife and young son all over the South Pacific, beating both of them when he was drunk and stupid, which was more times than he was sober. Andre had been forced to kill him to save his mother and himself. By then they'd been in Tahiti, and though there had been an investigation into the drowning victim's death, no one suspected the nine-year-old boy who'd lured his drunken father to the sea, smacked him with a rock, and held his unconscious body underwater.

It had been necessary, and though Andre's mother suspected, she never said anything. After her death, which he'd never quite understood-she'd just given up the will to live-he'd found the doc.u.ments that explained who he was and he'd realized that he was meant for greatness. It was his heritage, his destiny. He stayed with a series of foster families until he was sixteen, then started grifting.

He ran through a slew of women until he found Teresa. He remembered being bowled over the first time he'd seen her, even though she tried to pull a con on him. But he was ahead of her at that game, and as soon as she realized that fact, they became compatriots and lovers. Both hungry for money and each other. Perfect partners. Together they worked wealthy patrons at a number of the finer hotels and then, when they'd picked the area clean, so to speak, they moved on to California. Teresa didn't know his ultimate plans, but she'd left Martinique before she was caught or snitched on by people who swore to be their friends, but who would sell you out in a heartbeat.

No one could be trusted. Not even Teresa any longer . . . especially not Teresa.

Now, seating himself cross-legged on his bedroom floor, he closed his eyes and pressed his palms together, imagining the doughy, mean-spirited face of Robert Lumpkin. For long moments he drove killing thoughts into the man's dark heart.

You are targeted for death, Robert Lumpkin.

He stayed in the same position until he felt the beginnings of a blinding headache. They were happening more frequently and though he'd shoved off Clarice's concern-she'd caught him d.a.m.n near unconscious one day-he knew he had to get to his endgame soon. He needed a medical doctor but didn't trust anyone, didn't want to give away where he lived.

A long time later he got to his feet and headed for a shower, his headache breaking up.

He would call Jerrilyn.

West kicked himself all the way back to Fort-de-France. He'd waited far too long for Callie to reappear, trusting that she was who she'd said she was, never dreaming she would slip out the front of the hotel and disappear. G.o.d. If he'd thought about throttling her before, now he really wanted to. Except it was his fault.

Realizing she wasn't coming back, he'd tried to talk to the doorman who'd clammed up quick when he'd witnessed West's temper. But she had to have taken a cab, and so he was doing the same, hoping he was close enough behind to catch up to her before she disappeared into one of the many apartment buildings around the alley where he'd first accosted her. Yeah, he felt a little bad about the way he'd treated her, purposely trying to scare her, but so what. Now she was in the wind. And he'd let her go. It was his fault, no one else's. If she decided to hole up inside her apartment, it could be a while before he found her again, but he would find her. d.a.m.n. He shouldn't have trusted her an inch. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with him?

You liked her.

He swore under his breath. Yeah, he'd liked her. Just like his brother had.

She's not Teresa. But she's . . . someone who could be equally as deceptive.

His ego had taken a direct hit. After Roxanne and their messy on-again, off-again relationship, he'd believed himself wise to the lures of the female s.e.x, but h.e.l.l . . . he was just as stupid and clueless as he'd been before. Grabbing up his cell phone, he put a call in to Pete Dorcas's mobile. When he got his old partner's voice mail, he debated on even leaving a message, then said tersely, "Hey, I need your help. You remember that crash off Mulholland last year, the father and son were killed, mother survived. Get me as much information on that as you can. Thanks. I owe you."

He gazed out the window at the pa.s.sing landscape. "G.o.d. d.a.m.n," he said through gritted teeth.

Callie's heart was beating unevenly as she walked along the dock, and she had to repress the urge to look over her shoulder. She was not a superst.i.tious person but she couldn't control the feeling of urgency that a.s.sailed her. She had to get back to Tucker. Immediately. Without West Laughlin.

Aimee Thomas wasn't Tucker's mother. Teresa was. Had to be. And it explained why Tucker spoke such excellent English while Aimee spoke only a few words, or at least that was what she would have Callie believe. Though Callie had only met her once, Aimee had seemed overly wary of her. Callie had found that odd since Aimee let Tucker wander the streets with his friends as if he were years older, a freedom that drove Callie half crazy.

Had Teresa stowed Tucker with Aimee? Were they friends? Had they known each other for years? West said there were e-mails from Teresa to someone who had picked them up at an Internet cafe several years earlier. Was it Aimee? Who maybe now possessed a smartphone and picked up her e-mail that way . . . or who texted?

Why had Teresa left Tucker with Aimee? Was she maybe on the run? Because she had something to do with her husband's death? Was West's grandmother right, or was she elderly and paranoid?

Or maybe Teresa just stashed Tucker with Aimee because he was an enc.u.mbrance? Where was she?

Now she did glance over her shoulder. The taxi driver had left her at the hub of the tourist shops scattered along the periphery of the Pointe du Bout marina's docks. There were people behind her but none that she recognized. She glanced both left and right but saw no sight of an angry West Laughlin chasing her. In front of her were the narrow white spires and rigging of the sailboats that created a mesh against the cloudless blue sky.

Stephen Tucker Laughlin. West Laughlin's nephew. Was he really her Tucker?

He gave you the bracelet, she reminded herself.

The ferry horn blasted twice and Callie hurried down the pier. Once more she glanced nervously behind herself, but she was still alone. The sun hit the amethyst gems and made them sparkle. She slipped off the bracelet and put it deep inside her carryall. If it was an heirloom, she sure as h.e.l.l didn't want it to be seen any longer. She didn't even want it in her possession, but what should she do? Give it to West? Or give it back to Aimee, since Tucker wouldn't take it?

She ground her teeth together. She didn't want to give it to Aimee, after what West had said.

It seemed to take forever for the people to empty the ferry. Callie stood in the crush of tourists eager to visit Fort-de-France. Stepping onto the boat, she hazarded one more glance at the pier. Nothing. The ghosts were all in her own mind.

When the engines changed and the ferry began to pull back into the bay, Callie was on the aft deck, one hand gripped tightly around the wide white railing. She held her breath until they were underway. She wouldn't fool him for long. She knew that without being told.

She just needed a little time to get back to Fort-de-France and find Tucker before West Laughlin did.

Teresa could hear Andre talking on his cell to Jerrilyn about Robert Lumpkin and thanked her lucky stars that he hadn't put her on that job. It was a bit of a worry, actually, that he'd chosen Jerrilyn over her in that she was the natural choice. Was he onto her? Aware that she had other plans? Did he have some other job for her?

She was lying on the couch, pretending to be asleep, when she heard him walk over toward her.

"You gonna sleep all day?" he demanded, irked.

Carefully, Teresa opened her eyes and drew herself into a sitting position. Andre was dressed in light pants and a white shirt. His hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, held by a thong of leather. He looked handsome and serious, and briefly she remembered why she'd been so enamored of him, why she'd done all the things she'd done on his behalf.

"I need you to take care of a problem for me."

"I thought I heard you talking to Jerrilyn."

"She's busy," he clipped out.

"What is it?" she asked carefully. She wanted to leave tonight. She was pretending to be napping while her brain was churning, her stomach clenched with anxiety.

"I need you to neutralize Robert Lumpkin."

Her heart sank. Ever since she'd caused the death of Jonathan's son, she'd been unable to follow through with all of Andre's orders. She'd explained why and he'd pretended to understand, had given her jobs that didn't require her to kill anyone else, but now she knew that time of reprieve was over.

His face flashed with annoyance. "Daniella took the rent to him and is watching Irene's house. When Lumpkin leaves, she'll let me know where he's gone and I want you on him. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Say it."

"Yes, I understand."

"Say it!"

"Yes, Messiah. I understand," Teresa said woodenly, the words ashes in her mouth.

He eyed her with suspicion but Teresa pretended not to notice.

"Make it happen tonight."

On leaden feet, Teresa went to the closet she shared with Jerrilyn, pa.s.sing by Naomi, who gave her a sympathetic look that Teresa knew to be a fake. None of them cared a whit about any of the others.

She took a shower, dried her hair, and applied a thick coating of foundation, then overplayed her eyeliner, lashes, and lipstick. She added a liberal coating of blush as well. She knew enough about Robert Lumpkin from what Daniella had described over the last several years to suspect he wanted pizzazz over elegance. "His eyes are all over my t.i.ts every time I hand him the rent," she'd said, "and he always waits to close the door when I'm leaving. I looked back once. His eyes were glued to my a.s.s. He's round and losing his hair, which he's got in a comb-over. He's pathetic and he knows it."

Subtlety would not be the way to go to catch his attention.

When Teresa was ready, she sat down at the table where they took all their meals. It could be a long wait, depending on when Lumpkin decided to leave his mother's house. Maybe it wouldn't even happen today, but in any case she had to be ready at a moment's notice.

As she sat there, she felt a slow, heavy beat begin inside her chest. It was a familiar friend. Oh, she could posture all she wanted, she could feel the throb of antic.i.p.ation. Adrenaline junkie. That's what she was, and though she never, ever wanted to hurt an innocent, the thought of taking care of an a.s.shole like Robert Lumpkin got her juices flowing.

Raising her eyes, she saw that Andre was watching her across the table, his arms crossed over his chest. As if he knew what she was feeling, he smiled with approval.

I'm leaving you, she thought. For good this time. It's not the same anymore.

You're not the same.

But she smiled back in understanding, letting him believe she was back in the fold. And just because she resented having to do his bidding one last time didn't mean she couldn't enjoy it. She would just do it her way.

Callie stepped off the ferry into long afternoon shadows. Her apartment wasn't near the pier so she gazed around for a taxi, lifting her arm and shading her eyes against the sun. West Laughlin was going to have a cow when he realized she was gone.

"He's going to think you're Teresa again," she said aloud, dropping her arm.

Though she was desperate to find Tucker, she had to hold herself back, think it through. It was best if she stayed away from him with West Laughlin circling around, unless she got there right now, before West had time to get back to Fort-de-France.

But maybe he already has.

She hesitated in indecision. A cab ride would be quicker than the ferry, which trundled along on its own schedule. It would be better if she didn't go anywhere near her apartment. The chance of running into West or Tucker was too great. Maybe she could walk around for a while, go to a different hotel somewhere nearby.

She thought longingly of her cell phone, tossed into the back of one of her drawers. But who would she call anyway? William? He wouldn't be interested in anything but getting her back to LA to deal with the ever-clamoring Cantrells. Jonathan had made out a will and left everything to Sean, but it had bounced back to Callie when Sean had died at the same time. There hadn't been any peace from Derek or Diane ever since, but too d.a.m.n bad. She hadn't much cared at the time; she didn't care much now.

She realized how much she'd been cut off from people she knew. Friends whom she'd let drift away when she'd followed blindly after Bryan to Los Angeles. People she'd met from work whom she'd lost contact with after she married Jonathan. She was alone to fight her own battles . . . and possibly Tucker's.

Should she go to his house? She wanted to confront Aimee, but she could unknowingly lead West Laughlin right to Tucker.

She was walking through the crowded pier, getting jostled by elbows. She felt a particularly hard shove and suddenly her bag wasn't on her arm. She grabbed at it instinctively, catching a handle, and realized a young man was holding onto the other side and trying to yank it from her grasp. "Hey!" she yelled, shocked, jerking back with all her might. "Stop! Thief!"

The boy let go and ran as people turned and stared. Shaken, Callie clutched the bag close to her chest. She'd always known to be careful in the crowds. She'd heard tales of wharf rats stealing purses, cell phones, and pa.s.sports. It was a hazard in most crowded tourist areas.

She was lucky she still had her carryall, ID, credit cards, and the bracelet. Quickly, frantically, she searched through the carryall, her hands clasping over the hard-edged gems. Thank you, G.o.d. Her pounding heart threatened to overtake her. Feeling weak, she walked to a bench on the edge of the pier. Maybe the bracelet was safer on her arm. It had a hidden clasp that had to be undone to release it. It seemed counterintuitive, but her carryall was like a beacon to would-be thieves. Carefully, watching the people strolling by, she slipped the bracelet back on her arm, clasped it, and then kept touching it to make sure it was there, clutching the carryall to her chest. She needed to go home. Needed to pull herself together. No more walking aimlessly around.

She needed a ride home and for that she had to get to the main street and access to a taxi. At this time of day, rush hour, it was difficult to walk to her apartment. Weaving her way through the sauntering crowd, she held tight to her carryall, her arm imprisoning it close to her body. There was no reason to feel so paranoid about Tucker, she reminded herself. He was safe, well, and very possibly loitering impatiently around her apartment. She'd promised him a treat from the bakery and he was unlikely to forget even though the pastry was crushed and left on the pavement.

It took a while to work her way from the pier and pedestrians, reach the street, and lift an arm for a taxi. It was a hopeless gesture. The traffic whizzing down the four-lane street wouldn't slow down for anything short of a ten-car pile-up. Callie gritted her teeth and waited for the traffic light to change. She wasn't near a crosswalk, but if she could make her way to the median in the center, then hurry across the other lanes, she could get to the taxi stand.

The light changed from green to yellow, then to red. She gripped her carryall tighter, waiting for the traffic to slow. It seemed to take an eternity. Finally she dared to step off the curb, only to be blasted by a dozen horns, the driver nearest shaking his fist outside the window and yelling at her in rapid-fire French.

Ignoring him, Callie darted between the cars, reached the median, glanced toward the traffic light, and saw it change to green again.

"Hey! You!"

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She whipped around, certain it was West.

But no, another driver was jabbing his finger in the direction of the light, his face a dark scowl. Not heeding his warning, she quickly zigzagged her way through the other cars before they got into gear.

She cut across the park on the edge of the outdoor tourist market to the small, in-cut road used as a taxi station. The station was empty.

Forced to wait or walk up the hill alone, Callie wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to pace. A chill had settled between her shoulder blades though the temperature was still warm. She shot a glance back toward the ferry dock and got a jolt when she saw a man looking up at her through binoculars.

West. No. Just a tourist.

"Bonsoir, Madame."

She nearly jumped from her skin at the friendly greeting. A tall, silver-haired gentleman in a suit stood beside her, and she smiled faintly as she realized he, too, was waiting for a taxi.

"Bonsoir," she answered.

"You're American," he said in a French accent, and Callie only nodded. The last thing she wanted was to get embroiled in a conversation with a stranger.

All she could think about was Tucker.

"You are alone," he said with obvious concern, and for once Callie grew impatient with the gallantry of the French.

"Not really alone. Just on my way home. I've been . . . shopping."

He glanced at her plastic bag, and Callie remembered what she looked like: torn, dirty, and sc.r.a.ped. Though she'd brushed the dust off her arms and legs, the grime on her white dress was distinguishable even beneath the shadows of the tall buildings.

And her hair. It would be a miracle if she ever got the tangles out. With sinking realization she wondered if he could see the bruise developing on her jaw.

She opened her mouth to come up with some explanation just as a taxi slipped into the narrow roadway.

"Please." The gentleman gestured her forward, opening the taxi door for her.

Callie gave him a slight nod and slid into the seat of the taxi. "I live up the hill," she said to the driver, bending forward so he could hear her over the noise. She pointed in the direction she meant.

The driver nodded his understanding. The silver-haired gentleman lifted a hand and said, "Au revoir, jolie femme."

Callie smiled. "Merci, au revoir," she said out the window, then the taxi was speeding away from the curb and the city of Fort-de-France.

Good-bye, pretty woman. She doubted she looked all that pretty right now.

Safe inside the vehicle, she felt close to exhaustion. Away from West Laughlin's powerful influence she realized what a bully he'd been, forcing himself on her like that. She was glad to be away from him. Hoped to h.e.l.l he couldn't find her again.