"I've got enough f.u.c.kin' problems around here at the moment. Another one of my girls tried to run on Sat.u.r.day night. I had to deal with it."

Max feigned interest. Anything to take the heat off him. "Which one?"

"Malee. She'd been with me for two f.u.c.kin' years. She was one of my best girls. She really knew how to get 'em in."

Max forced another laugh. "I hope you taught her a lesson. I hope you made her suck c.o.c.k until she gagged."

"She won't be suckin' any more c.o.c.k. I can tell you that for sure," Vince chuckled.

The sound of his mirth made Max shiver. His answering chuckle was anything but natural. "That's what you get for being ungrateful. It sounds like she deserved everything she got."

"Oh yeah, she deserved it all right. No one f.u.c.ks with Vince Maranoa."

The line went dead in his ear and Max dropped all pretense of humor. Another attack seized him. He clutched at his gut and groaned. From fear or pain-he could no longer tell.

Making her way along the carpeted corridor of the Daily Mirror's offices, Savannah nodded greetings to various work colleagues before heading toward her cubicle. Stowing her handbag in its customary place beneath her desk, she logged onto her computer and checked her emails.

As she suspected, there was a new message from Lucy and another one from Chloe. She swallowed a groan.

What was she going to tell them?

She and Will had just disappeared. She hadn't even called her friends later to let them know she was okay. No doubt they were frantic.

Opening the email from Lucy, she read the message.

What the h.e.l.l happened to you last night? I know that headache was nothing more than an excuse. Believe me, I was pleased when you decided to get out of there. Knowing WR could recognize you at any moment was giving me indigestion. But then he left with you AND DIDN'T COME BACK! Don't even think about not spilling all. Call me AS SOON AS YOU GET IN!!

Okay, so her best friend since high school wasn't as concerned about her as she'd thought. Clearly, she a.s.sumed she'd left with Will Rutledge. There wasn't even a hint of alarm in her email.

Savannah was miffed. For all Lucy knew, he could have drugged her and forced himself upon her. Did she really think the man was so far above reproach she didn't even express the slightest hint of worry that her best friend had last been seen in his company and no one had heard from her since? Obviously, she did.

After reading a similarly themed email from Chloe, Savannah drafted a reply to both of them. She wasn't ready to talk to Lucy or Chloe about what had happened. She hadn't yet sorted it out herself.

Got home safe and sound. Alone. Thanks for your concern, but no need to worry. Talk soon. S xx She clicked on "send" and sank down low in her chair. Until she'd determined how Will was involved with Maranoa, she wouldn't spend another second thinking about what had happened between them.

An image of his gloriously naked body flashed through her mind. Her lips twisted into a wry smile. Okay, forgetting about their night together might be easier said than done. It didn't mean she couldn't give it her best shot.

Glancing up, she noticed her editor striding toward her, his sizeable belly leading the way. His face was flushed and his gaze glinted with determination. She swallowed a groan and logged out of her email account. As short on niceties as he was on height, Max got straight to the point.

"Savannah, I want you to do a follow-up on yesterday's story. We've received hundreds of emails about it. People are outraged and they're dying to know more. You have to strike while they're still salivating."

She blinked in surprise. "I thought you said it was too dangerous for me to go poking around in places like that? Who'd have thought a jump in sales was more important than my safety?" Her voice was as dry as Milo's kitty litter. She still hadn't forgiven her editor for refusing her byline. Not even having the grace to look embarra.s.sed, he plowed on.

"Forget about what I said. That was yesterday. The only thing is, I'd rather you have a look at some of the other brothels in the city. Widen the scope a bit, you know? I'm sure the Black Opal's not the only one involved in shady dealings. You could do a whole series."

"But, Max I can't just-" Her protest was cut short.

"You're not listening to me, Savannah."

He spoke to her like one would speak to a preschooler. It was all she could do not to roll her eyes.

"Go onto Google and do a little research," he continued. "Widen the net. I want to expose every last one of these places for what they are. You're a good writer. I'm sure you're up for the challenge and I'm also sure I don't have to remind you how good another sellout story will look to the people responsible for paying your wages. With all the cutbacks around here, it will help sh.o.r.e up your position if you manage another sellout. You never know when the bean counters will turn their gaze on you."

He stared at her meaningfully. Savannah lowered her gaze. Max knew that she couldn't afford to lose her job. Besides, what he said made sense. There probably were other brothels in the city carrying on illegal activities. The thought of other poor girls being subjected to what was happening at the Black Opal made her blood boil. It was only right that they be exposed.

Apparently satisfied by her lack of response, Max nodded. "Good, I'm glad that's settled. Get onto your sources and see what you can find out. I want something on my desk by Thursday." He turned and stalked away, ending the conversation as abruptly as he'd started it.

Savannah's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Finding her feet and her tongue, she pushed away from her chair and shouted, "Max, that's only two days away! I can't make contact with the girls working in other brothels in that time. It's impossible."

Max stopped and turned, his face dark with a frown she knew from experience was not to be taken lightly.

"Savannah, I don't want to hear excuses. You managed it the first time around. I'm sure you'll manage it again. We have to strike now, while the public are still outraged over our expose. Next week it might be something else that has them all hot and bothered and we'll miss our opportunity. Now, get on with it." He stalked away, hauling his bulk in the direction from where he'd come.

Her thoughts turned sour. Yeah, right. Just get on with it. Like it was that simple.

There was no way in the world two days was enough time to allow for fresh sources to be contacted and persuaded to talk. She didn't know what planet he was on, but the women she'd spoken to at the Black Opal were extremely wary about coming forward with information. She couldn't simply waltz into another brothel, snap her fingers and get people to talk to her. Even last Sat.u.r.day night, it had taken a good couple of hours of gentle persuasion to finally get Malee talking and it had been Malee who had made the initial contact.

She couldn't possibly achieve that kind of trust and openness from an unfamiliar s.e.x worker who might or might not appreciate the media looking into their livelihood. It was beyond ridiculous to suggest otherwise.

Chances were zero to none that she'd come up with the kind of story Max was angling for in the time frame he'd allotted. The only brothel she had a hope of cajoling further information out of its employees by Thursday was the one she'd already visited. Max may have asked her to 'widen the net,' but if he wanted a story that week, he'd have to accept it would be on the Black Opal.

Besides, he was in the business of selling newspapers. Hers wasn't the only job that depended upon sales figures. She was sure once they'd managed two sellouts in one week, he'd forget all about his request to investigate other establishments. At least, she hoped so.

With a sigh of resignation, she took out her cell and scrolled through her list of contacts, stopping when she found Malee's number. Pressing the send b.u.t.ton, she prayed silently that the girl would answer. The phone rang for what seemed an eon of time before it was finally directed to voicemail. Malee's message had obviously been recorded for clients as her voice, even with its broken English, came through low and sultry.

"It's Malee. If you're after good time with very s.e.xy girl, please leave message. I fit you in-all of you-just how you like it."

Savannah spoke quietly into the phone. "Malee, it's Savannah O'Neill from the Daily Mirror. I really need to get back into the brothel tonight. Please, call me." After leaving her number, she ended the call. All she could do now was wait.

Dylan listened to the voicemail message for a third time and reluctantly accepted the truth.

It was her. It was Savannah who had written the story.

How much she knew, was anyone's guess, but from the accuracy of her article, it was clear she'd spoken to at least someone inside the brothel with firsthand information.

Dread tightened his gut. She had no idea the danger she faced. No one f.u.c.ked with Vince. If he found out, she'd wish she were dead already.

Did he risk warning her away? Would she even listen? He'd be forced to tell her how he'd come upon his knowledge. Was he ready to do that? Was he ready to have her look at him with eyes full of sadness and disappointment, yet again? But what choice did he have? A warning from him might be enough to keep her away, keep her safe. After all, she was his sister.

Quiet panic gripped his insides. He'd already eradicated two of Vince's "problems" in the s.p.a.ce of less than a week and that didn't count the first time. What if Vince ordered him to get rid of her? His own sister?

He shook his head in despair and confusion. When had his life spiraled so far out of control?

It had seemed so easy in the beginning. He'd first met Vince through his nephew. Tony Maranoa was only a few years older than Dylan and was also on a stint of court-ordered rehab. Meeting Tony in the rehab facility had been a stroke of luck. Not only that, it had changed Dylan's life.

Tony had made the introductions during a family visit. Vince had come to the facility to replenish his nephew's supplies. He had a thriving business in rehab. Demand inevitably outstripped supply and Tony named his price.

Dylan had been immediately drawn to the air of authority and power surrounding Vince. His Rolex had glinted impressively in the sun, as did the heavy gold chain around his neck. His suit was custom made and his leather shoes were so shiny they almost reflected the sky. Dylan wanted in and he was prepared to do anything it took to make it happen.

After consulting closely with Tony about Dylan's suitability, Vince finally agreed to take him on as a runner. He'd work with Georgie to hustle up business in the alleyways and in the darkened corners of the nightclubs that lined the streets of Kings Cross. It was Vince's main stomping ground. Dylan was young, good looking and charismatic. People would be drawn to him. People would trust him. It was a win-win situation.

Dylan had signed out of rehab a month early, eager to commence his new career. But first, to prove his loyalty to his new boss, Dylan was asked to take care of a little "problem."

Sam Fenton was a drug addict way past his "best before" date. The debt he owed to Vince was so out of control, it would take him three lifetimes to pay it back. The solution was simple: Vince would make Sam an example. It was important Vince's other customers realized what would happen if they didn't pay off their debts.

Though Dylan had nearly s.h.i.t himself when the b.u.m had opened his eyes right before Dylan had pulled the trigger, he'd done it anyway and Vince had been pleased. He nicknamed him "Billy the Kid." Life became a whole lot more pleasant.

It wasn't long before "Billy" was invited into the world behind the plain wooden doors that housed the Black Opal. The drugs were plentiful, the girls were friendly, the money poured in. But recently, he'd sensed a change. Vince was feeling the pressure-from what, Dylan didn't know.

What he did know was that Vince had turned meaner and with it came a nastiness Dylan had never contemplated. For the first time since he'd met his boss, he was scared. The usual caustic banter had been replaced by dark scowls and barked orders and after the week Dylan had just had, he was in no doubt that Vince meant business: Obey orders or disappear. No one was indispensable. It was as simple as that.

With an effort, Dylan shrugged off the dread that had weighed him down for the last twenty minutes, ever since he'd listened to Malee's voicemail. Taking care to delete the final message and wipe the phone clean of his prints, he tossed it into the harbor and watched while it slowly sank out of sight.

Savannah stared at her phone and willed it to ring. It had been more than half an hour since she'd left the message for Malee. With a sigh, she pushed away from her desk and collected her coffee mug. She walked to the tea room and filled the kettle.

Leaning against the counter while she waited for it to boil, she picked up a copy of the newspaper. Despite her best efforts, she'd arrived late and hadn't had time for her usual routine of coffee and a quick scan over the headlines before she started work.

A grainy picture on the front page snagged her attention. She read the short article. Almost immediately, fear tightened her belly.

The body of a female had been dragged out of the harbor the night before. The girl had been naked and so far, no one had come forward to identify her. Savannah stared at the photo and her blood ran cold.

It was Malee. She was sure of it.

The story went on to say the girl was thought to be between thirteen and eighteen-years-old. She'd been badly beaten and had suffered multiple fractures prior to her death. It was believed she'd been in the water for several days. An autopsy was underway. The homicide detectives were appealing to anyone with information to come forward.

Nausea swirled in Savannah's stomach. She felt sick at the thought she might have had something to do with the young girl's death. Malee had a.s.sured her she had somewhere to go-a trusted client who had promised to look after her. Savannah didn't want to begin to imagine what had gone wrong...

The gravity of the situation hit her hard. Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe. This wasn't just a sleazy brothel story. This was now a murder investigation, a matter of life and death. A woman who'd shared her secrets about the Black Opal and its owner had been killed. The coroner was yet to confirm the cause, but Savannah was prepared to wager her next month's pay that it hadn't been accidental.

Malee had been a strong, vibrant young woman, determined to escape the h.e.l.lhole that was her life and start again. There was no way she would have committed suicide if her escape had been successful... And the paper said she'd been badly beaten. Had she told the perpetrator she'd spoken to a reporter?

Savannah swiped at the perspiration that beaded her brow. She bit her lip in indecision, knowing she should contact the homicide squad immediately and tell them what she knew.

But what about Will? Was he somehow involved? He'd been at the brothel the same night as Malee's failed escape attempt. Could he have something to do with her murder?

She shook her head, refusing to consider it. No, there had to be some other explanation for his presence, some other reason why he and Maranoa went "way back." There had to be. She just hadn't found it yet.

If she went to homicide and shared what she knew, matters would be taken out of her hands. She would lose all control of the situation and there was a chance Will would be caught up in something he was totally innocent of. It would ruin his life. Even if he proved any potential allegations false, a man with such a high profile would never clear his name. He'd never be free of the whispers behind closed doors, the surrept.i.tious glances, the people who would always question, always wonder.

She knew firsthand how it felt to be the brunt of cruel gossip and innuendo. When her parents had died, there were many in the academic world who had rejoiced just a little too loudly over their pa.s.sing; people who had dropped sly comments that the bizarre accident that had claimed the lives of her mother and father had been no less than what they deserved; people who lived their lives within the sheltered walls of a university had no business trying to be outback adventurers.

Matters got even worse when Dylan went off the rails. First, it was shoplifting. Little things-a soft drink, a packet of gum-but it quickly escalated to electrical goods, alcohol and worse.

Savannah had been beside herself. She'd moved down to Canberra a year after the funeral to take up a job offer with the Canberra Times and had relocated Dylan with her. She'd hoped a new environment would help him through his troubles, but he'd found it difficult to fit into his new school, often complaining he had no friends and his teachers were dumb. She'd lost count of the number of suspensions.

It was almost inevitable that he'd turn to drugs. She was horrified when she'd discovered he was using. He was sixteen and smoking pot. He'd laughed off her concern, telling her she was old fashioned, shouting at her that she wasn't his mother and she had no right to tell him what to do.

Their relationship deteriorated. No matter what she tried to say and do, he refused to listen. His drug use escalated. He was moody and unpredictable; there were times when she barely recognized him.

Despite the turmoil in her personal life, her career had been slowly flourishing. She'd quickly climbed the ladder from a junior journalist on the Canberra Times to rubbing shoulders with senior staff members who more often than not found themselves walking the corridors of Parliament House.

The thought of covering the often-animated discussions that occurred in the most powerful building in the country excited her. She worked even harder and stayed back even longer, prepared to do whatever it took. Looking back, she couldn't believe she'd existed for so long on spa.r.s.e meals and s.n.a.t.c.hed periods of sleep and through it all, she'd borne the stress of living with a drug addict.

But her efforts had paid off, at least where her career was concerned. Six months before her last birthday, she'd landed her dream job. That night, she'd gone by Jonathan's condominium to celebrate and had found him getting naked with another girl. Two hours later, Dylan had landed in jail.

The reality of her brother's situation had hit her hard and went a considerable way to distracting her from her heartbreak over her fiance. Dylan was at crisis point and it was up to her to do something. He was now over eighteen. There would be no gentle raps across the knuckles from the courts. He would be dealt with by the full force of the law.

The judge said as much when he'd sentenced Dylan for being in possession of marijuana. Because it was his first conviction, he'd been given a choice: Go to a court-sanctioned rehabilitation center or do time in jail.

For Savannah, there had been no choice. The day after she'd walked down the aisle as Chloe Munro's bridesmaid, she'd packed up her home. With her car loaded to the roof with their luggage, she and Dylan had returned to their hometown of Sydney where she'd immediately enrolled him in a rehabilitation program. Within a few weeks, she'd been fortunate to pick up a job at the Daily Mirror.

Six months down the track, she was beginning to question her decision. Despite the enormous bills she paid every month to the rehab center for his treatment, she had yet to see any proof that Dylan had reformed. On top of that, her job was getting her down.

It was a far cry from the excitement and action of Parliament House. Until she'd broken the story on the Black Opal, the majority of her stories had covered nothing more exciting than the occasional break and enter or a pile-up on the freeway. Not that those items weren't newsworthy, but writing about them wasn't quite the same as the make-and-break stories she'd covered in the parliamentary press gallery.

Once again, her thoughts returned to Will. She still couldn't believe how quickly she'd become entangled with him. She'd hoped that by dumping Jonathan and moving to Sydney, the complications in her life would drift away. But Will had become "complication" personified. Was she mad to even contemplate trying to sort out what was going on with him? And did she really care?

She did. That was the problem.

There was nothing for it. She'd go back to the Black Opal. Only this time, she was going to have to do it without Malee's help.

Determination surged through her. She wouldn't rest until she had all the proof she needed to expose Maranoa for the criminal that he was. The stories Malee had told her hurt her head and her heart.

She vowed to see an end to it. She would make sure Malee's brave escape attempt that had ended so tragically hadn't been in vain and while she was at it, she'd determine once and for all the level of Will's involvement.

CHAPTER 8.

Will leaned back against his chair and enjoyed his first cup of coffee that morning. A few other uniforms and a couple of plain clothes detectives mingled in the tea room, trading idle chitchat and the usual off-color jokes as they prepared for the day ahead.

Pete strode into the squad room and the hum of conversation lowered momentarily, amongst casual morning greetings. Setting his cup back onto his desk, Will stood and followed Pete into his office, closing the door behind them.

Pete glanced at him and then turned to hang his jacket in the locker which stood in the corner of the room. His desk held the usual clutter of papers, files, photographs and endless piles of police statements. Will could relate to the mess.

"Will, how's it going? What happened to you last night?

Heat flooded Will's face and his gut churned with sudden nerves. "I-I was wondering if I could ask you a question?"