The thought raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She skimmed her gaze across the patio. Then quickened her steps toward the back door.
There, Allie noted a dim light glowing behind one of the condo’s closed shutters.
She draped the garment bag over a chair, then opened her purse. After jotting a message on a sticky note, she pressed it against one of the glass panes in the back door.
And gave a startled gasp when the door slowly swung open.
“Mercedes?” Allie stared into the dimly lit kitchen. In the shadows, just visible across the room, the refrigerator groaned, cycling through a new tray of ice cubes. The clatter as they fell into their bin was as startling as a gunshot.
Allie pressed a hand to her throat. Her pulse pumped.
“Get a grip,” she whispered, even as the sudden sensation of being watched spread goose bumps over her skin. While the shiver worked down her spine, Allie caught something out of the corner of her eye.
She turned her head, looked down. Froze.
She was being stared at, all right, although it seemed the eyes watching her saw nothing.
Mercedes was sprawled inside the doorway, her well-toned body awkwardly turned on one side. Her pale face was propped on one outstretched arm as if she’d settled down for a lazy nap in the mint-green silk robe Allie had designed. But her eyes were open. Wide and unblinking.
Allie’s body went numb. She stopped breathing but realized it only when black cobwebs began to encroach on her vision.
Reaching out, she gripped the edge of a counter and forced air in and out of her lungs. Had Mercedes slipped on the marble floor? Allie wondered as her gaze flicked to the four-inch stilettos strapped to Mercedes’s feet. Fallen and hit her head? Did the blank stare signify death? Or could she just be unconscious?
The possibility the woman was alive propelled Allie forward.
“Mercedes?” Allie dropped to her knees. With trembling fingers, she nudged aside Mercedes’s diamond bracelet and pressed her fingers against the inside of the woman’s wrist, searching for a pulse. Allie felt no sign of life.
“Oh, God.” Confirmation the woman was dead tightened the knots in Allie’s stomach. Her blood pounded through her ears and she imagined she could hear the swish of it in her veins. Nine-one-one, she thought, her breath going shallow with the panic she felt closing in on her. She had to call 911.
Pushing herself up, she backed toward the open door while tugging her phone out of her purse.
The door’s sudden swing toward her was her only warning she wasn’t alone.
The heavy wood rammed against her shoulder. The force of the impact knocked the phone from her grasp and shoved her sideways.
A shriek rose up her throat when a dark form lunged from behind the door. She had less than a heartbeat to react before something hard slammed against her left temple.
The blow exploded stars behind her eyes. She landed hard on her side, the pain in her head a brilliant orange and red. Her breath shuddered in and out of her lungs while the marble floor seemed to tilt crazily beneath her.
Then everything went black and the world ceased to exist.
Chapter 1
Rafe Diaz’s long stride took him swiftly across the grassy, tree-shaded area that formed the center of Oklahoma City’s Reunion Square. He was a tall man, nearly six foot three, with a rangy disciplined build he’d honed to pure muscle during the years that others had control over his life. His slacks were black, his white dress shirt starched, the collar open. He’d bought his functional gray sports coat off the rack.
He strode past several boutiques, an antique shop and a bakery before halting on the sidewalk outside a wide display window that glinted in the morning sun. While he watched through the glass, the hot wind raked through his black hair like wild fingers. Rafe didn’t notice. Not with his attention focused on the woman inside Silk & Secrets.
Allie Wentworth Fielding, heiress, socialite and party girl. Former centerfold model. College graduate. She was as stunning as he remembered, in a slim yellow business suit that managed to look both professional and feminine. The trio of gold chains draped around her neck added flash. A small, sparkling clip held back one side of her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair. Her eyes were laser blue and whispered of seduction from beneath thick lashes. Her skin was luminous, her lips glossed in warm coral that might make a man fantasize the heat was kindling for only him.
The sudden fire blazing through Rafe’s blood had nothing to do with desire. It came from biting anger over how much had been stolen from him. Anger he didn’t know he still harbored until his newest client had brought up Allie Fielding’s name.
Seven years had passed since Rafe last laid eyes on her.
Seven years since he’d sat in a courtroom and listened to her testimony that had helped put him in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
He knew she’d told her version of the truth. Knew the evidence pointed to him. Still, he’d lost two years of his life and the chance to pin on a cop’s badge—the only career he’d grown up wanting.
Curling his hands into fists, he shifted his gaze to the clock in the brick tower in the center of Reunion Square as it began to bong in slow, ponderous tones. Rafe counted the nine strikes while waiting for the resentment chewing at his insides to ease. He was free, dammit. Had been for five years. During that time he’d carved out a life for himself. It wasn’t what he’d grown up envisioning, but it was enough.
He was his own boss. He lived alone. By his own design there was no one he had to answer to. For a man whose freedom had once been snatched away, having total control over every aspect of his life was all that mattered.
When he felt steadier, he turned his gaze back to the woman on the other side of the shop’s window. He watched in silence while she arranged a pair of shoes on a velvet-draped pedestal positioned beneath a single spotlight. The shoes were embroidered and beaded, and looked like something Marie Antoinette would have worn.
Or a pampered, spoiled socialite with money to burn and country-club parties to attend.
While Allie positioned a small placard beside the shoes, Rafe focused on the dark bruise marring her left temple. Only a few days had passed since she’d found Mercedes McKenzie’s body and gotten clubbed by the killer.
Standing beneath the strengthening sunlight, Rafe knew if he’d been gazing at any other woman, he’d be thinking about the fear that must have spiked into her when the killer lunged from behind the condo’s kitchen door. And the pain she’d surely suffered when he slammed a fist against the side of her head. But this was Allie Fielding, and his foremost thought was that she could have wound up as dead as he had felt when she testified against him.
Rafe rolled his shoulders in a futile attempt to ease the tightness that had settled in them. He reminded himself he was here on business anchored in the present, not the past. There wasn’t room for emotion, not when his client’s freedom was on the line.
Rafe had already acknowledged the irony that this woman might hold the key to his latest case. He’d been hired by Hank Bishop, the man accused of Mercedes McKenzie’s murder. Bishop swore he was innocent, and Rafe knew all too well that being accused of a crime had nothing to do with guilt. He was positive Hank Bishop was innocent, just as he had been.
“Get this over with,” Rafe ground out as he headed toward the shop’s beveled-glass door.
This time, he had no intention of allowing Allie Wentworth Fielding to play a part in robbing a guiltless man of his freedom.