His 7-Day Fiancée. Gail Barrett
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lived. She’d read up on him during the past few days, learned that he was a notorious playboy, a megabillionaire developer who owned casinos and resorts throughout the world. That suit he’d worn had probably cost more than her car.
An image of his broad, muscled shoulders, the dark, sexy planes of his face flashed into her mind. She didn’t doubt the playboy part. The man was lethally attractive with his deeply graveled voice and intense eyes. And that moment in the hallway when she’d thought he was going to kiss her…
She shut the gate behind her with a forceful click. Surely she’d imagined his interest in her. Luke Mont-gomery operated completely outside her orbit—which was fine with her. She had all she wanted in life right here. Maybe she didn’t hobnob with billionaires, and maybe she’d once dreamed of a more exciting life, but she had a great sister, a daughter she adored. And soon she’d have a job and her own house, too.
She just needed to lose this constant fear.
“Wait for me,” she warned Claire. She grabbed her daughter’s hand to make sure she didn’t dart off, then walked with her toward the mailbox. The warm sun shimmered off the neighbors’ redtiled roofs. Palm fronds rustled in the breeze. Laughter and the thump of a bouncing basketball came from some teens shooting hoops down the street.
She let Claire open the mailbox and pull out the advertisements and bills. She lunged forward to catch a sheath of junk mail tumbling loose.
“Mine,” Claire cried and clutched the mail.
“I’m just getting the stuff that fell.” She scooped up the ads and stray letters and then closed the box. A plain white envelope in her hand caught her eye.
She paused, turned it over. No name. No address.
A sliver of foreboding snaked up her back.
She shook it off, exasperated by her overreaction. She was getting ridiculous, imagining danger at every turn. It was probably an advertisement. She tore open the back flap, pulled out the contents—a piece of white paper, some photos.
Photos of Claire.
Her heart stopped.
She flipped through the photos. Claire riding her pink tricycle. Claire eating at the kitchen table. Claire sleeping next to Brownie in her bed.
The air turned thick. Her hands shook as she unfolded the note. “Put the diamond in the mailbox or else.”
Her lungs seized up. Sheer panic roared through her veins. She fought to maintain her composure, but every instinct screeched at her to snatch Claire up and flee.
Calm down, she ordered herself fiercely. Don’t let Claire see your fear.
Forcing her feet to move slowly, normally, she followed her daughter back to the house. She looked casually to the neighbor’s windows—no movement there. She opened the gate and let Claire through, then snuck a glance at the street. Empty.
But someone was spying on them, taking photos of Claire.
Her panic intensified, threatening to overwhelm her, but she ruthlessly crushed it down. She ushered Claire calmly into the house and locked the sliding glass door. She lifted Claire to the sink and washed her hands. Still working on autopilot, she took out the juice, helped Claire into her chair, opened the animal crackers and propped up the bear.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Claire asked, her voice tight.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Her falsely cheerful voice sounded too far away. “It’s just a little hot in here. I’m going to close the drapes to keep it cool. I’ll be right back.”
She forced her lips into a brittle smile, closed the blinds on the sliding glass door and strolled sedately into the hall. Then she raced around the house like a maniac, locking the windows, yanking the drapes closed, scrambling up and down the stairs, rushing from room to room to room, throwing the deadbolts on every door.
She returned to the kitchen, sank into a seat across the table from Claire and covered her face with her hands. What on earth was going on here? What diamond? She’d sold her wedding ring as soon as she’d left Wayne.
Besides, Wayne was in jail. It couldn’t be him.
Unless he’d hired someone else to harass her.
Trying to compose herself, she scrubbed her face with her quivering hands. God, she was sick of this. So bloody tired. All she wanted was a life without fear. Was that too much to ask?
The phone rang.
She jerked up her head, stared at the phone. Her palms started to sweat.
The ringing stopped. The answering machine turned on. Her sister’s message ended, and the machine made its high-pitched beep.
And then there was heavy breathing.
“Tonight.” The single word cleaved the silence, detonating her nerves. The machine clicked off. The tape whirred softly as it rewound.
Her adrenaline surged. Panic wiped out her thoughts. She had to run. Flee. Go somewhere, anywhere, and keep her daughter safe.
She looked at Claire, saw her daughter’s lower lip quiver, the anxiety pinching her face. And she knew with dead certainty that she couldn’t run. If this was Wayne, he’d only find them again. For Claire’s sake, she had to end this terror now.
And if there was one thing she’d learned about her exhusband, it was that he thrived on power and control. He wanted to see her run, plead, whimper with fear. And she’d be damned if she’d play his sick games.
She rose, her knees knocking so hard she could barely stand, and crossed the kitchen to the answering machine. She ejected the tape, slipped it into her pocket and disconnected the phone.
Then she grabbed her purse from the counter and fumbled through her wallet for Detective Martinez’s card. She found Luke Montgomery’s number instead.
She hesitated. Should she call him? If the letter and phone calls were related to the casino attack, he would want to know.
But her priority was Claire, keeping her safe. Which meant reporting this to the police—no matter what Luke Montgomery might want.
Still, the memory of the skepticism in his eyes made her pause. He hadn’t trusted her; that had been clear. He thought she’d sell her story to the highest bidder, even though she’d given him her word.
And maybe she was a fool to care, but there was something sad about a man that cynical, who thought that money always talked. And if she didn’t call him now, she’d only confirm his jaded beliefs.
So maybe she should warn him. Maybe she should update him on this latest threat first and then inform the police.
And pray that whoever was watching them did n’t see them go.
She met her daughter’s frightened eyes, and a frigid pit formed in her gut. Claire was right to be afraid. Because if their watcher learned what she was up to, her daughter would pay the price.
The Las Vegas police were certainly thorough. Three hours later, Amanda still hunched on a folding metal chair in the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police station while Claire dozed on her lap. She’d turned over the evidence, given multiple statements, submitted fingerprints so they could exclude her prints from the note. Now several people crowded around her in the airconditioned room—the detective she’d met in the casino, a petite police officer named Natalie Rothchild, several others whose names she couldn’t recall.
And Luke Montgomery. He’d arrived shortly after she had, to her surprise. Now he sat in the chair beside her, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up, his dark forearms braced on his knees, listening intently while Natalie Rothchild summed up the case.
The police officer tucked her short brown hair behind her ears, then cleared her throat. “All right, then. In light of these developments, I think we have to consider the possibility that the ring isn’t