Chapter 2

      La Jolla, 7:00 a.m.

      Sunday, May 15

      “Nova, love. There is a Mr. Right for you. Your problem is, you don’t try.”

      Reginald Pennypacker wheezed out his words of criticism between breaths as he and Nova rounded the final curve of the path along the bluff where they ran each morning. First her daily run, then the cougar photos.

      They slowed to cool-down speed for the last block, uphill to the white, red-tile-roofed condominium where they each occupied one of the two top-floor units. Nova’s lips turned up in a slight smile. Reginald Penny-packer, “Penny” as nearly everyone called him, was the closest thing she had to a best friend and confidant.

      She was sorry her refusal to come to his party had him upset, but he’d never know the dark things Nova Blair had done. There’s never going to be a Mr. Right, because I’ll always be Mrs. Wrong. Murder. Prison. Her work for the Company. No, Penny would never know why all his attempts at matchmaking would fail.

      She treasured this spectacular La Jolla coastline. The best part of their run was that it let her gauge the Pacific’s waves, smell her breath, feel her mood. Today the great ocean had the blues: flat, gray-blue water sloshed indifferently against the beach. The on-shore breeze carried the stink of seaweed. A perfect day for nitty-gritty slave labor in the darkroom. The magazine photo contest deadline was breathing down her neck. And then, there were the cougars. “I try. I keep my eye out for possibilities.”

      “If you were trying, you’d come Saturday.” He used the hem of his red T-shirt to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead. “How can you say you can’t make my party and still claim to be on the lookout for a man? I told a widowed admiral and a filthy rich, recently divorced trial lawyer you’d be there. They weren’t going to come but I promised I’d introduce them to a world-class adventuress photographer. A dazzler with emerald-green eyes and onyx-black hair.”

      Nova reflected with a photographer’s eye on Penny’s slender elegance. Thirty-eight. Built like a marathoner. Part Irish and part Afro-American, and fiercely proud of both heritages. He was the owner of La Jolla’s most exclusive beauty salon and he’d invited a “select group” of patrons and friends to a bash for his long-time lover’s birthday. He smiled. Apparently his temper had cooled. He yanked twice on her ponytail. “You really must show. So I won’t look like a fool.”

      “Why would you tell them I’d be there? You know how my life works. I might be out of town. In fact, how about you just tell them I am out of town.”

      A two-brick-high trim bordered the green lawn next to them. Nova purposely stubbed her toe against the trim, did a somersault and landed on her back on the lawn. Alarmed, Penny rushed to kneel beside her. She reached up and, grinning, tugged twice on his earring. “Better yet. Tell them I had a jogging accident and broke my leg.”

      He shook his head, returned her grin and extended his hand to help her up. “See what I mean? You don’t try. You avoid.”

      I don’t avoid. I’m just a realist.

      Side by side, they trotted up the three-floor stairwell. At the top they stepped onto the balcony running the length of its west side. From behind four palm trees standing guard on the lawn, a glorious Pacific vista beckoned. They shook out their arms and legs. She took in a lungful of salt air.

      “You don’t try, but when you make an effort to fancy up, Nova, you’re really…well, really mesmerizing. Great legs. Fabulous eyes. That jet-black hair. You should have men hanging around here like bees after nectar.”

      “Don’t be silly, Penny,”

      “Don’t be falsely modest, Nova.” He paused, scanned her face, then looked away. “I watch you. The men buzz around, all right.” He fluttered his fingers to mimic busy bees. “But when they zero in to land, you close up your little petals, like you’re afraid they’re going to steal something.”

      His words brought a sudden pang, a quick rapier-thrust to her heart. Candido Branco had left no visible scars; her stepfather had always avoided making wounds that would leave traces on her skin. But the scars on her soul were another matter.

      Penny planted both hands on the balcony rail. “I’ve known you nearly twelve years. You’ve not had one serious attachment. Not since— How many years is it now since the amazing Ramone took off?”

      “I’m not pining for Ramone Villalobos. The man did a lot for me. I was—” She started to say, Headed for big trouble, but switched. “He introduced me to travel and photography.” She didn’t add that he’d also recruited her for the CIA. “Unfortunately, I foolishly thought he loved me when he was just having a good time.”

      Penny straightened, crossed his arms. “I worry about you now and again, love. Maybe I better shut up, though, before I say something I’ll regret.”

      An eerie feeling raced through her, hot and electric, a feeling that Penny was about to hand her the key to the dark rooms of her past. She felt her pulse quicken at the base of her throat. “No, don’t shut up on me.” Penny would say words that would explain why she was unable to trust. No. She knew why she couldn’t trust any man. But Penny would say words that would tell her how she could trust again and then she’d be free from the past. “Say what you’re thinking.”

      His gaze flicked to her face, apparently checking to see if he should continue. He plunged ahead. “I don’t get it. You meet lots of men on the tours you lead. You’ve never once said you’ve slept with one. Maybe you just wouldn’t tell me that.”

      He paused, still searching her face. She waited, afraid to interrupt.

      “I can’t imagine leading the macho, high-adventure tours you do and not meeting men by the planeload. You think you’re honestly open to offers?” He grinned. “You’re thirty-three and not getting any younger.”

      Oddly, as suddenly as the mysterious feeling had hit, it fled; she felt as though she’d taken a six-floor drop in an elevator. Penny didn’t have a magic key after all. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

      “Come to my party Saturday. You can practice opening up and I’ll critique your man-baiting techniques.”

      She threw him a look of mock horror. “That sounds perfectly awful.”

      Penny turned toward his door, then looked back. “Just say you’ll come and deliver a few nice words to the good admiral and the wealthy attorney.”

      She smiled. “Okay, okay.”

      “Saturday. At eight.”

      “I’ll be there.”

      She moved toward her door, but Penny was still plotting. He stopped, his hand on his doorknob. “Wear emerald-green. That skimpy flowy silk that matches your eyes.”

      “Yes,