Two

      As soon as Cash saw her up close, he remembered who she was—or who he thought she’d been. Anne Landerson—a slightly clueless student who’d been involved with the theft of some jewels and fine art from his great-aunt Elizabeth. He reached out to snag her but she charged, ducking under his arm and diving into the crowd milling around the lobby. He plowed after her but she was gone, running right out of her shoes. He was left with a pair of killer stilettos in a color his sisters-in-law described as “Do-Me Red.” Like a whiff of smoke, she was gone.

      Two hours later, he was no closer to capturing any of them. Despite the lockdown, the Rowlands had escaped, as had the girl. Frustrated at every turn, Cash threw in the allegorical towel and returned to Oklahoma City.

      Cash spent the week chasing shadows, but no concrete leads had popped up. Neither had the Rowlands. Frustrated, he sat in his office staring at the designer high heels displayed on his desk. How the hell did a woman walk on stilts like them? Then he remembered the stumbling gait of the woman in the security footage. A woman dressed to the nines, with makeup meant for seduction, wearing a black cocktail dress that hugged her curves like a lover. A curious dichotomy. He’d pulled the file on his aunt’s case, one of the first Barron Security had handled after he took over.

      The girl had claimed to know nothing about the stolen goods—only that she’d received a package in the mail and the items had been inside. She’d been scared, panic and apologies reflected in her huge amber eyes—eyes Cash hadn’t forgotten in the six years since the incident. The school’s headmistress and the lawyer who’d showed up had met with the prosecutor and a deal had been worked out. Seemed the kid was probably an innocent dupe so Barron Security signed off on community service and recovery of the property.

      Now he had another problem. He’d run a search on Anne Landerson. She didn’t exist. There was no record of her in any databases his team could access. Bridger was calling in favors to check those they couldn’t without special dispensation. In the meantime, he had to focus on the Rowlands. He was no closer to discovering why they were targeting Barron properties and what their endgame could be.

      Twice now, this girl had been in the Rowlands’ crosshairs. Why? Was she with one of the brothers? That created a tangled knot of thoughts. For reasons he couldn’t identify, Chase didn’t like the idea of her belonging to someone.

      A brusque tap on his door had him looking up as Bridger entered.

      “Please tell me you’ve found something.”

      His second-in-command shook his head, a hangdog expression on his face. “Nothing with FBI or Treasury. We even checked Interpol. The Rowlands are everywhere, but the girl? She’s a ghost, at least under that name.”

      Cash leaned back in the massive leather desk chair and scratched at his cheek. His dark stubble was becoming a beard, a decision he made after he’d impersonated his twin in an attempt to make Chase and his wife separate, and realized how simple it was. “Maybe we’re looking at this wrong.”

      “How so?”

      “Could she have been the mark?”

      Before Bridger could answer, his phone pinged. He checked the screen and a huge smile creased his cheeks. “Bingo. We found her.”

      Bridger pressed some buttons on his phone and a second later, a link popped up on Cash’s computer monitor. He clicked on it and waited as the tab opened. There she was. Sort of. His brow furrowed as he stared at a face familiar yet that of a stranger. He read off the information.

      “Roxanne Rosetta Rowland. Bachelor’s degree in history, followed by a master’s in museum studies.” Cash continued skimming the information. “She graduated from the University of Central Oklahoma?”

      “Yup. And with that information, we should be able to find out where she’s currently living and working, and why there’s no record tying her to the Rowlands, especially since she’s using their name.”

      “I want to know everything there is to know about her.” Cash rubbed his chin. Oh, yeah. He wanted every last detail about Roxanne Rowland, especially where she’d been and what she’d done since that interview at the Fairfax Police Department. Man, but he’d been a fool to believe her sob story and not follow up, despite assertions from the school that she was a victim. Innocents didn’t use fake names. Now he’d have the facts before the day was out.

      * * *

      Roxie paced the confines of her cluttered office. No one in her family had contacted her. She’d managed to get to her room in Vegas, grab her stuff—sans the blackmail items—and run. Ha! She knew all their tricks, and had found the incriminating evidence and deposited it in the lost and found box on a maid’s cart on her way out. She’d caught the first flight out of Las Vegas, then made her way home.

      Every time her phone dinged with a text message, she jumped. Was it one of her brothers? But there had been no phone calls. No emails. Nothing. Aggravated, she’d put her research skills to work. What she’d discovered about her family left her worried, feeling stupid and more than a little angry. She’d guessed they walked the wrong side of the line. Con men. Grifters. But like an ostrich with her head buried, she’d had no clue how illicit their activities were. Her father and brothers were wanted by the FBI and Interpol for fraud, theft and questioning in a murder.

      “What have y’all dragged me into?” she muttered as she paced. And what did the Barrons have to do with it? Nobody took on the Barron family and won. Everyone at Reade-Cannon-Mansfield was in awe of the family people called Red Dirt Royalty. She wouldn’t be surprised if the advertising firm had originally coined the phrase. While she really wanted to work in a museum, she loved her job as corporate archivist for the ad agency. She didn’t want to jeopardize her position by tangling with the Barrons.

      So what could she do? Going to the police was a bad idea. One, she had no clue what her family had done—if anything—and two, she’d likely be considered an accessory. If the police got involved, she could kiss any chance