One

      “A jewel thief?” Rico King demanded of his chief of security. “Here in the hotel?”

      Franklin Hicks scowled. The man was late thirties, stood six foot five and boasted a shaved head and sharp blue eyes. “Only explanation. The guest in bungalow six—Serenity James—reported that some of her diamonds are missing. I’ve already interviewed the maid and room service.”

      Bungalow six. Rico could have pulled up the map of the hotel on his computer, but there was no need. He knew every inch of his place. He knew that the bungalows were set apart from the main hotel—for privacy, since a lot of his clientele insisted on seclusion. People like Serenity James, an up-and-coming Hollywood darling who, in spite of her name, lived life on the edge.

      The actress might claim to want to avoid photographers and nosy guests, but according to security, there were men streaming in and out of her bungalow at all hours. Any one of them could have made off with the diamonds. He hoped it would be that easy.

      “What about Ms. James’s ‘guests’?” Rico looked up at the other man. “Did you talk to them, as well?”

      Snorting, Franklin admitted, “We’re still running them all to ground, but I don’t think it was one of them, boss. If those diamonds were taken by one of her ‘guests,’ they’d have helped themselves to more than just the one necklace. Whoever took the diamonds was picky about it. Took the stones that would be easiest to pry out of their settings and sell. Smells like a professional job to me. Besides, you have to remember we’ve had two more reports of stolen property in the last few days. Gotta be a pro.”

      “Not good news,” Rico mused.

      His hotel, the Tesoro Castle, had only been open for a little more than six months. It was new, fresh and exclusive and had quickly become the hot spot for celebrities and the überwealthy who were looking for a private getaway spot. Tesoro Island sat in the middle of the Caribbean, but it was privately owned. No one landed here—private yacht or cruise ship—without permission of the owner, Walter Stanford.

      Which meant that those seeking privacy had nothing to fear from paparazzi, except for the occasional overachiever who used telephoto lenses from a boat anchored far offshore.

      Tesoro was lush and secluded, and the Castle was like Disneyland for adults: there were infinity pools, the best spas in the world and sweeping ocean views from every room. The hotel had deliberately been built small, to keep it a select destination. There were only a hundred and fifty rooms, not counting the private bungalows scattered across the grounds. The interiors were opulent, service was impeccable and the island itself carried an air of dreamy seduction. For those who could afford it, Tesoro promised a world of languid pleasures for all of the senses.

      And damned if Rico was going to allow his hotel’s reputation to be stained. If there was a professional thief operating in his place, then that thief would be