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  For Bob, ever the because to my why

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The ideal vantage point for observing a half-naked man was definitely across the rim of a crystal champagne flute. Especialy when

  the champagne was expensive, the backdrop was a postcard-perfect Bahamian beach, and the man was that one.

  He had muscles in al the right places under summer-bronzed skin. Hair on the long side, wavy and breeze-blown, streaked

  naturaly by the sun. No phony salon highlights for him. When he flashed a smile it was sparkly clean, bright, but without that

  annoying Chiclets perfection. The icing on the beefcake: he didn’t even glance at the bikini-clad beach babes stroling by, some of

  them close enough to reach out and touch. His ocean-blue eyes were mine alone.

  God, I love my job.

  He slid into the chair across from me at the boardwalk bistro and lifted a bottle of Dom from the ice bucket. “Another glass?”

  His question was moot—he was already pouring.

  I shrugged. What the hel. There’s always room for more champagne.

  He filed a glass for himself and raised it. “To us.”

  “To us,” I echoed, gazing into eyes that had the late-afternoon sun glinting in them like miniature whitecaps on a stormy sea.

  (Normaly I gag when overwrought poetic comparisons pop into my head, but this time I was too busy heaving a happy sigh.)

  “Mina, I thank heaven every day for the piece of luck that brought you to me.”

  “No, I’m the lucky one,” I gushed. The sentiment was surprisingly true. Sure, his words were corny. But he was sincere, and

  that made it romantic.

  It was enough to make me wish I realy were Mina.

  My client’s soon-to-be fiancé—Henry Howard Harrison III, nicknamed “Trey” for the “III”—took some bils from the walet

  he’d just retrieved from our bungalow and anchored them under the ice bucket. He puled me out of my chair into sun-warmed

  arms.

  “Let’s go back to the house,” he whispered, one hand chasing goose bumps down my back. When he got to the top of my

  sarong he slipped his fingers beneath it. My breath caught in my throat, hampered by the sudden pounding in my chest, and I

  leaned in for a kiss that would have knocked my socks off, if I’d been wearing any.

  Damn. I could almost feel guilty about taking money for this.

  Before I was overwhelmed by … um, let’s cal it remorse … he yanked the brightly colored cloth off my waist and ran away

  with it, tossing me a wicked grin over his shoulder. I was left standing, stunned, in a thong bikini I would never consider wearing as

  myself.

  The corners of my mouth lifted. But I wasn’t me right now, was I? I was Mina. Wilhelmina Augustine Worthington, to be

  precise. Rich, pretty, pampered … and having fun. I gave chase.

  *

  I reached the front porch of the bungalow minutes after my quarry, puffing from the run. Realy, Mina should exercise more. The

  trouble with borrowing somebody else’s aura is that you get their level of fitness along with it. Not that I’m one to talk. My

  favorite aerobic activity is reading steamy romantic thrilers. I figure an increased heart rate is an increased heart rate. Why quibble

  about methodology?

  I dabbed my dewy brow with the sarong before tying it back around my waist. I’d found it snagged on a wood-encased

  garbage bin on the boardwalk—a distraction, no doubt, to slow me down. Obviously our boy liked games. Okay by me. I was

  ready to play.

  “Tr-hhhey?” I wheezed as I went in, blowing silky strands of black hair out of my face. Make that almost ready. But I was sure

  I’d be fine in a second. Slow breaths, in … out. There.

  He wasn’t in the living room or dining area. It was one big open space, tastefuly furnished in expensive beach modern, and

  there was no seminude male figure in it. It wasn’t something I’d overlook. The kitchen was a bust, too.

  The door to the bedroom was ajar. Ah. Perfect. I took a second to adjust my bathing suit top, knowing Mina wasn’t the type

  to approach even a spontaneous romp in bed with boobs awry. They were great boobs, too. I’d miss them when the job was

  done.

  No signs of life in the master suite. The bed was stil made, which wasn’t odd since we hadn’t actualy been to bed yet. Trey

  had flown in after I’d arrived, and he’d met me on the beach. I always like to have my first encounter with a significant other in a

  public and fairly lively place. The distractions help smooth over any smal inconsistencies I might show before I get a bead on what

  I’m dealing with. Trey hadn’t presented any great difficulties—he was pretty much exactly how Mina had described him when she

  hired me. Adonis incarnate.

  Just thinking about him made the king-size bed look a lot emptier.

  “Trey? Honey? Where are you?”

  No response.

  I’m cool. I can get with a good game of hide-and-seek. But he wasn’t in the closet, or under the bed either.

  The bathroom. He was probably in there, just waiting to fil up the tub and play dock the submarine.

  Okay, that was a crude and totally un-Mina-like thought.

  Not that I could help it. When you grow up with a bunch of guys and a propensity for eavesdropping, crudity is the default

  mode when sex is on your mind. It’s a situational hazard. Stil, I tried hard to stomp it down, along with other vestiges of my real

  identity—Ciel Haligan, Facilitator. Intrepid Fixer of Other People’s Problems. (Yeah, I know. Goofy. What can I say? I read a

  lot of comic books as a child.)

  My job is made possible by a genetic quirk that alows me to adapt my aura into an exact copy of another person’s. No, it’s

  not shape-shifting, which is a crock, by the way. Give me a break. Shape-shifting on a biomolecular level? Directed cel

  morphology—the actual physical changing of tissue—takes ti
me, and lots of it. It wouldn’t be practical. Aura adaptors deal in

  energy. Much faster, and quite a handy trait for someone in my line of work.

  Guess you could say I’m a kind of life coach. At least, that’s my cover with al but the select few nonadaptors who know about

  us. Only instead of teaching people how to solve their own problems, I just do it for them. My clientele tends to be more

  comfortable with delegating than learning.

  The only tricky part of the job is getting the internals right. The personality. But this time I was determined to stay totaly in

  character on the job. Looking, smeling, and sounding exactly like another person wasn’t enough. To give a believable

  performance I had to immerse myself in the client’s psyche as wel. Otherwise, the whole ilusion could colapse around me like a

  bad soufflé, and I couldn’t afford that. I had bils to pay. Big ones. If I screwed this job up, I could say bye-bye to my business.

  Alas, the bathroom was empty, the large array of foaming agents and botanical oils on the counter untouched. Huh. This was

  getting a little weird. Oh, wel. I’m flexible. He had to be around here someplace. While I waited for him to emerge, I ran a handy

  brush through Mina’s hair. Primping in front of a mirror was certainly in character.

  Wait a second … that’s odd. There was a smudge on my forehead. I peered more closely at my reflection. It looked like—

  I grabbed a tissue, moistened it, and dabbed the spot. Sniffed it.

  It was blood. When had I…? I scrubbed my face clean. No cut. It wasn’t me.

  The sarong. It must have been on the sarong. I puled it off and examined it. Sure enough, there was a stil-damp (ick!) splotch,

  camouflaged by the gaudy, crimson-flower print. I did a quick personal check, even though I knew good and wel it wasn’t that

  time of the month for Mina. Al clear.

  So what happened? Had Trey tripped and skinned his knee? Maybe he’d gone to the resort’s clinic to get it bandaged. But

  why would he do that when he had someone right here, ready and wiling to play doctor? No, he must be hiding. I just needed to

  be patient.

  I twitched. I don’t realy do patience.

  My eyes settled on Trey’s luggage. I hesitated, but only long enough to come up with a plausible excuse to use if he caught me:

  But, honey, you were gone. I found blood. I thought something was wrong—I had to search for clues.

  I shrugged. Worked for me.

  The bags contained the usual wel-off bachelor vacation assortment. Casual clothing, a few dressier duds, a shaving kit with

  some wonderful-smeling toiletries, a velvet ring box, a spare bathing suit—

  Whoa. Back the expectation train up. A ring box? Had Mina turned the reins over to me prematurely? I flipped open the

  hinged top and was nearly blinded by the flash from the solitaire. I whistled, long and slow. That sucker had to be at least three

  carats. High clarity, emerald cut, platinum setting. The man was serious.

  Wel, bite me. Now I couldn’t in good conscience employ any gratuitous persuasive techniques to obtain the marriage proposal

  Mina so desperately wanted. That part of the job was officialy over as soon as I found the ring—professional ethics wouldn’t

  alow otherwise. (Professional ethics suck.)

  My disappointment was interrupted by the sound of Mina’s cel phone.

  On the other hand, it occurred to me with expedient clarity, I would be derelict in my duty if I didn’t give the job my ful effort

  until that ring was on my finger. So I dove for the phone and answered with Mina’s sexiest helo.

  “Mina, get out of the house.”

  “What? Who is this?”

  “Get out. Now.” It was Trey, his words tight with fear.

  “Trey? What’s the matter? Where are—”

  I was cut off by another voice, darker, with some sort of accent I didn’t recognize. “Miss Worthington, I suggest you do as Mr.

  Harrison says. Take your phone. You wil be contacted shortly.” Click.

  What the…? Crap. I clutched the cel and ran out the front door. Twenty yards later I was knocked off my feet by a teeth-rattling blast. When I looked over my shoulder, there was a pile of debris where the bungalow had been.

  Chapter 2

  Dust descended, choking and blinding me. Holy freaking cow. She was right.

  Coughing, I pushed myself up and stumbled toward the boardwalk, where a group of evening strolers stood transfixed. An

  elderly woman was the first to come to my aid, taking my elbow and leading me farther away from the destruction.

  “Are you al right?” she asked, concern pouring from her kind eyes.

  My stil-ringing ears made out a muffled British accent. She looked awfuly familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Probably just one

  of the tourists I’d seen around the resort over the course of the day.

  “I-I’m fine. I think.” My voice shook more than I thought it should, and my body started to folow suit. I sat down abruptly,

  right there on the edge of the boardwalk. Guess my legs weren’t taking the situation too wel. Stil, buzzing in the back of my brain

  like a two-hundred-pound mosquito was damned if she wasn’t fricking right.

  “She” was my mother, whose favorite saying when I was growing up was “God punishes right away.” Mom popped that little

  gem out every time one of us kids got hurt while doing something naughty. And here I’d only been contemplating having sex with

  somebody else’s boyfriend, and kaboom! If that wasn’t right away, I didn’t know what was. Sure, the sex was contractualy

  sanctioned by my client, as per our working arrangement, but God probably didn’t care about loopholes.

  Though, as loopholes go, you have to admit it’s a great one. Not much can top your client teling you, after serious

  consideration of the clause in question, “Wel, I guess if you’re being me, then he’s not realy cheating, right?” (Yeah, I know. My

  clients can be kind of out there, bless their gotta-have-what-I-want-when-I-want-it hearts. If people weren’t so impatient for

  results, I wouldn’t have a business.)

  I glanced skyward warily, on the lookout for any residual falout from on high. No lightning bolts, so maybe I was being let off

  with a warning. A fierce flash of joy at stil being alive swept through me, making the urge to jump up, shake my fist and yel, Ha!

  Missed me! almost impossible to resist, but I managed. I hoped God gave extra credit for restraint.

  The old lady turned to one of the gawkers and spoke firmly. “Young man, do find some water, if you would be so good.” The

  boy kept gaping. “Now, please. Go.” He went, snapped out of his fixation by her command. She might look like a dowdy old

  tourist, but authority fairly dripped from her. After turning back to me she said, “Now then. Was there anyone else inside with

  you? I noticed you had a companion earlier today.”

  “No. My friend wasn’t there. I was alone.”

  “Fortunate,” she said, looking quite pleased. “I doubt anyone could have survived that.” She gestured toward the remains of the

  bungalow, shaking her head.

  A middle-aged man in a Hawaian shirt, linen pants, and leather sandals came running from the direction of the resort’s office,

  stopping when the dust got too thick for him. He put his hands to his head, grasping for hair that hadn’t been there in quite a while.

  “Holy shit. What happened?” He turned toward us, homing in on me. He knew it was my bungalow—he’d been the one to

  handle the rental. I waved weakly and shrugged.

  “Miss Worthington—thank God you’re okay.” He rushed over and went down on one knee next to me. For a crazy second I

 
thought he might propose.

  “Hi, George. How’s tricks?” I quirked a smile at him, not much caring how Mina would’ve reacted under the circumstances. I

  figured shock was a big umbrela for any possibly inappropriate behavior.

  “I don’t know what to say … I don’t know how this could’ve happened … you are okay, aren’t you?” He scanned my arms

  and legs (dirty and scraped but not bleeding much), then rose and looked franticaly around. “Oh, my God—where’s Mr.

  Harrison? He’s … he’s not…?” The last was a horrified whisper.

  “Relax, George. Trey was out.”

  George looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching sirens. The water boy

  returned, bearing designer water in smal plastic bottles. When I reached for one I realized I had Mina’s phone in a stranglehold. I

  was trying to pry open my fingers when it rang. I dropped it like it had stung me.

  Good Samaritan lady picked it up and handed it to me. I checked the number—it wasn’t one I recognized from Mina’s file—

  and spoke cautiously. “Helo?”

  “I see you made it out in time. Smart girl.” Same voice as before, the one who had Trey.

  “I try.” What else could I say in front of al these people?

  “Another word of caution, since you’ve proven yourself adept at staying alive. The police wil be questioning you soon. Tel

  them you were about to cook something. When you turned on the stove, it made a funny noise and flamed up. You couldn’t see a

  fire extinguisher, so you left the cottage to get help. You don’t know anything else.”

  “But—”

  “The evidence they find wil support your story. If you say anything else, next time you won’t get a warning. Understood?”