Play Dead (15 page)

Dizzy with excitement, she dug her fingers into the solid muscles of his neck, careful to avoid his injured shoulder. His lips slanting over hers, his tongue invaded her mouth and his grip on her tightened. Her senses reeled as if short-circuited.

He eased her backward, still kissing her, until they were stretched out on the sofa, his powerful body half-covering hers. A riptide of pure desire swept through her at the mind-blowing kiss. The magnitude of her own feelings stunned her. When had she ever wanted a man like this?

Never.

Until now, until Ryan Hollister. She arched her body upward so her breasts could revel in the warmth of his chest and her lower body could cradle his burgeoning arousal.
Oh, my
. Her body had been made for him.

His lips left hers, but hovered a scant inch above her mouth. His eyes were as hot as the molten sun. “You’re so damn sexy. It’s eating me alive.”

She touched his cheek, the emerging stubble rough against her fingertips. “Am I?”

“Damn right,” he replied, his voice suddenly hoarse.

She tried to smile but his lips were already on hers again—more possessive this time. Feverishly she kissed him, nibbling the tip of his tongue, then sucking on it. A groan came from deep in his throat; inwardly she smiled.
His fingers slipped under her tank top and up her rib cage, stroking and caressing. His large hand fondled the fullness of her breast as his thumb circled her nipple. Her head spun with excitement and she quaked beneath him.

Some inner voice echoed in her brain:
Slow down. You don’t know this man. Now isn’t the time for sex.
Good advice, but who cared? She wanted Ryan—and she wanted him
now!

The sweet spot between her legs throbbed and her toes curled into the sofa’s smooth leather. What was happening to her? In a distant part of her mind, Hayley realized she was out of control but she couldn’t help herself.

Ryan levered himself upward and shucked his T-shirt in one swift movement. In the pale light from the window, she saw the dense thatch of chest hair that arrowed downward in a vee then disappeared under the waistband of his shorts. What right did one man have to look so heart-stoppingly masculine, so handsome?

The lean muscles on his broad chest were ripped and his arms bulged slightly. A white welt of a scar marked his shoulder. An athlete’s body, complete with battle scars, she thought.

He had her tank top off before she realized she was helping him. The cool ocean breeze through the window swirled over her beaded breasts. Her nipples became hard as marbles. Heart reeling, she pulled him down on top of her again. She kissed him as if he were the only man she’d ever wanted to kiss.

Arms around his neck, she arched upward to feel his rough nest of curls against her sensitive breasts. Oh, yes, she thought as her nipples instantly responded to the coarse feel of his chest and the firmness of his arousal pressing into her.

She was so engrossed in the marvelous sensations that it took a few seconds to realize the buzzing sound wasn’t in her sex-crazed brain. Ryan’s telephone was ringing and vibrating at the same time near her thigh.

Ryan broke the kiss and jammed his hand into the side pocket of his cargo shorts. Breathing audibly, he told her. “It must be Ed. I have to take this.”

They disentangled their bodies as Ryan answered in a raspy voice that wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Hayley searched for her T-shirt and found it on the floor beside the sofa. Ryan’s conversation barely registered, but she knew he was telling Ed that the disk had turned out not to be important.

She shrugged into the flimsy shirt, realizing the call had saved her. This was a mistake. She couldn’t get involved with a man right now. She wasn’t sure if what she was feeling was a reaction to a prolonged lack of sex, or had it been ignited by the danger of her situation?

Taking time, making sure was the best course of action.
Don’t jump into anything, especially with a man still in love with his deceased wife. You won’t ever live up to the image he has in his mind,
she reminded herself.

She stood up while Ryan was still talking. Now he was telling Ed that he expected to go to work for a private security firm as soon as his shoulder fully healed. The situation was awkward, to say the least, she thought.

The last thing she wanted was to face Ryan and acknowledge what had—almost—happened between them. Or take up where they’d left off.

Mumbling, “Good night,” she headed toward the bedroom she was using. Once inside, she locked the door. Hayley half expected Ryan to come to her room, but he didn’t. No doubt he’d come to his senses, too.

“W
HAT THE FUCK
happened?” The killer hated that word—fuck. It was so overused, but in this case it described the situation to a T. “How could that bitch still be alive?”

Asking the sun just peeking over the horizon was useless. Same for the ribbons of white clouds against the pale sky. Mother Nature had the answer to many questions, but not this one.

The killer squeezed out a furious growling sound. Shit happened. The woman who climbed into Hayley’s car looked
exactly
like Hayley. Didn’t she? Thinking back to that night, it was hard to be sure. It had been so dark, so shadowy.

Who wouldn’t have mistaken the woman—whoever she was—for Hayley?
Fuck. Double fuck.
The woman had gotten into Hayley’s car and put a key in the ignition. At that point there was no way to stop the explosion.

“Let it go,” the killer whispered, hatred flaming from every pore. “Forget about it. Move forward. Come up with a new idea.”

Don’t allow one lousy snafu to end the plan.
This was merely a roadblock. The screeching wail of a siren, sounding like a cat in heat, filled the air. It reminded the killer of a more pressing problem. Now everyone from
the media to the authorities was watching…investigating. Hayley’s return from the dead—nothing short of miraculous—intrigued everyone.

Welcome to the real world. It might be total bullshit, but the public loved a mystery, a conspiracy theory. They’d be howling to see this case solved.

At this point, taking out Hayley wouldn’t be prudent.
Prudent.
What a word. The killer savored it. Some might have used
smart
instead, but not the killer. Thinking at a higher level had deceived even the cleverest of investigators. So far.

Who would have imagined Hayley was alive? Not one fucking person.

Who was the woman who died? Not that it mattered to the plan. But if she happened to be someone important, the authorities would bully everyone to solve this. Eventually, they might figure out what was really happening.

Do something to sidetrack them.
But what?

The killer stared at the sky, now painted dazzling blue by the morning sun. A trio of gulls flew over, circling, cawing. An idea slowly began to form in the killer’s mind. There were obstacles—mere details—to be worked out, but this might be the answer. The killer considered various possibilities. What had to be done became crystal-clear and the killer was jazzed, wired.

Hayley Fordham didn’t have nine lives. She couldn’t escape death twice. She was as good as dead.
So
dead.

T
RENT SAT ON THE DECK
of the Beachcomber Café and sipped a cup of coffee, inhaling the bracing scent of the sea as he gazed out at Crystal Cove Beach while he waited for Laird McMasters. The gentle swells that broke
on the sugar-fine sand became choppier whitecaps closer to the horizon. This wasn’t a good surfing beach, but it was a favorite of families.

Crystal Cove was one of the spots in Newport Beach that Trent liked best. No other beach boasted a café within a few feet of the surf. Fine dining could be found on the bay, but none right on the ocean like this. When you got right down to it, even foodies admitted you couldn’t beat Mother Nature’s beauty.

“Hey, dude. Been waiting long?” Laird appeared at Trent’s side.

“Not long.” Laird pulled out the chair opposite Trent, and Trent couldn’t help wondering—not for the first time—why Laird seemed so anxious to become a big name in the surf business. No one had ever seen him surf.

Laird could easily have gone into his father’s commercial real estate business, but no. Right out of Yale with a degree in finance, Laird had used a trust fund from his grandfather to open a surf shop.

“Coffee for me. Black. And blueberry waffles. Hold the whipped cream,” Laird told the cute redhead who’d appeared out of nowhere when Laird sat down. The guy was a chick magnet. The only girl who hadn’t fallen all over him since junior high was Hayley.

Trent ordered an omelet while Laird pulled off his Ray Bans and tilted his face up to catch the rays of the morning sun. The light glinted off his gelled brown hair. “What’s up? You said it was important.”

Trent wanted to ease into this; he didn’t want to sound desperate. “You heard about Hayley.”

Laird’s head snapped down and he looked at Trent. “What about her?”

Trent knew by Laird’s expression that he hadn’t heard. Hayley’s reappearance was all anyone could talk about. “It wasn’t Hayley that died in that car bombing.”

“No shit!”

“What planet have you been visiting? It’s all over the news.”

The animation had left Laird’s face. He didn’t seem to notice the waitress bending low, giving him a look at her breasts as she brought Laird his coffee and refilled Trent’s cup. This wasn’t like Laird. He was an ass man from the get-go. That’s why Trent had always been secretly glad Hayley hadn’t fallen for him. Even after her lowest point when she’d broken up with Chad, Hayley just had a few dates with Laird. He knew without asking that Laird hadn’t gotten Hayley in bed. Good. Life was too easy for the prick.

“I was on the
Hail Mary
in Catalina.” Laird’s tone sounded strained as he referred to his Donzi. The speed boat had been christened
Hail Mary
because it went so fast that those aboard prayed when Laird was at the wheel. “I’d just returned when you called.”

That explained it. Laird had undoubtedly been banging some chick on the boat all night, then headed home from the island at dawn. The damn boat was so fast it took less than an hour to cross the channel.

Trent leaned back, valiantly trying to hide a smirk. It wasn’t often that he was one up on Laird McMasters. “Seems Hayley went down to Costa Rica without telling anyone. She just returned and found out we’d buried her.”

Trent couldn’t stifle a laugh. He chuckled loudly and several people at nearby tables glanced their way. Laird’s answering smile was bleak, tight-lipped as he shot his hand through his hair.

Trent realized that what he suspected was true. Laird still had a thing for Hayley. Always had; probably always would have. Trent didn’t see it, but that didn’t matter. What was important was how he could take advantage of the information.

“The police, the FBI, everyone was looking for her. Why didn’t her passport show up on a computer security check or something?”

“I don’t have all the details, but apparently she flew there on some guy’s private plane. A Falcon X7.” Trent had heard this on the morning newscast.

That got him. Laird had an eighteen-hole tan so he couldn’t turn green, but a flash of jealousy sparked in his dark eyes. Only the richest guys could afford such an expensive plane.

“Don’t they have CNN down there?” Laird asked, bitterness underscoring each word. “Didn’t she hear she’d supposedly died?”

“Apparently not.” Trent raised his eyebrows, hoping to give the impression that Hayley had been too busy in bed to turn on the news. Why in hell had she gone to Costa Rica, of all places?

The waitress arrived with their food and set the plates in front of them, again giving Laird a full view of her boobs. The guy had it bad; he didn’t look.

Laird didn’t even glance up when the bell clanged three times and a male waiter shouted that a whale had been sighted in the surf. The tourists sprang to their feet—as usual every table was full—to see one of the pods of whales migrating north from Mexico to Alaska. The locals, accustomed to the sight, just gazed at the passing whale.

“You wanted to have breakfast with me to tell me
about Hayley.” Laird sounded as if he’d been eating a dog turd instead of the Beachcomber’s famous waffles.

“No. I assumed you knew.” Trent had to be careful here. Laird was irritated and maybe now wasn’t the time to bring up money. His temper, when crossed, could be almost uncontrollable. Trent was sorry he’d mentioned Hayley.

“I didn’t know,” Laird replied with his usual self-confidence, “but I’m glad. She has an eye for our business and she’s a good person.”

This gave Trent the opening he’d been praying for since leaving Chad last night. “You’re right. She has great business sense.”

“Like her mother.”

Trent almost choked on his bite of spinach omelet. He forced himself to say, “True.” He felt as if he’d stabbed his mother in the back. The woman always deluded herself by believing Russell Fordham alone had built Surf’s Up. No one dared mention to Cynthia Fordham that Alison had been the brains behind the operation.

“What’s going on?” Laird sounded like his old self now.

“We’re in a bit of a bind,” Trent replied, easing into this. “The DEA has a hold on my shipment of surfboards from China. The economic meltdown. We’re strapped for cash.”

Laird put down his fork and his dark eyes pierced the distance between them. “Isn’t the company in probate?”

“Right. We should be out soon.” He didn’t tell him that refiling the papers when they thought Hayley was dead had delayed the process considerably. “We need cash now.” He deliberately said “we” because it was obvious Laird had a soft spot for Hayley. “Could you advance us some money short-term?”

“Is that legal? I mean shouldn’t the receiver—or
conservator or whoever oversees the probate—be handling this?”

“Yes,” Trent conceded. “This would be off the books.”

Laird shoved his half-eaten waffles aside. “You know, Hayley has the right take on our business. Smart girl, like her mother.”

Trent struggled to keep his face neutral. Allison Fordham again. And Hayley. Why wasn’t Laird discussing the money?

“Remember that meeting at Tommy Bahama’s a couple of weeks before your father crashed?”

Trent nodded, hiding his bitterness. How could he forget the lunch on the sunny patio of the Caribbean-style restaurant a few doors away from Surf’s Up? He and Laird had planned to convince his father that importing boards was a great idea—the future of the business. He’d brought Hayley along; she’d had other ideas.

Laird leaned across the table. “Hayley was dead-on, you know. Sports in America have changed. I hadn’t thought about it until Hayley mentioned it. Skateboarding has been the fastest-growing sport for the last—” Laird shrugged “—dozen years or so. Since we were kids. Right behind it is mountain biking, kayaking and snowboarding. All individual sports—not team sports.”

Trent managed a nod. He’d heard all this before—several times. What Hayley had pointed out that day made their father reevaluate his business.

“Team sports aren’t growing,” continued Laird. “They’re too competitive, cause too many injuries to young players and they’ve become too…too corporate. College ball has been decimated by guys who leave for the pros without finishing school. Then they make outrageous amounts of money and it pisses off the public big-time.”

“True,” Trent agreed, although he had once hoped to make his fortune as a pro skateboarder. He had talent, but others were more talented, and he was smart enough to realize it.

“Know what I read the other day? There was a survey in some flyover town like St. Louis or Kansas City. The fifteen-to twenty-five-year-olds questioned couldn’t name more than two of the pros on the local football team, but they knew the names of five or more MMA fighters.”

“I’m not surprised. Hayley saw that trend coming.” He despised the sport, but no question the gear with The Wrath’s logo—designed by Hayley—was kicking butt even in a depressed economy.

“I think Hayley is right. Surfers changed the country. Clothes, vocabulary, attitude, but we’re on the down-stroke now. Sure, there’ll always be the need for boards and clothes, but it’s not the growth industry it once was.”

Laird and Hayley were probably right. In fact, checking the company’s numbers proved they were onto something. But that didn’t mean Trent had to like it.

“How much do you and Hayley need?”

Trent shook his head regretfully and told him. Laird’s smile morphed into a shit-eating smirk.

T
RENT LEFT THE
B
EACHCOMBER
and took the tram that was new—but made to look like a fifties Woodie—up to the parking lot. Crystal Cove was a state beach now, but once it had been home to locals who’d built wooden cottages along the shore back when not everyone had two or three cars. Now only service vehicles were allowed down to the area where one large cottage had been converted into The Beachcomber while the others were
rented to tourists. They paid big bucks to be right on the water in “cottages” that were little more than shacks.

On the drive to Surf’s Up main shop in the Corona del Mar shopping center, Trent reviewed his options. He did not want to be in business with Laird. The sleaze would find a way to bilk Trent out of major dough. Laird and Farah were both smarter, more educated than Trent, but Trent figured he had his mother’s craftiness. He reviewed his options as he pulled into the huge parking lot.

It was only nine-thirty—early for the beach in summer—but the area was crowded with cars. Then he noticed the horde of people outside his shop. They hadn’t had this large a crowd since the last Christmas sale two years ago, before the economic meltdown.

Wait a minute. Why weren’t people inside? The shop had been open for half an hour. A van with a satellite dish on top caught his eye.
KABC News
was in metallic letters along its side. They were filming a live remote.

Hayley, he realized. Not customers. News media. They were here no doubt for a comment on Hayley. What could he say? He didn’t know squat.

He swung his Porsche into the space reserved for him and shut off the engine. No one had spotted him so he was tempted to go home. Who needed this?

Home made him think of Courtney and Timmy. Trent would bet his life his whiny son was banging away on the piano or in his room reading a book. Jesus H. Christ. At Timmy’s age, Trent had skateboarded his way to the beach carrying his own surfboard. Could the kid be gay? Trent brushed the thought aside. This was Courtney’s doing. She was making a wuss out of Trent’s son.

Trent knew he should divorce Courtney. Her pill problem wasn’t getting any better, but he couldn’t afford
a divorce right now. If Hayley had died and the estate had been split two ways, he would have been able to divorce Courtney at the end of this year. The way things were going, he wouldn’t get rid of her in the foreseeable future.