The Hot Ladies Murder Club

“Mummy—”

“Georgia!”

Now, for the first time, Hannah wished Georgia was an easy child.

“Please, Georgia…”

Georgia recognized that low tone in her mother’s voice that meant business and hastily hopped into the Mercedes.

Hannah strode up to him and put both hands squarely on her hips. “I asked you not to follow me.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t. I took a shortcut.”

“Stay away from my little girl. Stay away from me.”

“You were scared in the parking lot…hysterical.”

As though you care!

“I was not!” Her voice was so shrill two young teachers turned to stare. Campbell’s sable hair glinted in the sunlight as he smiled at them. Annoyed even more, Hannah flushed when the women smiled back.

“Keep your voice down,” he advised. “And for the record, I was worried about you.”

“Why don’t I believe you.”

He forced another of those broad white smiles, which he no doubt knew made him ten times more handsome.

“You won’t tell me who you really are, or what you’re afraid of,” he said in a mild tone. “So, on a hunch, I got here as fast as I could…just in case…you were being followed and your daughter was at risk.”

“You are not, let me repeat, not a Good Samaritan. You keep a string of pneumatic blondes on the—”

His face darkened. “I never heard that word before.”

She paled. “I do not believe you have even one drop of decency in your blood.”

“I think you’re running scared…which makes you vulnerable—”

“What would it take to get you out of my life?” she whispered.

“You could settle with the O’Connors.”

“Never in a million years.”

“You’re going to regret that decision,” he said.

“No, you’re going to regret getting high-handed with me.”

“If you go to trial, there’s a chance some juror might find your face familiar, too. His memory might prove better than mine.” She trembled when he looked directly into her eyes. “Who are you? Why did you dye your hair? Who the hell are you running from?”

She felt faint. His face blurred. She couldn’t endure another moment of this. “Nobody.”

“Mrs. Smith?” He smiled. “Like I said, you’re one lousy liar.” His expression was intense. “You’re from the UK.”

Somehow she found her voice. “What?”

“Your daughter has the accent. You can hide it. She can’t.”

Hannah felt light-headed as he slid a brown hand into his hip pocket and took out his wallet.

Her mother and grandmother were both Americans. So was Georgia’s real father. Hannah was good at accents and was careful about vocabulary. How difficult was it to change lift to elevator or bonnet to hood or loo to rest room?

Quickly, he handed her his card. “Call me if you change your mind about settling.”

Mute with too many out-of-control emotions, all she could do was glare at him.

“And something else you might want to consider—if you settle, I’ll make sure nothing about the case makes the papers.” His uncanny black gaze focused on her lips.

“The papers?”

“You must be new here. Big settlements are news. And if this case makes the papers here, the news just might reach London.”

She winced, remembering too well what it was like to live in the blinding glare of paparazzi.

“Mommy!” Georgia began honking the horn.

“Who the hell are you running from?” he repeated softly.

“At the moment—you.”

“I’ve seen your face somewhere. I’ve got a detective doing research.…”

“You what…”

“You heard me. It’s in your best interest to settle—fast.”

She blanched. “Stay away from me and my little girl or you’ll be sorry.”

“Is that a threat, Mrs. Smith?”

“Absolutely.”

He laughed. She threw herself inside her car, slammed the door, jammed her fists down onto the door locks.

He leaned down. Because she was curious, she lowered her window.

“I’d like to follow you home. That tire might—”

“Not your problem.”