The Killing Edge

He quickly crawled over the railing and started down the trellis.

Then he heard someone clear their throat and looked up.

Chloe Marin was standing at the railing, staring at him with sharp suspicion.

“I’d heard you were looking for the bathroom, Mr. Smith. You really don’t have to climb down from the balcony and make use of the beach as a ‘loo,’ as you call it—I’m assuming that’s the story you’re going to give me?” she asked sweetly.

Rene Gonzalez was slipping away.

“Nothing like the great outdoors,” he said, then swiftly climbed down a few feet, praying the trellis would hold, jumped to the ground and took off in pursuit of Rene Gonzalez.

TWO

Damn the man.

She wasn’t dressed to go swinging from balconies and leaping to the ground.

But the man who called himself Jack Smith had been beyond suspicious even before he’d climbed down from the balcony and followed Rene toward the beach—a feat that put her in a position where she longed to call in the police. But at the moment, what would be the point? He had an invitation to be here, though he’d certainly been a rude guest, looking into bedrooms, not to mention leaping off a balcony. Still, Victoria had told her that two years ago Bjorn Bradikoff, famed for his jeweled sandals, had streaked down the beach in nothing but a pair of his trademark sandals, proving their elegance, whether matched with cocktail finery, casual attire or nothing at all.

Compared to that, exiting via balcony wouldn’t even begin to get a man arrested.

Swearing, she tossed off her borrowed designer heels and swung a leg over the balcony railing, carefully maneuvering herself to the trellis. She crawled down the latticework, amazed that none of the slender slats had broken. Just as she thanked her lucky stars, she grasped at a piece of wood that split in her hands, and tumbled down the last six feet, landing hard in a patch of mixed dirt and sand, but avoiding the sharp-toothed needles of the bougainvillea that grew in a riot of color around the house.

Swearing more vociferously, she got to her feet, dusted herself off and followed in the direction the other two had taken.

As she tore around the trees, she felt a twinge of guilt; her uncle would be furious with her for going in unprepared pursuit of a man who might be dangerous, might even be armed.

But she didn’t think so. At least, she was pretty sure he wasn’t armed, though he might well be dangerous. Certainly in her observations of the agency, he was the first truly suspicious character she had seen. Then again, it could be hard to tell sometimes. Eccentricities could hide all kinds of stains on the human soul, and it was often difficult to tell the truth from illusion.

The man had an educated, British accent. Or was it feigned? Probably not. It was slight, as if he’d been away from his homeland for many years.

The back gates were open. There was one guard on duty, but he was flirting with someone Chloe didn’t know, a slim young woman with long blazing red hair. She was wearing a strapless tube gown and doing it very well. If Chloe was right in her assumption that the other woman wasn’t on the guest list, then apparently the guard wasn’t above allowing uninvited guests into the party, at least if they met his own personal requirements.

She herself was now covered in dirt, sand and bits of bracken, and her hair was undoubtedly in a wild tangle. She should ask the guard if he’d seen anyone exit, but she doubted he had seen anyone but the flirty redhead.

She tore out to the beach. Neither the guard nor the redhead spared her a glance. So much for security.

She ran south down the beach, following a trail of footsteps in the sand that led from the mansion. She wasn’t afraid; she could see late-night wanderers as she ran. Remodeled deco hotels, which had once been cheap housing for down-on-their-luck locals, now gleamed proudly in the night, lit in bright colors that drew the eye. The gentle sound of the surf made a pleasant background, and the breeze was almost dainty, carrying in a cooling note from the water.

How far could they have made it so quickly?

Chloe stopped running. They could have gone anywhere. Their footprints had gotten mingled with all those left over from the day.

She caught her breath as she looked around. They could have gone in a half-dozen different directions. Not only were their footprints impossible to distinguish anymore, she had passed at least five hotels, restaurants and clubs as she ran, and the pair could have ducked into any one of them. Not to mention that a block ahead, the hotels and restaurants shifted, and were all on the other side of the street, providing another range of possible hiding places.

What if this man had something to do with Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance? Was Rene in danger now, too?

She closed her eyes, fighting a wave of panic.

Every once in a while, hitting so briefly that no one else even noticed, it came. That sensation of absolute terror. A memory of the colors of death that had bathed the world in red and black that night ten years ago.

This had nothing to do with the past, she told herself. Nothing at all.

She fought the panic, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Fighting back had become her way of coping on a day-to-day basis with what had happened a decade before. Her uncle had told her that she could curl up and hide for the rest of her life, or she could learn to live again.

She had chosen to live. And she had taken classes in every form of defensive—and even offensive—fighting that she could. She had also become a crack shot.

She could even string a crossbow.

But all the training in the world couldn’t help if you couldn’t find the person you were trying to protect.

It was time to go back. To admit defeat. To live to fight another day.

Except that this was what she was fighting for. To discover the truth about the Bryson Agency and the disappearance of a young woman who’d had everything to live for.

She turned around to head back and was stunned to find herself staring at Jack Smith.

“Where’s Rene?” she asked, immediately going on the offensive.

“You tell me. And thanks for confirming that that was Rene. At least we know she’s alive at the moment, and presumably well.”

Chloe frowned, watching him. “What is your concern with Rene?”

He shrugged.

He was an interesting man, she decided. Tall and lean, but with broad shoulders and hard-muscled arms, and an abdomen that was probably like steel. And his eyes. They seemed to cut right through her. His face had too much of a hard, rugged edge to be termed handsome, but somehow the conglomeration of all his features made him more attractive than any of the perfect models back at the party. He was undeniably compelling. She was extremely suspicious of him, and yet … being close to him seemed to make the night warmer. She had the sense that touching him now would be like trying to hold on to an electric shock. He’d been courteous when they’d been introduced before … but there was something in his eyes. Something hard. And it made him all the more suspicious—and, somehow, physically appealing.

“She’ll make a great swimsuit model,” he said.

“So great that you were wandering around upstairs—hunting her down?” Chloe demanded.

“You have to break a few rules to get ahead in this world,” he told her. “So, your turn. Why were you chasing me?”

“Because you were chasing Rene.”

“Why wasn’t Rene at the party when she was at the house?” he demanded. “You girls are tight—I assume. Or are you?”

She was a fake, of course.

But the others were the real thing.

“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “Maybe she was afraid that some strange new designer would be looking for her. Some guy who’d gone a little off the deep end, enough to chase her down a trellis and all along the beach.”

He grinned at that. She was surprised to see how that grin made him … even more appealing and … flat-out sexy.

Dangerously so? she wondered. After all, some of the most heinous killers in history had exuded a deadly charm.

“All’s fair in the fashion industry, or so I understand,” he said.