Kiss of Death

by Meryl Sawyer

  Whitney was amazed that Ryan could get any credit. He was up to his ears in debt with a huge mortgage. He also had the lease on the office he’d used before switching from general surgery to the more lucrative field of cosmetic surgery. On top of everything was an astronomical malpractice premium that had to be paid quarterly. He walked over to the Porsche and she added expensive car leases to the list of her ex-husband’s debts. No telling what Ashley—his girlfriend, now wife—was driving.

  Ryan returned with a bound sheaf of papers in his hand. He flipped it open in front of her to a page with a red Post-it flagging a space for her signature. “All you have to do is sign here.” He zipped to another page. “And here.” He paged to the end of the document. “And here. But you must do it in front of a notary.”

  A warning bell sounded in a distant part of her brain. Why were there so many pages? The original document from the arbitrator had been much smaller, hadn’t it?

  “Come with me now,” Ryan continued in his smoothest voice. “There’s a notary at American Title who’ll take care of everything. They open at nine.”

  “I can’t today. I’m already running late. Besides, I want an attorney to look over everything before I sign.”

  “What?” Ryan slapped the side of the Jeep with the document. “Why let a lawyer pad his bill by reading something you’ve already agreed to? Besides, you don’t have the money for a lawyer.”

  Whitney realized she was dealing not with the charming Ryan Fordham but the imperious Ryan Fordham. Once she’d thought this persona was authoritative. Now he merely sounded arrogant. She manufactured a smile and bluffed. “Miranda is marrying Broderick Babcock. He’ll read the papers for nothing.”

  That stopped him. Ryan stared at her slack-jawed. Broderick Babcock was a legend in San Diego, in the state. He’d successfully defended several high-profile clients that most people believed were guilty and didn’t have a prayer of avoiding prison.

  “Why bother Babcock?” Ryan asked, his voice smooth again. “This isn’t any big deal.”

  “I still want him to review the document. But it’ll have to wait. He took Miranda to Fiji for a two-week honeymoon.”

  “What?” The word exploded out of Ryan. “Wait two weeks? No fucking way! You come with me right now. We’ll be at American Title when they open.”

  He was shouting now, the way he occasionally did when things didn’t go his way. Ryan had a hair-trigger temper that rarely surfaced. Between his charm, good looks and assertive attitude, people usually gave in to him. Whitney always had—but not anymore.

  “I’m not signing anything until Rick has read and approved the document.” She said this as if she knew the attorney, even though she’d never met the man. “Now move your car. I’m late for work.”

  Ryan grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. “You bitch. You’re doing this to get back at me for falling in love with Ashley.”

  She told herself this wasn’t true. It was only prudent to have an attorney read what appeared to be a complicated document—a different document than she’d originally signed. But she had to admit Ryan had put her through hell. His betrayal had been acute, devastating. She’d sacrificed her dream of becoming a veterinarian to put Ryan through medical school. Now she was penniless and forced to start over.

  “Let go of me.” She tried to wrench away, but he only tightened his grip and began to shake her with even more force.

  “I want you out of my life forever. This has to be settled today.”

  “Leave me alone,” she snapped as she struggled to control the quaver in her voice. A bolt of fear shot up her spine. She’d seen Ryan upset many times, but never like this. Something else was wrong besides the improper transfer of property.

  “Come with me now or else—”

  “Don’t threaten me. Let me go this instant.”

  Ryan shook her so hard that her head snapped back, wrenching her neck and shoulders. Pain lanced down her neck into her upper arm.

  “You heard the lady. Let her go.” The order sounded like the crack of a whip.

  Ryan instantly released her, and they both whirled around to see who was speaking. A tall, powerfully built man stood in the trellised opening of the bridal wreath hedge that separated the main house from the caretaker’s cottage. He must be Adam Hunter. The air whooshed out of Whitney’s lungs as if the brute had tackled her again.

  Head cocked slightly to one side, Adam Hunter gazed directly at Whitney. His arresting eyes were marine blue. If he was on something—the way she’d thought last night—it was an overload of testosterone. His eyes weren’t fiendish at all; they were alert, predator’s eyes. There was nothing more exciting to a natural-born hunter than vulnerable prey. Last night, clad in little more than a nylon raincoat, she’d been an easy mark.

  In the utter darkness, she’d assumed him ugly. He was far from it, but she wouldn’t call him handsome, either. He was attractive in an edgy, masculine way that said he was world-weary but aching to throw a punch if given any excuse. She imagined him clobbering Ryan and smiled inwardly.

  Adam was dressed in well-worn navy Dockers and a gray polo shirt, but she had the impression he played the hand life dealt him. He would be at home in a boardroom, wearing Armani or dressed as a hit man in black, brandishing a gun fitted with a silencer. She would bet her life that the hit-man mode would be his choice.

  His straight nose was slightly long, his square jaw was stubbled with hair the same shade as the black mop that was long overdue for a haircut. He had a well-toned body that she doubted came from hours at a gym. Somehow she couldn’t see him on a treadmill or pumping iron beside a bunch of other guys.

  “Look,” Ryan began in his most placating tone. “My wife—”

  “Ex-wife,” she corrected, then didn’t know what else to say. How could she expect the guy who’d manhandled her to be much help? The endless moment stopped when she managed to say, “He’s trying to force me to sign papers that I want my attorney to review first.”

  Adam’s take-no-prisoners glare said this was more than he needed—or wanted—to know. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, but his stance remained just as defiant.

  “She’s just being stubborn.” Ryan gave Adam a man-to-man look.

  “You were way too rough with the lady,” Adam replied in a tone that could have frozen vodka. “Leave—now.”

  Ryan opened his mouth, set to argue, thought better of it and stomped off to his car. His wimpy exit showed Ryan for what he was—a pretty boy who relied on charm. When that failed he turned into a bully. With a screech of tires, the Porsche shot out of the driveway.

  Whitney turned, but Adam Hunter had vanished as stealthily as he’d appeared.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TRISH BOWRATHER WAS backing her midnight-blue Jaguar out of her garage when Whitney arrived. Brandy was in the passenger seat, his head out the window. Trish slammed on the brakes and rolled down her window, yelling, “You’re late.”

  Whitney jumped out of the Jeep and ran over. “I’m sorry. My ex-husband showed up unexpectedly. He wouldn’t let me out of the driveway until a neighbor helped get rid of him.”

  She hated bringing up personal issues, but she had no idea what else to say. She’d never had Miranda’s aptitude for shading the truth.

  Trish’s eyes became distracted for a second, as if she was recalling something from long, long ago. “I thought your divorce was final.”

  “It is. He claims there was some mix-up in the paperwork involving the property settlement. I think I should have an attorney look over these new documents before I sign.”

  “Absolutely!” Trish stepped out of the car, dressed in a chic black suit accented with sterling-silver jewelry. “You need a lawyer to check. It sounds highly unusual.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Trish studied her a moment, an understanding expression softening her features. “Was he physical with you?”

  Whitney realized she must still appear sha
ken from the incident. “Well…a little, I guess. Ryan didn’t hit me or anything but he grabbed my shoulders—”

  “File a police report. Then get a restraining order,” Trish shot back, conviction underscoring every word. “That’ll keep that bastard away from you.”

  Whitney managed a weak nod. She didn’t want to antagonize Ryan any more than she already had. There probably wasn’t a valid reason not to sign the documents, but a little voice kept insisting she consult an attorney.

  Trish put her hand on Whitney’s arm. “Look. Take Brandy for his walk. Stop by the Daily Grind for a latte. Relax a little bit, then drop Brandy off at the gallery. There’s a police station nearby. File a report. If the jerk threatens you again, get a restraining order.”

  An unconvincing “Good idea” was the best Whitney could muster.

  “Here, Brandy,” Trish called, and the dog scrambled out of the open driver’s door, his leash in his mouth.

  “Take your time,” Trish advised as she walked back to the Jag. “Calm down. Don’t let that creep ruin your day.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t,” Whitney said to appease her.

  Whitney watched Trish speed away. She couldn’t help being shocked at the change in the woman since yesterday. Evidently, Trish had suffered through a very rough divorce. She understood how unreasonable ex-husbands could be.

  Get a restraining order?

  She reluctantly admitted to herself that Trish had struck a nervous chord. Today Whitney had seen a side of Ryan that he hadn’t revealed in nine years of marriage. Ryan had been cold and verbally abusive at times, but he’d never been rough with her.

  Was he cracking up?

  Surely not. Ryan was just stressed out, she assured herself as she hooked Brandy to his leash and opened the door for Lexi. Her ex’s switch to cosmetic surgery had meant leaving his old partners and finding a new practice. Cosmetic surgeons needed to maintain a certain image. Sophisticated offices and the latest in equipment attracted the kind of clientele who gladly parted with stratospheric sums of money in order to appear more youthful. That consumed cash at a rapid rate.

  Most people believed doctors made boodles of money, but that was no longer as true as it once had been. Malpractice insurance and the cost of equipment had eroded doctors’ earning power. Ryan had compounded his problems by making several bad investments, like the property with the toxic chemicals in the soil.

  Well, he’d gotten what he deserved, she assured herself. During the last year of their marriage, Ryan had behaved unforgivably. Always moody and temperamental, he’d become more so. She’d asked him dozens and dozens of times if she could do anything to help. He’d denied anything was wrong, claiming it was just the pressure of his first year in practice. His long hours became longer and more erratic, his fuse shorter. Still, Whitney hadn’t suspected anything until she’d discovered the receipt from LaValencia, an expensive hotel in La Jolla.

  He could have leveled with her and said he’d fallen for another woman, but he hadn’t. Even when she confronted him, Ryan continued to deny it until she’d told him that she’d called the hotel and found out he’d registered with his “wife.” When she’d had him dead to rights, Ryan had walked out the door “to find himself.”

  She was halfway down the street, with Brandy and Lexi on their leashes and Da Vinci snuggled into his custom-built sling harnessed to her chest, when her cell phone rang. She switched the leashes to one hand and grabbed the phone clipped to her waist.

  “I hope you’ve had time to come to your senses.”

  She was tempted to hang up on Ryan, but that wouldn’t deliver the message she really wanted to send. She’d had all she was ever going to take from this man.

  “Well, Ryan,” she replied in the sweetest tone she could manage. “You were unforgivably physical with me and I have a witness. I’m filing a police report and if you come near me again, I’ll get a restraining order. You may recall that I have a friend who works for the Tribune. I’ll make sure this appears in the paper. Should do worlds of good for your business, don’t you think?”

  There was nothing but dead air on the other end of the phone. No doubt Ryan was in shock. She’d never talked back to him like this when they’d been married. He’d presumed she was going to do just what he wanted.

  “You wouldn’t.” He didn’t sound as sure of himself as he usually did.

  “I mean every word,” she bluffed. “Just mail me what you want signed. As soon as Rick and Miranda return, I’ll have him look over the documents. If he approves, I will, and I’ll get them back to you immediately.”

  He grunted something that might have been “okay” and hung up. Whitney knew he was pissed. She told herself she was being prudent to wait until a lawyer could look over the papers, but a small part of her conceded she wanted to make things difficult for Ryan. What he’d done still hurt more than she cared to admit and she deserved a bit of revenge.

  She’d first bumped into Ryan Fordham while rushing to a class at UCLA. He appeared to be another surfer being forced by his parents to study, but the opposite proved to be true. Ryan was brilliant—a fact not lost on the man—and he was attending college on an academic scholarship, studying premed.

  He didn’t have time or money to date but he carved out a place for Whitney. Before she knew it, she’d moved in with him. When she’d been accepted to UC Davis to study veterinary medicine, she’d been faced with a choice. It was much harder to get into vet school than medical school. Still, she’d allowed Ryan to persuade her to put her plans on hold until he received his medical degree.

  They’d married just after graduation. Ryan’s mother and Miranda, Whitney’s only living relative, accompanied them to the Santa Monica courthouse, where they were wed. For reasons Whitney still didn’t understand, Ryan hadn’t liked Miranda.

  True, her cousin could be a bit of a wild child at times, but who could blame her? Miranda had been orphaned at fifteen when her parents died in a car crash. She’d appeared at their door with a social worker the day before the funeral. While the older woman met with Whitney’s mother, a single parent, Whitney had consoled Miranda.

  “I don’t have anywhere to go,” her cousin had whispered, tears in her eyes.

  Now it was Whitney who had nowhere to go—thanks to Ryan Fordham. She honestly didn’t know what she would have done without Miranda. Her cousin had taken her in without asking any questions.

  Ryan could rot in hell until she had someone look over the papers. It wasn’t much, but she had to admit it gave her satisfaction to see him squirm.

  ASHLEY FORDHAM HEARD THE opening bars of “Proud Mary” and knew she had a call on her cell phone. Whenever she heard the song, she fondly remembered her father. She could see him smiling, his slight overbite making him appear happier than he really was.

  “Just a minute,” she told Preston Block, her personal trainer. “I’m expecting a call from Ryan.” She yanked her phone off the waistband of her yoga pants.

  “It’s me, babe.” Ryan sounded discouraged.

  “Did Whitney sign?”

  A long beat of silence. “No. She wants to show the papers to an attorney.”

  “Why? She signed them after arbitration.”

  “Whitney’s just being difficult to get back at me,” Ryan said wearily.

  Ashley caught Preston’s eye and smiled even though she wanted to scream. Why couldn’t Ryan have convinced the bitch to sign? How hard could it be?

  Ashley tried for a teary voice. “We’ll lose the house.”

  She had her heart set on a spectacular home with a dock for a yacht in Coronado Keys, just south of Ryan’s offices in downtown San Diego. In order to buy it, they needed to sell the monstrosity of a house Ryan and Whitney had owned.

  “It’s not just the house,” Ryan replied, his voice charged with anger. “It’s…everything.”

  Ashley used an encouraging tone. “You’ll think of something. You always do.”

  He told her he loved her and they hu
ng up. She loved him, too, and had from the first day she’d met him. She knew Ryan was under a lot of pressure right now. The expense of buying in to a new practice. Skyrocketing malpractice insurance. The house she wanted. She would do anything to help him.

  Preston was still watching her, and she hoped her frustration and anger didn’t show on her face. No sense in getting frown lines over this. Too much was at stake. If Ryan couldn’t handle his ex, she would. Ryan didn’t have to know a thing. Like many men she’d encountered since childhood, Ryan needed to believe he was in charge.

  “A problem?” Preston asked.

  Ashley had been working out with Preston at Dr. Jox Fitness Center for the last three years. He had the hots for her. She could see it in his eyes as he put her through the workout he’d custom designed for her.

  Ashley had known she was beautiful since her mother had entered her at age five in the Little Miss Idaho contest and she’d won. But years of countless contests hadn’t led to a first in the Miss USA or Miss America pageants. Worse, she hadn’t received the lucrative modeling contract that her mother expected. A ruptured appendix that she didn’t seek treatment for until it was too late unexpectedly cut her mother’s life short, leaving Ashley alone in San Diego to prepare for the Miss San Diego contest.

  Ashley had decided she was sick of beauty pageants—something she’d never had the courage to tell her mother. At twenty-four, she was getting too old to compete. She had to find a job, but she just had a high-school diploma and no marketable skills except her looks.

  She’d landed a position as a receptionist with a group of cosmetic surgeons. It didn’t take her long to see how much money the doctors made from nips and tucks. She allowed one of the doctors to enhance her naturally pouty lips with a touch of Restalyne and had a chemical peel that made her flawless skin look perfect even without a bit of makeup.

  When she could claim she’d been “enhanced” by the cosmetic group, she moved up the food chain from the entry-level receptionist’s position to “spokeswoman” for the group. She met with patients in “preliminary sessions” to show what could be achieved with their services. Ashley was living proof of how skilled the surgeons were.