by Meryl Sawyer
Brianna had Vanessa’s number the first time the two women had met. She’d insisted Vanessa wore the pants even though Doyle’s macho twin brother, Duncan, had been alive then, and most people believed he ran the family.
She’d seen right through Raoul Cathcart the instant the guy had shaken her hand. She had immediately whispered, “Raoul Cathcart will be trouble. Trust me.”
Brianna had been a lap dancer in a club off Calle Ocho in Little Havana when he’d met her. Brianna’s mother had immigrated from Cuba, then married an American just the way Raoul Cathcart’s mother had.
They were YUCAs—young, urban, Cuban-Americans—and they understood each other in a way Doyle couldn’t quite explain. But he had no doubt Brianna was right.
Raoul was trouble.
“I’m going to drive over in the Maserati,” he told his wife. “You come when you’re ready.”
He turned to leave, but Brianna jumped up and blocked his way, saying, “You’re leaving without a kiss good-bye?”
He shrugged. Brianna didn’t want a kiss, and they both knew it. She had sex in mind—as usual.
When he’d dumped his wife for a blond bombshell, he’d counted on many things. Demands for jewelry. An insatiable appetite for designer clothes. A thirst for travel.
He gave Brianna those things, but she didn’t lust for them the way he’d expected.
When he’d traded up, leaving a dowdy childless wife who asked for nothing, he hadn’t counted on getting a sexpot with brains who wanted to fuck all the time. He was way, way too old for this, but he kept it a secret.
It wasn’t the only thing he hid from Brianna.
“Good-bye.” He kissed her on the cheek, teasing her, pretending that’s all that would happen.
“Bye-bye,” she replied with a little wave.
He marched out of the bedroom, taken aback. Brianna always insisted on screwing before they went out for the evening. “To take the edge off,” she claimed. When they returned home, she’d expect him to spend hours making love to her again.
She wasn’t having an affair, was she?
It was possible, he conceded. He couldn’t get it up more than twice a day unless he popped Viagra, but Brianna was insatiable. She could be juggling several men and still want to fuck.
He mulled over the situation, silently cursing. Right now he didn’t need another problem. The situation at To The Maxx was volatile with Raoul Cartcart butting in all the time.
Worse, he was in serious financial trouble. The divorce, the meltdown in the stock market, and an expensive young wife had drained his finances. He desperately needed To The Maxx to be sold.
An infusion of cash would solve his financial woes. His sex problems were another story.
He walked into the garage, then flicked on the light switch. Brianna was sprawled buck-naked on the hood of his red Maserati like some centerfold. She must have raced down the back stairs to beat him to the garage.
She used her index finger to motion for him to come closer. “Don’t ever think you can just walk out on me like that. You know what I need.”
“I don’t want to wrinkle my pants.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She rose to her feet and stood so her pussy was inches from his lips.
He was going to have to service her. There was no getting out of it, he thought. She waxed her crotch so there was never a suggestion of dark pubic hair, which would have been a startling contrast to her golden mane.
Her skin was creamy smooth and softer than a baby’s ass. She slid her hand down her flat tummy and touched herself with an index finger crowned by a ruby-red nail.
“Your turn,” she whispered, in a tone that told him she was already aroused.
Dusk was gathering when Taylor drove toward Alhambra Street, one of the many streets in Coral Gables with Spanish names. A canopy of noble banyan trees deepened the shadows. The neighborhood had the reputation of being one of the most exclusive areas in the city, but to Taylor it was home, a reminder of a time when her life had been simple, happy.
She parked and entered the sprawling Spanish-style mansion with a high wall capped in coral rock, where she had been raised. The home opened onto a swimming pool with a coral rock waterfall. As usual at this time of day, her mother would be near the bubbling fountain, sipping a mint julep. Even though she was older and ill, Vanessa Maxwell was still a striking blonde who turned men’s heads.
“Taylor, lookin’ way cool,” Raoul Cathcart greeted her when she walked into the pool area. “Miami Spice, right?” he said, referring to the popular boutique where she’d purchased the red halter dress.
“Yes. It’s a great shop.” She managed a smile at the man who’d captured her brother’s heart.
She loved Trent in a way only siblings born fourteen months apart can love each other, but she hadn’t known Trent. Not at all. When he’d announced he was gay and was divorcing Lisa, no one had been more surprised than Taylor.
Raoul, like most men of Cuban descent, dressed with a flair even when he was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Add that to his sexual orientation, where clothing was almost an art, and Taylor wasn’t in the least surprised he could spot a Miami Spice outfit.
He was dressed in a white-on-white suit that made his skin seem more bronze, a soft blue shirt, and a creamy yellow tie. His honey blond hair stood up in spikes that might have made some men look foolish.
Not Raoul. He rode the crest of every trend as if he’d invented it.
His most unusual feature was his eyes. He’d inherited his father’s pale blue eyes, which seemed even paler in his tanned face. He was a striking man, a fact that had not escaped his own attention.
“Where’s Trent?” she asked.
“With Her Majesty.”
Taylor resisted the urge to slap his handsome face, a square jawline and chiseled cheekbones women adored—for all the good it did them. A grudging little voice inside her acknowledged the truth behind the phrase “Her Majesty.”
Taylor’s mother had an imperial attitude. Granted, she was loving, supportive—never once criticizing Trent—but Vanessa Maxwell had an air of entitlement that usually came from wealth.
In her case, it did not. Taylor’s mother had been born May Ella Jones. She’d changed her name the second she’d been released from foster care on her eighteenth birthday. She’d moved to Miami and reinvented herself.
She’d married a man who had family money, and who then went on to make even more with his own business. Vanessa Maxwell ran with a society crowd, a fact Paul Ashton had noted immediately.
He was a struggling photographer without much money. Taylor hadn’t cared. She was thankful she’d inherited her father’s attitude about people. Money isn’t everything.
Taylor’s father had suffered a heart attack and died shortly before Paul vanished in South America. If her father had lived, she would have amended his saying about money.
There are things in life money can buy, then there are those things in life no amount of money can buy.
When you lost someone you loved, no amount of money was ever going to bring them back.
“I see Trent now,” she said, spotting her brother talking to a tall, powerfully built man whose back was to her. Until the guy had moved, he’d blocked her view of Trent.
Off to the side stood another man she didn’t recognize either. She wanted to ask what was going on, but she refused to give Raoul the satisfaction of realizing he knew more than she did.
“Hey, Taylor. That’s a dynamite dress,” her uncle said, coming up beside her and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
“Thanks.”
She hugged Doyle Maxwell and secretly pretended he was her father. It wasn’t difficult. Duncan and Doyle Maxwell had been identical twins and looked so much alike that many people hadn’t been able to tell them apart.
Pewter hair wisped with silver at the temples offset the same blue eyes Taylor saw in the mirror each morning. She adored her uncle, and in many ways, he’d been more
supportive of her than her own father who had lived for the company.
Uncle Doyle shared her love of games and had encouraged her to make up her own games since she was a child. She’d told him about her plans to start her own game company, something she’d never told her father. It would have disappointed him to know she really wasn’t crazy about the cosmetics business.
“I wore a dress,” she told him. “You know how Mother is. One always dresses for dinner.”
Doyle chuckled. “Yep. That’s why I put on a jacket.”
“I got out one of my white suits because I adore white suits,” Raoul chimed in.
“Looks good on you,” her uncle said.
Uncle Doyle was being polite, but she didn’t have to ask what he really thought of Raoul Cathcart. Her uncle didn’t like the man. When Taylor’s father had died, Doyle had stepped in to help run To The Maxx.
Things had gone smoothly until Raoul came into Trent’s life. Even though Raoul didn’t work for the company, he wanted to start a similar business. He had an opinion about everything at To The Maxx and voiced it through Trent.
Raoul moved away to join the cluster of men talking to her mother, and Taylor asked, “What’s going on?”
“Who knows?”
Her uncle shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that reminded Taylor so much of her father. His hair had receded just a bit, and the high, noble foreheads coupled with blue eyes were male family traits. One day Trent would look like this.
Vanessa Maxwell turned and saw them. She smiled and headed their way as she tapped on her glass to signal Pablo, the houseboy, for another mint julep. Taylor couldn’t help returning her mother’s smile.
When was the last time she’d seen her mother look so happy?
“Darling.” Her mother kissed the air beside Taylor’s cheek, then said hello to Doyle.
“That’s some dress.” She twirled her finger, motioning for Taylor to turn around.
Taylor did a slow pirouette so her mother could inspect the glowing red halter dress. It was backless and skimmed her thighs and clung to every curve, a typical SoBe club outfit.
Ordinarily, her mother wouldn’t approve, but it had been almost two years since she’d bought a new dress. When Paul vanished from her life, there didn’t seem to be any point in trying to look good.
Work and finding Paul had been all that mattered. Then her mother became ill, and buying clothes mattered even less.
Tonight she was wearing a new dress and makeup. “Getting a grip” is what Lisa called it.
“Lisa insisted I buy it,” Taylor told her mother. “The shoes, too.”
She wiggled one foot to show off the red sandals with stiletto heels of clear Lucite. In the center of each heel was a red butterfly with flecks of iridescent green on its wings.
“Lisa’s finally come home?” Her mother’s eyes were troubled. “How is she?”
“Really happy.” Taylor didn’t mention the Kama Sutra business, knowing it would worry her mother.
“I’m glad. I miss her.”
“Ditto,” Uncle Doyle added, his eyes narrowing as he watched Raoul.
There was no point dwelling on the past, Taylor decided. “Who are those men?”
“Come with me.” Her mother tugged on her arm. “I’ll introduce you.”
Taylor linked her arm with her uncle’s and followed her mother toward the group of men. Over the shoulder of the tall man, Trent caught Taylor’s eye. No one else would have noticed the subtle change in his expression, but Taylor did.
A frisson of alarm skittered down her bare back.
Trouble.
Uh-oh. Now what?
“This is my daughter, Taylor Maxwell,” her mother announced. “And my brother-in-law, Doyle Maxwell.”
The men turned and Taylor found herself staring at one of them. For a split second she didn’t recognize the tall man who was smiling at her. His wide shoulders did wonders for the light-weight navy blazer. His crisp white shirt was open at the throat, revealing a strong neck and a silver chain.
Shane Donovan.
Well, well. Take a jock out of T-shirts and shorts and look what happened. Who would have guessed?
“Vince Walker and Shane Donovan are with TriTech Security,” her mother told them.
Shane’s smile had a disturbing nuance to it. She looked away, thinking she’d been right. He wasn’t the computer type. He was a security guard.
“They’ve located Renata.” Raw emotion charged each word her mother uttered.
“Renata?” Taylor heard herself ask, her mind making another mental adjustment. Shane was a private investigator.
Then her mother’s words registered with unexpected force.
Renata.
The missing baby.
Her sister.
Chapter 3
“We didn’t actually find Renata Rollins,” Vince Walker told them. “Putting the case on Missing! brought in a number of leads. They contacted your mother about this woman.”
“What happened to her?” asked Taylor.
“Why was there no record of her adoption?” added Trent.
“She wasn’t adopted through the state agency,” her mother replied. “In the hospital, I handed the baby to my foster mother. She was supposed to give her to the social worker to arrange the adoption. Instead, she took my baby to an attorney who handled private adoptions for wealthy clients.”
“She made a bundle and so did the attorney,” Trent guessed.
“Assuming this woman is your baby,” Raoul said to her mother.
“Is there some question?” Taylor asked, stunned her mysterious neighbor was involved in this.
“Yes,” Shane said. “We haven’t spoken with the woman, but her father claims he adopted her the same week your mother gave birth. It was a private adoption, but he doesn’t recall the name of the attorney, and the papers have been conveniently lost in a fire.”
“Wouldn’t the state have some record?” she asked.
“Not with a private adoption in Alabama over thirty years ago,” Shane replied. “The attorney just needed to have the mother and father’s signatures on the consent form.”
“Did the father sign the form?” Trent asked their mother.
“I assume so. I never saw him again.”
There was something in her mother’s voice that didn’t sound right to Taylor. Wouldn’t it be natural to communicate with the father of your child? She’d asked her mother about it before, but she’d merely said she’d been young and had made a mistake.
“I turned eighteen two weeks after I gave the baby away. The second you’re eighteen the state no longer provides foster care. I hitchhiked to Miami, changed my name, and started over.” Taylor heard the threat of tears in her mother’s voice. “But I never forgot my baby, and I always wondered what happened to her.”
Trent shot Taylor a look that said he had misgivings about this situation. “How will we know if she’s really your child?”
“I’ve spoken with Caleb Bassett. He’s the adoptive father,” Vanessa said. “I’m certain Renata is my daughter. He adopted her in a town that was close by.”
“A DNA test will prove it,” Shane said.
“It’s taking about three months to get a test,” Vince informed them.
“I may run out of time.” Vanessa’s voice was tight.
“Grease the wheels,” Raoul said. “A little money should—”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Shane responded to Raoul, but his eyes were on Taylor. “There are hundreds of men sitting in prison, waiting for a DNA test to clear them. They have top priority except for current criminal investigations.”
“What about ads I’ve seen touting quick paternity checks?” Trent asked.
“Those labs are being shut down almost as fast as they open,” Shane said. “A lab is only as good as the equipment and the expert interpreting the results.”
“Just the largest, most sophisticated labs can afford the newest equipment,” Vinc
e added. “It’s the only place to send a sample.”
Trent shook his head. “I guess we don’t have any choice—”
“Doyle! There you are.” Brianna sashayed across the terrace and rushed up to her husband.
Taylor noted the way Vince Walker’s mouth gaped open as if he wanted to swallow Brianna whole. She affected most men that way. She was one of the most stunning women Taylor had ever seen.
She had her hair colored a glistening butterscotch blond, but everything else about her was natural, which was unusual in SoBe, where boob jobs were as common as sunglasses.
As usual, Brianna was wearing a form-fitting dress. She didn’t seem to own anything except clingy sundresses and could be found wearing one at breakfast. This outfit was fluorescent green, a SoBe club outfit not unlike the one Taylor was wearing.
The difference was, Taylor planned to meet Lisa at Bash later. Brianna would be going home with her older husband. What the two had in common, Taylor couldn’t imagine, but Brianna played it to the hilt, acting as if she were ga-ga over Doyle.
“What’s going on?” Brianna asked. “Why is everyone so serious?”
“They may have located the baby Mother gave up,” Taylor said.
Out of the corner of her eye, she’d kept track of Shane. He’d given Brianna one swift, appraising glance, then refocused his attention on Taylor.
He was up to something; she was sure of it.
“Really?” Brianna’s cheery voice slipped a notch. “How?”
Vince gave Brianna the details, including their misgivings about the authenticity of this woman’s claim. Taylor glanced to the side and caught Shane staring at her. Instead of looking away, he grinned, forcing her to show him her teeth—as close to a smile as she could manage for a man like him.
“Who are you two?” Brianna asked Vince, but her look included Shane.
“Private investigators who specialize in computer security,” Vince replied. “We’ve been hired to inspect the system at To The Maxx.”