Chapter One
It was a blistering hundred and two in the shade as Meredith Sanders crossed the parking lot, her heels digging into the hot pavement. She could practically smell the ozone in the dry desert air. Stepping into the coffee shop, she welcomed the familiar nutty aroma and cool refrigerated air that assailed her. She slid her sunglasses up to perch on top of her head and glanced around the room for her appointment.
It was crowded for a late Thursday afternoon, and she counted four different guys sitting alone. Most of them were too preoccupied talking or texting on their cell phones to bother a glance toward the door. All but one. He could be the guy.
As if cued into her thoughts, he made eye contact and waved. He was very good-looking, which somewhat surprised her, since she’d expected some guy with a face slashed with scars, maybe a dozen tattoos, and a brooding, angry gaze. When she didn’t move, he rose and started toward her. Fairly tall and weight lifter buff, his dark hair was as perfectly formed as his wide, white smile. He gave her a once-over glance followed by a long appreciative smirk.
He would be putty in her hands.
She only hoped he’d have some smarts to go with that brawn, since without his help, she had no clue how to go about finding her daughter.
Her new Coach leather handbag hooked at her elbow, Meredith met him halfway.
“Wow. You are certainly different than I pictured you,” he said and offered her his hand.
At least he has manners.
Only, when she reached her hand out to his, she was yanked nearly out of her shoes as he pulled her into him and wrapped his barrel-sized arms around her in an overly familiar hug.
She stiffened. This was a little friendlier of a greeting than she expected from a professional…what? Hit man? Mercenary? Bodyguard? She hadn’t really asked the guy’s title when they’d arranged this meeting barely four hours before.
“Here. I already found us a table.” In another too-friendly move, he rested his hand on her lower back and guided her to the table. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No. I’d rather just get things started, if you don’t mind.”
He gave her a salacious grin. “I can tell you right now, I really like what I see.”
“Excuse me?” He couldn’t be implying what she thought he was.
He laughed. “What’s the play here? Are you, like, playing bitchy Barbie? I mean, I knew you liked kinky. And I’ve been naughty.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You wanna spank me?”
What the hell was wrong with his guy? She’d expected uncouth and boorish, but outright offensive and perverted were another thing.
“I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, Travis, but this is strictly a business relationship. And frankly, your attitude concerns me. If I report this behavior to my father, he’ll never do business with your—”
“Whoa. Hey. Take it down a notch, babe. Who the hell is Travis? My name’s Jason. And your father? Holy shit. You’re too old to be one of those prissy daddy’s girls who—”
Old? She was still one full year away from her thirtieth birthday.
Before she could launch herself at him, a man approached their table, his voice low and gruff. “Excuse me.”
Though not nearly as tall as Jason or as bloated with muscles, there was a solidness in this guy’s mass that was evident under the formfitting black tee and faded jeans. His dark blond hair was cut short and neat, almost military in its style—or lack thereof. But it was his eyes—green and cold and devoid of any obvious emotion—that caught her attention.
A thrill of something she couldn’t identify rushed through her.
His voice remained quiet and calm. “A woman named Angie is here for you.” He nodded toward the door, where a vapid-looking brunette with split ends Meredith could see from here and a skirt that barely covered her spindly assets was waiting.
“What? Didn’t you say your name was Angie?” the guy asked her, confusion clear on that too-pretty face.
“Absolutely not. I think we must have been under some mistaken presumptions here.” She rose, slinging her handbag back over her wrist. Angie could have him. Without another word, she turned and looked right into the face of the new arrival.
He was barely a nose taller than her, although the height difference might have been more noticeable had she not been wearing three-inch sandals. No pretty boy face like Jason, who was already making a beeline to the door. This guy looked like he’d broken his nose at least a half dozen times, and his face could stand to have a razor blade cross it, and…sure enough, there was a scar under his eye. Just as she would have pictured on a security goon.
But his lips…his lips did surprise her. Even with the frown on his face that hadn’t budged, there was a sensuousness to their fullness.
“Travis?” she asked.
He nodded once and took her elbow. “I?
?ve got us a seat right behind you.”
She turned to see a small alcove that had been hidden from her sight when she arrived. She must have walked right past him. He, on the other hand, would have had a clear shot of the door and everyone coming and going. From the distance their table was to where she had been seated, he’d undoubtedly heard all of the disgusting things Jason had said.
And taken his sweet time in coming to her aid.
Meredith took a seat on the leather bench of the small booth, leaving him to sit across from her. Travis didn’t speak for a moment, quietly assessing her.
She cleared her throat. “You’re the man my father sent?”
He gave her a single nod again. “Why don’t you tell me everything about the situation.”
His curtness was throwing her off more than she’d like. “Wouldn’t you care to confirm who I am?”
He just looked at her. “I’m well aware who you are. Meredith.” For the slightest moment, she thought she saw something other than impassivity enter his face, then it was gone. “But your daughter has been missing for approximately fourteen hours. The smartest thing would be to get the pertinent facts so I can do my job and make sure she’s safe and back in her mother’s loving embrace.”
Was that reproach in his tone? Whatever. She wasn’t here to make friends. “Darcy turned eighteen as of last week.” Before he could ask the inevitable question, she added, “She was eleven when I married her father, so, yes, she’s technically my stepdaughter. But it doesn’t change anything about how I feel—”
“Tell me about when you last saw her and why you think something’s wrong.”
She gritted her teeth. “She had a babysitting job last night. Left just before six. I expected her home by eleven, midnight at the latest. Only…she never made it home—and all of my calls go directly to voicemail.”