The number and address matched those on the business card Jeremy Carruthers had given her. So that much wasn’t a con. Maybe. She looked under Stevens: MacGregor and Elaine Stevens were listed in Point Loma.

Jeremy Carruthers, she discovered, lived on San Luis Rey in Coronado. She jotted down the number and address, hailed a cab and told the driver, “Coronado, please.”

A small exclusive town and resort area, Coronado is only minutes from the center of San Diego by way of the two-mile modern arch of the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge. The only other access from the mainland to Coronado is the narrow strip of land that originally supplied railroad transportation to the famous Victorian Hotel del Coronado, still in operation. The strip forms the seaward division between San Diego and the Pacific.

San Luis Rey is on the southern end of Coronado, on the bay side. The cab deposited Ashley in front of a yellow stucco house. She asked the driver to wait.

She rang the doorbell and, while she waited, glanced at her watch: it was seven-fifteen. What would she do if the man who’d startled her into dropping eight eggs had only claimed to be Jeremy Carruthers of San Diego?

Apologize and retreat. That’s what you’re here to find out, remember?

The door opened.

She instantly recognized the sun-streaked hair and pale green eyes. She had the right Jeremy Carruthers. He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe that came to his knees, and his feet were bare. She noted the dark hairs on his legs and chest.

“You’re not the paperboy,” he said.

She gave him a cool look. “Another of my faults. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

He stepped aside as she walked past him, her shoulders squared. The long flight and erratic night of sleep had left her looking rumpled and feeling tired and irritable. She wore an ice-blue silk suit, very polished, with her hair up and her face lightly highlighted with cosmetics. In the cab, she’d taken a few seconds to refresh her lipstick, but could do nothing about the red lines in her eyes.

She wondered if Jeremy Carruthers would consider her intimidating. She hoped so.

His house was airy and uncluttered, and he led her through a living room and well-equipped kitchen out onto a deck. She could smell roses and the ocean. He offered orange juice, which she gratefully accepted, and they sat on cheerful yellow canvas deck chairs. Jeremy seemed unconcerned with his lack of proper clothing. Probably entertains women like this all the time, she reflected with distaste.

“So,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

She gave him a clear, unfettered look. “You’re a liar, Jeremy Carruthers.”

“You came all the way to San Diego to tell me that?”

“Why not?”

“Not your style.”

“In public relations,” she said crisply, “I often tell my clients to focus on the positive—since they’re decent and reputable people, I have no qualms with this. But sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and call a liar a liar. You lied, Mr. Carruthers.”