However, as the bedroom slowly came into focus, Sarah remembered where she was, and the nausea and panic gradually began to subside. She lay back down on the sinfully comfortable bed and inhaled long and deep. She was safe for the time being, had a full belly of food and a place to stay. She would savor that blessing. Charlie resettled, draping his furry body over her shoulder, tucking his head into the nook of her neck, his paws gently kneading and then releasing the shoulder of her pajamas as his body vibrated with a rumbling purr. “Don’t get too comfy,” she told him, stroking him softly. “I’d love to stay here with you, but there is work to be done. A three-minute cuddle is all you get, and then I’m off.” It was amazing how much heat one little cat could generate. She let three minutes slip into four, then five. Finally she made her move, reluctantly disengaged Charlie’s sleepy body, mindful of claws, then padded into the bathroom. Catching sight of herself in the mirror made her chuckle. She had the satisfied look of someone who’d just indulged in a week of fabulous, mind-blowing sex. Apparently, an obscenely delicious dinner had a similar effect.

After she finished her morning ablutions, she got dressed, ate a quick breakfast consisting of the leftover chop-chop salad and cheesy toast. She’d really wanted to chow down on some of the protein components, but she needed to be pragmatic. The salad had dressing on it and was already rather wilted. It needed to be consumed first. She put some food and fresh water out for Charlie, then headed to the big house, the specter of her ex lingering in her psyche like a persistent low-grade toothache.

*   *   *

Kevin was in his Maserati, attempting to get out of the damn JFK airport parking lot when his cell phone rang. Some dipshit was holding up the exit line, hadn’t prepaid, probably a woman. He glanced at his dashboard. Phillip Clarke. The lawyer handling Sarah’s parents’ estate. He cracked his neck to release tension, then hit answer. “Hello, Phillip. Thanks for returning my call.”

“Mr. Hawkins.” The lawyer’s dry, crackly voice came over the speakerphone. He had met the elderly bureaucrat at the wedding reception. The Rainsfords’ family lawyer appeared frail, as if a strong wind could send him flying. Unfortunately, age hadn’t dimmed the man’s razor-sharp intellect.

“I wanted to keep you up to date with regards to the search for Sarah. I’m able to confirm that it was indeed a photo of her splashed across the Washington Post and the New York Times. She was tangled up in the Tristin Guillory mess on Solace Island. He held her captive.” He and Sarah would need to have a little talk about that. If she’d allowed that privileged prick to bang her, she was dead, inheritance be damned.