“Wow.” He zipped the pocket closed. The implications of this discovery were both pleasing and disconcerting. Kenzie had come to dinner prepared, her decision already made or at least more than half-made. Should he feel flattered? He did. Did he also feel a step behind the beat in their mating dance? He did, but maybe it didn’t matter. There was also the possibility that the mere existence of the condoms in her purse had nothing to do with him. He took the phone and replaced everything else.

“I will never admit to having seen these,” he whispered.

He woke the phone. “I’m going to need your thumb.” He gently took her right hand and pressed her thumb to the screen. Nothing happened. “Not your thumb? Okay.” He switched to her index finger. The screen flashed. He was in.

“And this is something else I would never do. Except I am doing it. I’m not intentionally violating your privacy. I’m looking for a way to get those bastards.”

He opened the camera function. The most recent photo file opened with another touch. It was a video. The video. He tapped it.

The picture was clear enough, though the distance and perspective were not perfect. Cheryl could be identified only occasionally in profile. Jackie never, as the back of her head was to the camera the whole time. The others were easier to make out: the fat man, Pak, and Kid Reisner. The camera lingered on each one. It passed over the model—Ted generously granted her that description—in a blur.

“This is dynamite, Kenzie. I’m sending the video to my phone,” he told her as he found his own number in her phone’s contacts. “I’ll share it with that detective as soon as I get the chance.”

He checked his phone. The video had come through. He pushed her phone down into the purse and opened the wardrobe.

Kenzie’s voice hissed at him in a hoarse whisper. “What are you doing?”

He whirled around, fighting to control the explosion of emotions that were all firing at once. Guilt—her purse was in his hand. Elation that she was awake and aware. Confusion—Kenzie’s eyes were still shut.

A woman was standing at the door. Kenzie’s mother—there could be no doubt. She was a stunning redhead with the same light blue eyes, though in her case they peeked out from behind gold-framed glasses. She had either danced nightly in the Fountain of Youth or given birth in her early teens. She could have passed for an older sister. And there was the voice. Breathy, husky, and deep.

“I’m Ted Molloy,” he said, knowing that would mean nothing to this woman, but he had to say something while he thought of a way out of this predicament. He was holding the damn purse.