He'd shifted Leslie's Impala into park and had almost climbed out when he saw the woman step from a pickup truck parked a few car lengths in front of him. He'd stared. Surely, it wasn't her.

But when she turned to talk to the man who climbed from the driver's side, he got a good look at her. He hadn't met Marisa Vega, but he'd seen enough of Leslie's photographs to last him a lifetime. She'd removed all the pictures of her sister and her mom from the house, but she'd kept plenty in that giant purse of hers. Snapshots and portraits in that little photo album she'd carried with her everywhere. Who knew what she'd been thinking when she stared at her sister's face. He should have asked. Not that it mattered now.

If he'd had any doubt, one look at the man with Marisa brushed them away. He recognized Walter Boyle from the million times he'd considered punching the man square in the face. Maybe pummeling him until he died. Not that he'd ever had it in him.

But there was Leslie. So, he was capable of almost anything. Who knew?

Walter Boyle's newspaper articles had ruined Charles Gray's life. Pamela Gray's, too, and his own. And Walter—Nate, as Leslie had said he preferred to be called—had gone on to get a job with the Times and have a great career as an investigative journalist. No punishment for what he'd done.

Marisa and Nate got back in the truck, but the truck didn't pull away. Good thing. Now that he had them in his sights, he wasn't about to lose them. Maybe he could turn the tables. He'd been convinced that snatching the kid would get Marisa to give up the money, but apparently she didn't care about the little Mexican brat as much as she'd claimed to, because she still insisted she didn't have the cash.

But Leslie had known differently, and he did, too. Never mind that Leslie had changed her mind. Stupid, sentimental sister stuff.

The thought of her made his hands shake, and he clasped them together and forced the memory of the previous night from his mind.

He'd come to this house on a whim, not sure what to do with the Mexican brat he'd stuffed in the trunk. At least the sedative seemed to be working. She hadn't made a peep. He'd given her a pillow and blanket, and he'd cracked the space between the trunk and the backseat to get fresh air in there. The kid should survive.

He'd thought maybe Rosa or one of the other maids might help him with her. But now...

And what in the world were Marisa and Nate doing here?

He had no idea, but they'd made it impossible for him to go inside, even after they left. Too risky. Much too risky.

How to use this chance encounter to his advantage?