Accidental Bodyguard. Sharon Hartley

unusual, out of place. He hadn’t seen the junker car Ms. Clark had driven to her new home. Likely she’d secreted it in Santaluce’s garage. She’d indicated she didn’t plan to drive anywhere.

      Surveillance cameras took a snapshot of every car loading the ferry. It’d take some digging, but why not get the car’s license plate and run her down from there? She could have switched plates, but maybe not. At least he’d have more information.

      He pulled up the database from the date of her arrival, accessed the log and found the name Louise Clark on the 5:00 p.m. ferry. The camera time stamped every photograph, and the shot would have been taken around that time. In case the clock was off—a common occurrence with surveillance cameras—Jack began his search with photographs after 4:00 p.m. He scrolled through photo after photo, and finally found what Louise Clark called her devil car. Her twenty-year-old clunker was easy to spot among the Bentleys, Porsches and Teslas.

      He enlarged the screen and wrote down the name of the tag, double-checking the digits. He sure didn’t need to start this little treasure hunt with bad intel.

      Remembering the happy hour in the clubhouse, he glanced at the time. He was already late. The phone would ring any minute and Dr. Diane Kirkman, the home owners’ association president, would demand his presence.

      Entering Ms. Clark’s tag number into the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles database would have to wait.

      Jack slipped into his blazer and walked to his cart deep in thought. He wanted to skip this cocktail party, another giant waste of time. He was expected to mingle with the socialite island residents, be available to answer any questions about security protocols, listen to them outbrag each other about their latest investments.

      He’d much rather continue his investigation into Ms. Clark, but the answers would have to wait.

      Lola was right. He couldn’t let it alone until he unraveled the mysteries of the new tenant.

      Who was she? What was she doing on Collins Island? His gut told him something was going on with Louise Clark, something he needed to know about.

      * * *

      AT 2:00 A.M. Claudia dressed in black jeans and a black sweatshirt with a hoodie and tucked the Glock in her waistband. She moved to Villa Alma’s front gate.

      A brisk northeast wind, the leading edge of a strong cold front sweeping into south Florida, whipped palm fronds. It would start raining in an hour, maybe less. Clutching the cool wrought iron, she scanned the street in front of the estate and saw no one. She looked up at a clear night sky with thousands of stars and heaved a huge breath.

      The Weather Channel claimed this front would drop the temperature close to freezing, a rare event in Miami. There might even be frost by dawn. Hopefully that meant nobody would be out.

      Good. Because she couldn’t stand it any longer. She felt like a bird in a gilded cage and needed to break out of her prison for a short time. She’d be back inside before the rain started.

      She entered the security code and cautiously stepped outside with her back flat against the wall. The catch relocked with an automatic click when she closed the gate. Staying close to the wall, wary of anyone else out at this ungodly hour, she jogged toward the ocean.

      As she neared, she could hear waves crashing on Collins Island’s private beach. The wind had also stirred up the surf.

      She slowed her pace, breathing hard. God, but it felt good to get her blood pumping. She scanned the beach nervously, but quickly determined the area was deserted except for the hull of an empty beached boat. No one sat at the many lounge chairs and tables.

      That’s what she had hoped. The moon was only the thinnest silver crescent, so it didn’t provide much light.

      She’d be too obvious if she relaxed in a lounger. A line of coconut palms dotted the sand, and she collapsed in front of the thickest one hoping no one would see her from the street. She wouldn’t stay long. A few minutes.

      She lowered the hoodie and stared at the water. The endless ocean stretched out before her, whitecaps bouncing on the waves.

      She’d been miserable and lonely ever since Jackson Richards left late this afternoon. After her plunge in the pool, she’d stood by the gate for a long time, listening to the faint sounds from the happy hour in the clubhouse. People were laughing, talking, enjoying themselves. She’d longed to join the party, but of course couldn’t.

      This was bad, very bad. She’d been in exile less than a week and was already going crazy. What would she be like at the end of a month? This is what Carlos had done to her. She’d become a pitiful recluse hiding on a deserted beach in the middle of the night. She used to love people. Now she didn’t trust anyone.

      Not even the US Attorney who’d convinced her to testify.

      She brushed away a tear. Yeah, great, Claudia. Just what you need, a pity party.

      Her hatred for Carlos Romero threatened to swamp all that remained of the old carefree, fun-loving Claudia, the woman who wanted to help the hurting people of the world. That was why she’d become a nurse. Was there anything left of that person?

      Sometimes she thought her quest for justice was all she had to live for, her belief that someone had to ensure Carlos was punished for his irrational violent rampage. Yes, she’d been stupid to marry him, but he’d lied to her. He’d pretended to be something he wasn’t.

      Or had she been too much in lust to see it? No, she’d watched him change. And he changed her with him, drumming his paranoid philosophy into her head night and day. Claudia swiped a tear from her face, her anger churning again. What kind of a life would she have after the trial? Would she ever return to the woman she used to be?

      “Are you all right?”

       CHAPTER FOUR

      CLAUDIA LEAPED TO her feet and whirled. Her heart pounded. She felt for the weapon at her waist, but hesitated before yanking it out.

      Before her stood an elegant, gorgeous woman of about forty smiling at her with what looked like sympathy. She held a wineglass in her long graceful fingers, one displaying a giant pear-shaped diamond. Luxuriant red hair framed her face, falling to her shoulders.

      “You are weeping,” she said in softly accented words. Not Spanish. Maybe French.

      “I—I—” Breathing hard, Claudia shook her head. She’d been feeling so sorry for herself that this sophisticated woman, obviously one of the wealthy residents out for a late-night walk, had snuck up on her. Her chic white slacks, which fit as if designed for her perfect body, likely cost thousands of dollars. She wore a loose, gauzy blouse, which looked pale yellow in the moonlight, tucked into the waist.

      “I startled you, didn’t I? I am so sorry, cherie.”

      “Yes,” Claudia finally managed to say. “I thought I was alone.”

      “A woman should never come to the beach in the middle of the night to cry alone.”

      Claudia swallowed, knowing she should turn and run, but said, “No?”

      “Never to cry.” The woman held up her glass and took a sip of red wine. “Drink, yes. Of course that is always appropriate and far more effective in drowning one’s sorrows.”

      Claudia felt a laugh threaten to bubble up. Maybe she was close to hysteria.

      “My name is Marsali,” the woman said.

      “I’m—Louise.”

      “Would you like to join me for a glass of wine, Louise?”

      “I really need to get back.”

      Marsali swirled the liquid in her glass. “This particular bottle of Bordeaux cost my husband over ten thousand dollars, and it really is quite good. You must give it a try.”

      “Ten