A Model Spy. Natalie Dunbar

before you make your decision.”

      Vanessa nodded. Excusing herself, Renee whispered instructions to the maid. With a nod, the maid refilled the teapot and left the room.

      Vanessa forced her body back down into the chair. Lifting her dainty, gold-and-blue accented cup, she took a large sip of the hot liquid, grimacing as it scalded the inside of her mouth.

      The dining room door swished open once more. “Excuse me, ladies,” a strong male voice projected from the doorway. “Mrs. Sinclair? Ms. Dawson? I’m Cody Mackenzie from the DEA’s Miami Field Division and I’ve been sent by the Governess.”

      Vanessa set the cup back into the saucer. Her gaze riveted on the handsome, golden brown man standing in the doorway. The blue, off-the-rack designer suit he wore enhanced his muscular build. Apparently the DEA was attracting better-looking agents these days.

      He took in her carefully made up face, the plunging neckline edging her full breasts and the long length of leg revealed by the asymmetrical hemline of her dress. Was that censure in his gaze?

      Nodding, Renee regarded him calmly. “Mr. Mackenzie, I’m Renee Dalton Sinclair and this is Vanessa Dawson. Please join us. Tea?” When he declined, she gestured him to a chair. “I wanted Vanessa to meet you and get a rough idea of the mission.”

      Mackenzie walked to the table to regard Vanessa with dark, combative eyes. “Have you seen the newspapers? Did you read about the two models who were stabbed to death and their apartments ransacked? The DEA thinks that both models were mules in a powerful drug ring.”

      Pushing her back against the chair until it was ramrod straight, Vanessa answered that she hadn’t. She’d become so depressed by the things she read in the news that she avoided it, like an ostrich with its head stuck in the sand. She turned to face Renee, ready to stop Mackenzie from springing the trap she saw closing around her.

      “I—I’m not interested, Renee.” I can’t go back.

      Mackenzie kept talking. “Both models lived in apartments on Ocean Drive. The first was a new model named Bianca Moore. The second was a veteran model named Gena Chadwick,” he said. He pointed his finger at Vanessa. “You knew her. She was a friend of yours.”

      Vanessa gasped at the names. Her eyes burned. Gena had been her roommate and companion on several assignments when she modeled for Echelon Models.

      In her mind’s eye, she could see the vivacious Gena with her thick, chestnut-brown hair and her vivid, green eyes. They’d been good friends, but fear of being pulled back into the modeling life had kept Vanessa from maintaining contact with Gena. Had some crazed maniac gotten hold of Gena and Bianca, or had the women been involved in something as dangerous as smuggling drugs? And why? A mixture of grief, anger and outrage burned in her stomach.

      Standing, Renee rounded the table to put a comforting hand on Vanessa’s shoulder. “There’s still time to help the other models being drawn into this and the people who get hooked on the drugs brought into this country,” she said. “I hope you can suspend your grief long enough to reconsider. Many lives are at stake.”

      Renee’s words hit Vanessa hard. She had to do something, didn’t she? She’d been wild in her modeling days, and had developed a coke addiction between partying and trying to stay thin. Vanessa was ashamed, but knew she wasn’t unique with her problem. Many of her wealthy friends and fellow models had abused drugs. At least Vanessa had sought help and recovered.

      “I can understand why you might hesitate to put yourself back into such a situation,” Renee said carefully, “but you’re stronger now and more mature. You’ve learned a lot through your training here.”

      Vanessa closed her eyes and considered what was at stake. She risked being drawn back into the drug scene. Investigating the drug ring also involved the personal risk of being killed, like Gena and Bianca. But with the vicious murders of those models and the fact that her little sister Michelle was hell-bent on a modeling career, could she really refuse the assignment?

      Chapter 2

      Still somewhat shaken that she’d agreed to the assignment, Vanessa sat in the Gotham Rose basement consultation room, trying to concentrate on the mission file Renee had given her. She needed to have her head examined. She was committed to keeping her word, but deep inside she wanted to skip out of the room as fast as her pink suede shoes would take her. The invisible bond of her conscience was the only thing that kept her glued to the chair.

      Across the table from her, Cody Mackenzie’s mere presence crowded the room. A cloud of negative vibes hovered over his head and threatened to drench everyone in the room. When he glanced her way, there was an unpleasant expression on his face. His nostrils flared and the corner of his wide mouth curled. He looked like he’d been sucking lemons. What was his problem?

      Vanessa thought back on everything that had happened since Mackenzie appeared. Yes, she’d initially refused the assignment, but that was her right and she’d had good reasons. Yes, she’d weathered some emotional moments when she’d heard about poor Gena and her friend, but she’d done nothing to earn Mackenzie’s enmity.

      On a large media screen at the front of the room, Renee projected pictures and provided details. Vanessa stared at the pictures of the models: both had been beaten, raped and stabbed to death. There’d been no mercy or dignity in what they had endured before death set them free.

      Her eyelids stung. Balling her fists, she parted her lips and forced air into her lungs.

      The next group of pictures centered on the upscale building on Ocean Drive in Miami where the models had had apartments. With the Novak sofa and chair and the Milan coffee tables in the living room, Gena’s apartment was a study in soothing blues and hardwood floors. Vanessa was certain that it had been designed and decorated by a professional.

      One or more of a very different kind of professional had destroyed Gena’s apartment, too. The sofa and all the chairs in the place had been cut with a knife and viciously ripped to shreds. Someone had even taken the seats and backs off the chairs and ripped the carpet with razors. The kitchen was a mess of broken glass and china. Silverware littered the floor. Nothing in the apartment remained intact.

      “They certainly found what they were looking for,” Mackenzie said roughly, breaking the stark silence.

      Renee flicked her remote ahead to a picture of a clear glass container that had been glued together. The label on the front read Caribbean Mama Spice Mix.

      “I imagine that this jar never held the kind of spice that goes on food,” Renee remarked dryly. “The lab analyzed the pieces of glass that formed this container and found they were coated with cocaine. It seems likely that the girls transported the cocaine into the country in spice jars like this. It’s probably not the only type of product container used. Judging by the way their apartments and belongings were searched and destroyed, the Miami Field Division, MFD, thinks the girls may have messed up the delivery somehow and gotten themselves killed. The girls had just returned from a trip to the Bahamas. They cruised regularly on yachts owned by people high up in the fashion and music industries. MFD’s not sure which boat they were on, because all their friends and associates have suddenly developed acute cases of amnesia.”

      Vanessa’s throat tightened. If she’d stayed in modeling and continued everything she’d been doing, she could have been one of the victims. “So who are we after?”

      As Renee clicked a new picture onto the screen, Cody spoke. “We’re after a ring headed or financed by someone in the upper echelons of society or highly placed in Miami business or in the music industry. We have more than one suspect.” He pointed to the picture on the screen. “This is Hector Guerra. He came up from the streets of Miami with a past that includes the Street Killers and 114th Avenue Boys. His club and hip-hop clothing lines have made him popular. The models attended several of his parties. His clothing lines could provide an excellent cover for transporting drugs.”

      Vanessa studied the photo of the tall, lean, Latino man. Hooded brows and beautifully shaped lips