The Hot Ladies Murder Club. Ann Major

mile she put between herself and the parking garage calmed her until she got to Georgia’s school and saw his gleaming black Porsche parked in front of the school. She gasped when she recognized Joe Campbell, of all people, sitting under the wide ash trees right beside her own darling, innocent, unsuspecting, little Georgia and the elementary school principal. The two men were chatting as if they were old friends.

      Coincidence? She didn’t think so.

      Georgia was reading out of a storybook. Her golden hair shone. Her pose was unusually still. The book had to be wonderful. Usually Georgia was such a live wire, her teachers complained.

      When Campbell glanced down at the little girl, he looked sweet and fatherly. Hannah’s throat tightened. He wasn’t a nice man. She had to remember that. He had no business here. Still, for nine years, she had dreamed of Georgia having a father to dote on her. She’d kept hoping that Dom…The thought of Dom terrified her.

      Shoving her car door open, Hannah got out of her Mercedes. Georgia didn’t look up until Hannah called her. Then her rambunctious, little darling jumped up and skipped down the sidewalk toward her, avoiding every crack.

      “Mommy, what took you so long?” Georgia’s smile was so trusting, Hannah forgot Campbell and smiled, too.

      When Georgia hugged her, Campbell shook hands with the principal and started toward them as if he’d been waiting for her the whole time.

      Georgia turned her head and beamed at him shyly.

      “Sweetheart, get in the car,” Hannah said before turning to face Campbell.

      Three

      The sun was streaming through the trees, making shadows dance across his target’s dark, carved face as teachers streamed out of the building on all sides of him and the little girl.

      Mothers were double-parked in their cars, and the air reeked with exhaust fumes.

      Damn.

      One minute he had him in the scope and the next he was blinking at a bright disk of white glare.

      Campbell’s Porsche was parked directly in front of the school. A few students loitered, teasing one another, laughing, talking and shoving one another. The watcher smiled grimly as the barrel of his rifle roamed from the chain-link fence surrounding the schoolyard, from the crossing guards, the teachers, to the kids carrying armloads of books.

      Bang. Bang.

      The watcher itched to blow them all away.

      You’re not here to play games.

      It took a second or two to pick Campbell out of the crowd and sight him in with the scope again. One glance at that arrogant face in his crosshairs, and the shooter’s finger twitched. Sweat beaded his brow. It was so damn hot one wondered why the dry brown grasses on the playground didn’t burst into flame.

      His gut twisted as he zeroed in on his target, dead center. His eyes blurred. His temple throbbed. Soon the pain in his head was intense, electric, explosive. He had his target; he had the right weapon, a Sako .270 mounted with a Nikon scope.

      He was thinking how easy it would be to take Mr. J. Campbell out. So, easy. Then a woman with black hair, fine-boned features and pale, creamy skin got in his way.

      Move your cute ass, bitch.

      He shifted the gun to the unsmiling woman. She seemed to be scolding a blond little girl.

      The woman moved toward Campbell. She was angry. All of a sudden the watcher felt a nagging sense of familiarity.

      His trigger finger shook again. No way to miss. Not at this range; not with a gun like this. With difficulty he set the gun down and wiped his sweaty cheek on his shoulder.

      To do this right, he had to eliminate his emotions. With difficulty he suppressed his hatred and distrust for the legal system and for his intended victim and watched him through his scope.

      Lowering the gun, the watcher stared at Campbell and the woman. They seemed like players on a stage as they stood perfectly still, their gazes fixed on each other.

      Shoot him. Blow him away. What have you got to lose?

      “Yes, why did it take you so long to get here?” Campbell demanded, his eyes hard and intent on Hannah’s face.

      Frowning at him, Hannah turned to Georgia. “Darling, I said get in the car.”

      “But…but this nice man, Mr. Campbell, is a friend of Mr. Brayfield’s.”

      “I thought I told you never to talk to strangers.”

      “Besides, Mummy…er…Mommy, you were late. And he isn’t a stranger. He gave a speech to our school. He’s a friend of the principal.”

      Campbell smiled at her. Hannah’s stomach writhed.

      “I have something to say to our friend, then,” Hannah muttered through her teeth.

      “Mummy—”

      “Georgia!”

      Now, for the first time, Hannah wished Georgia was an easy child.

      “Please, Georgia…”

      Georgia recognized that low tone in her mother’s voice that meant business and hastily hopped into the Mercedes.

      Hannah strode up to him and put both hands squarely on her hips. “I asked you not to follow me.”

      He shrugged. “I didn’t. I took a shortcut.”

      “Stay away from my little girl. Stay away from me.”

      “You were scared in the parking lot…hysterical.”

      As though you care!

      “I was not!” Her voice was so shrill two young teachers turned to stare. Campbell’s sable hair glinted in the sunlight as he smiled at them. Annoyed even more, Hannah flushed when the women smiled back.

      “Keep your voice down,” he advised. “And for the record, I was worried about you.”

      “Why don’t I believe you.”

      He forced another of those broad white smiles, which he no doubt knew made him ten times more handsome.

      “You won’t tell me who you really are, or what you’re afraid of,” he said in a mild tone. “So, on a hunch, I got here as fast as I could…just in case…you were being followed and your daughter was at risk.”

      “You are not, let me repeat, not a Good Samaritan. You keep a string of pneumatic blondes on the—”

      His face darkened. “I never heard that word before.”

      She paled. “I do not believe you have even one drop of decency in your blood.”

      “I think you’re running scared…which makes you vulnerable—”

      “What would it take to get you out of my life?” she whispered.

      “You could settle with the O’Connors.”

      “Never in a million years.”

      “You’re going to regret that decision,” he said.

      “No, you’re going to regret getting high-handed with me.”

      “If you go to trial, there’s a chance some juror might find your face familiar, too. His memory might prove better than mine.” She trembled when he looked directly into her eyes. “Who are you? Why did you dye your hair? Who the hell are you running from?”

      She felt faint. His face blurred. She couldn’t endure another moment of this. “Nobody.”

      “Mrs. Smith?” He smiled. “Like I said, you’re one lousy liar.” His expression was intense. “You’re from the UK.”

      Somehow