Caught in the Act. Samantha Hunter

at his watch, he sighed. Sixteen hours until their midnight date. What insanity had taken hold of him that he had said midnight instead of dinner? How was he supposed to sit at his desk, thinking about what they’d done the night before and focus on work?

      He needed to put Amanda on the job of tracking his mystery singer down. It would be easy enough to find out who she was through the entertainment agency where they’d found her. If she was afraid that sleeping with him could get her in trouble with the agency or hurt her career, he’d make sure that wasn’t a problem.

      If she wasn’t married, as she said she wasn’t, then he couldn’t imagine why she’d be worried, except for some kind of rules that dictated entertainers shouldn’t be having hot sex with their clients.

      On their desks.

      He could still taste her, the sweet strawberry tint of her lips, the honey of her kiss.

      Sighing, he looked down and saw another boner tenting his sweatpants and started a hard run to lose it before he shocked someone on the beach.

      His cell phone rang, distracting him. He slowed and dug into his pocket to retrieve it. Looking at the number, he saw Amanda’s ID.

      “Morning, Amanda. Great party you put together last night.”

      “Thanks. I love throwing your money around, but next year I hire a real party organizer.”

      He laughed. “You always do a great job, and I appreciate it.”

      “Nothing says appreciation like a big Christmas bonus,” she said drily.

      Amanda had been with him for years, an executive assistant he’d known from law school who’d needed a new job when she’d had to move to the area to follow her husband’s work. He was thrilled to hire her and appreciated that she took on duties well past those of a normal legal secretary, like arranging his party.

      “So true. Listen, do you know the name of the woman who sang last night?”

      “Not offhand, no. She was a replacement for the singer they were supposed to send, so I’d have to find out.”

      “Can you do that?”

      “Sure. But first, I need you back here.”

      Amanda sounded worried, and Mason frowned. “What’s wrong?”

      “I was checking out the guy in those pictures you had Hal take, the ones of Tracy Alvarez and her lover?”

      “Yeah. What came through? Do we know the guy?”

      “Not really, but I’m not sure we want to.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I couldn’t find anything, which is odd in itself. Everyone has some kind of records somewhere. So I asked my friend Janet, down in the federal building, and she connected him to the name Peter Dupree, and then

      saw a Wanted file for him, for a murder in Barbados. She said that was all she could find, but suggested we turn the photos over to the FBI, pronto.”

      Mason cursed, and looked out at the water. “Call Ron and the local FBI office.”

      “Right on it.”

      “I’ll be there soon. Thanks, Amanda.”

      Mason double-timed it back to the house, quickly showering, dressing and grabbing what he needed. Jumping in his black convertible, Mason made the short drive to Tampa and pulled in to the office’s private lot about a half hour later. When he got upstairs, he was surprised to see Ron and Jace, two of the senior partners, and two other men with gray suits and neutral expressions whom he assumed were from the FBI offices down the street.

      “Morning, Ron. Jace. I got here as quickly as I could.”

      “Morning, Mason. This is Agent Kelly, FBI.”

      “Thanks for coming,” Mason said.

      “So what do you have for us, counselor?” the older agent, Kelly, asked.

      Mason shook the agent’s hand and sat down. “I’m in the middle of a divorce case, Rio and Tracy Alvarez, and we were getting some surveillance shots of his wife and her lover—proof of adultery. Amanda, my assistant, was doing some routine background checks and became suspicious when she couldn’t find anything. So she asked a contact at the federal building for help, and they turned up the name Peter Dupree, and a Wanted notice for a possible murder in Barbados, so we called you guys. That’s about it,” Mason said, looking at the agent. “Any chance you can tell me more?”

      Special Agent Kelly let out a sigh. “We’ve been working with several other agencies to take down a smuggling ring. It’s an ongoing task force that’s been working for years to stop the movement of guns, drugs, you name it, in and out of the country.”

      “And this guy Peter Dupree is involved?” Ron asked.

      “He might be one of their key men, but we’ve never had anything solid enough to grab him. No fingerprints, no witnesses. He’s a ghost, changing identity, appearance, location. We’ve never been able to track him down, though he’s left a trail of dead bodies behind him. The guy is a complete sociopath, but he’s good at what he does.”

      “Well, I’m not sure if this actually is him, but it’s what came up,” Mason offered.

      “You have the pictures?”

      Mason nodded, having brought the entire file, and pushed it across the table.

      Kelly looked over the photos, his interest intent. He took one photo out in particular and set it aside.

      “The hair is a different color, and some of these shots aren’t exactly focusing on his face,” Kelly said.

      “They were more to prove adultery on the wife’s part,” Mason reminded him.

      “Right. But roughly, I’d say it looks like our guy. You said your client, his wife is having an affair with Dupree.”

      “Yes, that’s Tracy.”

      Kelly scanned the notes. “They run a charter business? Do you think it’s possible they are working with Dupree? Using the charter business as a cover?”

      Mason shook his head. “Nothing in Rio’s recent background or his business records, which I have reviewed very closely, would suggest that. Rio seemed as surprised by the photos as anyone. I didn’t have any sense that he recognized Dupree.”

      “Maybe it’s just the wife then, but either way, you’ve stumbled into a dangerous situation. You said your assistant has been doing background searches?”

      Mason nodded, his stomach knotting.

      “Tell her to stop. Dupree’s connected, even has contacts inside law enforcement, which is how we think he manages to evade our guys a lot of the time. But if he knows you’re checking him out, it puts you in danger.”

      “Why is he here in Tampa?”

      “He might be lying low, waiting for what happened down in Barbados to blow over, but these pictures give us an edge,” Kelly said, pointing to the corner of one of the photos. “This child. Sitting on the edge of the boat? He could be Dupree’s son. Dupree is suspected of killing the mother and three of her relatives who tried to stop him from taking the kid. If this is the kid, then it’s kidnapping.”

      “That poor boy,” Mason said, sickened. “So you’re trying to get Dupree like they did with Al Capone. They couldn’t get him on his crimes, but he was arrested for tax evasion. You want to get this guy on kidnapping instead of smuggling?”

      Kelly nodded. “Yeah. We weren’t even sure the stories were true. There was no evidence of a child being taken until now. The kid could be our only witness. He can identify Dupree, and might be able to tell us if he killed those people. These pictures give us a big head start,” Kelly said with relish.

      Mason