Hostage Situation. Debra Webb

bench.

      Paul, on the other hand, appeared quiet and utterly calm, harmless. Though he had been blessed with those same dark good looks, there was a serenity about him that spoke of intelligence and patience. Just two years younger than his brother, the two were, according to the reports she’d read, vastly different. Victor lived by the old rules, where women were nothing more than chattels and anything less than absolute loyalty from his followers was punishable by death. Conversely, Paul lived a quiet, reclusive life with hardly any contact with others.

      The brothers had parted ways nearly a decade ago when Paul reportedly got fed up with his brother’s evil deeds and came to live full-time in the United States. Be that as it may, the family blood money, in Renee’s opinion, had to have purchased the lavish estate where he lived. As good as his artwork was, Paul hadn’t made the leap into mainstream popularity yet.

      Renee put the file away and dressed for the next step in her plan. Cream-colored slacks, a matching silk blouse and strappy but practical sandals. In her purse, she had the owner’s card from the gallery she’d visited that morning. As far as she could tell, Paul rarely ventured from his estate for anything other than, in very rare instances, a gallery opening or a showing of his work. Even a large showing was no guarantee the artist would be in attendance.

      That left her only one option—go to him.

      She took the .22 from the box of long-stemmed roses that had been delivered by Jim Colby’s contact here in Key Largo. After strapping on the ankle holster, she snugged the weapon into position. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have to use it; but if the past was any indication, luck wouldn’t be anywhere around when she needed it most.

       6:00 p.m.

      OCEAN BOULEVARD was, as the name suggested, flanked by gorgeous sapphire water and dotted by enormous mansions. Near the end of the boulevard, where the most magnificent of the homes reigned over much larger portions of land, Renee pulled up in front of the massive iron gates of the residence belonging to Paul Reyes. She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath. Time to do this for real. She powered her window down, pressed the call button on the speaker box and then waited. Even her heart seemed to stand still as the seconds ticked by in silence.

      “Yes?”

      Paul Reyes. Although she had never heard his voice, the single word convinced her that it was him. The deep, velvety richness of the timbre matched the dark eyes and the quiet intensity of his face. Or maybe she just wanted it to be him, since she found the vaguely accented sound quite pleasing.

      “Mr. Reyes?” She had to be sure. Her anticipation of plunging into her first case might very well be playing havoc with her reason.

      “Please state your name and business.”

      She looked toward the camera positioned on the wall next to the gate before saying, “My name is Renee Parsons. Mallory Rogers from the Rogers-Hall Gallery suggested I come to you in person with my intriguing proposal.” Then she smiled, the most seductive one in her limited repertoire. Looking stern and purposeful was her most frequently utilized expression.

      Renee held her breath now and hoped like hell her plan would work. If he called Mallory Rogers before he allowed Renee inside, she would be in trouble.

      The grind of metal jolting into movement hauled her attention to the gates. Her heart jerked back into a frantic pace on the heels of an adrenaline dump. He was going to allow her in.

      Anticipation roaring through her like a freight train, she took her foot off the brake pedal, and the vehicle rolled through the entrance which now yawned open. The driveway cut through a lush lawn and ended in a circular parking patio embellished by a massive center fountain.

      With the vehicle in Park, she cut the engine and emerged. The air was thick and the heat hadn’t subsided with the sun’s descent. Before closing the door, she reached back inside and grabbed her purse and draped it over her shoulder. Inside her bag she carried a tiny listening device. Barely the size of a quarter, all she had to do was leave it in a strategic spot and she would be able to monitor his conversations in that room. Highly illegal, but a part of the way things were done in her new career.

      Knowledge was power and since information on this man and his brother was seriously limited, getting what she needed this way was crucial. She had to learn all she could and burrow in as deeply as possible. Taking any and all appropriate steps to speed up the process, without being too hasty, was absolutely essential to the proper outcome.

      She strolled across the lovely flagstone parking patio and up the steps that led to the front entrance. She took her time, made each step as sensual as possible as she surveyed the gorgeous property. He would be watching, and he needed to believe that she deeply appreciated beauty. Staying in character was another key element.

      A wide covered portico ran the length of the house in front. She hadn’t been able to see this side of the grand mansion from the water, but it definitely lived up to her expectations. She pressed the doorbell and settled her attention on the lush potted plants on either side of the towering double doors. Not a single detail had been overlooked when planning this Mediterranean-style property. All had been designed to be pleasing to the eye and equally welcoming to all the other senses.

      The door opened and she found herself holding her breath all over again.

      Paul Reyes stood in the open doorway. Cool linen slacks and shirt designed in pure white contrasted sharply with his smooth, dark skin. “Ms. Rogers has no recall of recommending that anyone pay me an unannounced visit. Do you care to amend your reason for showing up at my door, Ms. Parsons?”

      Oh, hell, she was made. But she was here. Might as well give it her best effort. She thrust out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reyes.”

      He looked at her hand, then her. Fortunately, propriety appeared to prevent him from ignoring her gesture. He closed his hand around hers and gave it a shake. His was soft but firm. Dark brown eyes assessed her closely, the slightest hint of suspicion lingering there.

      “What is it you desire of me, Ms. Parsons?” he asked as he released her hand. “Your bold determination has intrigued me.”

      He was intrigued. That was a start. “I’m from L.A., Mr. Reyes, and my gallery would really love to show your work. From what I’ve learned so far, you don’t show outside Key Largo, though your work sells in several neighboring states. That’s such a terrible waste of your potential. I felt the need for a face-to-face meeting any way I could get it in order to plead my case. We want Paul Reyes to become a household name on the West Coast. We can make that happen.”

      Jim Colby had provided a cover for her with a gallery owner friend in the Los Angeles area. That cover profile was her one ace in the hole. If it didn’t work, she was on her own.

      For several seconds, Paul Reyes appeared to consider her explanation carefully. There was no way to read what he was thinking, but at least he hadn’t closed the door in her face.

      “Do you have any credentials to prove you are who you say you are?”

      Relief almost made her smile. “Certainly.” She withdrew her fake California driver’s license and a business card from the gallery on Melrose, each sporting the name Renee Parsons. She passed both to him for his scrutiny. She doubted anyone outside a trained professional would recognize the license was a fake, and the card was real. The owner in L.A. had overnighted a number of things to the hotel in Key Largo to help with Renee’s cover.

      “I have a contract proposal if you have the time to review our plan for your incredible work.” The proposal, also provided by the L.A. gallery owner, she carried on a BlackBerry in her bag. “We’re willing to work with you in whatever capacity you feel comfortable. We’re impressed, Mr. Reyes. We want you.” This part was true. Once Jim had shown the gallery in L.A. some digital images of Paul’s work, they had shown interest.

      “All right, Ms. Parsons.” He handed her license and card back to her. “Since you’ve come all this way, you have half an hour. Convince me that I should consider your gallery’s offer more seriously