appeared to have
been taken from security footage from hotels and restaurants. Those would have been easy
enough to come by. Once the investigator had a name, and a picture of her, he could have
tracked many of her movements, as well as her associations.
The pictures of the men in the file had her eyes narrowing, though.
These men she and the other three women seemed to have the most association with.
John Vincent was a “broker.” Though he often brokered legitimate deals, he was also
suspected to broker not so legitimate deals. Deals that often involved high-priced, top-secret
stolen arms or information.
Nikolai Steele was a suspected assassin. He’d been questioned many times in regards to
those activities, but there had never been enough proof to tie him to a kill. He also hired
himself out occasionally as a bodyguard and was known to work often with Travis Caine and
John Vincent.
Then, there was Travis. “The Facilitator,” he was called. He brought together products,
services, or clients. He facilitated major business deals, matching buyers, sellers, and brokers.
He was also suspected to do the same with less savory clients.
Each man had, more than once, required Lilly’s or one of the other girls’ services.
Somehow she couldn’t see the very possessive, very dominant Travis Caine standing idly
by while Lilly slept with his bodyguard.
Then, there were the women.
Nissa Farren, Raisa McTavish, and Shea Tamallen. She couldn’t rid herself of a feeling of
urgency where they were concerned. There was something she should know about them.
Something she was supposed to do, and she couldn’t pull the memory free.
That bothered her more than the fictional information that she had been nothing more than
a troublemaking whore. She knew better. She knew who she had been before she had
disappeared six years ago, and she would have never elected to take money for sex, especially
considering that she had been a virgin at her supposed death.
So then what was the truth?
For a while, she had entertained the thought of demanding explanations from Travis, but
something told her she didn’t want to do that. She felt a wariness about bringing her
suspicions to anyone, as though she knew instinctively that at the moment, she couldn’t trust
anyone.
Rising from the bed, Lilly pulled the file together, pushed it back into the large envelope,
then moved to the small safe in the wardrobe closet across the room. Locking the report safely
inside, she turned and moved to the bathroom.
The large mirror beside the three-head shower reflected her image back at her, a face she
still wasn’t certain of, eyes that were the wrong color. Her chin was slightly more pointed than
it had been, her eyes had less of a tilt than she remembered, her cheekbones were a little
flatter and her nose more rounded.
Why? That question wouldn’t leave her mind. Why had she gone to such extremes to hide?
And who had she been hiding from?
Or had she, as others supposedly suspected, killed her father and attempted to fake her own
death?
She had loved her father. She had adored him. It wasn’t possible that she had harmed him.
Just as it wasn’t possible that she could have been some high priced call girl with an
adrenaline addiction.
Then what the bloody hell was going on?
Stepping into the large cubicle, she quickly showered as she considered her options. It was
a very short list. Looked like Travis was her only choice.
Dressing quickly in a pair of cream-colored silk slacks and matching top, she pushed her
feet into stylish sandals and put the articles she needed from her bureau into a tan leather
purse. Slipping downstairs quickly, she headed to the narrow hall at the back of the house and
into the garage.
The electric-red Jaguar rented for her use was parked in its bay, the keys hanging in the
ignition.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she hit the automatic garage door opener, waited for it to
been taken from security footage from hotels and restaurants. Those would have been easy
enough to come by. Once the investigator had a name, and a picture of her, he could have
tracked many of her movements, as well as her associations.
The pictures of the men in the file had her eyes narrowing, though.
These men she and the other three women seemed to have the most association with.
John Vincent was a “broker.” Though he often brokered legitimate deals, he was also
suspected to broker not so legitimate deals. Deals that often involved high-priced, top-secret
stolen arms or information.
Nikolai Steele was a suspected assassin. He’d been questioned many times in regards to
those activities, but there had never been enough proof to tie him to a kill. He also hired
himself out occasionally as a bodyguard and was known to work often with Travis Caine and
John Vincent.
Then, there was Travis. “The Facilitator,” he was called. He brought together products,
services, or clients. He facilitated major business deals, matching buyers, sellers, and brokers.
He was also suspected to do the same with less savory clients.
Each man had, more than once, required Lilly’s or one of the other girls’ services.
Somehow she couldn’t see the very possessive, very dominant Travis Caine standing idly
by while Lilly slept with his bodyguard.
Then, there were the women.
Nissa Farren, Raisa McTavish, and Shea Tamallen. She couldn’t rid herself of a feeling of
urgency where they were concerned. There was something she should know about them.
Something she was supposed to do, and she couldn’t pull the memory free.
That bothered her more than the fictional information that she had been nothing more than
a troublemaking whore. She knew better. She knew who she had been before she had
disappeared six years ago, and she would have never elected to take money for sex, especially
considering that she had been a virgin at her supposed death.
So then what was the truth?
For a while, she had entertained the thought of demanding explanations from Travis, but
something told her she didn’t want to do that. She felt a wariness about bringing her
suspicions to anyone, as though she knew instinctively that at the moment, she couldn’t trust
anyone.
Rising from the bed, Lilly pulled the file together, pushed it back into the large envelope,
then moved to the small safe in the wardrobe closet across the room. Locking the report safely
inside, she turned and moved to the bathroom.
The large mirror beside the three-head shower reflected her image back at her, a face she
still wasn’t certain of, eyes that were the wrong color. Her chin was slightly more pointed than
it had been, her eyes had less of a tilt than she remembered, her cheekbones were a little
flatter and her nose more rounded.
Why? That question wouldn’t leave her mind. Why had she gone to such extremes to hide?
And who had she been hiding from?
Or had she, as others supposedly suspected, killed her father and attempted to fake her own
death?
She had loved her father. She had adored him. It wasn’t possible that she had harmed him.
Just as it wasn’t possible that she could have been some high priced call girl with an
adrenaline addiction.
Then what the bloody hell was going on?
Stepping into the large cubicle, she quickly showered as she considered her options. It was
a very short list. Looked like Travis was her only choice.
Dressing quickly in a pair of cream-colored silk slacks and matching top, she pushed her
feet into stylish sandals and put the articles she needed from her bureau into a tan leather
purse. Slipping downstairs quickly, she headed to the narrow hall at the back of the house and
into the garage.
The electric-red Jaguar rented for her use was parked in its bay, the keys hanging in the
ignition.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she hit the automatic garage door opener, waited for it to
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